Free Mirrors by Karl C Klontz Page A

thousand-fold greater than that present in the shrimp, he would have had to eat an inconceivably large amount of shrimp.”
    “The results are what they are,” Brubeck said.
    I recalled a colleague who used to help students visualize the difference between one part per
million
of something versus one part per
billion
. One part per million would be one particle of a substance for every 999,999 other particles, whereas one part per billion would be one particle for every 999,999,999 other particles. He suggested students think about wheat being loaded into shipping containers. If a full container carried 100 tons of wheat, then one would have to add a half-cup of sugar to the container to create a mixture of 1 part per million. By contrast, to create a mixture of 1 part per
billion
, one would have to mix a single
teaspoon
of sugar in 45 containers of wheat.
    “Perhaps something other than shrimp contributed to the higher levels in the victim,” I proposed.
    “Like what?”
    “I don’t know, but let’s see what results come from the drink I brought from California.”
    Just then, Ricardo Muñoz appeared at the gate.
    “Gotta go,” I told Brubeck.
    “Bring home some shrimp from Ecuador,” he replied.

    “Did you see this?” Muñoz asked, lifting a copy of
The Washington Post
. He pointed to the headlines.
    Deadly Protein in Tainted Shrimp Kills 3, Sickens 9 Others
    “Yes,” I replied with discomfort. While riding to the airport, I had read the article, and seeing mention of XK59 on a front-page story had made me feel like a villain of sorts even though my name as discoverer of the protein hadn’t been cited.
    I shifted attention away from myself to Muñoz, saying, “I saw your quote about the source of the shrimp still being under investigation.”
    He nodded. “I didn’t want the shrimp farm in Ecuador to know they had been targeted.”
    “Who’s handling the press while we’re in Ecuador?”
    “A colleague of mine from CDC named Crystal Petersen. Glenn Bird recruited her.” His eyes brightened. “She’ll replace me after we complete our work in Ecuador so I can see my fiancée in Peru.”
    “When’s the big day?”
    “Two weeks.” From his wallet he pulled a photo of a woman with long black hair and engaging eyes. “Lolita,” he said. “I want to begin my life with her.”

    We arrived in Quito at dusk. Two men met us at baggage claim, one spindly and gaunt, the other portly and unkempt. The spindly one introduced himself as Alex Winrod of
Eagle Wings
.
    On the flight, Muñoz had informed me that
Eagle Wings
was a CIA contractor that flew the jungles of Colombia to conduct surveillance on political insurgents. Winrod was a former U.S. Navy pilot with a long career of flying in hostile zones. He knew Muñoz and I were in Ecuador only for intelligence purposes.
    Winrod eyed our bags. “Good, traveling light.” And pointing now: “My colleague, Redondo.”
    Muñoz exchanged greetings in Spanish.
    As we followed Winrod to the tarmac, Muñoz gleaned from Redondo that he hailed from a town called El Coco located near the shrimp farm and owned a fishing business. For years, the man had also worked as a CIA informant, passing on tips regarding the whereabouts of insurgents.
    “Risky,” I said. “Was he the one who arranged the visit to the shrimp farm?”
    “No, I did that while you were in California. I used a Miami mobile number to make it appear I was calling from my business in Florida. I told the owner of the shrimp farm that I had opened a new seafood business in Miami and was swinging through South America to look for suppliers. I asked if I could drop by with a client.” He gestured. “You’re the client.”
    On the tarmac, we passed idle jets belonging to
Avianca
,
Lan Chile
, and
Varig
before reaching a section where cargo and military aircraft were stationed. Winrod pointed to an ancient airplane. “Recognize it?” he asked me.
    “No.”
    “Best damn machine ever built.”
    It