A Certain Kind of Power Read online

  After Quinn had provided a full set of fingerprints and wiped his fingers clean with a small square of recycled paper, and the clerk had declined Quinn’s offer to provide a blood sample, the clerk handed Quinn a small paper chit with a reference number that could be used to follow up on the envelopes’ progress through the system.

  “The Ministry of Environment got back to us today,” Quinn said a few weeks later. The official note from the ministry that Quinn showed Mike officially informed whoever may be concerned that the Federal Ministry of Environment was not competent in this matter and that the plans would need to be first lodged with the municipal council in whose jurisdiction the project was to be executed, in this case Cordoba City, which would, if approved, then need to be forwarded to, and approved, at the provincial government level. Once the provincial government had added their approval to the plans, then, and only then, could the plans be submitted to the Federal Ministry of Environment who will be delighted to assist with your project.

  A further three weeks passed, a period of six weeks since the day the plans were lodged, and both the Ministry of Urban Planning and Ministry of Transport followed up with similar advice.

  Quinn, respecting the rule of the land and the advice of his trusted adviser, dispatched a team to lodge the plans with the Cordoba Municipal Council. A lengthy period of study elapsed before the municipal council returned with the news that it had come to their attention that the revised plans had not been submitted to a community-consultation process before arriving at the council. It would be impossible to approve the plans without first completing a consultation process. However, due to the importance of the project to the regional economy, the municipal council was prepared to discuss ways in which this process could be expedited. Would MinEx be interested?

  “There are three reasons for slow bureaucracy,” Mike said. “Reason number one is that your file lands on the desk of a corrupt employee who will place it at the bottom of a pile, never to see the light of day. They’re banking on you losing patience. They want you to ask, ‘Isn’t there another way to get this done?’. Then they’ll smile and say, ‘Well, actually there is.’ Next thing they will be suggesting to meet somewhere discreet, to discuss solutions that could be arrived at, and off down the slippery slope you go.

  “Now, the second reason can often be more troublesome than the first. God forbid your file should land on the desk of an honest employee. There are a few lone rangers out there who are surrounded by corruption, suspicions of corruption, accusations of corruption, and the watchful eye of colleagues and bosses anxious not to miss an opportunity for themselves. You want to try and avoid these employees. They are fearful of being tarred with the same brush as their corrupt colleagues, so this employee is meticulous in crossing every t, dotting every i, and leaving no room for error or for even the tiniest doubt to shadow their probity and sense of moral rectitude, their only defense against the barbarians seated to their left and right.” Mike compared these employees to a beacon of light emitting a dull glow in a murky system from which they cannot escape. And in an environment of limited information, untrustworthy sources, and incomplete records, the work that a lone ranger must do to reach a point of absolute certainty, of absolute conviction, to a point where there exists no crack into which a sliver of doubt could be inserted, can indeed be long and arduous.

  “The third, and most common, reason for the inbuilt tardiness was the lazy, disillusioned, bored, and incompetent party-faithful who are hired throughout the system, precisely because they are the least curious, least likely to raise an eyebrow to sleights of hand, the least likely to twitch an ear at the rasping sound of corners being cut.” Mike downed the last of his beer for emphasis.

  It was into this stymied, inefficient system that Quinn threw his revised plans and Mike was confident that it could be weeks, more likely months, before MinEx would be given the green light to proceed to the next step.

  So, as advised by Mike, Quinn declined, he would not like to explore ways in which the municipal council could facilitate or expedite or circumnavigate the community-consultation process. Indeed, as he noted in his return correspondence drafted by Mike himself at the Oak Bar, Quinn thought it essential that the community-consultation process be completed and that he himself would like to attend and supplied a list of dates, providing ample time for the required planning to occur, in which he would be available to travel and make the MinEx case in person.

  Around that time, Quinn started receiving the phone calls. Anonymous calls at odd hours, whispered offers of assistance from faceless men, bureaucratic sharks attracted from the depths by an ailing fish that had become separated from the school, they sniffed around MinEx’s plans and sensing no free meal retired to the murky depths. The origin of the calls, from this ministry or that council, tracked the journey of the MinEx plans through the underworld of government bureaucracy.

  Spring was now a reality and the giant, metal architectural flower on Libertador began to open further each day. Every time Mike walked past this flower he wondered to himself how a country could invest the time, knowledge, and resource to come up with such a spectacular engineering feat, even if ultimately useless, but a decent loaf of bread remained unattainable.

  Despite these pockets of grumpiness, Mike’s winter of frustration receded into the distance. He realized it had been weeks since he had thought of Sicily, which in turn reminded him that he needed to check in with Finkelstein on his apartment situation. If he didn’t continue to push forward towards the exit he knew that Buenos Aires, that crafty old bitch, would begin to suck him back in. He had still heard nothing useful from the lawyer, which could only mean that when he did hear something it would be costly.

  As MinEx’s plans ground to a pleasing halt, the flush rate increased to levels that Mike estimated had not been reached since December 2001.

