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INFORMANT
A TRUE STORY
K URT E ICHENWALD
ISBN 978-0-7679-3125-0
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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The Informant
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
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THE ASSOCIATES
GINGER WHITACRE, wife of Mark Whitacre
RUSTY WILLIAMS,groundskeeper for the Whitacre family
BEAT SCHWEIZER, money manager
DR. DEREK MILLER, M.D.
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chance to someday be able to look his grandchildren in the eye and say
that he had done the right thing by confessing and helping the govern-
ment.
“It’s tough, it’s hard, but it will be tougher if you don’t cooperate,’’
Herndon said. “We’re giving you the chance to make a difficult deci-
sion, probably the most difficult you’ve ever made. But it begins now
by being honest about your activities at ADM.’’
Suddenly Wilson interrupted.
“I’m surprised you didn’t go through the company attorneys,’’ he
said. “I know the antitrust laws, and I haven’t done anything wrong.
And don’t think I don’t recognize the pressure tactics you’re using.’’
Wilson stood up. “I haven’t done anything wrong,’’ he repeated.
“And this interview is over.’’
Herndon glanced at Shepard. Just as expected. The agents rose
and thanked Wilson. Herndon handed him a subpoena, pointing out
the name of the government attorney who would be available to an-
swer any questions.
The two agents headed out the door. Almost immediately, they saw
Corr and Whitacre heading back from the agent’s car. It appeared that
interviewing Whitacre had been as fruitless as confronting Wilson.
Herndon stared at Whitacre as they passed on the sidewalk.
“Goodbye, Mr. Whitacre,’’ he said. “Thank you for your time.’’
“Sure,’’ Whitacre replied hastily. “I just don’t think I know anything
that can help you guys.’’
Herndon and Shepard walked to their car and climbed inside.
The show was over.
It was 6:17 p.m. Right on schedule.
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Before scurrying out the door, Wilson and Whitacre had muttered
apologies to Yu, promising that someone would pick him up. Now,
as they climbed into Whitacre’s company-issued Town Car, Wilson
was doing his best to calm his colleague and himself.
“This isn’t going to be pleasant, so . . .’’
“Oh, shit!’’ Whitacre interrupted, the tension of the moment ex-
ploding.
“I know.’’
“I did everything I could to stay calm around Steven.’’
“I know, I know,’’ Wilson replied.
Wilson took a breath. His hands trembled. “Shit, I’m—I’m having
trouble staying calm,’’ he said.
The moment seemed unreal. Here they were, two senior execu-
tives at a company of immense influence, known in the corridors of
power from Washington to Moscow. This was a company that helped
the FBI for God’s sake; some of its executives were even sources for
the Central Intelligence Agency. And now these agents were con-
fronting them? Telling them their own words, telling them that they
were on tape?
On tape. Where the hell did the tapes come from? Maybe,
Whitacre suggested, the FBI had tapped some of their telephones.
“Well, that may be,’’ Wilson replied, “but what have they got? They
got nothing.’’
“Well,’’ Whitacre said softly, “I get calls from time to time.’’
Wilson nodded. “I know that, Mark.’’
As Whitacre drove, Wilson described his meeting with the agents
and the tactics they had used. Whitacre said the same things had been
done to him.
They pulled into Mick Andreas’s driveway, stopping just past the
entryway to the large, two-story stone house. As they got out of the car,
Wilson tried guessing which other companies may have been raided.
It seemed too much for Whitacre. “Oh, God,’’ he said. “I’m glad my
wife’s not around.’’
“Yeah,’’ Wilson said. “Stay calm. Stay calm.’’
At that instant, Wilson saw Andreas walk out of the house, carry-
ing a drink in his hand and with his shirt untucked. Whitacre was sur-
prised by how calm he appeared; Wilson knew better. He could tell
Andreas was in a panic.
Andreas told them that the meeting had been moved to Reising’s
house. He took a sip of his drink.
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Hours later, just after nine p.m., Whitacre was driving west on
U.S. Highway 36, away from downtown Decatur. By this time on most
nights, he would be heading to his estate in the nearby town of
Moweaqua. But tonight he had other responsibilities.
Whitacre saw his destination ahead—the Holiday Inn in Decatur.
Putting on his blinker, he turned onto a side road that led to the hotel
and then veered right, toward the back of the parking lot. He drove
past the courts for tennis and volleyball, pulling into a space overlook-
ing the neighboring fishing pond. He left the motor running and
waited in the darkness.
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It was a criminal case unlike any in the history of law enforcement. For
years, a top executive with one of America’s most politically powerful
companies worked as a cooperating government witness, providing
evidence of a vast international conspiracy. With little obvious incen-
tive, Mark Whitacre secretly recorded colleagues and competitors as
they illegally divided world markets among themselves, setting far
higher prices for their products than free competition would allow.
In the end, the tapes showed that a company whose executives
hobnobbed with presidents and prime ministers had organized a
scheme to steal hundreds of millions of dollars from its own cus-
tomers. With Whitacre’s help, the FBI had been there—sometimes
with video cameras rolling—as the conspiracy unfolded between
ADM and its foreign competitors.
By the night of the raids in June 1995, the government had
amassed an arsenal of evidence unprecedented in a white-collar case.
Despite the secrecy of the criminals, despite their ability to spend mil-
lions of dollars on a defense, despite the political influence they could
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bring to bear, the possibility that they could beat back the prosecution
seemed ludicrous. They were trapped—trapped by their own words
and images, forever captured on miles of magnetized plastic ribbon.
