Buying Brazil (Buying Brazil Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  “That’s not what I remember Gunter. I suspect you’ve been busy in the East.”

  “Naturally, Budapest was always our eastern suburb. A few years of communism did not change history no matter how hard they tried. We re-opened our Bank’s office there.”

  “I assumed Benjamin would try to rebuild what his family lost in the war.”

  “You didn’t call just to talk of such things. Tell me what we can do together. Is Lord Hansen finally interested in Eastern Europe?”

  “I left Hansen a year ago. I thought it would be fun to change sides of the table.”

  “I am surprised, you seemed like it would be forever.”

  “It wasn’t fun any more. Shelly walked out on me. She got tired of Hansen’s and then me.”

  “No, it is really a shame. The two of you … ah … you should come to Vienna, it’s like the time between the wars. The streets are alive again and at night the cafés are filled with the most tempting flowers.”

  “It’s a long commute; I’m working on a deal in Brazil.”

  “Now that is the place for flowers my friend.”

  “You’re right about one thing; I didn’t call just to pass the time of day. I have something important that may be of interest. It’s not for the telephone. I can’t take the time required to come there and I don’t want you to come here. Can we meet someplace in the middle?”

  “The situation sounds mysterious. You are a low rat Carl; you know I cannot resist a good game. I have been putting off a trip to the States. We have some investments in Atlanta and Miami I should check on. Are there any suggestions on a place that works for you?”

  “Definitely not in the States; it has to be a place where we can avoid accidents. There’s a little hotel I know where the food and coffee are great and it’s not far from Miami but in another world and completely off the radar. We should be alright there if we’re lucky. We could meet on the weekend if it fits.”

  Gunter’s silence seemed to stretch into minutes, “Ya, ya; it can work with my calendar. I could fly to Miami on Wednesday and buy the onward tickets there so we will keep the final destination between us. Where am I going?”

  “… Port-au-Prince in Haiti, actually a small town in the hills outside of Port-au-Prince, the Hotel Villa Creole in Petionville.”

  “The place is in political turmoil. Are you trying to get us murdered?”

  “Turmoil is a good place to hide. There are plenty of U.N. troops to watch out for us. I’ll get there Friday night and leave Sunday.”

  “Done! There better be a lot of money in this one my friend. I’ll bring a suitcase of medicines for all possible maladies. I have used great care to avoid places like Haiti and hope this isn’t a mistake.”

  We exchanged cell phone numbers and the details regarding the hotel and Gunter promised he would perform his best invisible act.

  “Hello Pedro; thank you for seeing me on short notice.”

  “Please Carl I’m here to help friends. Coffee with milk and sugar?”

  “Black please and with a little sugar.”

  “You and your colleagues have been here for some time now, are you comfortable in São Paulo.”

  “Very comfortable. It’s a great city with the best of everything. The restaurants have me growing out of my suits and Robin is in love with the retail therapy.”

  “… and young Mr. Watson?”

  “I think he is trying to meet every pretty girl here and in Rio.”

  “This is not unusual with young men who visit us. Soon they learn there are more women than they imagine and begin to budget themselves and their time better. I am confident he will carry his share of the work.”

  “Naturally, he is Sam’s son.”

  Pedro picked up his coffee cup, his eyes openly reading my face, “Yes … I understand you have started the business review.”

  “The first group of documents was made available late last week. I expect you will receive the first legal package in the next day or two. If you don’t, I’ll press BrasTel.”

  “I doubt it will be necessary. I’ve been kept informed by their lawyer and they seem to be on schedule.”

  “There’s a bit extra due diligence work you might be able to help me with. It’s not quite legal work but I’m sure you’ll understand the sensitivities involved.”

  Pedro remained silent hands folded in his lap. The word ‘sensitivities’ clearly raised his attention level.

  “Our understanding is that all public utilities were government owned long before the military took control of the government.”

  “That is almost correct. There were a small number of privately owned utilities at mines or other similar industries located in remote areas which furnished power to the industry and the local villages where workers lived.”

  “Were there any exceptions in the communications area?”

  Pedro rubbed his chin, “There were none that I know of.”

  “Of course my interest runs only to BrasTel but if there were other private companies in communications they may provide some insight into the regulatory environment.”

  “Perhaps, but there has been a great deal of new law enacted since re-democratization. Anything from before 1964 would have little or no relevance today.”

  “I would agree if I was sure that no one holds regulatory power today that was in power either before or during the military years. A young man could have been in government in the 1960s, somehow become part of the military government and now is in the civilian government.”

  “Perhaps … it could be possible.”

  “I would like you to look into that possibility for me.”

  “I will of course but such work is beyond customary due diligence.”

  “Yes but it is something I think you are uniquely able to do. If I remember correctly, the recommendation of your firm included a note that you had served as Chief of the Military and Civil Court Systems in São Paulo from the late seventies until re-democratization.”

  Pedro shifted in his chair, “I carried those responsibilities and I now serve on a committee of the Bar Association that recommends the appointment of judges for the State’s courts.”

