A Certain Kind of Power Page 6

  “Since taking over a couple of months ago he made the error of believing he was the minister for economy.” Mike smiled at his own wit. “Anyway, it’s good to see that you are still here. How are things going?”

  “Good, good. All under control. The usual stuff to sort out, nothing too untoward. I had a few questions that I thought you might be able to help me find the answers to. I spoke with Alex over at the embassy and he fingered you as the man to speak to.” Simon’s voice was hesitant. Asking for help was a difficult task.

  “I tell my clients that I can sometimes provide the answers. What I can do is to help you to ask the right questions of the right people. Trouble arises when you don’t ask questions, or you ask the wrong people the wrong questions.”

  “I have the questions.”

  “Why don’t you start by telling me about the project. I’ve only read the papers. Assume I know nothing.” The standard approach to a first meeting. Let them tell themselves why they need you. Give them time and let them spin their own web. He sat back and assumed his listening pose, right leg crossed over the left, hands clasped over his knee.

  “MinEx is a mining and energy concern. We own and operate world-class assets around the globe. We like a few sectors where we’re comfortable and where we think we do things better than most. We’re happy to be in most countries. There are some where we won’t go. Until recently, Argentina was one of those countries.

  “However, our Chairman has a bit of a hard-on for the place. Cycled around the north as a teenager. No doubt had his first lay here. You can read all you like about why companies go to certain countries. In my experience it’s the brainchild of an executive who met a girl there, wants to travel there, whatever. Rarely, is it strategy.

  “So, Argentina’s back on our radar. It’s a good project, however anyone with a map can see it’s a long way from any port. The Chileans won’t allow anything to go out through their ports without taking a fair clip of the ticket. So, the key to it has always been the railway.”

  “I’d heard that the project wasn’t economical if you included the cost of the railway.”

  “The project depends on the railway. Mining is logistics. The project has never been developed because no one wanted to risk putting money into a mine without the railway being built first. If you sink money into mine development without a way of moving the product, you’re over a government-sized barrel until the rail gets built.

  “We said, we’ll commit to the mine development after a certain amount of the railway is built and operational. As an additional safeguard, we’ve insisted that the government loan us eighty percent of the railway construction cost. They’ve got skin in the game and need it to be built just as much as we do. If it doesn’t get built, they can’t pay back their loan from the IDB. We’re pretty secure.”

  “Generous terms.”

  “Of course, there are conditions. We use local labor. Local investment, jobs, you know the drill. They didn’t have much choice. Who else would come here? They want the world to see that people can do business here. MinEx is a big, shiny case study.”

  “So, you’ve done a good deal. And yet,” Mike spread his hands wide. “Here I am.”

  Simon turned around in his chair and reached for some folders that were sitting on a table behind him. He placed them on the desk.

  “I wanted to get your opinion on something.” He added, “I am pretty sure I know the answer. Can’t hurt to get a second opinion, I suppose.”

  Mike didn’t disagree. “My priority is to begin construction of the railway. The quicker we advance, the quicker we develop the mine. There’s no cashflow without the mine. We’ve put out a tender document and received the first round of technical offers.”

  Mike interrupted. “Same as oil and gas tenders? First round technical, then the technically qualified are invited to submit financial offers, best combined is the declared winner?”

  “Standard procedure. We received three technical submissions.”

  “Surprising. The British built the railway system and the locals have spent the last 100 years destroying it, not adding to it. A testament to British engineering that any trains still run.”

  “That’s the thing. We didn’t get three submissions. Not really. We got three submissions but not from three companies.” He handed the folders to Mike.

  “One company lodged three different offers?”

  “No, technically, three companies lodged the same offer. Different company names, registered addresses, principals, but the same company experience, employees. Haven’t even tried to disguise it.”

  “For this to be valid you need three companies to tender?”

  “Correct,” said Simon.

  “They’re doing you a favor,” said Mike as he flicked through the papers in the top folder.

  “My legal counsel sees the hand of the minister for planning in this.”

  “Why would they want to help you? They don’t do favors. They do threats, stand overs, intimidation, pay offs. Not favors.” A practiced phrase that Mike had used before. No point sugar-coating things.

  “You make it sound like a mafia.”

  “It is,” Mike said without looking up. “That’s exactly what it is. What’s in it for them? Don’t tell me it’s jobs and growth, or some other fluffy bullshit.”

  Simon thought for a minute.

  “If this project advances it will encourage other companies to invest,” he offered.

  “Too fluffy.”

  “They need us to repay the loan.”

  “Loan repayments have never been that important to this government. Are there local companies out there that could build this?” he asked.

  “Do any companies have the experience? I doubt it. There might be one or two in the whole country that we could work with, train them up, build some capability. It’s possible. We’re not reinventing the wheel. Problem is it’d take time. Time, I don’t have.”

  “And there’s still a risk you come away with nothing. Have you spoken to Castelli?”

  “Who?”

  “Miguel Castelli. The governor of Cordoba. He must be interested in seeing you succeed.”

  “Never met him.”

  “So realistically, you don’t have any option outside of these three companies. Planning knows this and knows that you can’t have one bidder. They’re making sure it doesn’t get held up, they’re providing a shortcut that gives you cover.”

