Despite himself, Newman found his thoughts drifting back to the business, specifically his relationship with Jorge. Had his and Jorge’s positions been reversed, Newman had no doubt that he would have reacted much the same as the older man. He too would have been hurt, then angry. Yet it was part of the grain business. From the earliest days it had been a cut-throat enterprise. And after the Second World War, when many nations had suddenly found themselves very dependent upon their neighbors’ food supplies, the business had become even more fiercely competitive.
“It is the survival of the fittest, Kenneth,” Jorge had once told him. “The strong survive, the weak perish. As it should be.” It was a lesson Newman had learned all too well.
The car pulled up by the front hatch of a 707. The plane was painted a muted gold color, with the Newman Company logo — twin eagles holding stalks of grain in their talons — in bright red on the tail.
“We’re not staying in Mexico City?” Lydia asked, realizing what was happening.
Newman smiled. “How about Monaco?”
For a moment it seemed as if Lydia would flare again, but then she laughed. “Father will be furious,” she said. “He wanted us in Mazatlán under his control for a couple of weeks. He probably had our bedroom bugged.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Newman said.
“Or me?”
Newman wanted to laugh, but something in her eyes held him back. Or her? It had happened before. Industrial espionage through a carefully arranged marriage. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. The vagrant line crossed his mind. It wasn’t beyond Jorge. But Lydia?
The chauffeur opened the rear door on Newman’s side, then stepped back respectfully. Saratt turned around in his seat.
“I’m going to hitch a ride with you two, and then take the plane. I have some business to take care of.”
Newman started to ask where, but then held back as Saratt’s eyes narrowed. Lydia caught the exchange of looks between the two men, but said nothing.
“Are we just going to sit here for the remainder of the day?” she asked.
“I hope not,” Newman said, and helped her out. Saratt followed them up the boarding stairs.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Jacob, Newman’s steward, said, greeting them just within the cabin. He was a small, dark-skinned Arab.
“Are we about ready to take off?” Newman asked.
“Whenever you and Mrs. Newman are ready, sir.” Jacob had been the chief steward aboard the grain ship Pamplonas, owned by one of Newman’s subsidiaries, until Newman had been so impressed by the man’s grace and abilities that he had hired him off the ship for personal service. Jacob had proved to be even better than Newman had hoped he’d be.
Saratt went forward onto the flight deck as Newman led Lydia back into the luxuriously appointed main cabin, equipped with several easy chairs, a couch and coffee table, and a wet bar. An aft cabin contained a bedroom with a queen-sized bed and a large bathroom.
When they had strapped into easy chairs, Jacob went forward, and moments later the jet’s engines whined into life.
“I have a feeling something is going on,” Lydia said.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play games with me, Kenneth. I saw the look between you and Paul. He’s got something cooking. You forget, I know the business too.”
Newman nodded. “He probably does,” he said. “But I’m on my honeymoon.”
As the aircraft began to move slowly away from the terminal, Lydia reached out for Newman’s hand, an intense expression on her face. “It’s not going to be easy between us, Kenneth. We both know that. But…” She hesitated a moment.
“But what?”
“These next two weeks may be the only nearly normal time we’ll ever have.”
Newman started to protest, although he knew she was correct, but she held him off.
“No, listen to me, darling. I don’t want anything to spoil these next few days. I was going to suggest we not go on to Mazatlán, that we go someplace else. But whatever it is that Paul is going to tell you once we take off, don’t let it change anything. At least not now.”
Newman didn’t know what to say. At that moment he felt an overwhelming love for her. She was like a little lost child whom he would have to protect, not the willful, headstrong daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the world.
“I’ll have to listen to whatever it is Paul has to say. But whatever it is, I’ll talk it over with you,” Newman said.
Lydia shook her head. “I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want to hear about anything except us.”
Newman just looked at her.
“In fact, I never want to know anything about your business. I’m still a Vance-Ehrhardt. It’s something you should never forget.”
“You’re my wife…” Newman started, but again she cut him off.
“Listen to me with your brain, not with your heart, Kenneth, because this is probably the only time I’ll ever be this honest with you. I am a Vance-Ehrhardt, I’m Jorge’s daughter. I love you, but I love my father as well. I never want to know about your business. That will have to remain totally separate from our world together. It’s for your own protection.”
The aircraft’s intercom chimed, and the pilot’s voice came over the speakers. “Are you ready back there, Mr. Newman?”
Newman reached over and picked up the telephone. “Any time you are,” he said.
Immediately they turned onto the runway, the engines rose up the scale, and they were accelerating, pressed deeply into their seats.
Newman found himself thinking back to the stewardess on the flight from Buenos Aires. She had seemed like a simple, sweet girl. Uncomplicated, with no guile. He had always been a loner in his business, and yet he had wanted someone to share in it with him. A wife with whom to live his triumphs and defeats, his fears and regrets. But Lydia was telling him that that would be impossible with her, because whatever he told her about his business would of necessity get back to her father.
It was ironic, he thought, that he had hurt Jorge so terribly and now had placed himself in a position where Vance-Ehrhardt could gain the advantage. But such was life. Despite the difficulties, he was glad he had married Lydia. Despite the fact their marriage was doomed to fail, he was still happy at this moment.
Within a few minutes they had cleared the Mexico City Terminal Control Area and had climbed to cruise altitude. Jacob came back and offered them a glass of champagne, and a moment later Saratt motioned for Newman to join him forward.
“Be just a moment,” Newman said to Lydia.
She squeezed his hand. “Remember what I said, Kenneth.”
“I will.”
Saratt stood between the main cabin and the flight deck. On the port side was a complete galley; on the starboard, a small but well-equipped communications station, including teletype and fascimile.
“This came from Abex while we were waiting for you,” Saratt said. He held out a short piece of yellow teletype paper.
Newman made no move to take it. Instead, he looked directly into Saratt’s eyes. “I’m on my honeymoon, Paul, so I’m going to ask you to take care of this on your own if it’s at all possible. I don’t even want to know what it is, unless it’s of the most extreme importance. Your decision.”
Saratt nodded, grim-lipped. “You’d better look at it, Kenneth.”
“No doubt in your mind it’s that important?”
“No doubt.”
Newman sighed deeply and took the telex from Saratt.
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