A Certain Kind of Power Read online

  Being white in color, the rat must have been an unfortunate production extra. With every exhalation of his little rat lungs the snake’s coils tightened, patiently and consistently. Mike had sat there willing the rat to do something, to resist. The camera zoomed in close on the rat’s face. The eyes betrayed no sense of panic. Just a blank stare at its inevitable fate until finally the eyes were extinguished. He imagined Luis Lopez’s face transposed onto the rodent and smiled.

  CHAPTER 35

  At midday, the dining room of Rodi Bar was filling up. Diners were back from their month on the beaches of Pinamar, Cariló, Mar del Plata and Santa Teresita; that is if they were above working class and below upper middle class. The wealthier classes had returned from further afield, most likely the Uruguayan playgrounds of Punta del Este or José Ignacio and it was unlikely that they would be eating at Rodi Bar. Those that occupied the tables would have been in their offices by ten in the morning and by twelve they were ready for a break.

  Mike sat alone at his customary table, surveyor of all around him. Above him the ceiling fan chugged, mixing the summer heat and humidity of the room, like a lazy, wooden butter churn. The usual post-holiday buzz came from the tables as work colleagues raised both voices and hands to best each other with stories of lovers bedded and partners deceived, whilst the men talked mainly of football.

  Mike checked his watch. Simon was late. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t care, he would enjoy sitting in this bar, watching his adopted compatriots go about their daily life, fascinated by their verve and spark that he once presumed he would one day possess as if by osmosis. Now he was just a resentful silent observer dreaming of other cultures. That had become his new normal.

  But nothing about today was normal. This afternoon he had a flight to catch. He had been summoned to the British embassy in Montevideo, the Uruguayan capital Buenos Aires’ charming little brother, an observation never to be made to a Uruguayan. Montevideo was a familiar destination for Mike. If he had time he would take the Buquebus, the oddly named ferry service that made two trips a day across the River Plate and which Mike often took when he needed to make use of Uruguay’s open-arm banking arrangements, US dollars well-hidden in jacket pockets. The Buquebus was a useful service when speed was not essential and when the thought of taking the small propeller plane that ran the aerial route left him sweating.

  The call from Montevideo clarified a few things in Mike’s mind. Alex Harper must have been acting on a request from the British embassy out of Montevideo. Mike had no contacts in Montevideo so explaining his undeclared bank accounts there could prove difficult. He had considered not traveling but decided that more could be gained by going. After all, he had nothing to hide that had not already been hidden so well as to never be found. It had also crossed his mind that, under the present circumstance, a trip north would not be a bad thing, a chance to get out of Buenos Aires and to escape the heat in all its forms.

  He looked at his watch. Still no Simon. He reached into his jacket and checked his phone. No messages. When they had parted at the Oak Bar they had agreed that they should have no contact during the week, Mike had insisted, more for his own safety than Simon’s, if he were being honest. They had agreed the lunch date in advance, a final synchronizing of strategy before releasing their dossier and voice recording the next day. They decided that if, for whatever reason, one couldn’t make it they would send a simple, Mike considered it naïve, message: “Gone fishing”. Mike had floated, “Gone to the polo”, unwilling to involve such a noble pursuit as fishing in this business. When Simon had pointed out that the polo season had finished, Mike had accepted the piscatorial option.

  The mere thought of fishing was enough for Mike’s mind to cast off and start drifting down the Limay River on that yellow, inflatable raft, or was it red? He could no longer be sure. There had been so many days between that one and today that the color of the four-wheel drive that took him to the river and the raft on which he drifted down it, had mingled.

  Never mind, he could still see the trout laying low against the pebbled bottom, fins fanning like the tail feathers of the small hawks that rose and stalled and dipped in the air streams above the river banks. The water so clear—snowmelt the guide had told him—that it was impossible to tell if he were in three feet or thirty feet of water. So clear, that Mike could count the spots on the browns, or so he told people when he had returned. Just thinking of that snowmelt river cooled him down.

