A Certain Kind of Power Read online

  Not waiting for Finklestein to read the paper he said, “The Sicilian government is giving away old houses on the island. All you need to do is to commit to investing some money in the house and have a plan to turn it into something that will attract tourists. They’ve been running the program for the last year. It says there that it was so successful that they have extended it for another year.”

  Finklestein studied the paper then placed it on the desk and looked over his glasses at Mike.

  “What’s your plan, then?”

  “A small bed and breakfast. Something with a view of the ocean.”

  Finklestein chortled. “No offence, Mike, but you don’t strike me as someone who has a natural aptitude for hospitality.”

  “Once I sell the apartment here I should have enough to do the renovations. What’s left over I will leave in my account in Uruguay. I will use that money to maintain my little hotel in a permanent state of occupancy.”

  “Sounds like money laundering, Mike.”

  “But it’s not. My money, legitimately earned. Using it creatively is no offence.”

  “Good to see you have learnt something from your time with us. Well, it seems like you have about six months left to get yourself to Sicily and claim your house. Shall I proceed with the enquiries?”

  Mike sat back and looked up at the ceiling. Cobwebs connected the bare light bulb to the ceiling.

  “How long do you think this will take?”

  “A week. Two weeks maximum.”

  Mike had spent ten years advising clients to play it straight, don’t get your hands dirty, and it had come to this.

  “Go ahead,” said Mike. He would come up with the money somehow.

  CHAPTER 5

  Leaving Estudio Finklestein and Knight, Mike walked south on Callao with the wind in his face. It entered his eyes and nostrils, wound down into his stomach and fanned a tiny flame deep inside. The cold energized him. He walked upright, while others made their way hunched, heads bowed down. Mike enjoyed Buenos Aires in July. When he was fishing the streams of Sicily, if he ever missed Buenos Aires, he would miss it as it was in July.

  In July, the city was full. You could lose yourself in the crowds. In July, you could get things done. In January, when the city’s inhabitants fled north to the beaches of Uruguay or south to the tourist beaches of Mar del Plata, Mike felt exposed, trapped in the heat and humidity, left behind to hold the fort until vacation was over.

  He approached the intersection of Callao and Santa Fe. His destination, the Tienda de Café, a forgettable café like thousands of others dotted throughout the city. Its plainness made it a suitable meeting point.

  Mike pushed through the glass-paned doors. In the back corner, seated alone at a table for two, back to the wall, head half-obscured by the morning paper, La Nacion, was the man he had come to pay. Mike raised his hand in greeting, knowing that his approach had been noted and monitored even before he had crossed Santa Fe.

  “Good morning, Doctor” he said, approaching the table, his Castellano containing a faint trace of his native English.

  “Good morning, Mr. Costello. Please, take a seat,” said the Doctor, lowering his newspaper as he hoisted a grin. “I haven’t ordered yet. What would you like?”

  “The same as you,” said Mike as he placed his leather shoulder bag on the tiled floor beside him.

  The Doctor signaled to a waiter who acknowledged him and then continued his conversation with the attractive girl managing the cash register.

  “What’s in the papers this morning? Has it all come crashing down yet?” asked Mike.

  “I haven’t gotten to the comics yet,” The Doctor said, referring to the political section. “I’m with the obituaries.”

  “Someone you know?”

  “No. Just something I enjoy. I prefer to do it alone. Drives my wife mad.”

  “I can imagine it would.”

  “When I first started out in the business, as I’m sure you know, they were difficult times in Argentina. In the beginning, it was easy to keep track of who was who. You snare one and they would have diaries, address books, letters. Was easy to connect people, and satisfy our …” the Doctor hesitated, searching for the modern turn of phrase. “I think you would call them KPIs now. One would lead you to two or three more. That was in the beginning. Later you would pick someone up, a student or a teacher and nothing. No diary, no letters. Nothing to connect them to anyone or anything. It made for slow work.”

  Mike looked for the waiter, uncomfortable with where the conversation was headed, hoping for an interruption.

