A Quiver Full of Arrows

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Agreed,” said Sir Hamish, who paused for a moment and smiled to himself before saying: “Make it $39,121,110.”

  “Why that particular figure, sir?”

  “Sentimental reasons,” said Sir Hamish, without further explanation.

  David Heath left, pleased that he had convinced his boss to go ahead, but he feared it might in the end prove harder to overcome Sir Hamish’s principles than the entire Mexican government. Nevertheless he filled in the bottom line of the tender as instructed and then had the document signed by three directors including his chairman, as required by Mexican law. He sent the tender by special messenger to be delivered at the Ministry of Buildings in Paseo de la Reforma: when tendering for a contract for over thirty-nine million dollars, one does not send the document by first-class post.

  Several weeks passed before the Mexican Embassy in London contacted Sir Hamish, requesting that he travel to Mexico City for a meeting with Manuel Unichurtu, the minister concerned with the city’s ring road project. Sir Hamish remained skeptical, but David Heath was jubilant, because he had already learned through another source that Graham Construction was the only tender being seriously considered at that moment, although there were one or two outstanding items still to be agreed on. David Heath knew exactly what that meant.

  A week later Sir Hamish, traveling first class, and David Heath, traveling economy, flew out of Heathrow bound for Mexico’s international airport. On arrival they took an hour to clear customs and another thirty minutes to find a taxi to take them to the city, and then only after the driver had bargained with them for an outrageous fare. They covered the fifteen-mile journey from the airport to their hotel in just over an hour and Sir Hamish was able to observe at first hand why the Mexicans were so desperate to build a ring road. Even with the windows down, the ten-year-old car was like an oven that had been left on high all night, but during the journey Sir Hamish never once loosened his collar or tie. The two men checked into their rooms, phoned the minister’s secretary to inform her of their arrival, and then waited.

  For two days, nothing happened.

  David Heath assured his chairman that such a hold-up was not an unusual course of events in Mexico, as the minister was undoubtedly in meetings most of the day, and after all wasn’t “mañana” the one Spanish word every foreigner understood?

  On the afternoon of the third day, only just before Sir Hamish was threatening to return home, David Heath received a call from the minister’s man, who accepted an invitation to join them both for dinner in Sir Hamish’s suite that evening.

  Sir Hamish put on evening dress for the occasion, despite David Heath’s counseling against the idea. He even had a bottle of Fina La Ina sherry sent up in case the minister’s man required some refreshment. The dinner table was set and the hosts were ready for seven-thirty. The minister’s man did not appear at seven-thirty, or seven forty-five, or eight o’clock or eight-fifteen, or eight-thirty. At eight forty-nine there was a loud rap on the door, and Sir Hamish muttered an inaudible reproach as David Heath went to open it and find his contact standing there.

  “Good evening, Mr. Heath, I’m sorry to be late. Held up with the minister, you understand.”

  “Yes, of course,” said David Heath. “How good of you to come, Señor Perez. May I introduce my chairman, Sir Hamish Graham?”

  “How do you do, Sir Hamish? Victor Perez at your service.”

  Sir Hamish was dumbfounded. He simply stood and stared at the little middle-aged Mexican who had arrived for dinner dressed in a grubby white T-shirt and Western jeans. Perez looked as if he hadn’t shaved for three days and reminded Sir Hamish of those bandits he had seen in B-movies when he was a schoolboy. He wore a heavy gold bracelet around his wrist that could have come from Cartier’s and a tiger’s tooth on a platinum chain around his neck that looked as if it had come from Woolworth’s. Perez grinned from ear to ear, pleased with the effect he was having on the chairman of Graham Construction.

  “Good evening,” replied Sir Hamish stiffly, taking a step backward. “Would you care for a sherry?”

  “No, thank you, Sir Hamish. I’ve grown into the habit of liking your whiskey, on the rocks with a little soda.”

