Yet, Newman supposed he was kidding himself after all. Clutching at straws. Twice he had met with presidents who had asked him for information and advice. So Lundgren and his cronies would probably not be able to help.
He considered contacting the FBI, telling them what had happened in Athens, telling them that he might be Turalin’s next target unless he cooperated.
But what in hell would they do to protect him? Lock him up? Not an attractive proposition.
What should he do? Continue with the Russian corn contract? Simply cancel it and walk away from the entire mammoth deal? Or try to find out just what the hell they were up to?
After a while he got up and looked out the window. It was pitch black outside, although it wasn’t very late… a few minutes before ten. He had not bothered to turn any of the house lights on; the dark house fit his mood.
Back at his desk, he set his wine glass down and picked up the telephone. When he got the overseas operator, he gave her the telephone number of the Vance-Ehrhardt estate outside Buenos Aires.
“Person to person to Lydia Newman… make that Lydia Vance-Ehrhardt,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” the operator replied. He picked up his wine as the operator talked with his trunk operator in Miami and rang the Buenos Aires operator, but without answer. “One moment, sir,” the American operator said, and the line went dead.
Newman’s gut began to tighten.
The operator was back a moment later; she sounded strange. “I am sorry, sir, but all calls to Argentina have been temporarily suspended.”
“Suspended?” Newman said. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Service has been disconnected.”
“Where?” Newman shouted. “Who pulled the switch?”
“The suspension has occurred from Argentina, sir. They are not accepting outside communications.”
Newman broke the connection, then dialed Abex, Ltd., in New York. There was no one working here in Duluth, but Abex ran twenty-four hours a day.
The phone was answered on the first ring by the night supervisor. “McCarthy.”
“This is Newman. What have you got on the wire from Argentina?”
“The spot market, sir? It’s—”
“No, the news wire.”
“I haven’t seen anything all night. Let me check, sir,” McCarthy said, and he was gone.
Newman remained behind his desk, looking toward the window. A flash of light passed the side of the house outside, then was gone. Someone had pulled up into his driveway. He opened a desk drawer and withdrew his .38 Smith & Wesson snubnosed revolver, checked to make sure it was loaded, then stuffed it in his pocket.
McCarthy was back on the line. “Not a thing, Mr. Newman. But there’s something wrong with the spot-market wire out of Buenos Aires.”
“It’s dead?”
“Yes, sir. Since a few minutes after six our time this evening.”
“I tried to telephone Buenos Aires, but the operator told me all circuits to Argentina were down.”
“Jesus,” McCarthy said. “They’ve talked about a junta down there for the past year.”
“I know,” Newman said. “Start checking around. Find out what the hell is going on. You might call the Associated Press, maybe they know something.”
“I’ll get it on right away, sir.”
The doorbell rang.
“Have to go,” Newman said. “I’m at home. Telephone me as soon as you find out anything.”
“Will do, sir.”
Newman hung up. Then, taking the gun out of his pocket, he hurried out of his study and downstairs as the doorbell rang again. If Turalin had sent someone to kill him, he surely to hell wouldn’t stand out on the front step ringing the doorbell. On the other hand, that’s just what the assassin had down when Saratt was killed.
At the front door, Newman cautiously looked out one of the windows. It was Janice Wilcox, Paul’s daughter.
He pocketed the gun and quickly unlocked the door. She had a slight smile on her face when he opened the door.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“That’s a nice hello,” she said. She turned and waved toward the cab sitting in the driveway. The driver waved back and pulled away. “Didn’t know if you were home, or in bed, or what,” she said. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“Sorry,” Newman said, stepping back. She picked up her suitcase and came in. She looked good, certainly a lot better than she had at the funeral.
They stood awkwardly facing each other in the vestibule for a minute or two, until at last Janice grinned and shrugged. “Surprised to see me?”
“What are you doing here, Janice?”
“I had to get away… after the funeral, you know.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I want my father’s murderer,” she snapped. “You know something about it, and I’m not leaving until you point me in the right direction.”
“Impossible,” Newman said. He turned and went into the living room where he switched on a light. Janice followed him.
“I don’t give up so easily, Kenneth,” she said.
“No one will ever catch your father’s killers. Not you, not I, not the police. No one.”
“Maybe you didn’t care all that much for my father.”
Newman was stung. “That’s not true.”
“Then why aren’t you going after his murderer? Why are you playing around with the Russians?”
“It’s my business. Paul would have wanted it that way.”
“Dad was working on this deal?”
Newman nodded.
Her eyes narrowed. “How did your meeting with Dybrovik go in Athens? You certainly came back fast enough.”
“It went well,” Newman said.
Janice stepped forward, an odd expression in her eyes. “You’re lying,” she said.
“Stay out of this, Janice. It’s none of your business.”
“What are you trying to hide? What is it about the Russians? Has it got something to do with my father’s murder?”
“I said, stay out of it.”
Janice looked at him for a long time. “If that’s the way you want it,” she said calmly. She turned and headed toward the vestibule. “Call me a cab, would you? I want to get downtown to a hotel.”
“You can stay here tonight,” Newman said going after her. “I’ll have you flown home in the morning.”
She turned and smiled sweetly at him. “I could’t stay here tonight, Kenneth. I’d feel like an ingrate.”
He didn’t understand.
“Don’t you see? It would be bad form for me to use your telephone to call the wire services with the story about your meeting the Russians in Athens.”
“You can’t do this.”
“Watch me,” she said viciously. They were in the vestibule, and she snatched up her suitcase. “Are you going to call a cab for me, or am I going to have to walk downtown?”
“You’re not going.”
“Are you going to kidnap me?” she laughed.
“Goddamn it, Janice, you don’t know what the hell is at stake here.”
“What could be more important than my father’s death?”
“The deaths of a lot of other people, a lot of people,” he blurted.
Janice studied his face. “What are you talking about? What other deaths? And what do they have to do with my father?”
“Christ,” Newman said. He ran his fingers through his hair. He felt completely out of control. On the one hand, he wanted her to go away, return to Atlanta and keep silent. On the other hand, she reminded him in so many ways of Paul that he found it difficult not to tell her everything.