Heartland (7 page)

Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Heartland

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Within a few minutes they had cleared the Mexico City Terminal Control Area and had climbed to cruise altitude. Jacob came back and offered them a glass of champagne, and a moment later Saratt motioned for Newman to join him forward.

“Be just a moment,” Newman said to Lydia.

She squeezed his hand. “Remember what I said, Kenneth.”

“I will.”

Saratt stood between the main cabin and the flight deck. On the port side was a complete galley; on the starboard, a small but well-equipped communications station, including teletype and fascimile.

“This came from Abex while we were waiting for
you,” Saratt said. He held out a short piece of yellow teletype paper.

Newman made no move to take it. Instead, he looked directly into Saratt's eyes. “I'm on my honeymoon, Paul, so I'm going to ask you to take care of this on your own if it's at all possible. I don't even want to know what it is, unless it's of the most extreme importance. Your decision.”

Saratt nodded, grim-lipped. “You'd better look at it, Kenneth.”

“No doubt in your mind it's that important?”

“No doubt.”

Newman sighed deeply and took the telex from Saratt.

333xxxpd17882xxld
0803mct

Kenneth Newman
Abex, Ltd.
New York, N.Y.
ABEXLTD

GENEVA EUROBANK MONDAY PM STOP STRICTEST CONFIDENCE REQUIRED STOP EXCLUSIVE STOP END OF MESSAGE

1018est
EXPORTKHLEB
DYBROVIK

MGMCOMP MGM

“He wants to meet with us,” Newman said, looking up.

“With
you
,” Saratt corrected. “He says exclusive.”

“I can't. You'll have to go.”

Saratt shook his head. “I appreciate your position, Kenneth, I really do. But when the Russians callâand it's an exclusive callâthrough Eurobank, they mean business. Business we cannot afford to pass up.”

“We can afford it.”

“Goddamn it, you know what I'm saying,” Saratt snapped. “Last time something like this came up, you were with Vance-Ehrhardt, and he decided to pass on the Montreal meeting. And you know what that cost him.”

His reputation and a lot of Warsaw Pact grain deals, Newman thought. He glanced back. Lydia sat sipping her champagne, staring out the window.

What the hell were the Soviets up to now? It had to be big, otherwise Dybrovik himself would not have been the signatory on the telex, nor would he have mentioned Eurobank in Geneva. That meant money. Hard Western currencies. It also meant immediate action was required, or, whatever the deal was, it would be canceled and someone else asked.

Newman had worked with Dybrovik on a number of occasions. He did not particularly like or trust the Russian, but he did respect the man's expertise.

“What do you think, Paul?”

Saratt shrugged. “There's been no glimmer of anything cooking with the Russians over the past month or so. At least nothing I've noticed.”

“How about an estimate on their harvests?”

“Too early, really, for that. But from what I gather, it'll be a routine year, although Fairbanks is calling for an early winter across the plains.”

“Could be they're running scared, and Dybrovik is hedging his bets.”

“I thought so at first, but he mentions Eurobank. I'm assuming he's talking not only about instructions for the meeting, but about the availability of real money.”

Newman reread the message and glanced again at Lydia. She was watching them. He smiled at her, then turned back.

“Get on the wire and have Sam dig up anything he can. Have Felix set up something in Geneva for me.”

“Are we going first to Monaco?”

Newman nodded. “Might as well. Lydia can stay there while I meet with Dybrovik. Let's hope it won't take more than twenty-four hours.”

“It lasted two weeks in Montreal.”

“Three-fourths of the industry power was there. There was more infighting than work going on.”

“Do you want to confirm with Dybrovik?”

“I think not, Paul. I have a feeling he wants to keep this very quiet. For now, we'll play it this way.”

“All right,” Saratt said. He glanced beyond Newman at Lydia. “What about her?”

“I'll take care of that problem.”

“She won't be very happy.”

“Don't look so smug,” Newman said sharply. “She's a grainman's daughter. She'll understand.”

The weather in Geneva was gloomy. It had rained all afternoon, and now, as Newman stepped out from beneath the awning in front of his hotel, a cold, windblown mist enveloped him.

He was tired from the nearly nonstop flying he had done, from Buenos Aires to Mexico City, from there to Nice, and then this afternoon here to Geneva. And he was disgusted with himself over his inability to arrange his life in proper priorities.

“You're a grainman, first and foremost,” Lydia had said yesterday afternoon, over the Atlantic, when he had told her he would have to be gone for a day and a night.

He had not told her whom he was meeting, or where the meeting was to take place, but she had known that it had to be a grain dealâthat was the only thing that
would take him away from her on their honeymoon.

Beyond that, she had not been visibly upset. They had made love on the bed in the aft cabin, and later had taken a long, leisurely shower together.

