by Arthur Rawl
“I’m not a hotel guest.”
Fredrico pulled a business card from his wallet, “I will put a note on the back with a password. If anyone asks just show it to them. When we are done with lunch I will take you to the business center and show you how to get online.”
“That’s very kind of you. I’ll try not to impose too often.”
“It is nothing … you are always welcome.”
It wasn’t “nothing” to me. An important piece of needed security net fell into place. A piece that would greatly mitigate risk and raised the probability of the success I was designing. “Thank you both, our meeting was certainly a helpful coincidence. I’ll will sleep better knowing I have an alternative. That is if I don’t eat too much.”
I did sleep better that night. There were things I had planned with Gunter and other things that needed to be resolved and now I had the way to get them done. In the morning I was focused on the next three weeks and what needed to be accomplished. It was time to sort out the finer details and put them in motion. Sam would be biding his time waiting for just the right moment to throw me under the bus. Unfortunately for him, there was going to be a new bus and it had a new target.
A little after six I got back to the office and found Robin unloading papers she had just brought back from BrasTel. “I didn’t expect you to spend all day. You didn’t even call. I missed my Monday morning coffee without you to remind me. Oh yes, how was your weekend? Did José Carlos take you to Liberdade market on Saturday?”
“You’re in a strange mood. Yes, he did, but what about your weekend … it’s obvious something’s up.”
“Nothing’s up, I had the first really peaceful weekend since I got here. I even brought you some candy from the Sunday street market near my apartment.”
“Sure, just what I need.”
“The old woman selling them said they were mixed tropical flavors and I thought you’d like them. You always kept a bowl of this kind of stuff on your desk.”
“If I find something really good, I’ll put them away for myself. Now what happened?”
“That’s not nice. Could you call Juan Batista at BrasTel.”
“Not right now. We’ve got some talking to do.”
“What do you want me to tell you? I slept late on Saturday and went for a walk in the afternoon. I tried the pizzeria across the street for dinner, not bad. Sunday I met José Carlos and his brother for breakfast. The brother is some big tech wiz college professor and José wanted to show him off. He was a surprise and really down to earth. It was a pleasant change.”
“José Carlos told me he was going to see you on Sunday. I thought it was work related?’
“In a way, it was. Enrico, the brother, is a specialist in computers. I was interested if he knew of someplace secure in São Paulo, preferably close by, where we could scan this pile of paper BrasTel keeps sending us for keywords like we did at that German security firm two years ago on the auto parts deal.”
“… and?”
“Nothing, not even a maybe. He said the scanning and auto-reading capabilities here are still slow and very limited at least those in private hands. If the documents were already in electronic form, there may have been a chance but with just tons of words on paper it’s out of the question. I guess we’ll have to keep wearing out our eyesight the old fashion way.”
“Shit, it would have been nice. I’m getting too old for wading through this crap hour after hour.” Hoping I had gotten her off of the scent, “Could you call Batista for me please?”
“Now, he’s probably gone home by now. They’re all a bunch of clock watchers. At quarter of five I was firmly reminded their driver was waiting to take me back to the office.
“Yes, now, let me get settled. Wait a few minutes.”
Outside the traffic on Av. Paulista seemed to lack its usual rush hour chaos and the packed sidewalks somehow seemed able to accommodate the endless flow of people. Even the sky was clear still reflecting after effects of the greatly reduced pollution sent skyward on weekends. Yes, the way forward was becoming clear as was the outcome I now planned. It was time to push the start button.
“I have Batista.”
“Hello Juan, did you have a peaceful weekend?”
“Very peaceful, my family and I were in the country. Did your weekend pass peacefully as well?”
“I stayed close to home … read a little and ate a little too much. I really think it’s hard to find bad food in São Paulo. The city is like Paris when it comes to food. It’s all good or better.”
“If you stay in the Jardims or the 15th in Paris I would agree. There are many places in both cities we both would not enjoy.”
“You’re right of course. I really haven’t seen much of the city but what I have seen has been quite pleasant. I called to see if you were free for lunch tomorrow.”
“I had tentatively set something up but it can wait. Do you have a time and place in mind?”
“Noon is always good. Can you suggest someplace small but not too quiet.”
“I know you like Café Antique down the hill from your flat. The family has a small French restaurant on Al. Tiete half a block closer to your apartment. I know them well and they always have a discrete table for me.”
‘That’s the next street down the hill from me but I’ve never been on it.”
“Remember my friend, we are neighbors and naturally I know the neighborhood well. The traffic is one way from Rua Augusta so your driver should come down Augusta. The restaurant is on the right in the middle of the block … Le Vin Bistro. I am sure you will find it.”
“I’ll see you at noon.”
“Tchau.”
