Informant (35 page)

“Let’s see,’’ Whitacre mused, “was he in L.A.?’’

“No,’’ Andreas replied. “Ikeda was there.’’

Well, Mimoto had replaced Ikeda, Whitacre said. “And he’s just as bad.’’

“Is he a jerk or is he—”

“He’s a goddamn prick,’’ Wilson growled from the backseat.

Andreas looked back. “Why is he a prick?’’

“He wants everything his way,’’ said Whitacre.

Andreas faced front again. “How are things shaping up now? What’s our volume going to be?’’

“Seventy-three thousand tons,’’ Whitacre answered.

“What’d we tell ’em it would be?’’

“Seventy-three thousand tons.’’

“Really?’’

Whitacre nodded. “We’re comparin’ numbers every month by region,’’ he said. “Every month, Mimoto gets them from everybody.’’

“Who gets ’em? Mimoto?’’ Andreas asked.

“Yeah.’’

“He’s the quarterback?’’

Whitacre pulled his car to a stop at the airport parking lot. “He’s the quarterback.’’

“He’s the butler,’’ Wilson said.

The three men climbed out of the car. Whitacre sidled up to Wilson. This was his chance.

“Kinda like Roche is on citric, right?’’

“Yeah,’’ Wilson said.

“Big quarterback—is that Kuno?’’ Whitacre asked.

“Yeah.’’

“He’s a good guy,’’ Whitacre said, coughing. “You’ll like Kuno. I even knew him from my Degussa days.’’

The three men headed onto the corporate plane.

About an hour later, the three executives were in an American-United cab, driving from Meigs Field in Chicago to the Four Seasons Hotel. They spent much of their time talking about plans for Whitacre’s division to develop new products. One feed additive called tryptophan, Whitacre said, was proving particularly nettlesome. Considering how long it took for ADM to start manufacturing lactic acid in large quantities, he said, the company was still probably two years away from making tryptophan efficiently.

Andreas nodded. “We’ll be able to run it.’’

“We may have some this year,’’ Whitacre said. “Half a truckload or something.’’

Andreas turned. “What about lactic?’’ he asked. “Are we really ever gonna fix prices on it?’’

•   •   •

It was an Indian-summer day in Chicago, and the crowds on the street were in shirtsleeves and light dresses. A small group was gathered in front of the Four Seasons, watching construction work on a nearby church. A cab pulled to the front of the hotel. Whitacre paid the twelve-dollar fare, and the three ADM executives hopped out. Whitacre glanced at the crowd watching the construction and quickly looked away. Bob Herndon was standing among them.

The executives pushed open the glass door to the lobby and walked in. Herndon turned and followed them, keeping up his surveillance.

After some initial confusion, the ADM and Ajinomoto executives met in the seventh-floor lobby of the hotel. Andreas grasped Yamada’s hand.

“How are you?’’ he said. “Good to see you.’’

He turned to Mimoto. “Mick Andreas,’’ he said, extending a hand. “How are you?’’

Whitacre smiled, walking over to Mimoto. “My name’s Mark Whitacre.’’

Mimoto nodded. “Oh, my name is Tani.’’

Everyone walked into the hotel restaurant and was shown to a table in a private room. The meeting started uncomfortably. A top executive—senior to Yamada—was supposed to have attended but did not. Subtly, the Ajinomoto executives made it clear that Andreas was being snubbed because he had failed to visit Tokyo. Whitacre worsened the tension by mispronouncing the top executive’s name—it was Toba, but he repeatedly said “Tobi,’’ even after he was corrected.

Andreas did his best to recover. “I know that meetings are very important in Japan. I will make sure we get that organized.’’

The men offered a toast and sipped their drinks. Mimoto mentioned that one of the Korean companies was creating problems. Miwon had experienced internal strife and had split into two companies—Miwon and Sewon. Lysine was now handled by Sewon, and the new boss was a man who had caused trouble before.

“They stopped reporting to us,’’ Mimoto said.

“Oh, they have?’’ Wilson asked.

Mimoto nodded. “Yeah.’’

The Koreans were now demanding more volume and felt they were not bound by earlier agreements.

Wilson snorted. “It’ll destroy the whole goddamn market.’’

The ADM executives were perplexed by the news. They had met with the Koreans not long before, and everything had seemed fine. They had not raised any complaints.

“Hopefully, they’ll come to reason,’’ Whitacre said.

Andreas stroked his chin. He remembered one thing the Koreans had said at the last meeting, when he had brought up the idea of having ADM invest in Sewon.

