A Certain Kind of Power Read online

  “From the sounds outside, the bulk of the crowd had concentrated at the front of the congress. I crept to the back. I tried a few doors to offices and found one unlocked. I went in and there was a window that opened onto the congress gardens. I lifted the window just enough to squeeze out and flopped down into a flowerbed.”

  Lopez smiled at the memory. “The day before, I had come to work, suit and tie, through the front door of the congress. Six years at the country’s most prestigious law school, two years at the London School of Economics, Senior Adviser to a Senator of the Nation, dressed as a janitor, escaping from a window like a common criminal. I’ve never forgotten that lesson.”

  Luis looked into Mike’s eyes. Mike returned the stare and waited for Lopez to blink. He didn’t.

  “We can never stop fighting, Mr. Costello. The day we stop they will come for us again. There is no win-win.” He shook his head as if to confirm the fact. “That is not possible. There is victory and there is destruction.”

  “Destruction you do well. It is time you started playing by the rules.”

  “We do play by the rules. You may not recognize those rules, but we do. I smile when I read articles in your press, about our institutions and democracy and rule of law. Do the people writing these articles think that the political class here has just magically appeared one day? Just dropped from the sky? We are from here. We are born here. We were raised on our own history, on stories from our fathers, we have lived and breathed the history of this country. Do you think that if you put any other Argentine into government he would act in a different way? We are of the people, by the people, for the people; this is who we are. The people understand this. They know what is needed to get things done, they understand what it is we need to do. And they have lived through the consequences of doing nothing.”

  The chatter in the room had grown louder as the afternoon crowd thickened. Lopez leant backwards, arching his back, spread his arms wide, his fingers pointing inwards to his chest. “This is us, Mr. Costello. Your client can work with us or not. We will not change.”

  Mike stood up. Pain accompanied him.

  “Mr. Costello, before you run,” said Lopez, enjoying the joke. “You are playing a very dangerous game. We know you are working for the British. We have enough to shut you down today and have you on the first plane out of here.”

  “Why don’t you then?” asked Mike neither denying or accepting the accusation. As far as threats went it sounded a lot like a pretty good solution to Mike.

  “Because you still have a use. You are what your British friends would call a ‘cut out’. Tell your client to award the tender. Get things moving. There are ways that we can make sure that he is rewarded down the line when he shows that he is a trusted partner. You won’t be forgotten either, Mr. Costello. The alternative is that we just place MinEx in the hands of someone who is willing to act like a good partner.”

  “Nationalize MinEx? You don’t have the power to do that.”

  “Believe me we do, Mr. Costello. We just need the excuse to do so.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The building at 2811 Lavalle was identical to 2809 and 2813 either side of it except for the graffiti. Someone had scrawled the name of the band “Patricio Rey y sus Redonditos de Ricota” across the facade in a defiant, angry spray-can scrawl.

  The neighborhood was not affluent, and the owners had spared expenses on the building’s upkeep. Mike stepped forward and pressed the button labelled apt 808 in scratchy black ink. The bruising on his body was still visible when he had dressed before his mirror in the morning, but the pain no longer bothered him. The lump on his head had not disappeared and he often found his hand going over his head to locate it. An unconscious reminder of the need to keep his eyes open.

  The Doctor had still not appeared with any information on the minister, Donald Duck unable or unwilling to convince his source to continue as an informant. If Mike didn’t come up with information for MinEx, Simon would no doubt cut him loose.

  His arrival that morning at 2811 Lavalle had been prompted by an article in La Nacion that had outlined hostilities between the mayor of Buenos Aires and his chief of police. Mike cared little for the fortunes of either man but there buried in the text, in black-and-white print, he came across the name Consultora Tigre. The chief of police had accused the mayor of hiring Consultora Tigre to monitor his phone calls. A classic smear. The mayor denied this credible accusation and Consultora Tigre had not responded to requests for comment.