  “How thick is that cover?

  “It’ll hold if they want it to hold.”

  “Do you see another way?”

  There was always another way. The way they taught at every business school in the States. Play it straight. Corporate values, governance. Call it what you will. Mike had learnt the hard way that it had no relevance down here. He’d been preaching it himself for ten years and where had it ever got any of his clients? Quinn could play it straight but all that would do is piss off the people who wanted their cut and had the power to take it if it wasn’t given.

  “I don’t see any other way. It’s a risk but so is crossing the road. If Planning want to help you out, no point upsetting them.”

  Quinn tapped the desk with his pen. “I’ll think it over. There’s something else I wanted to discuss.”

  “If you insist,” said Mike.

  “We’ve been having trouble with some community groups out at site.”

  By community groups Mike understood activist groups. “You mentioned as much at the embassy.”

  “Two weeks ago we had our AGM in London. These meetings provide a chance for people in the audience to ask questions of our directors. They start to take questions and this university lecturer from Cordoba, who’s already on our radar, gets up, with a translator, and starts an interrogation about destroying communities, water, and whatever else he could think of.”

  Simon retrieved a print out from his top drawer and handed it to Mike. It was from an online source and the picture showed the face of a bearded man holding a
sign written in Spanish, his face caught in the act of screaming abuse or maybe a chant. He would have been at home at the Fortress on a Sunday afternoon. It was a determined, angry-looking face. The caption underneath identified the man as Marcelo Decoud. Mike skimmed the article and studied the face in the picture.

  “Directors not happy?”

  “Not happy at all. Our question is, how does a bloke from Cordoba, on a teacher’s wage, manage to spring for a ticket to London and a translator?” He opened his hands as if waiting for an explanation to fall in to them. “The guys in London have asked me to look into it.”

  “I can help you with that,” Mike said. “To clarify, the question is who is funding this guy?”

  “Correct. Is he against the project or is he being paid to be against it? And if he is being paid, who’s paying him?”

  “Leave it with me. I’ll get a proposal to you.”

  “What is this going to cost me, Mike?”

  Mike pictured Finklestein’s face in his mind. “We’ll run his bank accounts, pull his phone records, criminal-record check, credit check, interview the people who know him best. We’ll put this guy under the microscope. By the time I finish you’ll have everything there is to know on this Decoud. But all that costs money. I can’t imagine you’ll get much change from twenty thousand.”

  Quinn just nodded, unfazed by the number. “I haven’t even discussed it with my legal counsel, Mike. You are the only one I am trusting on this.”

  “That’s the right thing to do,” said Mike.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mike Costello licked the rim of his cup, catching a stray rivulet of coffee as it travelled fat-end first towards the tablecloth. He was ensconced in his local café Dos Escudos.

  The waitresses fussed over him with a care and sympathy that young girls reserve for men who have reached an age when care and sympathy are not misinterpreted. On Monday mornings they never charged Mike for his coffees, a liberty taken with the knowledge of the café owner’s inevitable late arrival, attributable to the excesses of the Sunday barbecue. In return, Mike would leave a tip that far exceeded the cost of the coffee. It was a transaction based on emotion rather than good economics.

  Though the hour was past nine he was in no hurry. Monday mornings were a slow ease into the week, like those first few casts on the river to warm the elbow into the work ahead. Mike watched the snow float down through a window framed with white, lace curtains. It was the first time he had seen snow in Buenos Aires. It was the first time that anyone he knew had seen snow in Buenos Aires. According to the man on the television that was located at the back of the café, mounted high on the wall, this was the first snowfall since 1918.

  The television showed clips of residents of all ages taking advantage of this freak weather event, frolicking in snow-filled streets, launching snowballs at unsuspecting friends and family members, constructing snowmen, and adorning them with the shirt of their favorite football team.

  The frivolity did not extend to the government. The next news item was an interview from the Pink House, a suited-member of the cabinet reminding everyone to try to conserve energy. Yes, enjoy the snow, but please remember gas prices were rising and gas reserves were falling. And we do not want to be relying on Bolivia for our gas supply.

  Mike felt like launching a snowball at the television. Instead he ordered another coffee. Two shots of espresso topped up with hot water, an americano. He could never remember having had one back home in the States and wondered where the name had come from. He sat back in his chair, watched the snow and waited, for his coffee and the Doctor.

  His wait was short. The well-tailored figure of the Doctor materialized in the doorway, head down, collar up, a refugee from the weather outside. Without appearing to look for Mike, the Doctor made his way to where Mike sat.

  “Mother of God, this is shit weather.”

  “I’m quite fond of it. Almost feel at home,” said Mike, enjoying the Doctor’s obvious discomfort and the sight of his reddened cheeks.

  “Well you can take it home. You better have a good reason for dragging me out in this.”

  “I do. But first sit down and order yourself a coffee.”

  The Doctor obeyed as a man used to giving orders obeys, as if not obeying at all, master of his own movements in his own time. He called over the waiter, placed his order and paid. The waiter retreated to the counter and then returned as he had forgotten something.

