And, if something should happen to Vance-Ehrhardt the world would become Newman’s alone… or rather, Newman’s and Dybrovik’s.
He knotted his tie, put on his jacket, and went downstairs.
Lydia was waiting for him with the morning newspapers in the breakfast nook overlooking Lake Superior, the Aerial Lift Bridge, and the harbor far below.
She was staring out the window at a Japanese cargo ship just coming under the bridge into the harbor, and when he entered the room, she looked up with a start.
“Good morning,” he said. He went around the table, and they kissed.
“I was just going to send Marie to make sure you had gotten out of bed,” she said, smiling. She seemed a little peaked this morning.
“Are you feeling well?” he asked, taking his seat.
Marie, their housekeeper, came in before she had a chance to answer, set a plate of toasted English muffins on the sideboard, and poured his coffee.
“Good morning, Mr. Newman,” she said. “Will you be wanting breakfast this morning?”
“Just coffee, thanks,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Lydia was staring out the window again, and Kenneth reached across to touch her hand. She looked back at him.
“What is it?” he asked. “Are you bored here?”
She managed another smile. “No.”
“I’ve been terribly busy these past weeks, and I can’t say that it’ll get much better until fall. But afterward we can go somewhere for a month or two. Perhaps back to Monaco to finish our honeymoon.”
She squeezed his hand. “It’s not that, Kenneth. When I married you, I knew that you were a busy man.” She glanced again out the window. “Besides, I can always take a plane to New York or Europe or someplace if I want to.”
“That’s an excellent idea. Why don’t you call up some of your friends and go on a little holiday? London would be nice. Or even Sardinia.” Newman could hear how hollow his words were, yet he could not help himself. There were too many other things on his mind at the moment.
“I might go to Buenos Aires for a few days,” she said.
“You miss your father?”
“I’m worried about him.”
Her answer startled him, because he had been worried about him, too. “Isn’t he feeling well? Have you spoken with him?”
“Come off it, Kenneth, for Christ’s sake. You know goddamned well why I’m concerned,” Lydia snapped, her voice rising. “First it was Cargill, then Louis Dreyfus. My father may very well be next.”
“What about me?” Newman said, instantly regretting the petty, selfish remark. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
“I’ve hired a security service for you,” Lydia said coldly. “They’re here now.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No it’s not. But my father will think so, and my mother is too weak to insist he take extra precautions when he travels. I’ll have to go to him and make sure he’ll be all right. Unless you don’t want me to go,” she said, looking pointedly into his eyes.
“Of course you should go if you want to, but I think you’d be going for all the wrong reasons. Call him first, then make your decision. See how he feels about Cargill and Louis Dreyfus.”
“And report back to you?”
Newman said nothing.
“Who did you meet in Geneva…” she started, but then she clamped it off. “No. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.” She shook her head. “He won’t tell me anything over the phone, anyway.”
“Then maybe there is nothing to it. Maybe the two incidents were just coincidence.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “You’ve been thinking about it as well, haven’t you?”
Newman nodded. “But the Cargill elevator was out there in the open for anyone to get to, and Gérard was never one for security precautions. On the other hand, your father lives and works on his estate. He’s surrounded by staff and armed guards.”
“In a country whose tradition is violence and revolution,” Lydia countered.
“Speak with him first, before you go,” Newman said. He had visions of his wife becoming caught in an assassination attempt, and it frightened him.
She lowered her head. “I’ll call him later this morning,” she said. She looked up. “Will you be late again tonight?”
“I’ll try not to be. But call me at work as soon as you find out anything,” Newman said. He finished his coffee, kissed Lydia, and left the room.
In his study he grabbed his briefcase, went into the garage, and started his small Mercedes.
Out on the street, two men dressed in business suits were waiting in a gray Chevrolet sedan. When Newman passed, they pulled away from the curb and fell in behind him.
It gave him a curious sense of security, having them behind him, and yet he resented the invasion of his privacy that they represented, and at a deeper level he felt they were unnecessary. Cargill here, Louis Dreyfus in Europe. Vance-Ehrhardt in South America, if his fears were justified, would complete the triangle.
If his fears were justified, it would mean the Russians were behind it, in which case Dybrovik’s mammoth grain deal was nothing more than a plot to hit at Western grain merchants — the Newman Company in particular.
But why? Dybrovik was a shrewd businessman, who had always played it straight. If he was playing some kind of game, and it got out, the Soviets would be hard-pressed in the future to secure any licenses to purchase Western grain. They would be cutting off their nose to spite their face.
Newman’s office was a modern three-story building of glass and steel next to the Port Authority terminal on the waterfront. He had built it shortly after he selected Duluth-Superior as his base; his business had expanded so rapidly that the once too-large building was now bursting at the seams with employees.
The parking lot was nearly full when Newman pulled into his slot and got out of his car. The gray Chevy pulled up beside him, and the two men jumped out and hurried around to him.
“Good morning, sir,” one of them said, while the other scanned the lines of parked cars. “I’m Evans, from Tri-States Security. And this is Humphrey.”
“I’ll be in my office for the remainder of the day,” Newman said, feeling a little foolish.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Coatsworth is there now. He’ll explain the procedure to you.”
Newman nodded and went into the building. The reception area had a grouping of plants and modern furniture to the right, and the receptionist and telephone operator to the left.
This morning a large man was seated on one of the couches, and when Newman came in he nodded.
“Good morning, Mr. Newman,” the receptionist, a young, good-looking woman, chirped.
“Good morning. Is Paul here yet?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have him come up to my office immediately.”
“Yes, sir. And there is a Mr. Coatsworth from Tri-States Security waiting to see you.”
“Upstairs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine,” Newman said. He went up to the third floor, where Paul Saratt was waiting for him with a huge man whose steel-gray hair was cropped military-fashion.
“Good morning, Paul,” Newman said.
“Morning, Kenneth. This is Rupert Coatsworth, Tri-States Security.”
Newman shook his hand. “Lydia told me this morning.”
“There are a number of things I’ll have to discuss with you this morning, Mr. Newman,” Coatsworth said, his voice deep and booming. There was a bulge beneath his left armpit, and Newman realized with a start that the man was armed.
“Can’t wait?”
“No, sir.”
“You might just as well sit in on this, Paul,” Newman said. He turned to his secretary. “Hold all my calls except for Geneva, Abex, and my wife.”