It was late at night when they touched down at Nice, so Newman set aside his plans to go straight to the villa, and the three of them checked in at the HÃ´tel de Paris in Monte Carlo. He had left Lydia there early in the afternoon, and he expected that she had immediately telephoned her father with the information.

Saratt had driven with him out to the airport, and on the way he had seemed disturbed.

“Out with it, Paul,” Newman had said.

Saratt glanced at him. “With what?”

“You've got a bug up your ass. Lydia?”

“She'll call Jorge â¦ probably is on the phone right now.”

Newman looked out at the city, and nodded. “Probably.”

“Don't you care?” Saratt asked. He was exasperated.

Newman turned back. “Yes, I do care. Very much. But it doesn't change a thing. She's my wife.”

“Despite what could happen to your business?”

“Leave it alone, Paul.”

“Jesus! At least let me cover ourâ”

Newman cut him off. “Don't say what I think you're going to say. Don't ever say it to me. You're my friend, as well as my closest business associate. If you have to do something to protect our business, something I shouldn't know about, then do it. But don't ever tell me or Lydia what you've done. Clear?”

“Clear,” Saratt said glumly. “But it's a hell of a way to do things.”

Newman had not picked up on that remark, and they had dropped the subject, turning instead to the information the Newman Company's affiliates had gathered on Dybrovik and the upcoming meeting.

From their meteorologist at Fairbanks, Alaska, Saratt had received confirmation that the best prediction was for an early, cold winter all along the Soviet East European Plain, the Ust'-Urt Plateau, and the West Siberian Plain, which could mean a shorter growing season for the Russians at best, or, at worst, a widespread disaster in which much of the Russian wheat and corn crops would be lost.

Saratt had sounded a cautionary note on that point, however.

“Bender stressed the fact that the long-range forecast was entirely his doing, and that there has already been quite a bit of heated discussion about it.”

“They might have good weather?”

“Fifty-fifty.”

“If Dybrovik is aware of that, he just might be hedging his bets after all.”

“It's a possibility, but there's something even more worrisome. Everyone is mum about the Soviet winter and spring planting. We couldn't even get a noncommittal statement out of them. Not average, below average, or above. Not even if the crops were in yet. Nothing.”

“Another Great Grain Robbery?”

“It's a distinct possibility,” Saratt said.

“I wouldn't think they'd have the hard currencies available to them. Not after Afghanistan, or their five-year revitalization project in Cuba. They've pumped a lot of money into those projects.”

“We checked with Eurobank on a routine money-transfer verification. We tried once at a mil five American, and again at eight-point-seven million West German marks.”

“Both were verified?”

“Immediately. Dybrovik has got at least four million American on call. Possibly a lot more. And even more significantly, there were no holds or blinds on his account. They didn't give a damn that we were obviously checking on them.”

“He's in Geneva to do business, then.”

“Exactly,” Saratt said. “But what kind of business, and how much?”

“I guess we'll see,” Newman said. “What about Dybrovik himself? Anything?”

“The usual. He's been screwing around again, this last time back in Montreal.”

“Anything we can use?”

A sour look came over Saratt's face. “She's a young girl. College student, working nights to help support her expensive habits. Unless you want to upset her apple cart, there's nothing we can or should do.”

“We don't do business that way.”

Saratt grinned. “I didn't think so, but I put a loose watch on her to see if she heads to Geneva. So far, she hasn't moved.”

“When did Dybrovik come out?”

“No one seems to know, although I didn't push it too hard. Things like this have a tendency to get out, and then we'd have half the world on our tails, especially the Georges Andre crowd.”

“I don't want that. It'll probably get out fast enough as it is,” Newman said. “How about State?”

“Not a thing from Washington, which also strikes a strange note.”

“Good. Lundgren's one idiot I'd just as soon keep as far away as possible. We'll backtrack later for licenses if and when we make a deal with Dybrovik. Anything else I should know about?”

“Brezhnev is sick again. He'll probably be out within the next six months.”

“We were told that three years ago, and the old goat is still going strong.”

“Not this time, Kenneth. He hasn't been seen anywhere.”

Newman thought about that for several moments. “We'll just have to watch our backs, then, on anything long range. Let's stay beyond a hundred and twenty days. If Brezhnev steps down, there's no telling what his successor might do with existing agreements.”

“Especially if it's Andropov.”

With those remarks in mind, Newman hunched up his coat collar and headed away from the hotel, which was on the Quai Mont Blanc, facing the inner harbor, and worked his way to the main post office.

He had telephoned the depositors' special night number at Eurobank, giving his name and the telex number, and had received the instruction to proceed on foot alone to the main post office just off the Rue des Alpes at 10:00 P.M.

It was nearly that time now, and as Newman walked he went over everything Saratt had told him, as well as what he knew about the Russian he was to meet. But ever present at the back of his mind was Lydia, and guilt that he had left her alone on their honeymoon. A shaky beginning to a difficult marriage; it did not portend a
rosy future.

