‘Yeah, you want to watch him, Chris. He’s out of his depth with all this corporate stuff, he’s going to be defensive. Most likely, he’ll cling to what he knows. My guess is you’re going to hear a shitload of out-of-date dogma this week.’
‘Well, he’s entitled to his point of view.’
That cracked Lopez up.
‘Yeah, ‘s a free country,’ he chortled. ‘Right? Everyone’s entitled to their point of view, right? ‘s a free country! That’s right!’
‘Joaquin, you need to take some downers.’
‘No. Less time around these Marquista hero types is what I fucking need, man.’
The sudden, bright vehemence brought Chris around from his contemplation of the view. Lopez was standing glittery-eyed in the centre of the room, fists knotted, surprised by his own sudden rage.
‘Joaquin?’
‘Ah, fuck it.’ The anger fled as rapidly as it had come. Lopez looked abruptly drained. ‘Sorry. It’s just my kid brother hands me the same fucking line all the time. Running-dog capitalista, running-dog capitalista. Ever since I got my PT& I licence. Like a fucking skip-burned disc.’
‘I didn’t know you had a brother.’
‘Yeah.’ The Americas agent waved a hand. ‘I don’t advertise the fact. Little squirt’s a union organiser in the banana belt, up around Bocas, where we were. Not the kind of thing you put on a Trade and Investment CV if you can avoid it.’
‘I guess not.’
Lopez’s eyes went hooded. ‘I try to keep the worst of the shit from raining on him. I made contacts that are good for that much.
And when the strike-breakers do come round, I pay his hospital bills, I feed his kids. Gets back on his feet and he drops by to insult me again.’
Chris thought feelingly of Erik Nyquist. ‘Family, huh?’
‘Yeah, family.’ The agent lost his drugged introspection. Shot Chris a sideways look. ‘We’re just talking here, right, boss? You’re not going to go telling tales on me to the partners?’
‘Joaquin, I don’t give a shit what your brother does for a living, and nor would any of Shorn’s partners. They’ve got altogether bigger game to shoot. Everyone’s got an Ollie North or two hanging in the classified record. So long as it doesn’t interfere with business, so what?’
Lopez shook his head. ‘Maybe that’s a London attitude, Chris, but it wouldn’t wash that way with Panama T & I. I don’t want to wake up one morning and find myself served with a Plaza de Toros summons like you did to old man Harris.’
‘Hey, Harris was a fuck-up.’
‘Yeah, not much of a knife fighter either, even for a gringo.’ Lopez skinned an unpleasant grin, but something desperate leaked from the edges, around the eyes. ‘Time I reach that age, I want to be out of this fucking game. I do good work for you, Chris. Right?’
‘Yeah. Sure.’ Chris frowned. Candour wasn’t something he’d looked for here, weakness still less. The naked anxiety in the agent’s tone was touching him in places he’d thought long sealed away.
And we’re still not into the brutal honesty shitstorm with Barranco yet. Jesus fucking Christ
‘I mean, I called it right everywhere you asked me, right? I set up what you need, soon as you needed, right?’
‘You know you have.’ He didn’t know which direction to roll this. Maybe—
‘I know I lost it back there in the NAME, I still owe you for that, but—‘
‘Joaquin, you’ve got to drop that shit.’ Chris made for the mini-bar. Shipped bottles and ice up from the chiller unit onto a table, talking as he worked. ‘Look, it was a problem at this end. I told you that, and I told you we look after our own. Just think about it. Christ, if you don’t trust me, think about the logistics of the thing. Would I have hauled your arse out of there, with all the expense we incurred, just so I could can you six weeks down the line?’
‘I don’t know, Chris. Would you?’
‘Joaquin, I’m serious. You really need to take something.’
‘You know Mike Bryant, right?’
Chris stopped, a glass in each hand. ‘Yeah. He’s a colleague, so watch what you say next, alright.’
‘You know he’s working a Cono Sur portfolio at the moment? Running contacts through Carlos Caffarini out of Buenos Aires?’
‘Yeah, I heard. Didn’t know it was Caffarini, but—‘
‘It isn’t any more,’ said Lopez abruptly. ‘Last week Bryant canned Caffarini because there were call-centre strikes in Santiago, and he didn’t see it coming. Or maybe he didn’t think it was important enough to chase. Now he’s on a ventilator in intensive care until his health cover runs out, and some fucking seventeen-year-old is running the portfolio at a quarter the old retainer. They were only strikes, Chris. Management abuse of female workers, localised action, no political demands. I checked.’
Chris put down the glasses and sighed. Lopez watched him.
Fuck, Mike, why can’t you just
‘Look, Joaquin. Strikes can get out of hand, whatever the original rationale. Reed and Mason, it’s chapter one stuff. You know that.’
‘Yeah.’ The Americas agent had the manic splinter back in his tone. ‘So tell me this, Chris. What’s going to happen to me if a banana strike gets out of hand on a certain plantation up near Bocas?’
Chris looked at him.
‘Nothing.’ He kept Lopez’s eyes while it sank in. ‘Alright? Got it? Nothing is going to happen to you.’
‘You can’t give me—‘
‘I am not Mike Bryant.’
The snap in his voice came out of nowhere, jolting them both. He clamped down on it. Made his hands work on the drinks. He dumped ice into two glasses, decanted rum over the cubes and swirled the mix. Spoke quietly again.
‘Look. I’m happy with what you’ve done for us and I don’t give a shit about what happened in Medellin. Forget about Caffarini and whatever’s going on in Buenos Aires and Santiago. I give you my word, you’re secure with us. Now let’s drink to that, Joaquin, because if you don’t crank down soon, you’re going to pop. Come on, this is expense account overproof rum. Get it down you.’
He offered the glass. After a couple of seconds, Lopez took it. He stared into the drink for a long moment, then his face came up.
‘I will not forget this, Chris,’ he said quietly.
‘Nor will I. I look after my people.’
The glasses chimed in the room. The liquor burned down. Outside the windows, something happened to the light as afternoon shifted smoothly towards evening.
Chapter Thirty
‘I still don’t see why you want me there.’ Carla checked her make-up again in the drop-down roof mirror as Chris rolled the Saab down into the Hilton’s parking deck. ‘It’s not like I know anything about the NAME.’
‘That’s exactly the point.’ Chris scanned the crowded deck, found nothing to his liking and steered down the ramp to the next level. ‘You can get him to tell you about it. I don’t want this guy to feel he’s surrounded by suited experts. I want him to relax. To feel in control for a while. It’s textbook client handling.’
He felt her eyes on him.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
The lower level was all but empty. Chris parked a good half dozen spaces away from the nearest vehicle. Since the proximity alarm had failed on him, he’d taken to parking out in the open where the security cameras could see him. It was irrational, he knew - no one short of a full covert ops squad was going to breach the perimeter defences of the Hilton or the Shorn block in the first place, let alone have time and skill to get through the Saab’s security locks before they were noticed. But the proximity alarm had failed. How exactly was still up for grabs, but in the meantime he didn’t intend it to happen again.
‘I’ll go up and get him,’ he said, killing the engine. ‘The restaurant’s on the mezzanine level. El Meson Andino. Mike said he’d meet us there.’
‘You don’t want me to come up with you?’
‘There’s really no need.’