A Quiver Full of Arrows

The Coup

The blue and silver 707 jet, displaying a large “P” on its tail plane, taxied to a halt at the north end of Lagos International Airport. A fleet of six black Mercedes drove up to the side of the aircraft and waited in a line resembling a landbound crocodile. Six sweating uniformed drivers leaped out and stood to attention. When the driver of the front car opened his rear door, Colonel Usman of the Federal Guard stepped out and walked quickly to the bottom of the passenger steps, which had been hurriedly pushed into place by four of the airport staff.

The cabin door of the front section swung back and the colonel stared up into the gap, to see, framed against the dark interior of the cabin, a slim, attractive hostess dressed in a blue suit with silver piping. On her jacket lapel was a large “P.” She turned and nodded in the direction of the cabin. A few seconds later, a tall, immaculately dressed man with thick black hair and deep-brown eyes replaced her in the doorway. The man had about him an air of effortless style which self-made millionaires would have paid a considerable part of their fortune to possess. The colonel saluted as Senhor Eduardo Francisco de Silveira, head of the Prentino empire, nodded curtly.

De Silveira emerged from the coolness of his air-conditioned 707 into the burning Nigerian sun without showing the slightest sign of discomfort. The colonel guided the tall, elegant Brazilian, who was accompanied only by his private secretary, to the front Mercedes while the rest of the Prentino staff filed down the back stairway of the aircraft and filled the other five cars. The driver, a corporal who had been detailed to be available night and day for the honored guest, opened the rear door of the front car and saluted. Eduardo de Silveira showed no sign of acknowledgment. The corporal smiled nervously, revealing the largest set of white teeth the Brazilian had ever seen.

“Welcome to Lagos,” the corporal volunteered. “Hope you make very big deal while you are in Nigeria.”

Eduardo did not comment as he settled back into his seat and stared out of the tinted window to watch some passengers of a British Airways 707 that had landed just before him form a long queue on the hot tarmac as they waited patiently to clear customs. The driver put the car into first gear and the black crocodile proceeded on its journey. Colonel Usman, who was now in the front seat beside the corporal, soon discovered that the Brazilian guest did not care for small talk, and the secretary who was seated by his employer’s side never once opened his mouth. The colonel, used to doing things by example, remained silent, leaving de Silveira to consider his plan of campaign.

Eduardo Francisco de Silveira had been born in the small village of Rebeti, a hundred miles north of Rio de Janeiro, heir to one of the two most powerful family fortunes in Brazil. He had been educated privately in Switzerland before attending the University of California in Los Angeles. He went on to complete his education at the Harvard Business School. After Harvard he returned from America to work in Brazil, where he started neither at the top nor at the bottom of the firm but in the middle, managing his family’s mining interests in Minas Gerais. He quickly worked his way to the top, even faster than his father had planned, but then the boy turned out to be not so much a chip as a chunk off the old block. At twenty-nine he married Maria, eldest daughter of his father’s closest friend, and when twelve years later his father died Eduardo succeeded to the Prentino throne. There were seven sons in all: the second son, Alfredo, was now in charge of banking; João ran shipping; Carlos organized construction; Manoel arranged food and supplies; Jaime managed the family newspapers; and little Antonio, the last — and certainly the least — ran the family farms. All the brothers reported to Eduardo before making any major decision, for he was still chairman of the largest private company in Brazil, despite the boastful claims of his old family enemy, Manuel Rodriguez.

When General Castelo Branco’s military regime overthrew the civilian government in 1964 the generals agreed that they could not kill off all the de Silveiras or the Rodriguezes so they had better learn to live with the two rival families. The de Silveiras for their part had always had enough sense never to involve themselves in politics other than by making payments to every government official, military or civilian, according to his rank. This ensured that the Prentino empire grew alongside whatever faction came to power. One of the reasons Eduardo de Silveira had allocated four days in his crowded schedule for a visit to Lagos was that the Nigerian system of government seemed to resemble so closely that of Brazil, and at least on this project he had cut the ground from under Manuel Rodriguez’s feet, which would more than make up for losing the Rio airport tender to him. Eduardo smiled at the thought of Rodriguez’s not realizing that he was in Nigeria to close a deal that could make him twice the size of his rival.

As the black Mercedes moved slowly through the teeming, noisy streets paying no attention to traffic lights, red or green, Eduardo thought back to his first meeting with General Mohammed, the Nigerian Head of State, on the occasion of the President’s official visit to Brazil. Speaking at the dinner given in General Mohammed’s honor, President Ernesto Geisel declared a hope that the two countries would move toward closer cooperation in politics and commerce. Eduardo agreed with his unelected leader and was happy to leave the politics to the President if he allowed him to get on with the commerce. General Mohammed made his reply, on behalf of the guests, in an English accent that normally would be associated with Oxford. The General talked at length of the project that was most dear to his heart, the building of a new Nigerian capital in Abuja, a city that he hoped might even rival Brasilia. After the speeches were over, the General took de Silveira to one side and spoke in greater detail of the Abuja city project, asking him if he might consider a private tender. Eduardo smiled and only wished that his enemy, Rodriguez, could hear the intimate conversation he was having with the Nigerian Head of State.