The government agents did not know whether Whitacre would emerge
as a hero or an unemployed martyr, but they felt sure of their investiga-
tion. That night, they could hardly be blamed for believing that this
case was all but over.
But it would be their last night of confidence and celebration for
years to come. For despite all of the evidence the agents had collected,
critical information had escaped them. Before dawn broke, they
would sense that something had gone terribly awry. Years later, they
would understand that the evening had not signaled the end of
the case, but rather the beginning of events that eventually touched
the highest reaches of government and industry around the world,
events that no one could have imagined.
For on that night in the summer of 1995, almost nothing was what
it appeared to be.
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V ERGE OF
T RUTH
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he large gray van, its windows tinted to block the glances of the
T curious, pulled away from the Decatur Airport, heading toward
Route 105. Inside, four foreign visitors watched as images of the mod-
est town came into view. Working-class houses. An Assembly of God
church. A man-made lake. The vast fields of corn that could be seen
from the air were no longer visible, replaced instead by an entangle-
ment of industrial plants and office buildings.
These were the sights of a thousand other blue-collar neighbor-
hoods in a thousand other Midwestern towns. Still, on this day,
September 10, 1992, it was hard not to feel a slight sense of awe. For
years, world leaders had seen these images, perhaps from this very van,
in a virtual pilgrimage of power. In the last few months alone, this road
had been traveled by Mikhail Gorbachev, the former Soviet leader, and
by Dan Quayle, the American vice president. Those men, like leaders
before them, had been drawn to this out-of-the-way place in the cen-
ter of America largely by one company and often by one man: Archer
Daniels Midland and its influential chairman, Dwayne Andreas.
Few Americans were familiar with who Andreas was or what he
did. But among the world’s moneyed and powerful, he and his grain
processing company were known well. In Washington, anyone who
mattered was acquainted with Andreas—or more likely, with his
money. For decades, he had been one of the country’s foremost politi-
cal contributors, heaping cash almost indiscriminately on Democrats
and Republicans—this year alone, Andreas money would be used by
both George Bush and Bill Clinton in their battle for the presidency.
The largesse helped transform Andreas into one of Washington’s most
important men, even as he remained comfortably ensconced in its
shadows. But it also thrust him into controversy. It was the $25,000
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his hands-on role kept the huge processing plants running. Still, the
sixty-eight-year-old Randall was no Dwayne Andreas. As much as
Dwayne’s smooth and polished style made him the perfect Mr.
Outside for ADM, Randall’s gruff, plainspoken approach ensured that
he would remain Mr. Inside. He often rubbed people the wrong way,
whether he was boasting about his sports cars or ADM’s market domi-
nance. The visitors today expected to hear about the company’s might;
they knew that ADM’s invitation to visit was partly for the purpose of
scaring them.
Randall walked into the room a few minutes later, introduced him-
self, and took his place alongside Wilson and Whitacre. Instantly he
took control of the meeting and the conversation, describing how
ADM was transforming itself into a new company.
Over slightly less than a century, ADM had grown into a global gi-
ant, processing grains and other farm staples into oils, flours, and
fibers. Its products were found in everything from Nabisco saltines to
Hellmann’s mayonnaise, from Jell-O pudding to StarKist tuna. Soft
drinks were loaded with ADM sweeteners and detergents with ADM
additives. Americans were raised on ADM: Babies drinking soy formu-
las were downing the company’s wares; as toddlers, they got their daily
dose of ADM from Gerber cereals. The health-minded consumed its
products in yogurt and canola oil; others devoured them in Popsicles
and pepperoni. While most people had never heard of ADM, almost
every American home was stuffed with its goods. ADM called itself
“the Supermarket to the World,’’ but in truth it was the place that the
giant food companies came to do their grocery shopping.
Now, Randall said, ADM was entering a new era. Beginning three
years before, in 1989, ADM had taken a new direction, creating the
Bioproducts Division. No longer would the company just grind and
crush food products. Instead, it was veering into biotechnology, feed-
ing dextrose from corn to tiny microbes. Over time, those microbes, or
“bugs” as they were known, convert the sugar into an amino acid called
lysine. As people in the business liked to say, the bugs ate dextrose and
crapped lysine. In animal feed, lysine bulked up chickens and pigs—
just the product needed by giant food companies like Tyson and
Conagra.
Until ADM came along, the Japanese largely controlled the mar-
ket, with Ajinomoto the undisputed giant. Start-up costs alone kept
out potential competitors—tens of millions of dollars were required
just to develop the proprietary, patented microbes needed to ferment
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lysine. But ADM abounded in cash; it had already invested more than
$150 million in the new business. Now, the world’s largest lysine plant
was in Decatur, ready to produce as much as 113,000 metric tons a
year. And running it all was Whitacre, a whiz-kid scientist who was al-
most certainly the first Ph.D. ever employed at ADM as the manager
of a division.
“We’re going to be the largest biochem company in the world,’’
Randall said. “It just makes so much sense for us. We have the raw ma-
terials available, we have cheap utilities. It’s just a natural.’’
The Japanese executives listened skeptically but said little. If
ADM could produce that much lysine, it would have to gobble up
much of the existing market. Building such a huge business struck
them as irrational, foolhardy. ADM would have to keep large portions
of the plant idle while waiting either for the market to grow or com-
petitors to leave the business. Still, the executives didn’t mind hearing
the boasts. They knew that listening as ADM rattled its saber would
give them the chance to learn other, truthful information about the
company.
As Randall spoke, Whitacre and Wilson did their best not to
cringe. For all of Randall’s swagger, they knew the most important fact
about ADM’s new effort was being left untold: The company couldn’t
get the damn plant to work. The bugs went in the vats, the dextrose
went in the bugs and out came—very little. In recent months, a virus
had turned up repeatedly in the giant fermenters where the lysine was
produced, killing the bugs before they produced much of anything.
