A Certain Kind of Power Read online

“It’s big money and it’s on sovereign territory, another plus. You build a road from Gualeguaychu to Trelew and you budget one billion pesos, the budget blows out to 1.2 billion and then 1.3 billion. Who’s watching? Who even knows where these places are? And who can tell how much it should cost? A bridge over the Paraná River, budgeted to cost four hundred million, extras and add-ons and adjustments and it comes in at four seventy-five million. Who cares? It’s a bloody bridge.

  “You land a small plane on the border of Venezuela and Colombia, unload a crate of weapons destined for the FARC and you’ve got more red flags than Mao’s funeral. A public-works budget for a road from nowhere to nowhere blows out by ten, fifteen, twenty percent? Who gives a shit? Maybe the road never even gets finished. Again, who’s going to care? That is what is brilliant about these assholes in power.”

  “So, how do you stop them?”

  “Unless somebody takes an interest in what they intend to spend their laundered funds on, you can’t. You must wait until the money runs out. The US are not coming to help. Luckily, it appears that the money is running out. And without cash, Peronism as a political force is nothing. So, what you are telling me makes sense. The government needs that money back from MinEx. MinEx is just an intermediary, a launderer of the bank loan. They weren’t counting on MinEx caring about the budget. Or they may have thought MinEx may be interested in getting some of that money back themselves. A la Skanska.”

  Mike nodded his head. “The client did suggest that an offer was made.”

  He saw now what the Doctor was saying. The play had evolved, now the prices would still be inflated, but the work was real, a railway would be built. It would just be expensive. Best of all, they weren’t skimming company money or government money. It was Inter-American Development Bank money; a victimless crime.

  Mike could hear the Doctor’s wife through the open door, busying about the kitchen.

  “And what makes you think they are running out of money now?”

  “The fights they are picking and the people who are picking fights with them. That tells me people are not getting paid.”

  “For example?” asked Mike.

  “For example, the British government and the Argentine navy. Articles are starting to appear about the Malvinas. Always a sure sign that the government is worried about things on the domestic front. This time it seems to have been triggered by the sinking of that boat in Santa Cruz carrying, or not carrying as the insurers claim, a cargo of gold.”

  Mike remembered the trouble that the Polar Mist was causing for Alex. His attempts to placate Lloyd’s of London were failing. The papers were calling it another case of the English impugning Argentina’s international reputation.

  “The English claiming something that is not theirs. It’s a narrative that plays well down here. The government embellish a bit, throw out some smoke. Maybe Lloyd’s sunk the boat. Now we have an international conspiracy to defraud Argentina. And there is precedent. In the Malvinas war, the president reminds us, the English sunk the Belgrano, a non-combat ship, sailing away from the zone of combat, torpedoed by the British in an act of treachery and cowardice.”

  “Non-combat?” interrupted Mike. “It was a battleship. In battle.”

  “Exactly, and this is where we see who is picking fights with the government. The navy. Now if the navy is on side they go along with this, for the national interest. However, that is not the case. The Admiral, a good man I will add and a personal friend, has come out and refuted the president’s version of the sinking of the Belgrano. You now have the unusual situation where the head of the Argentine navy, to save the navy’s honor, insists that the Belgrano was indeed sunk by the British in combat. But the president, to paint the British as immoral bastards, is saying, no, the Belgrano was sailing away from the battle, heading back to the mainland. Imagine, accusing your own navy of an act of cowardice to score a political point.” Mike saw the Doctor’s fist open and clench on the arm rest.

  “You were on the Bouchard, Doctor. Where was the Belgrano headed?” Mike had spent countless hours sitting through the Doctor’s tales of life on the Bouchard, the Malvinas war, and the respect the Argentine navy and military had felt towards their English enemies. The Doctor often said that British had treated them better than their own political masters.

