Informant (8 page)

“Let me introduce myself,’’ he said amiably. “My name’s Brian Shepard. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI.’’

Shepard put out his hand. Whitacre took it, feeling Shepard’s strong grip.

“Hey,’’ he said. “I’m Mark Whitacre.’’

“I met with Michael Andreas this morning, and he told me you were president of the Bioproducts Division,’’ Shepard said. “We hope you can help us out. I’m not sure where this case will be going, but I want to listen to what you have to say.’’

The men took their seats. Already, Whitacre felt more at ease. Shepard wasn’t what he had expected. Maybe this wasn’t going to be like on television, where some growling G-man sweats information out of the reluctant witness. Instead, Shepard seemed down-to-earth, more neighborly than confrontational.

Whitacre leaned forward in his chair as he told the story about Fujiwara. Shepard listened, taking notes and occasionally asking questions. After the first thirty minutes, Shafter stuck his head in the room. He was heading home, he said, and asked the men to shut off the coffeepot and lock up when they left.

In no time, Shepard’s notes contained the broad outline of the case. Whitacre described how the Ajinomoto executives had been invited to Decatur so that ADM could persuade them to shut down their American plants. He told of the bizarre phone call he had received from Fujiwara on his off-premises office extension that ADM had installed at his house. He discussed his subsequent conversation with Mick Andreas and the efforts to haggle Fujiwara down in price. Since then, Fujiwara had called every few days.

“He told me that he wanted his payments deposited by wire transfer to numbered bank accounts in Switzerland and the Caribbean,’’ Whitacre said.

“When was your last contact with him?’’

“Three days ago. He said he would call three or four days after that. But I think he’s getting suspicious, since he hasn’t gotten a positive response from us yet. I’ve dragged this out as long as I can. If we don’t get back to him soon, he may back out.’’

Whitacre said he expected to receive the next Fujiwara call that very evening. He mentioned two ADM executives who previously worked for Ajinomoto; perhaps they were the saboteurs. Shepard said he needed a phone directory for the Bioproducts Division so that he could obtain numbers for those executives. As the meeting wrapped up, Shepard said an agent would be coming by Whitacre’s house with a recording device to tape the next Fujiwara call. But first, Shepard said, he needed approvals. It might take another day.

Sometime after eight-thirty, more than three hours after it began, the meeting broke up. Whitacre and Shepard shook hands again before stepping out of the room.

Whitacre seemed delighted to be going home.

“Now my family’s being threatened! I can’t put up with this!’’

Whitacre was rambling, nearly hysterical. He had called Cheviron at home, shortly after leaving Shafter’s office. From the instant Cheviron heard his voice, he knew something strange must have happened.

“Mark, what are you talking about?’’ Cheviron asked. “Calm down.’’

“They’re threatening my daughter! I don’t want to talk to Fujiwara anymore. This thing is affecting my family. It’s not right.’’

Cheviron pushed Whitacre to explain what had happened. The story came rushing out.

As soon as he had arrived home, Whitacre said, he had heard horrible news. His fifteen-year-old daughter, Tanya, had received a call at her boarding school in Indiana. An Asian-sounding man was on the line, telling her to write down a message. The man had told her that Fujiwara would no longer wait. He wanted a deal now; he wanted his multimillion-dollar payment. If that didn’t happen, the man had told her,
she
would be in trouble.

Whitacre was wild as he told the story. “I’m not going to be involved in this anymore! I don’t want anything to do with it.’’

In an even tone, Cheviron tried to calm Whitacre. Eventually, they agreed to talk again the next day.

The ADM security chief hung up, bewildered. The problems stemming from this Fujiwara situation were escalating. But this time Whitacre’s story was illogical. Why would anybody threaten his daughter? How would the Japanese even know to call her? It was an improbable, amateurish move, coming at a time when Whitacre desperately wanted this investigation to end.

Cheviron thought Mark Whitacre was lying.

The next morning, November 5, Cheviron left his house early, driving in the gray half-light of dawn toward the belching smokestacks at ADM. This was going to be a busy day. After Whitacre’s call the night before, Cheviron had kept working. Mick Andreas had heard from Whitacre about the call to his daughter, and then phoned his security chief. Mick had said he wanted Cheviron to brief him and his father first thing that morning on everything Whitacre was saying.

