Authors: David Hagberg
Heartland (17 page)
“And for you,” Newman said, approaching the desk.
She looked up at him, her face devoid of any expression, and she shook her head. “I cannot leave,” she said. “I have a business to run here.”
“You're my wife.”
“You are my competitor! Cargill, Louis Dreyfus, and now my parents. You have the most to gain in all this, Kenneth. You!”
“That doesn't mean I engineered this, for Christ's sake!”
“No, it doesn't, but I'm sure if we talked to your pal Dybrovik, we might come a little closer to who did.”
Newman took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he tried to block the heavy sadness that threatened to well up.
“The Russians would have no reason to do all this. They'd never get another grain contract.”
“Perhaps not, but perhaps Dybrovik is not working independently. Perhaps he's being directed.”
“By whom? And to what end?”
“I honestly don't know yet, Kenneth, but I intend finding out.”
“And then what?”
“And then I will stop whatever it is you and they are doing.”
“You can't do this, Lydia. If you want, I'll stay here and help.”
“You have your own business to run.”
“Together we can operate both.”
“A merger?”
Newman shook his head. “No. Paul can run my operation, and I can help you here until your parents are released.”
“Do you expect they will be released?”
“Yes. As soon as whatever ransom demand they make is met.”
“You still don't understand, do you?” There was a glint of tears in her eyes. “You stupid, naive fool.”
“Understand what, Lydia?” Newman asked.
“Even if there is no connection between the kidnapping of my parents and the Cargill and Louis Dreyfus things, the Montoneros never return hostages. Never!”
“Then let me help find them quickly.”
“Get out of here. Go back to the States and take care of your own business. Leave me here. Don't you see? I no longer want you.”
“I don't believe that.”
“Get out of here!” Lydia screamed, jumping up. “Get out of here, you bastard! Get out!”
Newman stepped back, staggered by her intensity. The door behind him crashed open. Several of the Vance-Ehrhardt executives burst into the office, along with Newman's two bodyguards.
“Get him out of here,” Lydia yelled. “And don't let him back in the building. If he tries, I want him shot.”
Newman sidestepped the others, and his bodyguards moved between them.
“I'm not giving up on you, Lydia,” he said. “If I can't help here, I will do what I can outside the office. You are my wife.”
One of the executives, an older man, spoke with passion: “Leave, Mr. Newman, or I will personally see to it that you are shot.”
Lydia had come around the desk, a sneer on her lips. “If I were you, I'd run back to Duluth as fast as I could, in order to save my business. As of this moment, Vance-Ehrhardt is coming after you.”
The Royale was a brand-new, twenty-story hotel downtown on the Avenida Córdoba, and Newman's reception was obsequious. The reservation had been made by a Vance-Ehrhardt, which made Newman a VIP, so there was absolutely no trouble coming up with an adjoining room for his two “business associates.”
His clothing, which had been sent over from the estate, had been carefully hung in his suite, and the hotel had provided chilled champagne, fresh flowers, and a basket of fruit.
It was all very unreal without Lydia.
The bodyguards made a quick inspection before they would allow Newman to come in; when they were satisfied, they went into the next room, leaving the connecting door open.
“If there is anything at all we can do for you, Mr.
Newman, please do not hesitate to ask,” the assistant manager said.
Newman, please do not hesitate to ask,” the assistant manager said.
“I may not be leaving tomorrow, so hold this suite open for me.” A moment later the door closed and he was alone.
From the window he could see the Vance-Ehrhardt Building rising above the park, and he could envision Lydia there, her sleeves rolled up, a wisp of her blonde hair hanging over her forehead as she worked to keep the Vance-Ehrhardt conglomerate afloat.
Somewhere within the city, her father was being held hostageâthat is, if he was still alive. The police had been told by informers that a helicopter had brought the Vance-Ehrhardts and their captors inland, where they were seen entering a van. The van had been found on a narrow street in the
villa miseria,
and now the police, aided by federal troops, were searching the area, shack by shack in hopes of flushing the kidnappers out.
villa miseria,
and now the police, aided by federal troops, were searching the area, shack by shack in hopes of flushing the kidnappers out.
His relationship with Lydia depended in large measure on how successful they would be, how quickly her parents could be returned. Once her father was back at the helm, Newman had little doubt that Lydia would return to him.