  Our eyes met and I was sure Rossi was not at ease, “I am happy you agree to help me fill in some of the blanks. When I understand the human side of the question I will be in a better position to begin asking about any trailing influence that may exist over BrasTel.”

  Sitting erect in his chair, “I’m not sure I understand Carl.”

  “I’m not sure either but there have been some events that have created some questions in my mind.”

  “Perhaps we should talk about the events.”

  “Certainly but only after I feel I understand them better.”

  Pedro was clearly not happy with my answer but he was careful not to press me further. “As you wish; I will see what I can find out. Naturally I will start with my own memories but time has a way of mixing them together.”

  “Thank you. Would you have your assistant call Robin when you receive the legal package from the company? We keep a spreadsheet where we log all the work-steps so things don’t get overlooked.”

  The elevator doors closed and I breathed a sigh of relief. I had little doubt Rossi had carefully maintained his relationships with the military after re-democratization. They were his insurance policy if the experiment in re-democratization failed. The briefing materials on him said he was broadly respected during his tenure as Chief Judge for São Paulo State. There were no reports of abuse of power or bias in his findings. Still, he served the military well and I was counting on him to alert his old comrades I was taking an interest in them. After mentally sorting through the probable reactions to Rossi’s information the only thing I could be sure of was that I wouldn’t be a passive target any longer.

  Chapter 6

  “The pilot has illuminated the ‘fasten your seatbelt’ sign for our initial approach into Port-au-Prince.” Almost at once the plane started rocking
as one wing then the other encountered columns of super-heated air rising from the sprawling scorched city below.

  An article about Haiti claimed while Napoleon the First busied himself trying to make Europe a French colony a slave rebellion lead by Toussaint Louverture drove the white landowners to the fertile eastern end of Hispaniola Island that is now the Dominican Republic. During the following centuries the once prosperous French colony slowly sank into limitless poverty. Many of its once lush mountain sides now stripped of their jungles by charcoal burners scratching a meager existence making fuel for those who have never known electricity or gas.

  Thin columns of smoke from simmering charcoal fires marking the widening intrusion into the mountain forests merged together becoming the ever-present haze we descended into as the plane entered final approach into Port-au-Prince and its antiquated single runway airport. It had been four years since I worked on a failed electric power deal in Haiti and looking at the sun-baked city it seemed as if nothing had changed … nothing positive that is.

  “Passport and landing card … what is your purpose in Haiti?”

  “Holiday …”

  “How long will you remain?”

  “Three days.”

  Without looking up, “Your return ticket.”

  The crisp, blue polyester clad officer with studied care spread my documents in front of him. Then, line item by line item, using the uncharacteristically well-manicured index fingers of both hands he cross-referenced data with unnervingly slow care. He seemed unaffected by the stifling heat, three hundred percent humidity and the stench of unwashed sweat soaked bodies and rotting garbage drifting all too slowly through the open-sided customs hall separating the tarmac from the roadway outside.

  He held my passport at eye level looking back and forth between my photo and face a half a dozen times. “You are Carlton Matthews?”

  “Yes.”

  He then leafed through the passport pausing at the page with my Brazilian visa for what felt like too long.

  “You travel a lot Mr. Matthews. You have an old Haitian business visa. Are you on a business trip?”

  Not waiting for an answer he started to leaf through a worn ledger book mounted on a stand at the corner of his desk.

  “What will be your address in Haiti?”

  “Villa Creole in Petionville …”

  After another long silence he stamped my passport and landing card with Haiti’s bright purple ‘entry’ initialing both as the last of the starch melted from my shirt. Looking up, he hesitated for another uncomfortably long moment. With a forced smile he held out my documents, “Welcome to Haiti Mr. Matthews”.

  Walking away I saw the immigration officer say something to the armed and vested military guard standing next to him. Even in the sweltering heat I momentarily felt a chill.

  With only a small carry-on bag, I was one of the first to the customs inspection station and was passed right through by a disinterested officer. Had I just imagined there was too much interest in my documents? Were Haitians just suspicious of every incoming foreigner since the bloody street riots several years ago dried up the tourist business? Was I becoming paranoid? Weaving through the army of hawkers and beggars I flagged a cab, “Villa Creole”.

  The airport road passed the now infamous sun-baked Cite de Solé the scene of bloody rioting that was broadcast worldwide. Next it brushed past the edge of Port-au-Prince’s downtown before meeting the road to Petionville. Taking on hot, steaming Port-au-Prince in a taxi without air conditioning wilted both my starched khakis and me. The overpowering wet stench of raw sewerage was worse than I remembered. Smoke from smoldering garbage fires and oily exhaust from cars years out of tune burned the back of my throat with every breath. Beggars wrapped in rags tapping on the partially closed windows trying to call attention to fly-infested children or festering wounds streaking the glass with their filth covered hands. Four years ago I thought Port-au-Prince couldn’t sink deeper into desperation and despair but I had no question, it had.