There was very little traffic, and even fewer pedestrians, because it was late, the weather was rotten, and the real tourist season had not yet begun. Geneva, besides being a business center, is a tourist town in July and August. In the off-season it resumes its usual Swiss flavor: quiet and somewhat stodgy.

The post office was housed in a large, very ornate building. As Newman approached the front entrance, guarded by twin lions flanking the stairs, and gargoyles above, a black CitroÃ«n DS 19 pulled up to the curb beside Newman. The rear door came open.

Newman looked both ways up the street. There was no one else in sight, no cars or buses or people.

“It is I,” Dybrovik's voice came from the dark interior of the sedan.

Newman climbed into the back seat beside the Russian, who reached across and pulled the door shut. Immediately the driver pulled away, turned the corner at the end of the block, and headed toward the Cornavin main railway station.

“So,” Dybrovik began, “you received my message, you were intrigued, and you came. All despite my understanding it is your honeymoon.” There seemed to be a sadness about the Russian. His manner was not as light as Newman remembered it.

“At this time tomorrow evening, I will have returned to my wife,” Newman said evenly.

“A time limit he now imposes,” Dybrovik guffawed. But before Newman could reply, he went on, “It is just as well. When men like us gather, it is not very long before the wolves begin snapping at our heels.”

“You are expecting surpluses and you want to sell grain,” Newman said, taking a stab in the dark.

Even in the darkened interior of the car, Newman could see something flash in the Russian's eyes. But it was gone, covered up as rapidly as it had come.

“We would hope for surpluses, my friend. But, alas, such will likely not be the case.”

Something wasn't right. “Then you wish to purchase grain?”

“Indeed.”

“Why me? Why like this?” Newman asked, still fishing.

Dybrovik grinned. “The second question is so obvious, it demands no serious answer. But the first â¦ well, then, that is serious. To that we shall speak at length. Soon.”

“Soon? When? Where?”

“Do not attempt to manipulate me, and I shall not attempt to do so with you. Without that, it is possible that we shall have a fruitful association.”

Dybrovik was probably in his forties, Newman figured, but he sounded like a sixty-year-old, his baby face looked twenty, and at times he acted like a naive teenager. Despite those outward appearances, however, the man was no fool, and had been around the grain business longer than Newman.

At this point, then, Newman decided he would play the Russian's game, at least until he had a better understanding of what was going on.

They turned north at the railway station and headed up the lakeshore past the Museum of Scientific History, toward Versoix and finally Coppet about ten miles away, where their driver turned onto a narrow, graveled driveway that led into the woods away from the lake.

Within a hundred yards the road entered a wide clearing
in which stood a large, rambling house with a huge marble portico. Their driver pulled up beneath the overhanging roof and wordlessly jumped out and opened the rear door on Dybrovik's side. The Russian shuffled his bulk ponderously out of the car, and Newman slid to that side and got out as well.

“I've leased the house for one year, and it will be our operational headquarters for the duration, although I suspect we will have concluded our business by early fall,” Dybrovik said.

Inside, a dim light illuminated the entrance hall; the stained-glass windows were dark. The wide stairs leading up were lost in darkness, as were the corridors to the left and right.

Without hesitation Dybrovik led the way to the right, into what appeared to be a large, luxuriously decorated drawing room. He flipped on a bronze table lamp, motioned Newman to take a seat, then went to a sideboard and pulled out two brandy snifters.

“Cognac or whiskey?” he asked.

“Cognac will be fine,” Newman said, crossing the room and sitting down on the long leather couch. He lit a cigarette.

Dybrovik handed Newman his drink, then raised his glass in a toast. “To a successful business between us.”

Newman nodded, took a sip of his drink, then set his glass down on the low coffee table in front of him. Dybrovik remained standing. Psychology, Newman thought. He had used the same methods himself. It was going to be a job, he figured, to hold Dybrovik to a reasonably short initial negotiation process.

“You mentioned you would like to return to your bride no later than this time tomorrow evening,”
Dybrovik said. “You will be able to return to her this evening, if you like, or certainly no later than tomorrow morning. Our business will be very simple. Your work will not be.”

Strangely, for just an instant, Newman had a premonition of doom, and with it the urge to get up and leave before the Russian had a chance to say anything else. But then the feeling passed, and he held his silence.

“Simply put, my government wishes to purchase corn.”

Newman wasn't quite sure he had heard the man correctly. “American corn?”

“It is of no consequence where it comes from.”

“Routine,” Newman said. “Why not just put through a simple order? Abex would have been pleased to handle it for you.”

“You do not understand yet, my friend, which is entirely my fault. We wish to purchase a lot of corn.”

“How much?”

Dybrovik shrugged. “Ten million tons. Twenty million. Thirty.”