Later, Catherine described that first day in Washington as a “whirlwind,” and even William had to admit to himself that it had been interesting. He and his wife had been treated with the utmost respect and interest.
At the State Department he was told nothing more than Finney had already told him: He was an American, and as such he would be representing all American farmers. The Russians had invited him because he was the best, and they hoped to learn as much from him as they possibly could.
Catherine, with the help of Finney’s wife, had bought a lovely, offwhite cocktail dress, and they had gone on to meet the Vice-President and his wife.
Although Bormett had little or no regard for the present administration, he found the Vice-President a bright, amiable man who immediately impressed him with the statement that he, the Vice-President, was nothing more than a politician, whereas Bormett and men like him were much more important.
“The farmer has always been the backbone of this nation, Mr. Bormett,” he said. “All the computer companies, steel mills, coal mines, and oil wells would be totally impossible without the basic human necessity: food. Food, which you provide us.”
It didn’t really matter that nowadays most of the Bormett corn was shipped to overseas markets; he was a supplier of food to a hungry world. His farm was a shining example of American knowhow and hard work.
Near the end of that pleasant meeting, Bormett had delighted everyone by admitting to the Vice-President that he had not voted for this administration, but if it was going to try for reelection, he’d be the first at the polls with his support.
Their flight was scheduled to leave the next afternoon at 3:00, and the Bormetts went to bed early to get a good night’s sleep. In the morning William was picked up by Finney, who took him over to a private dining room in the Department of Agriculture.
Bormett took an instant dislike to Secretary Lundgren.
“You’re going to have to come to the understanding early on, Mr. Bormett, that the Russians are not, nor will they ever be, capable of farming the same way you do,” Lundgren began.
“How so?” Bormett asked innocently.
Lundgren smiled superciliously. “They don’t have air-conditioned tractors to ride around in, with stereo systems, two-way radios, refrigerators for cold beer.”
Bormett could feel the color coming to his cheeks. “Tractors that pull twelve-bottom plows. Two-way radios in case of a breakdown so we can get a repair crew out there on the double. No beer boxes on my machinery.”
Lundgren sniffed and dabbed his lips with his linen napkin. “They’ll never have twelve-bottom plows, or fifteen-thousand-acre farms, either. Nor will they ever understand agribusiness and marketing, not in their society.”
“I’m going over to speak with farmers…” Bormett began, but Lundgren cut him off.
“I beg your pardon. You are going to Moscow to speak with professors of agriculture. Book people who probably have never even seen a farm.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the highly polished mahogany table. “You will be a cultural exchange program. We send orchestras, they send dancers. We send farmers, they send engineers. As long as we’re talking, we’re not shooting. Leastwise, that’s the President’s foreign policy in a nutshell.”
Lundgren, as far as Bormett was concerned, was insufferable. “Tell me, Mr. Secretary, were you raised on a farm?”
Finney had been drinking coffee, and he choked, sputtering and coughing.
“As a matter of fact, no, Mr. Bormett,” the Secretary said coldly. “I was born and raised in Chicago, and I attended Northwestern University. I am an attorney.”
“I see,” Bormett said, his voice equally cold. “I’ll try not to embarrass this administration either in Moscow or back home.”
“I’m happy to hear that. When you return, I’d like to meet with you again. We can talk at greater length about what you learned.”
11
The large house high in the hills overlooked the magnificent harbor at the head of Lake Superior in Duluth. It had suited Kenneth Newman’s needs as a grainman since the day he had moved here eight years ago. And in the weeks since he had brought his new bride here, it seemed to have suited her needs as well.
When he broke away from the Vance-Ehrhardt conglomerate, he had had his choice of any city in the world in which to work. New York would have been logical, as would Geneva or Paris or even Amsterdam. Those cities were financial centers.
Instead, Newman had chosen to live in a grain port where the commodities he dealt with would be ever present.
On the North American continent, he was left with three major grain ports: New Orleans at the mouth of the Mississippi; Minneapolis at the navigable head of the great shipping river; or Duluth-Superior, the westternmost port on the St. Lawrence Seaway.
Neither the climate nor the people of New Orleans suited Newman. Besides, Cargill had a very strong foothold in that city.
Minneapolis-St. Paul would have been fine, but Cargill all but owned that city as well.
Which left Duluth-Superior. The brisk climate suited Newman. The friendly, hard-working Scandinavian population suited him. And, best of all, the northern port city suited his willingness for a good, ongoing fight.
It had been touch and go, for as many years as anyone could remember, whether it was cheaper to ship grain to the river, load it on barges, haul it down to New Orleans, and then load it aboard grain ships, or cheaper to load the grain aboard trains at or near the farms, transport it to Duluth-Superior, and use the ultramodern handling facilities there to sort, grade, and load the grain directly aboard ocean-going ships.
For years the river-barge operators and railroad managements had been stimulating the agreement — and the business — with rate-schedule wars.
Competition like that was healthy for the grain business, he reflected this morning as he stepped out of the shower. But the explosion at Cargill’s giant elevators in New Orleans, and Friday’s gruesome murder of Gérard Louis Dreyfus by the French LPN, were the work of fanatics.
The world press had not yet made the connection between the two events, but Newman had. And the conclusions he drew worried him.
Without Gerard, the Louis Dreyfus clan’s business would take years to recover. Already there had been a noticeable slump in the French and Mediterranean markets that would deepen as currently negotiated deals began to come to fruition.
Simply put, Gérard’s assassination had placed a serious crimp on the European grain market. Georges André and the others would be hard pressed to remove it.
On this continent, Cargill’s mammoth New Orleans elevator complex had been bigger in size and grain-handling capabilities than even the Duluth-Superior facilities. The destruction of that elevator would not ruin the gigantic Cargill Company, but it would seriously strain the firm’s abilities to deliver grain that had been ordered and, in some cases, already paid for.
Which left South America, the third largest supplier of grain. Jorge Vance-Ehrhardt. If anything happened to Lydia’s father, the results within the grain industry could be nearly catastrophic.
Back in his bedroom, as Newman began to dress, the worry that had been nagging him for the past day or two came again to the forefront of his mind: The fact was that the Newman Company stood to gain the most from it all.
With his secret Russian deal, he needed all the grain, and all the ships to transport it, that he could lay his hands on.
Louis Dreyfus was all but out of the picture, so he had almost the entire European grain market to himself, along with its shipping. With Cargill’s New Orleans operation nearly shut down, grain that normally would have been shipped downriver would now be brought up to Duluth-Superior.