ALL THE COPPER IN PERU by Michael Washburn

A story about contracts and commodities – all too resonant of the contemporary realities of geopolitics and the multinational corporate interests – New York prize-winning novelist and short story-writer, Michael Washburn, details the momentum of a dirty business.

Henry Bates gazed at the spreadsheets on his desk. It would be hard to say whether the Macao casino or the Bahamas hotel was in worse shape. No doubt the heavy-handedness of Beijing’s regulators had caught investors in the casino off guard, turning most of them bearish. But the luxury hotel down there in a tropical paradise should be a blue-chip asset, he thought, never mind that the Bahamas had landed on the Financial Action Task Force’s blacklist once again. If no one used the hotel itself for money laundering, then Henry could hardly imagine what anyone’s problem might be, but you do not argue with numbers on a spreadsheet.

            Leaning back in his swivel chair, Henry gazed out through the foggy window behind his desk at the damp London morning. Figures in trench coats clutched briefcases as they plodded along Oxford Street toward one or another point out there in the gray. At moments of despair, which came to Henry every day now, he got to thinking that if no one could accuse him of Schadenfreude, there must be an obverse term for what he felt: a sense of anguish about the success of others. Out there in the drizzle walked the savvy and successful. Henry lived ever on the fringes of such people.

            Enough musing for one morning, Henry thought as he reached for the phone on his desk. He asked Nina Gilmore to bring him the latest precious metals reports. The young assistant promptly came in and placed the documents on his desk with a smile. Of course the figures were available online, but it flattered Henry for someone to attend to his needs. Nina left him there, his restive eyes scanning the data. Here were no surprises. People saw gold and silver as a hedge in volatile times, but there was one metal whose performance would not falter. Those sectors of the global economy dependent on copper were in the midst of breathtaking, seemingly limitless growth. No future was conceivable without the mining, processing, shipping, and sale of ever greater volumes of this metal. If you believed that semiconductors, alloys, newfangled phones, and sleek buildings had a future, were the future, you could justify any level of bullishness on copper.

            Sipping his tea, gazing out at the gray, Henry could scarcely believe that he had once counted Arturo Manfredes, an entrepreneur who had used his connections to wring a concession out of Peru’s government and get clearances for mining, as a dear friend. To know anyone so powerful was a rare thing. He had once had his eye on a port down there in a village on Peru’s Pacific coast, within the Manfredes concession. It was just a couple of rotting piers. Yet with long-term financing in place, it could expand to accommodate larger vessels, fleets of them, Henry believed. The port would fit beautifully into the surging global trade, as copper flowed down from the mines onto ships bound for dozens of cities. Never mind that a new wave of anti-mining, pro-indigenous activism was gaining force, that protests had hit London.

            All Henry needed was a sublease, a concession within the concession. Then the investor dough would pour in and transform the disused piers into one of the busiest export points in the hemisphere. To his frustration, Arturo heard him out without seeming to listen at all, then said no and changed the subject. Weeks later, Arturo fell ill and vanished from public life, refusing to deal with anyone but a handful of relatives and lawyers. Rumor had it he was on his deathbed. The family had knives out. Lawyers would block any outside attempt to influence the disposition of the estate. Even if you could get an audience with Arturo, to try to get anything out of him now would be financial elder abuse in the eyes of the world.

            Rumors flew. One held that Jorge Vasconez, Arturo’s brash son-in-law, had moved to the top of the Manfredes business now that the old man was in no shape to make decisions. Henry found himself in an awkward position, still thinking of Arturo as a friend, not wishing to go behind the old man’s back or try to insinuate himself into family business at such a delicate moment. For months Henry had tried to put that tiny ghost of a port on the coast out of his mind. This morning, he felt desperate enough to do almost anything.

            He found Jorge’s contact information and composed a brief message. Dear Jorge, I hope that the new year finds you well. I’m wondering if you remember that time Arturo (who always speaks so highly of you)—he wrote spoke before quickly correcting himself—introduced us down at St. James’s Square two winters ago. Time waits for no one. I had some proposals that I wanted to follow up on with Arturo, but got so tied up with other projects, alas, and now I’m wondering if my sense is correct that you might be the person to pursue such lucrative prospects with given that Arturo is a bit less involved in day-to-day business (though still the sprightliest of chaps, I hear), and you by all accounts are primed for glory. Would you be up for coffee at the In and Out Club one of these days? It would just be splendid to catch up. Warm regards, Henry

            He thought of adding a line about the eco-protestors who had clogged streets in recent days and planned still larger protests, but decided it was better to keep the tone light and breezy. If he got anywhere with his pitch, they could talk about the security of CEOs and fund managers at a time of unruly protests. Right after hitting send, he summoned Nina and asked the young woman to find a list of registered speakers for the annual precious metals conference coming up the week after next. The event was always huge. A lot of things would have to be on hold until afterward. Yet it rankled just a bit when he did not get a reply to his email the next day, or the next.

