A Certain Kind of Power Read online

  Mike turned on the Doctor, a burning in his chest. “Thanks a fucking lot,” he said. “I appreciate the support. You may not have noticed but that was directed against you too!”

  A heavy, humid breath escaped the Doctor. He reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved Mike’s telephone. He peered at the screen, ignoring Mike’s tantrum.

  “Do not show me your fucking article!”

  The Doctor placed the phone on the table and pressed a button. From the little device, words muffled by background noise but still audible began to float upwards: If you don’t, Mr. Costello, you have seen what we have done with Decoud. You will be next.

  Simultaneous grins broke out on the two men’s faces.

  “Gotcha,” said the Doctor in English.

  CHAPTER 30

  “What have you got for me?” Mike asked Andrea as he came into the office.

  Andrea had emerged from behind her desk and positioned herself in front of Mike as soon as he had entered. Her relocation was a bad omen. He didn’t care. The morning was impossible to ruin. The Doctor’s recording skills had swung events in his favor.

  “The Ministry of Planning has just issued a press release.”

  “Let me guess, the courts have considered MinEx’s appeal of the forced conciliation and found that the claim has no merit and that MinEx is hereby instructed to continue paying its legally contracted suppliers until a full and satisfactory mediation can take place? Close?”

  “No,” said Andrea, her face serious. “I have it here, shall I read it for you?” She held up some pages, her red fingernails, little flags of warning, dotted the pages. Above the nails, Mike could make out the shields and symbols on the paper that conveyed a certain, though limited, amount of seriousness to the official materials from government.

  “Go ahead,” said Mike, rocking back and closing his eyes.

  “Announcement of the Investigation into the Suspicious Death of Mr. Marcelo Decoud,” began Andrea.

  Mike remained unmoved in his chair. The ministry had acted quicker than he could have expected.

  “The Honorable Minister for Planning has this morning instructed Federal Prosecutor Mr. Alberto Roncaglia, to open an investigation into the suspicious death of Mr. Marcelo Decoud. Initial investigations led to the conclusion that Mr. Decoud’s death was a result of suicide. However, a detailed review of the crime scene and searches of the deceased’s property in Cordoba, from where the victim is from, have given cause to suspect foul play.”

  Andrea paused, allowing Mike a chance to comment or react. None came. He remained still, only a slight nod of the head indicating that Andrea should continue.

  “Yesterday, police officers completed a review of a trove of documents that were recovered from Mr. Decoud’s home. The review uncovered several files that contained information that gave the investigating officers cause to believe that Mr. Decoud may have been in possession of information relating to acts of corruption that were being perpetrated by the multinational firm MinEx, a company with business interests in the province of Cordoba.

  “Mr. Decoud was known as an outspoken advocate for better controls to be placed on the activities of MinEx. It is also known that Mr. Decoud was in Buenos Aires to meet with executives from MinEx. Mr. Decoud died before this meeting could take place. At this stage, it is unknown for what purpose that meeting was for.

  “Upon review of the files, and considering this new information, investigators asked that a second autopsy be performed on the victim. This second autopsy revealed that prior to receiving the fatal wound to the temple, the victim had received numerous blows to the head. The initial autopsy had attributed these blows to the victim falling after the fatal wound was suffered.”

  “Second autopsy? There is no fucking body! They burnt it the same day.”

  Andrea looked up from her reading but decided against asking for an explanation as to how Mike knew this. She continued reading.

  “It would now appear that in his last minutes Mr. Decoud was subjected to a severe physical beating at the hands of his assassins. The minister considers that there is enough evidence to suggest that Mr. Decoud’s death cannot be ruled as suicide, hence him taking the formal step of instructing Prosecutor Roncaglia to open the investigation.

  “While respecting the jurisdiction of the Prosecutor, the minister has asked that the investigation look at the links between MinEx and Mr. Decoud and potentially corrupt relations between MinEx and local contracting companies. Pending the outcome of the investigation the government has taken the decision to suspend all activities being undertaken by MinEx in the Republic of Argentina. This decision however will not apply to the enforced conciliation process, the terms of which will remain in effect for the duration of the investigation or until a satisfactory resolution has been reached.

  “Upon conclusion of the investigation the government will review its existing contracts and obligations with MinEx. No decision will be taken until such a time as the results of the investigation are known.” Andrea paused again. “Then follows a quote from the minister.”

  She waited for a sign to continue.

  “Argentina is a developing country. We are also a country that respects the rule of law. These are not mutually exclusive concepts. We cannot, and we will not, allow the sanctity of life, the rights of the Argentine people, to be pushed aside by foreign firms whose motives are driven by profit, whose balance sheets have no space for empathy, tolerance, and respect. I have asked the prosecutor to conduct this investigation as if he were investigating the death of a thousand patriots. For Mr. Decoud represents us all, every Argentine man, woman, and child. If we allow his death to go unpunished, if his killers are not brought to justice, then we have failed the man himself, his family, and the Argentine people.”

  Mike leant forward, blinking his eyes open as if waking from sleep.

