Buying Brazil (Buying Brazil Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  “Please call me Carl.”

  Rounding a corner, the car slowed dipping its lights. In response two armed guards in military uniform moved away from the opening heavy wooden gates near the end of the ten-foot high wall on our left. We drove through the gateway onto a steep drive taking us down into a well-lit garage large enough for fifteen or twenty cars.

  The car door was opened by a uniformed guard wearing a pistol in a military style holster. He pointed to an elevator, “Favor Senhor”.

  I slid out but Alana didn’t follow, “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I will wait here Senhor … Carl.”

  I hesitated long enough to hear another polite ‘favor’ except this time I sensed a touch of impatience. It was too late to get cold feet so I pushed aside the last of my uncertainty and started toward the elevator.

  “Good evening Sr. Matthews. Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

  “She’s much too beautiful to refuse.”

  “Yes, particularly for a man who spends too much time alone with his thoughts. May I offer you a drink … perhaps port?”

  Silver hair glowed in low light that masked my host’s face with shadows. Equal to my six-foot height, a white linen shirt fell loosely from shoulders held erect in the posture of a Sandhurst cadet.

  Ignoring his bait, “Port will be fine, thank you.”

  “Good … come, the night is too cool to sit in the house. I am very proud of my garden. You will have to visit during the day so you can appreciate it.”

  We walked across a tiled porch onto a brick path leading into a grove of palm trees, the light tapping of his walking stick disappearing into the night as the smell of damp earth and scent of tropical flowers surrounded us, “It’s easy to forget we are in the middle of twenty million people Senhor …?”

  “Please forgive me. I am Ignacio Aranni.”

  I immediately recognized the name of the dark icon of Brazil’s military past, my foot involuntarily hesitated, “I’ve heard of you General Aranni or should I say Senator.”

  Turning toward me light from the house reflecting in his cold crystal blue eyes, “Ignacio please and if you will permit, Carl.”

  The port arrived with a box of cigars. “The port is from Spain but the cigars are Brasilian, Donã Flor, from Baiha in the north. I understand you enjoy a cigar.” His walking stick pointing into the darkness and now speaking in a crisp tone as if he was giving a military command, “We will sit over there Carlos.”

  “Thank you I would enjoy both.” Over the years I learned all meetings had their own pace and it was useless to try and push them. “I see we both have done some homework. Your garden is beautiful. I can’t believe how big it is.”

  “It is the darkness. In the dark a garden has no end. By English measure it’s less than three acres. We tried to preserve most of the old trees when the car park was built below. They bring character built over centuries of growing tall. Again pointing with his walking stick, I have a special place for my grandchildren to play in that corner and a small office for myself. The office veranda is the place I sit and smoke. My wife says it is far enough away so my cigar smoke does not bother her.”

  The uniformed servant who had hurried past to the veranda of the small building was busying himself arranging table and chairs. Now two large candles on wrought iron floor stands cast a deceivingly inviting glow out into the darkness.

  “Do you know much of Brasil Carl?”

  “Several years ago I was part of a transaction involving a Brazilian candy company. I got to read a lot about the country then but this is my first visit.”

  “Ah yes, the Swiss company and Garoto Chocolate, your clients paid a lot of money.

  Are they happy?”

  “They paid my fee …”

  “… but are they happy here. Time has a way of changing things here in Brasil.”

  We sat looking into the garden with its paths illuminated by dim lights placed at ground level. The house seemed far off through the trees; the only sound coming from a bubbling fountain lost in the darkness.

  “Do you like my peaceful garden? It has taken many years to create such peace.”

  “Yes … very much. Some people are never able to find peace. You are fortunate.”

  “If a man knows what he is searching for and is willing to do what is necessary, he will find it. Do you agree?”

  “Real peace can be elusive. I’m not sure I agree.”

  “That is unfortunate. Perhaps you do not know what you want Sr. Carl.”

  “Perhaps … why are you sharing the peace of your garden with me General?”

  “Because I doubt whether your colleague Sam Watson will share his with you.” Then, acknowledging my reaction, “If I surprise you please forgive me.”

  “No, forgive me for underestimating you General. I should have known the man responsible for Brazil’s return to civilian government would have his … network.”

  Sitting erect, his back not touching the chair behind him, “Then I was just one of many and now I am an old man interested only in peace for my country.”

  “Brazil is at peace. It has no enemies.”

  “Please allow me to disagree. Brasil has the same enemies who almost destroyed us before we in the military did what was our duty. More port?”

  “Thank you. Believe me, I am not your enemy.”

  “Not any more, you are no longer a banker. It was the foreign bankers who destroyed our money with their speculation. They brought inflation. They reduced us to beggars pleading for bread in our own country. I carry these to remind me.”

  Aranni pulled a flat billfold from his pocket from which he carefully withdrew two banknotes. “See these, they speak of our history. When I was young my father earned fifty Cruzeiros every week and he fed and clothed the six of us very well. When I joined the army fifty Cruzeiros was still enough to live on but by 1964 speculators reduced the value so much I could not feed myself with this.”