            The conference was exquisitely produced, and Henry found the panel on global platinum reserves to be especially informative. As he stepped out of the auditorium onto the scarlet-carpeted hall, he spotted Charles Waddell, Keith Harrington, and Patrick Symes, hedge funders who had gotten press after engineering one of the biggest launches, commitment-wise, since the financial crisis. They stood there in the hall, talking, laughing, a few feet away from Melissa Tanner, head of the investment committee of a big pension, in conversation with a woman Henry thought he had seen at last year’s event. Here before him now were the kind of opportunities that drew people to this conference year after year.

            He walked up to Charles, Keith, and Patrick with his hand out. They reacted professionally, not smiling, but shaking his hand and asking how he found the conference. Then came a voice from up the hall.

            “I say, there he is!”

            Henry knew the voice, all right. The tone was off-putting, like that of a man on the street who has chased down a pickpocket.

            Yes, he knew the voice and the face of the man moving down the hall. It was Jorge Vasconez, son-in-law of the copper potentate, Arturo Manfredes.

            “Yes, there he is, all right! Henry Bates. This guy emailed me the other day, everyone! Thought he was so bloody smart. Thought he found the softest point of entry to slip the knife in and seize all the copper in Peru. Well, I’ve got news for him.”

            Henry could not believe what he was hearing. The three men he had approached, Melissa, everyone in the hall looked on with interest. Jorge moved so aggressively Henry thought the young man meant to hit him.

            “Now listen, Jorge—”

            “No, you listen, Henry! My father-in-law said not to pursue the Arequita concession. You thought that with him on his deathbed, you could work your charms on a newcomer to the business and get yourself a nice piece of the mining fortune. You little shard of donkey droppings. You nobody! I swear I’d like to lay one on you right here!”

            Jorge had almost gotten close enough to do just that when Melissa moved out to the middle of the hall, leaned in close, and said things that Henry could not hear. Charles, Keith, and Patrick looked at Henry as if every one of Jorge’s characterizations applied. Henry was hideous to behold. No one could hear the exchange between Jorge and Melissa, but Henry felt that only deference to her and a sense of decorum in this venue had saved him from violence, just barely. He hurried down the hall.

            That evening, Henry sat in a café off Great Russell Street, around the corner from the British Museum, sipping pinot noir, reliving that scene at the conference. Things had always been so cordial between Arturo and himself. For long hours, they had sipped tea in civilized surroundings, discussing metals markets and the state of the world. He had never acted like a gold digger, or more exactly, a copper digger. That was the last thing he was. He had never sought to get his hands on “all the copper in Peru,” he just wanted investors to park their money in an asset that would grow to have a net operating income large enough to save Henry’s career.

            All around him in the café, young people laughed, couples made toasts. The wine in Henry’s mouth felt bitter, brackish. He thought of that joke his schoolmates told. What’s the one title you never use when addressing someone named Bates? Master, of course. Master Bates, ha ha! Here was one problem he would never have. No one would ever call him master. He was desperate. He had overstepped bounds. But, damn it, there was no need for Jorge to insult him in front of all those people. No need at all. Let alone to mischaracterize Henry’s motives and aims in the way he had done. Henry was the general partner of a fund, not some high seas buccaneer or SoHo pimp. Naturally he was curious about opportunities down there on the copper coast. This was his livelihood. If he did not show initiative, vision, and keen sense, they would toss him out like yesterday’s trash. Of course of course of course—

            He slammed the glass down on the table so hard that it broke. Wine flew onto the cuffs of his suit and the dress shirt of a man at the next table. Three people came over and made him pay for the wine and the glass, then told him to leave before they summoned the police.

            On the following morning, a call came through for Henry as he sat in his swivel chair gazing out the window again. It was Hugh Leavitt, from the head office.

            “You’ve seen the NOI for the casino and the hotel? Well, good, Henry. I wonder why there isn’t a full report about this on my desk as we speak. I don’t know who your ears are in the investor community these days but from what I hear, they want an independent audit of that hotel. The rumors are all about cocaine, ecstasy, K2, and sexual improprieties with minors. Half the money in Russia’s been laundered through that hotel, Henry. So, about this audit. If there’s an adverse opinion—as I fully expect—someone will have just a wee bit of explaining to do. Not that opinions of us are going to change at this point. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve been hearing, Henry. Patrick Symes told me he never wants to see your face again!”

