If the girl was offended, she did not show it in her voice. “Yes, I’m quite sure I saw them, Mr. St. Cyr. Mr. Dalrymple and Mr. Roopnaraine are very well known to us at the Pegasus. They are well known in all of Georgetown, for that matter. Not to worry, Sir. They should be there any minute now. They may have run into someone they know and stopped to chat. Those gentlemen know just about everyone who stays here regularly.”
“As a matter of fact, I think I hear them now. Thank you, Sharon.” Theron put down the phone and went to open the door. He immediately recognized Dalrymple and Roopnaraine as the men who had met Dru at the airport.
The black one smiled at him apologetically. Theron did not return his smile. The East Indian looked like he thought that being there was a waste of his time. Theron ignored him.
“Please come in,” he said. He kept his voice formal and addressed only the black one.
Dalrymple and Roopnaraine stepped in. Both men looked around quickly, as if to make sure St. Cyr was alone. Their movements were identical, Theron noticed with amusement.
He waved them to the two armchairs in the room. He had not taken a suite, figuring he would be at the hotel for no more than a couple of days. A suite would have been an extravagance he never would have been able to justify to Claude, his firm’s eagle-eyed accountant and chief financial officer.
He swung around the chair at the desk, sat down, and faced his visitors, his eyes riveted on Dalrymple. He waited for one or the other of them to speak. The Indian one, obviously Roopnaraine, judging by the name, still had his mouth set.
Dalrymple spoke. “Again, we apologize for the intrusion, Mr. St. Cyr—”
“You mentioned Andrew Goodings and Drucilla Durane. What about them, Mr. Dalrymple?”
Dalrymple bristled at the slight. Roopnaraine tried to hide a smile but Theron caught it. It was an I-told-you-so smile. His eyes met Roopnaraine’s and held. They assessed each other, not sure whether they should continue pretending to ignore each other or not.
“Okay, Mr. St. Cyr. We’ll dispense with the civilities,” Dalrymple said crisply. He sat forward in the chair and fixed Theron with a cool but candid gaze. This scenario was nothing new for someone who used to be a Senior Government Official.
Now it was Theron’s turn to try to hide a smile. He was well-schooled in the body language of senior government officials. Theirs was a universal language.
A flicker of his eyes in Roopnaraine’s direction told him his attempt to hide his smile had failed. Roopnaraine was staring at him intently.
Theron sat back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and waited for Dalrymple to continue. He had already decided that these two had something revealing to say.
“No doubt you’ve confirmed our identities with Sharon at the front desk. That’s good. It means we won’t be distracted by any dark suspicions,” Dalrymple continued dispassionately. “And by now, Mr. St. Cyr, you should also have learned that we are intermediaries for Pilgrim Boone in the negotiations on Savoy’s proposal. Understandably, the government’s consideration of that proposal has virtually stalled. But it had stalled long before the death of Andrew Goodings. We know that the reason for the stand-down has to do with the questions raised by Goodings prior to his death. What those questions were, however, we have absolutely no idea. We do know—everyone knows—that Goodings was a zealous nationalist. There’s no telling what he saw behind Savoy’s proposal. For our part, it was a straightforward deal that we were in a position to facilitate: Savoy wants to set up an air transport system in the interior of Guyana, and once that system is in place, Savoy will make a ton of money selling and servicing the planes to keep it going. Everyone else wins, too. Guyana and the Guyanese people will benefit from the new investment in the interior that would certainly follow the establishment of a proper transportation infrastructure. Tourists will have easier access to our amazing hinterland. Foreign investors will consider exploiting the wealth of that hinterland. And my company wins as facilitators of the whole thing. Yes, everyone wins. That is how we saw this deal. That is why we went into it.” He paused. His eyes narrowed and he leaned closer to Theron.
“Then, all of a sudden, Andrew Goodings dies. You can imagine, then, that nothing will move forward pending the outcome of a full investigation of what is already being spoken of as the convenient removal of a spoke in the wheel. This puts my firm in a very poor light to say the least, given our connection to Pilgrim Boone, which had every interest in bringing the Savoy discussions to a speedy close in their favor. People are beginning to draw conclusions that are not flattering to my firm, Mr. St. Cyr.”
