“Mr. Newman and Mr. Saratt to see Secretary Lundgren,” Saratt said.
“We have been expecting you,” the receptionist said in a syrupy voice. She picked up the telephone and pushed one of the buttons. “Mr. Stansfield, they’ve just arrived, sir,” she said. “Certainly.” She hung up and smiled. “Mr. Stansfield will be right with you gentlemen.”
It was a new name to Newman. He gave Saratt a questioning look, but Saratt shook his head.
A moment later, a thin, mawkish-looking man appeared and bustled directly up to them, holding his hand out as he came.
“Aubert Stansfield, Undersecretary for Foreign Agricultural Trade,” he said in a reedy voice.
“Secretary Lundgren phoned last night. Here we are,” Newman said tersely.
Stansfield was taken back by Newman’s obvious coldness, but he recovered smoothly. “If you will just come with me, the Secretary is waiting for you.”
Curtis Lundgren was a small man, a full head shorter than Newman. Everything about his face suggested a supercilious attitude, from his round nose to eyes made owlish by thick glasses, to the seemingly permanent sneer on his lips. His hair was thinning although there was no gray in it, and Newman strongly suspected he used hair tint. He was dressed, as usual, in a plain blue suit, with a white shirt and conservative tie. He got to his feet and came around his mammoth desk when they walked in.
“Kenneth,” he said with a soft politician’s voice, “I’m glad you could come on such short notice. I’ve been worried for both of us for the past few days. We just had to talk.”
“You know my vice-president in charge of operations, Paul Saratt?”
The two men shook hands. “I’ve heard your name. Weren’t you with Cargill at one time?”
“Continental,” Saratt said. “Years ago.”
“Good company.”
“Among the better.”
Newman and Saratt followed Lundgren over to the grouping of chairs.
“Would you like me to sit in on this, Mr. Secretary?” Stansfield asked.
“By all means, Aubert,” Lundgren said expansively. “We’ll be dealing on your turf, so to speak.”
They all sat down, and there was an awkward silence. Newman was damned if he was going to help them out of it. He and Paul had discussed the meaning behind Lundgren’s summons to Washington, and they had both reached the same conclusions. The man had somehow gotten wind of the fact that the Newman Company was dealing with the Russians. How much he knew about the deal, however, was going to be the crucial factor, along with where and how he had gotten his information.
Two walls held bookcases filled mostly with law-books, but on the other walls were enlarged photographs of various military aircraft, including a squadron of B-52’s in formation flight. A curious choice for the Secretary of Agriculture, Newman thought. In fact, they could almost be in the office of the Secretary of Defense, except for the Farm Bureau magazines stacked in three neat piles on the coffee table in front of them.
“A hobby of mine,” Lundgren said, seeing Newman look at the photographs.
“I am a very busy man, Mr. Secretary, if you could get to the point,” Newman said.
The remark stung, and Lundgren bridled. “You’ve jumped the gun, and it has us worried here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The Soviet grain-trade agreement, what else?”
Newman sat forward. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”
Lundgren smiled. “Come on now, Kenneth. You were seen by two different reliable people in Geneva on two different occasions.”
“The department is spying on me? Is that what you’ve called me in to tell me?”
“Get off your high horse, Newman,” Lundgren snapped. “You’re well known within the trade. You were spotted in Geneva, that’s all.”
“So what?”
“Dybrovik has set up some kind of operation near Coppet. The Swiss won’t tell us a thing, and we can’t get close enough to it to find out much.”
“Newman and Dybrovik in the same city — therefore they are dealing?”
“Are you denying it?”
“I’m just trying to figure out how you think,” Newman said. “Have my licenses been approved?”
“Coincidentally, they have,” Lundgren said, and Stansfield opened a file folder and passed the documents across to the Secretary. “Now that the embargo has been lifted, the Newman company is authorized to ship seven hundred fifty thousand tons of grain to the Soviet Union.” He handed the documents across to Saratt.
Newman laughed. “We’ve already shipped a bit more than one million tons, including soybeans, barley, rice, and wheat.”
“I see,” Lundgren said, sitting back. “Without licenses.”
“That’s right. The embargo has been lifted, and you’re not going to set yourself up here in Washington as the paymaster, telling each company how much grain it can or can’t ship, doling out the tonnage to those who please you. We don’t do business that way.”
“We do now.”
“No.”
“Are you threatening me?” Lundgren asked. “I could have all your licenses.”
“The Mexican government has already asked that I set up my business in Mexico City. I’m giving it serious thought.”
“If you will permit me to interrupt, gentlemen?” Stansfield asked. Lundgren glared at him, but said nothing. “There have been… how shall I put it… some very strange indications on the foreign market over the past few weeks.”
Now it comes, Newman thought.
“Secretary Lundgren brought it to my attention the day after the Cargill elevator explosion. He wondered what effect the disaster might have on our European trade. I expected there might be some slight agitation — at least a slight bit — that Cargill might not be able to fulfill its obligations. So I went looking.”
“What did you find?” Newman asked.
“Not a thing. That is to say, none of my foreign contacts seemed the least bit worried at first. Your company picked up some of the slack from Duluth-Superior, and Louis Dreyfus managed the rest.”
“We certainly didn’t pick up any slack after Gérard was assassinated,” Saratt said.
“We found no indications of it,” Stansfield said. “But what we found curious were the bodyguards you hired. Can you explain that?”
“It was my wife’s idea. She felt I might need the protection. I no longer have them.”
“Then came the Vance-Ehrhardt kidnapping,” Stansfield continued. “And Mr. Newman, please, pass my condolences on to your wife. I hope that everything works out well.”
Newman nodded. The bastards had been spying on him, or at least around him. “What has all this to do with the Newman Company? If you could just come to the point.”
“I’m coming to it, sir,” Stansfield said, but Lundgren cut in.
“Coincidental to those happenings, Dybrovik shows up in Geneva, you do too, and within weeks the corn market begins to show signs of meddling.”
“Are you accusing me of market manipulation?”
“I’m accusing you of nothing,” Lundgren snapped. “I wanted to talk to you to clear the air.”
“Of what? Clear the air of what?”
“Misunderstanding. Your license to deal with the Soviet government will be extended to one million tons, no more. So you are finished trading with them. I’m doing that much for you in return for your providing me with information about Dybrovik, and what the man is up to.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Newman said. “And even if I did, it would be none of your business.”
“Foreign relations are this administration’s business!” Lundgren exploded.