A Certain Kind of Power Read online

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  “Is this place open?” Quinn asked, shaking Mike’s hand.

  “It is, but you won’t find any Argentines dining until at least 9 p.m. That’ll be the early crowd. If you want to meet an American in Buenos Aires, hang around a restaurant at 6 p.m. They’ll be the only ones there.”

  Quinn took off his jacket, hung it over a chair and sat down opposite Mike. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “Just got here. It’s a favorite place of mine. Traditional despite being on the tourist strip. I always feel like I’m eating with an Argentine family. Albeit, one that hasn’t invited me to dinner. The waiters can be a bit grumpy. That’s the charm of it. No bullshit. You come in, you eat, and you go.”

  The interior was bare, devoid of anything that did not possess utility. The wooden tables were covered in spotless white tablecloths, relaid following the lunchtime service. Each crowned with a single salt shaker. It was a traditional place where traditional was bare bones.

  “I could do with some food,” said Quinn.

  “Wine first?”

  Quinn nodded and Mike ordered a bottle of Salentein Malbec and two glasses.

  “How are you getting on?”

  “Good. I’ll be better when you tell me why we’re here,” said Quinn, cutting to the point.

  “I like it,” said Mike. “Straight to it.” He scanned the room, lifted his napkin by the corners and resettled it on his lap. “The Cordoba job is done. Are you interested in how we got the results or just the results?” Mike had found that clients were often fascinated by his world. He felt it was part of the service to let them in for a little look if they wished.

  “Just the results.”

  The wine arrived and Mike waited while the glasses were poured. “Well, not good. The guy is a teacher at the local university, philosophy, bit of sociology. He’s from the area, long-term activist. No history of politics per se, just a long history of environmental causes. Clashed with the government over just about every project that has been put up out that way. Arrested a few times when he was younger. Prefers to stay in the background a bit these days, organizes students, writes articles—”

  “Travels to London,” Quinn interrupted.

  “Yes, happy to do that. Point is, the guy is genuine. He believes that your project is going to fuck things up out there. That’s a problem. If he were just trying to make some cash we could turn him into a supporter, MinEx shirt and cap and all.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “It would be easier if he were being paid to be an asshole. Then it becomes an auction. You just have to outbid whoever’s paying him.”

  “So, he can’t be bought off. What can we do then?”

  “I’m not saying that. He can still be bought off, but ideologues are always going to cost you a lot more. You have to pay for their ideals.”

  “This could be good. If he is genuine, then I can sit down with him, explain the project to him. I’ve dealt with his type before. It’s a good project. Best-practice environmental management. It’s going to be good for these people.” Quinn stopped. Mike was laughing.

  “What?”

  “Oh, you’re serious. You don’t even speak Spanish, how are you going to explain anything to anyone?”

  “Someone from the team will.”

  “And he’ll sit there, listen to your arguments, nod his head and say, ‘You know what, my apologies, you’re right, this looks fantastic’? Ain’t going to happen, Simon. People like Decoud don’t like guys like you. They don’t believe guys like you. The big job, the fancy apartment in Recoleta, the meetings with the minister. They look at you and they remember that one morning they woke up and their bank accounts were empty. They don’t trust your type, they never will. Guys like you have been shitting on guys like Decoud for decades.”

  “It sounds like we’ve been shitting on you too.”

  “I’m on your side. Doesn’t mean I don’t get where Decoud is coming from. How would you feel growing up in a country that used to be the richest country in the world? Believe it or not “as rich as an Argentine” used to be a saying. In Europe.

  “Now what is it? Garbage bags stacked head-high on the streets, people having guns held to their heads in their own homes by thieves looking for the money that the family has hidden because they don’t trust the banks, elections decided on who has the deepest pockets, masked thugs blocking the street so as you can’t get to work, blackouts that roll on for days.

  “A guy like Decoud wants to fight back, he wants to say ‘no more’, right or wrong he wants his country back. Can’t blame him for that.”

  “I can’t solve that, Mike. Stopping the project won’t solve that.”

