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  Some couldn’t help but wonder whether ADM and Andreas had something 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 sometime after seven p.m. It was October 1992. Darkness had already settled 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 immediately recognized the voice of his uncle, Dwayne Andreas. Something 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 message was clear: Something serious was happening in Decatur. Whatever 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 obviously 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-Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 29

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  tions for Japanese-American relations,’’ Mick said. “Dad and I talked it over, and we’d like you to call your friends at the Agency.’’

  Now Allen understood why they were calling him. Dwayne and Mick didn’t know whom they could trust. Allen was family, a lawyer, and had ties to the CIA. There was no one better situated to help. Regardless of what the Agency did, Mick said, the most important thing was to get the plant on-line. If that meant buying the “superbug”

  from Fujiwara, so be it. Maybe the CIA could help in the transaction.

  “We’re ready to do it,’’ Mick said. “Tell the Agency we’re ready to give them the money to put into escrow to help get this plant up and running.’’

  Minutes later, Allen had heard enough. “I’ll take care of it,’’ he told his cousin. He hung up.

  Allen checked the time. It was too late to phone his CIA contact; morning would be soon enough. He wanted to meet in person to explain the fantastic story emerging from Decatur. It seemed a simple plan.

  He had no idea of the events he was about to set into motion. Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 30

  CHAPTER 2

  Dean Paisley, a Supervisory Special Agent with the FBI, stepped off the elevator on the fourth floor of the Illinois Business Center and walked toward an unmarked wooden door. He punched a five-digit code into a keypad on the wall, taking care not to drop the bag of fast food in his other hand. The door’s electronic lock clicked open on his first try.

  Behind the locked door was a stairwell, but Paisley did not head to another floor. Instead, he walked past the stairs through a second door, into the FBI Field Office in Springfield. Striding down the hallway, Paisley looked like Central Casting’s idea of an FBI supervisor. At fortynine, he was still handsome and in the physical shape of a far younger man. Only his hair showed signs of age, with specks of gray sprinkling its sandy coloring.

  It was the afternoon of November 3, 1992, Election Day. As always, the election had caused minor disruptions at the Springfield office. A group of agents was on standby to handle claims of voting fraud that might come in, and various staffers had requested time off to go to the polls. With the office humming with activity, Paisley had decided to have a late lunch at his desk. On days like this, he figured, it made sense to be around the office.

  He passed some framed prints hung on the hallway’s odd-looking blue-green wallpaper. The decorations were the most obvious sign of the changes that had been taking place in Springfield. The former office director—the Special Agent in Charge—had insisted on a number of unpopular rules, such as one forbidding decorations in work areas. But he had been replaced a few months back by Donald Stukey, an agent who made his name chasing spies in Washington. Stukey cleaned house, bringing in a new assistant to oversee daily operations Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 31

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  and discarding many of his predecessor’s edicts. Office morale had gone up faster than the new wall decor.

  Paisley greeted his secretary, Barbara Howard, before continuing to his office. Taking a seat at his desk, he unwrapped his food, casually scanning papers. He was finishing his lunch when Howard called to him.

  “Hey, Dean. Ed Worthington, the ASAC from Chicago, is on line two for you.’’ Howard had been around the Bureau long enough to know that even though Special Agent in Charge was shorthanded by its letters, S-A-C, the title of that supervisor’s assistant was always pronounced as a single word, ay-sack. Paisley punched line two. He knew Worthington well. Both were the contacts in their offices for American intelligence agencies that needed help from the FBI. Because of that responsibility, Paisley had met Worthington at a number of Bureau meetings.

  “Hey, Eddie, how’s it going up there?’’

  “Pretty well,’’ Worthington replied. “Listen, I just got a strange call from the Agency. They gave me some information, and I want to run it by you.’’

  The Agency. Worthington didn’t need to explain further. The CIA. Paisley cleared a space on his desk for a pad of paper and began taking notes.

  The story Worthington told was bizarre. The CIA had received a telephone call from ADM. Worthington’s CIA contact had told him—incorrectly—that Dwayne Andreas had placed the call himself. Apparently, ADM was the target of industrial espionage and extortion by someone from Japan. For reasons Worthington couldn’t fathom, Andreas had turned to the CIA for help. The agency concluded that the matter fell under the authority of American law enforcement. A CIA official had called Worthington to route it to the FBI. The CIA already had told the Andreases of its decision, Worthington said. Mick Andreas was now waiting for a call from the Bureau.

  Worthington didn’t mention that, just a few minutes before, he had provided the same information to John Hoyt, Springfield’s new ASAC. Worthington had warned Hoyt that his people should be careful; ADM had a history with the Chicago office of being difficult, particularly in a recent investigation into possible fraud by ADM’s former treasurer. Hoyt had thanked Worthington for the information and passed the call onto Paisley, the supervisor of Squad Three, which covered Decatur and other central Illinois towns. Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 32 32

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  Worthington finished with Paisley in about five minutes. He left out his warnings about ADM. Telling Hoyt was enough.

  “Okay, Eddie,’’ Paisley said, laying down his pen. “If there ends up being anything in this that involves Chicago, we’ll get back to you on it.’’

  Paisley hung up. Worthington’s information had been sparse, but already Paisley thought this had the potential of being a lo
t more interesting than the usual bank robberies and drug busts. A case agent would be needed to handle the nuts and bolts of the investigation, and Paisley knew the perfect person. For nine years, Brian Shepard had manned the FBI’s Decatur Resident Agency, or R.A., which reported through Springfield. Shepard knew the people at ADM, and they knew him. With a little luck, Paisley figured, Shepard could wrap up this case and be back to his regular duties in a matter of weeks.

  He was wrong.

  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 accepted. 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 supervisor 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 supervisor 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 Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 33

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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 investigations. 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 concerned. 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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  Like any agent in Decatur, Shepard had occasional contact with ADM; some of his neighbors even worked there. One tie to the company was through Mark Cheviron, a former member of the Decatur police department turned ADM’s chief of security. Cheviron had received training from the FBI’s National Academy, a program for local law enforcement. Some years Shepard crossed paths with Cheviron and other executives at ADM’s local cookout. Shepard didn’t know the executives well, but he knew them well enough.

  So when he heard from Dean Paisley about ADM’s troubles, Shepard wasn’t surprised to get the assignment. Paisley’s information—the Worthington call, the CIA, the extortion—was enough for Shepard to know this case would be his top priority. Paisley said arrangements had been made to meet Mick Andreas the following day; both he and Stukey would be there.

  Shepard hung up, looking forward to the next day. This extortion case was sure to be interesting.

  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 several 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 indication 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 government 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 comfortable 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 nea
r 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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  “Mr. Andreas?’’ Paisley asked.

  “Yes?”

  Paisley stuck out his hand.

  “Dean Paisley, with the FBI. I talked to you on the phone yesterday.’’

  “Oh yeah, come on in.’’

  As they crossed the doorway, Paisley nodded toward Stukey and Shepard, introducing them.

  “Good to meet you,’’ Andreas said. “Everybody come on in and find a seat.’’

  The men walked through the house. The agents glanced at the artwork, the expensive furniture, the family photos on the grand piano. Andreas ushered them across the living room, through a pair of open French doors, and into a large addition built onto the back. The room had a bar, an oversized television, and a high ceiling rising up two stories. Huge windows afforded a gorgeous view of Lake Decatur and the Andreas pool house. On one side of the room, a dining table held pots of coffee, tea, and a basket of rolls.