by mike Evans
“Yes?”
“When it comes to ancestors, though, that was my grandmother. She believed we are direct descendants of Christopher Columbus.”
“Do you share that belief?”
“Not at all.”
“Then I’m free to say this.” His dark eyes twinkled again. “Every American who visits the Iberian Peninsula claims to be a relative of Columbus.”
Maria wished she hadn’t shared that. His response seemed like a slap at Abuela. It was time to return to the group anyway, but before she could turn in that direction Tejada was softly nudging her elbow yet again.
“And what do you know of the history of Catalonia Financial?”
She resisted the urge to say, How much time ya got?
“I know the corporation was formed in 1922,” she said.
“Ah, but we go back much further than that.” Tejada nodded at the other portraits on the walls. “Catalonia has been many different things over the years—an importer, a shipping company, an investment vehicle, even a religious institution.”
Maria wondered if that accounted for the vow the board members had repeated at the beginning of their meeting. Before she could ask, Tejada continued. “It all began in 1382 as a group of Barcelona businessmen who simply wished to pool their resources for mutual benefit. We strive to maintain that attitude.”
“Mutual benefit.” She arched her left eyebrow.
“But then you wouldn’t need to know all of this, would you?” he said. “You represent the corporation, and anything that transpired before the date it was formed would be beyond any applicable statute of limitations. Come then, meet some more of my elders.”
Maria allowed him to steer her along as he talked, but her mind was still back on “statute of limitations.” Why would he use that term? Were they into some shady dealings way back then?
She resisted the urge to shrug. What corporation wasn’t into something questionable even now?
They’d fast-forwarded in history from portraits to a series of photographs, most of them circa nineteenth century. “These are our past directors,” Tejada said. “The photos go back as far as 1860.”
“They seem like a dignified group,” Maria said. Actually people in those old photographs always did with their stiff postures and stern expressions. As a kid she’d often wondered when smiling was invented.
“They were quite a group,” Tejada agreed. “But just as with our directors today, they were not famous men. At the time, the men you see here were among the wealthiest in Europe. Unlike the Rothschild bankers or your own American industrialists of the same period, not one of these men was known to the public.”
“That kind of anonymity would be impossible today,” Maria said.
He stopped at the end of the hall, eyes shining down at her. “You think so?”
“The Internet makes everyone visible.”
“Then tell me. How many pictures of our current directors have you found?”
Maria studied the wall.
“You won’t find them here,” Tejada said. “Did you see their pictures before you left Washington?”
“No,” Maria said. “I didn’t.” She’d never been able to find any on the Catalonia Financial website either.
Tejada bent his head closer to hers. “That is because no such photographs exist.”
Maria didn’t have a chance to ask why. Molina suddenly appeared in the hallway ahead of them. Was there a secret door? “Dinner can be served at any time,” he said. His eyes never reached Maria but she felt the cold hostility that always chilled her when they occupied the same acre.
“We cannot be late for that, can we?” Tejada said. “We know how much Ms. Winters enjoys a good meal.” And with another light touch to her elbow he ushered her to the dining room.
These days never seemed to end, Tejada thought as he stood watching the two limousines crawl down the road toward the city. He would prefer to close this one here on the balcony with a cigar and a glass of Tempranillo, taking in the May air, rather than meeting with his nephew in the study. Anytime he was required to be with Philippe Prevost he felt as though he was being deprived of oxygen. He felt Molina in the doorway behind him.
“He is here?” Tejada said.
“He is.”
Tejada sighed.
“I can put him off,” Molina offered.
“No. This needs to be done.”
Tejada waited until he heard Molina show Prevost into the study before he went inside. Prevost was already pacing. “Sit,” Tejada said.
“I’ve been sitting all day.”
Tejada sat in the chair behind his desk and stared at him. Finally, Prevost perched on the edge of one of the wing chairs.
“Sherry?” Tejada asked.
“You know I don’t drink.”
“Perhaps you should start,” Tejada said. “It might improve your disposition.”
Prevost nodded at the glass in Tejada’s hand. “It would take something stronger than that.”
Tejada drew a long breath in through his nostrils. Prevost’s neuroses tried his patience. He might need something stronger himself before this meeting was over. “So,” Tejada said. “Where are we?”
“We had another round of discussions. I think Germany is interested. France and Great Britain will agree if Germany does.”
“And the Russians?”
Prevost stroked the pencil-thin moustache above his thin upper lip. “Russia remains reluctant.”
“And the Chinese?”
“Showing interest, but so far noncommittal.”
Tejada set his glass on the desktop. “Why only interested?”
“They still remember the hit they took in 2008 when the Americans nearly ruined the world’s financial system.”
“As well they should,” Tejada conceded, “but if we had switched from dollar-denominated transactions before all that happened, they would have saved a great deal of value. Right now, the entire system—every nation on earth—is at the beck and call of the Americans.”
“Yeah, well,” Prevost sighed. “The Russians aren’t our only problem.”
