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Authors: David Hagberg

Heartland (18 page)

BOOK: Heartland
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Evans motioned him back. “Just a moment, sir.” He went to the door and opened it slightly.
“Is my husband here?” Lydia demanded.
“Are you alone, ma'am?”
“Open this goddamned door, I have to see him!” Lydia shouted.
The bodyguard glanced back at Newman, who nodded, and he opened the door. She stormed in.
“Get out. I want to be alone with my husband.”
Newman nodded. His bodyguards went back into
their own room and reluctantly shut the door.
“You have to get out of Buenos Aires immediately, Kenneth,” she said.
“I'm leaving in the morning,” he said, staring at her. She was beautiful, and he ached at the thought of her, and what they were doing to each other.
“No, you must leave now. I've telephoned Jacob to have your plane ready for you. By the time you get out to the airport, the crew will be waiting.”
“I'm sorry about your father …” Newman began.
“Goddamn it, Kenneth, listen to me! You have to leave.”
“Why?”
Lydia glanced toward the door to the other room and lowered her voice. “Perés doesn't have a clue as to what's going on, but he thinks that you're behind it somehow.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Of course not,” she said. “But Perés does, and he's going to make you his scapegoat.”
“I don't understand.”
“Ever since the Malvinas fight, the government has been insane to find some way in which to strike back at Americans. You're here now, and a perfect target.”
“I'm going to be arrested?”
“He's going to have you assassinated.”
“He'd never get away with it.”
“He'll get away with anything he wants right now. The mood of my people is very bad.”
“I'm not leaving without you.”
“Don't be a fool. I have to stay here until my parents are released. Until this entire mess is cleaned up.”
Newman, at that moment, saw a side to Lydia he
didn't particularly care for. It didn't seem to matter to her if her parents were released alive or killed; all that mattered was clearing up the mess so that business could be brought back to normal.
“Simon can take over,” Newman said.
“Simon is an old fool,” Lydia snapped. “I want you out of here this evening.”
“And if I don't go? If I remain here to help? Or wait for you?”
Her left eyebrow rose. “Then Vance-Ehrhardt will crush the Newman Company, and there will be little if anything for you to return to, if you survive.”
“Lydia …” Newman started toward her, but she cut him off with an imperious toss of her head.
“Stay or go, Kenneth, I don't really give a damn. Stay, and you probably will be assassinated. Go, and at least you will have a fighting chance to save your business.”
She turned on her heel and left the room before Newman could stop her, leaving him with the feeling that he hadn't really tried with her. The Lydia Vance-Ehrhardt who had just left wasn't the woman he had married. Or was she?
 
It was dark when Newman and his bodyguards went down to the basement garage where they met Jacob, the steward from Newman's aircraft, standing by a blue Ford LTD. The man was obviously frightened.
“There have been police around the airport all afternoon,” he said.
“Did they say anything to you?”
“No, sir, they just sit there and watch. We're cleared to leave as soon as you're on board.”
“If it's true that Perés is going to try for you, it may happen out at the airport,” Evans said.
“I don't think so,” Newman said. “His uniformed officers won't do it. He'll have someone else pull the trigger, so that he can make a big show of going after the killer. If I can get out to the airport, in plain sight of his men, they'll have to let me go.”
“We can't take this car, then,” Jacob said, gesturing toward the LTD. “They know that I've come to pick you up. And they'll recognize the car you've been using.”
“We'll have to borrow another one,” Newman said, looking around the nearly full garage. “How are you gentlemen at hot wiring?”
The bodyguards smiled. Within five minutes they had found an unlocked Mercedes sedan and started the engine.
Newman and Jacob climbed in the back and ducked down so that they would not be visible from outside. They got away from the hotel without incident.
“Anyone following us yet?” Newman asked.
“No, sir,” Humphrey said, and Newman and Jacob sat up.
“We'll be all right until this car is discovered missing,” Newman said, looking out the rear window. “As soon as it's called to the police, Perés will know what happened.”
“That'll take time. We'll be at the airport within a half-hour,” Humphrey said.
They passed the Vance-Ehrhardt Building in the heavy evening traffic, and Newman looked up at it. Lydia was up there working. He had the gut feeling that he would never see her again. Once this was over, their
marriage would be finished. And behind it all was Dybrovik.
No one stopped them or followed them, and within half an hour they were beside the Newman Company aircraft parked at the business aviation terminal.
There were several police cars parked alongside the building, with half a dozen officers on the rooftop observation platform.
Newman hurried up the boarding stairs, the engines coming to life even before he was strapped down. Jacob closed and dogged the hatch, and they headed out the taxiway. Within five minutes they were airborne, the city lights of Buenos Aires falling behind them. Lydia was down there girding the Vance-Ehrhardt empire for battle, while her parents were held captive and other desperate men spun out their own plans.
Newman arrived at the Banque de Genève a few minutes after two on Thursday, without an appointment.
