*
“It’s better to avoid the days when the cruise ships come,” Alfonso remarked as they manoeuvred their way around a straggling group of silver haired tourists.
“They provide our daily bread,” he told Barton with wry smile, “the more the better.”
They arrived at Calle de la Factoría, close to Plaza Santo Domingo, lined with colourful two and three level houses.
“These are very interesting because of their spacious courtyards,” Alfonso explained.
They stopped before a ruined façade, its stucco cracked and falling, the wooden framework of once colourful doors and balconies bleached almost white by the sun.
“This is the place, the owner should be here,” the Colombian said peering through the shutters.
Some minutes later a powerfully built man wearing blue jeans and a white guayabara arrived.
“Señors, desculpeme, I am late.” Then looking at Barton he added with an apologetic smile, “This is Colombia.”
“No problem.”
“So Alfonso, this is Señor Barton, Inglés I believe?”
“Si,” Barton replied.
“This property belonged to an old cartagenera family, they now live in Barranquilla,” he explained wrestling with a padlock and chain on the double entrance doors. “It would nice for a boutique hotel, un calle muy tranquilo.”
It was a ruin inside, nothing much was left except for the walls and timber beams.
“Cuidado, lo siento,” he said shrugging and pointing to the rubble strewn floor. “It needs work.”
It was an understatement, but Barton, who was hoping to make a better deal, was not deterred.
“What’s the asking price?”
“This colonial house is very beautiful with large spaces, arcades and inner patios perfect for a boutique hotel.”
He paused weighing up the two visitors.
“The total area is nine hundred square metres.”
They waited.
“The owner is asking three and a half million dollars.”
Barton not able to hide his surprise gasped, remembering the price he had paid for the luxurious Emerald Pool villa on the Island of Dominica. That was in 2008, when the crisis hit. Seven years on, the Americas were booming, the gringos were back, the embers of the war with the Farc were all that remained and Cartagena was a new tourist Eldorado.
DUBLIN
It was a wet and windy Sunday morning when Francis drove down from Dublin to meet Fitzwilliams at the banker’s aristocratic home.
The previous day the news that Russia’s vociferous opposition leader had been shot dead in a Moscow street had come as a shock, sending Fitzwilliams, who feared for his own safety, into a spin.
As to Francis, his worst fears were realized when Sir John Sawers, former head of MI6, commenting on BBC television, warned that Russia had become a danger to Britain and the country should be prepared to take steps to defend itself and its allies.
“I don’t think you’re in any physical danger Michael, if that’s what you’re worried about, this has nothing to do with the bank’s problems.”
“That’s nice to know,” Fitzwilliams retorted sarcastically. “What I’m worried about is how they settle their problems!”
“Seriously. Look at it this way Michael, I know it may seem strange to you, but perhaps it was a good thing that City & Colonial took the hot potato. After all it leaves you holding the most valuable assets and Hainsworth holding the problems.”
Fitzwilliams nodded slowly.
“Why not get the team together to talk about it?”
There was a moment of silence as the banker reflected.
“You know, Pat, Tom Barton ...”
“A council of war …” Fitzwilliams said speaking to himself and slowly warming to the idea.
“Yes.”
“A good idea John - what about Sergei?”
“Better wait.”
“Let’s do it.”
“Good.”
“What can we do about Moscow?”
“Look, Putin’s particularly dangerous and unpredictable in the present situation, so let’s forget about what’s going on in Moscow. Putin certainly feels encircled, endangered and the Ukrainian confrontation was certainly a reaction, his way of telling the West to back-off.”
“Is it our fault, I mean the West?”
“Yes, indirectly, in a certain manner of speaking if you like, because we encourage democracy, an open society and our system of capitalism. All of which is in conflict with Russia’s history and political tradition.”
“But don’t you think the Ukraine is a symptom. I mean it’s not the real problem.”
“Precisely. The real problem is how to live with the Kremlin, which feels very vulnerable. To my mind Putin’s actions are those of a leader who believes his own situation is at stake.”
According to the man from MI6, Russia posed a state to state problem and he counselled the government to take firm action in the form of increased defence spending and dialogue. The latter seemed more like wishful thinking to Fitzwilliams who had experienced Russian intransigence, a stone wall, in his dealings with it’s financial authorities and certain of his bank’s clients.
The banker remembered the warning of Kalevi Kyyrönen, a good friend of John Francis. The Finn had told him in the bluntest of terms that the Russian leader was dangerous. Putin was an ex-KGB man and that in itself said everything.
Fitzwilliams was belatedly discovering the West, its leaders, both political and business, simply had no idea of the mindset of such men. First they were Russians, hard and uncompromising. Secondly was their training: they were selected from adolescence for the KGB school, where the words democracy and free thinking were non-existent. They entered a system that transformed them into the most insensitive of operatives, formed within the concepts of single minded totalitarianism, ready to use all conceivable means in pursuit of the objectives set out by their superiors.
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