Pipeline

  Luis Matta was a politician in the best sense. He understood that heated disagreements were part and parcel of hot issues. He enjoyed the intellectual challenge of serious debate. But what he would not—could not—ever forgive was what had happened in this very room nearly eighteen months earlier during the hearings to authorize Humboldt’s first phase.

  During those first hearings, he had personally done everything possible to ensure that the project would meet or exceed every known international standard to mitigate negative environmental consequences. Matta’s committee had legislated compensation for villagers along the pipeline’s path. A special group of agronomists had been impaneled to provide advice on reseeding the delicate Andean soils to alleviate construction-related erosion. Matta had personally negotiated the creation of a social fund to help the Andean peasants in the communities along the pipeline route.

  Last and perhaps most important, Matta had aroused howls of disapproval from the project’s bidders when he had ruled that the Amazon would have to be treated like an offshore-drilling platform. To avoid the massive movement of job seekers and squatters into the precious rain forest, Matta had inserted language into the law that prohibited the construction of any roads to the extraction facility.

  If the companies wanted Peru’s gas, they would have to helicopter all their materials, equipment, and manpower to the site.

  Matta recalled the huge sense of pride he had felt when he had entered into the hearing room a year and a half ago. Newspapers in Peru had heralded the tough negotiating skills of the young chairman. He had done the impossible. His committee had been on the cusp of approving a project that would assure Peru decades of energy independence, yet it would do so with world-class environmental and social guarantees for its citizens. Three days earlier, an editorial in the Miami Herald had called Peru’s imminent approval of the Humboldt project “a case study in how to do things right.”

  Matta had taken his time walking to the dais on that day. Basking in accolades as he strolled down his committee room’s right-hand aisle, the chairman had shaken hands with journalists, exchanged knowing words with economists from the World Bank, and embraced ambassadors who had just cabled their home governments about the Peruvian Congress’s impressive work.

  Yet Luis Matta’s day in the sun had never materialized.

  As the chairman moved slowly down the crowded aisles, a very attractive, foreign-looking woman had been awaiting her turn to greet the successful politician. Her red hair had been pulled sharply backward into a ponytail that wound its way back over her left shoulder. She had worn tight blue jeans and high heels, a starched white shirt, and a necklace of blue lapis lazuli stones that played off the translucent gray of her eyes. She had smiled placidly as he came toward her.

  It had been impossible not to notice her.

  “Hello,” he had said in English; clearly she wasn’t local. “My name is Luis Matta.” He should have known instantaneously that something was amiss because she never took his outstretched hand.

  “Mr. Matta, I’m Blaise Ryan with the World Environmental Trust. I’m very happy that today you’ll get the results you so richly deserve for all your efforts on this project.”

  Matta had begun to mouth a grateful acknowledgment for her kind compliment when he saw her right hand—the one that had never taken his own hand in greeting—rise up. In her palm was a large plastic Tupperware container filled with an oozing brown substance.

  He had no time to stop it.

  The shit from her container had landed right on his face, the warm, wet cow feces dripping down onto his suit from his eyelashes and nose. Three other environmental activists had, without his knowledge, edged through the crowd and were now standing close by. They too emptied their own brown containers onto his head and shoulders.

  The commotion had been instantaneous. People had run to help him but had skidded to a dead halt a few feet away, unsure of how or where to touch the fecally impregnated committee chairman. The sound of snapping cameras had filled the room. Television crews had disconnected cameras from their tripods and scrambled over rows of seats to get a clear angle, sending chairs tumbling onto the floor. Producers were screaming into cellular phones, demanding immediate live airtime from their newsrooms. Police had poured into the elegant hall, shoving spectators aside, desperate to arrest the perpetrators and protect the senator.

  At the center of the mayhem, Matta had just stood there, stunned, entirely covered in putrid manure. The picture of the senator, utterly alone, with nobody daring to touch him, had been the lead on the evening news, the focus of the newspapers’ front pages, and the cover of every weekly magazine.

  As horrible as it had been, Matta’s committee had reconvened a few weeks later in a closed session to push through its approval of the Humboldt project. The press had quickly moved on to the next story. Normalcy had returned. Blaise Ryan’s attack had been a circus act, entirely devoid of permanence.

  But still, he remembered that moment as the darkest of his political life. And today, there she was again, right in front of him. Taunting him with her presence. The gray eyes looking right at him.

  He had known she would be there today. A few days prior to the hearings, a stern-looking captain from the Peruvian Judicial Police, the arm of the justice ministry charged with the protection of all federal elected officials, had appeared in Matta’s office. The captain had strongly urged him to bar Blaise Ryan from the coming proceedings.

  But Susana, ever the contrarian, had argued to ignore the police captain’s advice. “If you prohibit her entry, rest assured that this will be the press story. Coverage will be all about her. On the other hand, if you just ignore her, the press will file stories about your orderly and efficient hearings on Humboldt’s second phase, all with her sitting right there!”

