Heartland (27 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Heartland
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“Well, I'll be damned,” Straub muttered to himself, and went back into the machine shed.
A single light shone in the back of the barn, and Bormett walked toward it, only dimly aware of the hulking machinery stored in here. There seemed to be a humming in his ears, and it was getting louder and louder.
At the back of the barn he took out his keys and unlocked
a small cabinet hanging on the wall above the workbench. On the shelves inside were several bundles wrapped in oily rags. He selected one, and put it on the workbench. Then he slowly unwrapped it. It was a military .45 automatic.
The gun gleamed dully in the overhead light. He had had it for a long time. Had used it occasionally for target practice. Couldn't hit a thing unless it was up close. But whatever one of those big 45-caliber slugs plowed into, it sure destroyed in a hurry.
A detached part of him was amazed at how calm he was as he reached up for the box of ammunition, removed the clip from the automatic, and began loading it. Amazed, because he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life.
He snapped the loaded clip in the handgrip, put the box back on the shelf, and then closed and locked the cabinet.
He could stop this right now, one part of his mind told the other. The thing to do would be to burn the fields. Get rid of the corn. Tell the truth to Katy. She'd understand. But even if she didn't, he'd be no worse off than he was right now.
He pocketed the .45, turned away from the workbench, and went outside to where he had parked his truck.
It was only about eight-thirty. Still an hour and a half or longer before Catherine was due home.
He wanted to talk to her now. He wanted to hold her in his arms, and hear her tell him that it would be all right, that everything would turn out for the best.
For a long time the Bormetts have been farming this land, Will, and they'll be farming it for a long time to
come. So don't let one little setback bother you so much.
“I could have stopped it. It was my fault,” he said out loud.
Katy would smile.
Don't you know, Will, that almost every bad thing that ever happens to us, we usually bring on ourselves? We're the cause of most of our own misery.
“It shouldn't have to be that way.”
No, it shouldn't, but it is. You just have to live with it
.
“No,” he said, holding his hands out in front of him as if to ward off a blow.
But Katy wasn't there. After a minute he blinked and looked around. Then he turned away from the house, climbed up into his truck, started the engine, and drove off.
He went back up the hill, then down the access road to the tank farm, where he stopped and shut off the lights and engine. He laid the ignition keys on the dash.
Dusk was falling. The crickets and cicadas were singing up in the stand of trees, and he could hear the big bullfrogs coughing in the creek on the other side of the hill.
He shook his head sadly that it had to end this way, then walked along the access road, pushed his way through the windbreak rows, and trudged down among the corn, careful not to touch any of the infected ears.
They'd find his truck, and then they'd come looking for him. When they found him, they wouldn't bother to look at the corn. Not then. Sooner or later, Albert or Joseph would be back out here, and think to check, and then they'd find out. But it would be too late. It was
already too late.
He stopped about two hundred yards in, and pulled the .45 out of his pocket.
He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about Moscow, or about the photographs, or about Catherine, or about what he had seen when he had shucked the ear of corn. He didn't want to think about anything ever again.
He levered a round into the chamber, clicked the safety off, and placed the barrel of the automatic to his temple.
“Katy,” he said calmly. He pulled the trigger.
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
 
—Rubaáiyat of Omar Khayyám
 
 
It was early evening, and Curtis Lundgren felt a smug sense of satisfaction as he rode through the west gate at the White House. The last time he had been here for anything other than a routine Cabinet meeting was shortly after the inauguration, when the President had offered him the job. Since then he had been a center-fielder in a game of very short hitters.
An aide opened the car door and helped Lundgren out. “Good evening, Mr. Secretary,” he said.
Lundgren nodded and went inside. Michael McCandless was waiting in the outer reception room with a short, very thin man who looked as though he belonged on a college campus.
McCandless introduced them. “Curt, I'd like you to meet Raymond Yankitis, the President's special adviser on criminal justice. Ray, I think you know of Secretary Lundgren.”
“I certainly do,” Yankitis said, shaking Lundgren's hand. “And it certainly is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Lundgren beamed. He liked being stroked.
“Bob LeMear will be joining us any minute now,” McCandless said.
Yankitis took them back to his small office, where he sat down behind his desk. There were three other chairs. It was one of the smallest offices Lundgren had ever been in. Gave him claustrophobia.
“You said you had something on Newman and Dybrovik,” he said when they were settled.
“Would anyone like some coffee before we get started?” Yankitis asked.
“Not for me, Ray,” McCandless said. “Curt?”
Lundgren shook his head.
