If there was a choice at this late hour, which would he pick? He had wanted the West, still wanted the lights and the freedom. Yet this was home, this was comforting. He had never felt lonely here.
“And then, when we all began to realize what you had done, what you had been doing, we were deeply disappointed. Heartsick, if you will.” The little man’s voice was almost like an aphrodisiac, but the words he spoke were painful. “Still,” he said on a more positive note, “all need not be lost.”
Dybrovik turned to him. Was it possible?
“I’m talking about redemption here, Pasha. Do you understand that?”
Dybrovik nodded, the saliva gathering suddenly in his parched mouth. Maybe he had never wanted the West. Maybe he had never wanted anything more than what he already had. Moscow as home, the West as a plaything. A bauble.
“It could take years, you know. But you could redeem yourself. You could become a useful citizen once again.”
They had turned the corner and were heading down the final half-block to the bureau, and Dybrovik had the sudden terrible thought that whatever was asked of him, he would be incapable of doing. All his life he had lived with the fear of being unable to manage whatever was expected of him. And now he was terrified.
“If you are worried that you will not be able to do what I ask, banish that from your mind,” the little man said, as if on cue. “You are the right man for the job. None of us ever doubted that.”
“Thank you,” Dybrovik said simply.
“No, it’s never been your abilities under question, Pasha. It has been your willingness that we have wondered about.”
A tentative sense of hope filled Dybrovik’s breast. “Anything,” he said, the word sounding hollow to him.
“Splendid,” the little man said. “I told them we could count on you. I told them just to leave everything to me, that you were right for this.”
They turned into a doorway, then went down a hall and up two flights of stairs that were familiar to Dybrovik and yet, in his present state of shock, strange.
“You will have to begin immediately,” the little official said, his voice echoing hollowly in the stairwell. “Tomorrow, as a matter of fact.”
“Yes.”
They had reached the second floor, and the little man unlocked a door and stepped inside, waiting for Dybrovik. Only then did Dybrovik recognize that he was back in his own building, in his own office, and he stopped short. The rows of desks in the dark trading and posting room were like soldiers in ranks, all staring at him, accusing him of his crimes past and present. It was an embarrassment to be here now like this.
“In Geneva,” he began, “there is a bank…”
“I know, Pasha,” the little man said comfortingly. “I have the funds, and no one here will ever be the wiser. Your trip to Geneva will simply be postponed for a few days, perhaps as long as a week.”
They had known everything after all. He felt even more foolish that he had tried to desert his country. Yet he felt a certain sense of pride and comfort in the knowledge that such capable, all-knowing people were in charge.
Across the large room they entered Dybrovik’s office, where the official motioned for him to sit behind the desk. When they were both settled, the only light in the room coming from the outside, the little man delicately crossed his legs and lit a cigarette. He did not offer one to Dybrovik.
“You have done well for yourself, you know. Some might argue, too well.”
“What about my wife?”
“The civil police are at your apartment. It will all be quietly taken care of. Believe me when I promise you that.”
Dybrovik nodded. There was nothing he could say, nevertheless he shuddered at the image of her gross body hanging from the bathroom ceiling. He had had the thought at the back of his mind that Larissa would end up married to some minor Party official or perhaps an engineer; someone more precise than he had been. That was it. She had always needed accuracy in her life, a crispness that he had never been able adequately to provide.
“I would like to talk about grain, Pasha,” the little man said.
Dybrovik blinked in surprise. “Grain?”
“Corn and wheat.”
“To sell?” Dybrovik asked. His heart accelerated. “This fall there will be surpluses.”
“The harvest will be nearly three hundred million tons.”
The figure took Dybrovik’s breath away. It was much more than he had been told. Yet he did not think to question it.
“But we need more, Pasha. I want you to buy grain futures. Immediately.”
“But what would we do with it?”
The little man smiled, his eyes flashing in the darkness almost as if they had a light of their own. “What nations provide the largest surpluses these days, Pasha, can you tell me that with certainty?”
“The United States,” Dybrovik said immediately. “Corn, wheat, soybeans, barley, even rice.”
A nod. “And corn? Who else provides corn?”
“Argentina.”
“Wheat?”
“Canada.”
“No Warsaw Pact countries?” The question was almost sad.
Dybrovik shook his head. He had no idea what was coming.
“Tell me, Pasha. How much grain could you manage to buy in complete secrecy?” His voice was still very soft, but even in his present confusion Dybrovik could sense that the little man was excited. But such a question.
“In secret?” he said, drawing it out. “It would depend upon how much grain was needed.”
“As much as could possibly be purchased.”
“It would take money. Hard Western currencies.”
“An unlimited amount would be at your disposal.”
Dybrovik stood up, suddenly very excited with what he was being asked to do. It had almost happened back in the seventies. They had bought mammoth amounts of grain futures, and then, when the market suddenly destabilized because of their massive purchases, they were left holding huge grain reserves whose prices had shot up to unusual levels. The Western press had dubbed it the Great Grain Robbery. But these days there were closely monitored international regulations to stop just such a thing. And yet….
“This would be for me, Pasha,” the little man said, looking up at him. “Your expertise would become your path to redemption. But there could be no mistakes.”
Dybrovik’s mind was far ahead now: leaping to personalities, because that was what the international grain market was all about, after all.
Six family businesses controlled more than ninety percent of the industry. The McMillans of Cargill in Minneapolis; Michael Fribourg of Continental out of New York; the Louis Dreyfus conglomerate in Paris; Georges Andre, the Swiss; the Hirsches and Borns in Brazil; and largest of all, E. Vance-Ehrhardt, Ltd., in Buenos Aires.
In each case, the company was privately owned; its finances were its own concern and highly secret. Yet such huge conglomerates always suffered leaks of information because of the sheer number of persons involved.
Still thinking, Dybrovik lit a cigarette, unmindful for the moment of the man sitting quietly, watching him.
No, he told himself firmly. It could not be one of the conglomerates. Rather, it would have to be one of the independents. Ned Cook in Memphis would have been perfect, but he was gone now. His business ruined. Which left Newman, the Marauder, the one man in the business whom Dybrovik feared and respected most. The one man who could pull this off. Who would do it.
“Are we purchasing world grain, or are we targeting the United States?” he asked, suddenly turning.
The little man smiled, the expression totally devoid of humor. “You can be perceptive, Pasha,” he said. “The United States.”