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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Heartland
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“I was getting nervous,” Newman said.
“Very uncharacteristic of you.”
“The numbers are much bigger than anything we've handled before.”
They stepped out onto the porch. The burly character who had frisked Newman emerged from the shadows and said something to Dybrovik in rapid Russian.
Dybrovik shook his head and said something in return. The guard glowered at Newman, then disappeared in the shadows again.
“You have a car waiting for you out by the highway?”
“Bodyguards,” Newman said. They stepped down off the porch and walked around the front of his car. “Can we be heard out here?” he whispered.
“No,” Dybrovik said, “but we are being watched.”
Newman glanced back up at the house. He was certain he saw a movement, in one of the upper windows, but then it was gone.
“What is so mysterious that we have to take this risk?” Dybrovik was smiling and nodding his head, as if Newman was telling him a joke.
“I want to know what the hell is going on,” Newman hissed.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Dybrovik said, smiling but sounding alarmed.
“First Cargill in New Orleans, then Louis Dreyfus in Paris, and now Vance-Ehrhardt in Buenos Aires.”
Dybrovik looked sharply at him. “You think that my government has had something to do with those things?”
“It's goddamned suspicious. You and I are doing business, the biggest business in the history of grain trading, and my company benefits the most from those disasters.”
“Newman, my old friend, I assure you we had nothing to do with those heinous acts. I was going to convey my sympathies to your wife.” Dybrovik looked back at the house.
“I wonder what would happen to you if I kept the money you have already transferred into the TradeCon account and didn't ship the grain.”
Dybrovik stepped back a pace, as if Newman were a demented, dangerous animal. “You would never again receive a grain commission from anyone. Your name
and your business would be ruined. And we would recover our money through the International Court at the Hague.”
“No, you wouldn't. But that is exactly what I intend doing if it comes out that your government was in any way responsible for Cargill, Louis Dreyfus, or Vance-Ehrhardt.”
“I have already told you …”
“I know what you told me,” Newman said sharply. “What I'm telling you is that you had better make damned sure that some overzealous KGB colonel or general hasn't decided to help things along by eliminating my competition. My own government would support me in this. I think you know that.”
Dybrovik seemed genuinely pained. “Are you sorry now that you have become involved with this deal?”
“Not yet,” Newman said. “But I am concerned.”
Someone came out of the house. “Delos Fedor?” he called from the porch.
“My assistant.” Dybrovik turned around. “What is it?”
“There is a telephone call for you. Urgent.”
“I am coming,” Dybrovik called, then turned back. “What can I say that will assure you, Kenneth?”
“Give me your word that, to your knowledge, there is no plot.”
Dybrovik nodded.
“Delos Fedor, the telephone,” his assistant shouted.
“And give me your word that if you should find out something, you will let me know.”
Dybrovik smiled. “I could never give you my assurances on that, Kenneth. We are partners in a grain-trading deal. Business associates, not countrymen.”
It was the answer Newman had hoped for, because it was truthful. He patted Dybrovik on the arm. “For now, nothing will be changed, then. We are purchasing corn futures.”
“On margin,” Dybrovik said. “I was led to understand that the purchases would be made on a cash basis.”
“How I run my business is my concern,” Newman said harshly. “You keep the money coming, and I'll continue purchasing corn.”
“And yet you question me?”
“When it comes to assassination and kidnapping, yes,” Newman said. He climbed into his car, and when he had the engine started, he and Dybrovik looked into each other's eyes for several long seconds.
“My wife has taken over the Vance-Ehrhardt conglomerate until her father is returned.”
“I am very sorry for you, my old friend.”
“She has gotten wind of the fact that you are up to something. Someone apparently spotted you here in Geneva.”
“Will she come here to try and deal with me?”
“Perhaps not she herself, but I expect she will be sending someone.”
“I shall tell them nothing.”
“Thank you,” Newman said. “Say hello to your wife for me.”
Dybrovik flinched, but he nodded, and Newman left.
Delos Fedor Dybrovik was what his wife used to call a deep thinker. And lately, over the past few weeks, he had been doing a lot of that. As long as he was able to keep a distance between himself and the little man, he could manage his perspective, to a degree. He could think of the little man in more realistic, less frightening terms. A bureaucrat. Someone who had the ear of the Party. Probably held a rank, almost certainly KGB. Someone who could wipe out all record of Dybrovik's past transgressions.
In Geneva, at arm's length from the little man, he had toyed with the idea of running to the United States. But he knew that, once he was there, he would not be happy. He'd miss his life at home. Besides, he still wanted to continue with the largest grain deal in the history of the trade. Even though it was becoming tainted in his mind.
Even though he was filled with doubts about exactly what the little man was up to. A Great Grain Robbery was one thing, but Newman's questions last week about Cargill, Louis Dreyfus, and Vance-Ehrhardt had brought other, darker fears to mind. Assassination and violence. But to what end?
