A Certain Kind of Power Page 26

  The man continued. “If he has something that could hurt the government then a deal’s been done and we’ll never know about it.”

  “And if he hasn’t done a deal?”

  The man looked at Mike, with something like pity in his eyes. “With or without a deal they won’t let him talk. Like I said, it’s all arreglado, this shit is just to sell us papers, make us look this way while they rob the country blind.” He snapped up the page of the paper, ending the conversation, and Mike’s casual reading.

  Mike thought about what the man had said. He was right, the government would never let Quinn talk. Mike felt a flush of panic. His neighbor’s words begun to echo around the cabin, over the roar of the plane’s engines. The government would never let Simon Quinn talk.

  He reached for his cell phone. He turned it on and waited. He tried to dial. Of course, no signal. He called the flight attendant.

  “How long until we land?”

  “Another 40 minutes.”

  “I need to make a phone call. Now,” Mike pleaded.

  “That is not possible, sir. Once we land you will be able to use your cell phone.” She reached above Mike and turned off the small light that he had used to call her and spotted the lit-up phone display.

  “Sir, I have to ask you to turn off your phone, please.” Mike obeyed, he had no choice. Strapped into a lounge chair inside a metal tube, travelling at 900km an hour, 30,000 feet above the Argentine coast, even if he were not too late Mike had no way of warning Simon Quinn.

  As the plane touched down on the tarmac at the Carrasco International Airport Mike had his cell phone on. He dialed Simon’s number. Straight to voice mail. He tried again. Same result. He dialed a third time, no longer expecting an answer. He left a message, all the while imagining the faceless men huddled in a room who might still be listening into Quinn’s tapped phone.

  Before the plane had come to a stop the passengers, ignoring repeated pleas from the attendants still strapped into their seats at the front of the plane, were standing, pulling luggage from the overhead lockers, preparing for the mad dash to be first off the plane, and devil take the hindmost.

  As the last passenger went down the aisle Mike remained seated. The same flight attendant he had spoken to earlier appeared at his side.

  “Sir, you can make that call now,” she said, smiling her best, brochure smile.

  CHAPTER 37

  Café Dos Escudos was empty except for the table located in the far, back corner. A lone customer hunched over a free, half-drunk cup of americano. When he entered he had asked the waitresses to turn off the small television set.. Mike being a regular, they had obliged. He had been in every morning since returning from Montevideo.

  In the Uruguayan capital Mike had spent the morning waiting in the reception area of the British embassy. No, they had no record of his appointment. Yes, they had asked everyone in the office, nobody was expecting him. At the suggestion of the internal security, a gentle palm on his elbow, he had exited the embassy. That afternoon as he waited in the Carrasco International Airport departure lounge he had received a phone call from the British embassy in Buenos Aires. Would he be available to meet with a Mr. Jeremy Nason, our newly arrived Second Secretary? It made no sense but he had agreed to the appointment, tired of casting into the wind.

  Mike stared out the window of Café Dos Escudos, a man sitting by the Limay River, watching his thoughts float by, chasing some, letting others continue unimpeded down the rippling waters. The morning held none of the heat of the previous weeks, a false autumn day and like a kiss in a bar it promised things to come but not right now. All in good time. It was one of those days with the perfect mix of sunlight and warmth with a sky so blue it seemed to ache. If you looked up, you couldn’t help but wonder just how far on that blue went for. If today was your first day in Buenos Aires, you would want to live there forever.

  He had watched the fate of Simon Quinn slide down the pages of the papers, another leaf in the forest of intrigue, that bloomed green, faded, fell from the branches of public interest and was blown away. The story had started life on the front page, under the factual headline, “Multinational Executive Found Dead.” It held none of the salaciousness of the Paula Saa case. If Simon had had a habit of frequenting the transvestites that plied their nocturnal trade at the Rosendal or a penchant for young boys, then he may have garnered an extended run.

  The first articles carried the bare facts. Simon Quinn had been found on the pavement below his sixth-floor apartment balcony in the stylish suburb of Recoleta. The insertion of the word stylish a small boost for Buenos Aires tourism for when the international press agencies picked up the story. A woman found the body while out walking her greyhound early on the Wednesday morning. No signs of life. The police were called, the time for ambulances having already passed.

  The president had felt the need to pronounce on another tragic suicide connected to what now seemed to be an ill-fated project. A tragedy, yes, but let us not forget what brought this young man to take this unpardonable action. He had engaged in unconscionable behavior, corrupt behavior aimed at subverting honest, hard-working Argentines, and when he felt the arm of Argentine justice to be near he had responded with an unjust and criminal ultimatum, one that the Argentine people could never accept.

  If he had proof of government interference, of inappropriate government behavior, of corruption, a word that the Yankees like to throw around Latin America, a word never spoken in their own homes, then let him bring it, let him show it, let the courts examine it. His broken body lying on the pavement of Recoleta is the proof of his proofs. When he saw that we would not be intimidated, that we would respond to threats with firmness rather than fear, then he took the coward’s way out.