Not long after arriving at the office, Cheviron was called to a meeting with Mick and Dwayne. He told them about his doubts, and the men decided that ADM’s top lawyer, Rick Reising, needed to be involved. For the rest of the morning, the senior management of the company shuttled from meeting to meeting.

The strangest was between Reising, Cheviron, and Whitacre. Gently, Whitacre was pressed to run through the story of the phone call to his daughter. It sounded less believable the second time around. Cheviron made it clear he thought it was all a lie, pushing Whitacre with questions. How did they find his daughter? Why go to the trouble? If they wanted to threaten Whitacre, why not call him directly?

Finally, Whitacre broke down.

“All right, I’m sorry,’’ he said. “I made it up.’’

Reising and Cheviron stared at Whitacre as he explained his lie. He was scared of the FBI, he said. He didn’t want to be part of this investigation. Somehow, he had gotten it into his mind that if ADM thought his family was threatened, they would pay Fujiwara or tell the FBI to go away. Either way, the whole mess would end. He saw now it had been a stupid idea; it was just a sign of how upset he was.

Whitacre finished speaking. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air.

Reising told Whitacre that he and Cheviron needed to speak alone for a moment. Whitacre headed out, closing the door behind him.

About an hour later, James Randall, the ADM president, stormed in to Cheviron’s office burning with anger.

“Whitacre came by my office,’’ Randall said. “He says you’re out to get him, that you want him fired.’’

Cheviron stared back at Randall, floored. He asked Randall what was going on.

“Whitacre’s all excited,’’ Randall said. “He’s talking about sabotage in the plant.’’

The secret was out. Cheviron asked Randall what he thought. Randall scoffed. Even though Whitacre was the lysine expert, Randall didn’t believe the Japanese had managed to get into the plant.

“There’s no sabotage,’’ he said. “We just don’t know what we’re doing. It’s start-up problems.’’

Randall was particularly contemptuous of Fujiwara’s promise to deliver some superbug. Even Dwayne was saying that once ADM obtained the bug during the FBI sting, the plant’s problems would be solved. The whole idea was ridiculous, Randall said.

“They couldn’t even transport the damn bug unless it was at extreme temperatures,’’ he scoffed.

Over the next few minutes, Cheviron answered Randall’s questions. Finally, Randall calmed down and left. Cheviron dialed Mick Andreas and told him that Randall now knew about the investigation. Mick muttered, “Okay,’’ and hung up.

A few hours later, Cheviron received a call from Shepard. The agent said that he was making the arrangements to have a record-ing device placed on Whitacre’s telephone. To get the recording underway, he said, Whitacre should contact a Springfield agent named Tom Gibbons. Cheviron promised to pass along the message.

Cheviron dialed Whitacre’s extension and repeated Shepard’s message.

“All right,’’ Whitacre said, sounding angry. “I’ll call him.’’

He hung up without another word.

Ginger Whitacre stepped into the crowded formal dining room at the Country Club of Decatur and looked for her husband. It was just after six
P.M.
that same day. Most of the tables were filled, but Ginger found Mark and his guests quickly. He saw her, clad in one of her nicest dresses, and stood to greet her.

The dinner had been planned for some time. An ADM vendor was visiting Decatur with his wife. Whitacre had a close relationship with the man; after hearing the family enjoyed horses, the vendor had presented the Whitacres with an expensive riding saddle.

Dinner was relaxed and elegant, with wine and laughter flowing freely. Late in the meal, Ginger excused herself to make a trip to the ladies’ room. As she stood, placing her napkin on the table, Mark reached out with a business card in his hand.

“Here’s that phone number you wanted,’’ he said.

Ginger smiled as she took the card, uncertain what he was talking about. She headed past the dining room’s entryway and looked in her palm. She was holding one of Mark’s business cards for ADM. She flipped the card over and felt her heart drop as she read words written in Mark’s familiar scrawl.

The FBI is coming by the house tonight at 10:00.

With all the back and forth that day, Mark had not been able to tell Ginger what was going on. He had spoken to the FBI repeatedly, trying to schedule a time for them to stop by. He had finally agreed to allow someone to come over to the house once dinner was over. Shepard would hook up the device himself.