Just before noon on Tuesday we turned off Rua Augusta onto Al. Tiete. Both sides were parked solid with small cars and delivery trucks making the roadway just wide enough for one lane of traffic. Batista’s armored black Mercedes wasn’t parked on either side of the short block nor was there any signage marking the restaurant. Ahead on the right at mid-block umbrellas protected a few sidewalk tables from the midday sun and almost blocked the sidewalk in front of a simple wood and glass façade typical of old fashion bakeries you could find in London or Paris announced the restaurant. The rest of the street somehow matched the restaurant, understated and just a bit dowdy. It was a look typical of the blocks sheltering the better parts of the neighborhood from heavily commercial and traffic filled Rua Augusta.
José Carlos stopped and an older man sporting a white waiter’s apron crossed the sidewalk to open the door. “Bom dia Senhor.”
Stepping out I carefully measured the people approaching on the sidewalk and seated at one of the tables and looked in the direction we had come from for the Renault that was always close by, “Sr. Batista favor.”
Inside of the bistro it was pure Left Bank, dark wood and yellowish walls covered with framed posters advertising Pérnod, the Opera and other Parisian trademarks. Its low ceiling beamed as if it were an old Normandy farmhouse very much in the style of many Paris bistros I had visited over the years. It even smelled right … a heavy mix of yesterday’s red wine mixed with a little mustiness and old cigarette smoke.
The waiter continued toward the back, “Senhor … favor.”
Batista was reading the Gazeta Mercantil, Brazil’s Wall Street Journal, in a booth filling the alcove under stairs leading up to what I assumed was a balcony.
“Hello Juan.”
“Ah Carl, you had no trouble finding us?”
“None at all. I must have walked by this street dozens of times and never looked past Margherita Pizza on the corner.”
“The pizzeria is very popular. I will never understand the Paulistas’ addiction to pizza. Every Sunday they make it a family outing. How is your work coming?”
“Quite well but perhaps a little too fast for Watson.”
“Good … Perhaps your progress will make him a little off balance.”
“I doubt it but perhaps there is something we can do to cloud his focu
s a bit.”
“Forgive me Carl, why don’t we order. Then we can talk without bother. I like the cassoulet. They bring the white beans and sausage from France so it is very authentic.”
“Let’s make it two and a burgundy. You choose. I think a claret would be an offense against a solid workman’s lunch like cassoulet.”
“They always serve me a house burgundy whenever I order the cassoulet. I never took the time to think about why it was so.”
After ten minutes of drifting conversation I concluded my first impression of Batista was wrong. I had thought him one of those prancing Spaniards whose view of the world was shaped by Spain’s borders. In the past I had worked with too many of them and their presence in the end was usually a deal killer. Batista’s mind flowed freely from one part of the world to another displaying an in depth understanding of the regions politics and economics. He also understood the personality of a country and its people.
No, it wasn’t like talking to a text book or some whiskered, tottering college professor. No, at times it felt as if I was talking with myself.
Between the politics and economics, we discussed our deal and Watson. Batista listened more than talked during those moments adding little and committing to less. Lost in the first really enjoyable conversation since coming to Brazil I had lost track of time until Batista looked at his watch, announced it was two-thirty and said he had to pick his daughter up at school. He also said he would look into the matter we discussed and would let me know how the shareholders reacted.
“Thank you, Juan. I enjoyed the restaurant and I look forward to continuing our conversation.”
“It was most certainly my pleasure. Brazilians have not been in touch with things beyond their own borders and problems for many years and here in São Paulo Paulistas only talk of local business and local problems. It is one of the reasons I enjoy my trips back to Spain. I felt at home over lunch. Thank you.”
We walked out together. As we cleared the front door the tall heavy set man I had seen when we picked up Juan the other night stepped out from behind a small extension of the restaurants sidewall. Seconds later two dark sedans pulled up to the sidewalk.
Juan turned to me, “Please remember to be careful. Brazil is a poor country with a small core of rich people … my staff will do what they can but be careful.”
He stepped into the waiting car and the two sped off down the street. I stood waiting for José Carlos and looking around trying to find the men Batista left behind to look after me. When my white VW pulled up to the curb I heard a light blue Renault parked across the street start its engine. At the same moment, another large man stepped out from behind the sidewall and crossed the street. I wasn’t alone and, unfortunately, I wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad.
Chapter 13
Thursday came quickly and Robin was again busy collecting data for the weekly report to Sam. It would be interesting if for some reason, she didn’t get it together on time and once more there was no crisis-like reaction to it being late. I’m not a believer in belts and suspenders however a little added confirmation of Sam’s plans would go a long way in defining the time I had for preparation.
“Carl … did you send Skip off on some damned secret errand again?”
“No, I assume he’s at either BrasTel or at Rossi’s office. Why …?”
“I tried both. BrasTel said he left at noon yesterday and didn’t come back. Rossi’s office says they haven’t seen him since Monday afternoon.”
“You know our boy Skip … he must have found another girl. Did you try the sat phone?”
“Yeah, I tried both his cell phone and the satellite phone but nothing. I left messages. He knows I need his stuff for the report to keep daddy happy.”
“Don’t worry he’ll probably call later in the day when he comes up for air.”
“I’m glad I’m not signing his paycheck.”
“I feel like the buffet at the Maksoud for lunch. You want to come with me?”
