A Quiver Full of Arrows, Page 3

  While the dear lady was drinking her coffee I picked at another roll and called for the bill, not because I was in any particular hurry, but like a guilty defendant at the Old Bailey I preferred to wait no longer for the judge’s sentence. A man in a smart green uniform, whom I had never seen before, appeared carrying a silver tray with a folded piece of paper on it looking not unlike my bank statement. I pushed back the edge of the check slowly and read the figure: thirty-six pounds and forty pence. I casually put my hand into my inside pocket and withdrew my life’s possessions and then placed the crisp new notes on the silver tray. They were whisked away. The man in the green uniform returned a few moments later with my sixty pence change, which I pocketed as it was the only way I was going to get a bus home. The waiter gave me a look that would have undoubtedly won him a character part in any film produced by the lady’s distinguished husband.

  My guest rose and walked across the restaurant, waving at and occasionally kissing people that I had previously only seen in glossy magazines. When she reached the door she stopped to retrieve her coat, a mink. I helped her on with the fur, again failing to leave a tip. As we stood on the Curzon Street pavement, a dark blue Rolls-Royce drew up beside us and a liveried chauffeur leaped out and opened the rear door. She climbed in.

  “Goodbye, darling,” she said, as the electric window slid down. “Thank you for such a lovely lunch.”

  “Goodbye,” I said, and summoning up my courage added: “I do hope when you are next in town I shall have the opportunity of meeting your distinguished husband.”

  “Oh, darling, didn’t you know?” she said as she looked out from the Rolls-Royce.

  “Know what?”

  “We were divorced ages ago.”

  “Divorced?” said I.

  “Oh, yes,” she said gaily, “I haven’t spoken to him for years.”

  I just stood there looking helpless.

  “Oh, don’t worry yourself on my account,” she said. “He’s no loss. In any case, I have recently married again”—another film producer, I prayed—“in fact, I quite expected to bump into my husband today: you see, he owns the restaurant.”

  Without another word the electric window purred up and the Rolls-Royce glided effortlessly out of sight, leaving me to walk to the nearest bus stop.

  * * *

  As I stood surrounded by Literary Guild guests, staring at the white queen with the cottage loaf bun, I could still see her drifting away in that blue Rolls-Royce. I tried to concentrate on her words.

  “I knew you wouldn’t forget me, darling,” she was saying. “After all, I did take you to lunch, didn’t I?”

  THE COUP

  The blue and silver 707 jet, displaying a large “P” on its tail plane, taxied to a halt at the north end of Lagos International Airport. A fleet of six black Mercedes drove up to the side of the aircraft and waited in a line resembling a landbound crocodile. Six sweating uniformed drivers leaped out and stood to attention. When the driver of the front car opened his rear door, Colonel Usman of the Federal Guard stepped out and walked quickly to the bottom of the passenger steps, which had been hurriedly pushed into place by four of the airport staff.

  The cabin door of the front section swung back and the colonel stared up into the gap, to see, framed against the dark interior of the cabin, a slim, attractive hostess dressed in a blue suit with silver piping. On her jacket lapel was a large “P.” She turned and nodded in the direction of the cabin. A few seconds later, a tall, immaculately dressed man with thick black hair and deep-brown eyes replaced her in the doorway. The man had about him an air of effortless style which self-made millionaires would have paid a considerable part of their fortune to possess. The colonel saluted as Senhor Eduardo Francisco de Silveira, head of the Prentino empire, nodded curtly.

  De Silveira emerged from the coolness of his air-conditioned 707 into the burning Nigerian sun without showing the slightest sign of discomfort. The colonel guided the tall, elegant Brazilian, who was accompanied only by his private secretary, to the front Mercedes while the rest of the Prentino staff filed down the back stairway of the aircraft and filled the other five cars. The driver, a corporal who had been detailed to be available night and day for the honored guest, opened the rear door of the front car and saluted. Eduardo de Silveira showed no sign of acknowledgment. The corporal smiled nervously, revealing the largest set of white teeth the Brazilian had ever seen.