“You’re referring to the Chinese?”
“Yes.”
“They should have led the fight to move us away from the dollar.”
“They don’t like the situation any more than we do, Emilio. But they know that commerce with the US is still a good deal for them. They have acquired a lot of technology through their joint ventures—a lot of technology—and they’ve been able to use it to push their domestic economy forward far faster than they could have developed it on their own.”
Tejada nodded. “It would have been impossible for them without their US trade.”
“Exactly.” Prevost slid from the arm of the chair to the seat. “Which is a huge obstacle for us.”
“We have no choice but to find a way around it,” Tejada said, refusing to budge.
“Then what would you have me do? This right here,” Prevost said, gesturing with both hands. “The effect of the US economy on their domestic economy is why they have not sold out to this idea of yours.”
“Of mine?” Tejada arched an eyebrow.
Prevost’s face tightened. “You know what I mean.”
“Very well,” Tejada said, “they are unsettled by the proposition of moving away from dependence on US demand. I see that. But their market is maturing. Convince them that they could sustain eight percent growth from their own domestic consumption.”
“How do you get to that?”
“I wish you knew.” Tejada got up, walked around his desk, and leaned against the edge of it, looking down at Prevost. “You are the director of the IMF, Philippe. It is your business to know about their investments in . . . South America, Africa—”
“I do know.” Prevost’s voice shook. “Africa is the last cheap labor pool large enough to replicate the kind of success China enjoyed when US manufacturing shifted to Asia. This is what I am trying to tell you. The Chinese think they will
get the same boost when their manufacturing moves to Africa as the US got when it sent manufacturing to China.”
“They want to do with Africa as the Americans did with them.”
“Yes. Joint ventures with domestic companies. Transfer technology.” Prevost spread his hands. “They want to assume control of the world’s economy. They want to take America’s place.”
Tejada stood. “And this is what I am trying to tell you, Philippe. That is the very reason you have to get them on board. Now. Before they move too far forward in their economic development and it becomes impossible for me to—” He stopped short, reached behind him, and retrieved his glass. “You know your next step.”
Prevost rested his hands in his lap and closed his eyes. “Beijing,” he groaned.
“Yes.”
“They will want to know how the plan will affect their holdings of US debt.”
“Tell them it won’t at first.”
“Still, they’ll question it. You have no idea how these people can—”
“All right.” Tejada could bear no more of the whining. “Tell them that Catalonia Financial will guarantee their losses.”
Prevost’s eyes popped open. “You have the board’s approval for this?”
“I don’t need it,” Tejada replied.
Prevost sat up straight. “That’s a lot to guarantee. Are you sure you can handle a pledge like that? The Chinese will expect you to be good for it.”
“And you don’t think I can be?” Tejada went to the wet bar and refilled his glass. “Do I need to remind you that Catalonia owns or controls a significant portion of the world’s mineral assets?”
“No, you don’t.”
“Or that we have gold and diamond mines in South Africa and Indonesia and Australia? That our oil and gas reserves are the most extensive of any entity on the planet?”
“You do not need to remind me.”
Tejada turned to him, refreshed drink in hand, and spoke softly. “Then why are you questioning me? We can cover any loss the Chinese might incur. All right, Philippe?”
“They hold one-point-two-trillion dollars in US debt.”
“We will not have to pay the full amount. Even if there is a major correction in the market, US debt will not become worthless.” He gave Prevost a nod. “Just worth less. You see?”
Finally Prevost seemed to. His eyes took on the intelligent gleam that had gotten him his position. “Catalonia will only have to cover the loss, the difference in value, not the face amount.”
“Precisely.”
“They will be intrigued by this. But they will not act on it until something forces their hand, and in the meantime they will bleed Catalonia for as much as they can get.”
“I have something in mind that will motivate them.”
“And that is?”
Tejada closed his eyes. “We each have our part of the plan to carry out, do we not? There is a reason why the left hand does not know what the right hand is doing.”
He didn’t add that only he had control over both hands. He had promised Abaddon he would not reveal that.
“Simply present the plan to Beijing,” he said. “And get them to agree. I will take care of motivating them to act quickly.” He pressed his hand on Prevost’s shoulder. “Nos comprometemos nuestras vidas y nuestras fortunas con el maestro.”
Maria pushed her chair back from the desk and looked across the office at Elena, who sat at the table collating the report for that afternoon’s meeting. “Would you take a look at this? I don’t think I’m reading it right.”
“That would be a first,” Elena said.
“I’m serious. Something’s weird here. Grab a chair.”
Elena joined her at the desk. “What’s up?”
“I’m reading over these notes I typed up for Snowden. Now that I’m looking at it, this doesn’t make sense.”
“Snowden actually took notes?” Elena pretended shock. “Wait—did I say that?”
“You did. I’m a bad influence on you. Read this sentence out loud, starting after, ‘The matter can be concluded without reservations.’”
“Let me get the context first.”
