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Authors: David Hagberg

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In between dances, Raya would pour Bormett another drink, and quite soon he relaxed, no longer giving a “good goddamn,” as he told her, “how drunk he was, how late it was, or where he was.”
The rest of the evening was sketchy in Bormett's mind, except that some time after midnight he followed Raya up to one of the bedrooms because she said she needed help with something. Once there, she closed and locked the door, then took off her clothes and lay down on the bed, her legs spread.
“Please, William,” her sensuous voice penetrated the mist in his brain. “Please.”
He undressed, except for his socks, and got into bed
with her. She pushed him over on his back and took him in her mouth, and for the next hour they did things together that he had never even thought of doing with Catherine. All of it excellent, all of it extremely pleasurable, and all of it without a thought of his wife.
 
Bormett woke at eight on Saturday morning back in his own bed at the hotel, with a splitting headache and a very foul taste in his mouth.
Catherine stood over the bed, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand and a rueful smile on her lips. “That must have been quite a party,” she said.
He sat up, his head nearly splitting apart. “Oh, God,” he moaned.
She laughed. “Dr. Lubiako wasn't in much better condition that you, but he spent at least ten minutes apologizing for bringing you home so late.”
Bormett looked up at her, about to ask what time Dr. Lubiako had brought him back, when he suddenly remembered just what it was he had done, and his heart skipped a beat.
“Well, it serves you right to suffer like this,” Catherine said. She handed him his coffee. “Dr. Lubiako called ten minutes ago and said that, even though there's no lecture this morning, you're to come over to the university as soon as you're ready—and I'd add, able. Someone there would like to meet with you. A farm region commander, or something like that.”
“I don't think so,” Bormett said.
“Raya is picking me up in the lobby in a couple of minutes. We're going shopping. We'll meet you for late lunch back here.”
Bormett's stomach flipped over at Raya's name, and
he could feel the blood rushing to his ears. Christ, what had he done? What was Lubiako thinking about him now? How could he face Raya, let alone Katy?
Catherine pecked her husband on the cheek and went to the door. “A university car and driver are waiting for you downstairs. Don't keep them waiting, William,” she said brightly.
For several long minutes, Bormett sat in bed, sipping his coffee and thinking with great shame of what he had done last night. In all his years with Katy he had never been unfaithful. Not once. Until now.
He dragged himself out of bed, showered and dressed, and went downstairs.
At the university, Dr. Lubiako was in his office waiting for him, a bright smile on his face.
“Good morning, my old friend,” he boomed jovially. “How do you feel?”
“Not well,” Bormett said, sitting down. “I would like to talk with you.”
“Of course, and I with you, but at this moment there is someone else here who would very much like to speak with you.”
Bormett started to rise.
“No, no,” Lubiako said, getting to his feet. “You stay here and use my office. I will go fetch our visitor, and you two can have a nice long talk. Afterwards, I believe you will be meeting your wife for lunch.”
Lubiako went out, and a few seconds later a little man with large dark eyes and a swarthy complexion came in, a smile on his face. He was dressed in some kind of uniform, and he carried a manila envelope.
“Good morning, Mr. Bormett,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr … .” Bormett trailed off.
“My name is of no importance.” The little man perched on the edge of the desk just a foot away from Bormett. “I think I will be able to offer some assistance to you.”
Bormett had a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. Whatever it was the little man was going to tell him wasn't going to be pleasant.
“I've come to see you this morning because I would like to do a little horse trading with you. I think that is the proper term.” The little man opened the manila envelope and extracted a dozen large glossy photos. He handed them to Bormett, whose heart nearly stopped.
They were pictures of him and Raya in bed. He looked ridiculous in one of the shots; he looked disgusting in some of the others.
Katy could never be allowed to see these. Never in a million years. It would be the end of their marriage. The end of everything. He glanced up. “What do you want?”
“I need a favor, Mr. Bormett. Not a very large favor, and certainly nothing illegal by your own country's laws. I'm not, as you may fear, trying to recruit you to spy for the Soviet Union. But you can be of some small help to me.”
Whether at Naishápúr or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
 
—Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
 
 
“Something damned funny is going on,” Curtis Lundgren said. He and Michael McCandless were having drinks in a dark corner of one of the Watergate lounges.
“Why would I lie to you, Curt?”
Lundgren waved his cigarette vaguely. “Oh, I believe you, all right. You'd have no reason to make up a bull-shit story like that. But among other things, it's damned funny the President never passed your report on to me. Damned funny.”
“It may just have slipped his mind.”
“I doubt it. But that's not all,” Lundgren said. He leaned forward, and his voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “I know it won't come as any great revelation to you, Michael, but the fact of the matter is; neither of us is very well liked at the White House.”
McCandless started to object, but Lundgren held him off.
“The only reason I've still got my job is that the old man doesn't want to rock the boat at just this moment. He and Wellerman have got something cooking, and they're too busy right now to bother with people like us.”
McCandless just looked at Lundgren. He had gotten the same impression himself, except that he included his own boss, the DCI, in the presidential circle. Something
definitely was up, but no one was talking about it.
“This is going to become a political bombshell in the fall. I tried to tell that to the President.”
“Don't I know it,” Lundgren said. “If the Russians harvest all the grain you say they've planted, our farmers will go down the tubes … literally down the tubes.”
“The latest SPEC-IV satellite data show the crops are coming up. The weather over there has been holding so far, despite predictions to the contrary. Another couple of months or so, and even a hard, early winter won't put too big a dent in their harvests.”
“But the Russians are buying more grain, you do know that.”
McCandless nodded. “I read the President's announcement. But it's only in small amounts. Probably just to cover themselves in case they do have trouble getting the grain out of the fields.”
“That's just it. I think they may be up to something else. Do you know what Exportkhleb is?”
McCandless shook his head.
“It's the Soviet grain-trading bureau. Any grain bought or sold by the Russians goes through Exportkhleb. If it's a big deal, it goes through one Delos Fedor Dybrovik.”
McCandless nodded. What was the man getting at?
“Dybrovik has been seen in and out of Geneva. And whenever that man is on the move, it usually means something very big is in the wind. But so far there's been nothing—and I mean absolutely nothing. Except for Kenneth Newman.”
It was another unfamiliar name to McCandless, and he said so.
“They call him the Marauder. A silly title actually, but from what I know of him he's definitely earned it. He's an independent grain dealer. Works mostly out of Duluth, Minnesota, but he has offices in New York and, it's rumored, blind subsidiaries in damned near every major city in the world.”
“He's big.”
“Not as big as a McMillan of Cargill, let's say, or a Louis Dreyfus.”
McCandless sat forward at those names. “Wait a minute,” he said.
Lundgren smiled, the grin feral. “I've struck a nerve, perhaps?”
“Cargill's New Orleans elevator center exploded. Arson. A hundred forty people killed.”
Lundgren nodded, still grinning.
“And Louis Dreyfus—one of their chief executives was assassinated in France.”
Again Lundgren nodded. “Then there's Vance-Ehrhardt in Buenos Aires.”
“Jorge Vance-Ehrhardt and his wife were just kidnapped! It was on the wire Friday,” McCandless said, stunned. He looked up. “But what about Newman? Has something happened to him as well?”
“He's dealt with Dybrovik before. And Thursday—just hours before Vance-Ehrhardt was snatched—Newman came to see me, asking about Soviet crop projections.”
“What'd you tell him?”
“Not a thing. He wouldn't play ball with me. I was willing to trade him information, but he was Mr. Innocence.”
“You think he has something to do with Cargill,
Louis Dreyfus, and Vance-Ehrhardt?”
“Who knows, Michael, who knows? The man is certainly capable of it,” Lundgren said. Again he sat forward. He lowered his voice. “What I need is a big favor from you. I think, between the two of us, we can give the President something he cannot ignore.”
“Go ahead,” McCandless said cautiously.
“I want Newman. I want to know what he's up to. I want to know if there is any connection at the moment between him and Dybrovik.”
McCandless nodded. “It shouldn't be too difficult.”
“Another interesting little tidbit. You'll never guess who Newman is married to.”
McCandless couldn't.
“Lydia Vance-Ehrhardt.”
“The same family?”
Lundgren nodded, and then laughed out loud. “The same.”
Throughout this period Kenneth Newman would remember the feeling of fatalism that had come to him with the kidnapping of Jorge and Margarita Vance-Ehrhardt. It was a time of high drama and great emotion which was made somehow unreal by the curious sensation that he was an observer at a particularly bad play.
The actors were there in front of him, moving through their carefully prepared stage directions, voicing their patiently written lines. And no matter what he did or didn't do, he would not affect the certain outcome by one whit.
The sensation was doubly curious because it was complete. Not only was he an observer, but he as an observer was acutely conscious that he had his own life as well; that at any moment he could simply get up from his seat and walk out into the real world. His own real world.
A strong sense of interest (there were those who called it perversity) made him want to stay to the end. The actors, after all, had their own lives beyond the drama of the stage, and he wanted to stick around long enough to discover what they were, and perhaps help the performers through their post-production blues.
It was a few minutes before eleven on the morning of July 12 when the car carrying Newman from the Vance-Ehrhardt estate raced through Buenos Aires and came to a halt in front of the Federal District Police Headquarters.
