Free Heartland by David Hagberg Page B

have an answer?”
    â€œWithin twenty-four hours.”
    â€œThat’s acceptable. In any event, it will take me longer than that to begin.”
    â€œThe second condition?” Dybrovik asked.
    â€œMuch of the corn I will be selling you will be in the form of futures, naturally, but a significant portion is already dried and in storage.”
    Dybrovik said nothing.
    â€œI will want the majority of your grain moved immediately to the Soviet Union.”
    â€œIf we were to resell the corn at a later date, we would pass the cost of transportation on to the end user.”
    â€œI assure you, there will be excessive storage charges at my end if it is not moved.”
    Dybrovik turned away again. “We will accept fifty percent of the corn now in storage, and negotiate later on movement of the futures as they come in.”
    â€œNinety percent and negotiate on the futures within thirty days.”
    â€œSeventy-five percent,” Dybrovik said. “And that is my top. But I will agree to on-the-spot negotiations for the futures.”
    It was Newman’s turn to keep silent. It was better than he had hoped for. They both understood that
storage the world over was at a premium. When the bins were full, the corn would have to be stored either in railroad cars or on the ground. Bad weather would ruin millions of dollars’ worth of grain. Storage was, simply put, the biggest headache of the business. Dybrovik had agreed to shoulder the lion’s share of that problem.
    â€œIs it a deal?” Dybrovik asked.
    â€œContingent on your answer about the resale price.”
    â€œYou will have your answer tomorrow. But if it is a no?”
    â€œI’ll have to think about that.”
    â€œFurther negotiations would be possible, I would assume. If not, I would have to approach someone else.”
    â€œLike Georges André?” Newman said, again getting to his feet. “I think not. They would run you around in circles, if they would deal with you at all.”
    â€œThen your father-in-law.”
    Newman smiled. “I don’t think he could keep it quiet.”
    â€œProbably not,” Dybrovik said. He finished his drink. “Where may I contact you tomorrow?”
    â€œThrough Abex, as before,” Newman said. “You mentioned that this place will become your operational headquarters?”
    Dybrovik nodded. “Communications equipment will be brought in tomorrow, and my staff will be arriving by evening. But it will take a week or perhaps ten days before everything is ready at this end.”
    â€œVery good,” Newman said. “We may have a deal, then, depending upon what your government has to say tomorrow.”
    â€œExcellent,” Dybrovik said, and they shook hands,
which in the grain business was all the contract needed.
    â€œAnd now, if you would ring your driver, I’d like to return to my hotel.”
    Â 
    Alone again, Dybrovik stood by the window in the hall, watching Newman climb into the back seat of the Citroën. A great, almost overwhelming sadness overcame him. On the one hand, he wanted very much to be a man such as Kenneth Newman. A free-wheeling spirit who was at home in all the capitals of the Western world. But he was already beginning to miss Moscow.
    He laid his forehead against the cool window as the Citroen pulled away from the house, and watched its taillights disappear into the darkness.
    Newman would return to Monaco, to his wedding bed. Within a few days he would be back in Duluth, Minnesota, one of the major American grain ports, at work on his deal. The deal of his life. A deal so mammoth that its international repercussions would certainly last for years … even without whatever it was the little man had in mind.
    He turned away from the window finally, went back into the drawing room, poured himself a stiff shot of the Glenlivet he had been drinking most of the night, and sat down on the couch with a