Heartland (25 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Heartland
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After he finished reading the article, Newman stared at the photographs. He could feel the fear beginning to work at his gut. Something was going on. Something that connected Cargill, Louis Dreyfus, and Vance-Ehrhardt
with Paul's death, and in all likelihood with the Soviet corn buy.
It went beyond coincidence, far beyond mere chance. For the first time in his life, Newman felt that he was not in control of the people and circumstances around him; that he was nothing more than a bystander, a spectator, an unwitting victim of some shrouded plot.
After awhile he paid his bill and went to his hotel.
“Ah, Mr. Newman,” the desk clerk said, smiling. “There is a message for you.” He handed Newman a slip of paper.
It was from Dybrovik.
Kenneth,
Have arrived. Am ready for meet.
D.
Newman thanked the clerk, then took the elevator up to the top floor. The Russians were involved in all this, he was almost certain of it. It was what Dybrovik was hiding. It was what he had been so guilty about. Only now it was going to end, Newman thought. He was going to find out exactly what the hell was happening, or he'd stop all shipments and all futures buying. If they didn't like it, they could sue him in the Hague.
In his room, he telephoned Dybrovik's suite. The Russian answered on the first ring.
“It is Newman.”
“Are you back?”
“Yes. I'm next door. Are you ready?”
There was a slight pause. “Yes. You can come over. I am ready to talk with you.”
He sounded wooden, mechanical, as if he were talking in his sleep. “I'm going to want some answers,
Dybrovik.”
“I understand.”
“The truth.”
“I understand that too, Kenneth. You can come now.”
Newman hung up, and stood there for a moment. There was something wrong with Dybrovik, something wrong with the entire setup. It didn't seem right at all. He had the sudden urge to quietly pack his bags and get out of there. The hell with the Russians. The hell with the deal.
He turned, went out to the corridor, and knocked at the next door. Dybrovik answered it immediately, as if he had been standing just on the other side. He was sweating profusely, and his eyes were bloodshot. It looked as if he hadn't slept in a week, or as if he were sick.
“Come in, Kenneth,” he said in the same wooden voice.
Newman came in to the vestibule. The suite was nearly a duplicate of his own rooms. Dybrovik locked and chained the door.
“Go in, Kenneth. Please,” he said, and Newman went on into the sitting room.
There was a dark, very intense-looking, small man seated in the corner by one of the windows, and he stood up, a slight smile on his face.
“Good evening, Mr. Newman. Permit me to introduce myself.”
“Colonel Vadim Leonid Turalin.”
“KGB?” Newman asked, just within the sitting room of Dybrovik's suite.
The little man nodded. “Welcome to Athens, Mr. Newman.”
Newman suddenly became very conscious of his surroundings. The lights in the room were dim; the bathroom door was closed; the bedroom door was half open; the window curtains were drawn. He stepped back, but Dybrovik was there, and he turned around. “What the hell is going on here, Delos?”
“Please, Kenneth, we mean you no harm.”
“Like hell!” Newman said. He felt cornered, and he wanted to get out of there.
“He wants to explain everything to you,” Dybrovik was saying. “He wants to sit down with you—the three
of us—and talk. That's all. Honestly.”
Newman turned back. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a large figure in the half-open bedroom door, and he flinched.
“I believe it will be to your advantage to sit down and listen to what I have to say, Mr. Newman. You will probably find that I make a lot of sense. I will be able to answer a lot of questions that must be plaguing you.” Turalin paused. “Delos Fedor came to me and said that you were concerned by recent events.”
“What do you have to do with all of this?” Newman asked. Every muscle in his body was tense. Would he be able to get past Dybrovik, and then unlock and unchain the door before the goon in the bedroom got to him?
“It was I who authorized Comrade Dybrovik to purchase corn.”
“A hundred million tons of it?”
“Or more.”
“Then it is a market manipulation? But why pick on me?”
“Two questions, actually,” Turalin said, smiling. “Won't you sit down? I'll try to answer all your questions as fully as I can.”
Newman didn't move.
“Please, Kenneth,” Dybrovik said sadly.
“When we are finished with our little chat, you will be free to go. No one will stop you,” Turalin said.
“If I'm not interested—if I want to leave this instant?”
Turalin just looked at him, a hard, flat expression in his eyes.
“Did your people kill Paul?”
“Paul Saratt? Your partner?” Turalin asked.