“Remember them commenting, ‘Would that be legal?’ ” Andreas said to Wilson.

“Yeah.’’

“He asked that?’’ Whitacre asked.

“I wonder if that’s got something to do with it,’’ Andreas said.

Whitacre shook his head.

“No?’’ Andreas asked.

“You mean, worry about antitrust and so on?’’ Whitacre asked.

Andreas nodded. “Mmm-hmm.’’

“They’re not concerned about that,’’ Whitacre said.

The discussions continued over whitefish and salad, but nothing was resolved. Andreas patted his mouth with a white linen napkin as a waiter arrived to pour coffee. They skipped dessert and headed out of the restaurant. They had accomplished what they needed—updating each other on the conspiracy to make sure that it held.

Andreas shook Mimoto’s hand. “Good luck in all your businesses.”

“Thank you very much,’’ Mimoto replied.

“We hope you make a lot of money,’’ Andreas said. “And if you do, we will, too.’’

In the cab, Andreas reviewed the meeting with Whitacre and Wilson. The three laughed at how upset the Japanese executives had been about Andreas’s failure to visit Tokyo.

Abruptly, Whitacre turned to Wilson. “Did Kuno Sommer call you this morning?’’

Wilson ignored the question.

“He was getting a little bit irritating, really,’’ Andreas said of Mimoto. “Sorta like I’m not coming over on purpose.’’

Whitacre agreed. “Mick Andreas took buying an acquisition and making money over coming to Japan to have dinner and sushi.’’

Wilson chuckled. Then they all laughed about Whitacre’s repeated mispronunciation of Toba’s name.

“I should have said, ‘Tell Tobi hello for me,’ ” Andreas joked.

Whitacre turned to Wilson.

“Kuno Sommer call you this morning?’’

About an hour later, the three were on the corporate plane nearing Decatur, still joking. Eventually, there was a long silence.

“Hey, Terry,’’ Whitacre suddenly said. “From a business standpoint, is Kuno pretty reasonable?’’

“Who?’’ Wilson asked.

“Kuno Sommer.’’

Wilson stared at Whitacre. What was all this about Kuno Sommer?

“I’ve only been around him once,’’ Wilson said. “He seems to be pretty reasonable.’’

“Nothing like the Japs here,’’ Whitacre said.

Wilson shifted in his seat. His back was killing him. Whitacre asked if it was true that Hoffman-LaRoche was stronger in vitamins than in citric acid.

Wilson changed the subject. He wasn’t comfortable with all this talk about Kuno Sommer and citric.

At the airport, the three climbed into Whitacre’s car for the drive to the office. From the backseat, Wilson stared at Whitacre’s head. It looked funny.

“Whitacre, what are you doing?’’ Wilson asked. Whitacre’s hair looked like it was two-toned, he said. Was he dying it?

“Kinda bleaches a little bit,’’ Whitacre said. “Especially in the summertime.’’

“Has Sue told you it looks better that way?’’ Wilson asked, referring to a woman at the office. “Or what’s the deal?’’

“Sue likes that,’’ Whitacre said.

Andreas smiled, half raising a hand. “I’m gonna ask you a few questions about that,’’ he said. “Sue is getting married, right?’’

Yes, Whitacre said. Sue was getting married and moving to Canada.

“What else is new around the office?’’ Andreas asked.

“Amy’s divorced,’’ Wilson said.

Whitacre asked if they were talking about the same Amy who used to spend time with another senior ADM executive.

“He used to fuck her, but he doesn’t anymore,’’ Andreas said. “She loves to give head and fuck.’’

Whitacre looked in the rearview mirror. “Is she really getting a divorce, Terry?’’

“Yeah,’’ Wilson said. “I’ve been tryin’ to tell her how to—”

“How to give blow jobs?’’ Andreas interrupted.

“No,’’ Wilson answered, smiling. “How to take care of the kids so she doesn’t have any problems.’’

Andreas looked into the backseat.

“How about that little fat one over there by you?’’ he said.

“Anna?’’ Wilson asked.

“No, no. Yeah, Anna, too. Who’s fuckin’ Anna now?’’

Wilson shook his head. “I don’t know who’s fucking Anna.’’

“You think she’s pretty much of a rounder?’’ Andreas asked.

Whitacre smiled. “She’s very, very, very friendly. I think she’s very bored with her life here. I don’t mean ADM, either; I’m talkin’ after-ADM life.’’

“So,’’ Andreas said, “she likes to just go out and fuck?’’

A minute later, the men brought up another woman at the company. Andreas shot Whitacre a look.

“I know you fucked her a few times,’’ he said.

