Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (125 page)

Nick was about to climb into his car when he spotted Alena working in the tomato field. He shut the car door and started across the lawn toward her.

Alena didn't bother to look up when Nick approached.

“Hey,” Nick called out.

“Hey.”

“How's it going out here?”

“It's going. Why, is there a problem?”

“No problem. It just seems to be taking a while, that's all.”

She glared at him. “If you wanted a sloppy job, you should have sent for somebody else. I don't know why you sent for me anyway.”

Nick stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Look—I screwed up.”

“What?”

“At the party last night—I screwed up. I meant to . . . I guess I should have . . .”

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Nick straightened his glasses. “Boy—I'm having a really good day.”

Alena grinned. “How are you going to make it up to me?”

“What?”

“I know—you can take me out to dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“It doesn't have to be fancy. Just someplace for the two of us—and the dogs. How about tomorrow? I can knock off early.”

“Uh—okay.”

“Great! I'll see you then.”

Nick was halfway back to his car before a thought occurred to him:
The dogs?

28

J
engo pushed the shopping cart along at a leisurely pace, staring at the sloping shelves of pallid yellow and dusky orange and verdant green vegetables that lined the produce section at the Harris Teeter supermarket in Cameron Village. Every few minutes his wife would pass by the shopping cart like a satellite in near-earth orbit, pausing just long enough to drop off another twist-tied sack of vegetables before spinning off into space again.

Jengo read the produce labels as he rolled along:
rainbow chard;
radini; Chinese longbeans; graffiti eggplant; gai lan; daikon radishes; sunchokes; kabocha squash.
So many of the vegetables were unfamiliar to him. Jengo had never seen them before—they could never grow in the parched climate and depleted soil of Central Africa. He saw squash from Omega, Georgia; bell peppers from Benton Harbor, Michigan; and artichokes from Coachella, California.
Jicama root
—
where does it come from?
he wondered.
How does it get here?
He had visited American supermarkets many times before, but he never ceased to marvel at the mind-boggling variety and the astonishing system of production and distribution required to make this level of superabundance possible.

“Daddy, can I get some gum?”

Jengo looked down at his daughter.
Daddy
—he couldn't get used to the word. He knew the word was an expression of tender affection, but still there was something sad about it. As a child he had addressed his own beloved father with the Amharic word “
ah-BY-ay
” and had hoped to be called the same by his own children one day. But that was Ethiopia and this was America. Ayanna had taken to the English tongue with a child's facile skill and already her native vocabulary was declining; her pronunciation and knowledge of American vernacular were better than his own. Jengo and Mena had once worried about Ayanna's ability to adjust to the American culture, but Ayanna had adjusted only too well. They were very proud of their daughter, but Jengo also felt a little betrayed. Like it or not, Ayanna was becoming an American child.

“
May
I,” Jengo corrected.

“
May
I have some gum?”

“It will decay your teeth, Ayanna. Perhaps another time.”

Ayanna stomped her foot and charged off in search of her mother.
Something else she learned in America
, Jengo thought. His own father would never have allowed such a display of disrespect—it would have brought a swift and stern rebuke. But again, that was Ethiopia. Perhaps it was because Ayanna was his little princess that he took a more tender approach. Or perhaps it was more than that; perhaps in some ways Jengo was becoming an American too.

His wife returned again with another addition to the cart.

“What is this?” Jengo asked.

“Savoy cabbage,” Mena said.

“I have never heard of it.”

“I want to try it. I have a recipe.”

“Is this a necessary purchase?”

“Jengo—must I justify each purchase to you?”

“I was only asking,” he mumbled.

He watched his wife as she went about her shopping. Mena moved from shelf to shelf quickly, eagerly, like a delighted child in a toy store. Jengo understood; no matter how many times he visited an American supermarket he still felt a touch of that same sense of childlike wonder. He hoped he never lost it. He hoped he might experience the same emotion in his own country one day.

Jengo looked at the items in his cart. He saw beans and cooking greens and a five-pound sack of russet potatoes. There was a loaf of organically grown seven-grain bread and a block of bright yellow cheese. Most of the items could have been purchased in a market in his own village—except for one. It was a box of instant breakfast cereal—a food so thoroughly processed that it resembled the original grain in name only. Jengo picked up the box and looked at the label. There was a white banner across the top designed to look like a tailor's tape measure. The words on the banner read:
A Friend to Your Waistline
. He was struck by the irony. While two hundred million Africans struggled to consume enough calories to stay alive each day, Americans struggled with obesity.

A familiar feeling of indignation began to swell inside him.

But it suddenly occurred to Jengo that Mena was purchasing the breakfast cereal for herself, not for their daughter. He looked across the store . . . Was it possible? Was his own wife becoming an American too?

Mena returned with a thick bundle of celery stalks held together by a red rubber band.

Jengo looked at her. “Are you happy here?” he asked.

“I am almost finished, Jengo—be patient.”

“No, I mean
here
—in America.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you miss Ethiopia? Do you ever think about it?”

“Of course I do.”

“Could you remain here?”

Mena stopped and looked at him. “Why do you ask me this?”

“Please, I wish to know.”