  “Welcome to Lagos,” the corporal volunteered. “Hope you make very big deal while you are in Nigeria.”

  Eduardo did not comment as he settled back into his seat and stared out of the tinted window to watch some passengers of a British Airways 707 that had landed just before him form a long queue on the hot tarmac as they waited patiently to clear customs. The driver put the car into first gear and the black crocodile proceeded on its journey. Colonel Usman, who was now in the front seat beside the corporal, soon discovered that the Brazilian guest did not care for small talk, and the secretary who was seated by his employer’s side never once opened his mouth. The colonel, used to doing things by example, remained silent, leaving de Silveira to consider his plan of campaign.

  Eduardo Francisco de Silveira had been born in the small village of Rebeti, a hundred miles north of Rio de Janeiro, heir to one of the two most powerful family fortunes in Brazil. He had been educated privately in Switzerland before attending the University of California in Los Angeles. He went on to complete his education at the Harvard Business School. After Harvard he returned from America to work in Brazil, where he started neither at the top nor at the bottom of the firm but in the middle, managing his family’s mining interests in Minas Gerais. He quickly worked his way to the top, even faster than his father had planned, but then the boy turned out to be not so much a chip as a chunk off the old block. At twenty-nine he married Maria, eldest daughter of his father’s closest friend, and when twelve years later his father died Eduardo succeeded to the Prentino throne. There were seven sons in all: the second son, Alfredo, was now in charge of banking; João ran shipping; Carlos organized construction; Manoel arranged food and supplies; Jaime managed the family newspapers; and little Antonio, the last—and certainly the least—ran the family farms. All the brothers reported to Eduardo before making any major decision, for he was still chairman of the largest private company in Brazil, despite the boastful claims of his old family enemy, Manuel Rodriguez.

  When General Castelo Branco’s military regime overthrew the civilian government in 1964 the generals agreed that they could not kill off all the de Silveiras or the Rodriguezes so they had better learn to live with the two rival families. The de Silveiras for their part had always had enough sense never to involve themselves in politics other than by making payments to every government official, military or civilian, according to his rank. This ensured that the Prentino empire grew alongside whatever faction came to power. One of the reasons Eduardo de Silveira had allocated four days in his crowded schedule for a visit to Lagos was that the Nigerian system of government seemed to resemble so closely that of Brazil, and at least on this project he had cut the ground from under Manuel Rodriguez’s feet, which would more than make up for losing the Rio airport tender to him. Eduardo smiled at the thought of Rodriguez’s not realizing that he was in Nigeria to close a deal that could make him twice the size of his rival.

  As the black Mercedes moved slowly through the teeming, noisy streets paying no attention to traffic lights, red or green, Eduardo thought back to his first meeting with General Mohammed, the Nigerian Head of State, on the occasion of the President’s official visit to Brazil. Speaking at the dinner given in General Mohammed’s honor, President Ernesto Geisel declared a hope that the two countries would move toward closer cooperation in politics and commerce. Eduardo agreed with his unelected leader and was happy to leave the politics to the President if he allowed him to get on with the commerce. General Mohammed made his reply, on behalf of the guests, in an English accent that normally would be associ
ated with Oxford. The General talked at length of the project that was most dear to his heart, the building of a new Nigerian capital in Abuja, a city that he hoped might even rival Brasilia. After the speeches were over, the General took de Silveira to one side and spoke in greater detail of the Abuja city project, asking him if he might consider a private tender. Eduardo smiled and only wished that his enemy, Rodriguez, could hear the intimate conversation he was having with the Nigerian Head of State.

  * * *

  Eduardo carefully studied the outline proposal sent to him a week later, after the General had returned to Nigeria, and agreed to his first request by dispatching a research team of seven men to fly to Lagos and complete a feasibility study on Abuja.