  He tried to calm his feelings of ire and hatred. Revenge is a dish best eaten cold, he said to himself. I am up here to move the new Humboldt project. She is down there, in the audience, with nothing to do but watch.

  Luis Matta pulled twice on the cord attached to the small bell next to his chair, signaling the committee to session. As the committee room slowly hushed, he began to read his short opening statement. In Peru, by law and tradition, the chairman had to provide a short, concise explanation of the committee’s business.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are in session over the next few days to consider the expansion of the Humboldt gas project begun a year and a half ago. As you know, the government of Peru has agreed to allow gas exploration in certain restricted areas of its departments in the Amazon lowlands. Based on geological surveys, the ministry of mines five years ago divided these areas into numbered lots, each extending approximately three hundred thousand square kilometers in size, with the intent of leasing these numbered lots to private companies interested in partnering with Peru to exploit our large gas reserves.

  “This committee will now hold hearings to consider approval of a liquefied natural gas pipeline which will transport gas not consumed in Peru to a coastal terminal for the purpose of exporting the gas. The gas will travel one thousand three hundred and fifty-two kilometers from the extraction sites in lots eighty-six, eighty-two, and fifty-three. The committee will also consider at this time a further lease of lot seventy-nine.

  “This committee will now come to order.” Matta again rang the bell twice.

  That was it. Short and sweet. Unlike lots of other parliaments around the world, the Peruvian Congress adhered to strict legal formats. Big political speeches and hot rhetoric were reserved for plenary sessions on the floor of the Senate. Committees were expected to conduct business in an orderly fashion.

  The rest of the day went smoothly. The morning was reserved for the two government ministers. Both expounded in huge detail on the project’s benefits. The minister of the economy was the country’s most powerful political personality after the president and was one of Matta’s potential election rivals in a future presidential bid. Never one to lose an
opportunity to campaign, the minister spent over an hour enumerating the social investments that would suddenly become affordable thanks to the large pool of new cash generated by the dollars from gas exports.

  The testimony of the minister of mines went over two hours. He tediously reviewed the available geological data in each of the leased lots in order to clearly prove that Peru had the gas reserves necessary to support a project of such magnitude. Christ, thought Matta irritably, he could have shortened his presentation to less than a half hour. We all know the country is full of gas.

  In the afternoon, the committee heard from private consulting experts on the engineering of the pipeline itself. The details were many and excruciatingly boring. The consultants went into the minutiae of pipe thickness, welding requirements, slope angles. It was withering stuff.

  There were no questions from any of the committee members when the consultants finished their testimony. Thank God. At 4:30 P.M. Luis Matta closed the session.

  Luis Matta took a moment to pause and look straight at Blaise Ryan. He wanted to look into her eyes to see the inevitable flicker of regret upon realizing that Humboldt’s forward motion was unstoppable. A quick twinge of disappointment ran through his mind when he saw she was no longer in her seat.

  “We look forward to the coming days of discussion,” he continued. “The committee’s business is concluded for today.”

  Chairman Luis Matta’s eyes felt immediate relief as the television cameras were turned off. Six and a half hours under the pelting onslaught of the lights’ high-voltage illumination was exhausting. He rubbed his eyes slowly and turned around to talk to his staff, busily picking up papers and reorganizing their files.

  He looked for Susana. She would certainly have a couple of press interviews lined up.

  As he slowly got up from his chair, he heard a woman’s voice calling from the audience below.

  “Mr. Chairman.”

  He didn’t have to turn around. He knew. The voice spoke in English. Every instinct in his body told him to keep moving forward, but he was unable to help himself. His natural curiosity got the better of him. Matta slowly turned, his face wrinkled in a grimace. He half expected something to be flying his way.

  He was pleased to find Blaise Ryan looking at him, both arms restrained by officers of the Peruvian Judicial Police. They were not about to let something happen a second time. He looked down placidly, content in the knowledge that he was safe from flying objects and even happier to see her manhandled in a police half nelson.

  “Mr. Chairman, please. I must talk to you.” The fact that she was held by two burly police officers didn’t reduce this woman’s jolting attractiveness one bit. She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense. But the stunning eyes set deep in high cheekbones, the red hair in a ponytail, the full, rounded lips combined together in an irresistible package.

  Luis Matta, however, was able to resist very nicely.

  Without answering, Matta turned around and started heading out the senators’ entrance.

  “I have information, sir.”

  Matta kept walking.

  “Mr. Chairman, I need to tell you something personal. In confidence,” the voice pleaded.

  Matta stopped and turned back toward her. This was too good. She was going to apologize for her misdeeds. He immediately wondered which news outlet would carry the best coverage of Blaise Ryan’s public apology.

  “You have fifteen seconds, Ms. Ryan.”

  “It’s private, sir.”

  “Now you have ten seconds.” Matta counted. He noticed that, from out of nowhere, Susana was suddenly next to him. Looking at his press secretary, he smiled and patted her on the back. Clearly, Susana had thought that the exchange between her boss and Blaise Ryan was enticing enough to drop her busy spinning of the attendant journalists.