Eduardo carefully studied the outline proposal sent to him a week later, after the General had returned to Nigeria, and agreed to his first request by dispatching a research team of seven men to fly to Lagos and complete a feasibility study on Abuja.

One month later, the team’s detailed report was in de Silveira’s hands. Eduardo came to the conclusion that the potential profitability of the project was worthy of a full proposal to the Nigerian government. He contacted General Mohammed personally to find that he was in full agreement and authorized the go-ahead. This time twenty-three men were dispatched to Lagos and three months and 170 pages later, Eduardo signed and sealed the proposal designated as “A New Capital for Nigeria.” He made only one alteration to the final document. The cover of the proposal was in blue and silver with the Prentino logo in the center: Eduardo had that changed to green and white, the national colors of Nigeria, with the national emblem of an eagle astride two horses: he realized it was the little things that impressed generals and often tipped the scales. He sent ten copies of the feasibility study to Nigeria’s Head of State with an invoice for one million dollars.

When General Mohammed had studied the proposal he invited Eduardo de Silveira to visit Nigeria as his guest, in order to discuss the next stage of the project. De Silveira telexed back, provisionally accepting the invitation and pointing out politely but firmly that he had not yet received reimbursement for the one million dollars spent on the initial feasibility study. The money was telexed by return from the Central Bank of Nigeria, and de Silveira managed to find four consecutive days in his calendar for “The New Federal Capital Project”: his schedule demanded that he arrive in Lagos on a Monday morning because he had to be in Paris by Thursday night at the latest.

While these thoughts were going through Eduardo’s mind, the Mercedes drew up outside Dodan Barracks. The iron gates swung open and a full armed guard gave the general salute, an honor normally afforded only to a visiting Head of State. The black Mercedes drove slowly through the gates and came to a halt outside the President’s private residence. A brigadier waited on the steps to escort de Silveira through to the President.

The two men had lunch together in a small room that closely resembled a British officers’ mess. The meal consisted of a steak that would not have been acceptable to any South American cowhand, surrounded by vegetables that reminded Eduardo of his schooldays. Still, Eduardo had never yet met a soldier who understood that a good chef was every bit as important as a good batman. During the lunch they talked in overall terms about the problems of building a whole new city in the middle of an equatorial jungle.

The provisional estimate of the cost of the project had been $1,000 million, but when de Silveira warned the President that the final outcome might well end up nearer $3,000 million, the President’s jaw dropped slightly. De Silveira had to admit that the project would be the most ambitious that Prentino International had ever tackled, but he was quick to point out to the President that the same would be true of any construction company in the world.

De Silveira, not a man to play his best card early, waited until the coffee to slip into the conversation the fact that he had just been awarded, against heavy opposition (which had included Rodriguez), the contract to build an eight-lane highway through the Amazonian jungle, which would eventually link up with the Pan-American highway, a contract second in size only to the one they were now contemplating in Nigeria. The President was impressed and inquired if the venture would not prevent de Silveira from involving himself in the new capital project.

“I’ll know the answer to that question in three days’ time,” replied the Brazilian, and agreed to a further discussion with the Head of State at the end of his visit, when he would let the President know if he was prepared to continue with the scheme.

After lunch Eduardo was driven to the Federal Palace Hotel, where the entire sixth floor had been placed at his disposal. Several complaining guests who had come to Nigeria to close deals involving mere millions had been asked to vacate their rooms at short notice to make way for de Silveira and his staff. Eduardo knew nothing of these goings-on, as there was always a room available for him wherever he arrived in the world.

The six Mercedes drew up outside the hotel, and the colonel guided his charge through the swing doors and past reception. Eduardo had not checked himself into a hotel for the past fourteen years except on those occasions when he chose to register under an assumed name, not wanting anyone to know the identity of the woman he was with.

The chairman of Prentino International walked down the center of the hotel’s main corridor and stepped into a waiting lift. His legs went weak and he suddenly felt sick. In the corner of the lift stood a stubby, balding, overweight man, who was dressed in a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt, his mouth continually opening and closing as he chewed gum. The two men stood as far apart as possible, neither showing any sign of recognition. The lift stopped at the fifth floor and Manuel Rodriguez, chairman of Rodriguez International S.A., stepped out, leaving behind him the man who had been his bitter rival for thirty years.

Eduardo held on to the rail in the lift to steady himself because he still felt dizzy. How he despised that uneducated self-made upstart whose family of four half-brothers, all by different fathers, claimed they now ran the largest construction company in Brazil. Both men were as interested in the other’s failure as they were in their own success.

