Fatal Harvest. Catherine Palmer

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       V ince Grant gazed at the tray of glazed crullers on the gleaming mahogany desk in his corner office. His new secretary provided him with sweet snacks each afternoon at four, and he wondered if she was trying to give him a heart attack. He didn’t like Jennifer, and she didn’t like him. But his vision and her efficiency meshed well, and the situation was a lot tidier than it had been with Dawn.

      Vince’s wife had known about Dawn and the others before her, but this time she refused to tolerate her husband’s straying. Maybe it was because their children were growing up and moving on—the two girls away at college, their son busy with polo and soccer. Or maybe it was menopause. Cheryl Grant had grown edgy, moody. He would have to be more discreet.

      Tapping his blunt-tipped fingers together, Vince tried to resist the crullers. Things weren’t going well on this Thursday afternoon, and food always seemed to calm him. But his tailor—who had used the same patterns for Vince’s $4,000 wool suits since he had taken the helm of Chicago-based Agrimax thirteen years before—had been obliged to take new measurements on his last fitting. Vince didn’t like that. At fifty-eight, he still had a lot of good years left, and he intended to enjoy every benefit of his position. But he had to look the part—trim, neatly groomed, well suited and in perfect health.

      Vince Grant had great plans for Agrimax. His blueprint—carefully spelled out in documents to which only he and his top executives had computer access—was both his obsession and his pride. Vince had been consumed by the plan for years. At last, its many components were clicking into place.

      In twelve days, the corporation would absorb its two rivals, Megafarm and Progrow. The new conglomerate, with Vince as its CEO, would essentially control the world food market—at which time he could begin putting into place the seed, fertilizer, pesticide and genetic technologies that Agrimax scientists had been developing in secret. The merger and resulting takeover of worldwide food production would assure Vince a place in history and make him a billionaire.

      The plan had involved skillful diplomacy, hardball boardroom politics, careful public relations and, finally, subterfuge. His executive board wasn’t completely aware of the complex ramifications of its CEO’s plan, though all would benefit immeasurably. Once in place, the merger would allow Agrimax to overcome all barriers to power and profitability.

      But Agrimax’s executive board had found another reason to be restless. They were unhappy over negative publicity about the company’s genetically modified seed. At the last board meeting Vince had promised to squelch the problem. He had his public relations people initiate high-profile food donations to hunger-relief organizations chosen for their news value. The newspapers cooperated admirably. Agrimax’s media spokeswoman had appeared on two national morning television programs and a prime-time talk show. Vince felt confident the company’s image concerns were under control.

      Until now.

      In the past month, someone who identified himself as a high school sophomore had begun e-mailing Agrimax’s top executives. Annoyed at first, the executives became nervous when the tone of the e-mails switched from that of an idealist who wanted to end world hunger to the voice of someone who knew the company intimately.

      Security had pinpointed the source of the e-mails. They came from a small town in New Mexico near the ranch to which one of Agrimax’s leading scientists, Jim Banyon, had just retired. Banyon had been a loyal team player, moving through the ranks until he was awarded a vice president’s position. Vince had liked the man, and his work for Agrimax was groundbreaking. The two became personal friends. Their wives even socialized at the country club until Banyon’s divorce put his ex out of circulation.

      In the past couple of years, the scientist had joined some sort of evangelistic religious group. He grew reclusive, losing interest in golf and absenting himself from the regular happy-hour gathering at the club. Vince hadn’t given it too much thought. Last month, Banyon had taken early retirement, and his position had not yet been filled. A week ago, before the e-mails were traced, Banyon returned briefly to Agrimax headquarters in Chicago to clear a few things from his office.

      Though the suspicious messages had come from the account of one “Matthew Strong,” Agrimax security believed Banyon was the actual source. Vince ordered an investigation into information transferred recently to his former colleague’s computer. His worst fears were realized when it was discovered that Vince’s own top secret blueprint had been copied from the mainframe.

      When his secretary’s voice came over the intercom with a call from the head of security, Vince was quick to grab the phone.

      “Harwood, what do you have for me?”

      “The kid is no problem.”

      “There really is a kid?”

      “Matthew Strong.”

      “You found him? Talked to him?”

      “We took care of him.”

      “So it’s Banyon?”

      “There’s no question. The two know each other. Banyon’s been feeding the boy the data he used in his e-mails to our executives.”

      “What does the boy have?”

      “He’s clean. We profiled him before we talked to him. He’s a nerd, a Sunday-school-type kid, spends all his time at his computer. Knocked the top off the ACT, but no social life. A wide-eyed innocent—barely sixteen. He’s writing a research paper. That’s how he got onto us—he interviewed Banyon.”

      “That’s the connection, then.”

      “Banyon told him a few things, but the kid isn’t the source of our trouble. Banyon’s got the stolen data on a CD at his house. I’d bet my job on it.”

      “A CD can’t hold that much information, Harwood. Where’s Technology? I want them in on this.”

      “I talked to Technology this afternoon.”

      “Don’t talk to them. Get them on the scene.”

      “Yes, sir.” Mack Harwood paused a moment. “I’d rather not wait for Technology to arrive, Mr. Grant. This place is the backside of nowhere. I think we need to look up Banyon today.”

      “Just get the data, Harwood. Do whatever you have to do.”

      Vince set down the receiver. He wished he hadn’t been forced to move his former secretary to Agrimax’s Wichita branch. Dawn had been good for him. Kept him feeling alive, vital, confident. He reached over and took a cruller from the silver tray.

      Seated in his pickup under a cottonwood tree, Matt rummaged in the glove compartment for something to eat. From the debris of torn road maps, ballpoint pens, a pocketknife and the vehicle owner’s manual, he rooted out an old Snickers bar and peeled back the wrapper. The candy had gone pale and crumbly, but he wolfed it down anyway. He knew he had to function. Had to keep going. Had to think.

      Not fifty feet away, the lights were on in Jim Banyon’s house. But who was inside? Hands shaking, Matt gripped the old black steering wheel as he swallowed the last of the chocolate.

       Okay, think, think. Think, Mattman!

      The two men who had taken him out of trig class said they were college recruiters. Princeton. They wanted to treat him to ice cream. Talk about their computer science program.

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