  “He feels as though he’s doing something. He’s not just sitting by, watching it all go to shit.”

  “I want to talk to him, Mike. I appreciate what you are saying and I get it. I’m sure I can talk him around.”

  Mike shook his head in resignation. “It’s your call. I don’t think it’ll work though I can see I won’t convince you tonight.” Mike reached for the menu on the table. “I hope I can convince you to at least have the steak and some more wine,” he said, refilling both their glasses.

  “I must say, Mike, you don’t get much for twenty thousand these days. I’d have gotten your information, the girl of my choice and a massage for that much back in the Ivory Coast.” A complaint wrapped in sarcasm.

  “There is something else. My guy seemed to think that Decoud was very well informed. He thinks that Decoud may be speaking to someone inside your office in Cordoba. Any ideas? You got any disgruntled employees that you know of?”

  “No idea. I haven’t met them yet. I haven’t been out there.”

  Mike ordered for them both, sparing Quinn the work of deciphering the menu. An old gentleman took the order. Mike appreciated that waiting was a serious profession, too serious to be left to part-time students and failed actors.

  The waiter scooped up their menus and disappeared before returning with a small basket of fresh bread rolls and two sachets of butter. Mike took a bread roll in two hands and broke the bread over the table with a sharp twist, as if beheading a lobster, shards of crumb sprinkling the white tablecloth.

  “No bread plate?” Quinn asked.

  “Another of the many mysteries of Argentina. They have the bread but not the plate.” Mike wiped some crumbs from his mouth, spread his napkin back on his lap and reached down beside the table. His hand reappeared holding a blue folder. “Unfortunately, you have bigger issues to think about.”

  He placed the closed folder on the table. He wasn’t sure that he was going to share the folder with Quinn until he produced it. He had considered not bringing it at all. He had done the job he was commissioned to do. The folder’s pages would no doubt generate questions that he wouldn’t be around to answer but Quinn deserved to know what he was in for. Though Mike couldn’t help but feel that giving him the information was like handing a blind man a torch in a tunnel.

  Mike had prepared the folder himself. Quinn flicked through the pages, his eyes gliding over the neat, numbered, type-written paragraphs. At the top of the front page in bold, underlined, and centered text was the title: Simon Ashton Quinn (SAQ).

  “It’s in English,” Quinn said.

  “I translated it. I can assure you that you are holding an accurate translation.” Mike sat back in his seat. He waved his hand towards the folder, encouraging Simon to begin reading.

  Quinn regripped the folder in both hands, gave the pages a slight shake and began reading. His eyes flitted down the page reading the text.

  1. Simon Ashton Quinn (SAQ) arrived in Buenos Aires on flight BA245 on the 5th day of May. He resides in Apartment 6A at 873 Posadas, Recoleta, a two-bedroom rental that is leased by the MinEx Corporation from a real-estate management firm that specializes in short-term corporate rentals for visiting executives. The subject lives alone and is not known to receive visitors or guests. No women have been seen leaving or enterin
g his premises. There are no indications that he is homosexual nor are there indications that he is not. It is to be assumed that he is and is actively hiding his sexual orientation.

  2. There are no major scandals, no criminal history, no civil complaints attached to SAQ. The subject’s economic situation appears comfortable. His credit history is clean. He holds no vehicle or properties in Argentina. He makes monthly payments to his ex-wife and mortgage payments on a house in London. He is the signature on a US-dollar savings account held at a HSBC branch in Montevideo. The account, at time of reporting, contains one thousand seven hundred fifty-three dollars.

  3. From Source “A”: SAQ is motivated by material rewards. He is professionally ambitious and described as having a “win at all costs” mentality. Prior to SAQ’s arrival in Argentina, MinEx was involved in an incident with a tanker that ran aground off West Africa. Jeff Cormac, CEO and close friend of SAQ, travelled to Nigeria to negotiate a deal. Cormac was jailed upon arrival. There is no indication that SAQ was involved, nor is there evidence he was not involved. SAQ has professional experience in the Ivory Coast as well as Malaysia.