Eduardo was somewhat puzzled to know what Rodriguez could possibly be doing in Lagos for he felt certain that his rival had not come into contact with the Nigerian President. After all, Eduardo had never collected the rent on a small house in Rio that was occupied by the mistress of a very senior official in the government’s protocol department. And the man’s only task was to be certain that Rodriguez was not invited to any function attended by a visiting dignitary when in Brazil. The continual absence of Rodriguez from these state occasions ensured the absentmindedness of Eduardo’s rent collector in Rio.

Eduardo would never have admitted to anyone that Rodriguez’s presence worried him, but he nevertheless resolved to find out immediately what had brought his old enemy to Nigeria. Once he reached his suite de Silveira instructed his private secretary to check what Manuel Rodriguez was up to. Eduardo was prepared to fly on to Paris immediately if Rodriguez turned out to be involved in any way with the new capital project, and one young lady in Rio would suddenly find herself looking for other accommodations.

Within an hour his private secretary returned with the information his chairman had requested. Rodriguez, he had discovered, was in Nigeria to tender for the contract to construct a new port in Lagos and was apparently not involved in any way with the new capital, and in fact was still trying to arrange a meeting with the President.

“Which minister is in charge of the ports and when am I due to see him?” asked de Silveira.

The secretary delved into his appointments file. “The Minister of Transport,” the secretary said. “You have an appointment with him at nine o’clock on Thursday morning.” The Nigerian Civil Service had mapped out a four-day schedule of meetings for de Silveira which included every cabinet minister involved in the new city project. “It’s the last meeting before your final discussion with the President. You then fly on to Paris.”

“Excellent. Remind me of this conversation five minutes before I see the minister and again when I talk to the President.”

The secretary made a note in the file and left.

Eduardo sat alone in his suite, going over the reports on the new capital project submitted by his experts. Some of his team were already showing signs of nervousness. One particular anxiety that always came up with a large construction contract was the principal’s ability to pay, and pay on time. Failure to be paid on time was the quickest route to bankruptcy, but since the discovery of oil in Nigeria, there seemed to be no shortage of income and certainly no shortage of people willing to spend that money on behalf of the government. These anxieties did not worry de Silveira, because he always insisted on a substantial payment in advance; otherwise he wouldn’t move himself or his vast staff one centimeter out of Brazil. However, the massive scope of this particular contract made the circumstances somewhat unusual. Eduardo realized that it would be most damaging to his international reputation if he started the assignment and then was seen not to complete it. He re-read the reports over a quiet dinner in his room and retired to bed early, having wasted an hour in vainly trying to place a call through to his wife.

De Silveira’s first appointment the next morning was with the Governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria. Eduardo wore a newly pressed suit, fresh shirt and highly polished shoes: for four days no one would see him in the same clothes. At eight forty-five there was a quiet knock on the door of his suite and the secretary opened it to find Colonel Usman standing to attention, waiting to escort Eduardo to the bank. As they were leaving the hotel Eduardo again saw Manuel Rodriguez, wearing the same pair of jeans, the same crumpled T-shirt, and probably chewing the same gum as he stepped into a BMW in front of him. De Silveira stopped scowling at the disappearing BMW only when he remembered his Thursday morning appointment with the Minister of Transport, followed by a meeting with the President.

The Governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria was in the habit of proposing how payment schedules would be met and completion orders would be guaranteed. He had never been told by anyone that if the payment was seven days overdue he could consider the contract null and void and that he could take it or leave it. The Governor would have made some comment if Abuja had not been the President’s pet project. That position established, de Silveira went on to check the bank’s reserves, long-term deposits, overseas commitments and estimated oil revenues for the next five years. He left the Governor in what could only be described as a jelly-like state, glistening and wobbling.

Eduardo’s next appointment was an unavoidable courtesy call on the Brazilian Ambassador for lunch. He hated such functions, for he believed embassies to be fit only for cocktail parties and discussion of out-of-date trivia, neither of which he cared for. The food in such establishments was invariably bad and the company worse. It turned out to be no different on this occasion and the only profit (Eduardo considered everything in terms of profit and loss) to be derived from the encounter was the information that Manuel Rodriguez was on a short list of three for the building of the new port in Lagos and was expecting to have an audience with the President on Friday if he was awarded the contract. By Thursday morning that will be a short list of two and there will be no meeting with the President, de Silveira promised himself, and decided that that was the most he was likely to gain from the lunch — until the Ambassador added:

“Rodriguez seems most keen on seeing you awarded the new city contract at Abuja. He’s singing your praises to every minister he meets. Funny,” the Ambassador continued, “I always thought you two didn’t see eye to eye.”

Eduardo made no reply as he tried to fathom what trick Rodriguez could be up to by promoting his cause.