“Well, we've certainly found out a lot about Kenneth Newman,” McCandless said. “And I'll tell you one thing right off the bat: until now I never had the slightest conception of how involved the international grain trade is. There are virtually no controls on those people. None.”
Lundgren had to smile. McCandless was bright, but he didn't know the half of it. A two-hundred-year-old government was trying to oversee an industry that had been developing for more than two thousand years.
“Is Newman involved with Dybrovik?” Lundgren asked.
McCandless smiled. “Up to his ears. Including the Russian's death.”
Lundgren almost fell off his chair, he sat forward so fast. “What?” he sputtered.
“That's right. Dybrovik was murdered four nights ago in Athens, Greece. It was a Soviet-style execution, but Kenneth Newman was seen shortly before it happened at the hotel where Dybrovik and several other Russians were staying. Greek authorities are keeping it quiet.”
Lundgren sat back. He felt more than claustrophobia now, he felt as if everything were closing in around him. He also felt that he was missing some vital link between the startling news about Dybrovik and all the other things that had been happening over the summer.
“Newman flew back here immediately,”McCandless continued. “He's in Duluth for the moment.”
A young man with a short haircut, a button-down shirt, and a narrow tie appeared in the doorway. He was out of breath. “Sorry I'm late, Michael. That fucking Pennsylvania Avenue should be made into a mall … no cars other than official government vehicles permitted on pain of death.”
“We were just getting started,” McCandless said. “You know Raymond, of course.” The newcomer nodded, then turned to Lundgren.
“Secretary Lundgren, I believe.”
“That's right,” Lundgren said.
“Bob LeMear, FBI.”
McCandless motioned for him to take a seat. “Bob is the special investigations coordinator for the Bureau,” he explained to Lundgren. “He and I have worked together on a number of other cases. The Agency's charter does not allow us to work domestically. So if one of our people heads home, Bob picks it up for us.”
“Newman is at home. We'll get a couple of our people on him as soon as possible. We got Reinke from the Sixth District to sign a wiretap order for us last night, and we just managed to get it in place before he showed up.”
“To this point, as far as I can see,” Yankitis said, “there is nothing he can come back with. You're both clean. Well within the intent of the law.”
McCandless smiled. “We've got him, Curt. All we have to do is wait for him to make a move.”
“I don't understand,” Lundgren said. “Are you saying he was involved with Dybrovik's killing? Lord, I can't believe that.”
“Involved, yes,” McCandless said. “We placed him
at the scene at the time. But, as I said, it was a standard Moscow Center assassination. Newman definitely did not pull the trigger, but he was involved in whatever reason the KGB had him killed.”
“Could you help us with that at all?” LeMear asked.
“Newman was selling the Russians grain through Dybrovik. I think a lot more grain that he had licenses for. I'm sure if you look a little closer at the Newman Company you'll find a string of subsidiaries that'll stretch from Duluth to Moscow and back.”
“We've already-set our accountants on that. They're not making much progress. At least not yet,” Yankitis said. “But why would Dybrovik be killed?”
“I don't know,” Lundgren said. “But I'm sure it's somehow tied to the other things I mentioned to Michael.”
“You mean Cargill and Louis Dreyfus?” LeMear asked.
Lundgren nodded. He felt he was missing something. Something very vital. He just couldn't put his finger on it
.
“So far we've found nothing.”
“Nothing,” McCandless agreed.
“Well, I think your answers are there.”
“We'll get it out of Newman,” LeMear said. “If anyone knows what's going on here, he does.”
Kenneth Newman kept seeing Dybrovik lying on the sidewalk, the blood leaking out of his body in a widening pool. The Bormett farm in Iowa was the key, he had said. The key to what?
Turalin had apparently been lying; there was not much doubt of it now. It was to be some sort of a market manipulation. Dybrovik had apparently weakened, and Turalin had had him killed for doing so.
In the aftermath of Dybrovik's death, Newman had found himself torn between loyalties to his friends and his business and the desire to find out just what the Russians were up to. He understood that he had to arrange priorities, but he was having difficulties even trying to think about what was going on. That in itself was a new feeling for him. All his life he had been a pragmatic man; choice had consisted of weighing the
facts versus his subjective judgments of personalities. Always before, he had managed to step back so that his own personality did not color the equation. Now, however he himself was a key part in the events surrounding his wife in Buenos Aires; his partner, Paul Saratt; the little KGB officer in Athens; and finally poor, hapless Dybrovik, who had trapped himself in something far bigger than his own life.
