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  “Mr. Wilson, we’re here to see you because you’re very important to ADM,’’ he said. “This is a serious matter. It involves an inter-national investigation regarding price-fixing. There are many companies involved, including ADM.’’

  Herndon watched Wilson carefully. The man didn’t flinch; his eyes held steady. But the color was draining from his face.

  The FBI had used a number of investigative techniques in developing the case, Herndon said. He paused for an instant, and then dropped the bomb.

  “We have tapes in this case,’’ he said. “We have tapes of competitors getting together to fix prices.’’

  Tapes? Jesus.

  For several minutes, Wilson listened, reeling, as Herndon spoke. The agent said that the FBI knew ADM and its competitors had conspired to rig worldwide prices of its products and had formed bogus industry associations as a cover for their illegal meetings.

  “Excuse me, sir, ‘cover’?” Wilson interrupted. “What do you mean by ‘cover’?”

  Herndon and Shepard suppressed smiles. They knew Wilson understood exactly what they meant. The time had come to make that clear.

  “We’ve heard you say over and over that the associations are the perfect cover,’’ Herndon said. “We’ve heard you say it on tape. We’ve seen you agree to fix prices. We’ve seen you tell others to do it.’’

  Herndon paused, staring into Wilson’s eyes. Seconds passed, seeming like minutes. The moment grew unnatural. Wilson said nothing.

  Finally, Herndon broke the tension. “There are going to be indictments. People will be going to jail. Right now you have the opportunity to make a decision, and we would like you to make the right decision.’’

  This was Wilson’s chance to admit his mistakes, Herndon said, a 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 government.

  “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 decision, 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 answer 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.

  “Mark, stay calm,’’ Wilson said. “Stay calm.’’

  It was about thirty minutes later. Wilson and Whitacre were hustling across the club parking lot, having finally ended their dinner with Steven Yu. They had attempted to hide their anxiety, with little success. Every few minutes, Wilson had headed to the phone in a frustrating effort to track down ADM’s general counsel, Richard Reising. Between calls, he had sat at the table in near silence, slamming down scotches. When he finally found Reising, the lawyer sounded panicked: FBI agents were fanning out across Decatur, interviewing executives and seizing documents. Reising said Wilson and Whitacre should immediately head out to the house of Mick Andreas, ADM’s vice-chairman. He would meet them there.

  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 exploding.

  “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 executives 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 confronting 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, carrying a drink in his hand and with his shirt untucked. Whitacre was surprised 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.

  “They’ve been everywhere,’’ Andreas said.

  “Yeah, I know,’’ Wilson replied.

  “They hit pretty hard on me,’’ Whitacre said. “Jesus.’’

  Andreas nodded. “I bet. Me too.’’

  In his confrontation with the FBI, Andreas said, the agents had played a tape with his voice on it, talking to some Japanese competitors.

  Andreas eyed his colleagues evenly. “Well, I think the main thing is we’ll get a good set of lawyers and we’ll fight it.’’

  All they needed to do, Andreas said, was stay cool and head to Reising’s house.

  “He’s gonna be in all his grandeur,’’ Andreas joked as Wilson chuckled. “I mean he’s a lawyer, so he’s gonna save us all.’’

  Whitacre again brought up the telephones, asking if they were safe. Andreas shook his head.

  “The phones are all tapped.’’

  “God, that really scares me,’’ Whitacre said. “I’ll tell you, the phone conversations I’ve had in the last couple of weeks . . ”

  “Don’t—don’t worry about it,’’ Wilson said.

  Andreas shook his head. “I really think they haven’t got a lot,’’ he said.

  Besides, ADM had been through problems like this before with the government. In the end, thanks to its scorched-earth tactics, the company had always won.

  “It’ll be a ten-year thing,’’ Andreas said. “And eventually they’ll dig their way out, and that’ll be the end of it.’’

  The conversation dwindled to a close. Whitacre and Wilson headed back across the yard to the car.

  “To the lawyers,’’ Wilson said.

  Hours later, just aft
er 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 overlooking the neighboring fishing pond. He left the motor running and waited in the darkness.

  He heard two car doors close. Suddenly, both passenger-side doors on his car opened. Squinting from the glare of the inside light, Whitacre watched as Shepard and Herndon climbed in, their faces stern. He started talking before the two FBI agents could sit.

  “Hey, you guys were good,’’ he said, the words rushing out. “You scared Terry. He doesn’t really show it, but he’s scared. And he thinks I was interviewed, too.’’

  “That’s super, Mark,’’ Shepard said.

  “Yeah, I just went off with Kevin Corr and chitchatted. But they think I was interviewed.’’

  “Good.’’

  “And Mick told us there’s nothing to worry about, that the lawyers will take care of everything.’’

  Shepard nodded. “Did you make a tape?’’

  Whitacre reached inside his jacket, bringing out a microcassette recorder. It was one of several government recording devices that he had been secretly carrying almost every day for more than two years.