Eduardo spent the afternoon with the Minister of Finance and confirmed the provisional arrangements he had made with the Governor of the bank. The Minister of Finance had been forewarned by the Governor what he was to expect from an encounter with Eduardo de Silveira and that he was not to be taken aback by the Brazilian’s curt demands. De Silveira, aware that this warning would have taken place, let the poor man bargain a little and even gave way on a few minor points that he would be able to tell the President about at the next meeting of the Supreme Military Council. Eduardo left the smiling minister believing that he had scored a point or two against the formidable South American.

That evening, Eduardo dined privately with his senior advisers, who themselves were already dealing with the ministers’ officials. Each was now coming up with daily reports about the problems that would have to be faced if they worked in Nigeria. His chief engineer was quick to emphasize that skilled labor could not be hired at any price, because the Germans had already cornered the market for their extensive road projects. The financial advisers also presented a gloomy report, of international companies waiting six months or more for their checks to be cleared by the central bank. Eduardo made notes on the views they expressed but never ventured an opinion himself. His staff left him a little after eleven and he decided to take a stroll around the hotel grounds before retiring to bed. On his walk through the luxuriant tropical gardens he only just avoided a face-to-face confrontation with Manuel Rodriguez by darting behind a large Iroko plant. The little man passed by champing away at his gum, oblivious to Eduardo’s baleful glare. Eduardo informed a chattering gray parrot of his most secret thoughts: By Thursday afternoon, Rodriguez, you will be on your way back to Brazil with a suitcase full of plans that can be filed under “abortive projects.” The parrot cocked its head and screeched at Eduardo as if it had been let in on his secret. Eduardo allowed himself a smile and returned to his room.

Colonel Usman arrived on the dot of eight forty-five again the next day and Eduardo spent the morning with the Minister of Supplies and Cooperatives — or lack of them, as he commented afterward to his private secretary. The afternoon was spent with the Minister of Labor checking over the availability of unskilled workers and the total lack of skilled operatives. Eduardo was fast reaching the conclusion that despite the professed optimism of the ministers concerned, this was going to be the toughest contract he had ever tackled. There was more to be lost than money if the whole international business world stood watching him fall flat on his face. In the evening his staff reported to him once again, having solved a few old problems and unearthed some new ones. Tentatively, they had come to the conclusion that if the present regime stayed in power, there need be no serious concern over payment, as the President had earmarked the new city as a priority project. They had even heard a rumor that the army would be willing to lend-lease part of the Service Corps if there turned out to be a shortage of skilled labor. Eduardo made a note to have this point confirmed in writing by the Head of State during their final meeting the next day. But the labor problem was not what was occupying Eduardo’s thoughts as he put on his silk pajamas that night. He was chuckling at the idea of Manuel Rodriguez’s imminent and sudden departure for Brazil. Eduardo slept well.

He rose with renewed vigor the next morning, showered and put on a fresh suit. The four days were turning out to be well worth while and a single stone might yet kill two birds. By eight forty-five he was waiting impatiently for the previously punctual colonel. The colonel did not show up at eight forty-five and had still not appeared when the clock on his mantelpiece struck nine. De Silveira sent his private secretary off to find out where he was and paced angrily backward and forward through the hotel suite. His secretary returned a few minutes later in a state of panic with the information that the hotel was surrounded by armed guards. Eduardo did not panic. He had been through eight coups in his life from which he had learned one golden rule: The new regime never kills visiting foreigners, because it needs their money every bit as much as the last government. Eduardo picked up the telephone, but no one answered so he switched on the radio. A tape recording was playing:

“This is Radio Nigeria, this is Radio Nigeria. There has been a coup. General Mohammed has been overthrown and Lieutenant Colonel Dimka has assumed leadership of the new revolutionary government. Do not be afraid; remain at home and everything will be back to normal in a few hours. This is Radio Nigeria, this is Radio Nigeria. There has been a...”

Eduardo switched off the radio as two thoughts flashed through his mind. Coups always held up everything and caused chaos, so undoubtedly he had wasted the four days. But worse, would it now be possible for him even to get out of Nigeria and carry on his normal business with the rest of the world?

By lunchtime the radio was playing martial music interspersed with the tape-recorded message he soon learned by heart. Eduardo detailed all his staff to find out anything they could and to report back to him direct. They all returned with the same story: that it was impossible to get past the soldiers surrounding the hotel, so no new information could be unearthed. Eduardo swore for the first time in months. To add to his inconvenience, the hotel manager rang through to say that regretfully Mr. de Silveira would have to eat in the main dining room as there would be no room service until further notice. Eduardo went down to the dining room somewhat reluctantly, only to discover that the headwaiter showed no interest in who he was and placed him unceremoniously at a small table already occupied by three Italians. Manuel Rodriguez was seated only two tables away: Eduardo stiffened at the thought of the other man enjoying his discomfiture and then remembered it was that morning he was supposed to have seen the Minister of Ports. He ate his meal quickly despite being served slowly and when the Italians tried to make conversation with him he waved them away with his hand, feigning lack of understanding, despite the fact that he spoke their language fluently. As soon as he had finished the second course he returned to his room. His staff had only gossip to pass on and they had been unable to make contact with the Brazilian Embassy to lodge an official protest. “A lot of good an official protest will do us,” said Eduardo, slumping down in his chair. “Who do you send it to, the new regime or the old one?”