  “You know what I don’t understand, Andrea? How could they retrieve the files from his home, bring them back from Cordoba, analyze them, and draw conclusions in less than twenty-four hours? I can’t even get someone to come and fix the tap in my bathroom!”

  Andrea glowered. “This is not a time for jokes, Mike. Do you know what this means? This is a murder enquiry. And it is a very short leap from MinEx to you.”

  Andrea had no idea just how short a leap. “I can handle this from here, Andrea. Thank you,” said Mike feigning the recovery of control.

  Andrea didn’t move. “MinEx should make a statement. They can’t leave this unanswered.”

  “Let me think about it,” said Mike.

  Andrea gathered her papers and made to return to her desk. She stopped and turned back to Mike, looking at him as though at a madman. She decided against saying anything and stalked into the kitchen.

  Mike read the press release that Andrea had left on the desk. He skimmed through the Spanish text, investigacion, homicidio, MinEx. It was difficult to imagine that this official-looking document was not only all about him, it was written for him.

  He reached for his phone. He scrolled through the saved downloads and came to the recording that the Doctor had made of his conversation with Luis Lopez. He pressed play, satisfied himself that the recording was still there, and put his phone away again. The recording was an asset whose value had appreciated. The Doctor argued for releasing it immediately. Mike was more circumspect. Yes, it was a grenade but grenades still needed to be thrown at the right time. And the right time would be when he was far from Argentina.

  CHAPTER 31

  The street blurred past Mike as he stalked down Cerrito. People stepped out of his way and stared as he went past, as if watching a man fleeing a crime, fascinated to watch but unwilling to stop him. Those who didn’t see him coming received a slight bump as he passed. The usual joys of street life held nothing for him, his attention retained within his own mind as he went over again the news of the investigation. He should have never taken on MinEx as a client. That much was clear. It was clear before but he just hadn’t
looked. Harper was right. He never looked. It was all there. All in front of him. How did he keep missing it? And now it had all caught up to him.

  He turned off the street and into the familiar run-down building that held Finklestein’s office. He would pay whatever he had to pay Finklestein to make this mess go away, sell the apartment and go. No, he wouldn’t even wait. He would let Finklestein sell the apartment and he would go. No point hanging around in Buenos Aires. He would get Simon to release the tape recording and be on the next plane.

  Mike stood in front of Finklestein’s office. He noticed that the brass plaque had been polished, the green tarnish removed. It was a small act of rebellion against the general decay that dominated the rest of the building. The door was closed and Mike knocked, louder than he intended too. He was in his lawyer’s hands now, he realized. Mike would have to give him free reign to extricate him out of this impasse. Free reign would be expensive.

  He had often thought that Argentina was a country invented by lawyers to ensure that they would always be in business. It was common knowledge that there were more lawyers in Argentina than psychologists. Mike was sure there was a connection between the two facts, a connection he was attempting to make in his mind when the door to the office opened and half of the grim face of Tomas Finklestein appeared. Finklestein craned his neck into the corridor and looked left and right before taking a step back and allowing Mike to enter the office. It seemed to have grown smaller since Mike’s last visit, a fact attributable to more stalagmites of paper files forming from the office floor.

  Finklestein looked nervous. His combover hung looser than usual, in need of a gentle pat, a sure sign that he was distracted. He kept a mirror on his desk for combover inspection, a duty he performed at regular intervals, mid-conversation included.

  The leather-bound seat squeaked in protest as Mike lowered himself into it. He could hear Finklestein behind him locking the door. The office secured he returned to his seat opposite Mike.

  “Extra precautions,” he said as way of explanation.

  “What’s going on?” Mike asked.

  “You, Mr. Costello. You are going on,” said Finklestein. One hand brushed his hair across the top of his head then settled it with a familiar pat.

  “I will be out of your hair soon enough.”

  “So, you still plan on abandoning us? I thought that come the first of January you would give up on this Sicilian dream. Much like the Mexican dream before that.”

  Mike looked around the little office. He should have been in Sicily, replacing glass in windows, laying floorboards, drinking early-morning espressos and going over maps of the next stream to be explored. The time had slipped away, or more accurately been eaten away. Eaten away by lies, bureaucracy, delays, and all the other bullshit that accumulates on a man when he spends ten years in a place that doesn’t want him. There would be no free house waiting for him in Sicily but he was still determined to go.

  “I need to get out of here. Now more so than ever. And don’t remind me about Sicily. If you were any good at what you do, Finklestein, I would already be in Sicily claiming that free house.” Mike stopped himself before he went further down the path of recrimination, regardless of how attractive that journey seemed. “What do we need to do to clear up this apartment business, Tomas? Just name a price to make it go away for me. Talk to whoever you have to, pay whatever you need to.” Mike realized the economic recklessness of such an arrangement but his situation demanded it.

  Finklestein sighed, the usual air of confidence about him absent. He looked around his piles of paper before laying his hands on the document he was looking for.

  “I am not sure that will be possible, Mr. Costello. It seems you have some very powerful interests after you.”

  Like a man who had been beaten without respite, this final punch had no effect on Mike. He was past feeling the impacts.

  “I have news on the Mareva Injunction. As we already knew, the AFIP has implemented the injunction. The question you had left with me was at who’s request. I now have that answer.”

