0803mct
Kenneth Newman
Abex, Ltd.
New York, N.Y.
ABEXLTD
GENEVA EUROBANK MONDAY PM STOP STRICTEST CONFIDENCE REQUIRED STOP EXCLUSIVE STOP END OF MESSAGE
1018est
EXPORTKHLEB
DYBROVIK
MGMCOMP MGM
“He wants to meet with us,” Newman said, looking up.
“With you,” Saratt corrected. “He says exclusive.”
“I can’t. You’ll have to go.”
Saratt shook his head. “I appreciate your position, Kenneth, I really do. But when the Russians call — and it’s an exclusive call — through Eurobank, they mean business. Business we cannot afford to pass up.”
“We can afford it.”
“Goddamn it, you know what I’m saying,” Saratt snapped. “Last time something like this came up, you were with Vance-Ehrhardt, and he decided to pass on the Montreal meeting. And you know what that cost him.”
His reputation and a lot of Warsaw Pact grain deals, Newman thought. He glanced back. Lydia sat sipping her champagne, staring out the window.
What the hell were the Soviets up to now? It had to be big, otherwise Dybrovik himself would not have been the signatory on the telex, nor would he have mentioned Eurobank in Geneva. That meant money. Hard Western currencies. It also meant immediate action was required, or, whatever the deal was, it would be canceled and someone else asked.
Newman had worked with Dybrovik on a number of occasions. He did not particularly like or trust the Russian, but he did respect the man’s expertise.
“What do you think, Paul?”
Saratt shrugged. “There’s been no glimmer of anything cooking with the Russians over the past month or so. At least nothing I’ve noticed.”
“How about an estimate on their harvests?”
“Too early, really, for that. But from what I gather, it’ll be a routine year, although Fairbanks is calling for an early winter across the plains.”
“Could be they’re running scared, and Dybrovik is hedging his bets.”
“I thought so at first, but he mentions Eurobank. I’m assuming he’s talking not only about instructions for the meeting, but about the availability of real money.”
Newman reread the message and glanced again at Lydia. She was watching them. He smiled at her, then turned back.
“Get on the wire and have Sam dig up anything he can. Have Felix set up something in Geneva for me.”
“Are we going first to Monaco?”
Newman nodded. “Might as well. Lydia can stay there while I meet with Dybrovik. Let’s hope it won’t take more than twenty-four hours.”
“It lasted two weeks in Montreal.”
“Three-fourths of the industry power was there. There was more infighting than work going on.”
“Do you want to confirm with Dybrovik?”
“I think not, Paul. I have a feeling he wants to keep this very quiet. For now, we’ll play it this way.”
“All right,” Saratt said. He glanced beyond Newman at Lydia. “What about her?”
“I’ll take care of that problem.”
“She won’t be very happy.”
“Don’t look so smug,” Newman said sharply. “She’s a grainman’s daughter. She’ll understand.”
6
The weather in Geneva was gloomy. It had rained all afternoon, and now, as Newman stepped out from beneath the awning in front of his hotel, a cold, windblown mist enveloped him.
He was tired from the nearly nonstop flying he had done, from Buenos Aires to Mexico City, from there to Nice, and then this afternoon here to Geneva. And he was disgusted with himself over his inability to arrange his life in proper priorities.
“You’re a grainman, first and foremost,” Lydia had said yesterday afternoon, over the Atlantic, when he had told her he would have to be gone for a day and a night.
He had not told her whom he was meeting, or where the meeting was to take place, but she had known that it had to be a grain deal — that was the only thing that would take him away from her on their honeymoon.
Beyond that, she had not been visibly upset. They had made love on the bed in the aft cabin, and later had taken a long, leisurely shower together.
It was late at night when they touched down at Nice, so Newman set aside his plans to go straight to the villa, and the three of them checked in at the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo. He had left Lydia there early in the afternoon, and he expected that she had immediately telephoned her father with the information.
Saratt had driven with him out to the airport, and on the way he had seemed disturbed.
“Out with it, Paul,” Newman had said.
Saratt glanced at him. “With what?”
“You’ve got a bug up your ass. Lydia?”
“She’ll call Jorge… probably is on the phone right now.”
Newman looked out at the city, and nodded. “Probably.”
“Don’t you care?” Saratt asked. He was exasperated.
Newman turned back. “Yes, I do care. Very much. But it doesn’t change a thing. She’s my wife.”
“Despite what could happen to your business?”
“Leave it alone, Paul.”
“Jesus! At least let me cover our—”
Newman cut him off. “Don’t say what I think you’re going to say. Don’t ever say it to me. You’re my friend, as well as my closest business associate. If you have to do something to protect our business, something I shouldn’t know about, then do it. But don’t ever tell me or Lydia what you’ve done. Clear?”
“Clear,” Saratt said glumly. “But it’s a hell of a way to do things.”
Newman had not picked up on that remark, and they had dropped the subject, turning instead to the information the Newman Company’s affiliates had gathered on Dybrovik and the upcoming meeting.
From their meteorologist at Fairbanks, Alaska, Saratt had received confirmation that the best prediction was for an early, cold winter all along the Soviet East European Plain, the Ust’-Urt Plateau, and the West Siberian Plain, which could mean a shorter growing season for the Russians at best, or, at worst, a widespread disaster in which much of the Russian wheat and corn crops would be lost.
Saratt had sounded a cautionary note on that point, however.
“Bender stressed the fact that the long-range forecast was entirely his doing, and that there has already been quite a bit of heated discussion about it.”
“They might have good weather?”
“Fifty-fifty.”
“If Dybrovik is aware of that, he just might be hedging his bets after all.”
“It’s a possibility, but there’s something even more worrisome. Everyone is mum about the Soviet winter and spring planting. We couldn’t even get a noncommittal statement out of them. Not average, below average, or above. Not even if the crops were in yet. Nothing.”
“Another Great Grain Robbery?”
“It’s a distinct possibility,” Saratt said.
“I wouldn’t think they’d have the hard currencies available to them. Not after Afghanistan, or their five-year revitalization project in Cuba. They’ve pumped a lot of money into those projects.”
“We checked with Eurobank on a routine money-transfer verification. We tried once at a mil five American, and again at eight-point-seven million West German marks.”
“Both were verified?”
“Immediately. Dybrovik has got at least four million American on call. Possibly a lot more. And even more significantly, there were no holds or blinds on his account. They didn’t give a damn that we were obviously checking on them.”
“He’s in Geneva to do business, then.”
“Exactly,” Saratt said. “But what kind of business, and how much?”