While ADM was producing enough to have a presence in the market,
the virus contamination had cost as much as $16 million so far in lost
production time alone. And the pressure was really on: Dwayne
Andreas had recently suggested shutting down the plant and trying
again with a test model. Meanwhile, Dwayne’s son, Mick, who ran
much of ADM’s daily business, had been pounding Whitacre for
weeks to fix the problem. But after each attempted solution, the virus
returned. It was not something to mention to ADM’s chief competitor.
Ten minutes into his monologue, Randall pushed himself back
from the table.
“That tells you about our plant, in a nutshell,’’ he said. “Now,
Mark’s going to give you a tour, and we’ll see you back here later for
lunch.’’
The Ajinomoto executives thanked Randall and followed Whitacre
out the door. He escorted them to his Lincoln Town Car for the short
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drive to the plant. There, everyone donned hard hats and safety
glasses.
They started the tour in the upstairs lab, where a handful of tiny
flasks were being automatically shaken. Inside each of them was a
mixture of dextrose and soy flour feeding a small number of microbes.
Even as the group walked past, the microbes were multiplying rapidly.
The irony was that those tiny cells of bacteria were the multimillion-
dollar heart of this giant operation. They were ADM’s proprietary bio-
logical secret that had allowed the company to break Japan’s control of
the business.
Fujiwara and Brehant asked questions and jotted down notes. The
group left the lab, walking past the control room and into the main
area of the plant.
The Ajinomoto executives hesitated, awed. In front of them was
a plant unlike any they had ever seen, a vast acreage of fermenters.
Dozens of them were spread across the plant, stainless-steel giants ris-
ing ninety feet toward the ceiling.
The group headed out onto the plant floor, then down a metal
staircase. Fujiwara and Brehant walked near the plant manager as he
described the operations. Whitacre and Ikeda were a few steps back.
Mimoto, already behind the rest of the group, slowed his pace. He
waited until he felt sure that no one was looking. Quickly, he reached
into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag, removing the moist hand-
kerchief inside. He placed the handkerchief on the staircase banister,
rubbing it as he walked down the steps. Before anyone noticed, he
slipped the handkerchief back into the bag, sealed it, and casually
placed it back in his pocket.
Mimoto knew that the multimillion-dollar bacteria used by ADM
to produce its lysine was growing everywhere in this plant, even places
where it could not be seen. He could only hope that, with the handker-
chief, he had successfully stolen a sample of it for Ajinomoto.
Weeks later, Whitacre was at his desk when the intercom buzzed. It
was Liz Taylor, his secretary who sat just a few feet outside his office.
“Yeah, Liz, what’s up?’’
“Somebody’s on the phone for you, but I can’t pronounce his
name. But he sounds Asian.’’
Whitacre picked up the telephone.
“Mark Whitacre.’’
“Hello, Mr. Whitacre?’’ Liz was right. The caller’s Asian accent was
thick.
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“Yes?’’
“I do not know if you remember me,’’ the caller began.
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The modern era of ADM was set in motion on October 21, 1947,
when Shreve M. Archer sat down for a meal of cooked chicken. The
fifty-nine-year-old ADM chairman and descendant of its cofounder
was enjoying his meal in the company’s hometown of Minneapolis
when he abruptly stood, gasping for air. A bone had caught in his
throat. Archer turned blue, then grimaced in pain as he swallowed the
bone. He was rushed to nearby Miller Hospital, but it was too late.
Twenty days later, he died of complications from the incident.
The sudden, disturbing death of Archer left a void at the company
he had directed since 1924. In his years at the helm, Shreve Archer had
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In the early 1950s, America was a place of paranoia and fear. The So-
viet Union had obtained awesome nuclear weaponry. Communists had
won control of China, the first major defeat of American interests in
the nascent Cold War. In Washington, an array of demagogues stoked
alarm with shouts of treason, destroying reputations often with little
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moment, 11:47 on the evening of August 28, 1968, Humphrey was put
over the top. He was the Democratic nominee for President of the
United States.
The suite erupted into cheers. Humphrey rose from his chair, ap-
plauding.
“I feel like really jumping,’’ he said. He leaned over and kissed the
cheek of Mrs. La Donna Harris, the wife of his campaign cochairman.
Then Humphrey turned and kissed Inez Andreas. Nearby, her hus-
band, Dwayne—a member of Humphrey’s elite brain trust—beamed.
In the sixteen years since leaving Cargill, Andreas’s reputation had
grown immeasurably. The onetime Iowa farm boy had parlayed the
lessons and connections from his Cargill days into a speaking role on
the national political stage. He had met Humphrey back then, after
sending a one-thousand-dollar contribution to the Minnesota politi-
cian’s first Senate campaign. In time, the Humphrey family was join-
ing the Andreases for vacations at the Sea View Hotel in Bal Harbour,
Florida—a hotel owned by Andreas. Their friendship was cemented in
1948 with the birth of Dwayne’s son, Mick; Hubert Humphrey was
named his godfather.
Andreas had also extended his political connections through a
friendship with another political powerhouse, Thomas Dewey, the for-
mer New York governor and two-time Republican presidential candi-
date. Again, Andreas had met Dewey while working at Cargill. But
their friendship blossomed when Andreas hired Dewey as a legal advi-
sor and arranged for him to become special counsel for a national asso-
ciation that promoted soybeans. Dewey, like Humphrey, became a fre-
quent visitor to Andreas’s Sea View Hotel.
