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  He opened the door, stepped outside, then turned his back on the crowd as he shut the door with deliberate care, trying to appear calm, in control. He faced the baying group that stood on the opposite side of the gravel parking lot. The first missile was launched from the back of the crowd. Mike saw its arching trajectory, a dark shadow against the blue of the cloudless sky. He threw his arms up in defense, the folder under his arm falling to the gravel. The missile sailed by and smashed through the office window behind him. A pause then a whoosh as flame burst out of the broken window. A cheer went up and, as Mike stumbled away from the fire, a second projectile caught him a thudding blow on the arm that he still had raised in protection of his face. He turned his back on the crowd, shaking his arms, trying to get free of his jacket in anticipation of the burst of engulfing flame that was to come but none came.

  As he struggled with his jacket a third projectile caught him low on the back of his head with a crack that shook him and wobbled his knees. He fell to the gravel and as the smoke that poured from the window covered him he could see the advancing shoes attached to legs that stretched in vertical lines to the sky, then felt their jackhammer kicks into the small of his back, his legs, his groin, and his stomach. Other feet stomped from above, driving his body into the gravel of the parking lot. He felt his shoulder bag pulled on until the strap broke.

  He balled up, using his arms to cover his head and face. The blows did not abate and felt to be increasing in intensity. He knew to resist was to invite further punishment. He felt rough hands clasp on his shirt and begin to drag him across the gravel. He heard his shirt tear and the hands regripped and the dragging began again. He kept his hands and arms held tight over his head as he felt himself being hauled and lifted and then he was on the backseat of a car, glimpses of cracked upholstery visible through his arms that he dared not remove from his face. He ventured a glimpse at the window and as the car accelerated he saw the flats of palms being banged against the glass.

  He remained laying down on the backseat, panting animal-like through his nose, his mouth clenched shut. If he opened his mouth he would vomit. The driver said nothing. Mike ran his fingers over his face. It had come out unscathed, either by miracle or design of his attackers he was unsure. His body pulsed with the echo of the kicks and blows he had taken but nothing appeared broken. It still hurt to breathe.

  The man in the passenger seat turned. Mike blinked hard as if to confirm that the stone-hard face that watched him belonged to Marcelo Decoud. Mike attempted to decipher the meaning of Decoud’s presence in the vehicle, but his mental Enigma machine was scrambled. No triumph or even pleasure told in Decoud’s demeanor. He appeared detached from the attack that had taken place.

  In Spanish tinged with the distinctive Cordoba lilt he said, “This attack was not organized or condoned by me or the group I lead. I condemn violence in all its forms. The destruction of the earth or the destruction of an office or a human life are all equally unforgiveable.” His face was drawn with what looked like resignation.

  After what seemed like a few minutes the car stopped.

  “Out,” barked the driver.

  Still prone, Mike fumbled with the door handle near his head, pushed the door open and crawled out head first onto the asphalt. The car accelerated away, the back door flapping back and forth a few times before catching shut.

  Mike pulled himself into a sitting position. He was in a parking lot. Beyond the parking lot he could see a long, squat, white building with large, black, stenciled letters across the facade: Aeronautical Engineer Ambrosio L.V. Taravella International Airport. Some airport drop-off, he thought.

  Mike hobbled into the airport. It had been a mistake to go to the offices. That was clear. The MinEx staff had to be in on it or maybe they had been warned to get out. He sat in the departure lounge and watched scenes from the afternoon play on the television screens. The cameras had turned up after Mike’s departure. Angry youths, their faces covered against the smoke, smashing in the windows and dragging office furniture into the street, not to steal, but to destroy, utter destruction, to remove all trace of MinEx from their town. It wasn’t just the young men that Mike had seen; they had been joined by old men, young girls, their mothers. The whole town had turned up, a demographic radiograph of hatred, assembled to send a clear message that MinEx was not wanted.

  As his flight back to Buenos Aires took off and climbed over Cordoba he could see a plume of smoke rising into the afternoon sky. He followed it back down to earth, imagining he could see it begin its ascent snaking from a broken window of the MinEx office.

  Mike rubbed the lump on the back of his head. If Decoud was not behind the attack, and Mike was not convinced that this was the case, then it had to be the government. It would have been easy for them to discover he was in Cordoba. From the airline. From the governor. He realized it may have been a mistake to use Quinn’s name to get the meeting with the governor. Impersonating a man with so many enemies in Cordoba was not smart.

  CHAPTER 18

  At the Café Richmond, located on Florida Street in the heart of Buenos Aires, a small army of uniformed waiters moved between the tables, delivering coffee, retrieving plates, stopping every now and then to share a joke with a familiar customer. None stopped to chat with Mike.

  He surveyed the room. He saw the exchange of rumors, plots, secrets, and conspiracies. There was no evidence that any of these men and women with whom he shared the café had any idea that his client had become front-page news around the world, that the stock had fallen further, that he himself was under surveillance, that the MinEx office in Cordoba was now reduced to ashes. Nothing to indicate that any of his fellow diners were aware of the forces of power, retribution, and money that were at play and that somehow he had managed to entangle himself in the center of it all. It seemed like years had passed since he had first dreamt of Sicily.