Our house.
Ginger felt a chill. Over the past two days, Mark had given her some hints about what was bothering him. Nothing in much detail, but enough to worry her. She had hoped that the previous day’s interview was going to be the end of it. Now, some agent would be coming out to their home, standing with them, probably asking them questions. Ginger could not think of the last time she had been so frightened.

Ginger returned to the table with a smile plastered on her face. She tried to keep the mood light, to laugh at the jokes, to have a good time. But she could not stop thinking about the FBI agent out there right now, getting ready to visit her home.

Dinner broke up just before nine o’clock. In the parking lot, the guests joined Mark in his Town Car for a lift back to the Decatur Club, a nearby building where ADM owned an apartment. Ginger said her good-byes, climbed into her Grand Cherokee, and started the drive home.

Minutes later, her car phone rang. She knew it was Mark calling from his car. He had just dropped off their guests and finally had a chance to talk.

“This is really going to be something,’’ Mark said over the car speaker, sounding terribly nervous again. “I don’t know what to do.’’

“I know what you’re going to do. You’re going to tell the truth.’’

“You don’t understand. These guys are more powerful than the government. I’m more scared of ADM than I am of the FBI.’’

“If I were you, I’d be more fearful of the FBI,’’ Ginger replied. “You don’t mess with the FBI. ADM’s nothing compared with the FBI.’’

As far as Ginger was concerned, ADM was just another company. But Mark said she didn’t understand how powerful ADM was and what it could do.

“I could tell Brian Shepard everything I know, and tomorrow morning I’ll probably be fired from ADM, and they’re a lot more powerful than the government.’’

Ginger sighed. “Mark, you only have one choice. Don’t worry about ADM. You have to tell everything.’’

As she spoke, Ginger passed a thick, wooden sign. On it, red letters blared, “Welcome to Moweaqua. The One and Only.’’ Ginger paused as she pulled onto Main Street in Moweaqua. Her husband’s nervousness had made her more wary.

“Mark,’’ she said gently, trying to mask her concern. “Have you broken the law?’’

Whitacre was quick to answer. “No,’’ he said. “I haven’t broken the law at all.’’

“It doesn’t matter if you did or not,’’ Ginger said. “You need to tell me everything.’’

“Ginger, I’m telling you, I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t broken the law. Definitely.’’

There was a pause. Ginger said she was near home.

“Okay,’’ Mark said. “I’ll see you there soon.’’

Ginger disconnected the call and pulled into the driveway, stopping in front of the house. She needed to check on the children, then drive their housekeeper home. After that, Ginger would have nothing else to do but come back to the house, sit with her husband, and wait for the arrival of the FBI.

•   •   •

Moweaqua was a town that flourished on a promise that became a tragedy. It was founded in 1852 by Michael Snyder, the operator of a local sawmill, and for thirty years grew steadily. But it was not until 1886, when settlers discovered vast coal reserves buried beneath the Illinois countryside, that Moweaqua was transformed by an influx of new money. It seemed destined for giddy economic growth.

Those hopes were dashed on Christmas Eve, 1932, at the height of the Great Depression. That day, dozens of miners were hard at work beneath the earth, heaving their pickaxes and shovels in the search for coal. Many were putting in extra hours, hoping to raise a few dollars to pay for Christmas presents.

Unknown to everyone, the mine was filling with methane gas. In a horrible instant, the miners’ open-flame carbide lights sparked a deafening explosion. Those not killed instantly were buried beneath tons of earth. Fifty-four miners died, leaving behind thirty-three widows and seventy fatherless children in the small town.

The great disaster closed the mines for years, choking the local economy and dousing its aspirations with misery. But remnants of that promising time still stood in town, solid homes and buildings constructed when Moweaqua seemed blessed with limitless possibilities and luck.

Chief among them was “the Old Homestead,’’ a Georgian Colonial mansion first constructed by Michael Snyder. During Moweaqua’s days of prosperity, the home had been expanded with two-story pillars and several porches. Nestled between acres of cornfields, the property cemented Moweaqua’s connection to Decatur’s growth when Dwayne Andreas bought it in his early days at ADM. That link continued with the arrival of Mark Whitacre in 1989. The Old Homestead seemed likely to remain something of a landmark to the history of Moweaqua and its 1,900 residents for decades to come.