A Certain Kind of Power Read online

  “You mean media luna, that’s what they call croissants. They have a passion for renaming things. Go anywhere in the world, dip a chicken breast in egg yolk, roll it in breadcrumbs, fry it, and you have a schnitzel. Not here. Here it’s a milanesa. And it’s not a language thing either. Go anywhere in the Spanish-speaking world and a strawberry is a fresa. Here, it’s a frutilla. And nor does this unique ability limit itself to food. Take your Prince William for example. He gets off a plane here and now he’s Prince Guillermo.”

  “He’s not mine. But I take your point. I’ve noticed they also refuse to call a spade a spade.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that one,” said Mike, getting the attention of the waitress with a raised arm.

  They ordered tea and a few of the media lunas. Smaller, denser, and sweeter than a croissant, they were Mike’s favorite breakfast in a country that had failed to embrace the egg as a breakfast staple.

  “I see you’ve been building a media profile.”

  “You saw the article then.”

  The waitress arrived with two cups of tea. Hot milk with a tea bag lurking below the surface. Mike sent them back after explaining the tea-making process. The waitress stared without blinking before moving off and returning with two cups of hot water, two unopened teabags and a glass of cold milk. She dumped them on the table as if to say, “Make it yourself.” Mike prepared the teas.

  “As you would have read, I’ve suspended the project.” Quinn paused as if deciding whether to continue. He ruffled his hair with his hand and looked out the window. “Planning told me that there were no companies from Cordoba that were capable of building the project. I thought that if the company that Planning had put forward could do the work and there were no repercussions from other companies we’d be fine just qualifying one company. Planning assured us that there would be no issues if we were to move ahead with just the one bidder.”

  “So, why haven’t you then?”

  “We received the financial offers—offer, I should say. Technically, we have to accept the financial bid, but it would have bankrupted the whole project. The costs are around four hundred percent higher than we have budgeted for.” Quinn dipped his media luna in his tea. Mike looked on in disapproval.

  “That’s high, even considering inflation.”

  “The inflation line was my own thinking. Put a bit of pressure back on them. When you deal with these governments you can’t let them steamroll you. If I’m going to get this job done, I needed to set down a marker. Let them know that I can’t be pushed around.”

  “I’m not sure it was a smart move. If you piss these people off, they will shut the whole thing down. For good. You are dealing with the same people who defaulted on a hundred billion dollars of debt. And what did congress do? They stood and applauded. World opinion doesn’t cross the River Plate, Simon.”

  “They won’t shut us down. They need us more than I realized. We’ve been talking to Planning. We explained that there was no way we could go ahead with the quote that we had received. It would blow the economics of the whole project.”

  “And their response?” asked Mike through a mouthful of yellow pastry.

  “They said that costs were higher now because everything would have to be manufactured locally, that there were new import regulations that meant nothing could be brought in from abroad.”

  “It’s an anti-inflation measure. They are trying to stop dollars going overseas so they’ve banned the importation of anything that can be made locally. Unfortunately, they believe they can make anything. Including Thai chili sauce as I found out on Saturday. There’s a bloke making it out in Mendoza.” Mike’s tone made it sound as if this was a greater problem than Simon’s.

  Unoffended, Simon continued. “That’s what they said, they are combatting inflation, they need us to do our part, for the good of the country. Even if you manufactured the whole thing here, that doesn’t explain these prices. We ran the numbers. The profit alone for the construction company would have been near enough to 150 million dollars. The entire IDB loan,” Quinn added though it wasn’t necessary. He put his cup down, a full stop on his point and stared at Mike.

  “Planning’s view is that I am making a big deal out of nothing, that I needed to understand how things work in Argentina. They let it be known that if I reopened the tender, no questions asked, I would be looked after.”

  “They said that? Looked after?”

  “They said I was in a country of abundance. Said there was plenty to go around. It was clear enough.”

  “Are you open to that?”

  “If they were willing to reduce the tender prices. Why not? Once the project is built we’ll be printing money. We’d recover any additional costs in no time. Problem is, with what they are asking now I will never get it built.”

  It was always the economics, never the morals. If the numbers made sense the ethics could always be massaged. In Quinn’s situation it was the easiest option. Take a piece of the pie, the government gets what they want, and Quinn would get his railroad built.

  “I don’t recommend going down that path,” Mike said.

  “I am going to see what Planning comes back with. They’ll cave and resubmit new prices.”

  Mike arched his eyebrows. On the list of the top-hundred things that were unlikely to happen, the Argentine government caving into Simon Quinn was number two or three. Mike fucking Gabriela Sabatini was number one.

  Mike felt an anger begin to simmer. Not at Quinn, at Alex. Why would Alex expect that Quinn could get this project done playing it straight? That’s how things were done here. Inflate the prices and skim the cream. Alex knew that. That is what Mike wanted to tell Quinn. Jump in! Grease their fucking palms, graft away, take your piece, it’s your only fucking hope! But he stayed silent.

  “I will see this out for as long as it runs, Mike. Quitting is not an option. I didn’t tell my boss that we only qualified one bidder. If I go, Head Office will review what I have been doing here. They will go after me for sure. Corruption is not part of the corporate culture,” he added.