Dewey also ensured that Andreas extended his contacts in both
political parties. He advised Andreas to contribute heavily to election
campaigns, providing money to politicians across the ideological spec-
trum. Andreas became what was known in Washington as a “swinger’’—
one of the big-time contributors who hedges their bets by making do-
nations to both sides.
Even as his influence extended in Washington, Andreas became
known in foreign governments as well. He often accompanied Humphrey
and Dewey on overseas trips, at times blending their political goals
with his own commercial interests. He cut deals with Juan and Evita
Perón of Argentina and touted the benefits of soybean oil to Francisco
Franco of Spain. In Yugoslavia, he stayed up into the wee hours with
Tito and in the Soviet Union, chatted with Joseph Stalin about vege-
table oil.
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1965, ADM was teetering, having never recovered from the death of
Shreve Archer. Its finances were in such disrepair that it could not pay
its dividends to shareholders. To survive, the company needed a huge
infusion of cash and the support of someone with the clout to catapult
it into foreign markets. In short, ADM needed Dwayne Andreas. A
member of the Archer family invited Andreas in, offering to sell him
one hundred thousand shares of stock. Over the ensuing months,
Andreas snapped up 10 percent of the company. By early 1966, he was
named to ADM’s board of directors and executive committee. After
surveying the company’s prospects, Andreas decided ADM needed to
be closer to the soybean business that Shreve Archer had started so
long ago. The company moved its headquarters to Decatur.
As Andreas solidified his new role, his chief political mentor took a
tumble. The 1968 defeat of Humphrey by Nixon’s Republican ma-
chine might have seemed a setback to Andreas’s ambitions. But he was
protected. The night Nixon was nominated, Andreas was dining with
Tom Dewey. When the nomination was official, Dewey called Nixon
to offer congratulations and mentioned that he was with Andreas.
Dewey listened for a moment, then put his hand over the mouth-
piece and turned to his dinner guest.
“You willing to go in the cabinet?’’ Dewey asked.
Andreas shook his head; he could not imagine the reaction of
friends like Humphrey if he turned up in a Nixon administration.
By 1972 Andreas was a big contributor to Humphrey once again
but also to his friend’s Democratic challengers. At the same time, he
secretly funneled oceans of cash toward the Nixon White House.
Knowing that a Nixon operative planned to pick up the money,
Andreas dropped $25,000 in bills into safe-deposit box 305 at the Sea
View Hotel just before midnight on April 7, 1972—minutes before
a new law made anonymous contributions illegal. Later that year,
Andreas sauntered into the White House, carrying a folder stuffed
with $100,000 in one-hundred-dollar bills. The cash, which Andreas
gave to Nixon’s personal secretary, was kept in a White House safe for
months until Watergate led Nixon to decide it should be returned.
With Andreas having locked in his role as a Washington power
broker, federal agricultural policies began to align smoothly with
ADM’s interests. Federal sugar programs became one of Washington’s
most sacred cows. Through price supports and quotas, the programs
kept the cost of sugar high—gifting billions to sugar producers while
pushing consumer-product companies to save money by using high-
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the FBI, was more complex. He and his company were financially sup-
portive of law-enforcement causes. Still, for some agents, there were
lingering questions about ADM’s commitment to the law. Enough
agents were around from the Watergate days to remember Andreas’s
role, one questionable enough to lead to charges. Then there were the
cases against ADM itself: In 1978 the company pleaded no contest to
charges that it fixed prices on contracts in the Food for Peace program;
in 1981, the Feds had filed an ultimately unsuccessful civil case charg-
ing it with fixing the prices of fructose.
On top of that, whenever ADM executives chose to cooperate with
the Bureau, they seemed to always demand the right to set the terms.
One episode with ADM quickly entered FBI lore. In the mid-1980s,
Andreas became convinced that his company was being cheated by
dishonest traders at the Chicago commodities exchanges. Dwayne
sought the FBI’s help and agreed to participate in a sting operation to
catch dishonest traders. Agents traveled to Decatur and trained in how
to trade. Then, they were sent out on the exchange floors, wired with
recorders to tape the misdeeds of others. Andreas was delighted with
the plan, which was known to only a handful of executives.
Such secrets could not be kept for long. Dwayne’s son, Mick, who
ran ADM’s trading operation, heard everything and hit the ceiling.
ADM’s relationship with the exchanges had long been strained. By sic-
cing the Feds on them, Dwayne had run the risk of shutting ADM out
of business there in the future. Mick demanded that the agents—who
by then were working on the exchange floor—no longer pose as ADM
employees.
The sting operation continued, but the agents could no longer rely
on ADM for cover. The decision angered some at the FBI, which had
already invested enormous sums of money in the investigation.
Years later, in 1991, some of that anger became suspicion. The
FBI’s Chicago office had heard that ADM’s treasurer, Thomas Frankel,
had been involved in financial irregularities. ADM had done its best to
keep the information secret, but by September of that year admitted
that something had happened. Company officials disclosed that they
had uncovered more than $6 million in trading losses dating back
years and that Frankel was resigning. Fraudulent trading records were
discovered, and the total losses eventually exceeded more than $14
million. But when the Bureau investigated, ADM dragged its feet on
providing information, crippling the case. It was an unusual response
from a potential crime victim and left agents scratching their heads.
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Some couldn’t help but wonder whether ADM and Andreas had some-
thing to hide.
With suspicions running deep, one thing seemed clear: If Andreas
ever again thought his company was the victim of a crime, he probably
would not turn to the FBI for help. By the early 1990s, Dwayne
Andreas had the power to go elsewhere.