            Even from a man not known for his forbearance, this was withering. What Patrick Symes said, the industry took as gospel. Worse still, Henry knew what the news about the audit meant. Even without all the other terrible things he expected to happen soon, an adverse opinion in the audit of an asset he had championed meant he would never work in finance again. He would be radioactive. After Hugh was done unloading, Henry leaned so far back in his chair he nearly fell over. Gazing out the window, he thought of a line from an Ezra Pound poem about rain and wandering buses. Then he tried hard to recall the name of a man he had briefly met at a party thrown by an emerging investment manager at a loft up in Kentish Town. Two months after that gathering, the Financial Conduct Authority had announced charges against the manager, who had vanished and now, people said, was somewhere in the Canary Islands or in Syria. Henry still remembered a conversation he had at the party, not with the host but with a guest by the name of Lee Tippett, who told Henry he offered services many people wished in secret they could procure. They never exchanged cards at that party, but Henry had Lee’s number on his phone. With a few texts, he set up a meeting in a West End café. They would meet early in the evening, before people spilled out of the theaters and it got too loud to talk.

            Lee Tippett was just as Henry remembered him: a thin man with a furry face, dark matted hair, and a jaunty manner, wearing a dark trench coat over a gray-white shirt and ratty trousers. His voice was forceful, as if he spoke to keep his mind off things too sad to put into words. As they sat in the café, Henry wondered whether Lee could be an informant or a cop and have a recorder on him. How very like Henry Bates to think now about how to word what he had to say to this stranger.

            “So, I’m in a bit of a bad mood, Lee. I had a horrid experience with this young man, Jorge Vasconez. He slighted me without provocation. I hate the bastard so much, I wish he’d drop dead. Of course I would never condone doing anything illegal. Just putting this out there.”

            Clearly finding Henry pathetic, Lee grinned and took a sip of wine.

            “Of course, you’re just sharing your frustrations with me. Don’t worry, Henry. The world will only know you as the upstanding citizen you are. That guy Vasconez is a royal ass. Anyway, let’s talk business. What’s your stamp collection worth?”
            Henry knew what this ruse meant, how it inverted the roles of buyer and seller.

            “Twenty thousand.”

            Lee shook his head.

            “No, sir. I don’t know who did the appraisal but I’d say, thirty-five.”
            Henry sighed. That was a bulk of his liquid personal assets.  

            “You’re the expert. Thirty-five.”
            Lee grinned.

            “Now we’re talking. You’ll sell it all for thirty-five and find your position in the world considerably better. Henry Bates will be taking in the shows every night, not worrying about how to avoid the spillover crowds. You came to the right broker. Though just so you know, the buyer I have in mind is a little unconventional. You won’t ever actually have any contact with him. Especially after the first payment, he will be out of touch. We are all strangers here, and that’s how we remain. That’s how he prefers to work. The transaction will be in crypto, broken up into two payments.”

            Henry surmised that Lee would give him the address of a crypto wallet. He would send half the money, then someone would convert it to Monero before moving it to some other address. Soon it would be untraceable. The operative Lee had in mind would carry out the deed, then Henry would send the rest.

            “Let’s proceed.”
            That mirthless grin.

            “Like I said, you came to the right guy.”

            “I’m sure glad fate connected us.”

            It might just have been the lamest line Henry had ever spoken. He had done nothing illegal so far and did not believe Lee Tippett was an informant anyway.

            “That Vasconez prick. I hope he didn’t call you Master Bates.”

            Now it was Henry’s turn to smile.

            “Your guy’s unconventional, huh? Compared to all the other stamp collectors I’ve dealt with!”

            When Henry left the café, a drizzle flecked the pavement of Sloane Square. He wandered the streets for a while, shivering, processing the reality of it all, resenting the joy and zest in the faces of the theater crowds, before getting himself a cab back to Southampton Row. He had the crypto wallet’s address written on a napkin in his pocket. Now he had to go through with this thing.

            The crisis of conscience never came. In Henry’s mind, all his misfortunes had one catalyst. One person had brought him low, ruined his prospects, destroyed forever the name he had worked hard to burnish for decades. The next step came with astonishing ease. With a few taps on his phone, it was done.