  Before Mike could speak Quinn cut him off.

  “I have to make this work. And to make it work I need to know what is going on inside the Planning Ministry.”

  “I’ll be happy to help. But I need you to keep your head down, Simon. No more press releases. If you want me to do this for you then the less attention on us the better.”

  “Whatever you say, Mike, but I want my money’s worth this time. I want everything you can get on the minister. And if he so much as farts in my direction I want to know what it smells like. Got that?”

  “You’ll even know how loud it was,” Mike promised.

  Spying on the minister of planning had not been on Mike’s to do list that morning, but if it was the only way to stay close to Simon Quinn then he would find a way.

  CHAPTER 14

  The armchair retained the impression of the Doctor’s ample ass. The black leather was worn from use and the arms were tattooed with the overlapping, ringed stains of the thousand saucer-less cups that had been rested on them. With the two matching armchairs, floral throw rug, outdated television with a thick layer of dust on the screen and extensive library with shelves that ran the length of the wall, the room stood as testimony to a life without children and of a couple who had settled into a familiarity that Mike would never know.

  It was a strange setting for the discussion he needed to have. But what setting would have been appropriate to discuss the surveillance of a government minister? In any other country even the idea of doing so would be in the realms of the fantastic. Here it was not only believable but possible. If the money was right there would always be somebody willing to assume the risk.

  Mike’s visit had been unannounced. After a quick, surprised greeting, a kiss on the cheek, the Doctor had retreated into the back of his house to search for more appropriate dress than the tartan dressing gown in which he had opened the door.

  By the armchair,
with its cushioned seat in no hurry to retake its form, next to the ubiquitous mate gourd and thermos, a book lay face down on the carved surface of a stained wooden table. Mike leant forward in his chair in an unsuccessful effort to make out the upside-down title written in inlaid gold print on the light-blue cover. Inching further forward he picked up the book and hauled it in for closer inspection. Careful not to lose the Doctor’s page he examined the cover. A History of British Naval Battles 1785–1805. He flicked through the well-read pages, words and phrases had been underlined in lead pencil. Riveting, he thought.

  He turned to the inside jacket. In careful writing in the top-right corner of the first page, “Julian Martinelli” was written. Below, an inscription:

  To My Dear Friend, Julian. I hope this volume serves as a reminder that in life, as in the navy, we should always remember to pick our battles wisely.

  Sincerely, Jeffrey Wainwright.

  The name was familiar to Mike. Wainwright had been the British Defense Attaché in Buenos Aires several years back. Mike had met him at a few embassy events before Wainwright was sent home following an indiscretion with an embassy secretary. Mike leant forward and replaced the book on the table as the Doctor entered the room.

  “I didn’t know you were friends with Jeffrey Wainwright,” said Mike.

  “Wainwright? One of the world’s great bastards, Mike. No friend of mine. That was not a gift. More a facetious threat. I had just published an article on lessons from the Malvinas war. The Brits considered it an attempt to incite nationalistic feeling. A few days later I received that at my office. My immediate thought was to send it back, but it’s a first edition, hard to come by.”

  “You thanked him I presume?”

  “Of course. Well I tried to. Before I could, the embassy received an anonymous tip-off that Wainwright had been dallying with his secretary. A gorgeous young thing, much too young for Jeffrey, and photogenic. Even through a bedroom window at night. It got some press at the time and was all of a bit of a mystery to be honest.” The Doctor’s smug grin told Mike that it was anything but a mystery.

  “Reliving old memories?” asked Mike, pointing to the book.

  “No, I’m translating it. I intend to make a gift of my translated version to the Argentine Maritime Museum. Sadly, we are very short on our own successful naval battles and there are lessons to be learned from the British.” The Doctor scooped up the book and returned it to the bookshelf.

  “Translating?” Mike had never heard the Doctor speak English.

  “As you know, I don’t really speak English. But I can understand it written.”

  Mike tried not to appear skeptical. It was a claim he often heard from those embarrassed by their lack of English.

  “I hope I will receive a copy when it’s done.”

  “First on the list, I promise. But you didn’t come here to discuss British naval history, or did you?” asked the Doctor, raising an eyebrow.

  “Indeed, I did not. I did want to ask how you were getting along with the prostate case. I forgot to ask when we caught up last.”

  “Where was I, last time we spoke?”

  “You were trying to convince the kids to pay up.”

  “Ah yes, well that went nowhere. Idiots. They didn’t want to spend ten thousand pesos, so I had to find someone who would.”

  “You bankrolled it yourself?”

  “No. I went to the bastard child. She was a smart one. For her it was a no brainer, invest ten thousand pesos to make God knows how much. You should have seen her face, she thought I was Willy Winka come to save her from a life of poverty and abandonment.”

  “Wonka,” Mike corrected.

  “Yes, Willy Wonka, of course. In the end a satisfactory result. And no more favors, I can assure you.”

  “How have you explained this to the kids? They must be livid.”

  “Not at all. I kept my word. I destroyed the sample. The old man has departed from this earth. All of him.”