“No, no,’’ Whitacre replied.

Andreas smiled. “You look at her up close, she is not that attractive.’’

“No,’’ Wilson said. “But she is built.’’

“I don’t like her, though,’’ Andreas said. “She’s so masculine or something.’’

Wilson sat up. “She’s got lips, look like a black. Sensual. You know they’d fit right around.’’

Whitacre coughed. He was painfully aware that this conversation was being taped.

“Her makeup disguises what she really looks like,’’ Andreas said. “She’s got kind of a flat face and oval eyes.’’

Wilson coughed. “I thought she might be somewhat Hispanic.’’

“Could be Hispanic,’’ Andreas said.

“Latin,’’ said Whitacre.

“She’s got big lips,’’ Wilson repeated. “Like a black.’’

Andreas smiled. “She’d give great head.’’

He turned to Whitacre, asking to hear about some of the new women at work. Whitacre mentioned a woman who had recently joined ADM.

“You were trying to get in her pants, and she wouldn’t talk to you,’’ said Andreas.

“She’s just a quiet gal,’’ Whitacre said.

“Sort of a little meek-lookin’ gal,” Andreas added.

“Yeah,’’ Whitacre said. “But she looks like she’s an—”

“Looks like a whore,’’ Andreas interrupted. “Looks like a fuckin’ whore.’’

Whitacre pulled into ADM, circling the car around to the parking garage. In an instant, the three executives—the vice-chairman and two division presidents of a Fortune 500 company—walked back into the corporate headquarters, smiling and politely bidding hello to some of the female employees they had just been tearing apart so venomously.

“Brian, I’ll tell you, Terry was really angry with me today,’’ Whitacre said over the telephone.

It was the next day. Whitacre was calling Shepard from Scottsdale, saying that Wilson had confronted him at 9:15 that morning, furious with him for speaking too openly during the taxi ride in Chicago.

“He told me, ‘You never talk that openly because there could be undercover agents everywhere, especially in Chicago,’ ” Whitacre said.

He had argued that Andreas had been just as talkative, but Wilson didn’t want to hear it.

“And, Brian, there was another thing bothering him.”

“What?’’

“Kuno Sommer.”

“What about him?’’

“He told me, ‘Don’t worry so much about me and Kuno. He may be your friend, but the part I’m talking to him about has nothing to do with you.’ ”

Shepard hung up the phone a few minutes later. If Wilson was getting this antsy about Kuno Sommer, they were going to have to figure out another way to develop information on Whitacre’s friend.

Two days later, Whitacre glanced up at Mummy Mountain in Scottsdale as he walked past a sparkling swimming pool near the lobby of Marriott’s Mountain Shadows Resort. Palm trees swayed in the breeze, but the scenic panorama didn’t deter Whitacre from the business at hand. He headed into the hotel, toward a conference room reserved for a sales meeting. Near the room, Whitacre saw a few other ADM employees. Some of his best friends at the company were here with him.

By the doorway, Whitacre ran into two friends, Sid Hulse and Reinhart Richter. The three greeted each other effusively before heading in to find their seats. Whitacre had recruited both men to ADM. Hulse ran ADM’s lysine sales effort from Atlanta and was probably Whitacre’s best friend at the company.

Richter was the head of ADM Mexico, but maintained frequent contact with Whitacre. In 1989, while the two had been palling around at an industry conference in Atlanta, Whitacre had told him about being orphaned at a young age and adopted by a wealthy man. Richter had listened, enraptured, as Whitacre told of his adoptive father’s generosity—how he had given one million dollars to each of Whitacre’s three children. At the time, Richter had cautioned that Mark and Ginger had a great responsibility in making sure that children blessed with so much remained motivated.

Richter took his seat on the left side of the room, across from Hulse. The room quickly filled with ADM staffers. Marty Allison, Whitacre’s first hire at ADM who now was a top sales representative in Europe, slipped into the room. He traded a few laughs with Whitacre before settling into his chair.

Sunlight draped the room in a golden glow. Whitacre smiled.

“Okay, well, we’ve got a lot to talk about,’’ he said. “So let’s get started.’’

The discussion began with a review of general sales topics for the lysine market. The assembled executives took notes as they listened to Whitacre.

“Let’s look at some numbers,’’ Whitacre continued.

He turned on an overhead projector and a white light hit the screen behind him. Whitacre placed a chart on it, filling the screen with bar graphs that showed the production for each lysine manufacturer.

“Okay, these are the quarterly production figures we obtained in meetings with our competitors,’’ Whitacre said.