Allen Andreas’s phone rang in his cavernous London town house some-
time after seven p.m. It was October 1992. Darkness had already set-
tled over London, but Allen, who oversaw ADM operations in Europe,
had more work ahead of him that night. He picked up the phone.
“Do you still have your friends in Europe?’’
There had been no introductions, no pleasantries. But Allen im-
mediately recognized the voice of his uncle, Dwayne Andreas. Some-
thing important had to be up. Dwayne had never become comfortable
speaking openly over the telephone, particularly on overseas calls.
Now, here he was, asking about Allen’s “friends’’—an oblique code for
his London contacts at the Central Intelligence Agency.
“Yes, I do,’’ Allen replied.
“We have a problem,’’ Dwayne said. “Mick will call you about it. I
want you to speak with him.’’
With that, the call ended. But Dwayne’s terse, transatlantic mes-
sage was clear: Something serious was happening in Decatur. What-
ever problem Mick was about to discuss, Dwayne wanted the CIA to
take care of it.
Allen placed the telephone back in its cradle. Almost before he
could pull his hand away, it rang again. Mick and Dwayne had obvi-
ously coordinated their telephone calls for maximum impact.
“Hey, Mick,’’ Allen said. “What’s happening?’’
“We’ve got a potentially serious situation going on here,’’ Mick said.
“We need your help.’’
For the next few minutes, Mick repeated everything he had heard
about the Fujiwara call. The story left Allen’s head spinning. Maybe
Fujiwara was telling the truth. Maybe it was some sort of con. Maybe
Ajinomoto had concocted a sting to get ADM in trouble with the
Japanese government. Whatever the answer, Allen understood why his
relatives were concerned.
“We don’t know what’s going on, but obviously there are implica-
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It could be argued that Brian Shepard got his start as an FBI agent by
parking cars. After he spent three years as an aide in the documents
section of the Bureau’s laboratory, his agent’s application had been ac-
cepted. He emerged from training in March 1976 as a newly minted
Special Agent, eager for his first big assignment. To his dismay, he was
dispatched to the Bureau’s New York City Field Office, widely reputed
as one of the most difficult places to work. On his first day, Shepard
learned part of the reason why: Traveling to work by a maze of buses
and subways, he got lost. He finally rolled into the office at nine
o’clock, forty-five minutes late by FBI standards. A mortified Shepard
was sent to his desk, where he shuffled paper and tried to look busy.
Finally, he received the word that he had been waiting for: His supervi-
sor wanted to see him. Shepard was certain he was about to receive his
first case.
But when Shepard arrived at his supervisor’s office, the man
wouldn’t look at him. Instead, he sat with his back to the new agent,
staring out the office window. Staying in that position, the supervisor
told Shepard about his task. It was important, the supervisor said, and
if Shepard did a good job, he might be allowed to do it on a frequent
basis. Shepard was full of anticipation until the supervisor handed over
his car keys. Parking rules in New York City were difficult, the supervi-
sor said. To avoid a ticket, his car needed to be moved a few times a day.
Shepard never asked if the degrading assignment had been
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punishment for being late and handled it without complaint for several
weeks. Eventually, he dug himself out of the hole and started working
with what the agents called FCI, foreign counterintelligence. For the
next several years, Shepard hunted spies in New York. He and his wife,
Diana, moved to Matawan, a New Jersey suburb that was an hour’s
commute from the office. For seven years, Shepard reluctantly made
the trek by public transportation. That was another black mark for
the city, as far as Shepard was concerned: He was crazy about cars
but lived in a place where driving was often a luxury. Finally, in 1983
Shepard was eligible for a transfer. He saw an opening in Decatur and
snapped it up.
Decatur was perfect for him. Shepard was originally from nearby
Kankakee and his wife was also from the area. In many ways, he was
an all-American boy, born on the Fourth of July in 1949. Despite
the years in New York, Shepard had never stopped considering the
Midwest as home. That was the place he and Diana wanted to raise
their two young children. For Brian, going back had an added bonus:
He would finally be able to start chasing criminals. With only three
agents in the Decatur office, every kind of case landed on his desk,
from financial frauds to bank robberies, from extortions to drug inves-
tigations.
In no time, Shepard became a fixture in the dusty prairie town. It
boasted of many labels—the Pride of the Prairie, the Soybean Capital
of the World, the First Illinois Home of Abraham Lincoln—but its
community spirit did not translate into personal pretension. Shepard
fit in perfectly. With his rumpled, off-the-rack suits and inexpensive
ties, he might have been taken as a down-on-his-luck salesman rather
than as a member of the nation’s top law-enforcement agency. But in
Decatur, the look suited him fine. Tall and slender, he had the image of
Decatur’s own Gary Cooper, always available at high noon to combat
the black hats.
By 1992 Shepard was a forty-three-year-old veteran agent who
knew most everyone in town. His early partners in the office had long
since retired; Brian Shepard was the FBI as far as Decatur was con-
cerned. As an investigator, he was no chessmaster, just a by-the-book
agent who studiously immersed himself in the details of a case. To the
dismay of supervisors, Shepard’s case briefings often overflowed with
those details; more than a few eyeballs had rolled in Springfield on
hearing Shepard utter his trademark opening “to make a long story
short.’’ He almost never did.
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That night, Jim Shafter, the personal attorney for the Andreas family,
settled into bed early. It had been a tough day, and Shafter had arrived
at his home on North Country Club Road, on the shore of Lake
Decatur, looking forward to an uneventful evening—dinner with his
wife, Gigi, followed by watching some television in bed before going to
sleep.
