Buying Brazil (Buying Brazil Trilogy Book 1) Page 17

  Without slowing, tires complaining loudly, the speeding Defender executed a flawless four-wheel drift around the Vila Lobos exit settling down on a divided roadway leading away from the river toward darkened factory buildings lying beneath the foothills. The driver must have believed he was one of Brazil’s world class grand prix drivers. In an unplanned response my white knuckles clutched at the seat frame and handle above the Defender’s flimsy door.

  Two quick turns later we were on a dark alley that brought us to a dead end. No, it wasn’t, an unlit sliding metal gate at the end responded to the repeated dipping of our headlamps in what must have been a prescribed sequence. Past the gate we were in a large, dimly lit yard empty except for some heavy construction equipment parked along one side. We lurched right toward light spilling from two small windows flanking a doorway where we finally came sliding to a stop. I must have noticeably sagged with the release of tension because the driver broke out in a loud laugh.

  “What’s so damned funny?”

  In perfect ‘American’ English, “I was wondering whether you pissed your pants.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  The door next to me opened and I tried to get out only to be pulled back onto the seat.

  With annoying humor still ringing in his voice, “Try the seatbelt … just lift the handle and it should release.”

  “Obrigado …”

  “… da nada.”

  A bent white haired man with a kind face and shabby blue coveralls stood waiting outside the car pointing to the door, “Favor Senhor”.

  Inside the heavy metal industrial door waited an equally shabby reception room furnished with decrepit chairs that hadn’t been visited by a cleaner in my lifetime. I didn’t have to struggle with the decision whether to stand or sit because almost immediately a business-like female voice broke the room’s dust-filled silence, “Good evening Mr. Matthews. Please follow me.”

  Tall, fashionably dressed, she was tonight’s version of high class executive assistants I had seen around the world, “Thank you”.

  We entered another of Brazil’s long hallways. At the end we turned into a spacious office occupied by a blonde, blue-eyed, man clearly of Germanic descent but indeterminate age. He was seated behind a painstakingly well-ordered modern metal desk, “Please sit … may I offer you coffee.” Delivered in unaccented English.

  Walls painted a cold grey-blue, a metal stand filled with blueprints and chairs that matched the desk, the office seemed more a stage setting than a workplace. “Thank you … it will help settle my nerves.”

  “Ah … my son was showing off his racing skills again. In the off-season, he works for the family. He finds his duties boring and reminds me of that every time he gets behind a wheel.”

  “He really is a race driver?” By reflex I looked around the office for pictures, news articles, maybe trophies that would give me a name but there were none.

  “Yes. He drives for a local team but has dreams of earning a place on one of the internationals. I thought giving him the Defender would slow him down but all it has done is provide an opportunity to improve his reflexes. Do you have children?”

  “No, my wife decided to leave before we had any.”

  “A man should have a son, even a crazy one like mine. You are still young and Brasil has many temptations.”

  “Crazy is a little hard … perhaps his skills are in an area that can be dangerous but they are skills. Too many of today’s young people seem to be adrift. At least your son has picked direction.”

  “Not the one I would have chosen for him.”

  “My father must have said the same thing when I finished at Oxford and became a banker. He thought because I had read the law I would become a barrister and join him in righting society’s wrongs.”

  “Would that have been so bad?”

  “Perhaps not but it wasn’t what I wanted.”

  “… what of responsibility?” Our eyes met and exchanged the unspoken challenge the young always presented to the old who were trying to hold on to their past. “The young feel only a responsibility to the future. They have not learned the future becomes the past in less than the blink of an eye. The only true responsibility is to family.”

  “Without my own children it’s hard to understand the feelings of a father. One thing I am sure of, our mutual acquaintances didn’t want us to prepare me for those responsibilities.”

  Sounding very sincere, “Forgive me, I worry about my son. I worry about our country and the future it will provide for him. Are you finished with your coffee? Good, come walk with me. You are here to see something so you will understand why BrasTel is important to Brasil’s future. It is hoped after your visit you will understand why your Mr. Watson frightens many of us. Naturally, what you see must be completely forgotten when you leave the building.”

  “I understand.”

  “… but do you agree?”

  “Yes, I understand and agree.”

  “Good. So that you will know, this area of the city was developed starting in 1968. It was done to create jobs for skilled tradesmen in needed industries. It was also a good place to put new centers for electricity and communication in anticipation of growth in the west and south parts of the city.”

  “Nobody lived here?”

  “Only mosquitoes and beggars.”

  We left the office through a back door entering yet another long hallway picking up the company of a hulking, dark man who was attached at a constant five meters behind. This hall had a flight of metal steps at the end leading up to a door with a sign in Portuguese and English; “Danger – No Entry”. Unlocking the pushbutton controlled door handle my host waved me forward so I could get the full effect of what was on the other side.

  “What do you think Mr. Matthews?”

  The second level balcony looked out on a room the size of an airplane hangar. Cool air rushed to surround me. Very cool air almost cold and crisply devoid of moisture. The floor below was covered by countless rows of racked electronic equipment connected by overhead cable bundles laid neatly in suspended metal overhead races.