She paused. “I think it has been good for Ayanna. I think she has many opportunities here.”

“But you, Mena—could you remain?”

Mena smiled. “I will go where my husband goes.” She patted his arm and turned away.

Jengo considered her response. Mena had made no protest—she had raised no objection to the idea of remaining in America. Jengo thought about the gradual changes he had observed in his wife's behavior over the last several months. She had begun to read American magazines and she listened to American talk shows on television now. She attended a women's group at their church and had been warmly received. She had even invited their neighbors for an American-style barbecue. Mena was adapting to America just as Ayanna was—just as
he
was.
Who knows?
he thought.
Perhaps we are all becoming Americans.

Jengo thought about this, and he couldn't decide whether he should feel angry. The Americans he had met were good people. Indulgent perhaps, arrogant at times, culturally elitist in general, but essentially kind and compassionate people. Americans were not the oversexed barbarians that they appeared to be in their movies—that was just a ridiculous image they projected to the rest of the world. Up close, face-to-face, in person, Americans were much like anyone else. Jengo had not always thought so. Perhaps Mena and Ayanna were teaching him otherwise.

Jengo heard a soft hiss and looked up. The automatic spraying system had been activated, freshening the vegetables with a gentle mist until they glistened like jewels. One thing was clear to Jengo: Americans enjoyed abundance—so much abundance that they were blind to the rest of the world's ravenous hunger.

So much abundance that they would actually presume to turn food into fuel.

That will soon change
, he vowed again.

But this time his vow lacked conviction; for the first time Jengo felt a wave of vague doubt. Could the damage really be restricted to one industry as they planned, or would the devastating economic loss have consequences that none of them could foresee? And would the destruction really stop at the American shoreline, or were national boundaries just an illusion in this global economy? An image began to take shape in his mind—the image of a group of plants growing so tightly together that their roots had become intertwined. One of the plants was pulled from the ground—and all of the other plants were uprooted with it.

Jengo felt a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Pasha had assured him that they would all be safely out of the country before the devastation ever began—that by then any trace of their involvement would have long since disappeared. But mistakes had already been made; how many more might still occur? He had trusted Pasha and Habib because they all risked the same fate if the American authorities ever caught on. Suddenly that thought didn't seem as reassuring. What good would it do Jengo if all three of them were discovered? Would there be any comfort in their company then? Would they be left to rot together in some American prison? Did Pasha and Habib worry as much as Jengo did about the risks they were taking? Did they have wives and daughters to protect?

The last thought made Jengo feel sick to his stomach. If he was somehow discovered, what would happen to Mena and Ayanna? Mena had never met Pasha or Habib; Jengo had been careful never to even mention their names. Jengo had simply attributed his late hours and late-night meetings to the demands of his doctoral research. Mena knew nothing about Jengo's involvement in this effort; he had kept everything from her. But would the authorities believe that? The boundaries between spouses are illusions too. If Jengo was discovered, Mena and Ayanna would surely suffer as well.

And even if he wasn't discovered—would Mena and Ayanna still suffer? When their plan was first conceived, it had seemed like a calculated attack against a deserving enemy. But somehow America no longer seemed a hostile and alien foe; it was a country that his wife and daughter had grown to love. Could he hurt the country they loved without harming them as well?

He thought about Pasha again. He remembered the look on his face that day at the insectary when he knocked Habib to the ground. It was more than a look of anger—it was a look of savagery. For the first time he wondered if Pasha Semenov was really the simple environmentalist that he pretended to be. For the first time he wondered if Pasha's motives might be deeper and darker than he knew.

The doubts in Jengo's mind were flurrying like snowflakes now, but they gradually crystallized into a single solid thought:
I cannot go through with this
.

He knew he would have to tell Pasha—and soon.

29

N
oah—have you got a minute?”

The old man looked up from his desk. “Nicholas—for you, my door is always open.”

Nick looked at the empty doorframe. The office had no door—according to departmental legend the old man had had it removed when he first became chairman of the department many years ago. Nick believed it. It was the perfect symbol of the old man's attitude toward anyone who needed his help. Noah Ellison's door had never been closed to anyone—especially to him.

The chair that faced Noah's desk was the most comfortable in the room. It was another symbol of the man's constant hospitality: The guest was always made more comfortable than the host. Nick pushed the chair a little closer to Noah's desk and took a seat.

“I'm glad you stopped by,” Noah said. “I've been meaning to call. I received a rather disconcerting phone call this morning from the Sampson County police. Are you in some sort of trouble, Nicholas?”

“I'm just doing a PMI for them,” Nick said. “They're investigating a murder.”

“Yes, you mentioned that—but I was a bit surprised to find that you seem to be one of the objects of their investigation.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Sampson County police asked me if our department keeps your schedule—if there was any way to verify your whereabouts over the last several weeks. They specifically asked if I was aware of any visits you had made to Sampson County recently.”

“Are you kidding? I've been out there two or three times a day.”

“They were interested in the time
prior
to the murder.”

“What?”

“I assured them that I had no knowledge of any such visits, but I was forced to admit that your whereabouts can be very difficult to ascertain. We both know it's true, Nicholas—no one is ever quite certain where you are. Not even your students—not even during class.”