            He spent the next few nights in one of the new Mayfair clubs where hedge funders, accountants, and law firm partners liked to unwind. In truth, he had not been totally forthcoming with Lee about the total value of his stamp collection. Henry had a bit of money in savings. He needed time and space in which to mull his next moves, and the beige and mauve carpets and tasteful lighting of the club were conducive to meditation over a glass of red wine. So he had no future in private funds. Well, most people he admired did other things with their lives. He could work for a West End theater, selling platinum memberships to people who loved the stage. Or maybe sell insurance or teach or work in a second-hand bookshop. What killed him was the idea that you could get to this point in life and live like a kid of no means. It was beyond humiliating.

            Now he heard a voice.

            “Good evening, Henry.”

            There, six feet from his table, stood Jorge Vasconez. Henry looked around for something with which to fight Jorge off. The young man, who in contrast to before did not seem angry at all, took a step closer.

            “Henry, I’d really like to apologize.”

            Henry thought this was the prelude to a nasty remark. The kind of thing you say to mess with someone, before slipping the knife in. Jorge went on.

            “I really did not mean what I said the other day. You must know what I’m going through, what we’re all dealing with, since Arturo’s health took a turn. The stress is like nothing I’ve ever known. It’s made me hypersensitive to so many things. And made me treat friendly overtures as veiled offensives.”

            Henry had no idea what to say. Nothing in Jorge’s tone was the least bit sarcastic.

            “And, you know, I’ve been at Arturo’s side a lot lately. And he speaks fondly of you. Very fondly. It’s almost like—”

            Jorge seemed to struggle to get the words out.

            “—like you’re the son he wishes he had. A really curious person. Kind and well read. Someone you can have an intelligent conversation with. And, more than that, he admires you for your willingness to take risks.”
           

            Henry nodded.

            “If you remember, Jorge, he was the one who invited me to tea—”

            “Yes. Yes, I know, Henry. Many times. And you were always on time and always had thoughtful things to say. So, again, I’m truly sorry for my outburst. And Arturo is sorry for being dismissive of your idea for the port. Try to imagine what he’s been going through since his diagnosis. Anyway, I’ve thought about this matter and discussed it with Arturo, and you know what? We’d love to make you a concessionaire.”
           

            Henry was sure he had not heard correctly. Or Lee Tippett had slipped something in his wine, he was hallucinating.

            “That’s the best idea—”
            “It’s your idea, Henry. You’re going to get there first, not some stranger to Arturo and me. We’re going to make it up to you. I know a few people you can tap for the first-round investment, and I can even pull some strings with the government down there on the licensing end. Your port will play a role in the growth of the sector and the economic transformation of Peru.”

            Jorge extended a hand. Henry shook it, hoping the younger man could not feel the vibrations from the pounding of his heart. Jorge promised to get in touch the next day, and turned to walk away. Then he froze, having just remembered something, and came back to Henry’s table.

            “Take a look at this.”
           

            He pressed buttons on his phone, summoning a video of a tiny boy, in a custom-made hat with the number “3” fashioned out of yellow metal, laughing and singing while others clapped. Henry knew who it was, but Jorge told him anyway.

            “My little boy on his birthday.”

            On the following morning, Henry had another call with Hugh Leavitt, in which he took pains to keep all smugness out of his voice as he set forth plans for the sub-concession on Peru’s coast and the timeframe for expansion. Even modest projections gave the port a net operating income far greater than that of any asset in the portfolios of other fund managers reporting to Hugh. They were all going to wish they had thought of this one and had the connections to bring it off. Hugh was civil. The noncompete clause in Henry’s contract did not last forever. There were other investment advisers out there that would love to have a man of such vision and reach on board.

            After the call, Henry went out to have lunch on Carnaby Street, then sat on the bench with the John Lennon statue, feeling the munificence of the star toward another creative soul. People turned and smiled at the sight of the Beatle with one arm slung across a stranger’s shoulders. Then it was back to the office, where word that Henry scored a coup had gotten around and Nina Gilmore, his young assistant, smiled as if she knew something no one could know she knew. He felt concern over the sympathy he had heard her voice for the poor, downtrodden miners whose advocates were out on the streets in force, voicing their fury at the industry’s executives. Now she treated him with a kind of ostentatious servility. It was deeply odd.

            Yet he loved the sound of her Mayfair accent. It was the type you heard in ads for credit cards and package tours, lending the products and services an air of worldliness and prestige.

