“Get him out of here,” Lydia yelled. “And don’t let him back in the building. If he tries, I want him shot.”
Newman sidestepped the others, and his bodyguards moved between them.
“I’m not giving up on you, Lydia,” he said. “If I can’t help here, I will do what I can outside the office. You are my wife.”
One of the executives, an older man, spoke with passion: “Leave, Mr. Newman, or I will personally see to it that you are shot.”
Lydia had come around the desk, a sneer on her lips. “If I were you, I’d run back to Duluth as fast as I could, in order to save my business. As of this moment, Vance-Ehrhardt is coming after you.”
16
The Royale was a brand-new, twenty-story hotel downtown on the Avenida Córdoba, and Newman’s reception was obsequious. The reservation had been made by a Vance-Ehrhardt, which made Newman a VIP, so there was absolutely no trouble coming up with an adjoining room for his two “business associates.”
His clothing, which had been sent over from the estate, had been carefully hung in his suite, and the hotel had provided chilled champagne, fresh flowers, and a basket of fruit.
It was all very unreal without Lydia.
The bodyguards made a quick inspection before they would allow Newman to come in; when they were satisfied, they went into the next room, leaving the connecting door open.
“If there is anything at all we can do for you, Mr. Newman, please do not hesitate to ask,” the assistant manager said.
“I may not be leaving tomorrow, so hold this suite open for me.” A moment later the door closed and he was alone.
From the window he could see the Vance-Ehrhardt Building rising above the park, and he could envision Lydia there, her sleeves rolled up, a wisp of her blonde hair hanging over her forehead as she worked to keep the Vance-Ehrhardt conglomerate afloat.
Somewhere within the city, her father was being held hostage — that is, if he was still alive. The police had been told by informers that a helicopter had brought the Vance-Ehrhardts and their captors inland, where they were seen entering a van. The van had been found on a narrow street in the villa miseria, and now the police, aided by federal troops, were searching the area, shack by shack in hopes of flushing the kidnappers out.
His relationship with Lydia depended in large measure on how successful they would be, how quickly her parents could be returned. Once her father was back at the helm, Newman had little doubt that Lydia would return to him.
Despite the fact that his love for her tended to hamper his clear thinking, he could understand her loyalty. For more than a hundred years the family and the business had grown and prospered together. The business was the family. Now, in this crisis, Lydia could not turn her back on her upbringing. Her husband, and even mourning for her parents, came second to protecting the business.
Newman regretted Lydia’s knowledge of his business arrangement with Dybrovik. But when he had told her about it, he had never dreamed that a situation like this would occur. But what she did with the information was another matter entirely. A worrisome matter.
The telephone rang, and Newman turned away from his musings at the window to answer it.
“Mr. Newman, this is the hotel operator. I have a Mr. Saratt from the United States who wishes to speak with you. Will you accept the call?”
“Yes, put him on,” Newman said.
“Kenneth, is that you?” Saratt’s voice sounded hollow and very distant.
“Yes, it is, Paul, and I’m glad you called.”
“How is everything down there? I thought you were staying at the Vance-Ehrhardt estate.”
“They kicked me out, but it’s a long story.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to tell me all about it; you’re going to have to come back here immediately.”
Alarms began jangling along Newman’s nerves. “What is it, Paul?”
“TradeCon has just shown an incoming transfer of a very substantial amount. And I mean substantial.”
“Is he intending to go after the futures market already?”
“I would assume so, but it came out of the clear blue sky, without a word from him.”
What the hell was Dybrovik doing now? If it was merely a routine transfer of funds for grain already shipped, it would be one thing. But Saratt did not use “substantial” lightly.
“How much, Paul?”
“You sitting down?”
“Close to it.”
“Five hundred million.”
“Swiss francs?”
“Dollars.”
“Jesus.” Newman sank down on the edge of the chair. “He’s serious.”
“Very,” Saratt said dryly. “So what do we do now?”
The big question. With that kind of money, Dybrovik apparently wanted all the futures bought on a cash basis, not on margin. Nearly unheard of. But complicating the affair was Lydia. She would be moving very soon either to establish a link with the Russians or to snap up all the corn futures as she could get her hands on. Fortunately, he had not told her the extent of the deal; otherwise she would have completely swallowed them up.
“Buy,” Newman said. It was the only answer.
“How much?” Saratt asked, excitement in his voice.
“Every bushel you can get your hands on.”
“Cash?”
“Cash, if need be, but take everything on margin you can get your hands on. We’ll save the cash reserves.”
“In case he tries something funny?”
“Exactly.” The biggest complication of all was the likelihood that someone else would find out. A half-billion dollars was not moved about without attracting a lot of attention. Someone would be watching them now, and watching them very closely.
“When are you and Lydia coming home?”
“Lydia’s staying here. She’s taken over the business until her father is returned.”
“I’m sorry,” Saratt said after a slight pause. “Has there been any word yet?”
“None. But they want me out of Buenos Aires.”
“Maybe it’d be for the best, Kenneth. I don’t think Argentina is a particularly safe place for you to be at the moment.”
“I agree. But I want you to stay there and do what you can with the Chicago market.”
“How about you?”
“I’m going to Geneva to find out what the hell is going on.”
“When?”
“Probably first thing in the morning, depending upon what happens or doesn’t happen down here.”
Again Saratt hesitated a moment. “Be careful, Kenneth.”
“I will,” Newman said. “I’ll call from Geneva.”
“Be careful,” Saratt said one last time, and he hung up.
Newman was about to go back to the window when Evans came in from the adjoining room, a concerned look on his face. He went directly to the television set and switched it on.
“You’d better see this, sir,” he said. “It just started a minute or so ago.”
“Vance-Ehrhardt?” Newman asked.
Evans nodded. “It was a recording of the old man’s voice, from what I understood, along with a ransom demand.”
A picture came on, and the sound came up. A serious-faced announcer seated behind a desk was saying something in Spanish about the continuing police efforts, under the capable leadership of Reynaldo Perés. Then the photograph of Jorge Vance-Ehrhardt filled the screen, and his familiar voice began speaking. It sounded raspy, as if he was very tired, or perhaps on some sort of drug.
“Peoples of Argentina, I have done you wrong. My company has done you a terrible injustice. It is a thing that can never be completely forgiven. But my generous captors have shown me a way to make up for my crimes. This act will, of course, in no way expunge my evil, nor do I beg now for forgiveness, or even mercy.”