Dybrovik stepped out of the vestibule. He had a haunted look on his face. Newman glanced from Turalin to him and back. Then he nodded.
“No. We did not. It was your wife's people.”
“Not Perés?”
“Not directly. But Perés is a very powerful man in Argentina. He has been making it very difficult there for Vance-Ehrhardt, Ltd. Even more so now that your father-in-law and his wife are dead.”
“But you knew?”
Turalin shrugged. “We could guess. So should you have.”
“Who kidnapped Vance-Ehrhardt?”
“The Montoneros,” Turalin said. “Argentina is on the verge of revolution. Perés knows it. Your wife knows it. They are both struggling for the same aims, only from different directions. Perés wants to keep the country quiet so that he can retain his power. Your wife wants to keep the peace so that she can run the Vance-Ehrhardt empire. But it cannot last.”
“How can you be so certain there will be a revolution there?” Newman asked, although he agreed with Turalin.
“The Malvinas defeat, for one. One hundred and thirty percent inflation for another. The exploitation of the pampas farmer.” Turalin shook his head. “I'm certainly not going to argue socialism versus capitalism with you, but when people become as oppressed as the Argentines have become, then something must give.”
Newman had more or less come to the same conclusions himself. They made his worry about Lydia all the more intense.
“Please sit down, Kenneth,” Dybrovik said. “You
will be free to go when we are finished. He has given his word. I give you mine.”
Newman came farther into the room, and sat on the arm of the couch. Dybrovik sat heavily in one of the easy chairs opposite Turalin. He still had the sad look in his eyes.
“You asked if this was a market manipulation,” Turalin said. “It is not. If it were, we would have ordered you to purchase all the corn on margin. We would not have advanced your firm so much money. Nor would we be taking delivery of the corn we have already purchased.
“You've only taken eight million tons. The bulk of the corn is yet to come. Your ports can only handle forty-five or fifty million tons each year of all grain combined.”
“
Our
ports, Mr. Newman. Soviet ports. There are Warsaw Pact ports at our disposal.”
“I can answer your other question, Kenneth,” Dybrovik said. “It was I who selected your company for the buy.”
“Why?”
“Secrecy. When Colonel Turalin came to me with the order to purchase corn, I was told it would have to be done in total secrecy. Your company was the only one I felt could handle such a project. All the others were too large, staffed by too many people. Our secret would have gotten out.”
Dybrovik's answer seemed well rehearsed to Newman. And although it was the answer he had expected, he found he was having a hard time believing it. Dybrovik was frightened.
“It's not a market manipulation, and you have had
nothing to do with the kidnapping of the Vance-Ehrhardts, or my partner's death, or the death of Louis Dreyfus, or the Cargill elevator explosion.”
Turalin and Dybrovik looked at each other. “We had nothing to do with the Cargill elevator explosion, Mr. Newman,” Turalin said. He too seemed uncomfortable now.
“And the Louis Dreyfus assassination?”
“Enough!” Turalin snapped. “It is time for you to answer a few questions. You indicated to Comrade Dybrovik that you were becoming concerned. Well, so are we.”
It was so transparent. Newman wondered why this entire scene had been staged.
“We have given your firm a considerable sum of money with which to purchase grain futures. To date, what little corn you have purchased has all been on margin. Why is that?”
“Until I am convinced that this is not another Grain Robbery, I will continue to purchase on margin,” Newman said. “That is, if I continue to purchase at all.”
Turalin said something to Dybrovik in rapid Russian. Dybrovik replied tersely, and Turalin nodded. “You are still worried that it is a market manipulation such as happened in the early seventies.”
“What about Louis Dreyfus?” Newman repeated. Turalin blinked.
Dybrovik suddenly seemed very nervous. “Kenneth …” he started, but Turalin savagely cut him off.
“You had him assassinated,” Newman said. “It was your people … the KGB.”
Turalin said nothing.
“Why, for Christ's sake?” Newman shouted.
“Kenneth, please, you have to understand that—” Dybrovik said, but again Turalin cut him off.
Newman got up. “If you kill me, your five hundred million becomes forfeit. It would be an expensive assassination.”
“You don't understand, Mr. Newman,” Turalin said. He remained sitting on the edge of his chair, his hands together.
Again Newman had the strong impression that all this was a put-on, some sort of an act.