Maria watched Elena’s eyes scan the paragraph she’d just written. We are satisfied with the progress of the acquisition thus far. The matter can be concluded without reservations . . .
“You want me to read the rest out loud?”
“Yes. I need to hear it.”
“‘The matter can be concluded without reservations and expectations can be met. An agreement will be in the hands of Catalonia Financial by the anticipated date, at the price agreed upon, as long as the projected reserves hold up. Tejada will make certain that they do.’”
Maria watched Elena’s eyes. As they scanned the paragraph again, her face blotched—the now-familiar signal that she was anxious.
“You see it, too,” Maria said.
“What are you seeing?”
“That either Snowden wrote this after a two-Madeira lunch or something . . . not quite right is going on.”
“You’re talking about this.” Elena pointed to the sentence Tejada will make certain that they do.
“Yeah. How does he have any control over the projected reserves? They’re projected. As in, not there yet.”
“It has to be a mistake,” Elena said. “Señor Tejada has an impeccable reputation. I can’t imagine he’d try to deceive a colleague . . . make him think there is real money on the books when it does not exist.”
“So you think this was a mistake on Snowden’s part?”
Elena shrugged, something Maria had never seen her do. “What’s this?” Maria said, imitating her.
“I can’t really say, Maria. You know Mr. Snowden better than I do.”
“I don’t know him that well. He plays it pretty close to the vest.” She looked at Elena and waited for her to meet her gaze. “It’s only a mistake if he didn’t mean to put it in here. Right?”
“There’s one other possibility. What if you read his original notes wrong?”
Maria shook her head. “I’ve been doing almost nothing but reading the man’s hen-scratchings for the last nine months.”
“It’s worth looking again. Where’s the original?”
“You have it. I gave it to you to file.”
“Perfect. I’ll go pull it. The files are in the other office.”
“Thanks,” Maria said. “And Elena?”
“Yeah.”
“This thing is just between us for now.”
“What thing?” Elena said. “Relax. We’ll get it figured it out.”
Maria hoped so. Because time could be running out on this deal. And on her job.
Abaddon was in a black mood when Tejada arrived in El Masnou two days after his meeting with Prevost. He’d seen his lord in that state before, though few others had. Abaddon made it a point not to speak with anyone when the darkness descended within. At least, not with anyone other than Tejada.
This was one circumstance in which Tejada was not grateful for his closeness to the man. He would prefer to avoid the unpredictable state of mind that turned the very air to lead. Tejada could hardly breathe when he entered Abaddon’s private chamber and squinted his way to the chair by the window where Lord Abaddon sat. The candle on the small wooden table was the only light except for the weak sunlight that showed through the cracks around the window frame.
“You have made me wait,” the Master said, his voice gravelly and hoarse.
Tejada didn’t say he’d come as soon as he’d been summoned. Abaddon brooked no defense even in the best of moods. Instead, he kissed Abaddon’s hand and lowered himself obediently onto a cushion near the chair. He didn’t have to see Abaddon’s face to know he was scowling.
“You have reached an impasse with one of our players.”
“As I explained,” Tejada replied, “it is only a temporary issue. Prevost is in Beijing as we speak.”
“I suppose it will not be a waste of time to continue
as you are. The heart of a man is at times unpredictable.”
“You’re not referring only to the Chinese.”
“I am referring to the Americans and their lunatic debates.”
“I have placed Snowden on that,” Tejada said. “I have no reason to believe he will fail.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“He does have his limitations, but—”
“He has brought you a temptation.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A woman.”
A woman? Tejada was glad the old man couldn’t see his face clearly. He didn’t like to be completely defenseless in his presence, but what was he talking about?
“Why does Snowden bring an associate to close the deal with the Belgians?”
“It is a large transaction.”
Abaddon swept that away with a stiff hand. “Snowden could handle it himself with a few clerks. Is she beautiful, Emilio?”
“She has her good qualities.”
“Full of feminine wiles?”
“Hardly. Quite the opposite.”
“Smart.”
“She is that, yes.”
“Then watch yourself, Emilio.”
Tejada nodded.
“We are close to our goal. You must maintain focus!”
“You have my word, Lord Abaddon,” Tejada said quickly.
“See that I do! Do not fail me! You cannot fail us!”
Even in the dark, Tejada saw the angry flash in his eyes. And not anger only. Something else. Something far more sinister. Something Tejada would do all in his power to avoid.
Julia Archer pushed her glasses farther down her nose and looked at Winters over the top of the black frames. “Please tell me you did not just say you’re going to Barcelona.”
“Is that a problem?” he asked.
“Not a problem, John. A number of problems, starting with the fact that you’ll miss . . . how many meetings with me?”
“I don’t know how many. I bought a one-way ticket. I have no idea how long this is going to take.”
Archer dropped her pen onto the pad that rested in her lap and took off her glasses. He’d known she wasn’t going to applaud the decision, but he didn’t expect her to be this unsettled by it.