Entering the Ministry of Transportation Building in Moscow this warm Friday afternoon, with more fear in his heart than he had ever imagined he could bear, and with the intention of finding out what was going on, Dybrovik had to wonder if he wasn't experiencing the very last days of his life. He had almost convinced himself that the little man had killed Larissa, for no other reason than to insure cooperation. If he felt he was being betrayed, wouldn't he kill again?
 
He had been back from Geneva twice since the grain purchase had begun, and that was to raid the home staff for additional help. The little man had come up after office hours, each time, for a status report, had praised Dybrovik, then had left as quietly as he had come. Dybrovik was certain that the little man would be back again this time for an update, and he was going to have to keep his head while he lied to him. Given enough time, he'd be able to pave the way to make his lies more creditable. At least long enough for him to find out what was going on—and then get out, if need be.
It had taken a week after the meeting with Newman for him to get up the courage to return to Moscow and do what he knew he had to do. During that time he had set up some insurance for himself, as well as devised the ostensible reasons for his return: the necessity of coming up with sufficient grain-handling capacity to manage
the amount of corn that would begin arriving in October aboard Newman subsidiary ships. Storage facilities would have to be secured or built, and a distribution network arranged to handle the massive influx.
All in all, it was a gargantuan problem that Exportkhleb could no longer ignore, although it was not within the bureau's actual purview. The State Ministry of Transportation handled that aspect, but Dybrovik felt that a case could be made for his putting out feelers.
But he was skating on thin ice. The little man had told him point blank that there would be no deviation from the buy order. One hundred million tons of corn. Bought in total secrecy. “Merely buy it, Delos Fedor. The rest will be up to me.”
Newman feared that Exportkhleb would end up holding massive amounts of grain, while much of the world suffered shortages that the United States could not fill. Exportkhleb would then step in with its grain, selling it at a premium. Newman would be caught in the middle then, as a traitor to his own country, with nowhere to turn.
Dybrovik's fear, on the other hand, was that something much more sinister was under way. If the major corn merchants, such as Cargill and Louis Dreyfus and Vance-Ehrhardt—and, in the end, Newman—were ruined, were put out of business, and if the Soviet Union owned major stockpiles of corn, there would be serious trouble for the U.S. if something happened to its own supplies. He had to find out.
He had spent most of the morning alone in his Prospekt apartment, finishing paperwork and thinking about his wife. From time to time his eyes strayed to the bathroom door. Although he felt remorse, it was not an
all-consuming passion, because her death—the way he had seen her hanging there—was not fully real to him. He could not allow it to be. Surely Larissa would be back soon.
Just before noon he had gone directly to his office, where he had been stopped five times by various staffers who renewed their condolences on the death of his wife, told him he was doing a tremendous job, and asked if he had brought back any American cigarettes or Swiss beer.
The buy from Newman had been compartmentalized. The staff in Geneva knew that they were purchasing huge amounts of grain from a seemingly endless list of minor brokers. But the Moscow staff had no knowledge of the extent of the deal. The regular staff, that is.
At 1:30, Mikhail Andreyev, the bureau's market analyst, had come in with the latest world grain price projections, which showed rice steady, wheat and soybeans up eight and nine cents a bushel, and corn up to $6.05 American, nearly fifty cents above normal.
“Maybe our latest small corn buys are having an effect on the market, but we can't attribute much more than a few pennies to our movements,” Andreyev, a shuffling old man, said. There was an odd expression in his eyes.
Dybrovik tried to concentrate on what the old man was saying, but it was difficult.
“Cargill and Louis Dreyfus certainly are having a more significant effect on the market, but it is still too early to tell what the Vance-Ehrhardt kidnapping has done.”
“You think it will affect the market as well?”
“Certainly the spot market, depending upon what the
kidnappers' demands are, and how fast Vance-Ehrhardt is returned. If he is returned at all.”
Half an hour later, Boris Stepanovich Gordik, Exportkhleb's assistant director, popped in with the proud announcement that the Thai rice market had been cornered and that U.S. rice would be shunted through their agents in Hong Kong in sufficient quantities for Exportkhleb to pick up at least a few thousand tons.
“Bits and pieces, Delos Fedor, but we should be able to cover our needs now without undue strain.”
“You have done a really excellent job in my absence. You should go to Hong Kong to supervise the buy. Don't you think so?” Dybrovik asked.
Gordik puffed up, his face lit with a huge grin. “I believe the buy would certainly go much more smoothly if I were there to oversee it.”
“Then you may leave early next week.”
“Will you be remaining here, or are you going to return to Geneva?”
“Unfortunately, I'll be returning within the week, but the staff will be able to handle anything that comes up. Comrade Shalnev will be here as well.”
Gordik looked over his shoulder, then came a little closer and started to speak, but Dybrovik cut him off.
“Enjoy Hong Kong, and give my regards to your wife.”
