A Certain Kind of Power Read online

  “Look, viejo,” the girl said, using the affectionate term for old man. “Take your note to the kiosk outside, they might have some change. I can hold your things here at the counter.”

  Mike opened his eyes, in control again, for now. “Thank you.”

  “You’ll have to line up again when you come back. I can’t let you cut the line.”

  Mike looked back at the long line snaking into the depths of the aisles and disappearing somewhere back near the shelves of pasta.

  “Not a problem,” he said through a grimace tighter than a trout’s ass.

  With hands and forearms he herded his items into a small grouping at the end of the counter and headed for the door. The sliding doors opened and he was hit by the heat of the day. From afar, he could hear what sounded like fireworks coming from the direction of the 9 de Julio. The sounds could just as well be tear-gas canisters, rubber bullets, assassin’s bullets, or football fans rioting or celebrating.

  He approached the kiosk and received a shake of the head when he produced his twenty-peso note. He walked a little further along the street to a second kiosk. There the man said that he could provide change on the condition that Mike make a purchase, minimum five pesos. Mike explained that that would then leave him with insufficient money to pay for what he needed the change for. His reasoning fell on large and unsympathetic ears.

  He continued down the street, the walk back to the supermarket increasing in distance to a point that meant a return for his abandoned items was unlikely. He approached a third kiosk and felt the vibration of his cell phone against his breast. He spied some shade and flattened himself against a doorway, protected from both sun and theft. He had already had two phones plucked from his hand by opportunist thieves whilst speaking unguarded.

  “This is a surprise. Yes, just finished up a meeting. I’m heading to the Officers’ Club for lunch,” Mike lied. “Would you like to join me? Know where it is? Great, see you there.”

  As all Argentines do, Mike abandoned his quest for change. He was by now a few blocks from the Officers’ Club and, though the heat was increasing, the thought of a cold beer awaiting him at his destination justified the exertion. On his way he stopped by his office, apologized to Andrea for his shopping failure and picked up the yellow envelope from his desk.

  Entering the Palacio Balcarce he exchanged pleasantries with the doorman. The ground floor of the building had been sold off to an art gallery, the rest remained in the hands of the Centre for Argentine Officials. The result of this opportunistic business deal was that the reception area became an odd meeting ground where the city’s artistic types would pass retired military officers, skeptical glances ricocheting around the room as they crossed paths.

  Mike climbed the ancient wooden staircase, a symphony of creaks and groans marking the slow progress of his climb. Straight ahead, down the length of the second-floor corridor, he could see the activity in the kitchen, which was to say he could see the cooks gossiping with the waiters, flying hands accompanying every word. From a distance, the agitated limbs gave the impression that the kitchen had been invaded by bees.

  The doorway to his left opened into a large dining room, populated by a few unoccupied tables, set from habit rather than any expectation of lunchtime clientele. Mike had never known the club to hold more than a handful of diners even at the busiest of lunch hours; the empty tables a symbol of a country that had left its military establishment behind, banished into the corners of a dark and shameful history. Mike’s only rule at the Military Officers’ club: Don’t mention the military.

  He took his seat and a short while later Simon Quinn’s head appeared around the corner. Mike raised his napkin signaling his presence, an unnecessary gesture as he was the sole diner.

  Mike had chosen a seat at a table for four, adjacent to the windows that provided an unobstructed view over the manicured interior courtyard garden. In the center of the garden a white table was marooned on an island of green grass, with just two unoccupied seats for company and a dry, grey, cement fountain. A sparrow perched on the rim, head cocked to the side. It was, to Mike’s mind, a classic English garden scene, rendered absurd by the 38-degree temperatures that caused little bars of heat to radiate from the garden furniture.

  Simon took his place opposite Mike. He fussed with his napkin before laying it on his lap. Mike observed his lunch companion in silence. Now settled, Simon scanned the room.

  “Lucky you made a reservation,” he said.

  “One of the last true retreats of Buenos Aires, Simon. I often come here when I want to be alone. The beer is cold and the steaks are large. I joined back when they were obliged to open the membership to officers from any country, just to keep the doors open.” He added, “Except the Chileans of course. Even though Operation Condor is still one of the only successful instances of Argentine–Chilean cooperation. Nasty business and not one that people wish to remember,” said Mike, breaking his own rule.

  A suited waiter had broken away from the heated discussions that could still be heard through the door to the kitchen and took their drinks order. Both men ordered beers.

  Mike said, ‘Very few people come here now. Civil–military relations were strained to say the least following the dictatorship and this president has made sure that it would not be wise for most officials to be seen here.”

  The waiter reappeared with two frosted glasses, filled with beer, skinny streams of froth escaping over the rims. Mike ran his hand up his glass, from bottom to top, and sucked the froth from his finger.

  “There is an understandable …” Mike searched for the right word, “… anti-presidential feeling, among the members. They feel a certain hypocrisy in the president’s pursuit of crimes committed during the dictatorship. They question the president’s own actions during this period, a period in which the fortunate few, the President included, accrued great personal wealth.”

  Mike picked up the menu. “We had better order. Don’t be fooled by the rush hour, service can be a little slow here.”

