The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [49]
While these thoughts were going through Eduardo’s mind, the Mercedeses drew up outside Dodan Barracks. The iron gates swung open, and a full armed guard gave the general salute, an honor normally accorded only to a visiting head of state. The black Mercedeses 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 orderly. 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 one thousand million dollars, but when de Silveira warned the president that the final outcome might well end up nearer three thousand 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 that he had just been awarded, against heavy opposition (that had included Rodrigues), 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 undertook to have a further discussion with the head of state at the end of his visit, when he would let him 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, since there was always a room available for him wherever he arrived in the world.
The six Mercedeses drew up outside the hotel and the colonel guided his charge through the swinging 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 elevator. His legs went weak, and he suddenly felt sick. In the corner of the elevator 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 elevator stopped at the fifth floor, and Manuel Rodrigues, chairman of Rodrigues International SA, stepped out, leaving behind him the man who had been his bitter rival for thirty years.
Eduardo held on to the rail in the elevator to steady himself, for he still felt dizzy. How he