It went beyond coincidence, far beyond mere chance. For the first time in his life, Newman felt that he was not in control of the people and circumstances around him; that he was nothing more than a bystander, a spectator, an unwitting victim of some shrouded plot.
After awhile he paid his bill and went to his hotel.
“Ah, Mr. Newman,” the desk clerk said, smiling. “There is a message for you.” He handed Newman a slip of paper.
It was from Dybrovik.
Kenneth,
Have arrived. Am ready for meet.
D.
Newman thanked the clerk, then took the elevator up to the top floor. The Russians were involved in all this, he was almost certain of it. It was what Dybrovik was hiding. It was what he had been so guilty about. Only now it was going to end, Newman thought. He was going to find out exactly what the hell was happening, or he’d stop all shipments and all futures buying. If they didn’t like it, they could sue him in the Hague.
In his room, he telephoned Dybrovik’s suite. The Russian answered on the first ring.
“It is Newman.”
“Are you back?”
“Yes. I’m next door. Are you ready?”
There was a slight pause. “Yes. You can come over. I am ready to talk with you.”
He sounded wooden, mechanical, as if he were talking in his sleep. “I’m going to want some answers, Dybrovik.”
“I understand.”
“The truth.”
“I understand that too, Kenneth. You can come now.”
Newman hung up, and stood there for a moment. There was something wrong with Dybrovik, something wrong with the entire setup. It didn’t seem right at all. He had the sudden urge to quietly pack his bags and get out of there. The hell with the Russians. The hell with the deal.
He turned, went out to the corridor, and knocked at the next door. Dybrovik answered it immediately, as if he had been standing just on the other side. He was sweating profusely, and his eyes were bloodshot. It looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week, or as if he were sick.
“Come in, Kenneth,” he said in the same wooden voice.
Newman came in to the vestibule. The suite was nearly a duplicate of his own rooms. Dybrovik locked and chained the door.
“Go in, Kenneth. Please,” he said, and Newman went on into the sitting room.
There was a dark, very intense-looking, small man seated in the corner by one of the windows, and he stood up, a slight smile on his face.
“Good evening, Mr. Newman. Permit me to introduce myself.”
24
“Colonel Vadim Leonid Turalin.”
“KGB?” Newman asked, just within the sitting room of Dybrovik’s suite.
The little man nodded. “Welcome to Athens, Mr. Newman.”
Newman suddenly became very conscious of his surroundings. The lights in the room were dim; the bathroom door was closed; the bedroom door was half open; the window curtains were drawn. He stepped back, but Dybrovik was there, and he turned around. “What the hell is going on here, Delos?”
“Please, Kenneth, we mean you no harm.”
“Like hell!” Newman said. He felt cornered, and he wanted to get out of there.
“He wants to explain everything to you,” Dybrovik was saying. “He wants to sit down with you — the three of us — and talk. That’s all. Honestly.”
Newman turned back. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a large figure in the half-open bedroom door, and he flinched.
“I believe it will be to your advantage to sit down and listen to what I have to say, Mr. Newman. You will probably find that I make a lot of sense. I will be able to answer a lot of questions that must be plaguing you.” Turalin paused. “Delos Fedor came to me and said that you were concerned by recent events.”
“What do you have to do with all of this?” Newman asked. Every muscle in his body was tense. Would he be able to get past Dybrovik, and then unlock and unchain the door before the goon in the bedroom got to him?
“It was I who authorized Comrade Dybrovik to purchase corn.”
“A hundred million tons of it?”
“Or more.”
“Then it is a market manipulation? But why pick on me?”
“Two questions, actually,” Turalin said, smiling. “Won’t you sit down? I’ll try to answer all your questions as fully as I can.”
Newman didn’t move.
“Please, Kenneth,” Dybrovik said sadly.
“When we are finished with our little chat, you will be free to go. No one will stop you,” Turalin said.
“If I’m not interested — if I want to leave this instant?”
Turalin just looked at him, a hard, flat expression in his eyes.
“Did your people kill Paul?”
“Paul Saratt? Your partner?” Turalin asked.
Dybrovik stepped out of the vestibule. He had a haunted look on his face. Newman glanced from Turalin to him and back. Then he nodded.
“No. We did not. It was your wife’s people.”
“Not Perés?”
“Not directly. But Perés is a very powerful man in Argentina. He has been making it very difficult there for Vance-Ehrhardt, Ltd. Even more so now that your father-in-law and his wife are dead.”
“But you knew?”
Turalin shrugged. “We could guess. So should you have.”
“Who kidnapped Vance-Ehrhardt?”
“The Montoneros,” Turalin said. “Argentina is on the verge of revolution. Perés knows it. Your wife knows it. They are both struggling for the same aims, only from different directions. Perés wants to keep the country quiet so that he can retain his power. Your wife wants to keep the peace so that she can run the Vance-Ehrhardt empire. But it cannot last.”
“How can you be so certain there will be a revolution there?” Newman asked, although he agreed with Turalin.
“The Malvinas defeat, for one. One hundred and thirty percent inflation for another. The exploitation of the pampas farmer.” Turalin shook his head. “I’m certainly not going to argue socialism versus capitalism with you, but when people become as oppressed as the Argentines have become, then something must give.”
Newman had more or less come to the same conclusions himself. They made his worry about Lydia all the more intense.
“Please sit down, Kenneth,” Dybrovik said. “You will be free to go when we are finished. He has given his word. I give you mine.”
Newman came farther into the room, and sat on the arm of the couch. Dybrovik sat heavily in one of the easy chairs opposite Turalin. He still had the sad look in his eyes.
“You asked if this was a market manipulation,” Turalin said. “It is not. If it were, we would have ordered you to purchase all the corn on margin. We would not have advanced your firm so much money. Nor would we be taking delivery of the corn we have already purchased.
“You’ve only taken eight million tons. The bulk of the corn is yet to come. Your ports can only handle forty-five or fifty million tons each year of all grain combined.”
“Our ports, Mr. Newman. Soviet ports. There are Warsaw Pact ports at our disposal.”
“I can answer your other question, Kenneth,” Dybrovik said. “It was I who selected your company for the buy.”
“Why?”
“Secrecy. When Colonel Turalin came to me with the order to purchase corn, I was told it would have to be done in total secrecy. Your company was the only one I felt could handle such a project. All the others were too large, staffed by too many people. Our secret would have gotten out.”
Dybrovik’s answer seemed well rehearsed to Newman. And although it was the answer he had expected, he found he was having a hard time believing it. Dybrovik was frightened.