“And what does all this have to do with me?” Theron knew the question was naïve, but he felt he needed to ask it, if only to interrupt Dalrymple’s pompous soliloquy.
Dalrymple looked at him with contempt. “Don’t insult our intelligence, Mr. St. Cyr. We know you saw Drucilla Durane with us at the airport just as we saw you there with Liv—Andrew Goodings. What exactly your connection is to all this, we do not know for sure. We did an Internet search before we came here and found out about your firm and the kind of work you do, so we assume that Goodings brought you in to quietly check things out behind the scenes.”
Dalrymple paused, but his gaze never wavered from Theron’s face. Dalrymple was no novice at wielding the weapon of words. One made it, and survived, in government by doing so. Well before his appointment to the Transportation Ministry, he had learned to accurately read the effect of words spoken in certain tones in certain situations. He had become a master at eliciting whatever response he desired from someone after spending just a few minutes in that person’s presence. These were skills that have contributed tremendously to his success in consulting. How many times had he told Nelson that politics and consulting were on the same psycho plane? Whatever psycho-tactics got you what you wanted in one of those fields, you could be damned sure the same tactics would get you what you wanted in the other.
Theron St. Cyr’s stubbornly impassive expression told Dalrymple that he had guessed right: St. Cyr was a snoop for the government. Fair enough. Governments, too, were entitled to their share of due diligence.
“Have you ever heard of a man called Alejandro Bernat, Mr. St. Cyr?” Dalrymple asked abruptly.
St. Cyr frowned. Instinct told him that Dalrymple had spoken truthfully so far. Their reason for coming to see him was clear. They believed Andrew had been murdered and they wanted their names to be free and clear of any association with that murder. They would use every piece of information they had, raise every connection, however absurd it might seem, to preserve the image that brought them contracts with the likes of Pilgrim Boone.
Which was why the name that Dalrymple had thrown out—this Alejandro Bernat—was a name that he knew was the link he had been searching for.
“No, I don’t know that name,” he said. “Why?”
Roopnaraine, who also had not taken his eyes off Theron, knew there and then that the standoff was over. They had crossed the line to the side of trust.
He turned away from Theron and looked knowingly at Dalrymple. Dalrymple returned the look with a smile. Then both men turned back to St. Cyr at the same time, as if on cue.
Theron studied them anew. The tension had disappeared from their faces. It occurred to him that, up till now, from the time both men had entered his room, they had engaged in a ritual with which he was very familiar.
He relaxed. He was beginning to feel a certain sympathie toward these two. Like him, they were consultants. It was all about the contract.
They told him everything. Almost. About their relationship with Pilgrim Boone. How it started, how it had gotten to where it was. They told him about the meeting with Dru and MacPherson at which Dalrymple was present. About the mention of the name Alejandro Bernat and the possible tie-in with the Alejandro in Venezuela. About their horror at the news of Goodings’s death. About their conviction that it was murder.
They did not tell him about Dru’s at
tempt to implicate him in the murder, although they had come prepared to tell him even that. In that uncanny way they shared, in that knowing between them that required neither words nor eye contact for confirmation, each had decided that the information about Dru had no place in their conversation with St. Cyr. Their decision had everything to do with the subtle deepening they both saw in St. Cyr’s eyes when Dru’s name was mentioned. Right now, it was not their place to intrude on whatever was going on between those two.
Besides, the information had no value in the scheme of things.
It was well into the night when Theron said, “Mind if I turn on my computer? We can look up this Bernat guy.”
“By all means,” Roopnaraine said eagerly. He had been throwing hungry looks at the laptop from the moment they had sat down. It was the very model he wanted. Sleek. State of the art. Performed as fast as the speed of thought, the TV commercial said. It was available only in Japan, and cost at least eight thousand U.S.
