Read Online Heartland by David Hagberg - Free Book Online Page B

should do.”
    â€œWe don’t do business that way.”
    Saratt grinned. “I didn’t think so, but I put a loose watch on her to see if she heads to Geneva. So far, she hasn’t moved.”
    â€œWhen did Dybrovik come out?”
    â€œNo one seems to know, although I didn’t push it too hard. Things like this have a tendency to get out, and then we’d have half the world on our tails, especially the Georges Andre crowd.”
    â€œI don’t want that. It’ll probably get out fast enough as it is,” Newman said. “How about State?”

    â€œNot a thing from Washington, which also strikes a strange note.”
    â€œGood. Lundgren’s one idiot I’d just as soon keep as far away as possible. We’ll backtrack later for licenses if and when we make a deal with Dybrovik. Anything else I should know about?”
    â€œBrezhnev is sick again. He’ll probably be out within the next six months.”
    â€œWe were told that three years ago, and the old goat is still going strong.”
    â€œNot this time, Kenneth. He hasn’t been seen anywhere.”
    Newman thought about that for several moments. “We’ll just have to watch our backs, then, on anything long range. Let’s stay beyond a hundred and twenty days. If Brezhnev steps down, there’s no telling what his successor might do with existing agreements.”
    â€œEspecially if it’s Andropov.”
    With those remarks in mind, Newman hunched up his coat collar and headed away from the hotel, which was on the Quai Mont Blanc, facing the inner harbor, and worked his way to the main post office.
    He had telephoned the depositors’ special night number at Eurobank, giving his name and the telex number, and had received the instruction to proceed on foot alone to the main post office just off the Rue des Alpes at 10:00 P.M.
    It was nearly that time now, and as Newman walked he went over everything Saratt had told him, as well as what he knew about the Russian he was to meet. But ever present at the back of his mind was Lydia, and guilt that he had left her alone on their honeymoon. A shaky beginning to a difficult marriage; it did not portend a
rosy future.
    There was very little traffic, and even fewer pedestrians, because it was late, the weather was rotten, and the real tourist season had not yet begun. Geneva, besides being a business center, is a tourist town in July and August. In the off-season it resumes its usual Swiss flavor: quiet and somewhat stodgy.
    The post office was housed in a large, very ornate building. As Newman approached the front entrance, guarded by twin lions flanking the stairs, and gargoyles above, a black Citroën DS 19 pulled up to the curb beside Newman. The rear door came open.
    Newman looked both ways up the street. There was no one else in sight, no cars or buses or people.
    â€œIt is I,” Dybrovik’s voice came from the dark interior of the sedan.
    Newman climbed into the back seat beside the Russian, who reached across and pulled the door shut. Immediately the driver pulled away, turned the corner at the end of the block, and headed toward the Cornavin main railway station.
    â€œSo,” Dybrovik began, “you received my message, you were intrigued, and you came. All despite my understanding it is your honeymoon.” There seemed to be a sadness about the Russian. His manner was not as light as Newman remembered it.
    â€œAt this time tomorrow evening, I will have returned to my wife,” Newman said evenly.
    â€œA time limit he now imposes,” Dybrovik guffawed. But before Newman could reply, he went on, “It is just as well. When men like us gather, it is not very long before the wolves begin snapping at our heels.”
    â€œYou are expecting surpluses and you want to sell grain,” Newman said, taking a stab in the dark.

    Even in the darkened interior of the car, Newman could see something flash in the