A Quiver Full of Arrows by Jeffrey Archer

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 hole-borers. He tried to
concentrate on his watered-down soup, wondering how much longer it would be
before it would be just water. The head waiter appeared by his side, gesturing
to the one remaining seat at the table, in which he placed Manuel Rodrigues.
Still neither man gave any sign of recognising 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 stay here for a month,” said
Eduardo.
    “Neither can 1,” said Manuel Rodrigues.
    “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 Rodrigues said goodnight in Portuguese. The old rival inclined his
head in reply to the salutation.
    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 staffwith Ilk Coup whom he had
come into contact. He went down to dinner on his own and as he entered the
dining room he saw Manuel Rodrigues sitting alone at a table in the corner.
Rodrigues looked up, seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then beckoned to
Eduardo. Eduardo himself hesitated before walking slowly towards Rodrigues and
taking the seat opposite him. Rodrigues 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 so 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 god-forsaken country.
    “You will not stay on, if you are awarded
the ports contract?” inquired Eduardo.
    “Not a hope,” said Rodrigues, 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 By back to Brazil that Thursday morning.”
    “Can you say why you withdrew?”
    “Labour 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 Rodrigues had picked up some
tiny detail his own staff had missed.
    Manuel Rodrigues 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 labour, 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 organise 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