Humphrey, one of Newman's bodyguards, leaped out of the car as Evans got out on the other side. Both of them scanned the street before Humphrey opened the door for Newman, who got out and strode across the wide sidewalk and into the building.
Two armed guards flanked a young, uniformed man seated at a reception desk. He looked up as Newman's heels echoed loudly on the marble floor of the very busy ground floor.
“Senor?” the young man asked pleasantly. The guards had stiffened to attention when they realized Newman, an obvious foreigner, had brought two armed men into the building with him.
“I have an appointment with Capitán Perés,” Newman said.
“Your name, señor,
por favor
.”
“Kenneth Newman.”
The young man picked up the telephone, spoke in rapid Spanish, and then nodded up at one of the policemen. “Escort Senor Newman upstairs.”
Telling his men to wait in the lobby, Newman followed the policeman to a private elevator around the
corner. On the fifth floor another burly, dark-skinned armed guard took over, escorting him down a wide corridor to an office that looked out toward the Plaza del Congreso, behind which the Argentine government met.
It was a large room dominated by an immense leather-topped desk, behind which sat one of the most obese men Newman had ever seen. The fat hung on him in huge folds, and his face was so grossly bloated that his eyes and mouth were little more than indentations. He got ponderously to his feet and moved like a battleship around the desk, extending his massive paw.
“Señor Newman, I am so very pleased to meet you at last. I am Reynaldo Perés, captain of police.” The man's voice was gentle, belying his great size.
Newman shook his hand. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. I know how busy you must be.”
“Yes, it is a horrible tragedy, for which I feel personally responsible.” He motioned for Newman to have a seat, then went back behind his desk and sank into his chair.
“How so?”
“I had spoken at great length with Senor Vance-Ehrhardt, begging him to increase his security measures. A perimeter fence with infrared monitoring devices could have saved him.”
“Then you should hold yourself blameless.”
Captain Perés smiled. “Very generous of you, sir, and yet I cannot help but feel responsible. It was up to me to make certain that the Montoneros were kept under control. Even now we are rounding up known members.” The big man sighed deeply. “But, alas, it is like closing the barn door after the horses have fled, as you say.”
“Has any contact been made? Or any ransom demands?” Newman asked.
“None, but contact will come. And let me assure you, we will find and punish them. But before they are put on trial, we will find out who ordered and engineered this cowardly attack.”
Newman felt a cold wind. “You don't believe it was simply an act of terrorism, then?”
Perés held his silence for a moment. His eyes narrowed. “We will know better when a ransom demand is finally made. But certain factors have been brought to my attention.”
“Anything I can help with?” Newman asked. “I was a friend of the Vance-Ehrhardt family.”
“
Was
, Señor Newman?”
Newman had the distinct impression Perés was playing some kind of game with him. “As you probably know, I am married to Jorge's daughter, Lydia. As you also probably know, the family did not exactly approve of the marriage.”
Perés nodded sagely, as if Newman had just given him the theory of the world in twenty-five words or less. “Isn't it also true, Señor Newman, that you worked for the Vance-Ehrhardts for some years? Were in fact a student and then a close personal friend of Jorge himself?”
“Yes, that is true.”
“Is it also not true that when you opened your own business, you … shall we say … persuaded a number of Vance-Ehrhardt's business associates to come along with you?”
Newman smiled. “It is a fact of doing business, captain. I did not steal them away, I merely offered them
better deals. The decision was theirs.”
“Is kidnapping also a way of doing business?”
Newman wasn't really surprised at the question. He had felt it coming from the moment he walked into the room. “It was I who requested this meeting, Captain Perés.”
“Clever, perhaps?”
“Concerned that I might be able to offer some help.”
Perés sat forward in his chair, his hands folded together on the desk. “I would be most interested to hear what you might have to say.”
“In the United States last week, an arsonist destroyed a major grain-elevator complex owned by the Cargill Company. In France a couple of days later, Gérard Louis Dreyfus, the head of a very large grain-trading house, was assassinated.”
“Interesting,” Perés said. “And you are suggesting now that Vance-Ehrhardt's kidnapping is part of some worldwide plot?”
“It is possible.”
“Who has the most to gain from all this activity?”
“I do,” Newman said. “That is to say, my company does.”
Perés seemed to contemplate that for a few seconds. “It is why you have brought bodyguards with you?”
“They were my wife's idea,” Newman said. “And now, on reflection, I expect she was prudent in hiring them.”
“I see,” Perés drew the words out, studying his hands. He looked up, a hard glint in his eyes. “Why is it you truly requested this interview with me, Senor Newman? As I have said, I am a busy man.”
“I sincerely would like to help my wife's family.”
“Then return to the United States. Take your wife with you, if she will go, and leave us to our troubles. We neither need nor want you here.”
Perés got to his feet and came around his desk as Newman got up. “I would like you gone by this time tomorrow. I am sure the family will understand—those of them who care, that is.”
“What …?” Newman began.
“Goodbye, Senor Newman,” Perés said firmly.
Taking the elevator back down to the first floor, Newman was wondering what Perés had meant.
If she will go?
And he wondered why the man hadn't pressed him about the Cargill and Louis Dreyfus business. Lost in thought, he did not notice the frank looks of animosity he elicited as he crossed the lobby and headed out the door, but he noticed his bodyguards falling in behind him and wished the hell they were someplace else right now. Even Duluth.
“Where to now, Mr. Newman?” Humphrey asked.
Newman looked up. “Home,” he said. “I mean, the Vance-Ehrhardt estate.”
 