  “The obituaries were my idea. Every morning on my way to the office I’d buy the papers for the obituaries. Death has a special hold on us Argentines. Why else would we have a cemetery in the middle of the city, in the heart of the tourist area? Come and look at our dead! Macabre.

  “Death is a time of intense emotions. Even the terrorists felt a need to pay their respects to fallen comrades. So, what I couldn’t find in the diaries and notebooks and letters, I found in the messages to the lost. Hidden relationships, two people that appeared unconnected, mourning the same person. Juan David, brother to him, father to her, loving husband of … you get the picture. Painstaking work but effective.”

  “Very clever indeed, Doctor,” Mike said, his voice dry.

  The waiter appeared and took their order, two americanos, before skulking back to the bar, feet dragging across the tiles.

  “I sense your unease. You must remember they were different times. And don’t believe everything you read. We did nothing that was not approved by, or at least known by, your own Mr. Kissinger.”

  “I can’t imagine they told him everything.”

  “Of course not. Nor did he ask. He was good at his job. Strong relationships are built on both parties knowing what not to ask.”

  “I will keep that in mind.”

  “My conscious is clear. My only regret is that we saved the country only for these bastards to inherit it.”

  The Doctor cut an urbane figure. An enviable, full head of grey hair swept back and held in place with gel, a well-curated beard and moustache, a tailored suit. He didn’t look like a torturer, none of them did. He’d learnt that in Peru. He knew that the Doctor had started his career in naval intelligence. That alone made it likely he was involved in, or at least knew of, what went on. He tried not to think about it, better to change the subject.

  “Are you keeping busy? You mentioned on the phone you had something on.”

  The Doctor leaned back in his chair, ran both hands through his hair and let out a groan. “I can rely on you to ruin my morning.”

  The waiter came back with the coffees. Mike’s order was wrong. He let it go, happy to sit on the espresso rather than wait another ten minutes. He sipped his cup. Bitter, burnt, drinkable, just. “How so?”

  “I always say never do a job for a favor. In fact, never do a favor. Money is the only justification for working.”

  “It’s an honorable code to live by, Doctor.”

  “My wife introduced me to a friend of hers, some man she has known since university days. Ex-boyfriend I suspect; she is much too discreet to say. Let’s just say a friend. A few weeks ago his brother died, a guy about our age, heart attack. Nice obituary by the way. The brother leaves behind two children, a house in San Isidro and a sizeable sum of money. The wife had gone a few years earlier from cancer, so the kids stand to get it all. Before the funeral another child appears, claims to be the fruit of an affair some twenty years before between our deceased and God knows who. Conveniently, her mother has also passed on.”

  “And this was the first the family knew of this?”

  “They’d known that there had been dalliances, that’s to be expected, but nothing about heirs apparent. This girl is sure of her story and insists on a DNA test. Inheritances are best split in two rather than three. The kids cancelled the funeral and put the old man on the barbecue the next day.”

  Mike raised hi
s eyebrows. “Barbecue?”

  “Yes, cremated, nothing left you see, no DNA. Smart under the circumstances. Like I said, death is a time of intense emotions, not always easy to think straight.”

  “Where do you come into all this?”

  “A heart attack got him, but only after he’d battled prostate cancer. He was treated at the Palermo Clinic. By all accounts was doing well. The point is, he’d had a biopsy, the remnants of which are still at the Palermo Clinic.”

  The Doctor waited for Mike to put the pieces together. He didn’t and the Doctor continued, a trace of impatience in his voice.

  “They need me to wipe this piece of prostate from the face of the Earth.”

  “Impossible,” declared Mike. “I hope you’ve got a good plan and are not working on a success-fee arrangement.”

  “The plan is always the same, just the amount and the person you pay differs. And that is my problem now.”

  “You’ll never find someone to do that.”

  “Of course I found someone. He wants ten thousand pesos. The kids won’t pay that. This guy at the clinic knows what I want and I can’t move without the cash. I’m very exposed, Mike.”