  By the time Simon arrived, Mike had packed away his five-weight rod and had his phone in his hand, ready to break protocol. The first thing that struck Mike was how good Simon looked. His memory, somewhat fuzzed, from the last time he saw him was of a tired man, kicking against the current and getting nowhere. Now he looked rejuvenated, light even. Mike imagined this is how he himself had looked that day on the Limay.

  “Apologies, Mike.”

  “None needed. Though I was getting a little worried. I have a flight to catch this afternoon and I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Across the river. Montevideo,” he announced, as if he were off to St. Tropez.

  “Laying low for a while?”

  “Work,” Mike lied. “Though if I were laying low, I could think of no better place to do so,” he said, returning to within touching distance of the truth.

  “Glad to hear. I would hate to think I had driven you from your home.”

  “You may still achieve that. I’ll only be gone the day. I’ll be following the news and if I need to extend my stay then I may do just that.”

  “That won’t be required. We’ve got these bastards right where we want them.”

  Mike was hopeful but not that bullish. “Why do you say that?”

  “We haven’t heard a thing over the last week. No contact from Planning. They’re scared, Mike. They know we have them.”

  A waiter appeared at the table. Mike asked for a few more minutes.

  “They’re worried. They’ve rescheduled the Boca–River game for tomorrow night in case you decide to release your shit bomb. They want to make sure that all eyes are on the football so they can control your fallout. We’ve got their attention.”

  “You don’t have time for lunch?”

  Mike had stood up. “I did when I arrived 45 minutes ago.” He smiled to show there was no bad feeling. “I still have to pack. I’ll run around like a madman to get to the airport on time only to find the flight delayed by an hour, if I am lucky. Still, I can’t let standards slip.”

  Simon stood and for a second it appeared as if he would move to hug him. Mike had said goodbye enough times to know that there were no good goodbyes. Simon seemed to sense his uneasiness.

  “You going to be OK, Mike?”

  A good question and one Mike didn’t have a ready answer for. There was always the possibility that the government may still come after him, if only to deflect blame from themselves. He would have to see how the pieces fell tomorrow. He hoped that by the time he returned from Montevideo, things might have died down. He had been around long enough to know that things had a habit of dying down in Argentina.

  CHAPTER 36

  Mike made the mistake of telling the cab driver that he was in a hurry. Rather than take it on board as a general observation, the driver took it as a racing challenge. Mike wasn’t sure what the record time was for a trip from central Recoleta to the Jorge Newbery domestic airport but he must have ran it close. He could hear his luggage hurtling across the trunk, thumping left on the right-hand corners before being hurled back right on the left-hand corners, the demented grin of his driver visible in the rear-view mirror. It saved him from conversation, though a seatbelt would have been nice.

  They came to an abrupt halt at the entrance to the domestic departures. Mike clambered out, holding the door frame for support. He retrieved his bag from the popped trunk while the driver amused himself hunting the remnants of his last meal in and around his yell
owed teeth with a toothpick. Mike closed the trunk and the cab crawled away, honking at a passenger to see if they would like to risk their life with him. Getting no response, the cab screeched off.

  Mike extended out the handle of his luggage, hitched his shoulder bag up higher and entered through the large sliding doors that were marked with a green sign, entrada.

  The departure hall was a convoluted mass of people and strewn baggage, though “hall” seemed a bit too grand a word for the large, shabby open area. Mike stood for a while trying to make sense of the lines of people that were entwined and writhing like balls of mating snakes. Behind him the sliding doors kept opening and bags were dragged across the back of his ankles as travelers threw themselves into the swirling ball of the stressed, anxious, and late.

  He located the check-in desk of Austral airlines, and with his head attempted to trace the line backwards to its end. Having identified who he believed was close enough to the last person in the line, he set off through the bodies, with the firmness required when an “excuse me” brought no opening of the path, his luggage trailing behind him.