  “I don’t know what to think. What is it?”

  “I have been told to answer any question.” Almost to himself, “I have my instructions.” Turning to me, “So, in England or the United States this facility would be considered part of an early warning system. It warns us of drug smugglers, gun runners and other trouble makers who would threaten Brasil.”

  “How?”

  “In the beginning we listened. Now machines do it for us. On the far wall are controllers that interface with the external telecommunication networks. On the left wall are scanners testing for line usage. The center installations are recorders. On the right are different scanners that are capable of detecting key words in twenty languages. In the center is a control and monitoring station. We started with our own way of doing things. Today we let contracts for most of the technical development and testing to the Israelis as the United States Department of Defense does.”

  “How much data can the place process?”

  “The last upgrade was finished less than a year ago. All scanners and their software were changed to a fifth generation. Today we have the capacity to monitor 150 million lines, scan and simultaneously record up to 65 million when active.”

  “… telephone lines?”

  “Yes, both hard wired and cellular.”

  “How many lines are there in Brazil?”

  “Nationally … we are approaching 100 million. Our next capacity upgrade should not be before one more year.”

  “This is all BrasTel equipment?”

  “No, BrasTel stops at the outside wall.”

  “Who owns this?”

  “That I am not permitted to say. Would you like to go down and take a closer look?”

  “Yes … what’s your role?”

  “For your purposes, I am the facility manager. I have degrees from MIT in electronics and communications so this is a natural
responsibility for me.”

  “… and your son?”

  “MIT also but his graduate degree is from the Sloane School of Management at the University.”

  “Now I understand his American accent and why you feel racing doesn’t fit.”

  Down on the floor I felt lost in the forest of seven-foot-high component racks and our sullen escort closed to an uncomfortably short distance. The equipment’s low hum made it seem as if I was surrounded by living creatures. “I don’t see any manufacturer names.”

  “We do not mark our equipment.”

  “… our equipment?”

  “We build and maintain all of our own equipment. The Israelis design and we build in our own factory. This also gives us the ability to repair and upgrade the equipment as needed.”

  “Here?”

  “No, Campinas in the central part of the state. It is Brasil’s technology center. Many international high technology companies manufacture there. The city has three universities with technical programs. Campinas also has its own airport so components can be imported directly.”

  “What happens to conversations containing key words?”

  “They are forwarded to specialists for analysis.”

  “… and?”

  “That is outside of my responsibility. I have shown you what I was instructed to. Do you have more questions? If not, I will have you taken home.”

  “I have none. Thank you.”

  “I am to tell you to expect a visitor in your office tomorrow afternoon. I am also to tell you that if you speak of this place to anyone, you will not leave Brasil alive.” As if to press the threat into my consciousness our silent shadow stepped behind me tightening a vise-like hand on my shoulder digging his fingers painfully in.

  “Tomas, I’m sure our guest understands.”

  The pressure released but the pain remained. “I understand. Thank you … particularly for the reminder.”

  “My son will bring you home. I will instruct him to try obeying the speed limits, Boa noite.”

  The Land Rover turned onto Haddock Lobo a block above my apartment at just 9:30. “Go past my apartment and drop me at Café Antique.” I needed a drink and some food with it. “It’s a block and a half downhill on the right.”

  “I know, we eat there all the time.”

  I stared at his profile, tried to remember his father’s face. If they were regulars maybe someone could tell me who they were. Sure, and if they were regulars everyone who worked at the restaurant would be too discrete to discuss customers with an outsider like me no matter how much I offered. What was also likely is that the next time they came in my inquiry would be reported. No, it would not be wise to ask.

  Standing on the curb watching the Defender disappear down the hill I was momentarily distracted by the warm still night air. But, not enough to forget my host’s cold words, “… you will not leave Brazil alive.” They weren’t said as a threat. No, they were delivered as a simply statement of fact. Were the Italians given the same message?

  “Senhor …”, the doorman had come behind me. “You know Pedro Steinner! He will be our next national champion. His family comes here but we do not see him very much anymore.”

  “I just met him and his father tonight.”

  “An important family … His grandfather was a very important man. He had much power during the Golden Years.”

  After a hurried dinner I attacked my laptop to search “Steinner” “Brazil” and “Golden Years”. The result, ten links containing the three search terms and hundreds more I would ignore. The ten were all I needed.

  Otto Steinner arrived in Brazil just before the fall of Nazi Germany. There was nothing available about his past before Brazil so I felt it was probable ‘Otto Steinner’ was not the name he was born with. By 1950 he owned and operated the largest electric parts business in Brazil and had married a Brazilian woman from Santa Catarina state. By 1960 his conglomerate was manufacturing machine tools, oil drilling equipment, mining equipment, material handling equipment and specialized equipment for the newly formed electronics sector. Naturally as I had found studying German émigrés of the period during due diligence on other deals, there was nothing about where Steinner’s money came from.

