“Talk to Lundgren then, and phone me when you’re finished. But for Christ’s sake be careful with him. He may be an ass, but he knows the business, and he knows us. If he gets wind of what’s going on here, even a whiff of it, he’ll scream Justice Department and they’ll be on our backs.”
“I’m going for a chat, that’s all. Newman Company is interested in licenses for the new grain extension the President signed.”
Saratt nodded. It was clear from his expression that he wanted very much to say something else, but he was holding back. Newman knew that it concerned Lydia, but he could not bring himself to ask what it was, although he had a fair idea. When Coatsworth’s security people had come back here to sweep the office telephones, they had said nothing about his home phones. It was either because they had found Saratt’s tap, the one he was using to monitor Lydia’s telephone calls (to Buenos Aires?), or it was because they had found nothing.
“Are you staying the night?”
“No. I’m going up to New York to check in with Abex. Roger is becoming concerned that we’re not making any direct deals through him.”
“You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
“No,” Newman said. “I’m just going to calm him down.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
Back in the reception area, Evans and Humphrey rose to follow him out to the parking lot, and then across town to his home, where they took up position across the street.
He let himself in through the side door from the garage, and Marie met him in the vestibule.
“Good evening, Mr. Newman. Would you care for a drink before dinner?”
“That’d be fine. Where is Mrs. Newman?”
“She said that she would be traveling to Washington with you in the morning, and had some last-minute errands downtown.” The woman obviously did not like Lydia.
“Did she say when she’d be home?”
“No, sir,” Marie said.
Newman nodded. “I’ll take my drink upstairs in my study.”
“Very good, sir.”
Newman showered and changed, then went into his adjoining study which looked down over the harbor and beyond to Lake Superior, stretching to the eastern horizon. Marie had brought up a snifter and a bottle of cognac. He poured himself a healthy measure, lit a cigarette, and sat down in an easy chair in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Keep booze out of your office,” his father had told him years ago. “Otherwise you’ll pour yourself a drink every time you make a deal, and every time a deal falls through. It’s the habit that’s been the death of more executives than any other cause.”
Whenever he was troubled, he thought about his father. Not really a successful man, at least not by his son’s present standards, but a man full of the elusive wisdom that could only be gained through hard living.
“The school of hard knocks,” his father loved to say. “When the situation around you gets difficult, you have to roll with the punches, but never walk away from a fight. Follow your instincts, but never turn your back.”
What about now? Newman wondered.
It was around one in the afternoon, when the Newman Company jet, its twin-eagle logo gleaming on the vertical stabilizer, touched down at Washington’s National Airport and taxied to the private aviation terminal.
Two burly men wearing business suits stepped out of the aircraft and sharply scanned the area. Inside, Newman was putting on his jacket.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said to Lydia, who stood facing him. He had a heavy feeling that he had done the wrong thing.
She smiled sadly. “You’re my husband. Naturally I’ll help.”
Newman had debated with himself last night, as he waited for her to come home, whether or not he should tell her about his deal with Dybrovik. In the end he had decided she would have to know something if he was to put an end to an impossible situation: his business partner spying on his wife for the good of their business.
He hadn’t told her about that, of course, nor had he told her the extent of the Exportkhleb deal. But he had told her that he was dealing with Dybrovik, and he spoke a little about his fears that the Russians were up to something.
“So what do you expect to find out from the Agriculture Department?”
“Dybrovik wants to purchase a lot of corn from us, in addition to the deal the President has already agreed to. I want to know what the Russians’ actual corn shortfall is projected to be. Lundgren should have that information.”
“Won’t that tip him off that you’re up to something?”
“I don’t think so. Officially I’m coming to him to inquire about grain licenses with the Soviets. It’s information I’d have to know in order to do business with them.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Lydia had said, “I could probably get that information from Grainex for you.”
Grainex was the Vance-Ehrhardt subsidiary in New York City. Like all the larger grain firms, Vance-Ehrhardt, Ltd., had its network of friendly informants within the world’s grain-trading bureaus. It was one of the methods of doing business. But among the top half-dozen top companies, Vance-Ehrhardt’s information-gathering capabilities were second to none.
“I couldn’t ask you to do this,” Newman had said, although it was exactly what he had wanted. His deceit, even now, gave him a deep pang of guilt.
“I’ll take the plane to New York while you’re meeting with Lundgren.”
“I’ll come up on one of the commuter flights,” Newman said.
“Between us we’ll find out what’s happening.”
“Are you sure you want to do this, Lydia?” he had asked a dozen times, and each time she assured him she did.
But now in the airplane, facing her, he could see that she was deeply troubled, and he was sorry that he had involved her. Their relationship was a fragile one at best, and he feared now that he had probably strained it badly.
“I should be up in New York by eight at the latest,” he said.
“I’ll stay at the Plaza. We can have dinner in our room. We’ll have a lot to talk about,” Lydia said with a tiny sigh.
Newman took her into his arms, and held her close for a few moments. “I’m sorry, Lydia,” he said softly.
“Don’t be. You’re a grain trader. I knew that when I married you. We practically grew up together. And I love you for it, not despite it.”
13
It was night again, cold and very damp, deep in the forests along the Paraná River. Far to the southeast was Buenos Aires, to the northeast the border with Uruguay, and ten miles to the northwest the Vance-Ehrhardt estate.
Juan Carlos crawled wearily out of his sleeping bag and pulled on his boots before he unzipped the tent flap and crawled outside.
They had been expecting to remain in position for two days. But that had stretched to eight, and it was already July 6. Unless they received their signal to begin this night, it would go into the ninth day. Juan Carlos did not know if he or any of them could stand that.
In the dim light he could see Teva and Eugenio seated around the small kerosene heater, smoking and talking. Although he could not quite hear what they were saying, he could tell by Teva’s gestures that she was excited. But then, she was always excited about something.
He relieved himself behind the tent, and he went over to them. They looked up as he approached. Teva’s face was bright, and Eugenio’s eyes were wide. They were smiling.
“What is it?” Juan Carlos asked.
“It came,” Teva bubbled. “We have our signal. We got it tonight.”