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production for the past three months.
    Both Andreas and Whitacre knew
that
was serious. Those numbers were proprietary, and no one outside the company was supposed to have heard about the problems in the plant. How could this Fujiwara person have found out?
    Before he had been able to raise that question, Whitacre said, Fujiwara began toying with him, asking coyly why he thought the ADM plant was having so many start-up problems.
    “I couldn’t believe what he said,’’ Whitacre fumed, his voice unnaturally high. “He told me that one of our highest-paid employees is an employee of Ajinomoto, and is sabotaging the plant.’’
    Andreas sat expressionless as Whitacre spelled out the ugly details: The mole was acting on instructions from Tokyo and had been ordered to inject a virus into containers of dextrose for the purpose of wreaking havoc on the plant.
    As he spoke, Whitacre seemed to vacillate between anger and dismay. This Fujiwara call reinforced every bad thing he had heard about Japanese corporations.
    “I’ll tell you Mick, it’s like
Rising Sun
,’’ Whitacre said, referring to the Michael Crichton best-seller about intrigue at the American headquarters of a Japanese corporation. “Just like
Rising Sun
.’’
    The idea of using the mole, he said, had come from Ikeda, the top man who attended the plant visit. Fujiwara seemed frightened of the senior Ajinomoto executive, Whitacre continued, and had openly expressed fears that Ikeda might have him killed or deported if he learned of the phone call.
    “I couldn’t understand why he would talk to me, so I finally asked him why he was calling.’’
    Andreas anticipated the answer before Whitacre even said it: money.
    Fujiwara wanted $10 million, Whitacre explained. For that, he would identify the saboteur, give ADM some new microorganisms immunized against the virus, and describe where and when the sabotage had occurred.
    “He said that, with his help, in three days we could solve the infection problems we’ve been wrestling with for four months,” Whitacre said.
    Whitacre finished, and Andreas paused before asking his first question.
    “How well do you know this guy?”
    Whitacre stumbled with the answer, again mentioning Fujiwara’s visit to ADM a few weeks before. Andreas pressed the question, and Whitacre conceded that he didn’t know Fujiwara well at all.
    Andreas thought for a moment. What Whitacre was describing sounded crazy. Still, it fit the reports that Andreas had heard about the plant’s problems—the sudden appearance of the virus, the futile effort to stop it. Fujiwara couldn’t simply be ignored.
    “I gotta get this clear in my mind,’’ Andreas said. “Go through it again.’’
    Whitacre repeated the story. Andreas asked a few more questions.
    “Okay, if you hear from this guy again, I want you to talk him down on the price,’’ Andreas said. “I want you to find out the least amount of money he’d settle for.’’ Maybe, he reasoned, they could just strike a deal for the bugs that were resistant to the virus.
    Also, Andreas said, keep this quiet. If there was a mole inside the plant, the last thing they wanted was to give any sign that ADM was onto him.
    A pause. “Keep me informed,’’ Andreas said.
    “Okay, Mick,’’ Whitacre replied, nodding.
    Whitacre headed out the door, while Andreas sat at his desk in thought. Had the news come from anyone but Whitacre, he might have dismissed Fujiwara’s bizarre call as a clumsy extortion plot. But Whitacre understood the plant better than anyone else did. Without him, ADM’s “Mr. Lysine,’’ the company could never have moved so quickly into the business. If he was taking this Fujiwara call seriously, then Mick figured
he
had better be worried, too.
    Andreas reached for the phone to call his father, Dwayne, who was staying at his apartment in Florida. This was just the kind of threat the ADM chairman needed to know about. With everything Dwayne had done to build his