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“Is Newman involved with Dybrovik?” Lundgren asked.

McCandless smiled. “Up to his ears. Including the Russian’s death.”

Lundgren almost fell off his chair, he sat forward so fast. “What?” he sputtered.

“That’s right. Dybrovik was murdered four nights ago in Athens, Greece. It was a Soviet-style execution, but Kenneth Newman was seen shortly before it happened at the hotel where Dybrovik and several other Russians were staying. Greek authorities are keeping it quiet.”

Lundgren sat back. He felt more than claustrophobia now, he felt as if everything were closing in around him. He also felt that he was missing some vital link between the startling news about Dybrovik and all the other things that had been happening over the summer.

“Newman flew back here immediately,”McCandless continued. “He’s in Duluth for the moment.”

A young man with a short haircut, a button-down shirt, and a narrow tie appeared in the doorway. He was out of breath. “Sorry I’m late, Michael. That fucking Pennsylvania Avenue should be made into a mall… no cars other than official government vehicles permitted on pain of death.”

“We were just getting started,” McCandless said. “You know Raymond, of course.” The newcomer nodded, then turned to Lundgren.

“Secretary Lundgren, I believe.”

“That’s right,” Lundgren said.

“Bob LeMear, FBI.”

McCandless motioned for him to take a seat. “Bob is the special investigations coordinator for the Bureau,” he explained to Lundgren. “He and I have worked together on a number of other cases. The Agency’s charter does not allow us to work domestically. So if one of our people heads home, Bob picks it up for us.”

“Newman is at home. We’ll get a couple of our people on him as soon as possible. We got Reinke from the Sixth District to sign a wiretap order for us last night, and we just managed to get it in place before he showed up.”

“To this point, as far as I can see,” Yankitis said, “there is nothing he can come back with. You’re both clean. Well within the intent of the law.”

McCandless smiled. “We’ve got him, Curt. All we have to do is wait for him to make a move.”

“I don’t understand,” Lundgren said. “Are you saying he was involved with Dybrovik’s killing? Lord, I can’t believe that.”

“Involved, yes,” McCandless said. “We placed him at the scene at the time. But, as I said, it was a standard Moscow Center assassination. Newman definitely did not pull the trigger, but he was involved in whatever reason the KGB had him killed.”

“Could you help us with that at all?” LeMear asked.

“Newman was selling the Russians grain through Dybrovik. I think a lot more grain that he had licenses for. I’m sure if you look a little closer at the Newman Company you’ll find a string of subsidiaries that’ll stretch from Duluth to Moscow and back.”

“We’ve already-set our accountants on that. They’re not making much progress. At least not yet,” Yankitis said. “But why would Dybrovik be killed?”

“I don’t know,” Lundgren said. “But I’m sure it’s somehow tied to the other things I mentioned to Michael.”

“You mean Cargill and Louis Dreyfus?” LeMear asked.

Lundgren nodded. He felt he was missing something. Something very vital. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

“So far we’ve found nothing.”

“Nothing,” McCandless agreed.

“Well, I think your answers are there.”

“We’ll get it out of Newman,” LeMear said. “If anyone knows what’s going on here, he does.”

26

Kenneth Newman kept seeing Dybrovik lying on the sidewalk, the blood leaking out of his body in a widening pool. The Bormett farm in Iowa was the key, he had said. The key to what?

Turalin had apparently been lying; there was not much doubt of it now. It was to be some sort of a market manipulation. Dybrovik had apparently weakened, and Turalin had had him killed for doing so.

In the aftermath of Dybrovik’s death, Newman had found himself torn between loyalties to his friends and his business and the desire to find out just what the Russians were up to. He understood that he had to arrange priorities, but he was having difficulties even trying to think about what was going on. That in itself was a new feeling for him. All his life he had been a pragmatic man; choice had consisted of weighing the facts versus his subjective judgments of personalities. Always before, he had managed to step back so that his own personality did not color the equation. Now, however he himself was a key part in the events surrounding his wife in Buenos Aires; his partner, Paul Saratt; the little KGB officer in Athens; and finally poor, hapless Dybrovik, who had trapped himself in something far bigger than his own life.

Throughout Lydia’s pampered life, she had always been in control; in the important decisions it had always been Lydia and Lydia alone who had made the choice. That is, until she married Newman. It wasn’t just that she had taken the title Mrs. Newman, thus forsaking (at least to the outside world) the Vance-Ehrhardt power, it was that she had bowed to decisions other than her own, and had acted out of concern for others, even though such acts ran contrary to her own desires. When she had taken over the Vance-Ehrhardt conglomerate, she had known her husband was in the middle of a large deal with the Russians, and that it would be to the best interests of her company, and therefore herself, to neutralize the Newman Company. She had warned her husband, though, and instantly, that there was a plot against his life. She had warned him.

Paul Saratt, on the other hand, had always been a follower, despite an expertise in the grain business that at times bordered on genius. “Whenever I have the urge to open my own operation, I begin to think of all the headaches it would bring,” he had told Newman long ago. He had been happy being an employee, even though some of his ideas and deals were better thought out than Newman’s. He had depended upon Newman to steer him in a straight line, never worrying about being let down. “Just like the frightened airline passenger,” Paul had been fond of saying, “who calms his fear by telling himself that the pilot loves his life as much as me, and wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize his.” His involvement with Newman, however, had cost him the ultimate… his life.

Then there were Turalin and Dybrovik. As much as Newman wanted to balance them off each other, he could not. The match was totally unequal. Dybrovik had been a frightened man; an expert in his field who, beyond that expertise, had little if any stamina. He was like the head sheep in the flock — able to lead his charges quite well — whereas Turalin was like the wolf.

Which brought Newman back to his own conflicts.

It was night, and he sat in his study looking down at the harbor. He was alone. He had sent Marie, the housekeeper, away before he went to Athens, and she would be visiting her sister in Oregon for another ten days. But solitude suited him just fine. He did not think he could deal with anyone now.

Lundgren had wanted to talk to him before he left for Athens. Sitting here now, Newman had the urge to pick up the phone and call the Secretary of Agriculture, and tell him everything. Lundgren was a pompous, self-serving ass, but he did know the business, and he was in the administration. He’d have access to whatever information existed.