Buying Brazil (Buying Brazil Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  “Hell of a rain last night. I thought we were going to need Noah.”

  “Good morning Robin. Has Skip materialized?

  “Yeah, he’s over at Rossi’s office going over the next document request. I told him to be sure we’ve identified the stuff in a way that will get us what we want. We have different language, different laws but it’s the same pain in the ass. Oh yeah, the sat-phone’s on your desk with the numbers for Skip’s and mine. If you want I’ll program them in.”

  “Put them in and add Sam’s office and cell please. I’ll put the fourth phone in the locked cabinet in the apartment. Program all the numbers into that one including my cell phone. Has the deal Gant chart been updated?”

  “Good thing I wasn’t plugged in last night in when the storm hit or my laptop would’ve been toast.”

  “They’re used to storms and lightening down here. I’m sure your hotel has surge protection.”

  “Don’t be so sure. The TV in my room got fried. This looks like a big city with lots of new toys but underneath its strictly third world.”

  “You sound like we’re back in Africa. Brazil brought itself up to date under the military. It’s not the UK or the US but it’s a lot better than you make it sound. Will you load the chart on my laptop? I want to review it before calling Sam.”

  On her way out of the room, “It’s already loaded and up.”

  “Thanks.”

  Stopping in the doorway, “No breakfast?”

  “I already had something mother. Maybe some coffee later.”

  The chart was there waiting but I quickly lost interest in it. “Maybe there is tonight.” Did she know something? Why else would she be acting that way? Aranni was up to something. The inviting sound of a plane passing low overhead on its way to Congonhas, the too small national airport crowded into the center of the city, blocked everything out including my growing uncertainty. The louder it got the more inviting escape sounded … damn it, could Robin be right?

  The mail icon for my personal account popped up on the screen announced by a loud alert. It was just enough to get my imagination under control and me back into reality. Click and Gunter’s e-mail spilled across the screen filled with his usual carefree good cheer. “Good weekend. Great food. Everyone is raving about the coffee. They all agree so we should talk soon about getting more beans sent. It was really great to see you. Like the old days when we made money together.”

  Classic Gunter with coded messages inside lighthearted words. The deal was moving and he was confident he had support. Beans … data or money, it was the same thing. I hit the reply button.

  “Gunter, glad you had a good trip back and the coffee was a success. The cook at the hotel robbed you for the seasoned pan. I’ll be in touch about getting more coffee sent to you after I call the hotel. All the best, Carl”

  I had to believe e-mail was being monitored just as easily as phone calls. Data lines were nothing more than enhanced high speed phone lines going through the same control points in the national phone system. Looking up from the computer screen to the windows … I had been spied on in the past by one competitor or another but it was nothing like this.

  The sound of horns blaring on the street below with more than the customary urgency pulled me away from the computer. I was on my feet just in time to see a motor-boy’s light motorbike ricochet off one of the dozens of red buses snaking down Paulista and into the front wheel of a bright yellow taxi. The impact propelling him across the taxi’s hood landing under the bulging wheels of a cement truck in the right lane. Screams from the sidewalk replaced the horns. In seconds the truck was surrounded by twenty or thirty other motorbike delivery riders ritually protecting their fallen comrade while at the same time threatening the shocked truck driver. I have been told the ritual was all too common in São Paulo where the life expectancy of young, fearless motorized delivery boys darting back and forth through choked streets could be measured in no more than months.

  In what seemed no more than seconds blue-clad civil police materialized followed by heavily armed military police in crisp khaki. The khaki force formed into a martial wedge driving into the ring of gathered riders harshly disbursing them before Ave. Paulista become a riot scene. Behind the khaki screen blue uniforms hurried the crushed rider into the back of an ambulance that had come down the sidewalk. Others threw the mangled motor bike on the back of a sanitation truck conveniently stuck in traffic nearby. In less than minutes traffic was again moving at its routine crawl. The few witnesses who had not melted into the crowd were now isolated on the sidewalk waiting to be interviewed. It was frighteningly efficient to say the least.

  Still, at the window I noticed for the first time elevated watch stations at every other intersection manned by blue clad officers policing those below. That’s how they responded so quickly. An emergency radio call and reinforcements were on the scene. Why hadn’t I seen them before? Were watch stations everywhere? My mind ran over the main roads and then to the marginal motorway along the River Pinheiros. Yes, there were stations almost everywhere. I recalled similar ones particularly along the rail siding separating the marginal from the river. How had the gunmen who murdered the Italian businessmen along the marginal disappeared so easily? Why wasn’t the gunfire reported and the surrounding area closed off with the same cold efficiency as I had just seen on Paulista? Was Brazil strictly third world like Robin said or was it something else? My questions seemed to point an accusing finger in one direction.

  Outside my window the picture of life in any big city had returned to normal looking very much like London, New York or Paris with traffic-choked streets and sidewalks overflowing with people each on their way to something they thought important. No, São Paulo wasn’t third world. It was too organized; too efficient. No, it was only inefficient when it chose to be … when it was told to be.

