“Routine,” Newman said. “Why not just put through a simple order? Abex would have been pleased to handle it for you.”
“You do not understand yet, my friend, which is entirely my fault. We wish to purchase a lot of corn.”
“How much?”
Dybrovik shrugged. “Ten million tons. Twenty million. Thirty.”
“Large numbers,” Newman said cautiously, although his blood was beginning to race.
“Perhaps larger.”
“Meaning?”
Dybrovik took another large swallow of his drink, then set the glass down. “We want to purchase, in absolute secrecy, as much corn as you can possibly supply us.”
“What is the limit?”
“There is no limit.”
Newman carefully held himself in check. “A hundred million metric tons?”
“More, if you can get it.”
“At what price?”
Dybrovik laughed. “At the prevailing market price. But of course it must be done in secret, so your purchases will not inflate unit costs.”
“Not until later, when the information is leaked by your government,” Newman said, getting to his feet. “You’ll buy on margin, drive the price up, and resell, as you did in the seventies.”
“We will purchase on margin if we can,” Dybrovik said unperturbed. “We will pay cash for the futures if need be. It is negotiable.”
“You will guarantee that the grain is for internal consumption?”
“If you are asking me, internal to the Soviet Union, I cannot answer that with any degree of certainty. If you are speaking, internal to our Warsaw Pact nations, I can give you a qualified yes.”
This was all wrong. Newman knew it; he could feel it thick in the air between him and the Russian. And yet it was food they were speaking of here. Food that would ultimately be used to feed people. Cubans in addition to Albanians? South Africans in addition to Poles? Did it matter?
“Licensing would be difficult if not impossible,” Newman said cautiously, but he could see the glimmerings of triumph on the Russian’s face. More psychology, or the real thing?
“Difficult, yes, but not impossible given a proper infrastructure, which is your particular area of expertise.”
Multilevel dummy corporations, shipping companies, elevator firms, railroad cars. Newman saw every bit of it as one large picture, and it excited the hell out of him. It could be done. But what of the moral implications? What of the international ramifications? What of the political weapon a hundred million metric tons of corn could become? It was akin to selling the entire year’s output of oil from all the OPEC countries in one fell swoop.
“It’s a powerful thing you ask,” Newman said, sitting down.
“It would make you a wealthy man.”
“I’m already wealthy,” Newman countered.
Dybrovik smiled, his grin feral. “You hesitate. You are afraid, perhaps, of another market manipulation? Your people called it the Great Grain Robbery. Amusing.”
“It has crossed my mind.”
Dybrovik laughed out loud. “Several dozen times in the last minute or two, no doubt. But so what, I ask you?”
“Neither I nor any other Western grain company would do business with you again.”
“I think that would not be the case, Mr. Kenneth Newman. I think not. Money, after all, is why you do what you do.”
The remark offended Newman, all the more because it was true. Like all grainmen, Newman feared and resented government meddling in what they felt was one of the last truly free international enterprises. Yet Newman personally felt a deep moral responsibility toward people. Not merely Americans, but people the world over.
“Two conditions,” he said.
Dybrovik’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded.
“A ceiling is to be set on the unit price at which your government will ultimately sell its surplus grain.”
“Impossible.”
“Just outside the Warsaw Pact.”
Dybrovik went back to the sideboard and poured himself another drink. “I would have to get approval from my government before I could agree to such a condition.”
“How soon could you have an answer?”
“Within twenty-four hours.”
“That’s acceptable. In any event, it will take me longer than that to begin.”
“The second condition?” Dybrovik asked.
“Much of the corn I will be selling you will be in the form of futures, naturally, but a significant portion is already dried and in storage.”
Dybrovik said nothing.
“I will want the majority of your grain moved immediately to the Soviet Union.”
“If we were to resell the corn at a later date, we would pass the cost of transportation on to the end user.”
“I assure you, there will be excessive storage charges at my end if it is not moved.”
Dybrovik turned away again. “We will accept fifty percent of the corn now in storage, and negotiate later on movement of the futures as they come in.”
“Ninety percent and negotiate on the futures within thirty days.”
“Seventy-five percent,” Dybrovik said. “And that is my top. But I will agree to on-the-spot negotiations for the futures.”
It was Newman’s turn to keep silent. It was better than he had hoped for. They both understood that storage the world over was at a premium. When the bins were full, the corn would have to be stored either in railroad cars or on the ground. Bad weather would ruin millions of dollars’ worth of grain. Storage was, simply put, the biggest headache of the business. Dybrovik had agreed to shoulder the lion’s share of that problem.
“Is it a deal?” Dybrovik asked.
“Contingent on your answer about the resale price.”
“You will have your answer tomorrow. But if it is a no?”
“I’ll have to think about that.”
“Further negotiations would be possible, I would assume. If not, I would have to approach someone else.”
“Like Georges André?” Newman said, again getting to his feet. “I think not. They would run you around in circles, if they would deal with you at all.”
“Then your father-in-law.”
Newman smiled. “I don’t think he could keep it quiet.”
“Probably not,” Dybrovik said. He finished his drink. “Where may I contact you tomorrow?”
“Through Abex, as before,” Newman said. “You mentioned that this place will become your operational headquarters?”
Dybrovik nodded. “Communications equipment will be brought in tomorrow, and my staff will be arriving by evening. But it will take a week or perhaps ten days before everything is ready at this end.”
“Very good,” Newman said. “We may have a deal, then, depending upon what your government has to say tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” Dybrovik said, and they shook hands, which in the grain business was all the contract needed.
“And now, if you would ring your driver, I’d like to return to my hotel.”
Alone again, Dybrovik stood by the window in the hall, watching Newman climb into the back seat of the Citroën. A great, almost overwhelming sadness overcame him. On the one hand, he wanted very much to be a man such as Kenneth Newman. A free-wheeling spirit who was at home in all the capitals of the Western world. But he was already beginning to miss Moscow.
He laid his forehead against the cool window as the Citroen pulled away from the house, and watched its taillights disappear into the darkness.
Newman would return to Monaco, to his wedding bed. Within a few days he would be back in Duluth, Minnesota, one of the major American grain ports, at work on his deal. The deal of his life. A deal so mammoth that its international repercussions would certainly last for years… even without whatever it was the little man had in mind.