Janice did not want to be left alone, so when they stopped around 3:00 A.M., about fifty miles south of Minneapolis-St. Paul, Newman registered them as husband and wife at the Faribault Holiday Inn. He had talked for the better part of four hours, ever since they had left Duluth, telling her everything that had occurred from the moment he had been called away from his honeymoon to meet with Dybrovik outside Geneva until tonight. He spared no details, neither physical nor emotional. And at times, speaking with her, he could almost believe that it was Paul seated next to him, and they were going over the entire project to date.
She hadn’t said much during the telling, except to ask a question or two now and then when she didn’t understand something. When he was finished they rode in silence, thinking their own thoughts.
“We’ll stop soon,” Newman had said finally. “If we get back on the road by eight, we’ll reach Des Moines about noon tomorrow.”
“Lundgren is probably going to be coming after you to stop you from dealing with the Russians, and Turalin is after you to force you to continue,” she said.
“Something like that.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Find out what the hell Dybrovik was trying to tell me about the Bormett farm.”
“Somewhere in Iowa.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m scared, Kenneth,” she said. “Don’t leave me alone tonight.”
Inside the motel room he made sure the lock was secure, he flipped the deadbolt, and hooked the chain. If someone wanted to get in, he could; but he’d make a hell of a racket in the effort.
When Newman turned around, Janice was staring at him. “Why don’t you go to bed, Janice. You look all in. Tomorrow will be a big day.”
“What if you find something on this farm? What then?”
“Depends upon what it is,” he said.
“But surely you’re through dealing with the Russians?”
“Maybe,” he said.
“Maybe? What the hell are you talking about, Kenneth? Maybe?”
“If there is starvation in the Soviet Union, I’ll supply them with corn. I’m not going to let people starve to death.”
“Dybrovik said that was a lie.”
“As far as he knew. I want to make sure.”
She hesitated. “I don’t understand you,” she said finally.
“No, I don’t expect you do. It’s the grain business.”
“Doesn’t it matter whom you sell it to?”
“Not at all, as long as it’s used ultimately to feed people. That’s why the farmers grow it, and that’s why I buy and sell it. To feed people. Simple.”
“It’s not simple, Kenneth. Not when people start getting killed.”
“Your father understood.”
“My father is dead,” she flared, and went into the bathroom and closed the door. Almost immediately Newman could hear the shower running.
The Bormett farm in Iowa is the key, Dybrovik had said. Today they would know.
28
They crossed into Iowa about 9:20 A.M., after stopping for breakfast outside Albert Lea. Last night in Duluth Newman had been running on adrenalin, but this morning it was hitting him like a ton of bricks that he had killed a man. It was incredible. Things like this just did not happen.
It was a beautiful morning, bright and warm, only a few puffy clouds scudding across from the west. Once in Des Moines, he figured, he would check with the state Department of Agriculture to find out where the Bormett farm was located. Even if it was on the far western side of the state, they would be able to reach it by late this afternoon.
Dybrovik thought it was important. So important that his last words had been about the place. But Newman could think of no way a single farm could have any significant effect on Turalin’s plans. It just didn’t make any sense.
He tried to reason it out. The Russians wanted corn. A hundred million tons of it, or more. An unprecedented amount. Turalin claimed there would be starvation in the Soviet Union without it. Dybrovik, on the other hand, claimed that Turalin was lying.
Market manipulation was the first thought that had occurred to Newman. The Russians were purchasing corn now at low prices. When the market rose enough because of the heavy buying — and corn was already up more than seventy-five cents a bushel since spring — the Russians would resell, making a huge profit at the expense of the American consumer. Logical. But Dybrovik said it was worse than that, and he had hinted at some deep, dark plot.
“I’m sorry about last night,” Janice said, breaking into his thoughts.
He glanced over at her. She had said little or nothing ever since they had left the motel this morning.
“I’m not,” Newman said. He reached over to caress her cheek, but she pulled away.
Last night, after she had gone into the bathroom, Newman had lain down on top of the bedcovers and was just about asleep when Janice, wearing nothing, came out of the shower and crawled onto the bed with him.
“I’m frightened,” she had said in a little girl’s voice. “Please hold me, Kenneth.”
They had made love, slowly, gently, as if they had been making love for years. Afterward they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms.
This morning, when Newman awoke, Janice was already up and dressed, sitting in front of the TV, smoking a cigarette.
“It’s late,” she had said. “If you want to make it to Des Moines by noon, you’d better get up now.” She stubbed out her cigarette and got up. “I’ll be outside.”
“Janice,” Newman had said.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she had said, and left the room.
It appeared now that she had changed her mind. And he was beginning to change his opinion of her.
“It’ll never happen again, I promise you,” she said, her voice far away as she stared out her window at the passing farm fields.
“Why?”
She turned to him. “You’re married, for one. I don’t love you. And I’m not in the habit of engaging in casual sex.”
“I didn’t think it was so casual last night.”
“Forget about it,” she snapped.
He shook his head. “No, Janice, I won’t forget about it.”
“Goddamn it, Kenneth…” She stopped and took a deep breath. “If you want to know the truth, I’m embarrassed. Embarrassed and frightened.”
“That’s quite a load to have to carry.”
She looked sharply at him. “Let’s just forget it. Okay?”
Newman started to say something else, but then closed his mouth firmly and concentrated on his driving.
They followed the Interstate straight south, through mile after mile of fields. They were in the heartland. Corn country. As far as they could see in any direction, the tassels atop the stalks waved in the gentle late-summer breezes. It was going to be a banner year. The weather had cooperated with just enough rain and plenty of warm, humid weather all across the Midwest. When the crops came in, they would flow outward by truck and train, by barge and ship, around the hungry world. It made Newman feel good, being a part of it.
They had been listening to the car radio all morning, and by 11:30 A.M., Janice found a Des Moines station that came in clearly. They hadn’t said much to each other in the past couple of hours, and Newman was stiff from sitting in one position. They were getting low on gas.
“How about some lunch?” he asked.
“Are we far from Des Moines?”
“Twenty-five or thirty miles.”
“Let’s wait until we get there, and find out where the farm is. Then we can stop.”