It had rained all week in Geneva, and the mood of the city was dark, almost as if the Swiss somehow understood that they were a party to a world food war, much as they were a party to the oil war with their management of Arab petrodollars. The dollar figures in the grain trade were not as large as in the oil market. Oil money regularly came in denominations in the billions, but the overall effect (although there were very few who understood it) was greater. A bushel of wheat or corn, in the last analysis, had a greater bearing on the well-being of the human race than a barrel of oil.
The mood of the city suited Newman so well, however, that he hadn't even noticed the offhand surliness
of the airport attendants, or the unusual reserve of the desk manager at the Hotel Beau Rivage.
The bank was housed in a nondescript, four-story yellow-brick building, with barred windows and a small brass plaque at the front door the only signs that it was not merely an apartment house. Just within the door was a small vestibule that smelled of varnish and fresh paste wax, its polished brass coathooks gleaming in the gray light from a line of frosted-glass windows above.
Straight ahead, down a short, high-ceilinged hallway, was a wooden door with a brass plaque marked PRIVATE; to the left an open doorway led into a very small reception room, which was equipped with a tiny desk and a staid-looking man in morning clothes and gold pince-nez. He looked up as Newman came in.
“I would like a word with Monsieur Montillier,” Newman said.
The receptionist sniffed disapprovingly. “I am dreadfully afraid that would be impossible, unless, of course, you have an appointment, Mr … .”
“Tell him it is Mr. Kenneth Newman. I am a principal officer of TradeCon, Limited.”
He stared down at the receptionist until the man got slowly to his feet.
“If you will be so kind as to wait for just a moment, I will see if Monsieur Montillier is available,” the receptionist said ponderously as he left through the door behind his desk.
Within less than a minute the man was back. He ushered Newman through the door, down a very narrow corridor, and up a half-flight of stairs to a large office at the rear of the building. It was furnished with a Louis XIV desk, ornately carved and gilded, a matching
armoire, and several glass-fronted bookcases. A massive globe of the world on heavy wooden gimbals was set in front of a tall leaded-glass window.
Armand Montillier, the managing director of the bank, was a small, dapper man, dressed like the receptionist in a dark coat, pin-striped trousers, wing-collared shirt, and black French cravat. His hair was totally white, as was his narrow goatee, which made him look for all the world like a Swiss version of Kentucky Fried Chicken's Colonel Sanders.
A dangerous illusion, Newman thought as Montillier rose, extending his hand across the desk. The man controlled billions of dollars in deposits.
“Mr. Newman, so good of you to stop by to see us,” he said, his voice soft, his English Oxford.
Newman shook his hand. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” There were a couple of Renoirs on the walls, each with its own ceiling-mounted spotlight. The books within the ornate cases were all leather bound, stamped in gold, and probably rare editions. A Persian carpet covered a large portion of the highly polished wood floor.
Montillier smiled. “For a valued client my door is always open. May I offer you some coffee, perhaps a little wine or cognac?”
“Cognac would be nice, if it's not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all, I assure you,” Montillier said, and he poured them both a drink. “And now, if you would like to have a seat, we may commence whatever business has brought you here,” the banker said, again smiling. “Although I suspect it may have something to do with the Eurobank transfer of funds to your TradeCon account.”
Newman sat down and took a delicate sip of the fine brandy.
“I would like to see the status of my account, with daily balance tabulations for the past thirty days.”
“Of course,” Montillier said. He picked up his telephone and said something into it so softly that Newman could not hear him. “Those figures will be here momentarily. Is there something amiss, perhaps, something you would wish to change?”
“No,” Newman said. “On the contrary, I continue to be pleased with the services of your fine institution.”
Montillier nodded. “Then you wish, perhaps, investment advice?”
Newman sat forward. “What I wish most for is discretion, monsieur. Absolute discretion.”
Montillier reacted as if Newman had slapped him in the face. The color left his cheeks, and it seemed for a moment as if he was having difficulty catching his breath.
The door opened, and the receptionist entered and laid a buff-colored folder on the desk, then turned and left, giving no indication that he had noticed anything wrong with Montillier.
“I am wounded, monsieur …” Montillier began, but Newman interrupted him.
“If I may see my daily balances?”
The banker held Newman's gaze a moment or two longer, then picked up the file, opened it, scanned the figures, and passed it across.
“If, in any way, you have been dissatisfied with our services, I would be more than happy to.look into your specific complaints.”
“On the contrary,” Newman said, looking over the
tabulations. “I am, and I continue to be, very happy with our arrangement here, as I have already said.” The daily balances in the TradeCon account had risen from a start of slightly more than $350,000 to an average high of around $20 million, until two days ago. Then a Eurobank transfer of funds totaling $507 million had come in from a numbered account.
Newman closed the file and laid it back on the desk, then took a drink of his cognac. There had been no mistake. The money was there. The numbered account was Dybrovik's, or rather a blind account of Exportkhleb's; Newman had recognized the number.
“You are familiar with my business dealings, monsieur,” Newman began. “And I trust that you are satisfied that I am indeed a legitimate businessman.”
“Again I am wounded, Newman. There has never been the slightest question as to your integrity where it concerns Swiss law—for that is what we are talking about here—and I shall confine myself to that issue and no other.”