  4. From Source “A”: SAQ speaks no Spanish, watches no local television. On weekends he purchases the Buenos Aires Herald, which he reads over a cup of tea on Saturday afternoon. He is confident in his own abilities, bordering on arrogant. He doesn’t smoke or gamble, and though he is always willing to go for a drink he is never the last to leave.

  5. From Source “B”: He is polite to his staff though they believe him to be standoffish and unaccustomed to leadership. They feel he is a “soft touch” and can be taken advantage of due to his lack of understanding of the local context. His relationship with other senior executives is strained. He struggles to maintain relationships outside of work. His staff doubt he can be successful. Inside the office it is openly speculated that he will not last until the end of the year.

  6. From Source “C”: SAQ has shown a willingness to circumvent company procedures and protocols to progress works.

  7. SAQ is a driven, ambitious man determined to forge a successful corporate career. His actions can be influenced with appropriate incentives and rewards, most likely monetary. That he has already violated company protocols is a promising development and one that can be used as leverage in future operations.

  Point seven was underlined in the original, an attempt to emphasize or enlarge, the truthfulness of the conclusion. Mike had done the same in the translation.

  Quinn looked up from the folder, opened his eyes wide, and took a sip from his refilled glass, not yet ready to put thoughts into words. He placed the glass back down on the table with care. He looked ruffled as if he had just stepped off a roller coaster.

  Mike leant forward. “So, bullshit?”

  Quinn shook his head. “The information is accurate, the conclusion less so. Where has this come from?”

  “From Planning. They’ve had their eye on you.”

  “This is a lot to take in.” Mike could almost see Quinn’s mind taking an inventory of every conversation he’d had since arriving. It was the usual reaction to finding out that you have been watched, violated. “I can’t think who I’d have told all this to.”

  “Don’t bother. Pointless to do so. They’ve had you under surveillance, human and electronic.”

  “Electronic?”

  “Phone taps, emails, they’ve run your bank accounts. They’ve spent a lot of money getting to know you, Simon, you should feel flattered.” Mike’s attempt at humor went unacknowledged.

  “They’ve hacked my phone and email?”

  “They’ve hacked your email. They’ve tapped your phone. Look at the last few pages.”

  Quinn thumbed through to the last pages of the dossier. Mike had left them in the original Spanish with the speaker’s name in italics down the left-hand side of the page, matched with paragraphs of transcribed speech.

  “Transcripts,” Mike said. “Nothing you don’t know.”

  Quinn slumped back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. His stare went past Mike who turned to follow it but saw only the toilet door. A small brass figure in top hat and tails indicated the way for men.

  “How much is true?” asked Mike, bringing Quinn’s attention back to him.

  “I’m not homosexual.”

  “And here I am wasting good money on dinner.”

  “I don’t know.” Quinn appeared to search his past trying to match it to the words in the folder. “Some of it’s true. Yes, my wife left me, yes, I have a bank account in Uruguay. I set it up when I arrived. I thought I might squirrel some away from the lawyers. A little something for myself.

  “I was in Malaysia and the Ivory Coast. I wasn’t involved in the Nigeria stuff. That was all Cormac, my old boss. He thought he could pay our way out of a situation. Paperwork, grease the wheels, he’d said. At the time, we suspected that the Nigerians had been tipped off about what Cormac planned to do but it wasn’t me.”

  Mike leant across the table and tapped the page where it read Point 6. “What else?” he urged.

  “I read the Buenos Aires Herald.” He shrugged.

  “A willingness to circumvent company procedures,” said Mike, his eyes widening in accusation as he quoted from the page.

  “A few little things I suppose, just to get the project going. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Isn’t it? If you’ve cut corners these guys will be watching you. Every corner you cut, they are storing away for later use.”

  Quinn accepted the logic though still disputed the spirit. “Sometimes in these places you have to take calculated risks. I’m managing that. What would you have me do?”