He sat alone in his room for the rest of the day, interrupted only by what he thought was the sound of gunfire in the distance. He read the New Federal Capital Project proposal and his advisers’ reports for a third time.

The next morning Eduardo, dressed in the same suit as he had worn on the day of his arrival, was greeted by his secretary with the news that the coup had been crushed; after fierce street fighting, he informed his unusually attentive chairman, the old regime had regained power but not without losses; among those killed in the uprising had been General Mohammed, the Head of State. The secretary’s news was officially confirmed on Radio Nigeria later that morning. The ringleader of the abortive coup, Lieutenant Colonel Dimka, along with one or two junior officers, had escaped, and the government had ordered a dusk-to-dawn curfew until the evil criminals were apprehended.

Pull off a coup and you’re a national hero, fail and you’re an evil criminal; in business it’s the same difference between bankruptcy and making a fortune, thought Eduardo as he listened to the news report. He was beginning to form plans in his mind for an early departure from Nigeria when the newscaster made an announcement that chilled him to the very marrow.

“While Lieutenant Colonel Dimka and his accomplices remain on the run, airports throughout the country will be closed until further notice.”

When the newscaster had finished his report, martial music was played in memory of the late General Mohammed.

Eduardo went downstairs in a flaming temper. The hotel was still surrounded by armed guards. He stared at the fleet of six empty Mercedes which was parked only ten yards beyond the soldiers’ rifles. He marched back into the foyer, irritated by the babble of different tongues coming at him from every direction. Eduardo looked around him: it was obvious that many people had been stranded in the hotel overnight and had ended up sleeping in the lounge or the bar. He checked the paperback rack in the lobby for something to read, but there were only four copies left of a tourist guide to Lagos; everything else had been sold. Authors who had not been read for years were now changing hands at a premium. Eduardo returned to his room, which was fast assuming the character of a prison, and balked at reading the New Federal Capital Project for a fourth time. He tried again to make contact with the Brazilian Ambassador to obtain special permission to leave the country since he had his own aircraft. No one answered the Embassy phone. He went down for an early lunch only to find that the dining room was once again packed to capacity. Eduardo was placed at a table with some Germans who were worrying about a contract that had been signed by the government the previous week, before the abortive coup. They were wondering if it would still be honored. Manuel Rodriguez entered the room a few minutes later and was placed at the next table.

During the afternoon, de Silveira ruefully examined his schedule for the next seven days. He had been due in Paris that morning to see the Minister of the Interior, and from there should have flown on to London to confer with the chairman of the Steel Board. His calendar was fully booked for the next ninety-two days until his family holiday in May. “I’m having this year’s holiday in Nigeria,” he commented wryly to an assistant.

What annoyed Eduardo most about the coup was the lack of communication it afforded with the outside world. He wondered what was going on in Brazil and he hated not being able to telephone or telex Paris or London to explain his absence personally. He listened addictively to Radio Nigeria on the hour every hour for any new scrap of information. At five o’clock he learned that the Supreme Military Council had elected a new President, who would address the nation on television and radio at nine o’clock that night.

Eduardo de Silveira switched on the television at eight forty-five; normally an assistant would have put it on for him at one minute to nine. He sat watching a Nigerian lady giving a talk on dressmaking, followed by the weather forecast man, who supplied Eduardo with the revealing information that the temperature would continue to be hot for the next month. Eduardo’s knee was twitching up and down nervously as he waited for the address by the new President. At nine o’clock, after the national anthem had been played, the new Head of State, General Obasanjo, appeared on the screen in full dress uniform. He spoke first of the tragic death and sad loss for the nation of the late President and went on to say that his government would continue to work in the best interest of Nigeria. He looked ill at ease as he apologized to all foreign visitors who were inconvenienced by the attempted coup but went on to make it clear that the dusk-to-dawn curfew would continue until the rebel leaders were tracked down and brought to justice. He confirmed that all airports would remain closed until Lieutenant Colonel Dimka was in custody. The new President ended his statement by saying that all other forms of communication would be opened up again as soon as possible. The national anthem was played for a second time, as Eduardo thought of the millions of dollars that might be lost to him by his incarceration in that hotel room, while his private plane sat idly on the tarmac only a few miles away. One of his senior managers made book as to how long it would take for the authorities to capture Lieutenant Colonel Dimka; he did not tell de Silveira how short the odds were on a month.