  Consultora Tigre was a new name in the game that Mike had been playing since he left the employ of the United States government. Identifying a new player felt like finding a wallet on the street; who knows what it would contain or who it could lead you to.

  The accusations of wiretapping didn’t concern him. It may well be that the chief of police had hired Consultora Tigre to spy on the mayor and to muddy the waters, accused the mayor of the same. In which case, it was high praise indeed that of all the suppliers that the chief of police could trust with the job he chose Consultora Tigre. You couldn’t buy publicity like that. Even better, it could be that Consultora Tigre had planted the article themselves, a new outfit that wanted to get the word out that they were open for business. Either way, Mike was intrigued enough to make a few phone calls and it did not take much to locate the company, giving weight to Mike’s theory that the article may have been nothing more than clever marketing.

  A thin voice came through the intercom, frazzled by a failing connection. “Yes?”

  “Costello.” A buzz indicated that the locking mechanism had opened. Mike pushed on the door a little too late. The door didn’t budge. He pushed the buzzer again.

  The same voice, irritated this time. “Yes?”

  “Still me, I didn’t push in time.” Mike thought he heard his name used in vain as the door buzzed again, he shoved hard, and went through the doorway. The door was still buzzing for good measure as it swung shut behind him, the lock clicking back into place.

  He rode the stylish old elevator to the eighth floor, the antique, steel cables groaning. He arrived at the eighth floor, pulled back the metal, concertina-like door, and stepped out. He watched the elevator return down the shaft. It arrived at the first floor with an audible clunk that made Mike consider the return journey.

  A threadbare, reptilian-green carpet covered the floor. A musty, stale smell rose from it. It was hard to imagine that it had ever been brand new. A small plaque affixed to the wall informed that offices 801 to 810 could be found to his left. Offices 811 to 820 to his right. He went left and approached office 808. Seeing no doorbell, he knocked with a single knuckle on the door.

  A chair scraped and then there was a rhythmic clunking of boots on wood. Mike waited. The door opened to reveal a heavy-set man, early sixties by Mike’s guess, grey hair slicked back with a local variant of bryl cream, dark business pants matched with a white, short-sleeve business shirt that gave the man the appearance of a waiter.

  “Mr. Costello, a pleasure to meet you, please come in. I am Villagra, Hector Villagra, retired major.” He took Mike’s hand and pumped it. “Let me introduce you to my partner. Jorge!” he bellowed as if Jorge was hard of hearing. “Mr. Costello is here.”

  Retired Major Villagra led Mike down a short corridor to the doorway of a second interior office. Mike stopped on the threshold of the office and Jorge, a thin, frail man raised himself from behind his desk. Perched on a small stack of tatty magazines, was an ashtray, overflowing with stubbed-out butts. Jorge pushed and twisted and added one more stub to the pile before making his way around the desk.

  Mike saw that he was afflicted by palsy, both his hands were bent inwards at the wrists leaving his twisted fingers in permanent contact with the inside of his lower arm. He walked towards Mike, his gait a swaying, stilted, locomotion that betrayed the fact that his feet had suffered the same distortion as his hands. Mike avoided looking down as Jorge extended an arm in greeting and Mike, looking him in the eyes,
gripped him by the forearm and returned the greeting.

  “Jorge Batelli,” he said, failing to give a rank, retired or otherwise, though Mike suspected Intelligence of some kind, maybe naval, maybe federal. There was a shiftiness in the eyes that came from a life of watching and lying and lying in watch.

  Introduction completed Mike watched him tick-tock his way back to his desk where he plonked down, exhausted by the physical exertion that good manners demanded, and lit up another cigarette. Without another glance at Mike he began banging away on his keyboard, his face obscured by an expanding cloud of smoke.

  “Please, let’s come through to my office. We can speak in there without the risk of lung cancer,” said Hector, risking a humor that was foreign to a retired major.