  Doubt aided by uncertainty pushed me back into my chair. Unfamiliar feelings engulfed me. Feelings I always believed haunted only the weak and poor. They were feelings I rarely confronted and then only momentarily as no more than fleeting shadows causing almost imperceptible delays when choosing which way to go on a dark night in a strange city when I had just a little too much to drink. Until now they were simply small inconsequential feelings leftover from a forgotten past that had been rarely encountered since ending the post-divorce drinking binge Lord Hansen said would destroy me.

  “Robin, call José Carlos and tell him I want him here in fifteen minutes.

  “Just drive up to the gate.”

  “It is not wise to do such a thing Senhor.”

  “If we look like we are guests then there will be no trouble. If we act suspicious we will attract the wrong kind of attention.”

  José Carlos wasn’t happy when I told him to find Aranni’s address an hour ago. He was clearly uncomfortable when I told him we were going there. He was openly sulking when we turned onto the secluded tree-lined street with widely spaced mansions resting in tranquil gardens behind their high, imperial yellow painted walls and heavy wooden and cast iron gates.

  “I remember the street. His house is down on the left. It’s the one with the guard house on the sidewalk. Just turn into the drive and tell the guard it’s Sr. Matthews for the Senator.”

  “… we have no appointment. There will be a problem.”

  “Don’t worry; I’m counting on Aranni’s curiosity. He’ll see me.”

  “It is not the Brazilian way Senhor Carl.”

  Visibly upset José Carlos slowed the car and turned in as simultaneously a stone-faced guard in army green stepped from the small guard house. A small machine gun hung against his stomach inches away from his hands.

  José Carlos lowered his window but was ignored as the guard circled the car looking over me and my briefcase.

  Returning to the driver’s side, hand resting on the gun, “Que voce quer?”

  “Bom dia. Sr. Matthews fazer uma visitar le General.”

  “Noa e lista.”

  Jo
sé Carlos turned toward me, “He says you are not listed. We should go.”

  “Tell him to call the house and check.”

  Obviously afraid, José Carlos slowly turned back to the guard, “Favor Sr. Official, ligar da casa.”

  The guard backed away from the car not taking his eyes off of us. I felt a twinge of doubt trying to force itself upon me.

  With his left hand the guard reached in the guardhouse and brought out a walkie-talkie. His right hand remained never far from his weapon. I could hear the voices crackling over the tinny radio. Silence … and then more hurried words. I regretted I had decided to skip Portuguese lessons.

  Still stone-faced the guard replaced the radio in its charger and José Carlos’ shoulders began to relax, “Favor, uma momento Senhor.”

  The seconds stretched on. José Carlos could be right. I knew I was waving a red cape in front of a charging bull. It was clear at this point the only thing certain was I knew where the bull was.

  More seconds crawled past with the guard standing stiffly in front of the car. The sun baking on the roof was turning the car’s interior into an oven despite the hum of the air conditioning and still more seconds passed. Then the heavy wood wrought iron decorated gate topped by a fringe of gilded spear points groaned as an electric motor began to pull it along a submerged track confirming ‘The General’s’ curiosity had been aroused.

  The guarded stepped aside and pointed. José Carlos nodded then gently eased the car down into the garage bringing it to a stop several feet away from the green uniformed and heavily armed guards waiting for us.

  A slightly graying man dressed in a black suit stepped forward with the air of command. In almost unaccented American English he instructed, “Senhor Matthews, you will come with me please. Your driver will wait with the car.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The General is waiting for you in his office. You will take coffee there. He has only a little time. I am sure you understand.”

  “It is kind of him to see me.”

  We found Aranni quite relaxed in an easy chair on the small veranda of his office. Aglow in white linen, puffing on a cigar, his thoughts seemed to have drifted off into the garden captured by the happy voices of children filling the space with innocence as only children could.

  My escort put his hand on my arm, “A moment Senhor.”

  As he spoke a guard stepped from the shadows behind Aranni, leaned over and whispered something. Then with an almost invisible nod he signaled for us to approach.

  Aranni straightened in his chair and then rose to greet me with the ease and grace of someone half his age, “Mr. Matthews, this is a pleasant surprise.”

  Reflecting for an instant on how to address him, “Please forgive me General, it was a spur of the moment thought that brought me.”

  “Yes, at times those can often be the best kind to follow.”

  Wondering whether this was one of those times, “Thank you for understanding.”

  Extending his hand toward the chair across from him, “Please sit. If I remember correctly, you like our coffee.”

  As I sat down a uniformed servant placed a low, small round table between us. Another noiselessly set cups and flatware out.

  “Have you been well General?”

  “Yes, very well and yourself?”

  “Quite well thank you. Perhaps a bit busy, I’m sure you understand.”

  Still wearing a neutral, closed expression, “… then it is good you chose to get away from your work for a few days.”

  Ignoring the unnecessary admission I was being watched, “Just a weekend. You are right, I needed a break.”