Eduardo went down to the dining room in the suit he had worn the day before. A junior waiter placed him at a table with some Frenchmen who had been hoping to win a contract to drill for oil in the Niger state. Again Eduardo waved a languid hand when they tried to include him in their conversation. At that very moment he was meant to be with the French Minister of the Interior, not with some French oil drillers. He tried to concentrate on his watered-down soup, wondering how much longer it might be before it would be just water. The headwaiter appeared by his side, gesturing to the one remaining seat at the table, in which he placed Manuel Rodriguez. Still neither man gave any sign of recognizing the other. Eduardo debated with himself whether he should leave the table or carry on as if his oldest rival was still in Brazil. He decided the latter was more dignified. The Frenchmen began an argument among themselves as to when they would be able to get out of Lagos. One of them declared emphatically that he had heard on the highest authority that the government intended to track down every last one of those involved in the coup before they opened the airports and that might take up to a month.

“What?” said the two Brazilians together, in English.

“I can’t hang around here for a month,” said Eduardo.

“Neither can I,” said Manuel Rodriguez.

“You’ll have to, at least until Dimka is captured,” said one of the Frenchmen, breaking into English. “So you must both relax yourselves, yes?”

The two Brazilians continued their meal in silence. When Eduardo had finished he rose from the table and without looking directly at Rodriguez said good night in Portuguese. The old rival inclined his head in reply.

The next day brought forth no new information. The hotel remained surrounded with soldiers and by the evening Eduardo had lost his temper with every member of his staff with whom he had come into contact. He went down to dinner on his own and as he entered the dining room he saw Manuel Rodriguez sitting alone at a table in the corner. Rodriguez looked up, seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then beckoned to Eduardo. Eduardo himself hesitated before walking slowly toward Rodriguez and taking the seat opposite him. Rodriguez poured him a glass of wine. Eduardo, who rarely drank, drank it. Their conversation was stilted to begin with, but as both men consumed more wine they each began to relax in the other’s company. By the time coffee had arrived, Manuel was telling Eduardo what he could do with this godforsaken country.

“You will not stay on if you are awarded the ports contract?” inquired Eduardo.

“Not a hope,” said Rodriguez, who showed no surprise that de Silveira knew of his interest in the ports contract. “I withdrew from the short list the day before the coup. I had intended to fly back to Brazil that Thursday morning.”

“Can you say why you withdrew?”

“Labor problems mainly, and then the congestion of the ports.”

“I am not sure I understand,” said Eduardo, understanding full well but curious to learn if Rodriguez had picked up some tiny detail his own staff had missed.

Manuel Rodriguez paused to ingest the fact that the man he had viewed as his most dangerous enemy for over thirty years was now listening to his own inside information. He considered the situation for a moment while he sipped his coffee. Eduardo didn’t speak.

“To begin with, there’s a terrible shortage of skilled labor, and on top of that there’s this mad quota system.”

“Quota system?” said Eduardo innocently.

“The percentage of people from the contractor’s country which the government will allow to work in Nigeria.”

“Why should that be a problem?” said Eduardo, leaning forward.

“By law you have to employ at a ratio of fifty nationals to one foreigner, so I could only have brought over twenty-five of my top men to organize a fifty-million-dollar contract and I’d have had to make do with Nigerians at every other level. The government are cutting their own throats with the wretched system; they can’t expect unskilled men, black or white, to become experienced engineers overnight. It’s all to do with their national pride. Someone must tell them they can’t afford that sort of pride if they want to complete the job at a sensible price. That path is the surest route to bankruptcy. On top of that, the Germans have already rounded up all the best skilled labor for their road projects.”

“But surely,” said Eduardo, “you charge according to the rules, however stupid, thus covering all eventualities, and as long as you’re certain that payment is guaranteed...”

Manuel raised his hand to stop Eduardo’s flow: “That’s another problem. You can’t be certain. The government reneged on a major steel contract only last month. In so doing,” he explained, “they bankrupted a distinguished international company. So they are perfectly capable of trying the same trick with me. And if they don’t pay up, who do you sue? The Supreme Military Council?”

“And the ports problem?”

“The port is totally congested. There are one hundred and seventy ships desperate to unload their cargo with a waiting time of anything up to six months. On top of that, there is a demurrage charge of five thousand dollars a day and only perishable foods are given any priority.”

“But there’s always a way round that sort of problem,” said Eduardo, rubbing a thumb twice across the top of his fingers.

“Bribery? It doesn’t work, Eduardo. How can you possibly jump the queue when all one hundred and seventy ships have already bribed the harbor master? And don’t imagine that fixing the rent on a flat for one of his mistresses would help either,” said Rodriguez, grinning. “With that man you will have to supply the mistress as well.”

Eduardo held his breath but said nothing.

“Come to think of it,” continued Rodriguez, “if the situation becomes any worse, the harbor master will be the one man in the country who is richer than you.”

Eduardo laughed for the first time in three days.