            The press release about the port would go out the next day. Henry had never felt better, but there was the matter of the contract he had put out on Jorge’s life, and the danger that the operative might carry it out before Jorge signed any papers or got any regulatory clearances on behalf of Henry’s fund. After another hasty round of texting, he met with Lee in the West End café.

            “So look, Lee. I need to cancel the deal immediately. I don’t care if I never see the down payment again. I just want you to call it off.”

            There was no more talk of stamps. Not seriously suspecting that Lee might be an informant, Henry still took care not to say anything incriminating.

            “As I said before, Henry, I have no way of getting in touch with our counterparty at this point in time. No one ever goes to him who’s not all in. You do get that?”
            “Of course I do. If you can’t reach him, then here’s what I want to do. You know people in Jorge’s circle, yes? I want him to receive an independent security assessment of the mining situation in Peru and its consequences for industry executives globally. It should be the starkest assessment ever drawn up. It’s getting crazier every day. Those eco-lunatics, they’ll kill a CEO who doesn’t take all proper precautions. Jorge should never travel without armed escorts, bulletproof glass, panic buttons, the whole deal. Give him to know that they’re plotting something, maybe on his life specifically.”

            “I’ve never had a client like you, Henry. But if that’s what you want—”

            “Please, Lee.”

            Lee grinned.

            “Relax, Henry. You know I’m all about providing services more people would use if they weren’t afraid.”
            “Jorge Vasconez has excellent reasons to be scared.”
           

            On the weekend, the protestors turned out in force. Sitting at a table under the awning of a little bakery four blocks from his home, sipping his morning coffee, Henry thought he had never witnessed such a spirited march. Southampton Row was not that wide a street. Wave after wave of protestors moved down it carrying their homespun banners and signs with anti-mining and anti-corporate slogans. Henry found some of the images distasteful. One sign featured the visage of the current Tory leader with horns and fangs and drool coming from his mouth, another a huge skull with the eye sockets made out to look like the mouths of copper mines. Here and there amid the crowd the hammer and sickle bobbed. The adults yelled and beat drums and the kids were even noisier. Their chants decried not only the conditions in Peru’s mines, where cave-ins were common, but the slurry ponds, the smog, the chemicals that made their way into streams. Some made explicit reference to the Manfredes concession. Children cried out: “Jorge, Jorge, what d’you say? How many kids did you kill today?” Henry guessed that was fair to ask. Young people worked in the mines for almost nothing and drank contaminated water. Babies in villages downstream from the mines came into the world with birth defects. More marchers came, more still. Many looked like Londoners at an antinuke or antiwar protest, but a few had a personal connection to the issue. The bright colors of these indigenous Peruvians’ robes and beads contrasted with the gray Bloomsbury street. A few of them whirled and danced as they made their way down toward Great Russell Street, while others were somber, maybe having lost relatives in the mines.

            Henry thought they were fools with the worldview of a child. They did not bother to look at Henry, with a notable exception. A guy with flowing dark hair, clad in the bright mélange of traditional Quechua garb, turned his head as he moved, as if recognizing the middle-aged man who sat sipping coffee and watching with a sour look. A quality in this youth’s eyes conveyed recognition. The stranger appeared to find the sight of Henry every bit as distasteful as the Henry found the protest. He turned and said something to one of his companions, then passed on down the street and out of sight.

            Over the next few days, the protests grew so much in ferocity and scope that Henry twice changed his route to the office. On a dreary Thursday, he sat at his desk, studying data for a number of investments that were not doing any better than before he wrote that breezy email to Jorge Vasconez. When he looked up, Nina stood in his office. He had not heard her come in. Normally the young lady was so polite. Something odd had been happening to her of late.

            “Good morning, Nina.”

            “I—I guess you haven’t heard, sir.”

            “Did Peru declare war on us?”
            He gathered from the solemnity of her face that she really had bad news.

            “No, sir. The protests have reached Piccadilly and something terrible has happened.”

            “Tell me.”

            “They followed the limo of that copper scion, Vasconez, and they mobbed the car and started rocking it and pounding the windows. And one of them got so close to the passenger that a security man opened fire. He’s dead.”

            Henry stood straight up.

            “Who’s dead? Jorge or the protestor?”

            Nina looked taken aback.

            “I thought I made that clear. The protestor’s dead.”

            Henry eased back down into his chair, his ears burning. But he knew what he should say, even if not a word of it was true.

            “That’s a terrible tragedy. Just awful. Find out if they organize a GoFundMe or something for the family so we can make a donation.”

            She turned to go. He was not done.

            “And Nina, everyone goes to voice mail for the rest of the day except Hugh and Jorge. I need to talk to that bastard.”