  “That’s of no concern to me now, Simon. I got you the information on Decoud, my job’s done. You will have my bill tomorrow morning. And I didn’t charge you for the extra you’re holding.”

  A waiter appeared carrying a tray with two steaks and the sides. Mike cleared a space on the table and motioned for the waiter to set the plates down. The revelations had made no impact on his appetite.

  CHAPTER 11

  The ceilings of the function room inside the Jockey Club were high and dominated by a low-hanging, crystal chandelier that flung shadows and light around the room. Mike had to arch backwards in his chair, almost to tipping point, to see the highest spot of the ceiling. A room for balls, flowing dresses, and affairs of state.

  Mike sat in the front row of the chairs that had been set out for the audience. A lectern stood unoccupied at the front of the room. Against the lectern someone had positioned a cardboard sign with the Argentine–British Chamber of Commerce logo printed on it. The printing had faded.

  In front of Mike, on a raised stage, stood a table, set with four chairs and covered in a plain, white tablecloth, the kind found at the cheaper, local restaurants that Mike often walked past. Beneath the hem of the tablecloth he could make out the folding, rusted, metal legs of the table. Though he could not bring the metal legs and the chandelier above him into the same field of vision, he could feel them clashing; past decadence meeting present reality.

  The room filled with businessmen, politicians, and hangers on, most of who Mike recognized though none acknowledged him. He scanned the room looking for the familiar combover of Finklestein. It wasn’t so much a needle in a haystack situation, rather a needle in a stack of needles. Even with the relentless advance of years, Argentine men were reluctant to let go of their shoulder-length hair, no matter what grade of deforestation was going on up top.

  Finklestein never missed these gatherings. Membership of the Argentine–British Chamber of Commerce, and attendance at every event they held, was a crucial cog in keeping up the very British appearances of Estudio Finklestein and Knight.

  A quick word with Finklestein and Mike could go. He had no appetite for sitting through another chamber event. The morning’s agenda had been emailed out the week before. A prominent politician, name not supplied, was scheduled to provide his views on the current po
litical climate. The talk was entitled, “Muddling Through: Argentina Post-Debt Default”.

  The email spoke of unique insights and a frank discussion of the current political outlook. Excellent networking opportunities were promised. Mike had heard it all before. The talks, the roundtables, the prominent politician, the subject-matter expert, the privileged insights from the sector analyst. Same shit, different lips—that was his privileged insight.

  As if on cue, Finklestein came bustling through the door and headed straight to the tables that were set out with coffee, tea, and assorted pastries. Before Mike could stand to approach him, he heard his own name called and turned in his seat. Alex Harper came striding down the aisle that separated the two blocks of seating, hand raised in familiar greeting.

  “Saved me a spot did you, old chap?”

  Mike hadn’t but he removed the gift pen with the chamber logo and the papers advertising member rates from the chair to his left. He placed it on the floor with the materials that he had banished from his own chair.

  “I’ll have that pen, thanks,” said Alex, bending to retrieve it from the floor and depositing it inside his crumpled suit jacket. “I hate these bloody things,” he continued, taking his seat. “The events, not the pens.”

  Mike looked at Alex, silently questioning the excellent networking opportunities that had been promised.

  An officious-looking woman, an organizer, in a drab, brown business suit, wearing a small lapel pin of entwined British and Argentine flags, approached the lectern. Mike sat still and shot a look back at Finklestein who took a chair near the back of the room. Mike tried to catch his eye but failed.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to today’s chamber event. We are very lucky to have use of the Jockey Club’s facilities and we must thank our member, Horacio Bianchi, for organizing that.” A polite round of applause and all eyes on an elderly, besuited and bespectacled, balding gentleman in the front row who held up his hand and dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  “We are also very fortunate to have speaking to us this morning a former President of Argentina.” She glanced at the empty chair beside her. “Unfortunately, the President is running a little behind schedule. We have been advised that he will be with us shortly. Meanwhile, there is coffee, and tea, of course, at the back of the room.”