Free Heartland by David Hagberg

Russian’s eyes. But it was gone, covered up as rapidly as it had come.
    â€œWe 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?”
    â€œIndeed.”
    â€œWhy me? Why like this?” Newman asked, still fishing.
    Dybrovik grinned. “The second question is so obvious, it demands no serious answer. But the first … well, then, that is serious. To that we shall speak at length. Soon.”
    â€œSoon? When? Where?”
    â€œDo 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œCognac or whiskey?” he asked.
    â€œCognac 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œSimply put, my government wishes to purchase corn.”
    Newman wasn’t quite sure he had heard the man correctly. “American corn?”
    â€œIt is of no consequence where it comes from.”
    â€œRoutine,” Newman said. “Why not just put through a simple order? Abex would have been pleased to handle it for you.”
    â€œYou do not understand yet, my friend, which is entirely my fault. We wish to purchase a lot of corn.”
    â€œHow