  Finding a place in line he settled into wait. Ahead of him some travelers had laid down, heads resting on their bags, making the most of, if not a bad situation, a common one. Mike cursed his own tardiness. His flight was due to depart in three hours and he knew he should have arrived earlier. Now he would be cutting it fine.

  Over the loudspeaker, the one reserved for paging late and lost passengers, a woman apologized for the delays. Mike imagined it must be a full-time job. Austral’s baggage handlers had been on strike since Monday. As an affiliate of the now state-owned airline, they felt that a state-sponsored raise was in order. Until a deal was done, only a skeleton crew were manning the shifts.

  The line inched forward, travelers awoke, shook their heads clear, slid their baggage forward with a lazy foot and reassumed their slumbering positions. When Mike heard the boarding call for flight AR2382 departing from Buenos Aires to Montevideo he broke ranks with his fellow sufferers and headed for the check-in, excusing himself in loud, tourist English as he went, ignoring the Spanish insults that followed him, knowing that to acknowledge would be to break cover.

  At the check-in desk, again the loud tourist English, the confused and worried look, did the trick. Advancing age had its benefits. The pretty girl behind the desk, with her hair slicked back and held tight in a bun, could not have been more accommodating to the Senor and he was checked in and ticketed. He dared not look back at the lines behind him and could only imagine what they were thinking at his preferential treatment. Second-class citizens in their own country.

  He passed through security, the distracted agents glancing at his identification card and boarding pass with the barest of interest. As his bag passed through the scanner, he noted that the woman monitoring the computer was distracted by a joke with her colleague seated on an adjacent scanner.

  He arrived at gate 10 as the last of the passengers on flight AR2382 were heading out a large wooden door marked, salida. He handed his ticket to a lady that resembled the lady who had checked him in, then made his way through the door.

  On the other side of the door was a flight of metal stairs. He manhandled his luggage down the stairs before coming out into a waiting room of sorts. Through a set of sliding doors, he could see a bus filled with passengers. By the stares levelled in his direction they could only be waiting for one person. He walked onto the bus, pushing some legs and knees out of the way to make room for his baggage. He reached up to grab the metal bar that ran overhead. Thus supported, he waited for the bus to move off.

  It didn’t and the passengers began to grumble. Mike strained his head to look towards where the driver should have been sitting. There was just an empty chair. A voice called out that there was no driver. An air of dissent and frustration caught like wildfire through the bus. In no time people who had been standing side by side in silence, joined only in their hatred of the late-arriving gringo, struck up heated conversations that started with wondering about the whereabouts of the driver and moved onto the need for complete political renewal if Argentina was ever going to be the country it should be.

  There was a real anger and passion in the rhetoric, at one stage Mike had to duck to avoid a stray hand that was making a vehement point. He would not have been surprised if the passengers had commandeered the bus and driven it into the city and through the front doors of the congress. As always, it never got past heated conversation.

  The driver appeared, a half-eaten empanada the only indicator that his lateness was culinary not political. He raised an unapologetic hand in apology and took his seat behind the wheel. The bus lurched off, throwing Mike into the passenger behind him who responded with an unimpressed grunt. Mike shrugged.

  At the top of the steps of the plane a stewardess greeted Mike and pointed towards seat 4A. He placed his luggage in the overhead compartment and settled into the faux leather window seat. He fastened his seatbelt, pulling it tight against his hips. He produced his phone and checked for messages more out of habit than expectation. He switched it off and returned it to his jacket pocket.

  A large man occupied the seat beside him, grey hair slicked back, five o’clock shadow. He had the air of a businessman. They all did when he thought about it. An upward nod of the head and raised eyebrows all the greeting he got. The man then produced a copy of La Nacion and tucked it into the seat pocket in front of him.

