The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [196]
“He won’t like that, sir. It might expose his position, and put him right out in the open in a way that could only embarrass him.”
“I don’t give a damn about embarrassing him. We are discussing a bribe, do I have to spell it out for you, Heath? A bribe of nearly four million dollars. Have you no principles, man?”
“Yes, sir, but I would still advise you against seeing the secretary of state. He won’t want any of your conversation with Mr. Perez on the record.”
“I have run this company my way for nearly thirty years, Mr. Heath, and I shall be the judge of what I want on the record.”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
“I will see the secretary of state first thing in the morning. Kindly arrange a meeting.”
“If you insist, sir,” said David Heath resignedly.
“I insist.”
The project manager departed to his own room and a sleepless night. Early the next morning he delivered a handwritten, personal, and private letter to the minister, who sent a car around immediately for the Scottish industrialist.
Sir Hamish was driven slowly through the noisy, exuberant, bustling crowds of the city in the minister’s black Ford Galaxy with flag flying. People made way for the car respectfully. The chauffeur came to a halt outside the Ministry of Buildings and Public Works in the Paseo de la Reforma and guided Sir Hamish through the long white corridors to a waiting room. A few minutes later an assistant showed Sir Hamish through to the secretary of state and took a seat by his side. The minister, a severe-looking man who appeared to be well into his seventies, was dressed in an immaculate white suit, white shirt, and blue tie. He rose, leaned over the vast expanse of green leather, and offered his hand.
“Do have a seat, Sir Hamish.”
“Thank you,” the chairman said, feeling more at home as he took in the minister’s office; on the ceiling a large propellerlike fan revolved slowly around, making little difference to the stuffiness of the room, while hanging on the wall behind the minister was a signed picture of President José Lopez Portillo in full morning dress, and below the photo a plaque displayed a coat of arms.
“I see you were educated at Cambridge.”
“That is correct, Sir Hamish, I was at Corpus Christi for three years.”
“Then you know my country well, sir.”
“I do have many happy memories of my stays in England, Sir Hamish; in fact, I still visit London as often as my leave allows.”
“You must take a trip to Edinburgh some time.”
“I have already done so, Sir Hamish. I attended the festival on two occasions and now know why your city is described as the Athens of the North.”
“You are well informed, Minister.”
“Thank you, Sir Hamish. Now I must ask how I can help you. Your assistant’s note was rather vague.”
“First let me say, Minister, that my company is honored to be considered for the city ring-road project, and I hope that our experience of thirty years in construction, twenty of them in the Third World”—he nearly said the undeveloped countries, an expression his project manager had warned him against—“is the reason you, as minister in charge, found us the natural choice for this contract.”
“That, and your reputation for finishing a job on time at the stipulated price,” replied the secretary of state. “Only twice in your history have you returned to the principal asking for changes in the payment schedule. Once in Uganda when you were held up by Amin’s pathetic demands, and the other project, if I remember rightly, was in Bolivia, an airport, when you were unavoidably delayed for six months because of an earthquake. In both cases you completed the contract at the new price stipulated, and my advisers think you must have lost money on both occasions.” The secretary of state mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief before continuing. “I would not wish you to think my government takes these decisions of selection lightly.”
Sir Hamish was astounded by the secretary of state’s command of his brief, the more so as no prompting