by Jim Plautz
AP World News Report – “A car bomb exploded in the Madrid business district Wednesday morning shattering office building windows and injuring 43 people. A witness told CNN that the explosion shook his car as he drove 100 yards away from the blast site. The injured suffered bruises and cuts from flying glass as well as damaged eardrums. Minutes before the blast the Basque newspaper Gara received a warning call from the Basque separatist group ETA warning police to evacuate the nearby convention center where King Juan Carlos is scheduled to speak later today. A spokesman for the King told CNN that the ceremony would still be held.
The explosion came hours after police arrested 14 suspected members of the ETA and a week after Spain’s Parliament rejected a plan giving the Basque region virtual independence. The plan proposed by the Basque regional parliament calls for Spain to accept ‘shared sovereignty’ over the three-province Basque region in Northern Spain in exchange for cessation of ETA violence. The Basque made a similar proposal to France in respect to the three ‘departments’ located just across the Pyrenees Mountains that are also considered part of Basque country. France has not responded.
This was the worst terrorist act in Spain’s capital since the March train bombings, which killed 191 people and led to the latest crackdown on the ETA. Militants claimed to be acting on behalf of Al-Qaeda. Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero denounced the bombings. “ETA and those that support it have no place in political or civil life. Bombs lead only to jail. We will not negotiate with terrorists.”
This was yet another blow to the Basque who trace their heritage and language back thousands of years and have been fighting for their own homeland for centuries.
“Hey Dad, look at this.”
“Just a minute, son, I’m on a business call. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Fifteen minutes later I finished my call and went into the living room. The television was still on but Petie was nowhere in sight. Surprisingly, the TV was tuned to the French Open and was showing re-runs of yesterday’s men’s quarterfinal matches. Petie wasn’t into tennis.
I found him in his bedroom playing video games. “What was it you wanted, Petie? I was on the phone and couldn’t get away; sorry.” I felt bad about not being there for Petie when he wanted me. He was a good kid, but was entering that age when they relied less and less on their parents.
“It wasn’t anything, Dad. They were showing some re-runs of old French Open Champions and I was wondering if you ever saw this guy Borg play. He must have been pretty good.”
“He was the best of his time, son. In the late ‘70s and early ‘80s he was the man. What did he win, six French Opens?”
“Yeah, they were showing a match from 1981 when he beat Ivan Lendl in the finals. Gee, he was like a machine. He never missed.”
“That’s what Borg was known for, his consistency.”
“Is that why they called him the Ice Man?”
“That was part of it, Petie, but it was something more. Borg had this look in his eye that said, ‘I’m going to stay back at the baseline and wear you down. If you get 15 balls back, I’ll get 16, if you get 17, I’ll get 18. I’m willing to stay out here all day; are you?’ He was relentless.”
“Wow, that’s cool.”
“Did you see the rackets they used back then Petie? Wood frames with small heads. Racquet faces had about 66 square inches of hitting area. Now, a racquet face with 95 square inches is considered mid-size. Some oversized racquets have 120 square inches. Borg played before tennis became such a power game.”
Petie hesitated for a few seconds before responding. I could see his mind working overtime struggling with what he wanted to say. When he finally decided, his decision surprised me. “Let’s go to the club and hit a few balls, Dad. Okay?”
“Sure, get the rackets while I change.” I had planned on going into the office, but made a snap decision. It was a good one.
Looking back years later, I remembered this moment as a turning point in Petie’s life, and for the lives of those of us around him. It was the day that my son became a tennis player.
4,300 miles away, two 13-year olds were robbing a small drugstore in Vitoria-Gasteiz, the capital of Spain’s Basque Country. The boys escaped with 30 Euros, less than $40 American dollars. More importantly, they found a variety of barbiturates and opium-based prescription drugs worth more than a thousand dollars on the street. Drug trafficking was a major source of revenue to the local Basque cell group. Agbu’s older brother Anton was their leader.
“That’s the last time for me, Agbu, tomorrow I leave for the tennis school in Madrid.”
“I envy you, Carlos. I wish I could play tennis like you. That’s your ticket out of this slum. Don’t blow it.”
“What will you do, Agbu?”
