Informant (27 page)

“Ikeda’s coming just for that?’’

As Whitacre described the details, Andreas checked his schedule and saw he was free on the twenty-fifth. Whitacre said he would go make a copy of the Ikeda letter for Mick. The original, he was thinking, needed to go to the FBI.

When Whitacre returned, Andreas discussed the meeting arrangements. Who did they know in L.A. who might have ideas? Whitacre mentioned a former ADM employee named Tina, who had moved to southern California.

“She’s gettin’ married,’’ Whitacre said.

“Well, what a waste,’’ Andreas said.

Andreas checked with the ADM pilots; the flight to Los Angeles would take just over four hours. He suggested flying out at seven o’clock in the morning, Decatur time, for a nine o’clock Los Angeles meeting. They could be home by seven o’clock that same night. Whitacre said he would make the arrangements.

Since he had Andreas’s attention, Whitacre decided to check on the promotion for Kathy, the woman in his division. He asked what had happened with Anna. Andreas said that her boss opposed promoting her.

“He says she wants so much,’’ Andreas explained. “She’ll say, ‘Well, do I get a raise? Do I get a car? Do I get this? Do I get that?’ ”

Whitacre saw an opening. “Kathy’s not that way,’’ he said. “Kathy wouldn’t ask for any of that.’’

“Well, see . . ”

“Kathy would appreciate what she’s got,’’ Whitacre said. “Anna is a little bit different.’’

“Yeah, she’s a lot more aggressive.’’

Whitacre coughed.

“Oughta be a fantastic fuck,’’ Andreas said, smiling. “But I think she’d be trouble with a capital
T,
don’t you?’’

“Yeah,’’ Whitacre said. Kathy wouldn’t be a problem, he added. She’d take what ADM gave her without complaint.

They spoke for another moment about promoting women. Andreas leaned back in his chair, smiling.

“So, my Tina is getting married,’’ he said, referring to the woman who had moved to southern California.

“Yeah,’’ Whitacre said. “Two or three weekends from now.’’

“That won’t last for very long, do you think?’’

“No.’’

“She’s kind of a dodo-head, you know?’’ Andreas said. “She’ll be back. I just hope she doesn’t get pregnant. Fuck up her body.’’

“Yeah.’’

“Nice body,’’ Andreas said. “It’d ruin her tits. She’s got the greatest tits in the world.’’

Andreas smiled broadly. “In the world.’’

About an hour later, at 3:15, the telephone rang in the FBI’s Decatur Resident Agency. Weatherall, sitting in the main room of the office, answered.

“Hey, Joe, how you doin’? This is Mark.’’

“Hey, Mark. What’s happening?’’

“Well, it’s all set. I got the fax from Ikeda. They want to meet week after next.’’

Whitacre described Ajinomoto’s meeting proposal and said that he had discussed it with Andreas.

“He’s all set to do it,’’ Whitacre continued. “He wants to meet with them on the twenty-fifth. So that’s the date of the meeting. We’re gonna be taking a corporate jet, a Falcon aircraft, about seven in the morning. And we’re gonna come back the same day, probably after lunch, about one o’clock. So it’s all set.’’

“Okay, Mark, that’s great,’’ Weatherall said.

They hung up, and Weatherall called to Herndon.

Twelve days.
They had just twelve days to arrange everything—to find out where the hotel room would be, to get it wired up. A thousand things could go wrong. But this was the critical meeting.

Everything had to go right.

C
HAPTER
8

A
nine-foot bronze statue of John Wayne—dressed in full cowboy regalia and illuminated by floor lights—towered above a crowd of tourists. The travelers had just walked from their gates to the lower level of the main terminal at John Wayne Airport, on the edge of Irvine, California. The airport’s décor projected a perfect Southern California image, with indoor palm trees stretching toward the ceiling and glass walls showcasing another sunny day.

