“You’re not above the law, you know. You can’t just deal with whomever you like, whenever you like,” Lundgren had said.
Newman had turned tiredly to him. “What difference does that make now? Or do you think I had something to do with that?” He pointed toward the reddened sky.
“Right up to your ears, Newman. You were with Dybrovik when he was killed in Athens.”
“The FBI was watching me?”
“The CIA,” Lundgren said defensively. “Why was Dybrovik murdered? What did he do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he have something to do with Bormett?”
“He knew about him. But I don’t think Dybrovik was a part of it. He was just a grain man. Nothing more.”
“A Russian grain man with a Swiss bank account. A little unusual, wouldn’t you say?”
Newman said nothing.
“Sooner or later, it will all have to come out,” Lundgren said. “We know that you met with Dybrovik in Geneva a couple of months ago. And we know that you’ve set up quite a network of subsidiaries, although we haven’t got it all unraveled yet. And we know that you were selling the Russians a lot more than one million tons of corn. We know for a fact that you committed for at least five times that in futures. And I have a feeling that’s just the tip of the iceberg. What we don’t know, yet, is how all of this fits together.”
Newman was surprised at the extent of Lundgren’s knowledge, but then the man had the help of the FBI and CIA.
“I don’t know if it all does fit together,” Newman had said. “So if you are looking to me for answers, don’t.”
Lundgren had looked from the western sky to Newman and back, and he finally shook his head. He was angry. “I’m meeting with the governor in a few minutes. You wouldn’t care to come along and help out, would you?”
“There’s nothing I can do right now. But when you are ready to ask me some serious questions, and ready for the answers, I’ll be there.”
The subpoena had come thirty-six hours ago, and Newman had ordered Hansen not to seek a delay.
There were a few reporters at the Watergate when they pulled up. “Do you want to go around to the back?” Hansen asked, but Newman shook his head.
“I’ll see you in the morning, John.”
“I thought you’d come over for drinks and dinner tonight,” Hansen said.
“Not tonight.”
Hansen touched his arm. “I’m sorry about Lydia. We all are, Kenneth, but unless you pull yourself together, you may very well lose your business.”
“Maybe that would be for the best,” Newman said. “See you in the morning.”
“There’s a message for you at the desk, sir,” the doorman said.
Newman nodded, then crossed the lobby and stopped at the desk.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Newman,” the building security manager said. “You had a call on your personal service.” He handed Newman a slip of paper.
It was from Janice. She had telephoned about two hours ago.
Kenneth,
I’d like to see you this evening. Am here in Washington at the airport Marriott. Please call.
Janice
He took the elevator up to his apartment, then telephoned the Marriott. Janice answered immediately.
“It’s me. Just got your note,” Newman said.
“I’d like to see you tonight.”
“I’m tired, Janice. Tomorrow is going to be a trying day.”
“I’m sorry about Lydia,” she said hesitantly.
“Where did you hear about it?”
“Sam Lucas. He told me. I am an employee, remember?”
Newman’s entire body ached. He could see Lydia standing in her office telling him to leave. He would never forget that scene.
“I’d like to talk to you before your hearing tomorrow morning,” she was saying.
“There’s nothing left to be said,” he snapped.
“I want to apologize… for the things I said when we were in Iowa. I… didn’t mean them.”
“Leave me alone…”
“Goddamn it, Kenneth, let me help,” Janice shouted.
“Christ,” Newman said, under his breath.
“Kenneth?”
“Can you take a cab over here, or do you want me to send a car?” Newman said.
“I’ll take a cab. Be there in ten minutes flat!”
Newman slowly put the phone down, wondering just what the hell he was doing. But then he thought back to another scene with Lydia… this one on an airplane on their honeymoon. He had stared at the stewardess, and Lydia had asked him if he didn’t prefer a simpler woman. He had told her no, at the time. But he had been lying. To himself, as well as her.
He took a quick shower, changed his clothes, and opened a bottle of wine. The security manager rang as he was laying out the glasses and said there was a Ms. Janice Wilcox to see him.
“Send her up,” he said, and he went to the door a minute later.
She got off the elevator, and when she saw him standing there she hesitated.
“Are you going to stand out there all night?” he asked.
Her face lit up, and she hurried up the corridor. “Oh, Kenneth.” She smiled. “I’m glad to see you.”
He didn’t know exactly what it was he was getting himself into, but it felt good, at last. Damned good.
For the rest of that busy fall and through the hectic, often grim months of winter, Newman recalled in detail those final hours preceding what came to be known as the Great Food Depression. Afterward, nothing was the same, nor would it ever be.
“We’re going to want the truth here, this morning, Mr. Newman,” Senator Abrahamson from New York said. “And if you don’t feel as if you can give that to us, then you might just as well get up and leave.”
Newman sat next to Hansen at the witness table in the crowded Senate hearing room. Janice had remained at the Watergate to watch the proceedings on television. Every few seconds a camera strobe would flash, and there was an almost constant murmur of conversation in here and out in the corridor.
Senator Abrahamson banged his gavel several times. “There will be order, or I will clear these chambers of spectators.”
The noise level dropped, and Abrahamson covered the microphone as he leaned over to talk with one of the other senators. A messenger had just come.
They seemed to argue, and a moment later the other four senators got up and came closer so that they could take part.
The noise level in the room rose even higher.
Finally Abrahamson turned forward and took his hand away from the microphone. “Mr. Newman, if you would step away from the witness table, there is someone in the private chambers who would like to consult with you before we proceed.”
Pandemonium broke loose in the room. Hansen grabbed Newman’s arm. “Stay here, Kenneth. I don’t know what’s going on, but stay here until we find out.”
Newman pulled away. “It’s all right, John. I have an idea what this may be about.”
“If you will just follow the page, Mr. Newman, he will direct you,” Abrahamson’s voice boomed.
All the reporters were talking and shouting at once, and Abrahamson was hammering his gavel.
Newman followed the page around to the back of the hearing chambers, down a short corridor, and into one of the conference rooms.
The President was there, perched on the edge of the table. Lundgren sat to his right, and to his left were two men whom Newman did not know. The page closed the door, and Lundgren made the hurried introductions.
“Bob LeMear, FBI, and Michael McCandless, CIA.”
Both men nodded in turn, but Newman said nothing. He had expected Lundgren and perhaps the CIA and FBI. But not the President of the United States.