The Guyana Contract

by Rosalind McLymont

  He reflected that this was the way he felt the day he crafted his succession plan months ago, at the height of the Jamaica fiasco. It had hit him, then, that the years of manipulation to stay ahead of the pack, the years of stepping into the ring with men and women of lesser souls but unfathomable power, had finally begun to wear him down and it was time to begin to let go.

  Perhaps it was then that the cancer started, he thought bitterly. He shrugged away the thought. What difference does it make when it started? It’s here now. Killing me.

  He punched the air, a quick one-two, his face contorted in anguish. His mind screamed: Why me? How could a man like me get lung cancer? I don’t smoke. I exercise! Every day! I eat a careful diet! There must have been symptoms. How could I have missed them and let this damn thing get so far?

  The doctor had responded kindly when he had shouted those very questions at him. Cancer does not discriminate, he’d said. “And it is not uncommon for men who drive their mind and their body as hard as you do to dismiss any telltale signs,” he’d added. Mercifully, he did not mention what they both were thinking: Lawton should have been having annual physicals. He hadn’t had one in three years. He just didn’t have the time. No, that was not true. The truth was that he hated going to doctors.

  Oh, well, Lawton shrugged now. He would not dwell on the consequences of his foolishness. Not with so little time left.

  So little time.

  A wave of fear rolled over him. He reached for the drink he did not remember pouring. Vodka, straight. His hands shook as he lifted the glass to his mouth.

  He did not want to die. He was afraid of dying. He wasn’t prepared for death. How does one prepare for a thing of such finality?

  Lawton sat his empty glass on the small bar that had been built into the side of the limousine and wept again.

  §

  Dru watched with interest as Theron St. Cyr embraced a much older man dressed in shorts, a loose shirt-jacket, and sandals. The man had that person-of-means look. A Mr. Somebody. Connected.

  Dru studied the man’s face. No sleaze there, she thought. Hope the poor guy knows just what he’s dealing with. St. Cyr is probably setting him up for a swindle big time.

  She could not help noticing that the man seemed genuinely fond of St. Cyr. He had embraced St. Cyr a second time and kept his arm around his shoulders as they walked out of the terminal.

  “The man in the shorts is someone you should know. That’s Andrew Goodings, the spoke in the wheel in our project. The other one, the young, good-looking one who just came in on your flight, him we’ve never seen before.”

  The voice was close behind her. It sounded amused.

  Dalrymple!

  Dru swung around and nearly bumped into a grinning Compton Dalrymple. Nelson Roopnaraine stood beside him. He, too, was grinning. “Whoa, don’t jump. It’s only us,” said Roopnaraine. He held out his hand.

  “Welcome back to Guyana, Dru. It’s good to see you.”

  “Yes, nice to have you back in G.T.,” echoed Dalrymple, using the popular name for Georgetown. “How was your flight?”

  Dru smiled and shook hands with the two men. “Hey, Nelson, Compton. Good to see you, too. My flight was okay, thanks.”

  “And your family is well, I trust?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed, thank you.”

  “You must be glad for this little break from the stress of New York,” Roopnaraine volunteered warmly.

  “In a way, yes,” Dru answered politely.

  “Of course, we don’t mean to imply that Guyana does not have its ups and downs,” Dalrymple said with a laugh.

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of interpreting it that way,” Dru said. The touch of impatience in her voice was not lost on the two men. They glanced at each other knowingly. Time to cut the fellowship among humans. Americans were so predictable. With them it was always hurry. Hurry! Hurry! Let’s get down to business! And for all Dru’s touting of her Guyanese roots, she was very much the American business executive. Roopnaraine took her by the elbow with one hand and grabbed the handle of her rolling leather suitcase with the other. “Let’s go,” he said, steering her toward the exit.

  Dalrymple followed a half step behind. Dru watched him out of the corner of her eye. It seemed that he waved and returned a greeting every two or three steps he made. People still called him “P.S.,” a throwback to his tenure as permanent secretary in the Ministry of Transportation.