It took an hour to drive back out to the estate, and Newman was lost in thought for the entire trip.
Perés was one of the most powerful men in the city of Buenos Aires, and among the most influential men in the federal government. “Buenos Aires and its surroundings belong to Reynaldo Perés,” he had heard one of Lydia's uncles say. The Vance-Ehrhardt family was well known here. So what did Perés know about Lydia that Newman didn't?
At the Vance-Ehrhardt access road, the car was met by half a dozen armed men, standing around two cars and a jeep.
“Do you know any of these people, Mr. Newman?” Evans asked as they approached.
Newman sat forward, looking out as they pulled up. One of them was Simon Vance-Ehrhardt, Lydia's uncle. He had never seen the others.
“I know the one in the safari jacket. He's a Vance-Ehrhardt.”
“I don't like this, sir.”
“We'll just see what they want,” Newman said. As he started to get out, Simon and two of the others, their rifles raised, came toward the car.
Newman's bodyguards reached for their guns, but Newman held them back.
“Turn around and get the hell out of here,” Simon Vance-Ehrhardt snarled, stopping a few feet away.
“I've come for Lydia,” Newman said. He didn't like the looks of this at all. Simon's jaw was tight, and the cords stood out on his neck.
“Leave while you are still able!”
“Not without my wife, Simon.”
The man raised his rifle higher and flipped the safety off. Instantly, Evans and Humphrey had their weapons out, safeties off.
Simon laughed. “Two against six. Not very good odds.”
“No. So you will either kill me now, or let me see Lydia.”
“Bastard,” Simon hissed. “She is not here.”
“Where is she?” Newman demanded.
“Gone.”
“Where?”
“Into the city.”
“The office?”
Simon nodded.
Newman stared at him for several long seconds. “Whatever you think about me, Simon, you're wrong. You are all dreadfully wrong. I wanted to beat Jorge at business, but not like this. I've come here to help.”
“I am rapidly losing what little control I possess, you gringo son of a whore. Leave now while you are still able.”
Newman shook his head in sadness. Ten years ago Simon had been one of his favorites.
“Where are my things?”
“Lydia had them sent to the Royale. You have a room there, for tonight.”
“Simon …”
“Go, Newman. Never come back. It is my last warning.”
Newman closed the car door, and his driver spun around on the road and headed back to the highway.
“If you don't mind me saying so, sir, I think you should go home. They don't like Americans here as it is, and you especially.”
“I'll release you from your contract and put you on a plane this evening.”
“No, sir, we couldn't do that. But I'm telling you that we cannot guarantee your safety against these people. It's their country. They'd have the protection of the police if it came to a shootout.”
“We'll leave in the morning,” Newman said. “For now, take me to the Vance-Ehrhardt Building downtown.”
 
The Vance-Ehrhardt Building was just off the Plaza San Martin, the upper floors enjoying a panoramic view of the city to the south and west, and to the north and
east the vast harbor and the Rio de la Plata.
No one stopped them as they took the elevator to the tenth floor. There, at the open door to her father's office, Lydia was waiting, wearing a severely cut business suit. Half a dozen Vance-Ehrhardt executives were waiting in the reception area, and they all looked up, hard expressions in their eyes.
“In here Kenneth,” she said. “Your muscle can wait for you. We'll just be a minute or two. I'm very busy at the moment.”
Newman's heart flipped over. There was no warmth at all in the way she looked at him. He could have been a perfect stranger. He knew she was affected by the kidnapping of her parents, but he hadn't expected this. Christ, everyone was blaming him.
“We're leaving in the morning,” he said, entering the office with her.
Lydia closed the door, and Newman tried to draw her to him, but she brushed his hands away and sat down behind her father's desk.
“That is a good idea, Kenneth,” she said. “I think Buenos Aires might be dangerous for you at this moment.”

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