            Obviously, that bastard meant either one. Henry had an urgent question on his mind, namely whether Jorge had always traveled with an armed escort or had just begun doing so thanks to a security assessment. But the real question, the one that made him want to cry, was whether whoever died today was really part of an anti-mining protest or was trying to get close enough to Jorge to fulfill a contract.

            Where was Lee Tippett when you needed him? Henry decided to text Lee, so they could arrange a meeting to discuss the next step.

            Meet for a drink this evening, eh, my good man?

            The text brought an automated reply.

            Hello, I have come to the decision to leave this world. Please do try to try to have fun in what time remains to you. Warmest regards, Lee Tippett
           

            This had to be a joke, or maybe Lee had crossed the wrong people and wanted the world to think he was dead while he went to start a new life in Perth. But the other possibility was not too outlandish to entertain. What a disturbing, depressing thing to have to contemplate. At least Lee could have been good enough to help Henry one more time before making an exit.

            A knock came at the door. Seconds later, Nina stood before his desk, holding a stack of printed pages. She had downloaded the contracts that Jorge’s lawyers sent over just now. Henry thanked her and began to pore over the documents, once again withholding any comment on her strange obsequious manner and cloying smile as she left his office. Needless to say, he had to have his own solicitor take a look at all these pages, but time waited for no one here. Tomorrow was Friday. Even if he sent everything back to Jorge’s people the next day, and he doubted it could be sooner, he was unlikely to have a fully executed version until the following week. Jorge could be dead long before then. Who knew whether the increased security that the copper scion had adopted in recent days, in response to the intelligence sent his way, had saved his life.

            The incident in Piccadilly, affirming as it did the warning that Jorge had received about increasingly militant eco-activists, might lull Jorge into thinking that the threat to his safety began and ended there. Henry had never found a way to deal with the mess of his own making, and he thought the only course now was to let Jorge know that a hitman was about to try to kill him. Lee would not be of much help.

            The phone on his desk rang. It was Hugh Leavitt.

            “This is grim, Henry. I mean, we’re still over the moon that you got this deal, good for you. But the protests are likely to get ten times worse. They’d already have come for you if they knew what Henry Bates looks like and where he works.”

            “Oh, I know, Hugh. We’ve got extra security around here—”
            “Henry. You don’t begin to appreciate how grave this is. Did you see the news just now?”

            “No, Hugh. I’ve been—”
            “The protestor was unarmed, Henry. The one who died. It was just a kid who wanted to harangue the copper lord and got too close. I don’t know what the hell sort of training Jorge’s escort had. I don’t get it. Something must have happened to make Jorge especially antsy.”

             Henry shut his eyes and rubbed his temples.

            “I don’t get it either, Hugh. I wonder what could have made his security detail have a hair-trigger reaction to the kind of stupid thing you expect to happen at protests.”

            Hugh’s tone grew even sterner.

            “I want you to talk to the BBC, Henry.”
            “What, sir?”
            “They approached us for comment. This could be our one chance to show the world that we’re culturally very different from Jorge and company, we deplore violence, we aim to develop the port in a socially conscious manner.”

            Henry laughed bitterly at the man who did his performance reviews.

            “I’ll take some acting courses, Hugh.”

            “Don’t be flip, Henry.”

            He could hear the other man’s unvoiced thought: I’m happy to appoint a new manager for the IV Fund, once all the paperwork for the port is in place. After the call, he turned to his keyboard and screen and wrote eight words.

            Dear Jorge, I have reason to believe that

            Mid-sentence, his fingers froze. He wondered whether the consequences would be worse for Henry Bates if Jorge got the email just in time to save his life, or if he did not. He deleted the draft and went back to reviewing the documents.

            The BBC reporter was as polite as they come, but something in his manner suggested that the young man was glad not to be Henry Bates. He looked at the guest sitting in a chair in a bright room at the station with wide eyes and asked his questions in a studiedly neutral tone, as if in fear of criticism from his superiors over allowing his opinions to creep in.

            “What do you say to all the people out there in the streets, calling the Manfredes copper fortune, and, by extensions, all operations and leases connected to it, illegal?”

            Expecting this question, Henry had rehearsed his answer in front of a mirror for hours.

            “I think it’s highly important for the indigenous communities to make their voices heard. We must all take a firm stand again exploitation and pollution wherever they rear their heads. Every one of us. If there is one thing I would like to impress on listeners, it is that this is a time of change at Manfredes Enterprises. The firm is now under the new leadership. Its incoming CEO has vowed to invest in the future of Peru.”