  “There are many beautiful places here in Brazil where you can meet a friend.”

  “Certainly, but over the years I’ve learned the only way for me to really get away from my work is to put some water between me and it.”

  Aranni’s eyes locked on mine, probing looking for weakness. My years of negotiating with difficult people made sure he would find none even though his history added dangerously to this situation. “Tell me Mr. Matthews, what brought you here?”

  I knew the question was coming and had spent a lot of time thinking about the answer after I decided to drop in today. Aranni was someone who couldn’t be toyed with. He was too damned smart and his network’s reach was endless. The only safe approach was to be direct and hope he would see benefit in continuing to listen.

  “Due diligence work on an acquisition is a learning process. A buyer hopes to find things to support the rationale for the deal and it’s pricing. Sometimes he learns other things that can be useful.” Aranni betrayed none of his thoughts while he sipped coffee and watched me. “What brings me here are things I have learned and some thoughts about how they can be combined in ways that achieve a wide variety of goals.”

  “I spoke with you before about your work. Naturally I still have an interest but details are of little importance for me. Why should I care about them?”

  “… because you are interested in Brazil’s future.”

  “Yes I have said I am but there are so are many others who are in a better position than I to do something about the future. They are the ones who are building and protecting it. I am sure you know my history. It is yesterday’s history not tomorrow’s. You still have not told me what is on your mind.”

  “Simply put, with somewhat limited facts available at this point I have come to believe BrasTel may somehow play a role in Brazil’s internal security but, as you have said, the politicians see it only as a device to help meet short term budget and social policy needs. This purely political view resulted in the ‘Request for Proposals’ for the acquisition of BrasTel that circulated last year. The document brought people like me to Brazil to take control of BrasTel away from Brazilians even though many of them care very deeply about their country. This may have upset some of those patriotic citizens and focused their anger on these potential buyers and may have caused some of these foreigners to meet tragic deaths. However, others including my colleagues and me are still quite actively pursuing the acquisition. This could result in anger and physical danger that could affect our work.”

  “I do not know what to say about these things other than it is our government’s official position that a democracy should not control certain important national assets. The government believes letting them go will support healthy competition within the private sector and that will be good for our people. Again, what is on your mind?”

  Aranni nodded to the servant who immediately started to pick up the coffee service. Time was running out.

  “BrasTel by design might be able to provide a secure net around communications within and from outside of Brazil. It could deliver early warning about events that might be considered … undesirable. If BrasTel is sold this net could fail leaving Brazil less secure. I want to discuss how to help you insure Brazil’s security as well as that of my people and, naturally, myself.”

  “I think your Mr. Watson is a bigger threat to your security than any Brasilian. Perhaps you should focus your attention on him and not Brasil.”

  “Protecting me from him is one of the goals I have in mind.”

  Aranni’s hand went to his chin as if to test his beard, “Flavio, is it time to leave?”

  The man who had brought me from the garage snapped to attention, “You have two or three minutes General.”

  “You will forgive me Mr. Matthews. There are things to prepare. There are also things I must consider. Thank you for your visit.” Aranni got to his feet, “Good day.”

  I had been dismissed. There was no choice other than to be gracious and hope he not only listened to but also heard my message and would decide not to do whatever Alana was worried about. “Thank you for your courtesy General. I look forward to our next conversation”

  Mechanically “Perhaps” followed by a crisp, “Flavio, escort Mr. Matthews to his car.”

  Chapter 9

  Days had passed since ‘dropping’ in on
Aranni. Unfortunately, they were days of aggravating silence. Obviously José Carlos was expecting something to happen because he carefully picked odd and awkward routes whenever we went somewhere since the visit. I had not expected to resolve anything with Aranni but also, I hadn’t expected an abrupt dismissal followed by silence.

  Aranni was a careful man but he also had to be a curious one or he wouldn’t have survived as long and as well. The story I fabricated for him from bits and pieces had to have stirred his curiosity particularly if by chance I had been near the truth. His silence was troubling in all the ways he probably intended. At times I wondered if he was waiting for me to make some sort of careless mistake or expose more than I intended. Would the result of stirring his curiosity be to simply eliminate a potential problem as he had done with the Italians? At other times I had no idea of what to expect or even think.

  By reputation Aranni’s was both careful and dangerous. It fit with the low, almost invisible profile he maintained in the press and on the street. He successfully played the role of nothing more than a respected but retired senior army officer with a small following in the Senate. Report said he sat in the Senate Chamber’s shadows and made an effort to contribute very little to either debate or the legislative process. That aside, in many ways, perhaps just in my imagination, he seemed to head a shadow government somewhat like the loyal opposition’s shadow ministers in the UK parliament. However, here in Brazil the shadow government controlled the army and the military police … the real powers that controlled the re-democratization process in the past and could very well hold the only real nationwide power in Brazil today.

  “Carl, Rossi is on line two.”

  “Thanks … hello Pedro. How are you?”

  “All is very well. I thought we should have a drink tonight. You will not need your driver. I will have mine pick you up at five.”