  Mike stayed silent.

  “The British government requested the Mareva Injunction. Through their embassy here in Buenos Aires. I have managed to obtain a copy of the original order.” Finklestein took off his glasses and leant across the desk to hand Mike the document. Mike accepted it numbly, nothing making sense.

  He read through the document, recognizing his own name, his address, his telephone number. He placed his eyes lightly on a few neat paragraphs of prose, as if to give the full weight of his vision to the document was too dangerous. According to the paper he held, which looked official enough, his assets had been frozen at the request of the government of the United Kingdom to recover monies owing to the Crown in relation to ongoing criminal procedures in the United Kingdom against the United States citizen, Michael Salvatore Costello passport number 112819808 who is alleged to be involved in an international money-laundering organization. First murder, now money laundering. A gold-plated day. None of it made sense. His eyes skipped down the bottom of the document to a scrawled squiggle that completed the page. Below the squiggle, typed in official-looking font, was the name of the requesting party: Mr. Alexander Harper, Second Secretary, British Embassy, Buenos Aires.

  “Mike, there is one more thing. I can no longer represent you in this matter. I can’t put at risk my other British clientele, not to mention my membership at the Chamber of Commerce. I have helped you on a lot of things over the years, Mike, but money laundering? I can’t be a part of this.”

  “Can’t be a part of this? For fuck’s sake, Finklestein, you bribed the AFIP to get me this information!”

  “Facilitation payments, Mike. I already told you that.” Finklestein’s eyes darted to the closed door. “And keep your voice down. These walls are paper-thin.”

  Mike sighed and stood up. He retrieved the last words he had spoken to Alex Harper, polished them off, and gave them to Tomas Finklestein.

  CHAPTER 32

  Mike spent the morning in the office with Andrea. She typed away with a rhythm he could have danced to if he could dance. He dictated a few words at a time, making sure to include everything he needed to commit to record. Andrea printed off the document and gave it to Mike to re-read. Satisfied he laid it on his desk. He then retrieved his phone and with Andrea’s help transferred the voice recording of Luis Lopez to a memory stick. He sat back at his desk and watched as Andrea placed the typed document and memory stick in a yellow envelope and sealed it.

  Mike sat behind his desk, computer switched off, brooding. He blinked hard to get the face of Alex Harper from his head. Those drooping eyelids and that ridiculous shit-eating grin. Andrea, perhaps tired of observing his long face ordered him out of the office, sending him to pick up some coffee and milk from the supermarket.

  He was grateful for the distraction. He wandered the aisles but was unable to locate his usual brand of milk. A shop assistant explained that a truck-driver’s strike meant that their order had not been received that week. Another reason to hate organized labor.

  Mike’s hatred towards worker’s unions was not some deep-seated political conviction. It was borne from the unsavory experience of eating a local variety of farmed fish after his supply of wild-caught Chilean salmon had been interrupted by the striking truck drivers’ union who had refused to bring the piscatorial prize across the Andean ranges.

  The chilled supermarket aisles were a welcome oasis of cool, a respite from the soaring January temperatures outside. A key supporter of the president owned the supermarket chain, guaranteeing that Mike could enjoy the cool with the knowledge that the blackouts that were affecting non-aligned business owners would not be of concern among the fish and frozen peas of Supermercados Disco.

  Mike made his way to the checkout line and waited with the patience of a dead man as the single line to the one open checkout moved along at glacial pace. The old woman ahead of him paid for her items, counting out the exact amount
in coins with a precision and care peculiar to the older specimens of the race, and proceeded to pack the floral-patterned, natty bags that she had brought from home. Mike joined the checkout girl in watching on as jars of dulce de leche, bags of mate tea, shortbread biscuits, Bimbo brand bread, and several enormous cuts of steak, the national staples, were packed away in precise order and with fastidious care.

  Mike approached the register and unpacked his basket. The girl may have grunted a greeting; Mike wasn’t sure, it could have been a cough. She swiped through his items with a disinterested, horizon-seeking stare. When finished, she extended her hand towards Mike, palm up, dispensing of all niceties or social etiquette that one expects to accompany a purchase. Mike placed a twenty-peso note in her hand.

  The eyes came alive.

  “I can’t accept that. There’s no change.”

  Mike bent his knees, gripped the edge of the counter and leaned back to check the total of his purchases on the register’s small screen: 15.40, lit up in digital green.

  “It’s only 4.60 in change,” he said. “In the whole store you don’t have 4.60 in change?”

  The girl was unmoved. “We don’t have any change,” she repeated.

  Mike pointed to the woman who still had not made it to the sliding exit doors. “That woman paid in coins, I saw her! You must have her coins.”

  “If I give them to you I’ll have none left.”

  “Left for who? Customers? What am I? This doesn’t make any fucking sense!”

  Mike closed his eyes and gripped the counter. Inside his head he imagined himself taking the girl by her blonde braids and smashing her head against the cash register as he used her pretty, button nose to ring up his shopping. Wrong brand of milk—smash! English breakfast teabags—smash! Nescafe instant coffee—smash! His murderous thoughts must have been noted.