“I tell you, Eduardo, we could make a bigger profit building a salt mine in Siberia.”

Eduardo laughed again and some of the Prentino and Rodriguez staff dining at other tables stared in disbelief at their masters.

“You were in for the big one, the new city of Abuja?” said Manuel.

“That’s right,” admitted Eduardo.

“I have done everything in my power to make sure you were awarded that contract,” said the other quietly.

“What?” said Eduardo in disbelief. “Why?”

“I thought Abuja would give the Prentino empire more headaches than even you could cope with, Eduardo, and that might possibly leave the field wide open for me at home. Think about it. Every time there’s a cutback in Nigeria, what will be the first head to roll off the chopping block? ‘The unnecessary city,’ as the locals all call it.”

“The unnecessary city?” repeated Eduardo.

“Yes, and it doesn’t help when you say you won’t move without advance payment. You know as well as I do, you will need one hundred of your best men here full time to organize such a massive enterprise. They’ll need feeding, salaries, housing, perhaps even a school and a hospital. Once they are settled down here, you can’t just pull them off the job every two weeks because the government is running late clearing the checks. It’s not practical and you know it.” Rodriguez poured Eduardo de Silveira another glass of wine.

“I had already taken that into consideration,” Eduardo said as he sipped the wine, “but I thought that with the support of the Head of State...”

“The late Head of State—”

“I take your point, Manuel.”

“Maybe the next Head of State will also back you, but what about the one after that? Nigeria has had three coups in the past three years.”

Eduardo remained silent for a moment.

“Do you play backgammon?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I must make some money while I’m here.”

Manuel laughed.

“Why don’t you come to my room,” continued de Silveira. “Though I must warn you I always manage to beat my staff.”

“Perhaps they always manage to lose,” said Manuel as he rose and grabbed the half-empty bottle of wine by its neck. Both men were laughing as they left the dining room.

After that, the two chairmen had lunch and dinner together every day. Within a week, their staff were eating at the same tables. Eduardo could be seen in the dining room without a tie while Manuel wore a shirt for the first time in years. By the end of a fortnight, the two rivals had played each other at table tennis, backgammon and bridge with the stakes set at one hundred dollars a point. At the end of each day Eduardo always seemed to end up owing Manuel about a million dollars, which Manuel happily traded for the best bottle of wine left in the hotel’s cellar.

Although Lieutenant Colonel Dimka had been sighted by about forty thousand Nigerians in about as many different places, he still remained resolutely uncaptured. As the new President had insisted, airports remained closed, but communications were opened, which at least allowed Eduardo to telephone and telex Brazil. His brothers and wife were sending replies by the hour imploring Eduardo to return home at any cost: decisions on major contracts throughout the world were being held up by his absence. But Eduardo’s message back to Brazil was always the same: as long as Dimka is on the loose, the airports will remain closed.

It was on a Tuesday night during dinner that Eduardo took the trouble to explain to Manuel why Brazil had lost the World Cup in soccer. Manuel dismissed Eduardo’s outrageous claims as ill informed and prejudiced. It was the only subject on which they hadn’t agreed in the past three weeks.

“I blame the whole fiasco on Zagalo,” said Eduardo.

“No, no, you cannot blame the manager,” said Manuel. “The fault lies with our stupid selectors who know even less about the sport than you do. They should never have dropped Leao from goal and in any case we should have learned from the Argentinian defeat last year that our methods are now out of date. You must attack, attack, if you want to score goals.”

“Rubbish. We still have the surest defense in the world.”

“Which means the best result you can hope for is a 0–0 draw.”

“Never...” began Eduardo.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Eduardo looked up to see his private secretary standing by his side looking anxiously down at him.

“Yes, what’s the problem?”

“An urgent telex from Brazil, sir.”

Eduardo read the first paragraph and then asked Manuel if he would be kind enough to excuse him for a few minutes. The latter nodded politely. Eduardo left the table and as he marched through the dining room seventeen other guests left unfinished meals and followed him quickly to his suite on the top floor, where the rest of his staff were already assembled. He sat down alone in the corner of the room. No one spoke as he read through the telex carefully, suddenly realizing how many days he had been imprisoned in Lagos.

The telex was from his brother Carlos and the contents concerned the Pan-American road project through the Amazonian jungle. Prentinos had tendered for the section that ran through the middle of the Amazon jungle and had to have the bank guarantees signed and certified by midday tomorrow, Tuesday. Eduardo had quite forgotten which Tuesday it was and the document he was committed to sign by the following day’s deadline.

“What’s the problem?” Eduardo asked his private secretary. “The Banco do Brasil have already agreed with Alfredo to act as guarantors. What’s stopping Carlos from signing the agreement in my absence?”

“The Mexicans are now demanding that responsibility for the contract be shared because of the insurance problems: Lloyd’s of London will not cover the entire risk if only one company is involved. The details are all on page seven of the telex.”