  The paneled walls, the high ceilings, the obscure, darkened corners, and the dripping chandeliers; elegant accoutrements to disguise the true nature of things. Always chandeliers, he thought, always elegance. Beside him an elderly lady sat by herself, feeding an éclair into her lipstick-rimmed mouth with manicured fingers, a constant, smooth movement that reminded Mike of a butcher feeding mince into a sausage machine. The empty plates stacked around her hinted that she had been there since mid-morning, her enormous size suggested that she had been there since the mid-seventies.

  Two men approached the table in front of, and a little to the left of Mike. Without shifting his head, he observed the men exchange an emotionless greeting and take their seats. A waiter approached their table. Mike caught the word americano. They entered into discussion as the waiter retreated.

  Mike’s coffee arrived in a chipped, white cup matched to an off-green saucer. He picked it up and stared straight ahead over the rim, blowing a small stream of air across the top of his coffee. The chandelier above him was reflected and rippling on the dark surface of his drink. He was certain that the two men were there for him, to observe. He imagined that they were now exchanging their own rumors, plots, secrets, and conspiracies as cover for their real job. Watching Mike.

  No doubt at the appropriate time they would leave and retreat to a rundown office that could use new furniture and a coat of paint. By the glow of a bare bulb they would write up their notes, copied from yellowed notebooks, detailing Mike’s nervous demeanor, his painful movements, his clothing, what he ordered, who he met, and who he looked at. Yes, his face was fine, the boys did a good job.

  He held these racing thoughts steady in his head and watched as the elder of the two gentlemen, who was still yet to smile, a lawyer no doubt, rose from the table and exited Café Richmond. He left behind the tanned leather briefcase that moments earlier he had arrived with.

  Mike observed that the younger gentleman, still in his overcoat despite the room temperature being a few degrees too high, noticed the abandoned briefcase but did not call back his somber-faced friend. Rather, he waited for f
ive minutes, timed by the clock above the espresso machine behind the bar, asked for the bill, overpaid, and then left with the briefcase that he did not arrive with.

  A tall waiter glided to the table, pocketed the fifty-peso note that had been left under the untouched coffees, and returned to the kitchen. Mike smiled to himself, pleased at this authentic sighting of local culture that no quantity of chandeliers and shadow could hide. Gentlemen with business to conduct at Café Richmond ordered the coffee and paid for the discretion.

  The heavy-set woman finished her éclair and pushed the empty plate, smudged with chocolate, to the side with a delicate movement that drew more attention to her size. She caught Mike watching and smiled a coquette’s smile. Mike’s mind was on other matters.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Costello.”

  Mike started, his body jerking with a bolt of pain at the unexpected voice. He grabbed for his ribs.

  “My name is Luis Lopez. I am with the Ministry of Planning. Adviser to the minister on special projects.”

  “What the fuck do you want?” growled Mike, in no mood or physical capacity to be pushed around again.

  Lopez ignored the question and settled himself into the seat opposite. He flagged over a waiter and placed his order before returning his attention to Mike.

  Lopez wore a grey suit over a blue shirt, offset with a red tie. His hair was cut short and matched the color of his suit. A grub-like moustache perched provocatively on his top lip like a toupee for his terse little mouth. The mouth pissed Mike off. A mouth that was only big enough for eating olives one at a time or getting punched.

  “Mr. Costello, it is customary to start a meeting with a bit of, how would you say? Chit chat? Something light, no matter how unpleasant the conversation to come is expected to be. You can get a lot from this chit chat, maybe even discover you are not so different, common ground.”

  “I would be very surprised if you and I had anything in common.” Lopez knew Mike had been at the MinEx offices or he wouldn’t be here. The Ministry of Planning must be watching him too. “Nice job your boys did.”

  A look of feigned shock covered Lopez’s face. The moustache twitched. “I am aggrieved that you would accuse me of such a despicable act. The government is a partner in this project. Like yourself, we have a vested interest in seeing MinEx succeed. Destroying their offices does not align with that objective. You should be directing your anger at those environmental activists that, as you know, have long opposed MinEx’s presence in Cordoba.”

  “They didn’t do it,” said Mike, not realizing until the words were out that he had exonerated Decoud.

  “You seem sure of this.”

  “I’ve been in contact with Marcelo Decoud.” It was one way to describe Decoud’s exfiltration of him. Lopez looked surprised.

  “Decoud is speaking with you? I find that surprising after everything. You are a more forgiving man than me. It proves nothing, even if we are to accept his word. You know how these groups are. Everybody wants to be the leader; everybody wants to be on television. To do so, you must be bold, you must do something to stand out, to show that the current leadership is outdated, that it’s not militant enough, that it is in the pay of the corporates or in the pay of the government. Anything is fair game; the objective is control of the group.

  “Decoud may claim to have nothing to do with yesterday’s incident. I can assure you that as soon as he created that group, as soon as he set public opinion against MinEx, he set in motion a chain of events that resulted in what took place yesterday. What this may show is that he has lost control of his own creation. And that is not good for you, your client, and most importantly for us.” Lopez sat back and smiled, pleased at this turn of events.

