Fertile Ground – Ben Mezrich

“Look, either go back into the ER, or I’m going to call security.” Malthus reached out and grabbed a handful of cotton from the surgical tray. “You can make this easy or hard, Dr. Johnson. I’m going to ask questions — and you’re going to give answers.” Calvin stared at the handful of cotton and then put the box of tongue depressors down. His muscular body shifted into a boxer’s stance. “I’m warning you, sir. You need to go back into the ER.”

“And you need to listen, Dr. Johnson. I’m going to ask questions. You’re going to give answers. Beginning with everything you know about Compound G.” Calvin’s eyes widened. Before he could say anything Malthus swept forward, cutting the distance in the blink of an eye. Calvin’s hands came up, balling into fists.

A boxer’s confidence, gleaned from years of training, flitted across his dark face. His right arm shot forward — but Malthus was much too quick. He feinted left, striking out with a spe- cially designed steel-toed leather shoe. His foot connected with the doctor’s kneecap, and there was a sickening crunch. Calvin’s mouth opened but before the scream could emerge, Malthus shoved the handful of cotton between his teeth. Malthus’s other hand grasped the doctor by the throat, and he half lifted him into the air.

The doctor’s cheeks bulged, his eyes rolling back in pain. Malthus tight- ened his grip until he could feel the walls of Johnson’s esophagus through his black skin. “In business, it’s very important not to underestimate the competition. You might very well be a competent boxer.

But your primary talent is in the emergency room. This, however, is my pri- mary talent. ” Malthus spun on his heels and then slammed the doctor backward onto the metal exam table. With his left hand, he quickly strapped the Velcro restraints around the doctor’s chest and waist. He moved close to the young man’s face, looking at his dazed eyes, at the trickle of blood that ran from the corner of his lips. He hoped he had not squeezed the man’s throat too tightly. “Dr. Johnson?

Still with me?” Malthus pulled the cotton out of the man’s mouth, letting him breathe. “Are you ready for our meeting?” Calvin gasped, struggling vainly against the Velcro straps. Then a thin whisper slipped out from between his lips. “Who are you?” Malthus exhaled. “You still don’t seem to understand. / ask the questions.” “Who the fuck are you!” Malthus sighed. The target was being difficult.

A tough kid from the tough side of Detroit. Malthus glanced at the closed double doors leading out of the exam room and decided this would have to be brutal and quick. He walked down the length of the exam table to the base and grabbed Calvin’s ankles, one in each hand. Then he yanked the doctor’s legs apart, placing an ankle in each of the gynecological stirrups.

fertile ground. Copyright © 1999 by Ben Mezrich. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permis- sion except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. HarperCollins books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information please write: Special Markets Department, HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022. FIRST EDITION Designed by Joseph Rutt Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Mezrich, Ben, 1969- Fertile ground : a novel / Ben Mezrich.

— 1st ed. p. cm. ISBN 0-06-018752-2 I. Title PS3563.E986F47 1999 813′.54— dc21 99-22560 99 00 01 02 03 ❖/rrd 10 987654321 1 Ted Conners opened his eyes seconds before the sweaty, green-vinyl seatback smacked into the bridge of his nose. He blinked, shifting his head back and forth, struggling to remember where the hell he was. Then the mingled scent of diesel fumes and body odor quickly chased away the con- fusion.

He rubbed his nose as he surveyed the cramped inte- rior of the temporarily stalled bus. The aisles were full, a throbbing mass of bodies squeezed between the two rows of seats. The air was stiflingly hot, and the windows on either side had turned the color of misty, opaque cream. “Figures,” Ted mumbled, as he shifted back against his 2 BEN MEZRICH seat, surprised that he had dozed off under such barbarous conditions.

‘The air-conditioning goes out on the hottest day of the summer/’ The woman to Ted’s left grunted in agreement. She was overweight, black, and wore a dress that looked more like a burlap sack than an item of clothing. Her enormous right thigh was squashing the hell out of Ted’s hip — ruining the crease of his only good suit. Then again, the thick sheets of sweat enveloping every inch of Ted’s body had already turned his pants from a light gray to something resembling charcoal, and his white shirt had gone nearly transparent against his chest.

Served him right, for being stingy about a ten-dollar taxi ride to Cambridge. As the bus jerked forward again, Ted pressed his face against the fogged-up window to his right.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

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