  That was Thursday evening. On Friday morning, the La Nacion front page carried a story linking the government to the death of Simon Quinn. Nothing factual, just the lightest application of innuendo, like a smear placed at the bottom of a petri dish that under the right conditions would multiply and grow. Cunning journalism that would allow the reader’s mind to form the conclusions that great journalism could not. The story was picked up in the senate with the opposition, better informed than La Nacion, raining questions upon the government delegates. In response, the government flooded the streets of Buenos Aires with bare-chested sympathizers, faces covered by grimy T-shirts, hands wrapped around pickets and bats, old bottles of Coca-Cola filled with clear liquid, masses bussed in from the humblest neighborhoods of greater Buenos Aires. What could not be won in the senate would be scrapped for in the street. The opposition, sensing blood, raised its own army of support and took to the streets. The country was in crisis. Again.

  So, on Friday afternoon, the president stood on the steps of the presidential residency and spoke not of the chaos in the street, not of the families dying of starvation in the northern province of Chaco, not of inflation that was hitting 40 percent, not of the navy who were refusing to recognize their new leadership, but of the murder of Simon Quinn.

  “Let us not be fooled by what is happening here. It is easy to look at events and be puzzled. There are people, enemies of the Argentine people, who set out to confuse, to divide, to destroy. We believed that the young executive who was found dead had taken his own life. Today we know that this is not true. He was suicided. Suicided by those who wish to discredit this government. Those who wish to reverse the reforms of this government. Suicided by those who would stop at nothing to eliminate the gains made in the decade that we have won, won from history, won from those who do not believe in Argentina, won from those who wish to see a return to mano dura, dictatorship. Sometimes our enemies are not across the oceans, they are not outside our borders. Sometimes our enemies come from within, sometimes our enemies are those that are meant to protect us. We cannot let ourselves become complacent, we cannot delude ourselves. Those that oppose us will not play fair. They will not respect our rights. They will stop at nothing to achieve their nefarious aims.”<
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  Mike let go of the memory, letting it swirl and eddy and disappear around the bend. A final thought. Simon Quinn’s body, broken and bent as the papers had showed it, was more flexible in death than ever it was in life.

  CHAPTER 38

  The third-floor office had the stale feel of bureaucracy. Lampshades wiped down by professional cleaners, carpets shampooed once a month, the picture of Queen Elizabeth hanging square on the wall. Mike Costello stood by a large bookcase that ran the length of the eastern wall opposite the double-plated, soundproof window. His back to the door, he studied the shelves of books, running a distracted finger down the spines, one hand stuffed deep into his trouser pocket. The movement of his finger stopped upon the spine of a light-blue cover. He tilted his head sideways to better read the gold inlaid title printed on the book’s spine. As he did so the door to the office opened and he spun to face a short man, pasty complexion, suit and tie, all official bustle, tight-faced with worry.

  The man extended his hand to Mike, as if at a funeral. “Jeremy Nason.” Mike expected him to say, “My condolences” but he said instead, “Nice to meet you.” Mike shook his hand and took a seat at the desk while Jeremy made himself comfortable on the opposite side. Jeremy made a sweeping motion with his hand, taking in the office. “All Alex’s stuff. I’m afraid I haven’t had time to box it up and get it out of here.” He said it as though Alex Harper’s belongings were a constant source of annoyance for him. “He of course didn’t get a chance. Leaving in such a hurry.”

  Mike just nodded, unwilling to decide the direction of the conversation just yet, happy to observe the man sent out to replace Alex Harper. Jeremy shuffled some papers that required no shuffling, opened and closed a drawer without removing or depositing anything, then brought his eyes to Mike.

  “So, Mr. Costello. Thank you for coming in.”

  Mike was owed some answers but there was also the question of what Jeremy Nason wanted from Mike.

  “I am curious to know how I can help,” said Mike.

  “No use beating around the bush. Alex’s, shall we say, rushed departure, negated the usual handover procedure one could expect to have when coming into a new posting. That makes my job a little more difficult. Places me in an awkward position of not knowing as much as I should. A bit embarrassing, in our line of work.” He reached out and shuffled some more papers, all part of the art of appearing nervous. Mike sat sill, refusing to throw the new man a lifeline.

  “Your name has appeared quite a lot in Alex’s briefing papers. Yet you are not listed among his official contacts. Nor can I see any payments that have been made to you from the fund. So, if I were to ask one question of you, I would like to know what it is you did for Alex?”

  “He was a friend. We ate lunch together sometimes.”

  “Did you provide information to him?”

  “Nothing he would not have known already. More than information we discussed events, what was happening, what things meant. I am sure he was much better informed than I. Or at least I hope he was.”

  Nason ignored the joke. “Did he ever pass information to you?”

  “Never anything useful,” Mike said. “Sometimes he would recommend I speak to a company who he felt needed some help. That was about it.”

  Jeremy made some notes on a writing pad. He stopped and re-read his writing, placing a line through a word. “And did Alex ever ask for any compensation for these, shall we call them, leads?”

  “No, never. I mean, I paid for lunch sometimes, but that was because he was always complaining about how little he got paid.”

  “So you bought him lunches?”

  “Yes, but not in exchange for anything. As any friend would.”

  Jeremy scribbled this down as well.