Theron turned to it and logged on. Dalrymple and Roopnaraine rose quickly from their chairs and stood behind him, staring in open-mouthed admiration at the rapid-fire switches of the screen as Theron’s fingers flew across the keyboard.
The flight of Theron’s fingers finally ended and the screen lingered on the single page of search results for the name “Alejandro Bernat.” He clicked on one of the links, bringing up a photo file of the man. There were photographs of him from his youth to the present. Above the pictures, a single no-frills list.
Name: Bernat, Alejandro Samorante. Place of birth: Caracas, Venezuela.
Date of birth: C. 1945–
Country of residence: Venezuela. Occupation: Real estate developer.
Bernat was alone in some of the shots. In others, he was in the company of men and women, many of whom Theron recognized as members of the world’s most elite business and social circles.
Theron scrolled down. More of the same. Bernat the international business tycoon. Bernat the globe-trotting socialite. Bernat the gentleman farmer. A slew of innocent, flattering pictures, and captions.
Then there it was. The very last shot. On the very last page. Simultaneously, the three men gasped.
22
For the first time in his life, Grant Featherhorn knew the dizzying, orgasmic feeling of absolute power. He relished the feeling, as he always knew he would. It even gave him an erection. Power was something he had craved since his early days on the Inner Circle track at Pilgrim Boone, more than two decades ago. He could pinpoint the very day that craving began. It was the day he had witnessed Lawton Pilgrim unleash the full force of his power against his own friend. The friend deserved it.
Friends, Featherhorn had determined then, did not matter. You could not count on their loyalty. Only power was loyal. Therefore, only power mattered.
He stepped jauntily along the deserted hallway, lovingly fingering the rich cherry paneling, the gilded picture frames, the stainless steel nameplates and doorknobs.
“To think, it is I who now reign over this. All of it,” he breathed in wonderment.
He recalled his conversation with Pilgrim the day before. For a few gut-twisting moments during that conversation he thought he would lose it all, everything he had set up so carefully these last two years with Bernat. He had met Bernat on his first trip to Venezuela, at a reception the American Chamber of Commerce in Caracas hosted to introduce the newly appointed president of Pilgrim Boone’s Latin America/Caribbean division to the country’s movers and shakers. He and Bernat had clicked instantly, and Bernat had aggressively cultivated the relationship since then. He must have seen a kindred spirit, Featherhorn chuckled, remembering how often Bernat had flown him from Caracas in his private helicopter to his ranch.
At first, these visits were purely social. He would party with a few of Bernat’s friends, or simply relax quietly for a weekend. On the quiet weekends, Bernat would rarely bother him. He was free to roam the ranch and he did so, drinking in the pure, sweet air and enjoying the magnificent vistas.
Soon, the tone of the visits changed. Certain movers and shakers began to show up at the ranch when he was there. They spent hours discussing business and politics in the region, especially in Brazil, Argentina, Chile, and Colombia. They were joined on these occasions by men from other Latin
American countries, all of them well-known industrialists, with an army brass or two in the mix. Every now and then, one or two European businessmen would join them as well. Sometimes, Bernat would fly the whole group in his Sali to neighboring countries to survey his land holdings and farm operations. Once, they even flew to France.
Featherhorn was totally and unashamedly spellbound by Bernat’s wealth, his investments, his influence. Truth be told, he was enthralled by the lifestyle of the rich and powerful in Latin America, period. He had seen wealth and high living in the States, but what he had seen was nothing like this. This was feudalism pure and simple. There was no other word for it. What else could you call a system where legions of peons spent their entire lives in bondage to men of unimaginable wealth, men who owned tens of thousands of acres of land? These peons were Indians, poor whites, blacks, mixed breeds—all bound in obsequious servitude in a society where they lacked choices.
Featherhorn was fascinated. Oh, the absolute luxury of it!
It wouldn’t last, his gut told him. But while it did, it established order. The president of Pilgrim Boone’s Latin America/Caribbean division was not about to rock any boats, not while investors the world over appreciated the status quo, not while Pilgrim Boone’s clients appreciated the status quo.