  The Doctor wore his impenetrable smile. “We were at war, Mike. The Belgrano was in battle. They were doing what they were trained to do. The Bouchard is only remembered today as first on the scene to rescue the Belgrano survivors, but we were lucky to survive ourselves. A torpedo grazed our hull. I saw the damage done. For some reason it didn’t explode.” The Doctor placed both hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. “If you believe the president, a passing whale did the damage. An English whale no doubt!”

  Mike watched the Doctor circle the room. He stopped at the window and with thumb and forefinger pulled aside the floral curtain that matched the throw rug and looked out on the garden.

  “No, they’re desperate for money,” he said to the roses. “Don’t think that makes them weak, Mike. That makes them dangerous.” He turned to face Mike. “Will you be staying for dinner? I can ask Martha to prepare us something.”

  “No, I have to get going back to the city. I have a request.”

  “Of course. What can I do for you?”

  “I need information on the Planning Minister.”

  The Doctor nodded registering neither encouragement nor approbation.

  “His plans, movements, his weak spots. Everything we can get. Dirt. All the skeletons. All the bodies.”

  “And how does your client intend to use this information?”

  Mike’s intention was to buy one package of information and then drip feed it to Quinn for as long as Alex needed him to stay close to him. What Quinn did with it didn’t concern Mike.

  “I don’t know. Has that ever mattered?” Mike knew that it didn’t. If the Doctor got paid he never asked questions.

  “I can’t guarantee anything. And I will tell you now. If you have other sources out there, I suggest you contact them. Donald Duck has closed up on me. Thanks to your client.”

  “Why would he close up?” asked Mike, with equal parts surprise and concern.

  “Can you blame him? He hands over Planning’s KYC file on your client and the next day the tender is suspended.”

  “I explained why he suspended the tender. Nothing more sinister than awful timing. I advised the client as we agreed. Change nothing. Show nothing. Business as usual.” The explanation didn’t appear to mollify the Doctor.

  “That may well be what happened, Mike, but that is not what Donald Duck believes happened. He says his guy in Planning is spooked. Of course, I will transmit this new information. As I said, no promises. I’m not sure we can count on him to continue his work for us.”

  Mike sensed that Donald Duck could be convinced to continue. He would just require more financial incentive to do so.

  “Like I said, if you have other sources best throw a few lines out.”

  “I’ll do that, Doctor.” Mike stood up and made for the door from where he had entered. The afternoon had dragged on and the last light of day spattered through the garden.

  The Doctor remained by the window. “Mike, if collecting a dirt file on the Planning Minister is their solution, then they have no solution. Your client should go to Cordoba and speak to Governor Castelli. Go over Planning’s head. Make a deal. Castelli is no friend of the president. He could also look into his leak while he is out there.” The Doctor turned back to Mike. “Boots on the ground. That’s the way to get things done.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “So, Andrea, what have we got today?” Mike asked, placing his feet on his desk.

  “It’s not good, Mike.” Andrea tilted her head and tugged at her earring with thumb and forefinger, stretching her earlobe, repeating the movement as if tolling a warning bell in her own mind.

  “Not good, as in same old not good,
or not good as in getting worse?” asked Mike.

  “Not good as in getting worse,” said Andrea, moving from behind her desk. She opened a newspaper and laid it before Mike. She sat down opposite, crossed her legs, and placed the remaining papers in a neat pile on the floor beside her. Her fingers went back to the unconscious tolling of her earlobe. “Every day it is getting worse. And every day you have me going through these papers, translating the same stories about Simon Quinn, and sending them over to him. Does he even read them or am I wasting my time? Because if he is reading them then he would be thinking the same thing I am. Their project is fucked and, by association, so are we. What is it about this client, Mike? Why are you so fixated on them?”

  Mike ran his hand over his head, feeling more scalp than hair. Where would he start? That the work for MinEx was just an excuse to stay close to Quinn? And he was staying close to Quinn so that Alex would pull some strings so Mike could sell his apartment and abandon the country and Andrea? She’d have his balls for any one of those reasons. All of them combined and she might just take off his head. He opted for the most benign option.