  And then they sat, side by side, waiting for the sound of engines to shake the evening air and signal that they would soon be departing. No signal came, the engines remained silent. Mike looked out the window, a trailer full of bags was sitting unattended under the wing. Other passengers noticed too. The skeleton crew had not got around to flight AR2382 just yet.

  Again, the mutinous, conversational wildfire ran through the passengers. The man in 4B, who only minutes ago could not spare a word of greeting to Mike, now launched into a tirade about the complete and absolute hopelessness of Argentina, the corruptibility of its political class, and the need for a return to mano dura, dictatorship. His hands banged against the head rest in front of him, striking with each point he made. Mike sat in silence nodding in sympathy rather than agreement.

  Argentines could throw themselves into criticism of their country with full abandon, even delight. It was like criticizing family, fine for them to do but they would not abide a bad word from someone outside the family. That was one of the few trespasses that could cause arguments to migrate from words to action.

  The turning of the engines put a premature end to the conversations and peace reigned again aboard flight AR2382. Mike fingered the ashtray on his armrest. The flip-up lid had been soldered shut in a token effort to modernize the fleet.

  The plane taxied out to the runway and made its headlong dash westwards, gained the air and arced up and north, over the River Plate and towards Uruguay. Mike could see the twinkling lights on the opposite bank of the river, the town of Colonia, he calculated.

  He had spent many a pleasant weekend in Colonia. Maybe the move to Sicily wasn’t necessary. He could still sell the apartment in Recoleta, and just move across the river. He could manage Buenos Aires in small doses, coming and going as he pleased, dipping in and out, enjoying what he loved and leaving the rest. Hanging out high over the River Plate, banking southwards, Mike knew he was fooling himself, like a man offering up the option of an open relationship to keep an unfaithful wife.

  Somehow he drifted off to sleep only to be awoken by the cabin light of his neighbor who had decided that now would be a good time to read his paper. Mike stretched his legs out, one at a time, making use of the limited leg room. The solder on the ashtray had left an indentation on the underside of his forearm. Awake now, he began to read over his neighbor’s shoulder, or more accurately his hairy forearm. He read about the release of Paula Saa’s son, the investigators having concluded that it was unlikely that he had raped and strangled his mother in a sadis
tic sex game. Pity, the story could have run for a few more years on that alone.

  On page two, uproar that the Boca–River game had been brought forward by two days to a Wednesday night. The rescheduling had caused havoc with the hooligans’ plans to sell merchandise, legal and otherwise, scalp fake tickets, and prepare for battle against their opposing fans. Uninterested in another long article on the government’s plans to restructure the navy’s leadership, Mike waited for his neighbor to turn the page.

  On page three, the face of Simon Quinn stared back at him. Mike thought of Governor Castelli seeing the same picture and wondering who he had met that day in Cordoba. The photo didn’t show the light, refreshed Simon of that afternoon. It showed the worried, harried face of a man dodging reporters, something to hide, eyes down, planner of atrocities and treason. A photo from the archives. He read the article, which offered nothing new, a recap of the week’s events, a well-placed story to keep the government’s investigation front of mind or thereabouts.

  Mike pointed at the picture and broke cover. “What do you think about this?” he asked his neighbor.

  The man turned and stared, surprised at being interrupted. He seemed to consider the question.

  “Que se yo? What would I know? It’s the same bullshit as always. This bloke,” he tapped the photo of Simon with the back of his fingers. “Is either trying to steal from the government or the government’s trying to steal from him. Who knows? It’s all a show that they put on to keep us idiots entertained and here we are reading about it.”

  “I read that he’s going to release some evidence tomorrow. About what the government’s been up to.”

  The man scoffed. He raised his hand, palm upwards, thumb and fingers pinched together to form a small pyramid and shook it back and forth in front of Mike’s face.

  “He isn’t going to release shit. It’s all arreglado.” Organized, set up, stitched up, fixed. Arreglado, the catch-all phrase to say that nothing will change, the decisions have been made, and it is out of our power to influence, decide or even understand.