Throughout Lydia's pampered life, she had always been in control; in the important decisions it had always been Lydia and Lydia alone who had made the choice. That is, until she married Newman. It wasn't just that she had taken the title Mrs. Newman, thus forsaking (at least to the outside world) the Vance-Ehrhardt power, it was that she had bowed to decisions other than her own, and had acted out of concern for others, even though such acts ran contrary to her own desires. When she had taken over the Vance-Ehrhardt conglomerate, she had known her husband was in the middle of a large deal with the Russians, and that it would be to the best interests of her company, and therefore herself, to neutralize the Newman Company. She had warned her husband, though, and instantly, that there was a plot against his life. She had warned him.
Paul Saratt, on the other hand, had always been a follower, despite an expertise in the grain business that at times bordered on genius. “Whenever I have the urge to open my own operation, I begin to think of all the headaches it would bring,” he had told Newman long ago. He had been happy being an employee, even though some of his ideas and deals were better thought out than Newman's. He had depended upon Newman to
steer him in a straight line, never worrying about being let down. “Just like the frightened airline passenger,” Paul had been fond of saying, “who calms his fear by telling himself that the pilot loves his life as much as me, and wouldn't do anything to jeopardize his.” His involvement with Newman, however, had cost him the ultimate … his life.
Then there were Turalin and Dybrovik. As much as Newman wanted to balance them off each other, he could not. The match was totally unequal. Dybrovik had been a frightened man; an expert in his field who, beyond that expertise, had little if any stamina. He was like the head sheep in the flock—able to lead his charges quite well—whereas Turalin was like the wolf.
Which brought Newman back to his own conflicts.
It was night, and he sat in his study looking down at the harbor. He was alone. He had sent Marie, the housekeeper, away before he went to Athens, and she would be visiting her sister in Oregon for another ten days. But solitude suited him just fine. He did not think he could deal with anyone now.
Lundgren had wanted to talk to him before he left for Athens. Sitting here now, Newman had the urge to pick up the phone and call the Secretary of Agriculture, and tell him everything. Lundgren was a pompous, self-serving ass, but he did know the business, and he was in the administration. He'd have access to whatever information existed.
Yet, Newman supposed he was kidding himself after all. Clutching at straws. Twice he had met with presidents who had asked
him
for information and advice. So Lundgren and his cronies would probably not be able to help.
He considered contacting the FBI, telling them what had happened in Athens, telling them that he might be Turalin's next target unless he cooperated.
But what in hell would they do to protect him? Lock him up? Not an attractive proposition.
What should he do? Continue with the Russian corn contract? Simply cancel it and walk away from the entire mammoth deal? Or try to find out just what the hell they were up to?
After a while he got up and looked out the window. It was pitch black outside, although it wasn't very late … a few minutes before ten. He had not bothered to turn any of the house lights on; the dark house fit his mood.
Back at his desk, he set his wine glass down and picked up the telephone. When he got the overseas operator, he gave her the telephone number of the Vance-Ehrhardt estate outside Buenos Aires.
“Person to person to Lydia Newman … make that Lydia Vance-Ehrhardt,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” the operator replied. He picked up his wine as the operator talked with his trunk operator in Miami and rang the Buenos Aires operator, but without answer. “One moment, sir,” the American operator said, and the line went dead.
Newman's gut began to tighten.
The operator was back a moment later; she sounded strange. “I am sorry, sir, but all calls to Argentina have been temporarily suspended.”
“Suspended?” Newman said. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Service has been disconnected.”
“Where?” Newman shouted. “Who pulled the switch?”
“The suspension has occurred from Argentina, sir. They are not accepting outside communications.”
Newman broke the connection, then dialed Abex, Ltd., in New York. There was no one working here in Duluth, but Abex ran twenty-four hours a day.
The phone was answered on the first ring by the night supervisor. “McCarthy.”
“This is Newman. What have you got on the wire from Argentina?”
“The spot market, sir? It's—”
“No, the news wire.”
“I haven't seen anything all night. Let me check, sir,” McCarthy said, and he was gone.
Newman remained behind his desk, looking toward the window. A flash of light passed the side of the house outside, then was gone. Someone had pulled up into his driveway. He opened a desk drawer and withdrew his .38 Smith & Wesson snubnosed revolver, checked to make sure it was loaded, then stuffed it in his pocket.
McCarthy was back on the line. “Not a thing, Mr. Newman. But there's something wrong with the spot-market wire out of Buenos Aires.”
“It's dead?”
“Yes, sir. Since a few minutes after six our time this evening.”
“I tried to telephone Buenos Aires, but the operator told me all circuits to Argentina were down.”
“Jesus,” McCarthy said. “They've talked about a junta down there for the past year.”
