Free Heartland by David Hagberg Page A

much?”
    Dybrovik shrugged. “Ten million tons. Twenty million. Thirty.”
    â€œLarge numbers,” Newman said cautiously, although his blood was beginning to race.
    â€œPerhaps larger.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    Dybrovik took another large swallow of his drink, then set the glass down. “We want to purchase, in absolute secrecy, as much corn as you can possibly supply us.”
    â€œWhat is the limit?”
    â€œThere is no limit.”
    Newman carefully held himself in check. “A hundred million metric tons?”

    â€œMore, if you can get it.”
    â€œAt what price?”
    Dybrovik laughed. “At the prevailing market price. But of course it must be done in secret, so your purchases will not inflate unit costs.”
    â€œNot until later, when the information is leaked by your government,” Newman said, getting to his feet. “You’ll buy on margin, drive the price up, and resell, as you did in the seventies.”
    â€œWe will purchase on margin if we can,” Dybrovik said unperturbed. “We will pay cash for the futures if need be. It is negotiable.”
    â€œYou will guarantee that the grain is for internal consumption?”
    â€œIf you are asking me, internal to the Soviet Union, I cannot answer that with any degree of certainty. If you are speaking, internal to our Warsaw Pact nations, I can give you a qualified yes.”
    This was all wrong. Newman knew it; he could feel it thick in the air between him and the Russian. And yet it was food they were speaking of here. Food that would ultimately be used to feed people. Cubans in addition to Albanians? South Africans in addition to Poles? Did it matter?
    â€œLicensing would be difficult if not impossible,” Newman said cautiously, but he could see the glimmerings of triumph on the Russian’s face. More psychology, or the real thing?
    â€œDifficult, yes, but not impossible given a proper infrastructure, which is your particular area of expertise.”
    Multilevel dummy corporations, shipping companies, elevator firms, railroad cars. Newman saw every bit of it
as one large picture, and it excited the hell out of him. It could be done. But what of the moral implications? What of the international ramifications? What of the political weapon a hundred million metric tons of corn could become? It was akin to selling the entire year’s output of oil from all the OPEC countries in one fell swoop.
    â€œIt’s a powerful thing you ask,” Newman said, sitting down.
    â€œIt would make you a wealthy man.”
    â€œI’m already wealthy,” Newman countered.
    Dybrovik smiled, his grin feral. “You hesitate. You are afraid, perhaps, of another market manipulation? Your people called it the Great Grain Robbery. Amusing.”
    â€œIt has crossed my mind.”
    Dybrovik laughed out loud. “Several dozen times in the last minute or two, no doubt. But so what, I ask you?”
    â€œNeither I nor any other Western grain company would do business with you again.”
    â€œI think that would not be the case, Mr. Kenneth Newman. I think not. Money, after all, is why you do what you do.”
    The remark offended Newman, all the more because it was true. Like all grainmen, Newman feared and resented government meddling in what they felt was one of the last truly free international enterprises. Yet Newman personally felt a deep moral responsibility toward people. Not merely Americans, but people the world over.
    â€œTwo conditions,” he said.
    Dybrovik’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded.

    â€œA ceiling is to be set on the unit price at which your government will ultimately sell its surplus grain.”
    â€œImpossible.”
    â€œJust outside the Warsaw Pact.”
    Dybrovik went back to the sideboard and poured himself another drink. “I would have to get approval from my government before I could agree to such a condition.”
    â€œHow soon could you