“Are you buying?”
“… alright, I’ll buy.”
“Great, then I’ll be happy to go with you. Their buffet has one problem for me. It’s got too much of everything that’s good and therefore damned fattening.”
“I had coffee there with José Carlos’ brother Monday. The hotel is his client and when we met on Sunday he said he was going to be in the hotel and we agreed to meet just in case he had news on a scanning solution. When we finished coffee, he was going down to the health club. You ever tried it or have you limited yourself to the lap pool?”
“Don’t start. For your information, the steam room is huge and they put menthol or something like it in the steam. It really works. After twenty-five laps, steam and a massage it makes me feel human again.”
“Why I thought you were human all the time.”
Ignoring me, “Skip better call me soon.”
“Do I detect a subject change?”
We went to the Maksoud at one and at about two I excused myself to make a phone call I had forgotten about. When I returned, a long email was on its way to Gunter explaining how I saw the next several weeks unfolding and what I wanted him to do. I also cautioned him about being very careful when he sent emails to me because they would go through an insecure system.”
“What took so long?”
“I had to call my mother.”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh, that’s why it took so long. All kidding aside, it took forever to get a call charged to my credit card. I guess it’s a concept a little too advanced for our friends at BrasTel. I paid our bill so if you’re done let’s go”
Robin grumbled the rest of the afternoon about not being able to finish the weekly report. It wasn’t the first-time Skip had forgotten about everything except the girl who momentarily held his attention.
“Send me what you’ve got and I’ll look at it tonight. When Skip appears tomorrow we’ll just plug in anything new he’s got and shoot it north by noon.”
“… that’s if he shows up at a reasonable hour.”
“Remember, both the US and Brazil adopted daylight savings time two weeks ago. With the equator in the middle the hours went in the opposite direction. There’s now a three-hour difference with New York behind São Paulo. That means there’s a little extra time for us to play with.”
“I’m sure he’ll waste it.”
“Think positive. Tell José Carlos I want to leave at six. I won’t need him over the weekend. If you want to go anywhere he’ll be free from this evening.”
“Thanks, I would like to go take a look at the ocean. The Frommer’s guidebook said Santos is really worth seeing. Not the seaport. The residential side of the town is supposed to be like the French Mediterranean coast the same way as Rio but a lot safer. There are lots of little restaurants and cafes.”
“… and shops?”
“Naturally, it should take us forty minutes or so each way.”
“Don’t forget, its 2,000 feet down a stretch of narrow winding road to the coast. Dress cool, someone told me Santos is a sweat box.”
“Thanks dad.”
“There’s a restaurant on Al. Tiete named Le Vin Bistro. I think they speak English and I’m sure they speak French if you still remember how. See if you can get me a sidewalk table at eight-thirty.”
“Don’t worry about my French. Are you going to be alone?”
“Yes … if there is any problem, tell them I’m the friend of Juan Batista who had lunch with him there on Monday.”
Minutes later, “You’re all set for tonight. They were booked up but Batista’s name was magic. Is it someplace special?”
“No, it’s just a small French restaurant about half a block from my flat. The prices seemed pretty good but not really cheap. The food was first rate.”
“It must be a neighborhood hot spot.”
“I’ll let you know in the morning. Is José Carlos ok with Santos?”
“He certainly was. We’re going on Saturd
ay. He said there are a lot of craft shops.”
“You can fill me in on Monday. Be sure to leave word for Skip in all the usual places before you go home tonight. We need his comments. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Cigar cutter and lighter in my pocket and a two-finger cigar case in hand I headed for the elevator at eight fifteen. The garden was filled with hushed voices as I crossed to the gate. Maybe it was paranoia but I was sure my neighbors knew about the attempted mugging and its aftermath. Discretion kept them from approaching me but it didn’t silence Brazil’s beloved gossip.
The gate guard and I exchanged good evenings followed by his instruction to be careful. I had learned my lesson and more importantly, I took comfort in knowing I wasn’t alone. Somewhere nearby in the dark were my two minders whose future employment was probably tied to my continued well-being.
“Good evening Sr. Carl, your table is waiting.”
It was the same waiter who was on at Monday lunch, “Thank you”.
We started toward a table that was secluded in the dimly lit far corner of the restaurant’s sidewalk. My pulse quickened when I saw the broad bare shoulders and billows of lustrous black curls … Alana.
Bending over to kiss her, “… how did you know?”
“A small bird told me.”
The waiter brought menus, “Is the table alright Sr. Carl?”
“It’s perfect, really perfect.”
“May I serve you wine?”
“Bring us a bottle of champagne please.”
When alone, “I know about your little birds and it’s because of them I worry about you”.
“You shouldn’t Querido. They are good men no matter what stories you have heard. They have done much for Brasil and Brasileiros.”
“I know but their ways have been very hard.” Moving to a less confrontational topic, “It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen you. You look wonderful so I can assume all is well.”
“Yes, all is well except for not seeing you for so long.”
The waiter set down an ice bucket and stand, “Moet Brut Senhor.”