A Certain Kind of Power Page 18

  After the protests had passed and the kitchen sounds had deserted the streets and faded from the evening air, Mike lay on his bed. The evening procession had continued for over three hours. The television coverage had shown the same protests repeated all over the city of Buenos Aires and in the regional cities of Cordoba, Rosario, Mendoza, and Salta. The protests were a brief blip, a hot bubble that formed, expanded to bursting point, and left nothing behind. The excesses and the corruption of this government were unacceptable. For tonight. Tomorrow the long, slow rape of resources would continue.

  Could that be the secret of survival? To expel the bubble of hot air from your system, to get it out and move forward without question? Could it be possible that understanding only came when the attempt to understand had ceased? At the bottom of the world it was a notion that made sense.

  Mike drifted into sleep and dreamed he stood on a cliff overlooking a beach. Below he could see the postage stamp of towel on the yellow sand where Emily Parisi sat. Her head was turned towards the cliff to watch him. He dove off the cliff, arms arcing out in front of him to form his spearhead, moments before he broke the surface. When he emerged the cool ocean waters had transformed into leaves. He was breaststroking through a canopy of lush tropical forest. He ducked his head into the leaves and could see the ground far below. He raised his head, drew a lungful of air and glanced sideways towards the shore. He was alone.

  CHAPTER 24

  The news of the nationalization of the nation’s pension funds had put Mike Costello in a good mood. For the first time in many weeks his first thought in the morning had not been of walking along mountain streams in search of a pool big enough to hold a brown trout. He had agreed to meet Simon at 10 a.m. in a coffee house on Corrientes and had chosen Café Orleans as a little surprise for his client, a reflection of his improving mood. He woke early with the idea of walking, taking advantage of the clear morning, and avoiding the heat that would no doubt arrive later in the day.

  At the kiosk in front of his apartment he stopped and looked over the front pages of the morning’s newspapers that were arranged on wires as if hung out to dry. La Nacion, Clarin, and Pagina 12 all led with pictures of the previous evening’s protests. The Ambito Financiero, a poor man’s Financial Times, led with a picture of an Aerolineas 747 aircraft, overlaid with a picture of an irate-looking board of directors.

  The kiosk owner, used to Mike’s morning stopover, kept his head buried in his daily football paper, knowing that Mike would only require his commercial attention on the Saturday when he stopped by to purchase the Buenos Aires Herald.

  By the time Mike turned left into Corrientes small patches of sweat were already beginning to expand from under his armpits and at other points on his body where skin and fabric met. Buenos Aires in summer was not a city for suits.

  The city’s garbage collectors were still on strike and the morning sun had an adverse effect on the piles of rubbish bags that had accumulated into large towers on the footpaths. Some had reached such a height that they had toppled into the streets. The smell of rubbish, rotting under the heat and humidity, penetrated his mouth and nostrils, growing stronger with each step closer to these fetid cairns, reaching a point where it was necessary to halt his breathing, only to be resumed when he had moved past.

  When he had broken free of the last tendrils of stench from one pile he would step into the olfactory sphere of influence of the next, the effect being that his walk down Corrientes was a continual crescendo and fall of odors of the previous days’, or maybe even weeks’, filth, grime, and smut of Buenos Aires life.

  Causing most offence were the piles that had been picked open by the city’s stray dogs, or the drug addicted and downtrodden, whose scavenging, either by hand or paw, left gaping holes in the rubbish piles from which detritus oozed like an infected, pestilent sore. Clambering on one pile, a man, his shoeless feet blackened and hardened from walking the streets. Mike averted his eyes as he walked by and the smell of the man, a smell that was somehow human, overpowered even that of the rubbish in to which he was elbow deep, searching for something to eat or smoke or sniff. The man had long ago exited their shared mythos.

  Mike grasped the top button of his shirt between thumb and forefinger and using it as a tiny handle, fanned himself, a futile attempt to create airflow around his body. He continued on Corrientes until he came to Café Orleans. He glanced at his watch. It was ten past ten. Still thirty minutes early by local time.

  Inside the café Quinn sat at a table, his head buried in a folder. The café offered a welcome respite from the heat, smell, and noise of the street.

  “Good morning, Simon,” said Mike.

  Simon did not lower the folder but bent the top half forward to allow his greeting to escape.

  Mike smiled as if holding back a secret that he would soon enjoy revealing. Simon was halfway through the tea that he favored, so Mike called over the waiter and ordered an americano and three media lunas. Simon declined the offer for media lunas explaining that he had arrived forty-five minutes earlier. He had eaten whilst catching up on some work.

  “Been here before?” Mike asked.

  “No.”

  “I’ve been saving this one for you. Thought you might like it.”

  Quinn looked around the interior as if for the first time noticing where he was. Décor-wise it looked just like every other cafeteria. Non-descript table and chairs, bought for utility rather than comfort. Curtains drawn tight against the outside sun, natural light replaced by naked, yellow bulbs clinging to various wall spaces.

  Though the other tables were occupied there was little chatter. In fact, no chatter came from the tables. Apart from Mike and Simon, the only human noises were coming from the kitchen and wait staff. Quinn’s eyes swept the room again.