  Hard to believe he was that good, Dru thought testily. She did not think very highly of Roopnaraine and Dalrymple, especially Dalrymple who always seemed to be undressing her with his eyes when he thought she was not looking. In fact, beyond their contractual obligations to Pilgrim Boone, she did not think of them at all.

  She’d been turned off at their first meeting by their tomorrow-will-do, no-problem attitude. She had suffered through their small talk about how they hoped she and her family were well, and about the latest political goings-on in New York and Washington—which, to Dru’s surprise, they were very familiar with—before getting down to the business at hand. She was well aware that this was their culture, that it was typical of the Third World markets that Pilgrim Boone was going after, and that she had to put up with it for the firm’s sake. But that didn’t mean she had to like it. That’s what’s wrong with these countries, she ranted to herself time and time again. The world is rolling by and they’re still laughing and making small talk.

  Still, she was flattered that both Dalrymple and Roopnaraine had come to meet her. They may be caricatures to her but they were big shots in Guyana, as far as big-shots went. And after her run-in with St. Cyr on the flight, it was a relief to be in friendly company.

  So be nice to them, Dru. It’s only for a few days.

  She smiled amiably at the two as they led her outside and responded amiably to their inquiries about Lawton Pilgrim and Grant Featherhorn.

  When she stepped outside it was as if she had slammed into a wall of heat. It hit her full in the face. She felt her hair go limp and within seconds she was soaked under the arms. Sweat ran down her back, along her spine.

  She had worn a silk blouse that she thought would keep her cool, but it was already clinging to her body.

  “Whew!” she exclaimed, fanning the heat away from her face. “So much for all the hype about silk being cool. I will never get used to this heat no matter how many times I travel to the tropics.”

  “Not to worry. We’ll be out of it in a minute. The car is just over there. It’s air-conditioned,” Dalrymple said, quickening his pace.

  “God bless air-conditioning!” Dru sighed. She looked around quickly, wondering if she would catch sight of Theron St. Cyr and the man who had met him. It vexed her to think that she was more interested in seeing St. Cyr again than she was in seeing the man who supposedly was holding up closure on one of the most important deals of her career.

  You need to rearrange your priorities, Durane, her inner voice chided. “Tell me about it,” she muttered irritably.

  “Sorry? You said something, Dru?”

  Roopnaraine. Mr. Solicitous.”Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself. The heat,

  I guess,” Dru said quickly with a shrug.

  Just then, she spotted St. Cyr. He was about to get into the front passenger seat of a late-model Jeep with tinted windows. Andrew Goodings was already behind the wheel. St. Cyr was laughing.

  Probably at his own stupid joke, Dru thought resentfully. Her gaze lingered on him. Theron St. Cyr clearly was a man at ease with himself. He had paused to take off his jacket and was now rolling up his shirtsleeves. He was still laughing, his face creased with mirth.

  Dru’s gaze took him in from head to toe. So he still works out.

  He was lean and fit. His slacks were a perfect fit, as perfect as the ones he’d been wearing in Marseille.

  It was as if she were seeing him for the first time. And once again, as she had so many years ago, she thought that he was not a bad-looking man at all.


  A flicker of doubt played into her mind, causing the crease in her brow to deepen. How could a man like this be such a demon? Could the story he told on the plane be true?

  They were unwelcome questions, darting waywardly into her eyes and causing her face to reflect a curious mix of perplexity and annoyance. As if drawn by her gaze, St. Cyr turned his head and looked straight at her. Dru frowned and looked away hastily, only to encounter Dalrymple’s cool gaze. Dalrymple did not say a word, but the corners of his mouth crinkled in a smile.

  Dru bristled. Is that a mocking smile on his goddamn face? She could practically read his dirty mind. She feigned nonchalance. “You know, that man looks a lot like someone I met in Europe years ago. Oh, well, they say we all look alike.”