  “I’m doing it as a favor for Alex Harper,” he said, hoping his comment would go through unexamined.

  “Alex fucking Harper? From the British embassy?” Andrea shook her head in disgust. “What has he got on you? The only reason you would be doing him a favor is if he has something on you.”

  “He doesn’t have anything on me, Andrea. I’m just trying to help him out.”

  Andrea cocked a well-manicured eyebrow. Mike understood why. The last place he wanted to be was in a quid pro quo with Alex Harper. He hoped Finklestein would come through before he had to do any spying on the minister of planning. How did it get to this? His escape from Argentina, his golden, Sicilian future directed by Harper and Finklestein. It sounded like a fucking opera.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what’s in the paper that has got you so upset, Andrea,” said Mike, trying to lead her and himself down a different path.

  Andrea closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose and out her mouth. Mike could hear the passage of her breath. Diaphragm breathing, she called it. When she opened her eyes the red mist had passed and the eyebrow had settled back into its natural position.

  “There’s the usual, that suspending the tender is illegal under Argentine law. They are still failing to specify which law. I presume they are drawing one up. However, and this is where things have changed, anonymous sources within the government have expressed sympathy with MinEx’s local management.” Andrea paused to allow her boss to register his surprise. Then the kicker. “The decision to suspend the tender process has nothing to do with the economic conditions of Argentina and everything to do with MinEx’s own financial situation.

  “It is understood, it doesn’t say by whom, that MinEx is having cashflow and liquidity problems that are affecting its Argentine project and the viability of several projects across Latin America. There is speculation that MinEx may sell off several tier-one assets across Latin America. The unnamed source has been in contact with government counterparts in Brazil, Ecuador, and Venezuela and can confirm that MinEx projects are suffering similar delays there.”

  “Do they have anything in Venezuela?” Mike asked.

  “Not that I can find,” said Andrea.

  “How do they make this shit up?”

  Andrea remained unmoved, expressed no opinion either way. “Shall I continue?”

  “There’s more?” asked Mike.

  “According to another, unnamed, source, the decision to award MinEx the Cordoba project and the subsequent loan arrangement was engineered by the former minister for economy, Eduardo Roncelli.” She looked over the paper at Mike. “You will recall that Roncelli was ousted from the government not long ago.”

  “I recall.”

  “They are saying, alleging, that there may be links between MinEx and Roncelli, that a deal may have been done.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “It justifies an investigation and that creates the opportunity to put more pressure on MinEx. That is what they’re after. Search their offices, sequester documents, make arrests. Anything they like.”

  “Arrests? Let’s try to stay calm here, Andrea. No one is getting arrested.” Not yet anyway.

  “Anything is possible. MinEx have upset people who are not used to being upset. Suspending the project was one thing. Blaming it on inflation. Putting a number on that inflation. The government is trying to negotiate its way back into the World Bank’s good books and MinEx accuses them of being unable to run the economy and lying about it too.”

  “Accuse them, Andrea? You live, here don’t you? Inflation’s not the reason Simon took the decision he did but that doesn’t make it any less out of control.”

  “I do live here, Mike. And when you live here, you learn to keep your head down and you get by. You make do with what life deals you. The way things get done here might be different to what our client is used to. Might offend their sensitivities. That’s how it is. And in some bizarre, mixed up way, it works. There are winners and losers but tell me, where is that not the case?

  “Going public, calling out the government, screaming from the rooftops, is not the way to go about it. You are supposed to be advising them, Mike. Sometimes I wonder who is advising you?”

  Mike was never offended by Andrea’s outbursts, scared yes, but never offended. He admired the passion, the authenticity. He was always happy to admit when she was right, which often meant admitting that he was wrong.

  “I have advised Simon to keep his head own. It just doesn’t seem to be Simon’s way, unfortunately. What do you suggest I tell him?”