  When the military took over in 1964 Steinner was appointed head of the ministry charged with converting Brazil’s manufacturing economy from a weak dependent to a strong one fully independent from foreign influence. He died in 1983 just as the idea of re-democratization was being considered by the military. One article gave a detailed account of the state funeral Steinner received. It was a very rare event because it was attended by the entire ruling junta who for security reasons were almost never together in public. The high point of the funeral was reported to be the magnificent eulogy delivered by none other than my dear friend General Ignacio Aranni Netto who had been Steinner’s patron.

  Today the Steinner companies are headquartered in São Paulo and still controlled by the family with 75% ownership and the remaining 25% widely held by the public. The group employs over 300,000 people in Brazil, 25,000 in Argentina and is considered by many beyond the ability of the government to regulate or control. Judging by age, the son I met was the older of two and served as Chairman with his younger brother as President. As with most members of Brazil’s oligarchy, available details of the family were always sketchy at best except for the highly-publicized career of grandson and racing star Pedro Steinner.

  Finally, I knew something about some of the people other than Aranni who were trying to run my life with threats and other gentler forms of intimidation. Yes, I knew something about Aranni’s military friends but they stay above the fray letting others apply pressure. It was these others I had to understand in order to be sure my message was getting to Aranni the way I wanted it to be.

  “Rossi called. He’ll be here about eleven with some special counsel from BrasTel.”

  “… and good morning to you Robin. Did you sleep well last night? Yes, I certainly would like some coffee thank you. Oh yes, is that all Rossi had to say?”

  “Nothing else … I’ll have José Carlos get some stuff to have with coffee.”

  “Have him pick up his sister. Her white uniform will look efficient behind a tray of coffee. I want you to sit in the middle of the four of us so we don’t overlook anything.”

  “Notes or do you want me to hook up the recorder?”

  “Neither, I want you to listen and watch.”

  “Berlin three years ago …”

  “Right, I didn’t fully trust them either.”

  “I thought Rossi was our guy.”

  “He is. The other one worries me and as we know this isn’t our own turf.”

  “Tell me about it. I’ve got the airline’s telephone number on the inside of my eyelids.”

  “Where’s Skip?”

  “I haven’t heard from him today. Yesterday he was at BrasTel. When I talked to him late in the afternoon he said he was going through our updated document request with some of the financial people. I got the impression one of them was more interesting than the work.”

  “Typical. What about Sam … anything from him?”

  “… nothing from him. We did get the usual e-mail reminding us that the weekly status report is due Friday. I think he has too many secretaries running around.”

  “He’s been a little too quiet for my taste the last few days. We know he’s up to something but it’s too early for him to make his move. I wonder if he’s having problems with the financing.”

  “Worrying about him is your department. For now, I’ll worry about the coffee thank you.”

  Robin left and I started through the night’s e-mails. My attention wasn’t really on them until I opened one from Gunter. “Recipe and coffee shipping information from Haiti supplied in order. All ready to entertain. Waiting to know whether you can join in Vienna. Regards, Gunter.”

  Although I had felt sure Gunter would arrange financing, seeing it in his usual coded writi
ng was enough to momentarily push aside my worries about Aranni and his friends. Damn it, I’m going to win this one.

  “Lobby security called … Rossi and company are on the way up.”

  “Thanks …”, patting one ear while pointing around the room I reminded Robin we were not alone.

  “Carl, let me introduce Juan Batista.” Too neatly dressed, grey eyes and too pale skin, Batista didn’t fit the part. “He came to BrasTel from Telefonica Madrid several years ago. I’ll let him finish the story.”

  Taking his outstretched hand, “My pleasure Sr. Batista.”

  Batisita’s handshake was a bit too firm for an upper-class Spaniard. “Please sit down.” Waiting for him to be seated, “This is my colleague Robin Stephens. I asked her to join us. She has been very close to the details.”

  Batista was back on his feet, “I am pleased to meet you Sra. Stephens.”

  Rossi and I exchanged eye contact while Batista settled down again. I wasn’t sure he approved of Robin’s presence or perhaps he disapproved of my turning Batista into a yo yo. The appearance of José Carlos’ sister with a tray of coffee and pastry closed our unspoken conversation.

  “Pedro tells me you have enjoyed your time in Brasil. I am still somewhat of a tourist also. I like São Paulo very much. It has the energy of Madrid and the spirit of Barcelona.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way Juan … may I call you Juan?”

  “It is the way here.”

  “I am delighted to meet you. I had a brief contact with BrasTel’s CEO but since then we have simply been exchanging documents.”

  “Yes, we talked about your meeting. I am here because he told me there is a very good chance of some sort of transaction involving BrasTel. My responsibilities include stockholder relations and there have been inquiries regarding your company’s intentions.”

  “Forgive me Juan, I am a bit confused. Our work says BrasTel is wholly owned by the government. I don’t understand the term ‘stockholders’ with this type of ownership structure.”

  “Of course you are correct, our shares are owned by the government and therefore the people of Brasil. In the company we talk of shareholders but I think the North Americans have a more accurate term … ‘stakeholders’, all those with an interest in the company and its services.”