  Before Dalrymple could comment, she turned to Roopnaraine who was holding open the door of his shiny black Toyota RAV4. “Why thank you, Nelson,” she said sweetly. “So good of you to remember I don’t like sitting up front. You Guyanese drivers make me way too nervous.”

  She stepped into the car and settled herself behind Dalrymple, who had already climbed into the front passenger seat. “And off we go!” she said brightly as soon as Roopnaraine started the car.

  Dru wanted them to take the old route into the city, not the highway that bypassed the villages and small towns that told her the real story about the country. Roopnaraine obliged. On the way she asked pointed questions about the state of Guyana’s economy, and the political mood of the country. Was the flash headline on CNN the other day about an attempted coup true? Should the president’s subsequent upbeat address to the nation in which he outlined his vision for the country be taken seriously? Has the transportation minister made any statements on air or rail transport?

  She hoped she was giving the impression that she was trying to gauge whether it was worth it to Pilgrim Boone to pursue as costly an investment as an air transport system in Guyana, given the government’s foot-dragging on the proposal. She wanted them to think that the investors were wavering on the deal. That should light a fire under them, she thought. Force them to push harder with the government for fear of losing thousands of dollars in consulting fees.

  Dalrymple and Roopnaraine reeled off reason after reason why Pilgrim Boone should not even consider pulling out. The more Dru kept up her questioning, deliberately injecting doubt into her voice, the more the men grew agitated. Their voices rose as they tried to persuade her that there was no need to worry.

  Dru smiled to herself. Good. Now they’ll go on the attack.

  As they rounded the bend near the old Diamond Sugar Estate, the foul smell of the factory wash that Guyanese fondly referred to as “G.T. perfume” seeped into the car.

  Dru made a face. “Ooof! I guess nothing can be done about that horrible smell,” she said in distaste, then switched the subject abruptly. “You know, I was kind of surprised that both of you showed up to meet me. I expected to see just one of you, or your driver, knowing how busy you are. This tells me how much value you place on this deal. Oh, yes, I’ve been keeping track of you guys. You’re well known out there. And I see you’ve opened offices in Trinidad and Barbados. Everyone’s coming to you now.”

  Roopnaraine smiled appreciatively at her in the rearview mirror but said nothing.

  Dalrymple preened. “Yes. I must say we’ve worked very hard at building a reputation for efficiency and 100 percent delivery. I hope what everyone is seeing now is the result of all that hard work.”

  “And that’s exactly why I want you to pull this one off. I know you can do it.” Dru was sincere.

  Dalrymple was touched. “I know it seems like slow going to you, Dru. But we won’t let you down.”

  “Thanks, Compton. Now tell me about Andrew Goodings. What’s the deal with him?”

  The more Dalrymple and Roopnaraine recounted what they knew, the more exasperated Dru became. “I just don’t understand why, if he is such a patriot and wants to see real progress in Guyana, he is holding up a project like this? My God! For a country that has more jungle and rivers than people, what else but progress would air transport bring!”

  Roopnaraine swallowed before answering her, determined to stay calm. “People say he’s still furious about the railroad being torn up. He claims our leaders don’t really understand the role transportation plays in economic development. So it’s not that he’s against putting in a high-tech air transport system—of course, you know we already have privately operated planes going back and forth between the city and the interior, but nothing in the league of what Savoy is proposing—it’s just that he thinks we should put our energies and resources into rail first. He doesn’t think air is in Guyana’s best interest right now and, after that business about the railroad, he’s suspicious of the big push for it.”

  “Nobody is saying rail is not important. I don’t see why both can’t be done at the same time. If someone is coming to the table with something that clearly is needed, it doesn’t make any sense to me to hold out on them, especially when no one is coming to the table with the other stuff. Is there a proposal for rail on the table?”

