All in all, it was a gargantuan problem that Exportkhleb could no longer ignore, although it was not within the bureau’s actual purview. The State Ministry of Transportation handled that aspect, but Dybrovik felt that a case could be made for his putting out feelers.
But he was skating on thin ice. The little man had told him point blank that there would be no deviation from the buy order. One hundred million tons of corn. Bought in total secrecy. “Merely buy it, Delos Fedor. The rest will be up to me.”
Newman feared that Exportkhleb would end up holding massive amounts of grain, while much of the world suffered shortages that the United States could not fill. Exportkhleb would then step in with its grain, selling it at a premium. Newman would be caught in the middle then, as a traitor to his own country, with nowhere to turn.
Dybrovik’s fear, on the other hand, was that something much more sinister was under way. If the major corn merchants, such as Cargill and Louis Dreyfus and Vance-Ehrhardt — and, in the end, Newman — were ruined, were put out of business, and if the Soviet Union owned major stockpiles of corn, there would be serious trouble for the U.S. if something happened to its own supplies. He had to find out.
He had spent most of the morning alone in his Prospekt apartment, finishing paperwork and thinking about his wife. From time to time his eyes strayed to the bathroom door. Although he felt remorse, it was not an all-consuming passion, because her death — the way he had seen her hanging there — was not fully real to him. He could not allow it to be. Surely Larissa would be back soon.
Just before noon he had gone directly to his office, where he had been stopped five times by various staffers who renewed their condolences on the death of his wife, told him he was doing a tremendous job, and asked if he had brought back any American cigarettes or Swiss beer.
The buy from Newman had been compartmentalized. The staff in Geneva knew that they were purchasing huge amounts of grain from a seemingly endless list of minor brokers. But the Moscow staff had no knowledge of the extent of the deal. The regular staff, that is.
At 1:30, Mikhail Andreyev, the bureau’s market analyst, had come in with the latest world grain price projections, which showed rice steady, wheat and soybeans up eight and nine cents a bushel, and corn up to $6.05 American, nearly fifty cents above normal.
“Maybe our latest small corn buys are having an effect on the market, but we can’t attribute much more than a few pennies to our movements,” Andreyev, a shuffling old man, said. There was an odd expression in his eyes.
Dybrovik tried to concentrate on what the old man was saying, but it was difficult.
“Cargill and Louis Dreyfus certainly are having a more significant effect on the market, but it is still too early to tell what the Vance-Ehrhardt kidnapping has done.”
“You think it will affect the market as well?”
“Certainly the spot market, depending upon what the kidnappers’ demands are, and how fast Vance-Ehrhardt is returned. If he is returned at all.”
Half an hour later, Boris Stepanovich Gordik, Exportkhleb’s assistant director, popped in with the proud announcement that the Thai rice market had been cornered and that U.S. rice would be shunted through their agents in Hong Kong in sufficient quantities for Exportkhleb to pick up at least a few thousand tons.
“Bits and pieces, Delos Fedor, but we should be able to cover our needs now without undue strain.”
“You have done a really excellent job in my absence. You should go to Hong Kong to supervise the buy. Don’t you think so?” Dybrovik asked.
Gordik puffed up, his face lit with a huge grin. “I believe the buy would certainly go much more smoothly if I were there to oversee it.”
“Then you may leave early next week.”
“Will you be remaining here, or are you going to return to Geneva?”
“Unfortunately, I’ll be returning within the week, but the staff will be able to handle anything that comes up. Comrade Shalnev will be here as well.”
Gordik looked over his shoulder, then came a little closer and started to speak, but Dybrovik cut him off.
“Enjoy Hong Kong, and give my regards to your wife.”
Gordik stepped back. Everyone in the bureau hated and feared Shalnev, who had instituted a new Office of Doctrinal Compliance. Three people had already lost their jobs because of his meddling. He was a ruthless, tight-lipped bastard whom you couldn’t talk to. Only Dybrovik knew that Shalnev was in the bureau at the little man’s behest. It was Shalnev who was handling the large Western currency transfers to Exportkhleb’s Eurobank account, without a single person knowing about it, bypassing the bureau’s own banking section completely.
Gordik was an ass, but Dybrovik liked and trusted him. He was honest and steady, and had an excellent grasp of the international grain market. Dybrovik did not want the man getting himself in trouble now because of his loose tongue.
“Thanks,” Gordik said, understanding what Dybrovik had done for him.
Dybrovik went down the hall to Shalnev’s domain next to the computer center. The man was a short, stocky bulldog, with thick, greasy hair and bulbous Ukrainian lips. He always seemed to be drooling.
“Delos Fedor, welcome back,” the man boomed. He grabbed Dybrovik in a bear hug, kissed him on the lips, and then released him. “Things are going well, from what I hear,” he said softly.
“Very well, Comrade Shalnev.”
Shalnev laughed. “You have forgotten what I told you. We are friends here. Good friends, you and I.”
Dybrovik said, “Newman came to me for assurances.”
“I listened to the tape. He is no fool, but he is acting like one. He is up to something.”
“I gave him my assurances.”
“He has five hundred million dollars of our money. We in return have less than one-tenth that in grain.”
“The remainder is in futures. Corn that has not been harvested yet.”
“Which he is buying on margin,” Shalnev rumbled, his earlier open good humor gone.
“It is a routine way of doing business, Yuri Pavlovich, but he has become suspicious because of recent happenings.”
“So have I,” Shalnev said ominously. “It is your task to see that this goes smoothly.”
“It has so far, although corn is up.”
Shalnev licked his lips, a chilly expression in his eyes. “Why have you returned? Your work is not finished there.”
“No, it isn’t. But Newman has returned to the United States, and I have a bureau to run. The Americans will be expecting a trade delegation within the month to work out details now that their stupid grain embargo has been lifted. We must be ready for it, lest suspicion fall our way.”
Shalnev was not a grainman, so he had to take Dybrovik at face value. “When will you go back?”
“Soon,” Dybrovik said. “Within a week.”
“Before you leave, I will need your fund-transfer expectations.”
“You’ll have them, along with the shipping schedules through the fall and again for the spring. I don’t know about the winter…” Dybrovik let it trail off, as if he were thinking to himself.
Shalnev picked up on it. “I will need the tonnage projections as soon as you have them.”
Back in his own office Dybrovik closed his door, lit a Marlboro, and poured himself a stiff shot of Scotch with shaking hands. Shalnev needed the tonnage projections? It meant he was involved not only with banking, but with shipping as well. To what extent was the little man controlling transportation? If the corn was being bought for Russian use — which meant that the surpluses would be nonexistent, that there would be a corn shortfall — then a distribution network of huge proportions would be abuilding. If the promised surpluses materialized, then this was another Great Grain Robbery, and no special distribution network would be needed, for the corn would not actually be shipped into Russia. Finally, suppose the surpluses materialized, but the little man planned to stockpile the American grain for some reason. In that case, the Newman subsidiary ships would bring their loads to a few ports where massive storage facilities would be ready.