  One month later, the team’s detailed report was in de Silveira’s hands. Eduardo came to the conclusion that the potential profitability of the project was worthy of a full proposal to the Nigerian government. He contacted General Mohammed personally to find that he was in full agreement and authorized the go-ahead. This time twenty-three men were dispatched to Lagos and three months and 170 pages later, Eduardo signed and sealed the proposal designated as “A New Capital for Nigeria.” He made only one alteration to the final document. The cover of the proposal was in blue and silver with the Prentino logo in the center: Eduardo had that changed to green and white, the national colors of Nigeria, with the national emblem of an eagle astride two horses: he realized it was the little things that impressed generals and often tipped the scales. He sent ten copies of the feasibility study to Nigeria’s Head of State with an invoice for one million dollars.

  When General Mohammed had studied the proposal he invited Eduardo de Silveira to visit Nigeria as his guest, in order to discuss the next stage of the project. De Silveira telexed back, provisionally accepting the invitation and pointing out politely but firmly that he had not yet received reimbursement for the one million dollars spent on the initial feasibility study. The money was telexed by return from the Central Bank of Nigeria, and de Silveira managed to find four consecutive days in his calendar for “The New Federal Capital Project”: his schedule demanded that he arrive in Lagos on a Monday morning because he had to be in Paris by Thursday night at the latest.

  While these thoughts were going through Eduardo’s mind, the Mercedes drew up outside Dodan Barracks. The iron gates swung open and a full armed guard gave the general salute, an honor normally afforded only to a visiting Head of State. The black Mercedes drove slowly through the gates and came to a halt outside the President’s private residence. A brigadier waited on the steps to escort de Silveira through to the President.

  The two men had lunch together in a small room that closely resembled a British officers’ mess. The meal consisted of a steak that would not have been acceptable to any South American cowhand, surrounded by vegetables that reminded Eduardo of his schooldays. Still, Eduardo had never yet met a soldier who understood that a good chef was every bit as important as a good batman. During the lunch they talked in overall terms about the problems of building a whole new city in the middle of an equatorial jungle.

  The provisional estimate of the cost of the project had been $1,000 million, but when de Silveira warned the President that the final outcome might well end up nearer $3,000 million, the President’s jaw dropped slightly. De Silveira had to admit that the project would be the most ambitious that Prentino International had ever tackled, but he was quick to point out to the President that the same would be true of any construction company in the world.

  De Silveira, not a man to play his best card early, waited until the coffee to slip into the conversation the fact that he had just been awarded, against heavy opposition (which had included Rodriguez), the contract to build an eight-lane highway through the Amazonian jungle, which would eventually link up with the Pan-American highway, a contract second in size only to the one they were now contemplating in Nigeria. The President was impressed and inquired if the venture would not prevent de Silveira from involving himself in the new capital project.

  “I’ll know the answer to that question in three days’ time,” replied the Brazilian, and agreed to a further discussion with the Head of State at the end of his visit, when he would let the President know if he was prepared to continue with the scheme.

  After lunch Eduardo was driven to the Federal Palace Hotel, where the entire sixth floor had been placed at his disposal. Several complaining guests who had come to Nigeria to close deals involving mere millions had been asked to vacate their rooms at short notice to make way for de Silveira and his staff. Eduardo knew nothing of these goings-on, as there was always a room available for him wherever he arrived in the world.

  The six Mercedes drew up outside the hotel, and the colonel guided his charge through the swing doors and past reception. Eduardo had not checked himself into a hotel for the past fourteen years except on those occasions when he chose to register under an assumed name, not wanting anyone to know the identity of the woman he was with.

  The chairman of Prentino International walked down the center of the hotel’s main corridor and stepped into a waiting lift. His legs went weak and he suddenly felt sick. In the corner of the lift stood a stubby, balding, overweight man, who was dressed in a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt, his mouth continually opening and closing as he chewed gum. The two men stood as far apart as possible, neither showing any sign of recognition. The lift stopped at the fifth floor and Manuel Rodriguez, chairman of Rodriguez International S.A., stepped out, leaving behind him the man who had been his bitter rival for thirty years.