  “I’m sorry, I only have…”

  “Don’t worry, sir, I have some in my room,” said David Heath, and rushed away to retrieve a bottle of Johnnie Walker he had hidden under the shirts in his top drawer. Despite this Scottish aid, the conversation before dinner among the three men was somewhat stilted, but David Heath had not come five thousand miles for an inferior hotel meal with Victor Perez, and Victor Perez in any other circumstances would not have crossed the road to meet Sir Hamish Graham even if he’d built it. Their conversation ranged from the recent visit to Mexico of Her Majesty the Queen—as Sir Hamish referred to her—to the proposed return trip of President Portillo to Britain. Dinner might have gone more smoothly if Mr. Perez hadn’t eaten most of the food with his hands and then proceeded to clean his fingers on the side of his jeans. The more Sir Hamish stared at him in disbelief the more the little Mexican would grin from ear to ear. After dinner David Heath thought the time had come to steer the conversation toward the real purpose of the meeting, but not before Sir Hamish had reluctantly had to call for a bottle of brandy and a box of cigars.

  “We are looking for an agent to represent the Graham Construction Company in Mexico, Mr. Perez, and you have been highly recommended,” said Sir Hamish, sounding unconvinced by his own statement.

  “Do call me Victor.”

  Sir Hamish bowed silently and shuddered. There was no way this man was going to be allowed to call him Hamish.

  “I’d be pleased to represent you, Hamish,” continued Perez, “provided that you find my terms acceptable.”

  “Perhaps you could enlighten us as to what those—hm, terms—might be,” said Sir Hamish stiffly.

  “Certainly,” said the little Mexican cheerfully. “I require ten percent of the agreed tender figure, five percent to be paid on the day you are awarded the contract and five percent whenever you present your completion certificates. Not a penny to be paid until you have received your fee, all my payments deposited in an account at Credit Suisse in Geneva within seven days of the National Bank of Mexico clearing your check.”

  David Heath drew in his breath sharply and stared down at the stone floor.

  “But under those terms you would make nearly four million dollars,” protested Sir Hamish, now red in the face. “That’s over half our projected profit.”

  “That, as I believe you say in England, Hamish, is your problem. You fixed the tender price,” said Perez, “not me. In any case, there’s still enough in the deal for both of us to make a handsome profit, which is surely fair as we both bring half the equation to the table.”

  Sir Hamish was speechless as he fiddled with his bow tie. David Heath examined his fingernails attentively.

  “Think the whole thing over, Hamish,” said Victor Perez, sounding unperturbed, “and let me know your decision by midday tomorrow. The outcome makes little difference to me.” The Mexican rose, shook hands with Sir Hamish and left. David Heath, sweating slightly, accompanied him down in the lift. In the foyer he clasped hands damply with the Mexican.

  “Goodnight, Victor, I’m sure everything will be all right—by midday tomorrow.”

  “I hope so,” replied the Mexican, “for your sake.” He strolled out of the foyer whistling.

  Sir Hamish, a glass of water in his hand, was still seated at the dinner table when his project manager returned.

  “I do not believe it is possible that that—that that man can represent the Secretary of State, represent a government minister.”

  “I am assured that he does,” replied David Heath.

  “But to part with nearly four million dollars to such an individual…”

  “I agree with you, sir, but that is the way business is conducted out here.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Sir Hamish. “I won’
t believe it. I want you to make an appointment for me to see the minister first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “He won’t like that, sir. It might expose his position, and put him right out in the open in a way that could only embarrass him.”

  “I don’t give a damn about embarrassing him. We are discussing a bribe, do I have to spell it out for you, Heath? A bribe of nearly four million dollars. Have you no principles, man?”

  “Yes, sir, but I would still advise you against seeing the Secretary of State. He won’t want any of your conversation with Mr. Perez on the record.”

  “I have run this company my way for nearly thirty years, Mr. Heath, and I shall be the judge of what I want on the record.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  “I will see the Secretary of State first thing in the morning. Kindly arrange a meeting.”