About eight-thirty, Shafter was flipping through channels when
the telephone rang on his bedside table. He put down the remote and
reached for the phone.
He heard a deep voice that he recognized. “We’ve got a situation at
the plant we need to deal with.’’
It was Mick Andreas. Shafter spoke with him frequently, often sev-
eral times a day. It was not unusual for Mick to call him at home; they
were next-door neighbors. But this time, he had no idea what Mick
was talking about.
“What’s up?”
Andreas told Shafter everything he had heard from Whitacre
about the Japanese espionage and the extortion. Andreas gave no indi-
cation how he had learned the information, and Shafter didn’t press
him to find out. The lawyer was too taken aback.
“Who have you reviewed this with?’’ Shafter asked. “Does Reising
know?’’
No, Andreas replied, no one had told ADM’s general counsel. “We
decided that we shouldn’t discuss it within the company.”
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Now, Andreas said, things were coming to a head. The FBI had
learned about the case, and agents were coming to his house tomorrow
to find out what he knew.
“I’ve been talking to Dad about it,’’ Andreas said, “and we thought
it might be more comfortable if you sit in on this meeting tomorrow.’’
Thank goodness. “It’s my belief that any time you meet with govern-
ment officials, it certainly makes sense to have legal counsel there,’’
Shafter replied.
“Well, that’s why I called.’’
There was one other thing, Andreas said. In the calls, Fujiwara had
offered to sell ADM some sort of Ajinomoto “superbug’’ that would be
resistant to virus contamination. If it would help bring an end to the
millions that ADM was flushing away each month, it sounded like a
good deal. The only problem was, they wouldn’t be buying the bug
from Ajinomoto, but from some rogue employee.
“Can we do that?’’ he asked.
It was at times like this that Shafter was glad Andreas felt comfort-
able calling him at home.
“Mick, this is just off the top of my head,’’ Shafter said, “but hell, no.’’
The next day, at about one o’clock, Brian Shepard was sitting in his
Bureau-issued car, parked near downtown Decatur, when his radio
crackled to life.
“SI-14 to SI-122.’’
Hearing his call signal, SI-122, Shepard reached for the radio
microphone. From those few words, he knew that Paisley and Stukey
were close to the prearranged meeting place just off Route 121. Paisley,
whose signal was SI-14, was telling Shepard to get ready.
“This is SI-122.’’
“Yeah, Bry, we’re right here,’’ Paisley said. “I see you already. Go
ahead and lead the way.”
Shepard pulled out, just ahead of Stukey and Paisley. Maintaining
the forty-mile-per-hour speed limit, he drove past the 206-foot tower
built by the A. E. Staley Manufacturing Company in 1929 as a tribute
to the grain processor’s employees and customers. Turning left, the
cars crossed a bridge on Lake Decatur and turned onto North Country
Club Road. They traveled another mile before finding Andreas’s house
and parking in his driveway.
The three agents stepped up to the entryway and rang the bell.
The wooden double doors were opened by a man in his late forties,
with glasses and thinning dark hair.
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history that was so well known around Decatur. Most everyone associ-
ated with ADM—the Andreases, Shafter, Jim Randall—had heard
Whitacre tell the amazing story of his life: how he had been orphaned
as a young boy in Ohio when his parents died in a car accident; how he
had spent difficult times in a local orphanage, feeling unwanted; how
he had been adopted by a wealthy man who owned a giant Ohio
amusement park called King’s Island. Whitacre had gone from having
nothing to wanting for nothing. Now from a family worth millions,
Whitacre seemed to have no need to work; he had been able to buy the
old Andreas house when he first joined ADM. His work ethic, com-
bined with his family’s personal wealth, fascinated other executives.
“We’ll need to go out there,’’ Stukey said. “We obviously would like
to tape one of these phone calls he’s had with the Japanese.’’
Andreas told the agents to make any arrangements for Whitacre
through Mark Cheviron, ADM’s security chief. He would be fully
briefed on this meeting.
Andreas paused, eyeing the agents. There was one more thing he
wanted out on the table, he said. He was of course aware of ADM’s
role in the FBI investigation years before at the Chicago futures ex-
changes.
“It’s also no secret that I didn’t like it when I found out about it,’’
Andreas said. “To me, it’s repugnant to tape people when they don’t
know it. In this case, I don’t want my people taped unless they know
about it or I know about it ahead of time.’’
Stukey assured Andreas that he had nothing to worry about. Still,
the sudden demand seemed odd. The FBI had come to help fight off a
sabotage effort. The only executives who might be taped would be
those suspected of damaging ADM. Why would Andreas be against
that? What was he worried about?
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him down in price. From all appearances, ADM seemed ready to pay
the money and be done with it.
But Whitacre had been fooled. Now, ADM expected him to meet
with the FBI and answer their questions.
Answer their questions! Jesus!
Whitacre shook his head; he had never felt so nervous. Since learn-
ing of the interview, Whitacre had ranted, threatened to quit, but got
nowhere. He was petrified of the FBI agents. There were too many
things that they could find out. Things that could destroy him. Things
that could destroy ADM.
Whitacre paced in his office. The timing of this was so bad. His
career had been coming together at ADM. He had successfully over-
seen completion of the lysine plant. He was a division president. And
now, just in the last few weeks, his situation had improved even more.
The company had announced a management reorganization, naming
Mick to the title of vice-chairman. At the same time, Whitacre had
been named a corporate vice president, one of the youngest in ADM
history. Wall Street had correctly interpreted the moves as Dwayne
Andreas’s clear designation of Mick as the heir apparent. In a few
years, he was almost certain to take ADM’s top job, and Whitacre felt
confident that he had a shot at being number two. Now, all that was at
risk. All for this crazy interview.