In less than a year, thanks to Bernat’s connections, he had pulled in a few prize private-sector accounts for Pilgrim Boone. There were none of the big FIS contracts yet. Those would come later, he was sure. For now, it was enough that Pilgrim Boone was snapping at the heels of its competition in the region, gaining on ground hogged by bigger names.
Lawton Pilgrim was ecstatic.
Featherhorn’s annual bonus reached staggering amounts. He was becoming a force, a voice to be reckoned with when it came to Latin American business. At the Caribbean Central American Action’s annual conference in Miami, where regional heads of state extolled their countries’ investment virtues and aired their grievances about U.S. policies toward their struggling economies even as their delegations quietly pandered to corporate powers, lobbying firms, and consultants, it was Featherhorn’s words that the press quoted most.
Featherhorn never made much of his intimacy with Alejandro Bernat in his confidential reports for Pilgrim Boone. In fact, he never mentioned Bernat at all in his reports. Why? He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it. Suspicious by nature, it had occurred to him that Bernat either might be setting him up or he might be using their connection as a cover for some personal gain.
It was that knowing look, that exchange of glances, an arched eyebrow, a strained smile, a too-quick closing of a drawer or hanging up of a phone when he appeared unexpectedly—little signs he caught at seemingly ordinary moments at the ranch that told him there was more going on with Bernat and his highly placed contacts than he was being told.
When, after two years, those little signs amounted to naught, he shrugged them off with relief.
Then, in the early stages of the Savoy negotiations, Bernat told him that he had to win the contract for Savoy by any means necessary. Any means, Bernat had repeated, staring at him meaningfully.
And he told him why.
At first, Featherhorn was appalled. Then he was offended. Bernat remained quiet, giving him plenty of time to think.
As the ugly implications of Bernat’s words sank in, Featherhorn became enraged. He tossed his head angrily. “No!” he shouted. He would sink the deal first, he rasped, striding back and forth across the marble floor of the patio at Bernat’s sprawling hacienda, jabbing the air with his index finger for added emphasis.
How could Bernat even think—He stopped abruptly in front of Bernat, gazing at him with a mix of
wonder and rage. Who did this man think he was? Was he talking about Pilgrim Boone? Pilgrim Boone!
“This isn’t about Pilgrim Boone, Grant. It is about you,” Alejandro said patiently.
“It’s all the same. I want no part of it. Nothing. Nada! That’s not my goddamn thing! How dare you think it is!”
“You are saying, then, that you would give up all you have acquired, thanks to me? The life you have grown accustomed to? That delightful villa you bought in the mountains? The jet I allow you to use for your private affairs? The, er, entertainment you enjoy so much? Ah, Grant. It is now that you understand what we truly mean by the expression gozar de la vida. Your barbaric English language cannot begin to convey the depth of that expression. It is so much more than your “enjoy life.” And you would give it all up?” Bernat tut-tutted and shook his head with feigned disappointment. Featherhorn did not respond.
Bernat continued, goading Featherhorn with his patronizing voice. “But what am I saying? All those things are so very banal. And you are not a common man. In the end, you can live without those luxuries. But,” he paused and swept the air with a meticulously manicured hand adorned with a single, ancient-looking heavy gold ring on the middle finger, “what you absolutely cannot live without is the power you have acquired. You could not stand to lose that, could you, Grant, this new ability of yours to influence so much that goes on in poor countries like ours?”
Bernat sat forward and looked steadily at Featherhorn, a mixture of amusement and disdain in his eyes.
Featherhorn blinked first. When he did, Bernat sat back, smiled, and puffed on his Cohiba, the finest of Cuban cigars.
Featherhorn sat down and looked out at the shimmering tropical horizon. Bernat, too, looked into the distance. Without turning his head, he spoke to Featherhorn. His voice was just above a whisper.
“No. I don’t think so, Grant. And you will have even more power and influence and wealth because of your generous participation in this endeavor, the kind of wealth and power for which you carry so much lust in your heart, in your eyes.”
The Guyana Contract Page 26