  Alerted by the raised menus, a waiter approached.

  “Gentlemen, I am afraid the menu is somewhat limited today. We are without electricity. With the extreme temperatures that we have been experiencing …” he trailed off, as if that were explanation enough. “However, we can still do most things, like the steak for example, which is cooked in the traditional style, over coals.”

  A culinary tradition, wondered Mike, or the traditional way of avoiding the government’s capricious distribution of energy.

  “Happy with steak?” asked Mike, not bothering to translate the waiter’s comments.

  “Sounds good,” said Simon.

  Mike closed the menus and handed them back to the waiter. “Two steaks please, and another two beers. If you have them cold.”

  “Yes sir, we have the beers in the ice box. We’re always prepared,” he said with the typical Argentine air of being surprised by nothing and ready for everything.

  A thin, grey-haired couple came teetering in, arm in arm. It was difficult to determine who was supporting who. Short, shuffles of the feet polished the floor, whilst a waiter hovered close by, as if accompanying an over-stacked plate of pancakes, hands poised at the ready in anticipation of a messy fall. They took their seats in the opposite corner of the dining room.

  Simon’s eyes darted around the room, a sigh escaping his lips. “I take it you have seen the news.”

  “Yes.”

  “No concerns about having lunch with a man under investigation?”

  “We’re in the same boat, Simon, you at the stern and I at the bow.” He saw no reason to inform Simon that he was also under investigation from the British government. Best to focus on the more immediate problem.

  “If they pin this on you, it will be as the intellectual author. They will still need to have the actual murderers. I presume that that is where I would come in. A one-man play would interest nobody.” He said it with an air of matter of factness that he didn�
�t feel as he recalled Luis Lopez’s reptilian voice in his ear.

  “You believe this could come back on you?”

  “It had crossed my mind,” said Mike. It hadn’t just crossed his mind. It had invaded his mind and made camp, like the Mongol hordes on the banks of the Sajo.

  Mike handed his empty glass to the waiter who had approached and placed two fresh beers on the table. He watched the waiter return to the kitchen. Through the circular window cut into the door he could see the kitchen staff had still not resolved their argument. He hoped that someone in there had one eye on their lunch.

  “It’s the money they’re after. The bodies are incidental, Decoud’s, yours, mine,” said Mike. “They are fucking animals.” Mike looked over his beer at his client. “Are you now willing to take on board my advice?”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  Mike reached under the table and produced the yellow envelope that had been sitting on the chair beside him. The words Simon Quinn were scrawled across the envelope in blue ink in Andrea’s distinctive handwriting. The envelope sealed with tape. He handed the envelope to Simon.

  “Shall I open it?” asked Simon, turning it over in his hands.

  “It’s got your name on it. But I can tell you what it contains. A couple of days ago Luis Lopez paid me a visit.” He left out the presence of the Doctor. “The message was the same as last time, start playing ball or else, though the tone was more hostile, if that’s possible. And he wasn’t alone. I thought it would be wise to take some precautions.” With one hand Mike pointed at the envelope, while the other rubbed his chin. “In your hands you are holding a document that outlines everything that has happened since we started this project.”

  Mike had begun writing it himself until Andrea suggested that she do it in Spanish. “It details every interaction you’ve had with Planning. Them forcing you to qualify one company for the tender process, the inflated bid, the forced conciliation, the suspension of the project. Every threat, every misdirection. It’s all in there. I’ve tried to keep it to the facts. Even so it reads like a work of fiction.”

  “Everything?” asked Simon, concern in his voice.

  “Everything.” Mike knew that Simon would not want any record of his fudged tender process to be committed to paper but it was the least of his worries. At least by getting ahead of it he could blame the government.

  “What good will it do, Mike?” asked Simon, fanning himself with the envelope.

  “None. Not by itself. But in the envelope, you’ll find a memory stick.”

  Simon’s fingers probed around the envelope, as if trying to guess a Christmas present, until he located the pen drive.

  “On that memory stick you will find a recording of my last conversation with Lopez. He said enough to implicate the Planning Ministry in the death of Decoud.”

  Simon let out a low whistle. “How did you record it?”

  “On my phone,” lied Mike.

  Simon looked impressed with the initiative. “What would you like me to do with this?”

  “Have your office issue a press release in response to the government’s announcement of the investigation.” Mike pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “The press release should say …” and he began to read from the paper that Andrea had given him. “We reject the accusations that have been levelled against MinEx and ask that, with immediate effect, the investigation into MinEx be dropped, that all of MinEx’s legally acquired rights in Argentina be reinstated, that the forced conciliation process be suspended, and that MinEx be allowed to continue the development of its project of national importance, unfettered and unencumbered by government meddling.” These were Andrea’s words. They sounded official, the words of a lawyer.

  Mike continued. “If these actions are not implemented, MinEx will make available to the press, documents and information that detail the unethical, irresponsible, and criminal actions that have characterized the Ministry of Planning’s actions since MinEx’s arrival in Argentina.”

  The reading finished with an elaborate sweep of the hand as if Mike had just unveiled a new car that Simon, as the lucky contestant, stood a chance of winning.