  “They’re planning to nationalize Aerolineas Argentinas, the national airline, from a Spanish investment group.” Mike said over media lunas one morning. Between mouthfuls of pastry he explained how the government had pushed through congress a law that deemed the airline of national interest and eligible for expropriation. The airline had been owned by the state before being sold off by the administration of Carlos Menem in the early nineties. The buyers then took the next decade to run the company into the ground. Rumors at the time said that Menem and his inner circle had profited from the sale. This was just one of a wave of privatizations under the Menem government and nobody had the time, or newsprint, to investigate every rumor. As with the privatization, the nationalization was now plagued with accusations of corruption, the Spanish owners complaining of being lowballed on the takeover price.

  With the help of the unions, always willing to down tools in the national interest, the president was able to leave the Spaniards with no choice. They cut their losses and left with nothing more than a lesson learned in free lunches. And like in the nineties there was just too much happening for anybody to investigate with any thoroughness. Because if a keen-eyed journalist, eager to make their name in the cut-throat world of journalism, had lingered on the smoke and mirrors and heavy hands behind the airline deal, they may well have missed the unusual case of Antonio Zanetti.

  Mike explained that Zanetti was a close friend of the president and was a man who had made two very astute business decisions in his lifetime. The first was in 1990 when, while working as a bank teller, he leaked confidential bank documents to the mayor of Rio Gallegos, a small town in southern Argentina.

  Thirteen years later that same mayor, following a stint as governor of Santa Cruz, would become President of the Republic. During that time, Zanetti cultivated his relationship with the future president, always on hand for a favor, always willing to make something appear or disappear as was needed. His friendship, cultivated with such attention, would not be forgotten.

  Zanetti’s second astute decision was, upon the assumption of the presidency by the ex-mayor of Rio Gallegos, to have the fores
ight to found a construction company, Electroingenieria Ltd. That company went on to be an outstanding success, winning more than four billion dollars’ worth of government building contracts. And Zanetti, the humble bank teller, became a very wealthy man. This arrangement may have gone on into the future if not for Zanetti’s, and perhaps the president’s, mistrust of their own banking system.

  The Swiss authorities had opened an investigation into suspicious transactions originating out of the southern province of Santa Cruz. Around the same time a leaked tape had appeared and was gracing the televisions of every bar and cafeteria in Buenos Aires. Subtitled and with the light adjusted for cinematic effect, it showed alleged associates of Zanetti and the president discussing the dilemma of moving the profits of Electroingenieria Ltd.

  From what Mike gathered over the following weeks, from the television, newspapers, taxi drivers, and his own less-reliable sources, was that all up, the operation was a little too successful. Moving the money out of Argentina had become a logistical nightmare. Even for an ex-bank teller, keeping track of the profits proved difficult, with talk of money being weighed rather than counted in an effort to save time.

  Making the money was an easier affair. A picture emerged of a well-oiled operation whereby Electroingenieria Ltd would win tenders for public construction work, inflate the price to the government and skim off the top of the contract.

  A slight twist was the construction company’s incredible streak of buying land prior to the government announcing that it was to be flooded by a hydroelectric project. The land would then be sold back to the government for an enormous profit.

  “Some men have all the luck,” Quinn quipped.

  As they strolled through the Saturday-morning markets of San Telmo, Mike pointed out that there was still the matter of Zanetti getting the president his cut without raising suspicions. Fortuitously, the president’s family owned several hotels in Santa Cruz, despite the province’s humble tourism offering. It was reported that every day for the last three years, Electroingenieria Ltd. had maintained the occupancy levels at the president’s hotels at one hundred percent, booking and paying for rooms that were never used, providing a comfortable, discreet, possibly legal, flow of cash back to the president.

  “So why,” Quinn asked, “if this is all over the papers and the news, is no one in jail?”

  Mike turned over an antique in his hands. An old German soldier’s helmet. Probably Second World War. Mike considered buying it. A helmet might prove be useful for the taxi ride home. He put it back on the dusty shelf and looked at Quinn with the patience of a father explaining something to his son for the fourth time.

  “Because they are too busy investigating Alberto Sanz.”

  Alberto Sanz, Mike elaborated, as they strolled the smooth cobblestones of San Telmo, was another of the president’s inner circle from Santa Cruz who had been brought to the Pink House when the president assumed power. A low-level political operator, over the years Sanz had made himself indispensable to the president as a procurer of warm bodies and disappearer of cold ones. The former female, the latter male. As the future-president rose so did Sanz.

  Once installed in the Pink House, the president, in acknowledgment of Sanz’s exemplary services of supply and demand, had named him minister for transport. Lacking the glamour of other ministerial remits, the Ministry of Transport was still lucrative for those so inclined and Sanz showed himself to be more inclined than a hike up Aconcagua.

  Public transport was subsidized and the budget for those subsidies was controlled by Sanz at the Ministry of Transport. His diligence had earned him the nickname “Lord of the Subsidies”. He wielded the government’s financial assistance without mercy, doling out fear and favor, rewarding some, castigating others, and all in return for personal gain.

  When Sanz was arrested earlier in the year the column inches on the front page of La Nacion recited Sanz’s criminal curriculum vitae: embezzlement, irregularities in awarding subsidies, abuse of authority, misappropriation of public funds, conspiracy, concealment of evidence. Above it all a photo of a handcuffed and sheepish-looking Sanz.