  Mike watched, waiting for his client to make the realization that not only were they the sole talkers; they were the only men. Women, in groups of two, three, or four, occupied every table. They sat in silence. As Quinn now noticed, the women looked if not at him, in his direction. He averted his gaze and turned back to Mike.

  “Don’t shit yourself, Simon.” Mike’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I thought you could do with a laugh. In Chile, they call this café con piernas, coffee with legs. In true Argentine fashion, they have outdone their Chilean neighbors. Here you can have the legs and the rest.”

  Quinn’s face reddened as if he felt the eyes of the room on him. “Having coffee in a brothel is not how I imagined starting my day, Mike.”

  “It’s not a brothel, Simon,” Mike said in a hurt voice. “It’s a coffee house. All above board. The owner has an accommodation with these ladies. They can come to offer their services, if wanted. Strictly no hustling. Businessmen can come in, have a coffee, and an ogle or more. That’s up to them. We’ll be left well alone if that is our wish. I understand that there are some rooms around the corner for those that want a little sugar with their coffee. I only brought you here to show you another side of Buenos Aires.”

  “Any more sides and I will begin to think it’s a dodecahedron.”

  The waiter brought Mike his americano. Receiving it in both hands he followed Quinn’s eyes to three ladies seated at the nearest table, careful not to signal any unintended interest. Nocturnal lighting conditions would have enhanced their business prospects.

  “Is this why you are looking so smug this morning?” asked Quinn, turning back around.

  Mike held up his hands. “I have long ago abandoned the pursuits of youth.” He changed subject. “I’ve been doing some reading on the events of yesterday.”

  “I had crowds under my balcony half the night,” said Quinn.

  “Ah yes, the protests. No interest to me, Simon. What interests me is the nationalization of the pension funds. It’s something I’ve been following for a while. I hadn’t dared hope that it would happen.

  “When Argentina defaulted on its bonds back in 2001 a lot of people—well, not people—funds, were left out of
pocket. They have spent the intervening period chasing the government through the US courts, trying to recover what they consider their money. The ethics of it all, I ignore.

  “You may be surprised to learn that I have other clients outside of you. A few years back I was hired to assist one of these funds to identify assets held by the Argentine government and make up a hit list, if you like, of assets held outside of Argentina that could be targeted with a Mareva Injunction, a freeze-and-seize order. We’ve had limited success. We got close a couple of times. A navy training ship that made the mistake of docking in Ghana. We slapped an injunction on it and we managed to hold the ship for a few months. Unfortunately, the Argentines were able to provide the Ghanaians with the required paperwork to free it.” At the mention of paperwork, Mike held up his hand and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, indicating what kind of paperwork had been lodged with the Ghanaians.

  “Then last year we almost got the presidential plane. It was scheduled to be sent up to London for repairs and maintenance. At the last minute, the trip was cancelled. I’ve no proof, but I suspect that the Argentines were tipped off from someone here in the British embassy.” Mike raised his eyebrows, indicating that Quinn could join the dots on that one.

  “How does that tie into the pension funds?”

  “The pension funds, before yesterday, were one of the best-run investment programs in the country. They were managed by some savvy financial operators. Year on year they would outperform similar funds across the continent. Which is why they became such an attractive target for nationalization. What is of interest to me are the funds’ investment mandates. Each fund was required to hold fifteen percent of its portfolio in Argentine assets, meaning that most of the capital were tied up in foreign equity and bonds. As of yesterday those holdings are owned by the Argentine government making them fair game for seizure. It’s a monumental oversight on their part.”

  “They must have considered it,” said Quinn unimpressed.

  “You would think. But I will give you an example of the wisdom of this government. When I heard that this could happen I began to map the equity holdings of the funds. Not a difficult task as the positions were publicly distributed every quarter. One of the larger private equity holdings was in a company that I’m sure you are familiar with, BHP.

  “I’m sure you are also aware that by operating its oil and gas business in the Falkland Islands, BHP, by law, cannot operate in Argentina. That is one of the ways Argentina is fighting Britain on the sovereignty of the islands. Any company operating in the Falklands or working with companies operating in the Falklands, is prohibited from doing business in Argentina. You now have the unusual case of the Argentine government being a shareholder of a company that, by its own laws, is illegally exploring for oil in, what it considers, Argentine territory.”

  It was the kind of story that Mike enjoyed telling Quinn, feeling a small sense of superiority in knowing more. None of it made sense, none of it seemed plausible. For some reason he enjoyed being the one to reveal it.

  “Can shares be seized?” asked Quinn.

  Mike shrugged. “That I do not know. I’m only retained to provide the targets. And this morning I fired off a list of all the foreign-based assets that the government now own. How they go about tracking them down and seizing them is a job of the lawyers. My part is done.”

  Quinn played with his napkin, using it to sweep some crumbs onto the floor. “If the assets are seized, the ones who will suffer are the mum-and-dad Argentines who have their pensions tied up in the funds.”