  “Fuck me, Mike,” said Simon, lowering his head. “Fuck me,” drawing out each word. He tapped the envelope. “Is this the right way?”

  “It’s the only way. Give them a week to act. In the meantime, you’ll need to keep the envelope someplace safe. If you don’t see or hear anything by Wednesday evening, make the contents of that envelope public.” He spoke with a certainty he didn’t feel. But the Doctor was right, they had to respond with what the government would understand: fear, threats, power.

  Simon sat still. The flick and flash of his eyes showed that he was playing through all the possible ways that his life would turn out if he walked out of this lunch and made public the press release.

  “Should this come from me?” he asked, perhaps searching for a loophole. “Couldn’t this come from the embassy? Government to government? In private? What if I asked Alex Harper to do it?”

  “He’s gone,” said Mike, closing off that avenue of escape.

  “Gone? Where?”

  “Iraq. He left the same day Decoud was found.”

  “The prick didn’t even say goodbye.”

  “An occupational necessity. People are like Lego to diplomats. They’re dropped into a country and start clicking relationships on to themselves. When it’s time to go, they unclick them. Him being here or not won’t change much. He wouldn’t have done it anyway.”

  “What if we just wait, Mike? I wouldn’t be surprised if by next week we have a new government. They’re planning another one of those marches tonight. What did you call it? A cacerola?”

  “Cacerolazo,” corrected Mike.

  “Yes, and not just here in Buenos Aires, all over the country. These guys are not going to survive.”

  “You might be right,” lied Mike again, using Simon’s suggestive momentum for his own advantage. “The contents of that envelope might tip the whole thing over the edge. You’d be doing the country a favor.” He didn’t feel good about it but thoughts of Decoud lying cold on a morgue table seemed to justify all ethical gymnastics. And he was saving Simon from himself. He’d thank him for it one day.

  The waiter interrupted and placed two dinosaur-sized steaks on the table. The smell of the grilled meat and the caramelized fat filled Mike’s nostrils, derailing his train of thought. He had forgotten how hungry he was.

  They finished their meals in silence. Mike going over in his head all the ways his plan would go wrong. They argued over the bill, Mike insisting that he should pay, Simon promising to get the next one, and Mike hoping that there would be a next one.

  “I’ll be at the Oak Bar tonight. Why don’t you drop by for a quiet one?”

  “I think I will,” said Simon with a procedural tone that left Mike unsure if he would see him later or not. Simon thanked him for lunch and made for the door.

  Mike watched him leave the dining room. Maybe it was a combination of the heat and the beef that caused his mind to drift back to a distant summer in Madrid where he had attended the San Isidro bullfights. At the time, he had debated whether to pay the extra pesos for the sombra tickets, decided against it, and spent the afternoon roasting in the sol section. He had sat next to a Spaniard who was gracious enough to share his wine skin with him. In exchange, he only wanted to show off his English and his knowledge of bullfighting.

  The stranger took the time to explain the intricacies of the ritual slaughter they were witnessing. He encouraged Mike to ignore the pomp, the flags, the cheers, the danger, the suit of lights, and focus only on the bull’s front feet. He had explained that only when the bull’s feet were in the perfect position, not too close together, not too far apart, would the shoulder blades part in such a way as to allow the clean entry of the killing blow. All the rest was just show until the matador had used all his tricks and talents to maneuver the front feet right where he want
ed them.

  As Mike stared out the window now, the sound of Simon’s feet faded on the staircase and below the table Mike’s own feet shifted, ever so slightly, apart.

  CHAPTER 33

  Mike departed the Officers’ Club and emerged on to Quintana. Looking left he could see ribbons of smoke snaking skywards above the trees and buildings that stood between himself and the 9 de Julio Avenue. He turned right, heading down Quintana towards the Palacio Duhau.

  He could smell the beginnings of a storm on the afternoon breeze. A gap in the buildings allowed him to look north, towards an unseen Uruguay, where a battalion of dark clouds were gathering. It would be a few hours away. The heatwave would break with a torrential downpour that would leave the ill-equipped streets flooded, cars rearranged by rising waters, pedestrians stranded, and the mayor promising, after blaming the president—though Mike was unsure how much influence the president had over the weather—that it will never be allowed to happen again. A pattern that would be repeated for the remaining days of summer.

  Mike spied a group of shirtless youths making their way towards him. Two of them held large sticks in their hands. Others sniffed from plastic bottles half-filled with a clear liquid. They held their line of march, forcing other pedestrians to go around them or be bumped out of the way. They were the remnants of the afternoon’s disturbances on 9 de Julio, taking a quick pass through Recoleta to see if there was anything they could take back with them to their barrios. Part of their fee for turning out on such a hot day. They would appear on cue, when and where needed, and their political paymasters would turn a blind eye to any mementoes they took with them.

  Mike ducked in to a jewelry shop and pretended to examine a diamond necklace, one eye on the street, making sure the group passed without incident. He had expected the protest to continue into the night and suspected that the approaching storm was reason enough for them to abandon their ideological positions earlier than expected.