Whitacre glanced at the telephone. He needed to call his wife,
Ginger. He was sure she could help him think this through.
Ginger had always been there for him, since they met as teenagers
on a bus at Little Miami High School in Ohio. The oldest daughter of
factory workers, Ginger was the picture of solid Midwestern stock, the
high-school homecoming queen who played whatever hand life dealt
her. In those days, Mark lived up to his then-nickname “Corky,’’ as
he popped off in different directions. Throughout high school, he
broke up with Ginger repeatedly, but she always took him back, con-
vinced that someday her patience would pay off. Finally, in 1979, a
few years after graduation, the couple married. When Mark pursued
his doctorate at Cornell, Ginger went with him. In the years since, she
never complained as Mark moved from job to job—from Ralston Pu-
rina in St. Louis to Degussa Corporation in New York and eventually to
Degussa’s world headquarters near Frankfurt. Before leaving the coun-
try, they had adopted two children, Tanya and Billy, and not long after
gave birth to a third, Alexander. Their family had grown from two to
five people in one year.
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The move to Decatur had been difficult for the family. Mark,
caught up in his new job, was no longer as attentive as he had been.
Also, Ginger felt uncomfortable around some ADM executives, who
struck her as crass and too impressed with their own wealth. Still, she
understood that the job was too great an opportunity to pass up. As al-
ways, she stood by Mark.
Now, as Mark called home, he only hoped that Ginger could be
strong for him again.
Ginger was stepping through the living room when the telephone
rang. Almost as soon as she picked it up, she could tell Mark was in a
panic. His normal breezy cheeriness was gone, replaced by a tone of
desperation. Before she could say anything, his story spilled out. The
FBI was snooping around ADM. His boss had told him to talk with an
agent.
Ginger sat down, uneasy. Her experience with law enforcement
was limited; none of her family had ever had a run-in with the police.
To her, the FBI was some sort of fearful monolith, one that clearly
scared Mark.
“I’m really uncomfortable about this,’’ he said. “There are lots of
things going on. I could be asked some tough questions.’’
Ginger wasn’t sure what Mark was talking about and didn’t think
she should ask. But she knew he had better not lie to the FBI.
“Whatever you do, no matter what’s going on, just be honest with
them and tell the truth,’’ she said. “Tell the truth no matter what the
truth is.’’
Brian Shepard checked the time again. It was late that same after-
noon, and he was getting tired of waiting. Already, he had received two
calls from ADM postponing Whitacre’s interview. There were plenty of
excuses; Whitacre was busy, something had come up. Shepard wasn’t
sure of the problem, but he couldn’t shake the sense that something
odd was going on.
But interviewing Whitacre was critical to the next stages of
the FBI’s investigative plan. The trick was to use the prospect of a
multimillion-dollar payment to lure Fujiwara to the United States,
where he could be arrested. A meeting would be set up between
Whitacre and the Japanese executive; the FBI would be there, record-
ing every word. Under the current plan, Whitacre would turn over
$3 million if Fujiwara revealed the saboteur’s identity and other infor-
mation. Fujiwara would be allowed to leave that meeting and then be
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In a place like Decatur, the slightest whisper can rapidly echo around
town into a shout. A saboteur at ADM, particularly one in a high-level
position, had a better-than-even chance of learning about the investi-
gation if word of Whitacre’s meeting with the FBI leaked out. So Jim
Shafter decided to go all out in protecting the interests of his best
client.
Late in the afternoon, Shafter made the rounds of his law firm,
Kehart, Shafter & Hughes, telling everyone to head home. There were
some people coming who needed privacy, he said. The staff started
clearing out of their offices on the fifth floor of the Citizen’s Bank
building in Decatur. They were happy to take advantage of an early
Thursday.
With nothing to do but wait, Shafter started a pot of coffee and
checked the conference room. Before the staff had time to leave, a re-
ceptionist buzzed. Whitacre and Cheviron were waiting in the lobby.
Shafter hustled out to the front. No one was supposed to have
seen them arrive. After all the delays, now they were early. When
he reached the lobby, Shafter was surprised at their appearance.
Whitacre was pacing and sweating. Cheviron seemed frustrated.
The men said nothing until they were in Shafter’s private office.
Whitacre resumed his pacing, unable to sit down. It struck Shafter as
bizarre.
This guy is more than kind of nervous. What was the matter with
him?
“Mark, you don’t have a damn thing to worry about,’’ Cheviron
said, in a tone that made it clear he was repeating himself.
Whitacre looked to Shafter. “Is it okay for me to meet with them?’’
he asked.
Shafter stared at Whitacre, trying to gauge what was going on.
When he spoke, his tone was calm.
“Look, Mark, let me clear one thing up for you. I represent the
company here; I don’t represent you. If you want a lawyer, we’ll get you
a lawyer. I can only give the company advice, and what I can tell you is
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that the company has requested that you meet with the FBI and coop-
erate with them.’’
Whitacre showed no reaction. “Fine, that’s fine,’’ he replied. “I’m a
loyal employee.’’
A minute later, the receptionist buzzed again. Special Agent
Shepard from the FBI was out front. So much for sending everyone
home first.
Shafter brought Cheviron and Whitacre to the reception area and
escorted everyone to the windowless conference room. It was as pri-
vate a place as could be found in Decatur on short notice. Shafter ex-
cused himself and headed back to his office.