  The thought had already occurred to Mike. “I see it like this. The government only need the pension-fund money because they chose to default on their debt in the first place. If people lose their pensions maybe they will think again about voting them in at the next election. There are never any bloody consequences in this country, Simon.

  “People say that corruption is the problem here, it’s not. Corruption is everywhere. Watergate, HSBC, Enron. Corruption is not an Argentine problem; it is human. The difference is that in the US, people go to jail. Here they just get promoted or a seat in the senate. Impunity is the problem here. If I can bring about some real consequence, some tangible, grab-you-by-the-balls, punch-you-in-the-face consequences, maybe I am doing these people a favor.”

  Mike could hear the conviction in his own voice and it surprised him. Did he care what happened after he cashed his check? The tightness in his jaw told him he did.

  “From what I saw last night those consequences are coming anyway. I doubt they will even get to the next election,” said Quinn.

  Mike doubted that Quinn knew when the next election was. He watched as Quinn leant forward and helped himself to the third and final media luna on Mike’s plate. He considered defending it, the walk had made him hungry. He offered no resistance.

  “You can’t judge anything by that,” said Mike. “Banging some pots and pans may scare a rat out of a kitchen. To force a pig to remove his snout from the trough? Rather ineffectual in my experience.”

  “It’s not just the protests. Every day there’s a new scandal. Are you telling me that that means nothing? That it’s all just business as usual? I think people are fed up, I saw it with my own eyes. They want change. Thousands of people don’t just take to the street one day then go home the next as if nothing has happened.”

  “They’ve had their say. They’ve been heard. This evening they will be in their homes, drinking their wine, and complaining about the government. These scandals, the ministers on trial, the fraud, suspicious campaign funding. I know what you’re thinking, any one of them would be enough to bring a government down where you’re from. Here? It’s just part of doing business.

  “These are not scandals. Not real ones. They’re moves, plays and you need to read them as such. A minister goes on trial. Is he ever found guilty? Does he ever serve time? Is a crime solved? Victims compensated? Doubtful.

  “We need to think why this is happening. What’s the play? Are they executing one to educate a thousand? Are they repaying a debt? Are they disciplining someone? Are they currying favor? With who? Why? An investigation is never about solving something, it’s about sending a message, achieving an objective in the great show of government. And the public respond to the show they are given.

  “Think of last night as a hostile audience throwing tomatoes at a bad performance. That is all it is. A message back to the government: You’ve gone too far, I’m not liking this. Nobody is bringing down a government by walking through Recoleta in a fur coat, banging Nona’s colander and singing the national anthem.”

  Mike sat back in his chair and brushed the crumbs from his hands with undue aggressiveness. The usual humor in his voice gone. He hated what he had just said, hated it because it was true.

  “I can’t believe it’s just business as usual,” said Quinn.

  “I agree in part. There is an unusual amount of activity. The methods though are nothing unusual.”

  “Any guesses to why that is?” asked Quinn.

  “It can only be about money. They are running out of money. They are subsidizing half the population. Electricity, transport, gas. It’s expensive. They can’t go to the international markets, so they need to find it locally. I think these scandals, as you say, are the visible result of deals that are being done behind closed doors to get their hands on funds.

  “To get the votes needed to nationalize the pension funds they may have had to offer up a head, take a revenue stream from one union and give it to another, make a show of force to prove they are serious.” Mike paused and inhaled, the breath whistling through his teeth. “The point is, Simon, you need to be careful. What all this activity tells me is that they are shaking a lot of trees, doing a lot of deals to get their hands on more cash. Under these circumstances, I would not want to be a man holding a hundred and fifty million dollars of what they consider to be their money. You need to be smart. I don’t think you can keep this go-slow operation running
much longer. They’re going to want to see some cash coming out, which means you need to start work, even if it’s just some minor stuff. I thought that maybe you could move forward with something small, inconsequential.”

  Simon shook his head. “My course is set. It’s the right one. I can’t see how this government can survive much longer.”

  “This government is going to serve out its term, and maybe the next term.”

  “Another fucking term?”

  Mike let the question hang. He looked at a table across the room. A man in a grey suit, who he hadn’t noticed come in was chatting, or more likely negotiating, with two ladies. The man ordered coffee for all three. Mike returned his attention to Quinn.

  “Mike, you are the one who advised me to play the long game. To wait them out. They were your words. Now you are saying they’re going to be around for another term?”

  “I said play the long game. Same as I’m telling you now. They won’t be kicked out. You must wait for the election cycle. It’s only another four years. If there’s one thing that they’ve learnt well, Simon, it is that you can do whatever you want in government, just do it within your election cycle and make damned sure you have a peaceful, democratic, handover of power. Nothing surer to get the international community interested than a coup or a president that doesn’t want to go. Even Menem just packed up and left when it was his time.”

  A red tide rose in Quinn’s face. He grabbed the edge of the table with both hands as if ready to flip it. Mike braced for the eventuality.

  “Four fucking years, Mike? I can’t wait four fucking years!”

  “You’re going to have to,” Mike said. “Because unless MinEx has a small army that you haven’t told me about, I can’t see how you are going to dislodge an elected government from power.”