  Mike looked around the room. He wondered who had come in with Lopez. Who was watching? Who was listening?

  “You need to assure me that there will be no more incidents like yesterday. A repeat and MinEx will exit the country. How would it look to the world if you lose your biggest investor?” Mike looked into the eyes of the man from Planning, attempting to fill the words with an intent and gravitas that would send the message that he was not fucking around even as he knew he had no right to be making such threats.

  “There are no guarantees in life, Mr. Costello. I can assure you that I will do my best, that this government will do our best to support the project. We will need something in return. No more games. Tell Mr. Quinn to award the tender and let’s get started. As partners.”

  Mike ran his eyes over Luis Lopez, his sharp suit, his slicked back hair, his confidence.

  ‘MinEx doesn’t need a partner. They just need a level playing field to get started. They’re not interested in politics; they’re not interested in games. That’s your area. You handle your side of things and let them get on and do their thing. That way everybody wins.”

  “Exactly, win-win. We all get what we want. The question is, what do you want, Mr. Costello? I understand that favors of this kind are not free. I cannot make any guarantees, but a man of your talents could be quite useful to the party. A few years working with us could set you up with the lifestyle you deserve, enough to retire on down here. We would be better friends than the ones you have now. How does that sound, Mr. Costello? Citizenship even if you like. You can while away the rest of your life in the most magnificent city on earth, drinking the finest wine, eating the best steak, chasing the tastiest pussy. Not a care in the world.”

  It sounded like purgatory to Mike. Maybe these slick suited fucks didn’t know as much about him as he thought. The rest of his life in Argentina.

  “Have your company resubmit the tender, Luis. With new financials. Financials that make sense. That is what I want and then you will get what you want.”

  “That is not what I want, Mr. Costello. What I want is for MinEx to accept the tender they have. No questions asked, no more delays. That is what I want.”

  No more delays sounded good to Mike. If he knew how to proceed without delays he would already be in Sicily. But delays were what made the world go around. And round and round.

  “That’s not my understanding of win-win, Luis.”

  “Win-win.” Lopez seemed to test the words in his mouth as if fondling the syllables of a new language for the first time. “Do you believe that’s possible? Such a quaint notion,” he said. “This kind of thinking will get you nowhere. Do you think that is how we got here today? By letting our opponents win? Letting them have what they want? Do you think that is how we came to be in government? There is no win-win, Mr. Costello. It is fuck or be fucked. It always has been.” He raised himself in his seat, warming to his topic.

  “Let me tell you a story about Juan Peron. Three times he led this country. Three times he ploughed these seas. Can you imagine what that must have taken? To three times battle for control, vanquish enemies, to dedicate your life to fighting for those that never win? If you can understand that, then you can understand why Peron is the most important figure in our country’s history.

  “His legacy is to continue to fight for those that cannot win. That fight never stops. After his death, a group of thugs in the pay of the opposition raided Peron’s tomb and desecrated his resting remains. They took an electric saw and cut his hands off.” Luis held his own hands in front of Mike.

  “Even in death Peron was still in battle, at his most defenseless, his enemies still pursued him. They wanted to take those hands that had fought so long for the Argentine people, to severe them, to destroy them forever. We cannot let that happen. We are those hands. We are the embodiment of those hands that are still fighting for the Argentine people, the poor, the disenfranchised, those that do not know what it is to win.

  “We cannot be disappeared, like so many of our brothers and sisters were disappeared. Make no mistake, the battle continues. We are winning, but that does not mean that the enemy has given up.” Lopez paused and looked at the table beside them. An elderly couple sharing a piece of cake over afternoon coffee had stopped thei
r conversation and were staring at Luis, his hands now bunched into fists.

  He lowered his voice and continued. “In 2001, I was an adviser to Senator Jenefes from Jujuy, a northern province, very beautiful. But insignificant by any measure that means something. It was a difficult year, we were coming out of a period of sustained abuse under the presidency of Menem. The lost decade. The government had lost its grip on power. Menem had gone and the people who had grown fat on his regime did not want to accept that their time was over. They sowed chaos, they drove the country to the edge. Their aim was to throw the country into such a state of anarchy that the army would be forced to intervene. In that chaos, they came for us.

  “For two days I was locked inside my office, inside the congress. I could hear the crowds outside, howling for our blood, like barbarians. Nothing to eat, nothing to drink. On the second day, I had to leave the office. I didn’t know if the congress had been overrun or what I would find.

  “I unlocked the door and made my way down the corridor that connected my office to the senator’s chamber. The place was empty. As if the congress had been frozen in time. Everybody had left, nothing had been packed up, books were open on desks, files on chairs, cups of coffee had been abandoned, briefcases lay open. And from outside this terrible roar. Adjacent to my boss’ office there was a janitor’s closet. I tried the door, it opened, and by some miracle, hanging on the peg behind the door, a pair of blue janitors’ overalls.

  “I stripped off my suit and my shoes. It was absurd. In the Argentine congress, the center of power, in my underwear. I grabbed my shoes and rubbed them against the concrete wall of the janitor’s room, roughing them up to take off their shine. I dressed in the overalls and put my shoes back on.