On one side of the terminal, Brian Shepard and Joe Weatherall hefted their luggage off a baggage carousel. It had been just over a week since Whitacre’s call about the meeting tentatively scheduled for Los Angeles. In the days that followed, the executives had settled on a Marriott hotel in Irvine as the site. The city was about thirty-five miles south of Los Angeles but was easily accessible by corporate jet. As soon as the FBI heard, Dean Paisley had called the Los Angeles Field Office for help; an agent with the Santa Ana Resident Agency was assigned as a local contact.

From the airport, Shepard and Weatherall headed straight to the Marriott, just half a mile away. The seventeen-story, gleaming white hotel was a tiny village unto itself, with 485 rooms, twenty-nine conference rooms, and two restaurants. For the meeting, Whitacre had booked one of the largest private rooms, suite 1538.

The agents headed to the suite after dropping off their luggage. A large table for banquets and business meetings was in the center. The executives were sure to do their haggling there. The agents set up the lamp with the hidden video camera; the shot included the whole table. The agents were not concerned about the executives wandering around; this camera came with a small remote control that would allow them to zoom in or rotate the shot from several rooms away.

Problems emerged in the first few days. A hotel security official had decided to double-check with the hotel’s corporate parent, the Host Marriott Corporation. In no time, a Marriott lawyer was on the line, demanding that the entire operation be put on hold. The company wanted a briefing to be sure it would not be liable for the FBI’s actions. It seemed like a lousy time for a joust; the FBI complied. The troubles were ironed out with a few phone calls.

By the morning of October 25, a Monday, everything was ready.

The Falcon 50 turbojet touched down that morning at John Wayne Airport just before eight-fifty, West Coast time. The sleek jet, one of the fastest in ADM’s fleet, had made good time; besides some fog over Irvine, the weather had been beautiful all the way from Decatur.

As the pilot taxied toward an air hangar, Mick Andreas and Mark Whitacre gathered their belongings. Whitacre picked up his briefcase, feeling the extra weight of the Nagra recorder inside. He was wearing his blue suit with the recorder sewn inside the lining. In his pocket, he carried the microcassette device. None of the recorders was running yet; the agents had told him to save the tape for the lengthy meeting. This meeting was too important to miss because of some technical failure.

Andreas and Whitacre arrived at the Marriott and headed to the fifteenth floor.

In a nearby room, Brian Shepard sat in front of a black-and-white monitor, holding the camera’s control device. Sony headphones covered his ears. Weatherall was never comfortable with high-tech equipment; he stood in another part of the room, watching.

Another agent signaled that Whitacre was in the suite. Shepard hit the VCR switch. It was 9:00.

Whitacre was speaking. “I was talkin’, we just got some crazy guy back in Decatur wants to take this thing up to three hundred and fifty million pounds.’’

Shepard could see both men. An easel that Whitacre had ordered through the hotel soon arrived and was turned to face the camera—just the way the agents had wanted it positioned.

ADM was paying $24.50 for the easel. Before long, it would probably cost them a lot more than that.

For twenty minutes, Andreas and Whitacre knocked around by themselves, talking about the lysine market. Andreas wanted to be sure he didn’t make any mistakes when he discussed the business with Yamada.

At 9:22, the door opened. Ikeda stepped in with Yamada, a tall, balding man with glasses.

“Well, there we are,’’ Andreas said.

“Hi,’’ Ikeda said.

“Good morning,’’ Yamada said.

The executives talked about their flights.

“So it’s the middle of the night for you still, isn’t it?’’ Andreas asked.

Yamada laughed. “Oh, yes. It is.’’

“Well,’’ Andreas said, “sorry to wake you up.’’

Everyone took seats around the table.

Shepard watched as the four men sat down. Andreas and Whitacre were almost facing the camera, but Shepard could still see Yamada and Ikeda from the side. The shot was perfect.

For more than an hour, the conversation ebbed and flowed through a range of topics: MSG, potential deals, other companies—almost everything except lysine. During the talks, a hotel employee arrived with coffee, tea, juices, breads, and fruit. The executives marveled at the quantities. It was enough, Whitacre laughed, for forty people.