Despite the fact that his love for her tended to hamper his clear thinking, he could understand her loyalty. For more than a hundred years the family and the business had grown and prospered together. The business
was
the family. Now, in this crisis, Lydia could not turn her back on her upbringing. Her husband, and even mourning for her parents, came second to protecting the business.
was
the family. Now, in this crisis, Lydia could not turn her back on her upbringing. Her husband, and even mourning for her parents, came second to protecting the business.
Newman regretted Lydia's knowledge of his business arrangement with Dybrovik. But when he had told her
about it, he had never dreamed that a situation like this would occur. But what she did with the information was another matter entirely. A worrisome matter.
about it, he had never dreamed that a situation like this would occur. But what she did with the information was another matter entirely. A worrisome matter.
The telephone rang, and Newman turned away from his musings at the window to answer it.
“Mr. Newman, this is the hotel operator. I have a Mr. Saratt from the United States who wishes to speak with you. Will you accept the call?”
“Yes, put him on,” Newman said.
“Kenneth, is that you?” Saratt's voice sounded hollow and very distant.
“Yes, it is, Paul, and I'm glad you called.”
“How is everything down there? I thought you were staying at the Vance-Ehrhardt estate.”
“They kicked me out, but it's a long story.”
“You'll have plenty of time to tell me all about it; you're going to have to come back here immediately.”
Alarms began jangling along Newman's nerves. “What is it, Paul?”
“TradeCon has just shown an incoming transfer of a very substantial amount. And I mean substantial.”
“Is he intending to go after the futures market already?”
“I would assume so, but it came out of the clear blue sky, without a word from him.”
What the hell was Dybrovik doing now? If it was merely a routine transfer of funds for grain already shipped, it would be one thing. But Saratt did not use “substantial” lightly.
“How much, Paul?”
“You sitting down?”
“Close to it.”
“Five hundred million.”
“Swiss francs?”
“Dollars.”
“Jesus.” Newman sank down on the edge of the chair. “He's serious.”
“Very,” Saratt said dryly. “So what do we do now?”
The big question. With that kind of money, Dybrovik apparently wanted all the futures bought on a cash basis, not on margin. Nearly unheard of. But complicating the affair was Lydia. She would be moving very soon either to establish a link with the Russians or to snap up all the corn futures as she could get her hands on. Fortunately, he had not told her the extent of the deal; otherwise she would have completely swallowed them up.
“Buy,” Newman said. It was the only answer.
“How much?” Saratt asked, excitement in his voice.
“Every bushel you can get your hands on.”
“Cash?”
“Cash, if need be, but take everything on margin you can get your hands on. We'll save the cash reserves.”
“In case he tries something funny?”
“Exactly.” The biggest complication of all was the likelihood that someone else would find out. A half-billion dollars was not moved about without attracting a lot of attention. Someone would be watching them now, and watching them very closely.
“When are you and Lydia coming home?”
“Lydia's staying here. She's taken over the business until her father is returned.”
“I'm sorry,” Saratt said after a slight pause. “Has there been any word yet?”
“None. But they want me out of Buenos Aires.”
“Maybe it'd be for the best, Kenneth. I don't think
Argentina is a particularly safe place for you to be at the moment.”
Argentina is a particularly safe place for you to be at the moment.”
“I agree. But I want you to stay there and do what you can with the Chicago market.”
“How about you?”
“I'm going to Geneva to find out what the hell is going on.”
“When?”
“Probably first thing in the morning, depending upon what happens or doesn't happen down here.”
Again Saratt hesitated a moment. “Be careful, Kenneth.”
“I will,” Newman said. “I'll call from Geneva.”
“Be careful,” Saratt said one last time, and he hung up.
Newman was about to go back to the window when Evans came in from the adjoining room, a concerned look on his face. He went directly to the television set and switched it on.
“You'd better see this, sir,” he said. “It just started a minute or so ago.”
“Vance-Ehrhardt?” Newman asked.
Evans nodded. “It was a recording of the old man's voice, from what I understood, along with a ransom demand.”
A picture came on, and the sound came up. A serious-faced announcer seated behind a desk was saying something in Spanish about the continuing police efforts, under the capable leadership of Reynaldo Perés. Then the photograph of Jorge Vance-Ehrhardt filled the screen, and his familiar voice began speaking. It sounded raspy, as if he was very tired, or perhaps on some sort of drug.
“Peoples of Argentina, I have done you wrong. My company has done you a terrible injustice. It is a thing that can never be completely forgiven. But my generous captors have shown me a way to make up for my crimes. This act will, of course, in no way expunge my evil, nor do I beg now for forgiveness, or even mercy.”