  Mike shrugged in professional sympathy. “This is what happens when you do someone a favor, Doctor.”

  “Well, it ends today. When I leave here, I’m meeting the kids, see what I can work out. I might fund it myself if they cut me in. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “If it helps, I have this month’s pay for you.” Mike reached down into his shoulder bag and produced a small notebook. He opened it and withdrew a check from the Banco Patagonia made out to Julian Martinelli for five thousand pesos. He handed the check to the Doctor.

  “The expenses?” asked the Doctor, omitting any gratitude. He folded the check in half and slipped it into his suit pocket.

  “In cash, as usual. It’s in country, I just have to pick it up. I will get it to you when we catch up next.” Mike sipped his espresso. “We need to discuss this arrangement. Five thousand dollars is a lot. Andrea is asking me for something to back it up.”

  “Andrea worries too much.”

  Andrea was Mike’s secretary, assistant, office manager, report writer, translator, and excuse when he needed to get out of something. She also worried too much, but that worked for Mike who never worried enough.

  “What does she want? An invoice saying five thousand dollars for peering into an offshore bank account? Christ, we’ll all go to jail.” The Doctor threw up his hands in an exaggerated show of frustration. It was the kind of gesture that would have made people stop and look if they had been sitting in a café back home. Here it was the standard accompaniment to good conversation. Mike glanced around the café. At each table well-manicured hands, both female and male, were flying in all directions. He was convinced silence could be achieved by tying their hands behind their backs.

  “We need something, Doctor. I can’t keep paying you in cash for expenses on top of your monthly payment. I need something from you.” Mike had a long-running arrangement with the Doctor. A fixed fee of five thousand pesos per month for his services. The Doctor paid his contacts in cash and passed this expense back to Mike, no markup. Whereas the Doctor was happy to be paid in pesos, his sources worked for US dollars.

  “I’ll put you in touch with my accountants. They’ll sell you some invoices. Just insert them into your books.” He sipped his coffee.

  “Sell me some invoices? Andrea would never let me.”

  “These are real ones, from a real company. It’ll look like they did some consulting work for you for five thousand dollars.”

  “Let me see if there is another way first.”

  “Suit yourself. We’ve known each other too long to argue over money, Mike. What did your client think of the information?”

  “Very happy. Proved what he suspected. There might be some more work. He’s gotten a taste for it.”

  A couple had come in and sat down at the table adjacent. The Doctor lowered his voice.

  “These guys are very good, Mike. Any account, anywhere in the world. Just need a passport number and a name. Tell your clients, whenever they are hiring or doing business with someone, try to get these two details. That’s all we need.”

  “This is Mickey Mouse, right?”

  The Doctor insisted on keeping his sources confidential. As a result, Mike often found himself in cafés around Buenos Aires discussing Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, or Pluto. It may have explained their insistence on being paid in American dollars, if nothing more than to stay in character. Though the code names were dubious, Mike couldn’t argue with the information. It was always good.

  “Yes, Mickey. Nobody else can offer this service. If I do find someone, I’ll try them. Five thousand’s a lot, I understand,” he conceded.

  The waiter slouched back to the table and cleared away the empty cups. A gesture to say, order more or get out. Mike and the Doctor did neither.

  “I met an interesting guy at the embassy the other night. He’s heading up the new project in Cordoba.”

  “The one the government has invested in? A hundred and fifty million I read.”

  “Not invested. Loaned. But yes, that’s the one.”

  “Invested, loaned whatever. Does he know what he’s in for?”

  “Not a clue. Doesn’t even speak Spanish. He thinks he has it under control. He thinks that some experience in Africa will be useful here.”

  “Typical.”

  “What do you know about the project? From the government side. The railway appears to be the key; without it the project doesn’t stack up. I’m thinking about trying to land him as a client. I want to know what I’m in for.”

  The Doctor straightened in his seat and smoothed his suit jacket with both hands.