At 10:39, Yamada glanced from Ikeda to Andreas.

“May I talk about the lysine association?’’ he asked.

“Um-hum,’’ Andreas said, nodding.

“There is an official association,’’ Whitacre said.

“Official association, yes,’’ Yamada said. “And I think that is good for the development of the market.’’

Whitacre wrote a note on his pad and coughed.

“We already spent more than one year, uh, to getting a better market situation,’’ Yamada said in broken English. The question now was whether they could have an understanding on volume, he added.

“Talked a little bit about it in Paris,’’ Whitacre said, crossing his legs.

Andreas sat back. “My understanding of the meetings that have taken place,” he said, “is that the market is larger than most of our competitors think it is.’’

He looked over at Whitacre. “That’s my impression,’’ he said.

As Andreas spoke, Shepard pushed the buttons on the control in his hand. The camera zoomed in.

Shepard looked at the monitor—the camera was centered on a lamp. He pushed the buttons again, moving the image to the right. Once Andreas was in the shot, Shepard used the control to zoom in again. The shot came in too low; the top of Andreas’s head was almost off the monitor. Shepard struggled with the device for several more seconds. After a few adjustments, he had his close-up of Andreas.

“That’s my impression,’’ Shepard heard Andreas say. “Because the numbers that we keep hearing don’t reflect what we’re doing.’’

Shepard listened while Whitacre talked about ADM’s production numbers. The camera stayed focused on Andreas; only Whitacre’s hand was in the shot.

“I’m the vice-chairman of our board,’’ Andreas said. “We have a big board of directors. We have public shareholders.’’

Yamada grunted an acknowledgment.

“Like you, we’ve suffered,’’ Andreas continued. “Prices were nowhere near what we hoped they would be, and growth was very difficult.’’

ADM already had the plant capacity to take more than half of the market’s growth if it wanted, Andreas said. But the company understood that it was in no one’s interest for ADM to be greedy.

“If we’re going to have any stability at all, to take seventy percent is probably too much. But for us to shrink is out of the question.’’

ADM’s position had just been thrown out on the table. The company was not going to demand all the growth—but it also would not cut back. The proposal pushed by Ajinomoto for months was not negotiable.

Ikeda mentioned the possibility of arriving at a compromise figure.

Andreas looked at Whitacre. “Did you get some paper up here?’’ he asked.

Ikeda and Whitacre pointed past Andreas’s head. The easel was behind him.

“Oh, we got it,’’ Andreas said, looking over his shoulder.

Ikeda stepped up to the easel, while Andreas visited the buffet, picking up a plate of food and refilling his cup of coffee.

Whitacre stood.

“Is there a rest room in here?’’ he asked, hoping Shepard heard the warning that he was about to leave.

Ikeda was looking for the pens to use with the easel. Whitacre picked them up off the table and handed them to the Japanese executive. Ikeda started writing down production numbers.

Whitacre glanced toward the camera. “While you’re writing those, I’ll take a quick rest-room break here,’’ he announced.

That should be enough.
Whitacre walked out.

In the other room, Shepard reached for the VCR and shut if off. He’d missed Whitacre’s first warning. The tape had continued rolling for four seconds after Whitacre left. Fortunately, no one had said a word.

Shepard waited. How long would Whitacre take in the bathroom? A minute and a half later, he turned the system back on. Whitacre was back, and Ikeda was still working. Andreas was in midstatement, discussing ADM’s television advertisements.

“
Meet the Press
, and the Brinkley show,’’ Andreas said. “Some of those.’’

An uncomfortable pause set in. Whitacre walked over to watch Ikeda at the easel.

Ikeda leaned in toward Andreas. “What is the basic idea of that ‘Supermarket to the World’?’’

Andreas glanced toward a picture on the wall.

“It was a phrase that someone else invented,’’ he said. “But the idea is that we provide the food for people who sell the food. And really, over our history, that’s what’s been happening.’’

