Bonereapers by Jeanne Matthews

“No.”
    He laughed and drizzled more Akevitt into his cup. “Too much to hope that he’d bring her on the same trip with his wife. Anyhow, Fritjoe was more single-minded. Lots of companies genetically modify seeds and patent them, but for whatever reason, he was fixated on Tillcorp. ‘They’ve taken out a patent on hunger,’ he said. Fritjoe could wind himself up to a very emotional state.”
    Dinah pictured his look of feverish excitement as he lunged through the crowd. Were there others who shared his passionate intensity? She said, “Environmentalists in the U.S. worry that modified seeds can blow astray and cross-pollinate with neighboring crops. And they’re concerned about the overuse of herbicides, which makes weeds more resistant and the herbicides have to be made more and more toxic to control them. Does Europe have a problem with superweeds or cross-pollination? Is that what he meant by ‘a patent on hunger?’”
    “Most controversial herbicides and pesticides are banned in the E.U. and in spite of pressure from the bureaucrats in Brussels, genetically engineered seeds are still banned in most countries. Europeans are picky eaters. We’re afraid of cancer or the transfer of antibiotic resistance through adulterated seeds. No, Fritjoe was on about something else.”
    “You talked with him?”
    “Before your plane arrived.”
    Dinah didn’t ask if it was Eftevang who alerted him to Mahler’s presence rather than his instant recognition, but she thought it. “What did he tell you?”
    “He hinted that he had a monster of a story. Something that would make headlines all over the world.”
    “He didn’t say what it was?”
    “He didn’t have to. He’d just returned from Africa. There’s a rumor circulating on the Internet that Tillcorp took advantage of the political upheaval in Myzandia. While the country was busy with the redistribution of land and fighting the spread of AIDS, Tillcorp’s so-called agricultural advisers introduced a virulent cutworm that devastated the corn crop. Facing famine, the Myzandian dictator cut a deal for the purchase of Tillcorp’s cutworm-resistant seeds.”
    “Tillcorp instigated a famine?”
    “That’s the rumor.”
    “But that’s depraved.”
    “It’s a journalist’s dream. Fritjoe must have lucked into some witnesses, maybe even documentation. He said he had all the proof he needed.”
    If Dinah had her way, the laws regulating the food industry would be strengthened a hundredfold. She felt she had a right to know what weird or unnatural additives had been used to color and flavor the food she put in her mouth and she didn’t trust companies that refused to divulge the whole enchilada on the label. But truth in labeling was picayune compared to this. If this rumor was true, if Tillcorp had precipitated a famine just to promote its products, it was an international outlaw of the highest order. “Maybe Eftevang exaggerated. Maybe he was tweaking your nose with talk of a monster story to make you jealous.”
    “Maybe,” said Brander. “But if it’s true, Senator Sheridan and Jake Mahler would rather see the story and the man who dared to tell it drept .”
    “Killed?”
    Korrekt .” He fished an unfiltered cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and inhaled with tantalizing sensuality.
    Dinah fought off a resurgent craving and turned her mind from Tillcorp’s alleged crimes to Fritjoe Eftevang’s intentions. “If he had proof of something that explosive, why didn’t he just publish it? Why bust into the press conference, make some cryptic anti-American remarks, shoot the Norwegian minister in the eye with a laser, and get himself arrested? That just gives you a headline for your paper.”
    “Because he was first of all a crusader. He was a journalist only by accident and a second-rate one, at that.”
    Dinah raised an eyebrow. If Aagaard was an example of a first-rate journalist, the profession didn’t have much to brag about. She wondered if