“Did you kill Gérard Louis Dreyfus?”
“Yes,” Turalin said softly.
“Why?”
“He found out about your deal with us, and he was moving against you.”
Newman was deeply shaken. “You didn't think I could handle the competition, so you had it eliminated?” He glanced toward the bedroom door. The figure he had seen earlier was not there. “I'm withdrawing my company's participation in this thing. I will deduct for the corn I have already purchased and shipped, as well as for a reasonable commission, and the remainder of the fund will be retransferred to your Eurobank account.”
“Wait,” Dybrovik shouted, jumping up.
Turalin had also gotten to his feet. Newman backed toward the vestibule. At any moment he expected the bedroom door to open and an armed man to burst out.
“We couldn't take any chances with Louis Dreyfus. If he had ruined our deal, it would have meant … mass starvation,” Turalin said.
For several long seconds Newman wasn't quite sure that he understood.
“It's falling apart on us. Albania. Poland. Especially Afghanistan.”
Newman looked over his shoulder at the corridor door. It all fit together. It did make sense. They could not have gone to the American government, not without admitting defeat of their system. And yet it was all unreal. Bigger than life. What did they expect from him?
“You must believe us. We're quite desperate for grain.”
“Why corn?”
“It's universal,” Turalin said. “I mean, we can feed it to people as it is, it can be ground up into flour, we can make oil from it, or it can be fed to animals. There is no other grain we could have gotten in such quantities that would do so much for us.”
It all seemed a little too glib to Newman, and yet, goddamn it, it fit. It was no less than he and a great many other people in the business had been expecting for a good many years. Still, Newman didn't believe it.
“And now I'm supposed to return home and continue working for you, knowing that you assassinated poor Louis Dreyfus?”
“We had no other choice, Kenneth,” Dybrovik said woodenly.
“Good Lord,” Newman breathed heavily.
Dybrovik suddenly turned away. He seemed all arms and legs.
“You must help us, you know,” Turalin said. “We have no where else to turn at this date, without …” he hesitated.
“Violence?”
Turalin did not reply.
 
Alone in his room again, Newman stood by the
window looking down at the square. But he did not feel safe here. He felt like a soldier in the middle of a battlefield who had slipped inside a tent. Although he couldn't see the war raging around him, he was right in the middle of it, and very vulnerable. It was time to run. There was no way in hell he believed anything that Turalin or Dybrovik had told him. The story was so patently foolish that he was amazed they had even tried to foist it on him.
On the other hand, he had to ask himself, what would they have said or done differently had the story been true? If there was a lack of food, they'd have to either produce it or buy it. If they had been reduced to buying it, they would have gone about it this way.
It was no longer clear to Newman what his choices were, and he realized at this moment just how dependent he had become on Paul. They had understood each other, had respected each other. And above all, they had trusted each other.
With Paul gone, and without Lydia, he was truly alone.
He crossed the room, picked up the telephone, and started to ask the hotel operator to ring the airport, but then changed his mind. This phone was possibly being monitored by Turalin's people. Instead, he told the operator to send someone up for his bags, he was checking out.
He went downstairs. From a payphone he called the business aviation terminal, finally getting hold of Jacob, his steward, whom he instructed to ready the airport for immediate departure.
He was reasonably certain that his conversation with Jacob was safe, just as he was certain his next move would be monitored. At the bellhop station, he
instructed the bell captain to have his bags sent over to the Athens Hilton.
“Is something wrong, sir?” the bell captain asked solicitously.
“Not a thing,” Newman said conspiratorially. “It is a rendezvous.”
“I understand, sir.”
If Turalin had been telling the truth, he'd allow Newman to leave without interference. If he had been lying … .
Newman strode across the lobby, and outside hurried into the square, where he sat down on a stone bench. He had a clear view of a portion of the hotel lobby through the glass doors.
Several cabs came and went. A tour bus pulled up and ten or twelve couples got off and crowded into the hotel. Finally, a bellhop came out of the lobby with Newman's two suitcases and set them down on the sidewalk.
A very tall, husky man came out of the lobby, turned to the left, and then lingered there, watching the bellhop and the bags. From time to time he looked up; the bellhop placed the bags in the back seat, spoke to the driver, and watched the cab leave.
The big man watched the cab go, and then hurried back into the hotel.
“You have them confused,” someone said from behind Newman and he spun around.

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