Ikeda turned toward the group.

“Sorry to disturb you,’’ he said politely.

Ikeda had finished writing on the chart. The other executives turned to face him.

For several minutes, Ikeda discussed the production of the two previous years. Those numbers, he said, should be used to determine each company’s 1994 production. Andreas and Whitacre periodically stepped up to the board, arguing over numbers. If all the figures were true, Whitacre said, then the total lysine market had to be bigger than anyone thought.

“And if that’s true,’’ Andreas said, “then the problem is not as great.’’

If everyone accepted the numbers, all they needed to do was estimate the market’s growth for the coming year and divvy up that amount. Ikeda did some calculations and announced his answer. The market would grow by fourteen thousand tons.

“So we’ve got fourteen thousand tons of growth in one year,’’ Andreas said as he wrote down the numbers. “So the question is, who gets that growth?’’

•   •   •

It was happening. Right in front of Shepard’s eyes. These men were sitting nearby—sitting in a
Marriott—
dividing up a multibillion-dollar market.

All while they casually drank their coffee.

Settling the first problem took only a few minutes. Kyowa Hakko, Miwon, and Cheil should each be allocated two thousand tons of growth, Andreas said. That left eight thousand tons for ADM and Ajinomoto.

“What would we be willing to accept?’’ Andreas asked. “And what would you be willing to accept? Isn’t that the question?’’

There was more to be considered, Ikeda said. The other producers still did not believe ADM’s production numbers were real. Their projections depended on that number. They would have to come up with some explanation to support the numbers.

Whitacre walked away from the easel and sat down. His briefcase was in front of him on the table.

Wait a minute. What was that?

A click. Whitacre had definitely heard a click in his briefcase.

Andreas turned his back to Whitacre, looking at the easel.

There it is again.

The briefcase was making a noise. What if the others heard something?

Whitacre reached down and turned the case slightly away from the other three executives. He popped open the latches.

Shepard watched the monitor intently. Andreas was speaking.

“I would suggest we do the following,’’ Andreas said.

Andreas was on the verge of making his proposal. In his excitement, Shepard was paying no attention to Whitacre. The agent didn’t notice that his witness had begun fiddling with the hidden panel in his briefcase.

Whitacre tugged on the panel. A small amount of Velcro pulled apart, but the panel stayed in place, slightly farther from the recorder. Maybe that would stop the noise. He shut the briefcase.

“I’d suggest you tell the people that whatever they have in ninety-three, they can each have two thousand more in ninety-four,’’ Andreas said. “And we get the rest between you and us.’’

Ikeda, still holding the pen, looked confused. “We have to give, uh, some specific number,’’ he said.

“Whatever their number is in ninety-three,’’ Andreas said. “Then we can agree on how we split the rest.’’

There it was.

Shepard had heard it. Andreas had just proclaimed that he was setting volumes for every lysine competitor, dictating sales for companies that weren’t even in the room.

This was dynamite evidence.

Click.

There it was again. Whitacre looked up and saw everyone was at the easel. He opened his briefcase and gave the panel another tug. More Velcro tore.

Whitacre shut the case and looked up. Andreas was just a few feet away, walking straight toward him.

Shepard had noticed nothing about Whitacre. His witness sounded calm, in control. He had really come through this time.

The group was on the verge of a deal. Shepard watched as Andreas stepped out, toward the bathroom. The two Ajinomoto executives stayed in front of the easel, speaking in Japanese about Andreas’s proposal.

Click.

Whitacre decided he had to do something drastic. Somebody would definitely hear this. How in the world would he explain noises coming out of his briefcase?

Whitacre scanned the room. Andreas was still in the bathroom, Ikeda and Yamada were talking with each other. No one was paying attention to him.

He opened the briefcase again and pulled hard on the panel. The Velcro tore. Whitacre lifted it and looked at the recording device inside.

If anyone came up behind Whitacre at that moment, they would see it.