  Eduardo held on to the rail in the lift to steady himself because he still felt dizzy. How he despised that uneducated self-made upstart whose family of four half-brothers, all by different fathers, claimed they now ran the largest construction company in Brazil. Both men were as interested in the other’s failure as they were in their own success.

  Eduardo was somewhat puzzled to know what Rodriguez could possibly be doing in Lagos for he felt certain that his rival had not come into contact with the Nigerian President. After all, Eduardo had never collected the rent on a small house in Rio that was occupied by the mistress of a very senior official in the government’s protocol department. And the man’s only task was to be certain that Rodriguez was not invited to any function attended by a visiting dignitary when in Brazil. The continual absence of Rodriguez from these state occasions ensured the absentmindedness of Eduardo’s rent collector in Rio.

  Eduardo would never have admitted to anyone that Rodriguez’s presence worried him, but he nevertheless resolved to find out immediately what had brought his old enemy to Nigeria. Once he reached his suite de Silveira instructed his private secretary to check what Manuel Rodriguez was up to. Eduardo was prepared to fly on to Paris immediately if Rodriguez turned out to be involved in any way with the new capital project, and one young lady in Rio would suddenly find herself looking for other accommodations.

  Within an hour his private secretary returned with the information his chairman had requested. Rodriguez, he had discovered, was in Nigeria to tender for the contract to construct a new port in Lagos and was apparently not involved in any way with the new capital, and in fact was still trying to arrange a meeting with the President.

  “Which minister is in charge of the ports and when am I due to see him?” asked de Silveira.

  The secretary delved into his appointments file. “The Minister of Transport,” the secretary said. “You have an appointment with him at nine o’clock on Thursday morning.” The Nigerian Civil Service had mapped out a four-day schedule of meetings for de Silveira which included every cabinet minister involved in the new city project. “It’s the last meeting before your final discussion with the President. You then fly on to Paris.”

  “Excellent. Remind me of this conversation five minutes before I see the minister and again when I talk to the President.”

  The secretary made a note in the file and left.

  Eduardo sat alone in his suite,
going over the reports on the new capital project submitted by his experts. Some of his team were already showing signs of nervousness. One particular anxiety that always came up with a large construction contract was the principal’s ability to pay, and pay on time. Failure to be paid on time was the quickest route to bankruptcy, but since the discovery of oil in Nigeria, there seemed to be no shortage of income and certainly no shortage of people willing to spend that money on behalf of the government. These anxieties did not worry de Silveira, because he always insisted on a substantial payment in advance; otherwise he wouldn’t move himself or his vast staff one centimeter out of Brazil. However, the massive scope of this particular contract made the circumstances somewhat unusual. Eduardo realized that it would be most damaging to his international reputation if he started the assignment and then was seen not to complete it. He re-read the reports over a quiet dinner in his room and retired to bed early, having wasted an hour in vainly trying to place a call through to his wife.

  De Silveira’s first appointment the next morning was with the Governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria. Eduardo wore a newly pressed suit, fresh shirt and highly polished shoes: for four days no one would see him in the same clothes. At eight forty-five there was a quiet knock on the door of his suite and the secretary opened it to find Colonel Usman standing to attention, waiting to escort Eduardo to the bank. As they were leaving the hotel Eduardo again saw Manuel Rodriguez, wearing the same pair of jeans, the same crumpled T-shirt, and probably chewing the same gum as he stepped into a BMW in front of him. De Silveira stopped scowling at the disappearing BMW only when he remembered his Thursday morning appointment with the Minister of Transport, followed by a meeting with the President.

  The Governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria was in the habit of proposing how payment schedules would be met and completion orders would be guaranteed. He had never been told by anyone that if the payment was seven days overdue he could consider the contract null and void and that he could take it or leave it. The Governor would have made some comment if Abuja had not been the President’s pet project. That position established, de Silveira went on to check the bank’s reserves, long-term deposits, overseas commitments and estimated oil revenues for the next five years. He left the Governor in what could only be described as a jelly-like state, glistening and wobbling.