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll get by. Soon I will join my brothers and do what my family has done for generations. The ETA needs young people now more than ever.”
“Be careful my friend; it’s dangerous.”
“I know, but it is what my family has done for three generations. My great grandfather fought against Franco in the Spanish Civil War. One day the Basque will have our own country, that’s what my brothers say.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you Agbu? Do you really think Spain and France will ever agree to that?” A third of the land that the Basque claimed as their homeland was located across the border in Southern France.
Agbu was an intelligent boy and had often considered the question. “No, I guess I don’t Carlos, but it doesn’t matter. We fight anyway. If they give us our own country, we would think of some other reason to fight. It’s what the Basques have done for centuries.”
Carlos thought about what Agbu had said and knew there was a lot of truth in it. He wasn’t as smart or quick as Agbu, but Carlos had the ability to reason things out and usually came to the right conclusion. The Basque trace their heritage back over two thousand years and were always warriors. Agbu was destined to be a terrorist; it was his culture and it was in his blood.
“You keep the money, Agbu, I won’t need it. The Spanish Tennis Federation will be picking up my expenses.”
The friends parted and went their separate ways. It would be many years before they would meet again in Paris at the French Open.
I was bored. My business was doing well, but it wasn’t enough. I needed a change. Mary and I just returned from a two-week golfing vacation to Ireland and Scotland. The kids, Pete and his younger sister, Lisa, were growing up faster than we wanted, but seemed to be doing well in school and other activities. They were a pleasure to be around and we counted our blessings. It had been over two years since my dramatic golf match with Jack Pardo in the club championship. I can still visualize Jack’s putt rimming out on the 18th hole and handing me a 1-up victory. I guess the excitement from the myriad of events that surrounded that day had spoiled me. It wasn’t every day that an amateur match play golf tournament has a winner-take-all prize of a business valued at 938 million dollars.
I still played golf twice a week when time allowed and my handicap hovered around plus three or four, not bad considering I was a plus fifteen when I moved to Tampa five years ago. Ken Reed, my golf mentor and business partner usually teamed up on Saturdays to play Jack and his partner in a two-ball, $50 Nassau. Jack and Ken were scratch golfers so a lot depended upon Jack’s partner whether we got strokes. Like most golf wagers, the winner is determined on the first tee. Ken was a great negotiator.
The Cabo San Lucas casino and resort project had been a tremendous success and I was fortunate to have maintained an ownership interest for my company, Global Management. Casino operations had been sub-contracted to a large management company that operated casinos throughout the world. They took 97% of adjusted gross revenue and paid all expenses. The ownership group received three percent, which amounted to about $80M annually. Global Management received 15% of this amount which provided Mary and me opportunity for several vacations a year.
Kno
ck-on-wood, there had been no turnover of the key people at Global Management. The mortgage brokerage and equipment leasing businesses continued to grow. We exercised our option on an additional 20,000 feet of office space and added 15 new employees over the last two years. Our Christmas party was no longer a table of eight and Christmas bonuses last year totaled $320,000. It was money well spent and well earned.
Our international funding business was expanding and was the one area of the company that held my interest. In the last two years we funded three small deals in South America, one in China and several in Europe. The average size of these projects was just over $60 million dollars. Half of our business is for hotels and golf resorts but recently we began funding real estate developments and community infrastructure.
Relationships with our lending sources had also improved. We were now table-funding deals under our own name, pooling loans into investment grade packages, and then selling the paper to large Wall Street lenders and pension funds. There were two relatively small deals that I liked so much that we funded using our own money in exchange for a percentage of ownership. These changes significantly enhanced our credibility. We were no longer thought of as a broker, but as the final lender and source of money. It was mostly perception, but who cares, business opportunities were increasing.
The construction side of our business was treading water. Simpson Construction hadn’t done much since the Cabo San Lucas casino was completed. I maintained a skeletal staff, but they wouldn’t stay long unless we developed some new work. Maybe the phone call I received this morning from the government official in Mexico City would prove interesting. They were planning to build a new all-sports complex and asked if we might be interested in managing the project. “Sure,” I replied, “we would be interested in discussing this further. When can we meet with you?” We had never built a domed sports stadium.
Chapter 2
Establishing the Groundwork