A Certain Kind of Power Read online

  “It’s a long play,” nodded Mike in approval.

  “Argentina is a long play, Mike, anyone who tells you any different is full of shit. Tell Simon to hang in there. In the meantime, I don’t want to give the government any reason to be looking at British companies. For the time being, Britain and Argentina are best friends. In fact, next week we have a special working group coming down from London. Bunch of graduates on a mission to save the world. The Special Working Group on Good Governance and Oversight.” Alex’s chest swelled with a stifled laugh as if he’d named the group himself.

  “And Mike, next time you are thinking of going to Cordoba, I’d appreciate you letting me know beforehand,” said Alex with a very non-diplomatic wink.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Oak Bar was situated in the Park Hyatt Palacio Duhau. On this afternoon, which was cool enough to remind a man that spring was a promise, never a guarantee, Mike Costello alighted from a taxi on Posadas, argued over the change, lost, slammed the door, crossed the street, and entered the grounds of the Palacio Duhau, as he preferred to call it. He leant forward into the incline and marched upwards through the ornamental gardens, stopping once, to see if he was accompanied.

  Satisfied he was alone he continued, climbed the stairs of the main hotel area, passed the elevators and exited on Alvear Avenue. He waited five minutes, and confident he was still alone, retraced his steps to the elevators, took a sharp left, a quick right and then proceeded to the end of the hall and entered the Oak Bar.

  Mike’s intention was to meet Simon and give him an update on the progress, or lack of, on the work that he had commissioned. He was unsure how Simon would react.

  The bar was empty, as he knew it would be at this time. He chose a leather, wingback chair in the corner of the room from where he could survey the bar, the sliding doors that opened onto the terrace, and the main door. A waitress in black jeans and matching button-up black top that stretched at the buttons appeared. Park Hyatt was embroidered in white cotton over the pocket of her shirt. Mike declined her invitation to order a spirit, explaining that he was waiting for a friend.

  Years ago, Mike sheltered here on a squalid Buenos Aires day. He waited out the storm in the company of the crackling fireplace and an off-duty manager who shared the story of the engraved oak paneling that gave the bar its name.

  The paneling had been carved for a French castle sometime in the 1600s. Upon the death of the castle’s last owner, the man who had built and named the Palacio after himself, Luis Duhau, approached the widow and acquired the paneling for a song, as the off-duty manager related with a touch of pride. A natural transfer of wealth, prestige, and opportunism in the 1930s, as Argentina rose and France floundered.

  Mike had spent many an afternoon examining the panels, picking out St. George, languid lilies, or the lute-playing tiger over the fireplace. More than the paneling, Mike enjoyed the Oak Bar for Luis Duhau. On numerous occasions, he had sat with clients and told them Duhau’s story.

  An agricultural engineer by trade, a politician by design, a land owner by birth, and a wealthy man at death. By the 1930s Duhau had risen to the post of minister for agriculture from where he oversaw a policy—scheme was a better word—that allowed British companies to buy Argentine beef at low prices whilst simultaneously avoiding taxes. Duhau did not discharge this service for free, accruing immense personal wealth in the process. As was bound to happen, opposition senators, led by Lisandro de la Torre, levelled accusations of corruption.

  In defense of his good name Duhau appeared before the senate to face down his accusers, speaking for thirteen days straight. On the thirteenth day, an unimpressed de la Torre confronted Duhau in the senate and attempted to achieve with fists what the rule of law could not.

  Duhau, forewarned, had arranged for a hired assassin to be lurking. As de la Torre attacked Duhau, Enzo Bordabehere, a senator and friend of de la Torre, intervened to maintain order in the house. For his troubles, Enzo was shot twice in the back and, as he turned to identify his assailant, again in the chest. He died a short time later.

