“It’s not a market manipulation, and you have had nothing to do with the kidnapping of the Vance-Ehrhardts, or my partner’s death, or the death of Louis Dreyfus, or the Cargill elevator explosion.”
Turalin and Dybrovik looked at each other. “We had nothing to do with the Cargill elevator explosion, Mr. Newman,” Turalin said. He too seemed uncomfortable now.
“And the Louis Dreyfus assassination?”
“Enough!” Turalin snapped. “It is time for you to answer a few questions. You indicated to Comrade Dybrovik that you were becoming concerned. Well, so are we.”
It was so transparent. Newman wondered why this entire scene had been staged.
“We have given your firm a considerable sum of money with which to purchase grain futures. To date, what little corn you have purchased has all been on margin. Why is that?”
“Until I am convinced that this is not another Grain Robbery, I will continue to purchase on margin,” Newman said. “That is, if I continue to purchase at all.”
Turalin said something to Dybrovik in rapid Russian. Dybrovik replied tersely, and Turalin nodded. “You are still worried that it is a market manipulation such as happened in the early seventies.”
“What about Louis Dreyfus?” Newman repeated. Turalin blinked.
Dybrovik suddenly seemed very nervous. “Kenneth…” he started, but Turalin savagely cut him off.
“You had him assassinated,” Newman said. “It was your people… the KGB.”
Turalin said nothing.
“Why, for Christ’s sake?” Newman shouted.
“Kenneth, please, you have to understand that—” Dybrovik said, but again Turalin cut him off.
Newman got up. “If you kill me, your five hundred million becomes forfeit. It would be an expensive assassination.”
“You don’t understand, Mr. Newman,” Turalin said. He remained sitting on the edge of his chair, his hands together.
Again Newman had the strong impression that all this was a put-on, some sort of an act.
“Did you kill Gérard Louis Dreyfus?”
“Yes,” Turalin said softly.
“Why?”
“He found out about your deal with us, and he was moving against you.”
Newman was deeply shaken. “You didn’t think I could handle the competition, so you had it eliminated?” He glanced toward the bedroom door. The figure he had seen earlier was not there. “I’m withdrawing my company’s participation in this thing. I will deduct for the corn I have already purchased and shipped, as well as for a reasonable commission, and the remainder of the fund will be retransferred to your Eurobank account.”
“Wait,” Dybrovik shouted, jumping up.
Turalin had also gotten to his feet. Newman backed toward the vestibule. At any moment he expected the bedroom door to open and an armed man to burst out.
“We couldn’t take any chances with Louis Dreyfus. If he had ruined our deal, it would have meant… mass starvation,” Turalin said.
For several long seconds Newman wasn’t quite sure that he understood.
“It’s falling apart on us. Albania. Poland. Especially Afghanistan.”
Newman looked over his shoulder at the corridor door. It all fit together. It did make sense. They could not have gone to the American government, not without admitting defeat of their system. And yet it was all unreal. Bigger than life. What did they expect from him?
“You must believe us. We’re quite desperate for grain.”
“Why corn?”
“It’s universal,” Turalin said. “I mean, we can feed it to people as it is, it can be ground up into flour, we can make oil from it, or it can be fed to animals. There is no other grain we could have gotten in such quantities that would do so much for us.”
It all seemed a little too glib to Newman, and yet, goddamn it, it fit. It was no less than he and a great many other people in the business had been expecting for a good many years. Still, Newman didn’t believe it.
“And now I’m supposed to return home and continue working for you, knowing that you assassinated poor Louis Dreyfus?”
“We had no other choice, Kenneth,” Dybrovik said woodenly.
“Good Lord,” Newman breathed heavily.
Dybrovik suddenly turned away. He seemed all arms and legs.
“You must help us, you know,” Turalin said. “We have no where else to turn at this date, without…” he hesitated.
“Violence?”
Turalin did not reply.
Alone in his room again, Newman stood by the window looking down at the square. But he did not feel safe here. He felt like a soldier in the middle of a battlefield who had slipped inside a tent. Although he couldn’t see the war raging around him, he was right in the middle of it, and very vulnerable. It was time to run. There was no way in hell he believed anything that Turalin or Dybrovik had told him. The story was so patently foolish that he was amazed they had even tried to foist it on him.
On the other hand, he had to ask himself, what would they have said or done differently had the story been true? If there was a lack of food, they’d have to either produce it or buy it. If they had been reduced to buying it, they would have gone about it this way.
It was no longer clear to Newman what his choices were, and he realized at this moment just how dependent he had become on Paul. They had understood each other, had respected each other. And above all, they had trusted each other.
With Paul gone, and without Lydia, he was truly alone.
He crossed the room, picked up the telephone, and started to ask the hotel operator to ring the airport, but then changed his mind. This phone was possibly being monitored by Turalin’s people. Instead, he told the operator to send someone up for his bags, he was checking out.
He went downstairs. From a payphone he called the business aviation terminal, finally getting hold of Jacob, his steward, whom he instructed to ready the airport for immediate departure.
He was reasonably certain that his conversation with Jacob was safe, just as he was certain his next move would be monitored. At the bellhop station, he instructed the bell captain to have his bags sent over to the Athens Hilton.
“Is something wrong, sir?” the bell captain asked solicitously.
“Not a thing,” Newman said conspiratorially. “It is a rendezvous.”
“I understand, sir.”
If Turalin had been telling the truth, he’d allow Newman to leave without interference. If he had been lying….
Newman strode across the lobby, and outside hurried into the square, where he sat down on a stone bench. He had a clear view of a portion of the hotel lobby through the glass doors.
Several cabs came and went. A tour bus pulled up and ten or twelve couples got off and crowded into the hotel. Finally, a bellhop came out of the lobby with Newman’s two suitcases and set them down on the sidewalk.
A very tall, husky man came out of the lobby, turned to the left, and then lingered there, watching the bellhop and the bags. From time to time he looked up; the bellhop placed the bags in the back seat, spoke to the driver, and watched the cab leave.
The big man watched the cab go, and then hurried back into the hotel.
“You have them confused,” someone said from behind Newman and he spun around.
Dybrovik stood a few feet back, in the shadows of a clump of trees. He looked scared witless.
“Turalin wasn’t telling the truth, was he?” Newman asked.
Dybrovik shook his head. “No. It was mostly all lies.”
“Then it will be a market manipulation. Another Great Grain Robbery?”
“It’s not that either. It’s worse. It’s…” Dybrovik stopped in midsentence. He was staring across at the hotel.
Newman turned. The husky man who had watched the cab take his luggage was starting across the street.