Gordik stepped back. Everyone in the bureau hated and feared Shalnev, who had instituted a new Office of Doctrinal Compliance. Three people had already lost their jobs because of his meddling. He was a ruthless, tight-lipped bastard whom you couldn't talk to. Only Dybrovik knew that Shalnev was in the bureau at the little man's behest. It was Shalnev who was handling the
large Western currency transfers to Exportkhleb's Eurobank account, without a single person knowing about it, bypassing the bureau's own banking section completely.
Gordik was an ass, but Dybrovik liked and trusted him. He was honest and steady, and had an excellent grasp of the international grain market. Dybrovik did not want the man getting himself in trouble now because of his loose tongue.
“Thanks,” Gordik said, understanding what Dybrovik had done for him.
Dybrovik went down the hall to Shalnev's domain next to the computer center. The man was a short, stocky bulldog, with thick, greasy hair and bulbous Ukrainian lips. He always seemed to be drooling.
“Delos Fedor, welcome back,” the man boomed. He grabbed Dybrovik in a bear hug, kissed him on the lips, and then released him. “Things are going well, from what I hear,” he said softly.
“Very well, Comrade Shalnev.”
Shalnev laughed. “You have forgotten what I told you. We are friends here. Good friends, you and I.”
Dybrovik said, “Newman came to me for assurances.”
“I listened to the tape. He is no fool, but he is acting like one. He is up to something.”
“I gave him my assurances.”
“He has five hundred million dollars of our money. We in return have less than one-tenth that in grain.”
“The remainder is in futures. Corn that has not been harvested yet.”
“Which he is buying on margin,” Shalnev rumbled, his earlier open good humor gone.
“It is a routine way of doing business, Yuri Pavlovich,
but he has become suspicious because of recent happenings.”
“So have I,” Shalnev said ominously. “It is your task to see that this goes smoothly.”
“It has so far, although corn is up.”
Shalnev licked his lips, a chilly expression in his eyes. “Why have you returned? Your work is not finished there.”
“No, it isn't. But Newman has returned to the United States, and I have a bureau to run. The Americans will be expecting a trade delegation within the month to work out details now that their stupid grain embargo has been lifted. We must be ready for it, lest suspicion fall our way.”
Shalnev was not a grainman, so he had to take Dybrovik at face value. “When will you go back?”
“Soon,” Dybrovik said. “Within a week.”
“Before you leave, I will need your fund-transfer expectations.”
“You'll have them, along with the shipping schedules through the fall and again for the spring. I don't know about the winter …” Dybrovik let it trail off, as if he were thinking to himself.
Shalnev picked up on it. “I will need the tonnage projections as soon as you have them.”
Back in his own office Dybrovik closed his door, lit a Marlboro, and poured himself a stiff shot of Scotch with shaking hands. Shalnev needed the
tonnage projections?
It meant he was involved not only with banking, but with shipping as well. To what extent was the little man controlling transportation? If the corn was being bought for Russian use—which meant that the surpluses would be nonexistent, that there would be a corn shortfall—then
a distribution network of huge proportions would be abuilding. If the promised surpluses materialized, then this was another Great Grain Robbery, and no special distribution network would be needed, for the corn would not actually be shipped into Russia. Finally, suppose the surpluses materialized, but the little man planned to stockpile the American grain for some reason. In that case, the Newman subsidiary ships would bring their loads to a few ports where massive storage facilities would be ready.
Dybrovik wanted to know. He had to know.
He telephoned Vladimir Valentin Vostrikov, who was head of interbureau liaison for the Ministry of Transportation.
“Good afternoon, Vladi.”
“Delos, my old friend, how are you? I didn't know that you were back in town.”
They had often worked together.
“I just returned last night.”
“Listen, we were sorry about Larissa. It came as a big shock. I didn't hear until last week.”
“Thank you, Vladi. Work is helping, believe me. Which is why I telephoned. I would like to talk with you this afternoon. We may be facing some problems soon.”
“Yes, big things are on the wind, Delos, but not to talk about, if you know what I mean.”
Why not, Dybrovik wondered. Had the little man gotten to him as well? He took his shot. “I have spoken with Shalnev about this.”
“I see,” Vostrikov said, his tone suddenly guarded. “Three o'clock, then.”
Before he left Exportkhleb, Dybrovik gathered up
tonnage projections by dates and amounts for all the grain that would—or would not—be coming into Soviet ports over the next twelve months. The corn buy had been spread over dozens of shipping companies, arriving throughout the year. Vostrikov would of course see right through the scheme, understanding that Exportkhleb was purchasing a mammoth amount of corn, and probably from the United States. But Dybrovik had his argument ready: Since the grain was to be shipped to the Soviet Union, then he had to make sure they would be able to handle it as and when it came.
But, as he entered the Ministry of Transportation Building a few minutes before three, he knew he was taking a great risk by snooping around. If the little man found out about this meeting, he might not accept Dybrovik's explanation.
Merely buy it, Delos Fedor. The rest will be up to me.
The security guard called Vostrikov to come down, and a couple of minutes later he showed up with a visitor's pass which he clipped on Dybrovik's lapel. He said nothing until they were riding up to the fourth floor in the ancient elevator.

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