  “Clearly, we don’t agree on much,” started Blaise Ryan. “I don’t trust you and you certainly don’t trust me. I understand that. Yet sometimes even people who consider each other a menace are forced into a common cause against an even worse danger. This may be our case. I must talk to you—in person, privately.”

  This miserable shit of a woman was now demanding a meeting with him. Did she not remember what she had done? How dare she talk to him without even a hint of an apology? Luis Matta considered himself a modern, rational man. But this went over the line. Courtesies—particularly from people who have given offense—were one of life’s requirements.

  He walked away. Fast. Fuming.

  Susana caught up to him, her lungs gasping for air.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What are you going to answer?”

  “Nothing.”

  They were through the senators’ entrance and heading toward the building’s main hallway. He kept moving, his strides getting longer and her steps now moving in a little jog to keep up. Once he was out in the public hall, there would be hordes of journalists clamoring for an interview. Their conversation would be over. She moved in front of him to block his exit.

  “It’s a mistake. You should see her.”

  Luis Matta stopped dead in his tracks and his eyes bored straight into Susana Castillo’s dark pupils.

  “Let’s get this clear. I’m the elected official. You work for me. You and I have a very good relationship, but you need to know when to stop. There are lines you should not cross. Start learning where these lines are because you have just crossed one.”

  Susana Castillo sucked in air. He had never spoken to her in that tone, at that volume. Blaise Ryan was a subject that was not open to advice. She should drop it. She couldn’t win every battle.

  But, then again, that was not what she was paid to do. Her job was to be the last person standing to tell him the truth. Every politician needed at least one such person. Some political leaders allowed their spouses to fill the role—but Alicia had no interest in politics. So the occupation fell to Matta’s press secretary.

  “Then fire me, sir.” Susana’s usually informal language had suddenly reverted to high formality. The words, however, had punches that landed with weight.

  “But until you do that, it’s my responsibility to give you another point of view. You need that, Senator. Everyone talks about you as a presidential candidate; the press clucks around you as the country’s new political blood. As the adulation increases, you will need me. More than you can imagine. And if it’s not me, you need somebody like me to keep your feet firmly on the earth, to remind you that you are not infallible, to ground you.”

  She stared at him, her dark eyes flashing. Once Susana Castillo engaged, there was no backing her down.

  “So, Senator Matta, you do not have to take my recommendations. Nor do you have to act on every bit of advice I give you. But you do have to listen. You have to consider my counsel. That’s the unwritten contract between political leader and senior advisor. When you have decided that you no longer want to hear me out, just let me know. That will be the moment I’ll leave to take care of my sick mother.”

  She saw his shoulders relax a bit. His eyes moved back down from their upward stare to meet hers. It was clear that his remarks had hit home. But unlike most people in her position, she understood that she no longer needed to press the point. She didn’t need a reaffirmation of her importance in his political pecking order. She had made her point. Now she was ready to go back to the substance of their disagreement.

  “Luis, there is no reason for this woman to seek you out privately. You are enemies. Antagonists. She has every reason to keep that hatred alive and public—it’s good publicity for her and her cause. Yet she wants to tell you something in private.

  “You should listen. If you don’t want to be alone with her, I will set it up and will accompany you.”

  Luis Matta’s eyes narrowed. Seconds ticked by. In six years, she had seen this only once before. Utter silence enveloped them as his mind broke a big decision up into small, digestible pieces.

&
nbsp; Suddenly Matta’s eyes came back to life. He pointed to the door and the hallway beyond.

  “I don’t want to do ten separate interviews with the hordes on the other side of this door. Get them together and organized for one single press conference. Tell the print journalists that you want to give the cameras a couple of minutes to set up so there is no pushing and shoving. I’ll get my thoughts in order and come out in a moment.”

  Susana nodded. She turned around and reached for the knob to the hallway door. The masses of press would be just beyond.

  “And…”

  Matta paused for a second, just to torture her.

  “Set up a time to see Blaise Ryan this afternoon in my office.”

  LIMA

  SEPTEMBER 1, 6:30 P.M.

  SENATOR MATTA’S OFFICE

  Two hours later, Susana knocked quietly on Luis Matta’s door and walked into his office with tentative steps. Even the ever-tough Susana Castillo was worried about this meeting.

  She was surprised that the senator was nowhere to be seen until she noticed the closed door to his private bathroom. She walked over to the door.

  “Luis, she is here.” Susana felt silly talking in a whisper to a dark brown wooden door.

  Susana Castillo heard the running of the bathroom faucet and concluded he had not heard her over the din of the water. She called out again.

  “Luis, Blaise Ryan is—”

  “I heard you the first time,” snapped the angry voice from inside.

  Thirty seconds later, Luis Matta exited the bathroom. The senator always took off his suit jacket and loosened his tie when he was not in official meetings. But as he walked into his office, Susana immediately noticed that Matta had on his dark suit. His tie was knotted tight under the collar of his white shirt.

  He intended this meeting to be ice cold.