  We turned onto the Petionville road only to be stopped by a column of heavy, sand colored military vehicles flying the blue United Nations flag. Soldiers were leaning out trying to catch a non-existent breeze. As they passed I saw their shoulder patches and I forgot the heat and stench. A yellow diamond on a green field, it was the Brazilian flag.

  Bending forward to be heard over the clamor attacking through the open windows, “Driver … are those Brazilian soldiers?”

  “Yes, Brazil gives its soldiers to the United Nation’s police. They are here more than a year. I once saw their General … a stiff old man.”

  Old, stiff and dangerous went through my mind. Would he get a report of the Englishman with a Brazilian visa who landed today?

  “Where are the UN soldiers based?”

  “South … they have a camp near the end of the city. It’s on the road from the seaport. They have another at the port to guard their warehouses. Like all Haitian bosses the General has a big house in Petionville. The owner is from Columbia but he is in jail, an American jail. They say he will be in the jail for many years.”

  “Is the General’s house near the Villa Creole?”

  “Not so near. It is close to the Casino. If you go to the casino you will see the one with all the soldiers. That is the house.”

  The road turned uphill and its surface smooth compared to the airport road that was more potholes than pavement. When I was here before it had been newly paved but the damage from the annual rainy seasons since then remained unrepaired. Haiti’s dense mountain jungles held past rains in their thirsty grip. Now the destruction of the forest for fuel turned Port-au-Prince’s roads to debris-filled riverbeds during every rainy season.

  “Thanks, how long to the hotel?”

  “Twenty minutes … maybe forty.” We arrived sixty minutes later.

  “Mr. Von Salzbeck arrived several hours ago. He asked to be informed of your arrival.”

  “Thank you, I’ll tell him myself. What’s his room number?”

  “204, I have put you in 206. They are big rooms overlooking the valley. I think he is at the pool.”

  “Good, would you have the bellman take my bag to my room. You still have a bar next to the pool?”

  “Yes, may I have your passport and landing card please? I will have the bellman bring them to you after I have made a record.”

  Villa Creole’s reception desk was on a covered veranda open on three sides and cooled by slow overhead fans. The pool was a short flight of stairs below through well-tended but simple gardens of deep green ferns and flowering shrubs. Large, kidney shaped, the pool centered a stone patio shaded on one side from the blistering sun by mature almond trees whose arms reached far into the open space toward the pool. Flower scented hillside breezes flowed under the outstretched arms to further ease the heat of the day. The setting was typical of the hotel’s uncluttered elegance. Built as a hillside villa, its bright white painted walls served as background for a blaze of colorful orchids growing in symbiotic harmony with graceful palms on the far side of the pool.

  “You want to get out of the pool and have a beer?”

  “Ah … Carl, it’s so good to see you.”

  “Were you afraid I wouldn’t make it?”

  “No, you are the one throwing the party.”

  “Thanks for coming particularly on such short notice.”

  Gunter pulled himself out of the otherwise empty pool. Six foot, angular with a wolfish face illuminated by ice blue eyes, he was tight and muscular with a lot greyer blonde hair than I remembered.

  Toweling himself off, “We have known each other long enough for me to believe when you say something is important it really is.”

  “What do you think of our hideout?”

  “Hideout …?”

  “You forget, that’s where the outlaws always went when John Wayne was after them.”

  “Ah so, American cowboy movies. For an Englishman you have strange tastes. I was surprised Shelly put
up with being made to watch them.”

  “Maybe that was the problem between us and not my schedule.”

  Politely ignoring my answer in typical Austrian fashion, “I like your hideout. Compared to what is around it, the hotel is a quiet little paradise. I think there are not more than four or five other guests and most of those permanent.”

  “… you approve?”

  “Not yet. You said the food and coffee are good here. I think now is a good time to find out.”

  “You finish drying off and I’ll go change. Meet you at the bar in five minutes.”

  Gunter and I worked some really tough deals together. They were the kind that started ugly and went downhill from there complicated by lawsuits and interference from securities regulators but usually paying the highest fees. Almost miraculously for a banker he retained both his good humor and deal focus. In the end we got two of three deals done for our clients long after they began to doubt the outcome. The two deals we closed earned over thirty million dollars each in success fees for Hansen and Schmidt and seven figure bonuses for Gunter and me.

  Gunter was at the bar waiting, “The coffee is really so good. It alone is worth the trip. It must be Haitian. I haven’t had anything like it before. It is rich, more than deep in flavor … bottomless. It is not to be believed.”

  “It’s Haitian but the secret is they roast it fresh here every morning. Last time I was here the owner told me they do it in a heavy cast iron skillet with a little raw sugar. He said the local coffee is very acid so using sugar when they roast it smooths out the acid leaving the brewed coffee bright. To me it’s either nonsense or magic.”

  “You know Vienna; we make coffee thirty different ways. We think we know all about how to make coffee. I have to bring some of the green coffee beans and the sugar back with me and roast them for friends.”

  “We’ll go to the kitchen in the morning and you can have a lesson. That way the trip will be a success regardless of whether we can do business.”

  “We both know it will take more than a little coffee to make me happy. Tell me about the deal.”