  Dru’s voice had risen with indignation. She was beginning to dislike this Goodings intensely. Who was he? What gave him the right, the power, to spit in the eye of Pilgrim Boone! Because that’s exactly what he was doing. She knew the type: a low-level functionary, an insignificant retiree with an American pension and an American Social Security check that allowed him to live like a lord in his own rice republic. Here he was, feeling he could now hoist his balls at big, bad corporate America for all the wrongs big, bad corporate America had done to him in the big, bad concrete jungle. He was just the type that would click with Theron St. Cyr.

  “Well! Is there a proposal for rail on the table?” she repeated heatedly. “The government talks about restoring the old line, but as far as we know there’s no concrete plan or proposal, right, Compton?”

  “Right. Just talk.”

  “Just talk,” Dru mimicked scornfully. They’re not even upset, she thought resentfully. “I want a meeting with him,” she said coldly.

  “On what pretext? Officially, Goodings has no role in the discussions. Even if we succeed in arranging a meeting, he can easily tell you he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.” Roopnaraine was all brisk and business now. “I’ll take that chance.”

  “Fine. But that still does not answer the question of pretext. How do we bring the two of you together?”

  “Nelson’s right, Dru. Goodings doesn’t hang around, not even with the American expatriates. That makes a chance meeting him highly unlikely.”

  “This is Guyana. A small country whose people are known for their hospitality. Why don’t I simply call on him at his home? Unannounced. That’s not unusual, is it? Besides, we’re both New Yorkers. We’d have a lot in common on that score. Then I can come straight out and say something about wanting his input on how to move our proposal forward. Massage his ego by saying that Pilgrim Boone has heard of his reputation as a transportation expert and his closeness to the minister. He’d buy that. Hell, he’ll even appreciate my candor. He’s a New Yorker, shoo.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me. What do you think, Nello boy?”

  Roopnaraine ignored his friend. “So, your intention is to…?” He let the question hang.

  “Persuade him to give up his opposition to the deal.”

  “In that one meeting?”

  “Yes. In that one meeting. We’re running out of time to get this done. We’re all running out of time.”

  §

  Dru locked the door of her hotel suite as soon as the bellhop left and peeled off her damp clothes. She hurried over to the air-conditioning unit below the wide glass windows and stood naked in the full blast of its cold air.

  “I know it’s crazy to do this, but I’ll die if I don’t,” she murmured. “How in God’s name can human beings live in this kind of heat three hundred and sixty-five days a year? Phew!”

  Half a minute later, she went int
o the bathroom, pulled a fluffy towel from the stack on a shiny brass stand and wrapped it around herself. She walked back into the bedroom and threw herself across the bed. She reached for the telephone, pressed the button for overseas calls, and dialed her brother’s cell phone number.

  Halfway through dialing, she stopped and put the phone back on the nightstand. She rolled off the bed and retrieved her own cell phone from her pocketbook. I’m not paranoid. You just never know, she thought grimly. Her brother was a principal investigator at a small law firm in Washington, D.C., that the U.S. Department of Justice had recently contracted to build a financial crimes database.

  “Need a favor, brother mine,” she said without ceremony when her brother answered.

  “Only if it is within reason. You like to climb way out on those limbs and, as you know, I am deathly afraid of falling out of trees.”

  “Awwww, come on, Lance. You make me sound like one of those James Bond floozies.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that pouty voice. It won’t work this time.” He sighed. It worked all the time. “Okay, Dru. What’s up?”

  “All I need is information on a man named Andrew Goodings. Born Guyanese, U.S. citizen. Worked at the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey until his retirement three years ago.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, while you’re at it, check on a guy named Theron St. Cyr. He’s pals with Goodings. Just landed in Guyana.”

  “And I suppose you just landed there, too. How’s that deal going?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Ooookay! Check your e-mail in an hour.”

  “Thanks, Lance.”

  15

  The executive jet touched down gently on the stretch of tarmac high up in the Pakaraima Mountains of Guyana, about fifty miles from the Venezuelan border.