It wasn't Jorge speaking, or at least it wasn't the man Newman had known for years. Whatever they had done to him made him sound lifeless, wooden. And he was obviously reading from a prepared script, because he never talked that way.
“I instruct my directors to use one hundred million dollars of Company funds, in U.S. currency, to purchase gold on the open market. Half of that gold shall be spent to purchase food, medical supplies, and farm equipment for our peasants on the pampas. Those glorious, toiling workers, from whom I have profited by grinding their bodies into the dust of the earth, shall be rewarded.
“The second half of the gold must be deposited in the account of the Argentine Liberation Army at the National Bank of Libya in Tripoli. The money will be used to finance Argentine freedom fighters, who will very soon be coming to liberate our homeland from the oppressive yoke of imperialism.”
Newman grabbed the phone. When the operator came on the line, he had her place a call to Duluth. While he was waiting for it to go through, he watched the television.
“I am sorry for my sins,” Vance-Ehrhardt was saying. “And even though I am a criminal in the eyes of my people, I will be allowed to return to my home and my loved ones if the simple demands I have stated are met
within seventy-two hours.”
within seventy-two hours.”
Vance-Ehrhardt's photograph was replaced on the screen by Captain Perés standing outside the police building. He was surrounded by reporters.
“What is being done at this moment, sir?” one of the newsmen asked.
“We are doing everything within our power to track down and apprehend these reprehensible criminals,” Perés said with a flourish. “Although I cannot, for natters of security, disclose the exact progress of our case, I can assure you that we are close, very close ndeed, to making an arrest ⦠.”
“I have your party on the line, Mr. Newman,” the hotel operator said.
Newman turned away from the television. “Paul?”
“It's me,” Saratt said. “The Vance-Ehrhardt thing is on the TV. CBS has picked it up.”
“I want you to be on the lookout for a Vance-Ehrhardt mass purchase,” Newman said, and he could hear Saratt catching his breath.
“That's shitty business, Kenneth, if you're planning what I think you are.”
“I want them blocked, Paul. At every avenue, I want them outbid.”
“Kicking them when they're down? What the hell is happening to you down there?”
On the television Perés was still talking with the newspeople. “Listen to what I have to tell you, without comment. And when I'm finished, I want you to get to work immediately.”
“I understand.”
“In Washington, Lundgren wouldn't give me a thing.”
“I figured as much.”
“However, Lydia also went to Grainex for the information.”
“I hope you're not going to tell me what I think you're going to tell me.”
“I told her, Paul. Not everything. Not the extent of the deal, but I told her.”
“Jesus, hell, and Christ!” Saratt shouted in frustration.
“She's calling the shots now. I want her blocked.”
“It may be too late.”
“I don't think so. We have the available funds now, and Vance-Ehrhardt is going to be cash poor if they meet the ransom demands.”
“And if we get caught short?”
“Buy it all on margin. They don't care as long as we can deliver.”
“You're putting us way the hell out on a limb, Kenneth!”
Newman laughed. “Haven't we always lived dangerously?”
“I'll do what I can from this end,” Saratt said.
Newman hung up. Perés seemed to look directly at him from the television screen, a feral grin on his lips.
“There are a number of curious elements to this businessâinternational elementsâthat we are vigorously working on. And I promise you that we will leave no stone unturned in our efforts to return the Vance-Ehrhardts to their loved ones, and to the nation.”
The newscaster was back, and behind him was an aerial photograph of the Vance-Ehrhardt estate, with arrows pointing to the routes the terrorists had apparently used to gain entry and return to the airstrip.
“Mr. Newman,” Evans said, and Newman looked away from the television. “We're leaving in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Very good, sir. I spoke with Mr. Coatsworth, and he suggested in the strongest of terms that, until you leave the country, you not move from the hotel nor allow any visitors up here.”
“I can't guarantee any of that, but we will be leaving.”
“Back to the States?”
“Geneva, Switzerland.”
“Very good, sir,” the man said, and the doorbell chimed. He immediately pulled out his automatic, flipping the safety off and levering a round in the chamber.
Humphrey stuck his head in the doorway, his gun in hand. “Are you expecting anyone, sir?”
Newman shook his head.
“Then please stand back,” he said, and he motioned for his partner to go to the door.
The doorbell rang again. “Kenneth?” a woman's voice said from out in the corridor. It was Lydia.
“It's my wife,” Newman said, starting forward. “Let her in.”
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