  “Sit tight. And stop pissing people off.”

  “You sound like Alex Harper.”

  “Sorry?”

  Mike ignored the question, not wanting to stoke the flame.

  “There is something else. Finklestein called again.”

  “Yes?” Mike asked, as if probing for a land mine.

  “He said to tell you there was still no news on your apartment.”

  “What did he say exactly?”

  “There’s no news on Mike’s apartment.” She raised both eyebrows in expectation of an explanation. Mike’s shoulders slumped and he looked out the window. He could tell her, but he couldn’t look at her and tell her.

  “Fuck Finklestein,” he mumbled. Then louder, “I’ve asked Finkelstein to prepare the apartment for sale.”

  Andrea’s laugh filled the office. “Selling the apartment? Moving again are we? Where to this time?”

  “Sicily. I’m sorry, Andrea, I should have told you, but I can’t take it anymore. I’ve had enough,” said Mike hands raised in defense.

  “Sicily? You are not going anywhere,” she said, still laughing. ‘Remember last time you had had enough? Where was it you were going to? Mexico? And how did that end? You had me do all that research. House prices, office space, the annual fucking rainfall. Then what? You decided you didn’t like the smog or the food or the Mexicans. Didn’t you learn anything from that, Mike?” Her voice had morphed from mirth to pity.

  “I’ve tried to change, Andrea, you know that. I have tried accepting it, I have tried loving it, and at times I really do. I’ve tried living in a little bubble down here, blocking it all out. But it always gets in, gets at me, and eats me up. I swear someday I am going to explode and kill someone. Or myself. I don’t get it, I just don’t get you fucking people. And I never will!”

  “What’s to get, Mike? You can do anything you want here, be anyone you want. You don’t need to go anywhere. Changing country isn’t going to help you. You need to change here,” she said, tapping her breast with her finger tips. “What you need is a woman, Mike.”

  Mike searched her face. Where was the rage?

  “Don’t look at me like that. I am not that woman. You made that clear already. What were your words? Don’t shit where you eat?”

  “Come on, Andrea
, that was four years ago. How do you even remember that stuff? And you shouldn’t be listening to my phone calls.”

  “Is that what this MinEx case is about? Somehow part of your plan to get out of here?”

  The woman was a witch. “No,” Mike lied. He had had enough of this conversation. “What do I do about MinEx?”

  Andrea relaxed her grip. “If the government see that their pressure is having an effect, they will go to MinEx, see if they are ready to make a deal. Be patient, ragazzo.”

  Andrea rose from her chair, still smiling, smoothed her skirt against her thighs, collected the unread newspapers from the floor and left Mike to his thoughts.

  He had to admit it was good advice. He had no intention of following it. Quinn couldn’t be trusted to make the right decisions. Mike would have to do it himself.

  “Andrea, I need you to book me a flight to Cordoba. For tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Mike Costello stopped in front of office number 36 and knocked on the wood-paneled door. The sliding of chair legs and sounds of shuffling feet could be heard in response.

  The door swung back and he was greeted by a lady dressed in a serious, dark-blue jacket and office pants of a matching color. Her hair was grey with a faint blush of purple and held up in a bun.

  “Mr. Quinn,” she said, smiling. “Please, come in. The governor is expecting you. How was your flight?”

  Mike greeted the governor’s secretary and entered. The secretary commanded a desk that was covered with files in neat stacks of two and threes. Another table held a small television set that was tuned to the 24-hour news station. The residue of a political life in Argentina hung from every wall. Plaques of thanks, photos with dignitaries, both foreign and domestic, recognizable and unrecognizable, honorary degrees, and reams of ribbon being cut in front of bridges, libraries, buildings, boats, and statues. Front and center of each photo stood the beaming figure of Miguel Castelli, Governor of the Province of Cordoba and leader of the unofficial opposition, or what was left of it.