“Go ahead,” McCandless said cautiously.
“I want Newman. I want to know what he’s up to. I want to know if there is any connection at the moment between him and Dybrovik.”
McCandless nodded. “It shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“Another interesting little tidbit. You’ll never guess who Newman is married to.”
McCandless couldn’t.
“Lydia Vance-Ehrhardt.”
“The same family?”
Lundgren nodded, and then laughed out loud. “The same.”
15
Throughout this period Kenneth Newman would remember the feeling of fatalism that had come to him with the kidnapping of Jorge and Margarita Vance-Ehrhardt. It was a time of high drama and great emotion which was made somehow unreal by the curious sensation that he was an observer at a particularly bad play.
The actors were there in front of him, moving through their carefully prepared stage directions, voicing their patiently written lines. And no matter what he did or didn’t do, he would not affect the certain outcome by one whit.
The sensation was doubly curious because it was complete. Not only was he an observer, but he as an observer was acutely conscious that he had his own life as well; that at any moment he could simply get up from his seat and walk out into the real world. His own real world.
A strong sense of interest (there were those who called it perversity) made him want to stay to the end. The actors, after all, had their own lives beyond the drama of the stage, and he wanted to stick around long enough to discover what they were, and perhaps help the performers through their post-production blues.
It was a few minutes before eleven on the morning of July 12 when the car carrying Newman from the Vance-Ehrhardt estate raced through Buenos Aires and came to a halt in front of the Federal District Police Headquarters.
Humphrey, one of Newman’s bodyguards, leaped out of the car as Evans got out on the other side. Both of them scanned the street before Humphrey opened the door for Newman, who got out and strode across the wide sidewalk and into the building.
Two armed guards flanked a young, uniformed man seated at a reception desk. He looked up as Newman’s heels echoed loudly on the marble floor of the very busy ground floor.
“Senor?” the young man asked pleasantly. The guards had stiffened to attention when they realized Newman, an obvious foreigner, had brought two armed men into the building with him.
“I have an appointment with Capitán Perés,” Newman said.
“Your name, señor, por favor.”
“Kenneth Newman.”
The young man picked up the telephone, spoke in rapid Spanish, and then nodded up at one of the policemen. “Escort Senor Newman upstairs.”
Telling his men to wait in the lobby, Newman followed the policeman to a private elevator around the corner. On the fifth floor another burly, dark-skinned armed guard took over, escorting him down a wide corridor to an office that looked out toward the Plaza del Congreso, behind which the Argentine government met.
It was a large room dominated by an immense leather-topped desk, behind which sat one of the most obese men Newman had ever seen. The fat hung on him in huge folds, and his face was so grossly bloated that his eyes and mouth were little more than indentations. He got ponderously to his feet and moved like a battleship around the desk, extending his massive paw.
“Señor Newman, I am so very pleased to meet you at last. I am Reynaldo Perés, captain of police.” The man’s voice was gentle, belying his great size.
Newman shook his hand. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. I know how busy you must be.”
“Yes, it is a horrible tragedy, for which I feel personally responsible.” He motioned for Newman to have a seat, then went back behind his desk and sank into his chair.
“How so?”
“I had spoken at great length with Senor Vance-Ehrhardt, begging him to increase his security measures. A perimeter fence with infrared monitoring devices could have saved him.”
“Then you should hold yourself blameless.”
Captain Perés smiled. “Very generous of you, sir, and yet I cannot help but feel responsible. It was up to me to make certain that the Montoneros were kept under control. Even now we are rounding up known members.” The big man sighed deeply. “But, alas, it is like closing the barn door after the horses have fled, as you say.”
“Has any contact been made? Or any ransom demands?” Newman asked.
“None, but contact will come. And let me assure you, we will find and punish them. But before they are put on trial, we will find out who ordered and engineered this cowardly attack.”
Newman felt a cold wind. “You don’t believe it was simply an act of terrorism, then?”
Perés held his silence for a moment. His eyes narrowed. “We will know better when a ransom demand is finally made. But certain factors have been brought to my attention.”
“Anything I can help with?” Newman asked. “I was a friend of the Vance-Ehrhardt family.”
“Was, Señor Newman?”
Newman had the distinct impression Perés was playing some kind of game with him. “As you probably know, I am married to Jorge’s daughter, Lydia. As you also probably know, the family did not exactly approve of the marriage.”
Perés nodded sagely, as if Newman had just given him the theory of the world in twenty-five words or less. “Isn’t it also true, Señor Newman, that you worked for the Vance-Ehrhardts for some years? Were in fact a student and then a close personal friend of Jorge himself?”
“Yes, that is true.”
“Is it also not true that when you opened your own business, you… shall we say… persuaded a number of Vance-Ehrhardt’s business associates to come along with you?”
Newman smiled. “It is a fact of doing business, captain. I did not steal them away, I merely offered them better deals. The decision was theirs.”
“Is kidnapping also a way of doing business?”
Newman wasn’t really surprised at the question. He had felt it coming from the moment he walked into the room. “It was I who requested this meeting, Captain Perés.”
“Clever, perhaps?”
“Concerned that I might be able to offer some help.”
Perés sat forward in his chair, his hands folded together on the desk. “I would be most interested to hear what you might have to say.”
“In the United States last week, an arsonist destroyed a major grain-elevator complex owned by the Cargill Company. In France a couple of days later, Gérard Louis Dreyfus, the head of a very large grain-trading house, was assassinated.”
“Interesting,” Perés said. “And you are suggesting now that Vance-Ehrhardt’s kidnapping is part of some worldwide plot?”
“It is possible.”
“Who has the most to gain from all this activity?”
“I do,” Newman said. “That is to say, my company does.”
Perés seemed to contemplate that for a few seconds. “It is why you have brought bodyguards with you?”
“They were my wife’s idea,” Newman said. “And now, on reflection, I expect she was prudent in hiring them.”
“I see,” Perés drew the words out, studying his hands. He looked up, a hard glint in his eyes. “Why is it you truly requested this interview with me, Senor Newman? As I have said, I am a busy man.”
“I sincerely would like to help my wife’s family.”
“Then return to the United States. Take your wife with you, if she will go, and leave us to our troubles. We neither need nor want you here.”