Eduardo flicked quickly through the pages. He read that his brothers had already tried to put pressure on Lloyd’s, but to no avail. That’s like trying to bribe a maiden aunt into taking part in a public orgy, thought Eduardo, and he would have told them as much if he had been back in Brazil. The Mexican government was therefore insisting that the contract be shared with an international construction company acceptable to Lloyd’s if the legal documents were to be signed by the midday deadline the following day.

“Stay put,” said Eduardo to his staff, and he returned to the dining room alone, trailing the long telex behind him. Rodriguez watched him as he scurried back to their table.

“You look like a man with a problem.”

“I am,” said Eduardo. “Read that.”

Manuel’s experienced eye ran down the telex, picking out the salient points. He had tendered for the Amazon road project himself and could still recall the details. At Eduardo’s insistence, he re-read page seven.

“Mexican bandits,” he said as he returned the telex to Eduardo. “Who do they think they are, telling Eduardo de Silveira how he must conduct his business. Telex them back immediately and inform them you’re chairman of the greatest construction company in the world and they can roast in hell before you will agree to their pathetic terms. You know it’s far too late for them to go out to tender again with every other section of the highway ready to begin work. They would lose millions. Call their bluff, Eduardo.”

“I think you may be right, Manuel, but any hold-up now can only waste my time and money, so I intend to agree to their demand and look for a partner.”

“You’ll never find one at such short notice.”

“I will.”

“Who?”

Eduardo de Silveira hesitated only for a second. “You, Manuel. I want to offer Rodriguez International S.A. fifty percent of the Amazon road contract.”

Manuel Rodriguez looked up at Eduardo. It was the first time that he had not anticipated his old rival’s next move. “I suppose it might help cover the millions you owe me in table tennis debts.”

The two men laughed; then Rodriguez stood up and they shook hands gravely. De Silveira left the dining room on the run and wrote out a telex for his manager to transmit.

“Sign, accept terms, fifty percent partner will be Rodriguez International Construction S.A., Brazil.”

“If I telex that message, sir, you do realize that it’s legally binding?”

“Send it,” said Eduardo.

Eduardo returned once again to the dining room, where Manuel had ordered the finest bottle of champagne in the hotel. Just as they were calling for a second bottle, and singing a spirited version of “Esta Cheganda a hora,” Eduardo’s private secretary appeared by his side again, this time with two telexes, one from the President of the Banco do Brasil and a second from his brother Carlos. Both wanted confirmation of the agreed partner for the Amazon road project. Eduardo uncorked the second bottle of champagne without looking up at his private secretary.

“Confirm Rodriguez International Construction to the President of the bank and my brother,” he said as he filled Manuel’s empty glass. “And don’t bother me again tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” said the private secretary, and left without another word.

Neither man could recall what time he climbed into bed that night, but de Silveira was abruptly awakened from a deep sleep by his secretary early the next morning. Eduardo took a few minutes to digest the news. Lieutenant Colonel Dimka had been caught in Kano at three o’clock that morning and all the airports were now open again. Eduardo picked up the phone and dialed three digits.

“Manuel, you’ve heard the news?... Good.... Then you must fly back with me in my 707 or it may be days before you get out... One hour’s time in the lobby... See you then.”

At eight forty-five there was a quiet knock on the door and Eduardo’s secretary opened it to find Colonel Usman standing to attention, just as he had done in the days before the coup. He held a note in his hand. Eduardo tore open the envelope to find an invitation to lunch that day with the new Head of State, General Obasanjo.

“Please convey my apologies to your President,” said Eduardo, “and be kind enough to explain that I have pressing commitments to attend to in my own country.”

The colonel retired reluctantly. Eduardo dressed in the suit, shirt and tie he had worn on his first day in Nigeria and took the lift downstairs to the lobby, where he joined Manuel, who was once more wearing jeans and a T-shirt. The two chairmen left the hotel and climbed into the back of the leading Mercedes and the motorcade of six began its journey to the airport. The colonel, who now sat in front with the driver, did not venture to speak to either of the distinguished Brazilians for the entire journey. The two men, he would be able to tell the new President later, seemed to be preoccupied with a discussion on an Amazon road project and how the responsibility should be divided between their two companies.

Customs were bypassed as neither man had anything he wanted to take out of the country other than himself, and the fleet of cars came to a halt at the side of Eduardo’s blue and silver 707. The staff of both companies climbed aboard the rear section of the aircraft, also engrossed in discussion on the Amazon road project.

A corporal jumped out of the lead car and opened the back door to allow the two chairmen to walk straight up the steps and board the front section of the aircraft.

As Eduardo stepped out of the Mercedes, the Nigerian driver saluted smartly. “Goodbye, sir,” he said, revealing the large set of white teeth once again.

Eduardo said nothing.

“I hope,” said the corporal politely, “you made very big deal while you were in Nigeria.”