  “First, a question. How is it that our honorable government, that struggles to keep the lights on in Buenos Aires, that is overseeing inflation of thirty-two percent, that not that long ago defaulted on a hundred-billion-dollar debt, how is it that these comedians are able to hand out a hundred and fifty million dollars?”

  “The Inter-American Development Bank. That’s where the money’s come from. The project ticks a lot of boxes.”

  The Doctor shook his head in disgust. “Boxes. That’s where they all belong. I don’t know much to be honest. I think it’s being handled by the Ministry of Planning.”

  “Planning? Shouldn’t Transport or Mining and Energy have it?”

  The Doctor laughed out loud. Around the room hands froze mid-conversation as eyes turned to look for the source of mirth.

  “The government is not going to loan these guys a hundred and fifty million and then let Mining and Energy run things,” said the Doctor.

  “So, what do you know about it?” Mike asked again.

  “Like I said, not much. Donald Duck has a guy who works in Planning. He’s close to one of the minister’s advisers. They studied together, which means that they went whoring together. Nothing binds tighter than pussy. Never used him so can’t vouch for his access. Shall we test the waters?”

  “Not yet. I thought you might have heard something, that’s all.”

  “I don’t have to have heard anything to know something. I’ve lived and breathed these bad airs for sixty-two years. If the government loans money to a foreign company to set up shop in the middle of nowhere it means one thing. Somebody is going to get rich. Your new friend has a decision to make, will it be him or will it be someone else?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Leaving the Doctor to his obituaries, Mike pushed through the doors of the Tienda de Café, crossed Santa Fe and made his way back down Callao. He turned left at Las Heras and fell into a comfortable march. As he walked, he retrieved his cell phone from his shoulder bag.

  “Alex. Mike Costello,” he said, cupping his left hand around the phone to prevent the wind from distorting his words. “We still on for lunch? Same place?” A pause as Alex confirmed. “I’ll be there in about forty minutes. I’
m on foot. See you soon.” He hung up.

  He headed east along Las Heras and enjoyed the feeling of anonymity afforded by the crowded streets. He hadn’t felt this way for a while. In that first winter in Buenos Aires he would go on long walks through the city and savor the possibility of disappearing, knowing that he would neither be missed nor searched for. After years of regulated life, he had felt liberated on the streets of Buenos Aires, reporting to no one, explaining nothing.

  Time passed and that feeling had begun to ebb. What he once interpreted as freedom came to feel a lot like loneliness. Having made the decision to leave he felt free again, he felt unknown, alone, attached to no one and no place, and it was a blessing. This was what awaited him in Sicily.

  He passed under a government billboard with the president looking down on him. The words “Argentina: A Serious Country” were emblazoned across the bottom. Mike smirked at the absurdity of the slogan. He recalled that Menem had campaigned to presidential victory on the back of “I will not disappoint you.” And he had kept his word, if only to those voters who had expected to be disappointed.

  The Doctor was right. The government wouldn’t loan a hundred and fifty million to a foreign company out of good will, for the good of the people. Unless by the people they meant the Party, the Peronist Party—a unique political movement that could have surfaced in any country but could only have prospered in Argentina. A land that venerated the strong man, the cunning man, the one who takes what he deserves while no one is looking. And what he deserves is what he can take. Fertile ground for a politics of fear and favor. A land where an apathy fed by casual abundance allowed the darkest impulses to flourish.

  It is why Mike had stayed. It was an acceptable irony that what drove him to Argentina was what drove him insane. He had felt alive like he had nowhere else before. He had lived in more dangerous countries and he had lived in prettier countries. Here he had felt that anything was possible, anything was in reach, no doors were closed to the man who wanted to reinvent himself, crawl into the skin of another. A place of no pretense, where losers are relegated and winners feted. In this environment an act of kindness meant something. In a society that turns a blind eye to human suffering, that rewards you for bending the rules, that applauds you for coveting your neighbor’s wife, kindness had a value.