The situation was odd for Shepard. Cheviron had asked to sit in on
the interview, a request that left the agent uncomfortable. Usually, FBI
interviews are conducted privately. At times, a witness will bring along
a lawyer, but no one else. That way, the witness could be assured any
information would remain confidential. That seemed particularly im-
portant in this case. But Shepard decided not to make waves. ADM
was the victim; if the company wanted Cheviron along, Shepard could
agree, even if he didn’t like it.
Shepard studied Whitacre. With his unlined, boyish face and blond
hair, he looked as innocent as an altar boy. Still, Whitacre seemed anx-
ious. For people in law enforcement, the reaction was not too unusual.
Most everyone interviewed by an FBI agent or a prosecutor is, one way
or another, probably having a bad day. Shepard began by trying to calm
Whitacre.
“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
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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 meet-
ing with Mick and Dwayne. He told them about his doubts, and the
men decided that ADM’s top lawyer, Rick Reising, needed to be in-
volved. 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. Gen-
tly, Whitacre was pressed to run through the story of the phone call to
his daughter. It sounded less believable the second time around. Chevi-
ron made it clear he thought it was all a lie, pushing Whitacre with ques-
tions. 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.’’
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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 pre-
sented 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 com-
ing out to their home, standing with them, probably asking them ques-
tions. 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,
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the darkness. Shepard turned onto the driveway, passing a black gate
supported by brick pillars.
Inside, Mark and Ginger were upstairs in the master bedroom,
where they had continued discussing the impending FBI visit for an-
other half an hour. Mark had opened up a bit, telling her details of
what he knew. Ginger was more convinced that he should talk.
“Just tell them everything,’’ she said. “We’ll just leave. I don’t like
what this company has been doing to you. This is a chance to go some-
where else.’’
Mark, sitting on the bed, looked up at her. “I may tell them at some
point, but not now. Right now I’m going to follow the company line.’’
Ginger’s face was a mask of determination.
“Mark,’’ she said firmly. “If you don’t tell them, I will.’’
The room fell silent. Mark stared at her; he just wasn’t ready. He
needed more time.
“I can’t,’’ he said softly. “Not now.’’
At that moment, Shepard’s car headlights appeared in the
bedroom window as he pulled up the driveway. Together, Mark and
Ginger headed downstairs.
Shepard knocked lightly, and Mark opened the door. Shepard was
dressed in khaki pants, a sports shirt, and a windbreaker. In his hand,
he held a case—the recording device for the telephone was inside.
“Good evening, Mr. Shepard,’’ Mark said.
“Call me Brian,’’ Shepard replied.
Mark invited Shepard in and introduced him to Ginger. Shepard
shook her hand. He apologized for the hour, saying he would be done
in a few minutes.
Shepard noticed that the Whitacres seemed nervous. In some
ways, Mark appeared worse than he had the previous night. Perhaps
if he just installed the recorder and went on his way, they would feel
better.
“Where’s that line where you’re getting the calls?’’ Shepard asked.
He was looking for the ADM off-premises extension that Whitacre
had mentioned.
“The OPX line,’’ Mark replied. “It’s upstairs.’’
The two men headed to a large room adjoining the master
bedroom. Whitacre led Shepard in, showing him a small telecommu-
nications setup, with phones and a fax machine. Shepard brought out
the recording device and hooked it up to the phone.
Downstairs, Ginger was straining to listen by the staircase. She
wanted to be sure Mark opened up.
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“Why?’’
Whitacre paused again. It was too late to turn back. He had made
his decision.
“What I’m about to tell you involves something very large,’’ he said.
“This extortion attempt by Fujiwara is nothing compared to it.’’
Shepard said nothing.
“It involves price-fixing in the lysine business,’’ Whitacre said. “I’ve
been involved in several meetings with our Japanese and Korean com-
petitors, where the sole purpose is to fix prices. I’ve been instructed to
go by the company.’’
No one understood ADM’s business philosophy, Whitacre said.
“They always say, ‘The competitors are our friends, and the customers
are our enemies.’ ”
Struggling to see in the darkness, Shepard wrote down the phrase.
His mind raced; he had never been involved in a price-fixing inves-
tigation. At that moment, he wasn’t sure if the FBI handled such
cases.
“That’s why they wanted me to lie about the OPX line,’’ Whitacre
said. “Fujiwara’s calling my home line. But so are the people we’re fix-
ing prices with.’’
Whitacre knew the FBI planned to check which executives had
frequent calls to Japan. That would be strong evidence of the sabo-
teur’s identity.
“That scared me,’’ Whitacre said. “You check those records, nobody’s
going to have more phone calls with Japan than me. That’s the price-
fixing.’’
Even though he was acting on ADM’s instructions, Whitacre said,
he knew he could have become the fall guy if Shepard stumbled onto
the price-fixing.
Shepard thought through what Whitacre was saying.
“Who told you to participate in these talks?’’
Whitacre answered in a clear voice.
“I’m doing this at the direction of Mick Andreas and Dwayne
Andreas.’’
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to know Mark was finally ready to tell the truth. Just seeing him out in
the car with Shepard lifted her fears from the past few days.
She headed out to the hallway. She knew her son probably
wouldn’t be sleeping in that bedroom much longer. After tonight, their
time in Moweaqua was limited. The family almost certainly would
have to move when Mark took a new job.
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Dean Paisley woke first, before his wife. The bedroom telephone on a
nearby dresser was ringing. He threw back the covers. Naked, he
padded across the bedroom to the dresser and picked up the phone.
“Dean? This is Brian.’’
Paisley quickly shook off sleep. “Yeah, Brian, what’s going on?’’
“I just got back from talking to Whitacre.’’
Shepard paused.
“There’s something much bigger going on here.’’
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The Informant
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