  He handed me a faded one hundred Cruzeiros note over-stamped one hundred thousand. “In 1964 we in the army did our duty to protect the country from those greedy bankers. Before re-democratization in 1985 we had made enough progress to re-denominate our money.” He handed me another one hundred thousand Cruzeiros note. “See, it is over-stamped to one hundred Reals; enough to comfortably feed and clothe an average family of six for more than a month. Now twenty years later the Real is still stronger but it has had to fight foreign sponsored inflation to remain strong.”

  Handing him the banknotes, “President Cardoso’s ‘Real Plan’ has inflation under control. Minister Fraga is respected and acknowledged to be the best Finance Minister in South America. I can understand why you worry but Brazil’s future seems more secure.”

  “With respect, again I do not agree. Every day the government is selling our future. It has sold our banks. It has sold our electric companies. Who knows what will be next. Privatization is a new strain of an old plague. The plague we in the Army thought stamped out, selling our future to pay for today is still virulent and threatening every Brasilian.”

  I hesitated remembering Aranni was known as the one who had silenced opposition when the military council called for re-democratization. “The PT has campaign slogans saying almost the same thing.”

  “Forgive my passion. At my age politics … politics and political parties make no difference as long as Brasil remains strong.”

  “You still haven’t said why you wanted to see me.”

  “BrasTel, why else Senhõr? Perhaps you can tell me why it should become some foreigner’s toy? Why should we suffer another such indignity?”

  “I am sure the government will get a fair price if it chooses to sell. I will not deny Laser is interested but only if BrasTel is allowed to remain the communications leader here in Brazil.”

  “Fair is a word without meaning when you are speaking of who a man is and what makes him a man.”

  “Are you suggesting I tell Watson the BrasTel deal isn’t
for Laser?”

  “I suggest nothing. I simply ask you to consider whether there are other directions you could take that might help both Brasil … and possibly yourself.”

  “General I …”

  Standing, “Please, it is late. We will talk again after you have been a guest in our country for more time.” Aranni nodded and the uniformed guard who brought me up from the garage stepped out of the darkness. “You and your colleagues should make time to become the tourists your visas were issued to. Brasil has many treasures. We are willing to let them be seen and even touched but in the end they are what make Brasil unique. Goodnight Sr. Matthews. You will be taken to your apartment. Please remember Brasil is not the United States or England. Here in Brasil many things are … different.”

  Alana was not waiting. Was her absence part of Aranni’s message or a way of saying he did not want me to be distracted by one of Brazil’s treasures? If that was his purpose, he succeeded. His last word ‘different’ filled my thoughts during the ride back. What had he meant? Why mention our visas and why was he interested enough in BrasTel to involve himself? These were questions that needed to be answered before we could close a deal.

  I had been told translating Portuguese to English was never easy because English has many more words. Brazilian Portuguese was a language in which both cultural context as well as use defined a word. I lacked the cultural context but was certain whatever he meant he wasn’t promising me an easy time with BrasTel.

  Briefing documents for the Garoto candy deal included a summary of Brazil’s re-democratization period. It contained a section dedicated to Aranni and how he shaped the period and the new democracy that resulted from it. Promoted to Colonel four years before Military rule ended, he retired from the Army as a three star General six years later, just two years after the new democracy was firmly established. The summary called him ruthless and cold blooded. It claimed while there was no hard evidence, many believed Aranni was responsible for the assassination of several key members of the military leadership who opposed re-democratization. The fact only he among the Generals became owner of several large estates and industrial companies previously nationalized by the military government seemed to confirm he had taken undisputed control. The rest got somewhat luxurious country homes and comfortable retirements at guaranteed full pay.

  Today, more than ten years on, Brazil’s military was still a visible power within civilian life reminding everyone their democracy remains fragile. Two separate police forces, one military and one civilian, enforced civil law with the real power in the hands of the highly mobile, more heavily armed Military Police. “Different”, yes things were different and dangerous for law breakers or those singled out as threats to the national order. Aranni’s guards wore green Military Police uniforms and I was sure they served him not out of courtesy to a retired leader. No, after meeting him I had little doubt his retirement from the Army was no more than a formality intended to help give the appearance of legitimacy to the new democracy and his election to the Senate. Turning the word different over in my mind I felt cold. I wondered if I wanted to learn what was different about Aranni’s Brazil. More importantly, did I have the choice not to?

  “Yes, I spoke with him. He is not an ordinary Englishman … more direct, self-assured as if he was one with a title but he is not.”

  “He’s become a Norte Americano? Did he say anything useful?”

  “No, there was none of the openness or impatience typical of a Norte Americano. I looked in his eyes and I saw no uncertainty, no worry. He was not what I expected.”

  “I can have him and his people deported.”

  “It would accomplish nothing. Our friends in New York tell me Watson is the type who would just send more. We will watch him for a short while and see what we can learn.”

  “If you think that is best. Remember, we have a lot to lose and …”

  “Thank you for your concerns. Just be sure he is watched from a distance.

  “What should I tell the others?”

