The Saboteurs by Clive Cussler (top 10 best books of all time .TXT) 📗

and poured some of the frothing wine into a flute. “Might as well send up another bottle of this. The old São Paulo isn’t known for her wine cellars.”

“Of course.” With that, the hotelier and porter departed, well tipped by Kohl for their efforts.

Dreissen ate dinner in his suite and was cracking the second bottle of champagne when his expected guest knocked, and Kohl opened the door. The Argentine Foreign Minister wore a black suit but no hat. His name was Matias Guzman. Unlike the ruggedly built Dreissen, Guzman was willow thin, with a wisp of a mustache and the hands of a pianist. Like Dreissen, he had a formidable mind and was a strategic thinker. Their occasional games of chess usually left both men exhausted.

Dreissen stood from the dining table and strode over to shake his friend’s hand. Guzman clasped the German’s shoulder in an extra display of affection. “It is good to see you, Otto. It has been far too long since you’ve come to the Paris of the Americas.”

“When you work for my family, you go where they tell you.”

They sat, and Dreissen poured some champagne.

“Am I to understand we are celebrating your recent success?” Guzman asked, saluting Dreissen with his flute.

“My success?”

“Rumors out of Manaus say you secured a lucrative contract for all of Don Antônio Oliveira’s rubber harvest for this year and next.”

“That is true. Essenwerks’s new automotive division will now be able to supply all its own tires.”

“There was also a rumor that the French representative from Michelin had the inside track for those contracts and that he was found dead, floating in the Amazon River. Rather lucky for you.”

Dreissen said, deadpan, “I tend to make my own luck.”

That statement, and all its potential meaning, hung in the air for several seconds. Guzman finally said, “What brings you to BA? Your telegram was rather cryptic. And why meet here under a false pretense rather than my office?”

“Does anyone know you’re here?”

“Of course they do. My mistress and I had dinner here at the hotel. She’s downstairs, sulking in our room, because I left her.” Guzman saw a shadow of concern in his host’s face. “This is Latin America. Friday nights are for the girlfriend, before you go to the country house to spend the weekend with the wife and kids. Surely you know this.”

“I do, but I’d rather no one can link the two of us being at the same hotel together.”

“You worry too much.” Guzman set his drink aside, then said, “Tell me why all the cloak-and-dagger.”

Dreissen ignored the inquiry. “I noticed the port is even busier now than during my last visit.”

Guzman leaned back, recognizing early on that their conversation may turn out as exhausting as one of their marathon chess matches. “It is. Exports are up three percent over last year. We are seeing a record number of immigrants coming from Europe to try their hand at a better life here.”

“And imports?” Dreissen knew well it was a touchy subject.

“Also up,” Guzman said a little tightly.

“And foreign investments? I see the subway is scheduled to open this year. It was built with English money, yes?”

“You know it was. And to answer your question, we receive plenty of foreign capital.”

“Do you, though?” Dreissen asked, an eyebrow cocked over a bright gray eye. “Railroad construction is down dramatically because all the profitable lines have already been laid. You are now forced to offer very generous terms to lure investors to install track to the more remote reaches of the interior. The best lands have already been put under the plow and converted to agriculture. Meanwhile, few European investors are interested in bringing manufacturing to your country. You lack indigenous coal or petroleum, so it makes no sense for anyone to open an energy-intensive factory.”

The Minister’s mouth tightened. “Your point?”

“My point is, your investors have turned Argentina into exactly what they need, a market for their expensive manufactured goods while at the same time a supplier of good-quality but inexpensive beef, mutton, and other agricultural goods. You’ve gained your independence from Spain, certainly, but your nation remains a colonial state wholly dependent on Europe.”

A long moment passed as the two men stared each other down. Guzman was the first to look away. “I don’t think I would put our situation in quite those terms.”

“Harsh, but essentially true. And now the other proverbial shoe is going to drop, and any hope you have of luring manufacturing here will wither on the vine.”

Guzman nodded, knowing he’d lost the opening gambit. “The canal.”

“The estimate is, it will open a year from this August.”

“At that point they will succeed in effectively cutting off South America from international commerce as Africa had been bypassed by the building of the Suez Canal. You were the one to point that out to me, Otto.”

“I recall our conversation. Except for South Africa, there is so little investment taking place there that it will remain colonized and impoverished for generations. The Suez Canal is why my family doesn’t have a representative in Africa the way we do in America, Argentina, and in the Orient.”

“And you’re certain the same will happen here?”

“We’ve talked about it in the past,” Dreissen reminded him. “The newly discovered oil fields around Maracaibo in Venezuela may prove out, giving them something the states of the northern bloc will want, but for the rest of South America, the economies will contract markedly without outside investment. You’ll be in a stranglehold from which there is no escape.”

Guzman cursed the Americans in no uncertain terms and stood quickly, clearly agitated, for he knew his host was correct. The canal was going to isolate South America as if the entire continent ceased to exist. Clasping his hands behind his back, he paced the suite for a moment. Dreissen clearly saw how much Guzman loved his country, and the Foreign Minister was good enough at his job to see the inevitable failure it would become. He liked that Guzman’s passions were so easily inflamed.