  “You said—”

  “I said that the bastard child paid the money to pay the nurse. Unfortunately, for her, and this is unfortunate, the prostate didn’t come back a match. It appears that her mother had lied to her all these years. She was quite upset.”

  “Or someone switched the prostates,” said Mike in disbelief.

  “Highly unlikely, Mike,” said the Doctor, without blinking. “Now, my turn to ask you something,” he said, moving on. “I read that MinEx has suspended the project. Don’t tell me that my friend Decoud has won the battle? We have kept up quite the correspondence since our meeting. Passionate fellow.”

  “Nothing to do with the environmentalists. They’re still being a nuisance, but not enough to stop the project.” Mike paused. “You’re not collaborating with them, are you? I know that you might consider making more trouble for MinEx as marketing. From my perspective, it would place me in a difficult position.”

  The Doctor uncrossed his legs and adjusted himself in his arm chair. “I can assure you that I would do no such thing. My correspondence with Mr. Decoud is of one concerned citizen to another. Any action he takes is of his own doing. Well, not completely. I am convinced he has someone on the inside of MinEx who is feeding him information.” Mike ignored the bait. He had no intention of chasing more shadows than the ones he already had.

  “There was an issue with the tender process.”

  “Inflation was the official reason. Though I have been around long enough to doubt any sentence containing the words ‘official’ and ‘inflation’.”

  “In this case, it’s accurate. It was inflation. The prices they received on the bid were inflated.”

  “All the bids?”

  “They only received one bid.”

  “Well played,” said the Doctor with what Mike sensed was a degree of nationalistic admiration.

  “They ran the numbers on the bid, using their own cost estimates. The net profit matches or is somewhat similar, to the total of the government loan.”

  “All is revealed,” said the Doctor. “MinEx has been lured to the Argentine to launder the IDB loan for our government. That is quite the conundrum. I must admit I haven’t seen this play before. It does show a nice evolution of procedure.”

  “You seem impressed,” said Mike.

  “One can only hope to see the country moving forward. Let’s face it, Mike, at their heart these are not new issues. You could trace it back to Spanish colonization if you wanted to go back that far. Better to start with Peron himself. Do you know when Argentina entered the Second World War? About a month before it ended. I know we have a reputation for tardiness, but six years? Why do you think that was?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Because neutrality was a lucrative business.

  “Peron was available to the highest bidder and rather than pick a winner early on he wanted to make sure he was on the winning side. So, he made promises and took money from both sides. The promises he never kept, the money he did. All squirreled away in a bank account in Switzerland.

  “After his death, some of his followers dug him up. In the dead of night, they crept into the Recoleta cemetery and exhumed his corpse. You know what they took? His hands! They lopped them both off. Why would they do this? I’ll tell you why, because all the money he had sent off to Switzerland was held in an account that could only be opened with Peron’s fingerprints.”

  “Why didn’t they just take the fingers?”

  “And risk losing one? Much more sensible to take two hands rather than ten fingers.”

  “What happened to the money?”

  The Doctor crossed his legs again and sat back, deep in his chair. “I’ve no idea. It’s probably still up there with the Santa Cruz funds. The point is, Peron never got to spend it. After the war, there was speculation that any money taken from the Germans was Jewish money, the Americans were looking for it, they felt guilty. They hadn’t been able to save Jewish lives; they wouldn’t make the same mistake with their gold. Too much attention. Peron could never cl
aim the money.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Everyone knows this, Mike,” said the Doctor, dismissing the question with a wave of his hand. “Exhibit B, Carlos Menem,” the Doctor said, moving his thesis along. “His play was a little different. He started out selling off state assets to his cronies. Lucrative work that didn’t interfere too much with the running of the country. Like all small men, Carlitos always felt he was bigger than the country that bore him. He wanted the world to know his greatness. He sought bigger and bigger gains. That’s how he got involved in selling arms to Ecuador. He wasn’t interested in the cash for the arms. He was interested in what he could gain in return for backing a winning side. He didn’t realize that the US were backing the other side. If they had backed the same side, no problem, as soon he opposed the US he was doomed.”

  “That was the only fact in his downfall. And it wasn’t just arms. There were the drugs. I think the whole region had an interest in stamping out that kind of activity,” said Mike, embarrassed by the sanctimony he heard in his own voice. It was the North American in him, the one that still made a token appearance every now and then.

  “And Mr. Oliver North?”

  “Ended up in jail.”

  “And has been forgotten by history. The aura of Carlitos lives on, and not because he was caught. He’s admired because ultimately, he has escaped punishment. We respect that. But that’s not my point.

  “My point is that our current administration has learnt these lessons well. They have stolen no more or no less from the country than those that have gone before. The methods are evolving. You will hear no stories of stashing war loot or selling arms to insurgents. This administration has made corruption boring. That is their legacy.”

  “Boring?” asked Mike.

  “Boring so as not to attract the attention of the US and your, I must say, hypocritical agents of good. An agency for every vice; drugs, weapons, terrorism, religion, ethics. This administration has focused their looting on the most boring, uninteresting, unwatched sectors out there. Public works.