Swiss laws were very harsh; their most stringent federal statutes dealt with the area of secrecy. For any bank employee or officer to divulge the status of even the smallest account to anyone—absolutely anyone, including government representatives—was punishable not only by instant dismissal, but by fines of $10,000 and more, and imprisonment for as long as twenty years.
“That is comforting, monsieur, but no less than I expected,” Newman said. “There could be a problem in the future. I want to make you aware of it.”
“I am at your complete disposal.”
“Very soon there will be a great deal of activity within
the TradeCon account. The Eurobank transfer is only the beginning.”
“I see,” Montillier said, clasping his hands in front of him on the desk. “Please continue.”
“This activity will take the form of numerous and often quite large transfers of funds, many of which will be from outside Switzerland. Your discretion, monsieur, has never been in question in my mind. However, there are those who pride themselves on a certain ability to deduce active business arrangements merely from the frequency of fund transfers.”
Montillier smiled thinly. “I understand perfectly, Mr. Newman. Let me assure you that each and every payment to, or debit from, your account will be handled on a highly personal basis. No matter the number or the frequency. The sheer act of transfer shall be kept as confidential as the actual status of your account, or indeed its very existence.”
Newman finished his cognac and set the glass down. “Then my business here today is concluded.” He got to his feet, and the banker followed suit.
Newman had no illusions about Swiss law, or any other law for that matter. When the stakes became high enough, some would be willing to bend or break the rules. Swiss law was inviolate only in Switzerland. If a man—Montillier, perhaps—was willing to abandon his position here in Switzerland, say for something in Buenos Aires, he could do it, providing he was not intercepted before leaving this country.
All Newman had done today—the only thing he had hoped to do, besides making absolutely sure the Eurobank transfer had actually occurred—was to put Montillier on notice that TradeCon would be watched,
and watched very closely, for any irregularities. If anything should come up, Newman had told Montillier in effect that he would go straight to the Swiss authorities.
“I am so happy that you spoke with me about a matter of such concern to you. Again let me assure you that you may have the utmost confidence with us.”
“I do,” Newman said. They shook hands.
Back downstairs, the receptionist showed him out the door. It was still raining.
 
It was late, nearly ten o'clock in the evening, and still misty, when Newman drove his rented car off the lakeshore highway just past Coppet and stopped at the beginning of the narrow gravel driveway. Behind him, the headlights of the second car bounced up the road and swung directly on him as he got out and walked back.
Evans cranked down his window. “What is this place, Mr. Newman?”
“This is as far as you go. About a hundred yards farther up is the house.”
“We'll follow you.”
“No, you won't,” Newman said. “I won't be long. A half-hour at the most. Probably less. The place is crawling with security people.”
The two bodyguards looked at each other. “You're making it very difficult for us to do our job, sir.”
“Can't be helped,” Newman said. “Turn your car around and wait here.”
“What if someone comes?”
“Stop them, find out who they are, and let them pass.”
“A half-hour?”
“Probably less,” Newman said. He went back to his car, continued down the driveway, and stopped in front of the house Dybrovik was using as his headquarters.
There were several Mercedes, a Citroën, and a couple of small Ford Cortinas parked out front and around the side. The house was lit up like a Christmas tree.
As Newman pulled up, a heavily built man in a dark suit came down from the porch. He frisked Newman the moment he stepped out of the car.
Newman wondered how the Russians were getting away with something like this. It would not be possible in the States, but then the Swiss had a habit of turning a blind eye to anything that was financial in nature.
“He is waiting inside for you,” the man said, his English guttural.
Dybrovik, his shirt sleeves rolled up, came into the main hallway, clutching a thick sheaf of papers. He was not smiling.
“What brings you out here tonight?” he asked.
Newman had called earlier to make the appointment. Dybrovik had hesitated before agreeing.
“We have to talk.”
“Is something wrong? There is not enough money? You are having trouble with purchases or shipping?”
“We have to talk. In private, Dybrovik. No microphones, no listeners.”
Dybrovik looked at him as if he were speaking nonsense. “Don't cause me such worry, Kenneth. If there is a problem, tell it to me straight out, and let's see if we cannot come up with a solution.”
Newman said nothing.
Dybrovik began to squirm. “Everything we do here, Kenneth, is being recorded. Even now our conversation
is on tape. Please, you cannot do this to me … to our arrangement. Is it not profitable, as I promised?”
Newman jerked his head toward the front door. Dybrovik's gaze flickered that way, and he nodded.
“I wanted to make sure that you will continue transferring funds into my TradeCon account.”
“We have passed more than five hundred million dollars over.”
“The amount of grain we are purchasing will amount to four times that, probably more by the time we are finished.”
“And you have come here seeking assurances?” Dybrovik asked. He laughed. “Is that all?”
“Basically.”
“You have them. You have my personal word.”
Newman again nodded toward the front door.
“And now I must return to my work. As you know, Soviet ports alone can handle less than fifty million tons of grain per year. We are working very hard at this moment to set up alternate receiving centers and storage areas. It is not easy. But let me walk you to your car.”
BOOK: Heartland
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