  “Did you ever discuss the Falkland’s situation with Alex?” He looked up and brought his hands together in front of his face, his pen pointing in Mike’s direction across the table.

  “He would often mention the Malvinas. He said it was his reason for being here.”

  “Malvinas? Is that how he referred to the Falklands?” Nason asked, scribbling away before poising to capture Mike’s answer.

  “Always,” said Mike, enjoying the lie that set Nason’s pen scribbling.

  “What else did he say?”

  Mike rubbed the palms of his hands on the tops of his trouser legs as he thought back. He tried to remember. He had only agreed to meet with Jeremy Nason to get answers as to why Alex Harper had frozen his assets. As he listened to Nason’s questions he felt that answering them would bring him closer to answering his own questions.

  “He was concerned that British companies might upset the government, which might put the Falklands back in the news.”

  “What British companies?”

  “There was an incident with a ship, the Polar Mist and their insurer, Lloyd’s of London.”

  Again Nason bent over his notepad, scribbling away, capturing every word, muttering something about the case sounding familiar.

  “What other companies?”

  “A client of mine,” said Mike, with more caution, feeling like he was now approaching fertile territory for himself and his questioner, as if all previous questions were leading to MinEx.

  Nason dug through some papers that were tucked at the back of his notebook. He paused and read through them, flicking back and forth.

  “MinEx,” he said without a trace of doubt.

  Mike’s silence served as an affirmative answer.

  “Your name pops up quite a lot in relation to MinEx in Alex’s notes. Seems like you were quite the expert on them. Would that be fair to say?”

  “I wouldn’t say expert. They were a client. I advised them.”

  “And you shared the advice you gave MinEx with Alex?”

  “No.” Mike thought back on his conversations with Alex. More like Alex advising him. Alex telling him what should be done. Alex telling Mike what he would like Simon to do, what Alex needed Simon to do to not upset the government.

  “And no money was ever exchanged between you?”

  “Never,” Mike reaffirmed.

  “I apologize for the questions, Mr. Costello. Just trying to understand the situation that’s all. I am sure you understand.”

  Mike was beginning to understand but he was no longer focused on Jeremy’s question. He had come with one question in mind, one that had been percolating in his brain since he had held the Mareva Injunction in his hand and ran his thumb over Alex Harper’s signature at the bottom of the page. Why would Alex freeze his assets? Now it was clear. He needed Mike in Argentina. To watch over MinEx. To be Alex’s eyes and ears on the ground, guide MinEx’s movements, make sure Simon Quinn’s actions aligned with the interests of the British government. Preventing Mike from selling his apartment ensured he had someone to do his bidding. Mike had to admit it was well played. The type of cunning trick he struggled to come up with.

  “Why was Alex so interested in MinEx?”

  “He said he was concerned that they would create a scandal by paying bribes.”

  “They have a history of that in Africa.”

  “And I am sure that your government never cared about that. What had Alex so concerned, Jeremy?”

  Jeremy closed his notebook and laid his pen on the cover, an act to show that they were going off the record.

  “To be honest, I am not sure what Alex was up to here.”

  “What do you know?”

  Nason looked out the window, considering how much to share. “The Argentine government borrowed a hundred and fifty million dollars from the Inter-American Development Bank. We campaigned, behind closed doors of course, for the bank to not make this loan. Alex had developed information that the money was to be used to re-arm the navy. A fully equipped navy presented a legitimate threat to our interests in the Falklands. When the loan was then passed on to MinEx, Alex believed that it would be siphoned back to the government through illegal payments. That will not be happening now.”
It was the first reference to Simon Quinn’s death. Both men let it lie untouched between them, a verbal cadaver, face down.

  It was not Simon Quinn’s face that was in Mike’s mind but the sunburnt face of Alex Harper, adorned with his girlfriend’s sunglasses, smiling back at him on Peru Beach. You’ve made your home around the edges, Mike, you never see the big picture. That’s what he had said. The replay of Alex’s words forced him to reflect. A vision of himself came into sharp relief. As if he had been holding a magnifying glass a little too close to the small print, revealing only blurred outlines and now he had raised his hand an inch or two, and at the correct distance, the full text was brought into sharp and alarming detail. He was tired of giving people the answers piece by piece but never seeing the finished puzzle.

  “Jeremy, I need you to lift the Mareva Injunction from my apartment.”

  Nason nodded, not bothering to deny the injunction or explain why it had been placed. Just another mess of Alex Harper’s that he would be forced to clean up.

  “I will let you know as soon as it is done.”

  “One last thing,” said Mike, getting to his feet. “I leant Alex a book a while back. I think I saw it on the shelf there when you came in. Do you mind if I take it back? I am sure the bastard never read it.”

  Jeremy forced his mouth into what passed as a smile, allowing the tension of the interview to diffuse. “Take the lot. You’d be doing me a favor,” he said.

  Mike stood in front of the bookshelf and located the book with the light-blue cover and gold inlaid print that he had seen when he arrived. He tucked the book into his shoulder bag.

  “I look forward to hearing from you soon,” he said and left Jeremy Nason to his questions, half-truths and shadows.

  CHAPTER 39