  Mike sensed he was uncomfortable. Common enough among military men that had lived their life in regimented structure and were then forced to survive in a corporate world, governed by self-interest and greed rather than chains of command and indisputable orders.

  Mike followed his host back down the corridor. The office was tidy, the walls lined with shelves that held detailed, plastic miniatures of the instruments of war. Tanks, jeeps, battleships, artillery, fighter jets. Hector caught Mike looking at his collection.

  “My wife refuses to let me keep them at home. She says that part of our life is over. Time to move on. I suppose she’s right.” He sighed. “It’s hard. Did you serve, Mr. Costello?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Mike lied for no reason.

  “Twenty-five years, I did. I loved it. Now, I’m here,” he said, eyebrows raised. “Would you like me to give you a rundown of our services? I suppose you know most of it or you wouldn’t be here. We don’t get many customers who are just browsing in our line of work.”

  “I don’t suppose you do,” said Mike as he took a seat on the opposite side of the desk where Hector had made himself comfortable. “How do you work?”

  “50 percent up front and 50 percent on delivery of the material. We don’t work on success fees. We do the work, we get paid. Only dollars. Always cash.”

  “How do you charge?”

  “Depends on the service. You want somebody watched we will charge you a daily fee per man on the ground plus an administration fee to cover our report-writing time. All incidentals that the surveillance team incur will be charged back to you at cost. Receipts provided.

  “Due diligence we charge a flat fee per job. Price can vary on the target’s profile. If you’re looking at a businessman, no profile, no friends, then it’s one price. A politician or somebody with a public profile, then our fee will vary according to the risk we’re taking. We’re happy to take risks, Mr. Costello, just as long as we get paid for doing so.”

  “Fair enough,” said Mike as he considered the extra zeros that the minister for planning would add to the quote.

  “We also have other services that you may not find amongst our competitors, Mr. Costello.”

  “I had hoped you would have,” replied Mike, encouraging his host to continue with a conspiratorial smile.

  “Phone services. We charge a daily rate, 100 percent up front. You tell us the days and hours you need it monitored and we monitor those times. The target goes away, loses his phone, changes his phone, not our problem. This isn’t cheap so if you contract this service I recommend you do so sparingly and only when you know that the target will be making a call or is likely to be making a call that you need to hear. Monitoring a line in the hope of hearing something is a waste of time. We can provide the recorded material in audio or in transcripts. For transcripts, we charge per word for a written report.”

  “And high-profile targets?”

  “If it’s not an encrypted device. Again, the fee will correspond to the level of risk we run.” Hector paused, allowing time for any question or comment from Mike. When none came, he continued. “We also provide a bank service.”

  Mike assumed he was referring to laundering, an activity that Mike considered on the black side of the grey area where he was comfortable operating.

  For clarity he asked, “What kind of bank service?”

  “I can see I have piqued your interest,” replied Hector, confusing Mike’s alarm for curiosity. “We can find any bank account anywhere in the world held by a target.” Hector grinned with pride at the revelation of his criminal reach. “I’m confident that nobody else can offer this service, at least not here in Argentina, maybe Brazil. Definitely not here.”

  Mike knew this to be untrue. This was the same service he had been paying the Doctor’s Mickey Mouse a lot of money for.

  “Accounts attached to a name?” probed Mike.

  “Much more than that, Mr. Costello. We can look inside the account, see the movements, see the balances, everything. We cannot make changes, just a peek, no touching,” Hector said.

  The turn of phrase sounded familiar.

  “And cost?” asked Mike, trying not to appear too interested. He knew that Simon would be interested in finding out just where the minister for planning hid his money and who was supplying it.

  “I think about two thousand US. Jorge handles this work.”

  “Two thousand? Regardless of the target?”

  “Yes, the risk is the same. Zero. No one can detect this.”

  Mike tried to hide the smile that was forming inside. Mickey Mouse had been charging the Doctor five thousand US for this service. If Hector charged two thousand and Mickey Mouse charged five thousand then Mike had stumbled on Mickey Mouse’s source of banking information. He needed confirmation.