  “If you insist, sir,” said David Heath resignedly.

  “I insist.”

  The project manager departed to his own room and a sleepless night. Early the next morning he delivered a hand-written, personal and private letter to the minister, who sent a car round immediately for the Scottish industrialist.

  Sir Hamish was driven slowly through the noisy, exuberant, bustling crowds of the city in the minister’s black Ford Galaxy with the flag flying. People made way for the car respectfully. The chauffeur came to a halt outside the Ministry of Buildings and Public Works in Paseo de la Reforma and guided Sir Hamish through the long white corridors to a waiting room. A few minutes later an assistant showed Sir Hamish through to the Secretary of State and took a seat by his side. The minister, a severe-looking man who appeared to be well into his seventies, was dressed in an immaculate white suit, white shirt and blue tie. He rose, leaned over the vast expanse of green leather and offered his hand.

  “Do have a seat, Sir Hamish.”

  “Thank you,” the chairman said, feeling more at home as he took in the minister’s office; on the ceiling a large propellor-like fan revolved slowly, making little difference to the stuffiness of the room, while hanging on the wall behind the minister was a signed picture of President José López Portillo in full morning dress and below the photo a plaque displaying a coat of arms.

  “I see you were educated at Cambridge.”

  “That is correct, Sir Hamish, I was up at Corpus Christi College for three years.”

  “Then you know my country well, sir.”

  “I do have many happy memories of my stays in England, Sir Hamish; in fact, I still visit London as often as my leave allows.”

  “You must take a trip to Edinburgh some time.”

  “I have already done so, Sir Hamish. I attended the Festival on two occasions and now know why your city is described as the Athens of the North.”

  “You are well informed, Minister.”

  “Thank you, Sir Hamish. Now I must ask how I can help you. Your assistant’s note was rather vague.”

  “First let me say, Minister, that my company is honored to be considered for the city ring road project and I hope that our experience of thirty years in construction, twenty of them in the third world”—he nearly said the undeveloped countries, an expression his project manager had warned him against—“is the reason you, as minister in charge, found us the natural choice for this contract.”

  “That, and your reputation for finishing a job on time at the stipulated price,” replied the Secretary of State. “Only twice in your history have you returned to the principal asking for changes in the payment schedule. Once in Uganda when you were held up by Amin’s pathetic demands, and the other project, if I remember rightly, was in Bolivia, an airport, when you were unavoidably delayed for six months because of an earthquake. In both cases, you completed the contract at the new price stipulated and my principal advisers think you must have lost money on both occasions.” The Secretary of State mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief before continuing. “I would not wish you to think my government takes these decisions of selection lightly.”

  Sir Hamish was astounded by the Secretary of State’s command of his brief, the more so as no prompting notes lay on the leather-topped desk in front of him. He suddenly felt guilty at the little he knew about the Secretary of State’s background or history.

  “Of course not, Minister. I am flattered by your personal concern, which makes me all the more determined to broach an embarrassing subject that has…”

  “Before you say anything else, Sir Hamish, may I ask you some questions?”

  “Of course, Minister.”

  “Do you still find the tender price of $39,121,110 acceptable in all the circumstances?”

  “Yes, Minister.”

  “That amount still leaves you enough to do a worthwhile job while making a profit for your company?”

  “Yes, Minister, but…”

  “Excellent, then I think all you have to decide is whether you want to sign the contract by midday today.” The minister emphasized the word “midday” as clearly as he could.

  Sir Hamish, who had never understood the expression “a nod is as good as a wink,” charged foolishly on.

  “There is, nevertheless, one aspect of the contract I feel that I should discuss with you privately.”

  “Are you sure that would be wise, Sir Hamish?”

  Sir Hamish hesitated, but only for a moment, before proceeding. Had David Heath heard the conversation that had taken place so far, he would have stood up, shaken hands with the Secretary of State, removed the top of his fountain pen and headed toward the contract—but not his employer.