            The reporter gave Henry a quizzical look.

            “You think there will be a new direction under Jorge Vasconez? That’s not what the activists think—”

            “Tomorrow is not the past. I happen to know that Jorge’s views have evolved. I myself held mistaken assumptions about him, before I ever met the man. I wish everyone listening—I mean everyone—would understand that everything I thought I knew about Jorge was wrong. I now see him for the progressive, transformative young CEO that he is. Once again, I urge all who are listening to disregard any false judgments of Jorge’s character. Jorge is a great man.  I wish him all success as he works to build a better future for Peru!”

            Henry left the studio with a feeling of guarded hope and relief, quite at odds with the puzzled reactions of the executives.

            The next morning was busy. He sat in the swivel chair in his office with Charles Waddell and Patrick Symes, who had not been shy about voicing their interest in the port, on the other side of his desk. The three of them were poring over a chart showing various investment structures when Nina entered the office with a tray supporting three cups of tea. She set the cups down on the desk. Henry thanked her without looking up.

            “Of course. My aim is to pleasure you, Master Bates.”

            He heard her answer without hearing it. Then as the words sunk in, he looked up, surprised and baffled.

            “I mean to please you,” she corrected herself.

            “I’m sorry? How did you address me just now, Nina?”
            Charles and Patrick looked up with poker faces. Nothing could ruffle their professionalism. Nina took a step back, toward the door.

            “Well, you are my lord and master, as well as the new sovereign of Peru. It just seemed condign, Master Bates.”

            She turned and darted through the door. Henry wondered whether his whole life was some kind of macabre dream.

            “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. She’s had a death in the family. You cannot imagine the stress this young lady’s under.”
           

            He got up and followed Nina out of the office. By the time he reached the hall, she had already gotten to the elevator bank at the opposite end.

            “Nina! Where the bloody hell are you going!”

            It was the first time he had ever spoken harshly to her. Before he even knew what was happening, he was outside in the damp cold, pursuing her fleeing form up Oxford Street. Here was an unseemly spectacle, the middle-aged portfolio manager hurrying after the young woman. All he wanted to do was talk this through with her and know why she had embarrassed him in front of the investors. He felt he had a right to know. Nina turned left on Rathbone Street. Just as Henry got there, huffing, he looked up that side street and saw her move onto Stephen Mews. Up there was some kind of fashion academy, Henry knew. Panting, cursing this latest disaster in his life, he hurried onto Stephen Mews and past the entrance to the academy, then looped around onto Gresse Street heading south. He had literally run in a circle. But on Gresse, Nina stood still, expectant, with an acid look.

            “Nice of you to take an interest in something outside your bubble, Master Bates.”

            Henry was about to warn her not to call him that again, but then he saw what she saw. On this street once owned by the family of a famous British painter, someone had installed an elaborate bit of performance art. A wall of a building on your left, just before the side street leading to Tottenham Court Road, consisted of one massive image of thousands of bodies locked at the elbows as they fell toward the gaping mouth of a space that would have been entirely black if not for the tongues of flame shooting up far toward the top of the mural. The miners headed toward their deaths, yet their expressions were so blank, so neutral, so impervious to the imputation of any thought or feeling that Henry thought of the final lines of Philip Larkin’s novel, A Girl in Winter, about dreams whose passage was not sad, though of course it was. So many death-bound peons filled the space, so artfully had the mural’s creator envisioned the viewer’s position in relation to it, that the thing gave a sense of perpetual flow. To ask how many miners of all ages had died in the mines of the negligent profiteers seemed an impertinence. You could not know.

            Henry heard the chants and cries that had filled the streets the day before. Nina had picked the worst time to set foot in this part of the city. She stood there, looking at him with contempt, letting the mural speak for itself.

            “Nina. Come on, now. I know you’ve had a tough time and I’m in your corner. We can’t stay here.”

            “You are complicit in genocide, Master Bates.”
            “Now, Nina! That term is overused the point of meaninglessness. You aren’t doing any service to the real victim of genocide. Now, I won’t fire you—”

            “Then I’ll just have to up my game.”
            The shouts grew louder, tinged with the threat of violence.

            “Nina, come on, please! If you won’t come with me, I’ll just have to take out my phone and record so no one can claim I didn’t try—”
            “Oh, fuck it. I’ll do whatever gets you hard, Master Bates!”
           

            Protestors were coming up the side street between here and Tottenham. Henry could hear their feet pound the pavement. He could also hear voices to the north and west, close to the fashion school.