  Duhau, chastened if not punished, resigned, and retired to the Palacio Duhau where he lived out the remainder of his life in luxury and no doubt happiness. De la Torre, disillusioned and impacted by the death of his long-time colleague, withdrew from politics. A few years later, alone in his apartment on Esmeralda, just a few blocks from where Mike now sat, de la Torre drew the curtains against the afternoon sun, took a revolver from the drawer of his writing desk, placed it to his sad heart, and pulled the trigger.

  For Mike, the complete history and future of the Argentine Republic could be written and recorded in two syllables. Everything that ever was and would ever be, enunciated and implied by one word: Duhau.

  “Mind if I join you?” Simon asked and sat down.

  Mike caught the eye of the waitress.

  “Two whiskies, please.” Then to Simon, “Ice? Water?”

  “Just ice, no water thanks.”

  “Neat for me,” said Mike.

  The waitress, with a youthful roll of hips, hurried away to fill the order. She returned with the two glasses and a small bowl of olives, and set the order on the small table.

  Mike, never a confident bearer of bad news, started. “Thanks for coming, Simon. I’ve been making some good progress. I will need a little more time, but it is looking good. I met with a source yesterday. Let’s just say someone with access to privileged information inside the ministry. They mentioned that it might be better if MinEx adopted a low profile for the time being. The government is beginning to discuss nationalizations. They advised against any actions that could be interpreted as antagonistic towards the government. I think that spying on the minister for planning may fall into that category.” A brilliant synthesis of insinuation, half-truths, and outright lies. Taken together it had that tinny ring of truth.

  Mike took a sip of whiskey, swirled the spirit around his mouth and inhaled as he swallowed, enjoying the burn.

  A look of concern passed over Simon’s face.

  “I’d prefer it if you stopped the work anyway. At least on the minister himself. I would still like to know what kind of trouble is coming my way though. For example, when my offices might be about to be burnt down. Did your source have any information on that?”

  Mike shook his head. He had decided against admitting to Simon that he had been in Cordoba. That was something best kept to himself, no matter how good his synthesizing skills were.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened in Cordoba,” said Simon. “Why now?”

  “Impossible to tell,” said Mike, uncomfortable with where the conversation was heading.

  “You were right, no point talking to these barbarians. I want Decoud’s head on a stick.”

  Mike was unsure if it was a commission or just a desire expressed. He weighed up sharing Alex Harper’s thoughts on the subject that it wasn’t Decoud or even Decoud’s group that had destroyed the MinEx offices, but union thugs connected to the government.

  “I can tell you what I’ve been told. Decoud wasn’t behind it.”

  “Then who was?”

  Some of the truth needed to be told. “I had a chat with one of the advisers from Planning. Slimy, little bastard, Luis Lopez. You ever come across him?”

  If Simon was surprised that Mike was speaking to Planning he hid it. “I know of him.”

  “He blamed Decoud’s group. He gave me a story about how these groups often get out of control, young guys coming up the ranks, trying to make a name for themselves, and can’t be held by the leadership.”

  “You think that’s what happened here?”

  “No,” said Mike.

  “What’s your view then? You’ve no doubt got one.” He studied Mike over the rim of his glass.

  “The government. What happened in Cordoba was government sanctioned. I don’t know by who. The guys who did this were Truckers Union, and not from Cordoba, they bussed up from BA on the same morning. I thin
k they thought you were going to be there.”

  “Why would they think that?”

  Mike had reached the limit of his truth telling. “No idea.”

  “And why do you think this?”

  “Can’t say,” said Mike, avoiding the question in his glass. “Doesn’t matter where it came from. I believe the Planning Ministry organized for your offices to be burnt to the ground. Doesn’t mean it’s true though. Let’s just add it to the puzzle. Another piece to be considered.”

  Simon seemed to swallow the explanation like a brussels sprout. He turned his head to the door of the bar where two men in dark-blue suits, no ties, had entered, and were chatting in loud voices. They proceeded to the terrace. Simon’s eyes followed them until they were out of sight.

  “Nobody followed you in.”