  “I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have any change, do you have something smaller?” he said. The ten-peso note dangled from his fingertips. The Doctor fished in his pockets but came out empty.

  “I do,” said Mike, handing over some coins.

  “Thank you,” said the Doctor, pocketing his unusable note. “How have you come by so many coins? Have you robbed a bank?”

  “I’ve started saving them. Don’t tell the unions or they’ll be after me.”

  “The unions? I don’t follow,” said the Doctor.

  “The reason there are no coins in the city is because the transport unions are using them to pay the minister his cut. An unofficial protest of sorts.”

  “What rubbish.” The Doctor let out a derisive laugh. “If the minister is worth his salt, he’ll be taking between ten and twelve percent off the top of every bus route in the city. I’m not sure what that would be in real numbers, but I know it isn’t being paid in coins. The plane south would never take off.”

  “Plane?” It was Mike now who didn’t follow.

  “Every Friday a chartered plane leaves the Campo de Mayo military airport and flies south. On board are the weeks’ takings. They are unloaded and taken to a hotel. In the basement there is a vault. That vault is the beating heart of Peronism, pumping out hard currency through the corrupted veins of this country.”

  “How have you come by this information, if I may ask?”

  “I haven’t, pure speculation on my behalf.” The Doctor smiled.

  “In this speculation, there are no coins in that vault?”

  “None. The coins are not there. The coins I’m afraid, like the rest of us proud patriots, are victims of inflation.” The Doctor explored his jacket and produced a fifty-centavo coin from the pocket that a minute ago had yielded nothing. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger. “Now, under Menem, this little beauty was worth fifty cents. Your cents, the American kind. Today it’s worth about fifteen cents. The government’s official inflation is running at 0.4 percent, but as you know, nothing is official in this country. The real figure for inflation is about thirty-two percent.”

  “On its way to being worthless,” said Mike.

  “Aren’t we all?” replied the Doctor. Still holding the coin at Mike’s eye level, he continued. “Unlike the rest of us, this little Argentine has a redeeming feature. Every coin contains 5.3 grams of copper and half a gram of aluminum. A few months back the worth of those few grams of metals were worth more than the face value of the coin. And that is what sealed their fate.”

  “The coins are being melted down?”

  “Again, pure speculation on my behalf.”

  The Doctor never speculated. For confirmation, the Doctor would need to be paid. It was a game they’d played since they’d met. The Doctor would throw out information, pure speculation of course, and if Mike, or a client of Mike’s, wanted confirmation, then money would need to be exchanged to check with the Doctor’s cast of Disney characters, to bring facts to the table in a neat, well-written report. Mickey, Donald, and Pluto had a wide range of sources of their own; well-placed aides, a person with access to the minister, a key member of the working group responsible for the decision.

  Mike was unconcerned about the disappearing coins. He was content to enjoy the pure speculation for free.

  “You’ll be happy to know that I did not drag you out on this summer’s day to discuss the metallic content of our currency,” said Mike, bringing the conversation back to work.

  The Doctor straightened in his seat, crossed h
is legs, and assumed the pose of attentive listener. Before Mike could begin both coffees arrived. He waited until they were alone again.

  “I saw MinEx on Friday. They’re having an issue and they’ve asked me for a proposal. I wanted to discuss with you how we might best satisfy the requirements.”

  The Doctor nodded and stayed quiet.

  “They are interested in looking at an individual who has been causing some disquiet in the local community in Cordoba and popping up in some strange places, namely London last month at the annual general meeting.”

  “Environmentalist?” said the Doctor, saying the word as if trying to remove a hair from his tongue.

  “On the outside, yes.”

  “How do you want to approach it?”

  “I was thinking bank accounts, pull his phone records, criminal-record check, credit check, interview the people around him.”

  “What’s your budget?”

  “Five thousand,” Mike lied.

  “Impossible.”

  “That’s all there is. What can you get for that?”

  “Nothing of value.”

  The Doctor picked up his teaspoon and stirred his coffee, the silver spoon making a slow and deliberate lap of the cup. Mike knew the Doctor didn’t take sugar and allowed the theatrics to play out as he sipped his own coffee.

  “I could interview him. Do you have budget for a trip to Cordoba? There and back in the same day if the flights are available.” He continued to stir his coffee staring at Mike.

  “Under what pretense?”

  “In my role as a long-time contributor to Environment and Modern Man.”

  Mike raised his eyebrows. He had never heard of the magazine.

  The Doctor continued. “A leading journal on the challenges Argentina faces dealing with an expanding population and a shrinking natural environment.”

  Mike played along. “What would it take to bring this journal to life? A website, business cards, a mock-up of this esteemed magazine? I’m thinking of our budget.”

  The Doctor feigned indignation. “Environment and Modern Man exists, as does the record of my contributions. I took it on after leaving the service. I did some work for Chevron who had their own environmental issues at the time. I enjoyed the intellectual stimulation. My articles have been well received. I was an influential voice in the dispute with Uruguay over the paper mill.” The Doctor stopped stirring, set his teaspoon down and sipped his coffee. “The best falsehoods are true.”