  “Yes, Minister, I feel I must,” said Sir Hamish firmly.

  “Will you kindly leave us, Miss Vieites?” said the Secretary of State.

  The assistant closed her shorthand book, rose and left the room. Sir Hamish waited for the door to close before he began again.

  “Yesterday I had a visit from a countryman of yours, a Mr. Victor Perez, who resides here in Mexico City and claims—”

  “An excellent man,” said the minister very quietly.

  Still Sir Hamish charged on. “Yes, I daresay he is, Minister, but he asked to be allowed to represent Graham Construction as our agent and I wondered—”

  “A common practice in Mexico, no more than is required by the law,” said the minister, swinging his chair around and staring out of the window.

  “Yes, I appreciate that is the custom,” said Sir Hamish, now talking to the minister’s back, “but if I am to part with ten percent of the government’s money I must be convinced that such a decision meets with your personal approval.” Sir Hamish thought he had worded that rather well.

  “Um,” said the Secretary of State, measuring his words, “Victor Perez is a good man and has always been loyal to the Mexican cause. Perhaps he leaves an unfortunate impression sometimes, not out of what you would call the ‘top drawer,’ Sir Hamish, but then we have no class barriers in Mexico.” The minister swung back to face Sir Hamish.

  The Scottish industrialist flushed. “Of course not, Minister, but that, if you will forgive me, is hardly the point. Mr. Perez is asking me to hand over nearly four million dollars, which is over half of my estimated profit on the project, without allowing for any contingencies or mishaps that might occur later.”

  “You chose the tender figure, Sir Hamish. I confess I was amused by the fact you added your date of birth to the thirty-nine million.”

  Sir Hamish’s mouth opened wide.

  “I would have thought,” continued the minister, “given your record over the past three years and the present situation in Britain, you were not in a position to be fussy.”

  The minister gazed impassively at Sir Hamish’s startled face. Both started to speak at the same time. Sir Hamish swallowed his words.

  “Allow me to tell you a little story about Victor Perez. When the war was at its fiercest” (the old Secretary of State was referring to the Mexican Revolution, in the same way that an American thinks of Vietnam or a Briton of Germany when they
hear the word “war”), “Victor’s father was one of the young men under my command who died on the battlefield at Celaya only a few days before victory was ours. He left a son born on the day of independence who never knew his father. I have the honor, Sir Hamish, to be godfather to that child. We christened him Victor.”

  “I can understand that you have a responsibility to an old comrade, but I still feel four million is—”

  “Do you? Then let me continue. Just before Victor’s father died I visited him in a field hospital and he asked only that I should take care of his wife. She died in childbirth. I therefore considered my responsibility passed on to their only child.”

  Sir Hamish remained silent for a moment. “I appreciate your attitude, Minister, but ten percent of one of your largest contracts?”

  “One day,” continued the Secretary of State, as if he had not heard Sir Hamish’s comment, “Victor’s father was fighting in the front line at Zacatecas and looking out across a minefield he saw a young lieutenant, lying face down in the mud with his leg nearly blown off. With no thought for his own safety, he crawled through that minefield until he reached the lieutenant and then he dragged him yard by yard back to the camp. It took him over three hours. He then carried the lieutenant to a truck and drove him to the nearest field hospital, undoubtedly saving his leg, and probably his life. So you see the government has good cause to allow Perez’s son the privilege of representing it from time to time.”

  “I agree with you, Minister,” said Sir Hamish quietly. “Quite admirable.” The Secretary of State smiled for the first time. “But I still confess I cannot understand why you allow him such a large percentage.”

  The minister frowned. “I am afraid, Sir Hamish, if you cannot understand that, you can never hope to understand the principles we Mexicans live by.”

  The Secretary of State rose from behind his desk, limped to the door and showed Sir Hamish out.

  THE HUNGARIAN PROFESSOR