“I guess we’ll see,” Newman said. “What about Dybrovik himself? Anything?”
“The usual. He’s been screwing around again, this last time back in Montreal.”
“Anything we can use?”
A sour look came over Saratt’s face. “She’s a young girl. College student, working nights to help support her expensive habits. Unless you want to upset her apple cart, there’s nothing we can or should do.”
“We don’t do business that way.”
Saratt grinned. “I didn’t think so, but I put a loose watch on her to see if she heads to Geneva. So far, she hasn’t moved.”
“When did Dybrovik come out?”
“No one seems to know, although I didn’t push it too hard. Things like this have a tendency to get out, and then we’d have half the world on our tails, especially the Georges Andre crowd.”
“I don’t want that. It’ll probably get out fast enough as it is,” Newman said. “How about State?”
“Not a thing from Washington, which also strikes a strange note.”
“Good. Lundgren’s one idiot I’d just as soon keep as far away as possible. We’ll backtrack later for licenses if and when we make a deal with Dybrovik. Anything else I should know about?”
“Brezhnev is sick again. He’ll probably be out within the next six months.”
“We were told that three years ago, and the old goat is still going strong.”
“Not this time, Kenneth. He hasn’t been seen anywhere.”
Newman thought about that for several moments. “We’ll just have to watch our backs, then, on anything long range. Let’s stay beyond a hundred and twenty days. If Brezhnev steps down, there’s no telling what his successor might do with existing agreements.”
“Especially if it’s Andropov.”
With those remarks in mind, Newman hunched up his coat collar and headed away from the hotel, which was on the Quai Mont Blanc, facing the inner harbor, and worked his way to the main post office.
He had telephoned the depositors’ special night number at Eurobank, giving his name and the telex number, and had received the instruction to proceed on foot alone to the main post office just off the Rue des Alpes at 10:00 P.M.
It was nearly that time now, and as Newman walked he went over everything Saratt had told him, as well as what he knew about the Russian he was to meet. But ever present at the back of his mind was Lydia, and guilt that he had left her alone on their honeymoon. A shaky beginning to a difficult marriage; it did not portend a rosy future.
There was very little traffic, and even fewer pedestrians, because it was late, the weather was rotten, and the real tourist season had not yet begun. Geneva, besides being a business center, is a tourist town in July and August. In the off-season it resumes its usual Swiss flavor: quiet and somewhat stodgy.
The post office was housed in a large, very ornate building. As Newman approached the front entrance, guarded by twin lions flanking the stairs, and gargoyles above, a black Citroën DS 19 pulled up to the curb beside Newman. The rear door came open.
Newman looked both ways up the street. There was no one else in sight, no cars or buses or people.
“It is I,” Dybrovik’s voice came from the dark interior of the sedan.
Newman climbed into the back seat beside the Russian, who reached across and pulled the door shut. Immediately the driver pulled away, turned the corner at the end of the block, and headed toward the Cornavin main railway station.
“So,” Dybrovik began, “you received my message, you were intrigued, and you came. All despite my understanding it is your honeymoon.” There seemed to be a sadness about the Russian. His manner was not as light as Newman remembered it.
“At this time tomorrow evening, I will have returned to my wife,” Newman said evenly.
“A time limit he now imposes,” Dybrovik guffawed. But before Newman could reply, he went on, “It is just as well. When men like us gather, it is not very long before the wolves begin snapping at our heels.”
“You are expecting surpluses and you want to sell grain,” Newman said, taking a stab in the dark.
Even in the darkened interior of the car, Newman could see something flash in the Russian’s eyes. But it was gone, covered up as rapidly as it had come.
“We would hope for surpluses, my friend. But, alas, such will likely not be the case.”
Something wasn’t right. “Then you wish to purchase grain?”
“Indeed.”
“Why me? Why like this?” Newman asked, still fishing.
Dybrovik grinned. “The second question is so obvious, it demands no serious answer. But the first… well, then, that is serious. To that we shall speak at length. Soon.”
“Soon? When? Where?”
“Do not attempt to manipulate me, and I shall not attempt to do so with you. Without that, it is possible that we shall have a fruitful association.”
Dybrovik was probably in his forties, Newman figured, but he sounded like a sixty-year-old, his baby face looked twenty, and at times he acted like a naive teenager. Despite those outward appearances, however, the man was no fool, and had been around the grain business longer than Newman.
At this point, then, Newman decided he would play the Russian’s game, at least until he had a better understanding of what was going on.
They turned north at the railway station and headed up the lakeshore past the Museum of Scientific History, toward Versoix and finally Coppet about ten miles away, where their driver turned onto a narrow, graveled driveway that led into the woods away from the lake.
Within a hundred yards the road entered a wide clearing in which stood a large, rambling house with a huge marble portico. Their driver pulled up beneath the overhanging roof and wordlessly jumped out and opened the rear door on Dybrovik’s side. The Russian shuffled his bulk ponderously out of the car, and Newman slid to that side and got out as well.
“I’ve leased the house for one year, and it will be our operational headquarters for the duration, although I suspect we will have concluded our business by early fall,” Dybrovik said.
Inside, a dim light illuminated the entrance hall; the stained-glass windows were dark. The wide stairs leading up were lost in darkness, as were the corridors to the left and right.
Without hesitation Dybrovik led the way to the right, into what appeared to be a large, luxuriously decorated drawing room. He flipped on a bronze table lamp, motioned Newman to take a seat, then went to a sideboard and pulled out two brandy snifters.
“Cognac or whiskey?” he asked.
“Cognac will be fine,” Newman said, crossing the room and sitting down on the long leather couch. He lit a cigarette.
Dybrovik handed Newman his drink, then raised his glass in a toast. “To a successful business between us.”
Newman nodded, took a sip of his drink, then set his glass down on the low coffee table in front of him. Dybrovik remained standing. Psychology, Newman thought. He had used the same methods himself. It was going to be a job, he figured, to hold Dybrovik to a reasonably short initial negotiation process.
“You mentioned you would like to return to your bride no later than this time tomorrow evening,” Dybrovik said. “You will be able to return to her this evening, if you like, or certainly no later than tomorrow morning. Our business will be very simple. Your work will not be.”
Strangely, for just an instant, Newman had a premonition of doom, and with it the urge to get up and leave before the Russian had a chance to say anything else. But then the feeling passed, and he held his silence.
“Simply put, my government wishes to purchase corn.”
Newman wasn’t quite sure he had heard the man correctly. “American corn?”
“It is of no consequence where it comes from.”