  “Since you gave me that dossier I haven’t stopped looking over my shoulder. And I haven’t seen a thing. They all look suspicious to me. The guy with the suit, the guy with the bag, the guy with the tie, the guy without the tie, the guy that comes into the room, the guy that leaves the room.”

  “Forget it,” counselled Mike. “The government is watching your every move. That’s all you need to know.”

  He called over the waitress and asked for another round of whiskies. Two were brought. Mike handed back the empty glasses.

  “Where are we at, Simon?”

  “You tell me, Mike. I never know what is around the next corner.”

  “Not such a bad thing. The only people who know what is around the next corner are the ones going in circles.”

  “Well I seem to be doing that too.”

  “What if you were to do nothing?” It was a thought that he had been kneading in his mind since his lunch with Alex, working it into a form that could be presented to Simon.

  “I have to show some progress back home. I’m already responsible for the largest share-price drop in company history. There’s an expectation, to say the least, that I will generate some good news out of here. To stop the bleeding if nothing else.” He cupped his whiskey in two hands, considering the amber liquid, rocking the ice cubes back and forth.

  “What does progress have to look like?” coaxed Mike, his idea beginning to firm in his mind. A plan to suit the environs. He was careful not to show too much enthusiasm. His last idea of approaching the governor had almost got him killed.

  “Tender awarded and signed off.”

  “Then what should happen? Under normal circumstances,” pressed Mike, like a doctor probing for where it hurts.

  “After that comes the usual administrative process you’d do before any large-scale project begins. Check all the contractors are compliant, final review of your environmentals, construction planning, review all your licensing and permitting, make sure that everything is in place.”

  “How long should that take? Under normal circumstance.”

  “No more than a couple of weeks. It’s a review of what’s already been done, a final check. What are you thinking?”

  “What if you award the tender then do nothing? Well, not nothing, just nothing substantial.” Mike placed his glass on the table and sat forward in his chair, hands clasped together, elbows on his knees, warming to his own idea. He could almost feel the tug on the line as the trout mouthed the fly. “What if these checks and reviews took longer than expected? Maybe some plans need to be resubmitted, maybe you need extensive documentation on the employee health plans of your contractor company, maybe you need to rejig some plans, which means resubmitting your environmental approvals.”

  “To what end?”

  “To push forward the moment when you have to commit to spending money. You just keep pushing it forward,” said Mike, quoting Alex Harper. “You may have noticed that things take time here, Simon. Whatever documentation you have, whatever approvals you need, you throw it back into the system. Take advantage of their own bureaucracy. You are seen to be doing your bit. It gets your boss and the government off your back. You repeat the process for as long as you need to.”

  Simon nodded as he thought it through. “To HQ I’m doing my best to move forward. Things move slowly here, not my fault. To the Argentines, the same. I want to move this forward, but I have certain requirements I need to meet, compliance wise. So, I push it forward. I agree, it’s doable. For what purpose?”

  Mike exhaled. He hadn’t got that far. He didn’t care. The plan suited his needs. The government would see the tender signed off and be happy. No nationalization would be required. That would save the government an international backlash. Quinn would not be paying any bribes to the government so Harper would be happy. At some point the stalling tactics would wear thin and someone would have to do something.

  But by then, Mike would be long gone. They could all work it out themselves. He’d read about it in Sicily, if his Italian was up to it by then.

  “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. For now, stay patient and outwait planning. That’s easier than trying to outwit them.”

  Mike reached for his drink, took a swig, placed his glass back on the table and spread his hands wide. “Anything can happen”.

  Simon sat looking at his hands. He looked up. “The night I met you at the British embassy. You said something odd at the time. I thought you were pissed.”

  “I was,” Mike confirmed.

  “You said that Argentina’s not a country, it’s a conversation. I can see that now. Let’s have that conversation. We talk about it, talk about it, and talk about it, and we don’t do anything. We buy time, see what happens.” Simon smiled for the first time all night. “So, we have a plan, for now. It’s not much of a plan, Mike, but as you say, anything can happen.” He raised his glass in the air. “To doing nothing!”

