Her left eyebrow rose. “Then Vance-Ehrhardt will crush the Newman Company, and there will be little if anything for you to return to, if you survive.”
“Lydia…” Newman started toward her, but she cut him off with an imperious toss of her head.
“Stay or go, Kenneth, I don’t really give a damn. Stay, and you probably will be assassinated. Go, and at least you will have a fighting chance to save your business.”
She turned on her heel and left the room before Newman could stop her, leaving him with the feeling that he hadn’t really tried with her. The Lydia Vance-Ehrhardt who had just left wasn’t the woman he had married. Or was she?
It was dark when Newman and his bodyguards went down to the basement garage where they met Jacob, the steward from Newman’s aircraft, standing by a blue Ford LTD. The man was obviously frightened.
“There have been police around the airport all afternoon,” he said.
“Did they say anything to you?”
“No, sir, they just sit there and watch. We’re cleared to leave as soon as you’re on board.”
“If it’s true that Perés is going to try for you, it may happen out at the airport,” Evans said.
“I don’t think so,” Newman said. “His uniformed officers won’t do it. He’ll have someone else pull the trigger, so that he can make a big show of going after the killer. If I can get out to the airport, in plain sight of his men, they’ll have to let me go.”
“We can’t take this car, then,” Jacob said, gesturing toward the LTD. “They know that I’ve come to pick you up. And they’ll recognize the car you’ve been using.”
“We’ll have to borrow another one,” Newman said, looking around the nearly full garage. “How are you gentlemen at hot wiring?”
The bodyguards smiled. Within five minutes they had found an unlocked Mercedes sedan and started the engine.
Newman and Jacob climbed in the back and ducked down so that they would not be visible from outside. They got away from the hotel without incident.
“Anyone following us yet?” Newman asked.
“No, sir,” Humphrey said, and Newman and Jacob sat up.
“We’ll be all right until this car is discovered missing,” Newman said, looking out the rear window. “As soon as it’s called to the police, Perés will know what happened.”
“That’ll take time. We’ll be at the airport within a half-hour,” Humphrey said.
They passed the Vance-Ehrhardt Building in the heavy evening traffic, and Newman looked up at it. Lydia was up there working. He had the gut feeling that he would never see her again. Once this was over, their marriage would be finished. And behind it all was Dybrovik.
No one stopped them or followed them, and within half an hour they were beside the Newman Company aircraft parked at the business aviation terminal.
There were several police cars parked alongside the building, with half a dozen officers on the rooftop observation platform.
Newman hurried up the boarding stairs, the engines coming to life even before he was strapped down. Jacob closed and dogged the hatch, and they headed out the taxiway. Within five minutes they were airborne, the city lights of Buenos Aires falling behind them. Lydia was down there girding the Vance-Ehrhardt empire for battle, while her parents were held captive and other desperate men spun out their own plans.
17
Newman arrived at the Banque de Genève a few minutes after two on Thursday, without an appointment.
It had rained all week in Geneva, and the mood of the city was dark, almost as if the Swiss somehow understood that they were a party to a world food war, much as they were a party to the oil war with their management of Arab petrodollars. The dollar figures in the grain trade were not as large as in the oil market. Oil money regularly came in denominations in the billions, but the overall effect (although there were very few who understood it) was greater. A bushel of wheat or corn, in the last analysis, had a greater bearing on the well-being of the human race than a barrel of oil.
The mood of the city suited Newman so well, however, that he hadn’t even noticed the offhand surliness of the airport attendants, or the unusual reserve of the desk manager at the Hotel Beau Rivage.
The bank was housed in a nondescript, four-story yellow-brick building, with barred windows and a small brass plaque at the front door the only signs that it was not merely an apartment house. Just within the door was a small vestibule that smelled of varnish and fresh paste wax, its polished brass coathooks gleaming in the gray light from a line of frosted-glass windows above.
Straight ahead, down a short, high-ceilinged hallway, was a wooden door with a brass plaque marked PRIVATE; to the left an open doorway led into a very small reception room, which was equipped with a tiny desk and a staid-looking man in morning clothes and gold pince-nez. He looked up as Newman came in.
“I would like a word with Monsieur Montillier,” Newman said.
The receptionist sniffed disapprovingly. “I am dreadfully afraid that would be impossible, unless, of course, you have an appointment, Mr….”
“Tell him it is Mr. Kenneth Newman. I am a principal officer of TradeCon, Limited.”
He stared down at the receptionist until the man got slowly to his feet.
“If you will be so kind as to wait for just a moment, I will see if Monsieur Montillier is available,” the receptionist said ponderously as he left through the door behind his desk.
Within less than a minute the man was back. He ushered Newman through the door, down a very narrow corridor, and up a half-flight of stairs to a large office at the rear of the building. It was furnished with a Louis XIV desk, ornately carved and gilded, a matching armoire, and several glass-fronted bookcases. A massive globe of the world on heavy wooden gimbals was set in front of a tall leaded-glass window.
Armand Montillier, the managing director of the bank, was a small, dapper man, dressed like the receptionist in a dark coat, pin-striped trousers, wing-collared shirt, and black French cravat. His hair was totally white, as was his narrow goatee, which made him look for all the world like a Swiss version of Kentucky Fried Chicken’s Colonel Sanders.
A dangerous illusion, Newman thought as Montillier rose, extending his hand across the desk. The man controlled billions of dollars in deposits.
“Mr. Newman, so good of you to stop by to see us,” he said, his voice soft, his English Oxford.
Newman shook his hand. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” There were a couple of Renoirs on the walls, each with its own ceiling-mounted spotlight. The books within the ornate cases were all leather bound, stamped in gold, and probably rare editions. A Persian carpet covered a large portion of the highly polished wood floor.
Montillier smiled. “For a valued client my door is always open. May I offer you some coffee, perhaps a little wine or cognac?”
“Cognac would be nice, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all, I assure you,” Montillier said, and he poured them both a drink. “And now, if you would like to have a seat, we may commence whatever business has brought you here,” the banker said, again smiling. “Although I suspect it may have something to do with the Eurobank transfer of funds to your TradeCon account.”
Newman sat down and took a delicate sip of the fine brandy.
“I would like to see the status of my account, with daily balance tabulations for the past thirty days.”
“Of course,” Montillier said. He picked up his telephone and said something into it so softly that Newman could not hear him. “Those figures will be here momentarily. Is there something amiss, perhaps, something you would wish to change?”