  “His case is still before the court now,” Mike said. “He’s been sacrificed. A pawn thrown to the pack, to satisfy, rather than save, the King.”

  With the sun offering a bite that they hadn’t felt for months, Quinn insisted on stopping for a while. They sat on three-legged wooden stools on a street corner, backs against a wall, the mass of Saturday-morning antique shoppers molding past them. Two uniformed policemen made their way up the street, entered the café, and a short time later, despite the long lines of waiting customers, remerged with replenishments, or at least a brown paper bag with the week’s take. Mike ordered Quilmes, a tall bottle, and two frosted glasses.

  “Why doesn’t Sanz just roll over? Tell everything he knows and save himself?” asked Quinn.

  “He’s playing a long game. This president won’t be around forever. There might be a place for Sanz in the next government. That’s what he’ll be thinking. There is always a place in government for someone who knows how to keep their mouth shut.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “It’s Finklestein,” said Andrea, holding the telephone away from her ear as if even telecommunication with Finklestein carried a risk.

  “Ask him if it is done,” said Mike from his computer where he had positioned the Google Earth camera over a small stream running through a Sicilian valley. It looked like you could walk in from a dirt road. It was promising.

  “Is it done?” Andrea repeated into the telephone, still looking at Mike. She relayed Finklestein’s answer with a shake of the head.

  “He can call back when he has some information. Or he can return my fifteen grand. I don’t want to hear any more excuses. I’ve heard enough shit to fill a thousand ears,” he said and returned his full attention back to the trout stream on his screen, a welcome distraction from the streets outside his window.

  The continual churn of revelations and scandal had begun to depress Mike and he struggled to explain to Quinn their meaning or even follow each scandal through to any kind of conclusion. Impunity was the only constant.

  Today it was news of the suspicious purchase by navy officials, unnamed yet, of inoperable submarines from China. The subs were stagnating in dry dock at the Comodoro Rivadavia Naval Base, the local operators unfamiliar with the systems and unable to make head nor tail of the Chinese-language operating manuals. When government representatives were quoted as complaining that the purchase price of the submarines was two to three times the quotes on similar submarines from France, further suspicions were raised.

  “I can’t keep up, Mike,” Quinn complained, over a plate of empanadas salteñas later that night.

  “That’s the idea.”

  Mike walked home along the streets of Recoleta and studied the faces of those who passed him by, each one locked in their own battle for survival, too tired, too worn out to process the front pages of the papers that hung outside the kiosks, easier to read about the football than remember yesterday’s front page or anticipate tomorrow’s.

  He arrived at his apartment and waited for the doorman to raise himself from behind his desk and waddle to the front door. Alvaro, a stooped gentleman from the north, had come to Buenos Aires looking for better times only to find that bad times had beaten him there. With a pistol holstered haphazardly from his hip, he unlocked the door, stood to the side, and allowed Mike through with a deferential good evening. Mike nodded and headed for the elevator.

  Inside his apartment he opened the sliding door that led onto the small balcony that overlooked the street. The warm evening air rushed in. He could smell the city, a smell of decay yet somehow sweet. He eased himself onto the sofa, kicked off his shoes and swung his feet onto the coffee table. He looked over his shoulder and eyed the unopened bottle of Glenlivet.

  From the open balcony door came sounds of a disturbance in the street. It came on with the breeze that slipped through the h
igh-rise apartment blocks of Recoleta. He closed his eyes against the day, the news, the stories, the heat, and the city, and the noise grew louder.

  He hefted himself from his sofa and hobbled out to the balcony. Grasping the rail in both hands and leaning out, he looked left down the street and saw a stream of people oozing their way towards his apartment like human lava; men, women, and children filled the width of the street with those at the edges forced to scrape along walls and shopfronts.

  Each held a pot or pan that was percussed with the lid of the same or a spoon or another pot or pan. The noise was tremendous, filling the narrow streets, rising and penetrating every open window and balcony. The innocent could be forgiven for thinking that the city’s chefs had gone on strike.

  Back inside Mike turned on his television. The 24-hour news station was broadcasting pictures from around the city. The screen was split in four, each quadrant labelled with the name of a different suburb where the same protest was being replicated. The captions that scrolled below the images kept repeating the words fondo de pensiones, pension funds.

  The noise from the street grew louder as the crowd slid beneath his balcony, the clamor from the street mixing with its recorded impression coming from his own television.

  He stood staring at the television, remote control dangling from his hand. He did a mental inventory of his own kitchen. There was a spaghetti pot and a colander that would do the job. The mass of people crawled forward, an angry, discontented stream flowing through the city, the hammer of metal on metal an audible protest of years of frustration and impotence. He identified with the feeling if even for different reasons. The frustration of exclusion, of feeling that events were passing him by without the possibility of him influencing them, or at times even being aware of what was occurring. He sat back down on his sofa and turned the volume of the TV to full and allowed the recorded sounds of their own protest to feedback down to the crowd below, his own effective, if lazy, show of solidarity.