  “To doing nothing,” echoed Mike. He drained the remains of his whiskey in a single draw. The empty glass smelt of Sicily. Or at least what Mike imagined Sicily would smell like when he was sitting in a bar in Taormina drinking whiskey.

  CHAPTER 22

  Spring advanced. The purple bloom of jacarandas cloaked and carpeted the neighborhoods of Buenos Aires. Simon Quinn was busy doing nothing. On the Monday morning Mike read with satisfaction that MinEx had awarded their tender to Austral Construcciones. Mike knew that awarding the tender in a process where only one company had been qualified further compromised his client, but he saw it as one more leaf to the native forest.

  The news was picked up in the press with several articles in newspapers spanning the full political spectrum, trumpeting MinEx’s progress as a sign that the government was winning the battle with inflation. Headline writers seized on the news to hit back at the self-righteous preaching of the armies of naysayers; the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, and the Paris Club chief among them.

  The fewer people that knew of Mike’s emergent strategy, the strategy you had when you had no strategy, the better.

  Finklestein had reappeared and advised that real progress was being made on Mike’s apartment. He hoped that he would have some information soon. In his mind, Mike took bets on who would come up with a solution first, Finklestein or Harper. On one level it was an interesting socio-cultural experiment; one working for money and the other out of self-interest, both culturally appropriate motivators. At this stage, as far as Mike could tell, they were neck and neck, on the start line. It was just one more frustration that he had to push to the back of his mind for now.

  The path forward for MinEx was clearer, even if only temporarily, but temporarily is all Mike needed. He watched on as Quinn threw himself into his work with a vigor and dedication that if applied to more productive circumstances would have achieved remarkable results.

  The genius of Mike’s plan lay in its simplicity. The building blocks were already in place. All MinEx needed to do was to proceed as if they were trying to get things done and let the machinery of Argentina’s multilayered, labyrinthine bureaucracy work in their favor. It would be business as normal where normal meant endless delays, obstr
uctions and dead ends.

  In the evenings Mike and Simon met to discuss their encouraging lack of progress. Simon told of how he had called his engineering and planning teams into the boardroom and dragged together three desks around which his team huddled. As Quinn explained how they had studied the blueprints for the construction of the first tranche of rail line, Mike could almost see Quinn frowning, eyebrows close to touching above the bridge of his nose and mumbling to himself in a way that projected real concern until his face unfolded itself and he tapped a knowing pencil on an unsuspecting area of the blueprint.

  “I told them that it would be necessary to widen the existing safety zones by fifty centimeters, possibly sixty, on either side of the rail corridor. This would give us an extra meter, an absolute necessity if we wanted to avoid what had occurred in the Ivory Coast.” Quinn laughed to himself. “Thankfully nobody dared ask what had actually happened in the Ivory Coast. I presume you don’t get very far in Argentina by asking tough questions of your boss.”

  “More likely they thought it best not to reveal their ignorance of the Ivory Coast incident.”

  “Either way, they all nodded in agreement and got to work.”

  Over the following weeks Quinn kept Mike informed of whatever the opposite of progress was as draftsmen and women redrew plans and boundaries, engineers reviewed gradients and calculated weights, loads and load-bearing limits. “It’s done,” Quinn announced proudly over beers one night. “We’ve got the blueprint.”

  Mike nodded in approval and laid out what Quinn should do next. The following day, armed with the new blueprint—Quinn, without an appointment or previous announcement, as Mike had instructed—marched down to the Ministry of Transport, then proceeded to the Ministry of Environment and then the Ministry of Urban Planning and submitted their revised plans.

  At each ministerial reception, a blank-faced clerk accepted the nondescript, white envelopes, marked with the MinEx logo; along with the powers of attorney—duly signed and notarized in original plus one photocopy; a color photocopy of Quinn’s National Identification Card—enlarged by one hundred and fifty percent and duly signed and notarized; MinEx’s business registration and statutes—in original and photocopy, duly signed and notarized.