  “Yeah, yeah. I did just like you guys wanted me to,’’ Whitacre said, handing over the recorder. “I got the tape of everything they told me.’’

  Whitacre smiled. “And it’s good stuff,’’ he said. “It’s real good.’’

  * * *

  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 incentive, 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 customers. 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 millions of dollars on a defense, despite the political influence they could 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 investigation. 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.

  * * *

  BOOK ONE

  * * *

  VERGE OF TRUTH

  CHAPTER 1

  The large gray van, its windows tinted to block the glances of the curious, pulled away from the Decatur Airport, heading toward Route 105. Inside, four foreign visitors watched as images of the modest 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 entanglement of industrial plants and office buildings.

  These were the sights of a thousand other blue-collar neighborhoods 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 center 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 political 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 from Andreas that operatives of President Nixon laundered into the bank account of a Watergate burglar. Following the wide-ranging investigations that stemmed from the Watergate scandal, Andreas was tried and acquitted on charges of violating campaign-finance laws—but that was for the $100,000 he gave to Nixon’s 1968 rival, Hubert Humphrey.

  The foreign visitors traveling to ADM on this day hoped for an opportunity to meet Andreas but were uncertain if they would. At this point, they were scheduled only to speak with others in ADM management, the people who ran its day-to-day business.

  If all went well, the visitors expected the meeting to last some time. After all, before the day’s end, there were several important things that they needed to learn. But there was also one important thing that they needed to steal.

  The van turned onto Faries Parkway, heading directly toward ADM’s homely, sprawling complex. Yellow flowers planted along the side of the road did little to soften the effect of the property’s jagged barbed-wire fence. At the main gate, the driver gave a nod to the guard before turning right toward the squat, nondescript building that housed ADM’s top brass. The van came to a stop beside the seven-foot bronze statue of Ronald Reagan, mounted on a two-ton granite base, that Dwayne Andreas had erected to commemorate a 1984 visit by the then-president.

  Hirokazu Ikeda stepped down from the enormous vehicle, trailed closely by Kanji Mimoto, both senior executives from Ajinomoto Inc., a giant Japanese competitor of ADM. Two other Ajinomoto executives followed—one Japanese, one European. Shading their eyes from the morning sun, the men headed into the building’s lobby and introduced themselves to a receptionist. She placed a call, and within seconds a young, energetic man came bounding down a hallway toward them. It was Mark Whitacre, the thirty-four-year-old president of ADM’s newest unit, the Bioproducts Division. He was a man whom in recent months they had come to know, if not yet to trust.

  Whitacre smiled as he stepped into the lobby. “Welcome to Decatur,’’ he said, shaking Ikeda’s hand. “And welcome to ADM.’’

  “Thank you, Mr. Whitacre,’’ Ikeda said in halting English. “Happy to be here.’’

  Whitacre turned and greeted Mimoto, a man closer to his own age who spoke English fairly well. The other two men were strangers; they were introduced to Whitacre as Kotaro Fujiwara, an engineer at the company’s Tokyo headquarters, and J. L. Brehant, who held a similar job at its Europe
an subsidiary.

  With introductions complete, Whitacre escorted the executives down the hallway toward ADM’s huge trading room, the corporate nerve center where it purchased tons of corn, wheat, soybeans, and other farm products for processing each day. On the front wall of the vast room, a screen flashed up-to-the-minute commodity prices. At row after row of desks, an army of traders barked buy and sell orders into telephones.

  Around the edges of the room were various executive offices, most with the doors open. Whitacre stopped at one office and tapped on the door frame.

  “Terry?’’ he said. “They’re here.’’

  Terry Wilson, head of the company’s corn-processing division, looked up from his desk and smiled. The expression was more a reflection of strategy than delight; he was hoping to finish with the Ajinomoto executives quickly, in time for an early afternoon round of golf. Like many American businessmen, Wilson often felt frustrated with the Japanese. In negotiations, they seemed loath to horse-trade; they would listen but often retreated into ambiguity, making no specific commitments. Such tactics were considered a sign of virtue in Japan, the vague responses praised as tamamushi-iro no hygen o tsukau, or “using iridescent expressions.’’ Whatever its elegant description in Japanese, for Westerners like Wilson, a hard-drinking ex-marine, the approach was tiresome. He was not looking forward to it today.

  Wilson stepped from behind his desk, past a television that was broadcasting the day’s news.

  “Mr. Ikeda, Mr. Mimoto, it’s been a long time,’’ he said. “You’ve come on a day with such nice weather, it’s a shame you’re not here to play golf.’’

  The men chatted about their golf games as Whitacre led them to the executive meeting room, where they found their places around a conference table. A kitchen staffer appeared, serving iced tea, water, and orange juice. As everyone settled in, Whitacre walked to a wall phone and dialed 5505—the extension for Jim Randall, the president of ADM.