  “You think two thousand or it is two thousand?” asked Mike.

  Hector swiveled in his chair to face his open door. “Jorge!” he yelled. “How much did you charge Martinelli for that last bank report?” He sounded all the world like a credit analyst with none of the discretion.

  “Who?” came Jorge’s muffled reply through the walls.

  “Martinelli, Julian Martinelli. How much did you charge him?”

  Receiving no audible reply Retired Major Villagra stood up, apologized with his eyes and left the room.

  Mike sat solid in his chair. His blood frozen, his heart accelerating under his shirt. He could hear the two men conversing through the office walls. Hector returned looking pleased with himself.

  “Sorry, I misspoke.”

  Mike was relieved. He hoped that the corrected number out of Hector’s mouth would be five thousand US dollars. That was what Julian Martinelli, the Doctor, his friend, had charged him, no markup. That was the cost for just a peek, no touching.

  “It’s actually two thousand five hundred,” said Hector.

  “For Julian Martinelli?” insisted Mike, assuming the same level of discretion as the retired major.

  “Yes, you know him? We do a lot of work for him.”

  Mike felt sick. He hadn’t stumbled on Mickey Mouse’s source; he had stumbled on Mickey Mouse.

  CHAPTER 20

  Green shoots covered the branches of the trees that arched over Republica de India, throwing a dappled shade over the footpaths. Spring was beginning to win the battle with winter and the cold southern winds that blew up from Antarctica were making fewer appearances. As if raised from an urban hibernation, the residents of Buenos Aires were emerging, populating sidewalk cafés and restaurants that were empty only a few, short weeks earlier.

  From his seat inside Guido’s Mike watched the porteños stroll past the red-paneled windows, chattering about the mini-scandals that filled their lives. Mike was an avid eavesdropper, listening in on the conversations of students on buses, taxi drivers taking calls from their wives, the table next door at a restaurant, slowing down in the street to follow the dialogue of couples behind him, one ear cocked.

  Everyday language intrigued him; how it was used, what phrases were employed and by whom. Today the only conversations he heard were those in his own head as he went through the mental files of all interactions he had ever had with the Doctor, Julian Martinelli.

 
Yesterday he had left the offices of Consultora Tigre, thanking them for their time and assuring them that yes, he was interested, and would be in touch. His first impulse had been to call the Doctor and confront him. What would he say? He would deny, as all spies are taught to do, regardless of their service, if ever caught in a lie. Deny, deny, deny.

  He thought about revenge, running through elaborate plots in his mind that ended with him the victor and the Doctor humiliated. He considered continuing as normal, waiting for the day when the Doctor slipped up and he would be there to pounce, to tell him that he had known all along.

  None of the plots and plans that ended with Mike winning seemed plausible. He had lost as he had lost numerous times before. Wasn’t this why he had decided to leave Argentina? The acceptance that he could never make sense of the complex moral and social webs that drew him in and so intrigued him. Wasn’t he tired of always being the one caught? Tired of being unable to disentangle himself from his own desire to immerse himself further into a system that refused to reveal itself to him. It always felt just within reach, but he knew that it would always stay that way. He had to digest that fact, as stomach churning as that process was.

  He blamed himself. A lifetime had taught him that there are no friendships, only alliances and partnerships and even these are brief at best, vulnerable to be carried away, destroyed by any fresh wind of opportunity or self-interest.

  In the end, as the coffee rings in his espresso dried to the walls of the tiny cup, a visual marker of each sip, he picked up his phone and dialed the Doctor. He attempted to strip his voice of the anger, the humiliation, and sense of betrayal that roiled inside him.

  The Doctor’s phone was off so he left a voice message; something has come up, I will explain later, don’t do any more work on any projects until you hear from me. Mike hung up, firm in his commitment to never see the Doctor again.