“I know,” Newman said. “Start checking around. Find out what the hell is going on. You might call the Associated Press, maybe they know something.”
“I'll get it on right away, sir.”
The doorbell rang.
“Have to go,” Newman said. “I'm at home. Telephone me as soon as you find out anything.”
“Will do, sir.”
Newman hung up. Then, taking the gun out of his pocket, he hurried out of his study and downstairs as the doorbell rang again. If Turalin had sent someone to kill him, he surely to hell wouldn't stand out on the front step ringing the doorbell. On the other hand, that's just what the assassin had down when Saratt was killed.
At the front door, Newman cautiously looked out one of the windows. It was Janice Wilcox, Paul's daughter.
He pocketed the gun and quickly unlocked the door. She had a slight smile on her face when he opened the door.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“That's a nice hello,” she said. She turned and waved toward the cab sitting in the driveway. The driver waved back and pulled away. “Didn't know if you were home, or in bed, or what,” she said. “Aren't you going to invite me in?”
“Sorry,” Newman said, stepping back. She picked up her suitcase and came in. She looked good, certainly a lot better than she had at the funeral.
They stood awkwardly facing each other in the vestibule for a minute or two, until at last Janice grinned and shrugged. “Surprised to see me?”
“What are you doing here, Janice?”
“I had to get away … after the funeral, you know.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I want my father's murderer,” she snapped. “You
know something about it, and I'm not leaving until you point me in the right direction.”
“Impossible,” Newman said. He turned and went into the living room where he switched on a light. Janice followed him.
“I don't give up so easily, Kenneth,” she said.
“No one will ever catch your father's killers. Not you, not I, not the police. No one.”
“Maybe you didn't care all that much for my father.”
Newman was stung. “That's not true.”
“Then why aren't you going after his murderer? Why are you playing around with the Russians?”
“It's my business. Paul would have wanted it that way.”
“Dad was working on this deal?”
Newman nodded.
Her eyes narrowed. “How did your meeting with Dybrovik go in Athens? You certainly came back fast enough.”
“It went well,” Newman said.
Janice stepped forward, an odd expression in her eyes. “You're lying,” she said.
“Stay out of this, Janice. It's none of your business.”
“What are you trying to hide? What is it about the Russians? Has it got something to do with my father's murder?”
“I said, stay out of it.”
Janice looked at him for a long time. “If that's the way you want it,” she said calmly. She turned and headed toward the vestibule. “Call me a cab, would you? I want to get downtown to a hotel.”
“You can stay here tonight,” Newman said going
after her. “I'll have you flown home in the morning.”
She turned and smiled sweetly at him. “I could't stay here tonight, Kenneth. I'd feel like an ingrate.”
He didn't understand.
“Don't you see? It would be bad form for me to use your telephone to call the wire services with the story about your meeting the Russians in Athens.”
“You can't do this.”
“Watch me,” she said viciously. They were in the vestibule, and she snatched up her suitcase. “Are you going to call a cab for me, or am I going to have to walk downtown?”
“You're not going.”
“Are you going to kidnap me?” she laughed.
“Goddamn it, Janice, you don't know what the hell is at stake here.”
“What could be more important than my father's death?”
“The deaths of a lot of other people, a lot of people,” he blurted.
Janice studied his face. “What are you talking about? What other deaths? And what do they have to do with my father?”
“Christ,” Newman said. He ran his fingers through his hair. He felt completely out of control. On the one hand, he wanted her to go away, return to Atlanta and keep silent. On the other hand, she reminded him in so many ways of Paul that he found it difficult not to tell her everything.
She put her suitcase down and came closer. “What is it, Kenneth?” she asked softly. “What's happening between you and the Russians?”
“I can't tell you,” he said. “You can stay here or go
and have your news conference. It doesn't matter. I have a lot of work to do, and I'm going to have to get on with it.” He looked at her. “There's a phone in the living room. You can call your own cab if you want.”
He turned and headed for the stairs.
“Who'd you hire to replace my father?” Janice called after him.
“No one,” he said heavily.
“I want the job.”
He stopped and turned back.
“That's right,” she said, her face intent. “I want the job. I'm certainly qualified. I have my degree in business. And experience.”
“You know nothing about the grain business.”
“You'd be surprised how much I know. I'm my father's daughter. After my mother died, there were only the two of us, and he would sit and talk with me every night when he came home from work. I grew up in the business.”
“Impossible,” Newman said, although the idea was intriguing.
“Bullshit,” she swore. “I have a feeling that at this moment I'm the only person you can trust. Are you going to pass that up?”

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