  “Council patience, as you say, there is much to lose. I will expect reports daily.”

  “… naturally.”

  “Boa noite.”

  Without waiting for an answer Aranni mechanically set the phone down, blew smoke into the darkness of his garden and listened to the night while remembering his time with Matthews. He carefully touched each of Matthews’ words, matching them with his eyes and changes in his posture. Yes, Matthews was different. Now we have to decide what to do about him so he will create the least problems … or, perhaps, the greatest benefit.

  Thoughts drifting on the sounds of bubbling water, eyes fixed on a darkened place somewhere among trees, Aranni felt trapped between the past and the future. For the first time in his life he felt his hold over Brasil weakening. Our success … my success changed everything. The country is different now with many things to like but just as many that needed to be watched and controlled. The few of us have to remain resolute … committed. BrasTel is only today’s problem. Tomorrow there will be more.

  A whisper escapes his lips, “Ah, I sound like an old man … worried about shadows.”

  “Senhõr, did you say something?” out of the darkness beyond the reach of the candles.

  “Bring a fresh cigar and coffee and then leave me.”

  “Yes Senhor.”

  Turning inward he re-examined the failure of the political process to stop continuing privatization. They did not understand why certain kinds of control were necessary to prevent the rot spreading again. The rot that would have destroyed us all if the few of us had not been strong and did our duty no matter the cost.

  Matthews and the others trying to steal BrasTel will fail because they are driven by only money and that makes them weak. They cannot understand as we understand and never will. Perhaps I should demonstrate their weakness for them. Satisfied he reached for the phone, dialed, waited, “I have something for you to do. Be here tomorrow morning at six.”

  Chapter 3

  “Carl, it’s Sam Watson on the phone.”

  “Thanks.” The three-hour time difference between here and New York at this time of year let work get productively started before New York woke up and Lazer’s little Napoleon would start his day telling everyone else what to do. “Hello Sam.”

  “You got things moving?”

  “I certainly do. We’ll be ready to meet with the BrasTel team by Thursday.”

  “Good, I spoke to their CEO on Friday. They’ll be waiting for your confirming call. I’ll have the contact information put on your e-mail. You remember Terry Sullivan at State? He was with us on the boat last 4th of July.”

  “Terry, yes, he liked his Scotch neat and had more to say than any diplomat I ever met. Nice guy.”

  “Terry called me. Our trade office in São Paulo picked up some talk. The Portuguese might try to make an auction of it. We have to work fast before the field gets too muddled.”

  “Shit, have you heard anything about the Italians?”

  “Maybe … it’s said they’ve problems. Their National deficit is too big and it’s going to bust through the EU’s limit. Italy has been told to increase its foreign currency reserves. Maybe they could get a temporary waiver of the debt ceiling until next year. If they don’t they may not have cash available for offshore deals. Right now they will be pushing hard to get BrasTel done quickly and they have their supporters in Brasilia.”

  “The Italians will not listen to the EU Central Bank. Their egos and national pride rule their decisions. That is the main reason they are having problems.”

  “I know it but in the short run they’re going take a close look at anything that’s going to push reserves in the wrong direction. It might give us an edge and if we’re lucky it will keep them out.”

  “Telephonica can bank the deal outside of Italy. I know some funds in the UK who would love the deal.”

  “Sure but they’d want the Italians to do it. Maybe take thirty percent of the deal as
kickers. The Italians’ egos couldn’t swallow that.”

  “Maybe, maybe not, it depends on the terms of the debt. The damned Italian accounting rules can sometimes make debt look like free money.”

  “Sullivan had something else. He said the embassy in Brasilia isn’t comfortable with the PT candidate Lula. Said he’s probably a damned communist. The same thing seems to be worrying the extreme right politicians. This election could be bad if the right wing loses. They’ve been in power since the military gave it up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I asked Sullivan the same question. He reminded me the Brazilian military took over once before when it didn’t like the civilian politics. They did it without firing a damned shot.”

  “The country was in the dump back then. Its currency was about as valuable as the Deutschmark after World War I. The economy’s a lot stronger now.”

  “Listen, stay out of the damned politics. I warned you about it before you left New York and now I feel even stronger. We got to do everything possible to close this deal before the election and then keep our heads down. Do you hear me?”

  “I heard every word. Believe me, I never trusted politicians. They always have their hands out and then they screw everything up.”

  “Stay independent and keep us invisible as long as you can. I don’t want to send more people down there. Too visible … it’s going to be you, Skip and Robin. Be careful with the locals you hire. They don’t understand confidentiality. They only understand money and I don’t want to piss away a fortune keeping them loyal.”

  “… anything else?”

  Momentary silence, unusual for Sam who was a master at filling dead air, “Yeah, Skip started to tell me about some locals he’d met and I gave him the same speech. I’m sure he’ll keep his head down but just keep your eyes open.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Call me on Wednesday before you reach out to BrasTel. I want to know what’s going on. I’ve asked Sullivan to freshen up his input and if there’s anything new I’ll get it to you before your Thursday call.” Then, as usual, without a good word or a goodbye, Sam hung up.