            “Come on now, you immature girl!”
           

            They hurried onto Stephen Street, heading for Tottenham. As soon as they entered the side street, the three advancing protestors saw them. No one could mistake these agitators for native Peruvians. They were scruffy, student-age white Londoners caught up in the chic cause of the moment. One of them, a young man in a tank top and ripped jeans and with a buzz cut, was more bloodthirsty than the others. Presumably having recognized the fund manager, he ran toward Henry and Nina, shouting “No blood for copper!”

            From the moment he had stepped out of the office, Henry had anticipated this possibility. As the agitator reached them, Henry put all his force into a right hook, timing it so perfectly that it caught the young man on the chin hard enough to make him snap backward like a rubber ball on hitting a wall. The aggressor screamed and careened backward into his two pals, who were so unready for this development that all three fell down while Henry and Nina raced to the end of the street and turned south on Tottenham, heading back for Oxford. Henry thought of King Lear’s sad, pitiful cry of Pyrrhic triumph upon the death of his daughter. Lear had killed the enemy who was hanging her. Still her betrayal of Lear was agony.

            The next morning Henry turned on the BBC channel in his flat and learned that a bullet had come through a window of Jorge Vasconez’s Mayfair residence while he stood in the kitchen, killing him instantly. There could be no doubt that the killer was a highly trained assassin. Someone who had known what he or she was doing. A reporter pressed a mike in front of the young man Henry had spotted that day on Southampton Row, whose bright Quechua garb had contrasted with the drear. The activist said that, while Jorge was not off the hook for the rape of the environment and the pollution of native communities’ water, it went without saying that all decent people abhorred violence and rejected it as a solution to complex problems. As Henry stared at the screen, a sense of disbelief clashed with feelings of inevitability. Lee Tippett had engaged a professional. The job was done. Henry reached for his phone, pressed a few keys, and sent the other half of the fee.

            When he reached the office, his voice mail and email inbox were full of urgent messages from investors. Many were upset, some barely coherent, but all needed to know one thing. Henry spent the entire morning reassuring people. Please rest assured that all the paperwork is in place. We have all suffered a terrible and tragic loss, but Jorge, the lawyers, and I worked efficiently. The port expansion will proceed on schedule.

            The next call from Hugh Leavitt was different from all those before. Never had Henry heard such politeness, not to say deference in Hugh’s voice. But Hugh was still his boss.

            “The lawyers have done a beautiful job with everything, Henry. Our next battle is on the PR front. Too many people think mining kingpins and project financiers are the scum of the earth.”

            “Well, I’m not sure they’re wrong.”

            “You will never lose that wry wit, Henry. When they lower your coffin into the ground, you’ll have a gentle smile on your face. Anyway, before that happens, I need you to do another interview. This time, a sit-down with one of the Peruvians. You’ll show the compassion and humanity—”

            “—that lie behind a seemingly faceless corporation. And let people know we’re on the side of the indigenous. I get it, Hugh.”

            “Henry, this is far more important than I think you realize.”
            “Oh, bloody hell. You’re not the one who wrung that sublease of Jorge before some eco-fanatic took his head off.”

            So he had spoken boldly. What was Hugh going to do, fire him? Everything had fallen into place with an almost eerie grace and precision. Jorge was dead and the port that Henry Bates had the vision to believe in would soon ship all the copper in Peru to the world.

            The limo came up to the curb right outside the office on Oxford Street on a blustery spring morning. It was quite a nice car, Henry thought as he stepped in. Henry had prepared at length for the interview, and thought it only proper that they should treat him like royalty.

            Not until they had reached the western edge of Piccadilly and were well on their way out of the city did Henry even think to look at the occupants of the front seats. One of them was a driver with his cap hiding the top third of his head, the other a young man he had seen more than once before. Though he wore somber attire for this occasion, the activist in the front passenger seat turned back and smiled broadly.

            A ping from Henry’s phone alerted him to a transaction. Studying the screen, he saw to his astonishment that a large sum of Bitcoin had just ended up in his crypto wallet. He had just received thirty-four thousand, five hundred pounds’ worth. It was as if someone had returned the amount he had sent Lee’s operative in two separate payments, minus a small kill fee. As if something had rendered the contract redundant. Now that was utterly confounding. Jorge Vasconez was dead, the contract fulfilled. Henry spoke to the two men in the front seat with fear in his voice.

            “Hey, guys? Where are you taking me?”

            The young man answered this question with a non sequitur.

            “Henry. Let’s talk about Peru.”