“And you have come here seeking assurances?” Dybrovik asked. He laughed. “Is that all?”
“Basically.”
“You have them. You have my personal word.”
Newman again nodded toward the front door.
“And now I must return to my work. As you know, Soviet ports alone can handle less than fifty million tons of grain per year. We are working very hard at this moment to set up alternate receiving centers and storage areas. It is not easy. But let me walk you to your car.”
“I was getting nervous,” Newman said.
“Very uncharacteristic of you.”
“The numbers are much bigger than anything we’ve handled before.”
They stepped out onto the porch. The burly character who had frisked Newman emerged from the shadows and said something to Dybrovik in rapid Russian.
Dybrovik shook his head and said something in return. The guard glowered at Newman, then disappeared in the shadows again.
“You have a car waiting for you out by the highway?”
“Bodyguards,” Newman said. They stepped down off the porch and walked around the front of his car. “Can we be heard out here?” he whispered.
“No,” Dybrovik said, “but we are being watched.”
Newman glanced back up at the house. He was certain he saw a movement, in one of the upper windows, but then it was gone.
“What is so mysterious that we have to take this risk?” Dybrovik was smiling and nodding his head, as if Newman was telling him a joke.
“I want to know what the hell is going on,” Newman hissed.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Dybrovik said, smiling but sounding alarmed.
“First Cargill in New Orleans, then Louis Dreyfus in Paris, and now Vance-Ehrhardt in Buenos Aires.”
Dybrovik looked sharply at him. “You think that my government has had something to do with those things?”
“It’s goddamned suspicious. You and I are doing business, the biggest business in the history of grain trading, and my company benefits the most from those disasters.”
“Newman, my old friend, I assure you we had nothing to do with those heinous acts. I was going to convey my sympathies to your wife.” Dybrovik looked back at the house.
“I wonder what would happen to you if I kept the money you have already transferred into the TradeCon account and didn’t ship the grain.”
Dybrovik stepped back a pace, as if Newman were a demented, dangerous animal. “You would never again receive a grain commission from anyone. Your name and your business would be ruined. And we would recover our money through the International Court at the Hague.”
“No, you wouldn’t. But that is exactly what I intend doing if it comes out that your government was in any way responsible for Cargill, Louis Dreyfus, or Vance-Ehrhardt.”
“I have already told you…”
“I know what you told me,” Newman said sharply. “What I’m telling you is that you had better make damned sure that some overzealous KGB colonel or general hasn’t decided to help things along by eliminating my competition. My own government would support me in this. I think you know that.”
Dybrovik seemed genuinely pained. “Are you sorry now that you have become involved with this deal?”
“Not yet,” Newman said. “But I am concerned.”
Someone came out of the house. “Delos Fedor?” he called from the porch.
“My assistant.” Dybrovik turned around. “What is it?”
“There is a telephone call for you. Urgent.”
“I am coming,” Dybrovik called, then turned back. “What can I say that will assure you, Kenneth?”
“Give me your word that, to your knowledge, there is no plot.”
Dybrovik nodded.
“Delos Fedor, the telephone,” his assistant shouted.
“And give me your word that if you should find out something, you will let me know.”
Dybrovik smiled. “I could never give you my assurances on that, Kenneth. We are partners in a grain-trading deal. Business associates, not countrymen.”
It was the answer Newman had hoped for, because it was truthful. He patted Dybrovik on the arm. “For now, nothing will be changed, then. We are purchasing corn futures.”
“On margin,” Dybrovik said. “I was led to understand that the purchases would be made on a cash basis.”
“How I run my business is my concern,” Newman said harshly. “You keep the money coming, and I’ll continue purchasing corn.”
“And yet you question me?”
“When it comes to assassination and kidnapping, yes,” Newman said. He climbed into his car, and when he had the engine started, he and Dybrovik looked into each other’s eyes for several long seconds.
“My wife has taken over the Vance-Ehrhardt conglomerate until her father is returned.”
“I am very sorry for you, my old friend.”
“She has gotten wind of the fact that you are up to something. Someone apparently spotted you here in Geneva.”
“Will she come here to try and deal with me?”
“Perhaps not she herself, but I expect she will be sending someone.”
“I shall tell them nothing.”
“Thank you,” Newman said. “Say hello to your wife for me.”
Dybrovik flinched, but he nodded, and Newman left.
18
Delos Fedor Dybrovik was what his wife used to call a deep thinker. And lately, over the past few weeks, he had been doing a lot of that. As long as he was able to keep a distance between himself and the little man, he could manage his perspective, to a degree. He could think of the little man in more realistic, less frightening terms. A bureaucrat. Someone who had the ear of the Party. Probably held a rank, almost certainly KGB. Someone who could wipe out all record of Dybrovik’s past transgressions.
In Geneva, at arm’s length from the little man, he had toyed with the idea of running to the United States. But he knew that, once he was there, he would not be happy. He’d miss his life at home. Besides, he still wanted to continue with the largest grain deal in the history of the trade. Even though it was becoming tainted in his mind. Even though he was filled with doubts about exactly what the little man was up to. A Great Grain Robbery was one thing, but Newman’s questions last week about Cargill, Louis Dreyfus, and Vance-Ehrhardt had brought other, darker fears to mind. Assassination and violence. But to what end?
Entering the Ministry of Transportation Building in Moscow this warm Friday afternoon, with more fear in his heart than he had ever imagined he could bear, and with the intention of finding out what was going on, Dybrovik had to wonder if he wasn’t experiencing the very last days of his life. He had almost convinced himself that the little man had killed Larissa, for no other reason than to insure cooperation. If he felt he was being betrayed, wouldn’t he kill again?
He had been back from Geneva twice since the grain purchase had begun, and that was to raid the home staff for additional help. The little man had come up after office hours, each time, for a status report, had praised Dybrovik, then had left as quietly as he had come. Dybrovik was certain that the little man would be back again this time for an update, and he was going to have to keep his head while he lied to him. Given enough time, he’d be able to pave the way to make his lies more creditable. At least long enough for him to find out what was going on — and then get out, if need be.
It had taken a week after the meeting with Newman for him to get up the courage to return to Moscow and do what he knew he had to do. During that time he had set up some insurance for himself, as well as devised the ostensible reasons for his return: the necessity of coming up with sufficient grain-handling capacity to manage the amount of corn that would begin arriving in October aboard Newman subsidiary ships. Storage facilities would have to be secured or built, and a distribution network arranged to handle the massive influx.