Dybrovik wanted to know. He had to know.
He telephoned Vladimir Valentin Vostrikov, who was head of interbureau liaison for the Ministry of Transportation.
“Good afternoon, Vladi.”
“Delos, my old friend, how are you? I didn’t know that you were back in town.”
They had often worked together.
“I just returned last night.”
“Listen, we were sorry about Larissa. It came as a big shock. I didn’t hear until last week.”
“Thank you, Vladi. Work is helping, believe me. Which is why I telephoned. I would like to talk with you this afternoon. We may be facing some problems soon.”
“Yes, big things are on the wind, Delos, but not to talk about, if you know what I mean.”
Why not, Dybrovik wondered. Had the little man gotten to him as well? He took his shot. “I have spoken with Shalnev about this.”
“I see,” Vostrikov said, his tone suddenly guarded. “Three o’clock, then.”
Before he left Exportkhleb, Dybrovik gathered up tonnage projections by dates and amounts for all the grain that would — or would not — be coming into Soviet ports over the next twelve months. The corn buy had been spread over dozens of shipping companies, arriving throughout the year. Vostrikov would of course see right through the scheme, understanding that Exportkhleb was purchasing a mammoth amount of corn, and probably from the United States. But Dybrovik had his argument ready: Since the grain was to be shipped to the Soviet Union, then he had to make sure they would be able to handle it as and when it came.
But, as he entered the Ministry of Transportation Building a few minutes before three, he knew he was taking a great risk by snooping around. If the little man found out about this meeting, he might not accept Dybrovik’s explanation. Merely buy it, Delos Fedor. The rest will be up to me.
The security guard called Vostrikov to come down, and a couple of minutes later he showed up with a visitor’s pass which he clipped on Dybrovik’s lapel. He said nothing until they were riding up to the fourth floor in the ancient elevator.
“I don’t mind telling you, I don’t like this. Not any of it. And now you show up, wanting to talk. What is happening, Delos?”
“I was hoping you would tell me. You said big things were happening. What did you mean?”
“I was shooting off my mouth to an old friend,” Vostrikov said sadly.
Vostrikov’s office was a tiny room with a large map of European Russia tacked on the wall. Vostrikov took off his jacket and tossed it aside. He poured them both a vodka, then waved vaguely toward a chair as he went to the window and looked outside. It was a lovely, sunny day.
“What can happen on such a day as this?” he asked rhetorically. He tossed back his drink, then turned and poured himself another, offering more to Dybrovik, who shook his head.
“What’s wrong, Vladi? Why the long face?”
Vostrikov looked at him, drank his second vodka, and poured another.
“I got to thinking after you called me, you know. About Shalnev. And I asked myself, how does my old friend from Exportkhleb know the name Yuri Pavlovich Shalnev? So I called Comrade Shalnev downstairs in his office, just to ask him. He was not there, in banking. So then you know what cute thing I did?”
Dybrovik had been quite sure that Shalnev was the little man’s watchdog over this entire operation, but hearing that he had an office here was startling. It proved the connection. Vostrikov was involved as well. He wondered what hold the little man had on him.
“I called Exportkhleb on a whim. Not to talk to you. No, I asked to speak with Comrade Shalnev. And of course you know he was there. I tell you, Delos, I was so frightened that I hung up the telephone without giving my name. I just hope to hell my telephone has not been monitored. I have been sitting here in fear and shame.”
Fear and shame? The little man’s hold was evidently powerful. And his orders explicit: secrecy would be maintained at all costs. He had an excuse for being here, but poor Vostrikov had none for calling Shalnev at Exportkhleb.
“Please leave, Delos. Go now, before more damage is done.”
Dybrovik forced a smile. “What damage, Vladi? You speak as if there is some dark, nefarious plot underfoot here. I have come merely to discuss the transportation of the year’s grain with you. There will be more than usual. Much more.”
Vostrikov nodded. “I know it all too well. We have been getting ready for months. Quietly. No one around here really knows what’s happening. Except for me.” He tossed back his drink and immediately poured himself another, this time not bothering to offer Dybrovik more.
“It’ll be the largest gathering of railroad cars in our history, Delos. By September all the grain will be moving. But you know all that. You know Shalnev. You must know the rest. Right, Delos?”
Dybrovik was about to correct him, to tell him that Newman’s grain wouldn’t begin coming until October, and it would be shipped throughout the year, not finishing until late spring or early next summer. But again something held him back.
“Where the ships will be found to get rid of it all, I couldn’t begin to tell you. But the grain will be there, ready to ship.”
The grain will be there, ready to ship. What the hell did that mean?
Vostrikov had turned away with his vodka and was once again staring out the window across at Lennin’s mausoleum as Dybrovik got to his feet.
He had come here seeking answers, and he had found them. Only they were answers of a far different sort than he had expected. A far different sort.
19
The United States Department of Agriculture was housed in a large, traditional building between Jefferson Drive and C Street. Its columns and windows faced the Mall, southeast of the White House. Newman and Paul Saratt had arrived in Washington just an hour ago and had taken a cab over, sending Jacob along to the Newman Company apartment in the Watergate with their bags. At the north portico of the great building, they paid the cabby and mounted the stairs to the main floor, then took an elevator upstairs. On the way up Newman reflected on all that had happened since Dybrovik’s call had been routed to him through Abex, and tried to put it into some understandable order. Cargill, Louis Dreyfus, and Vance-Ehrhardt. All direct strikes against the grain industry. He wondered if he shouldn’t include his wife’s defection as a blow against himself. But if the other events had indeed been engineered by one hand (as he suspected), then Lydia’s refusal to return home came only as a serendipitous benefit to the plotter. Lydia’s people were hitting some of the spot markets, and there had been a minor drive for corn out of Milwaukee, but the Newman Company had been there first, and Vance-Ehrhardt’s efforts were mostly ineffective for the moment. He was certain that Lydia had sent someone to speak with Dybrovik, but her mission had evidently failed, because the Russians continued to play ball.
“Upstairs, the reception area was very large, and tastelessly decorated with a lot of chrome-and-glass furniture. The receptionist was a youngish woman who seemed to match the place. Even her green eyeshadow was the same shade as the cushions on the furniture.