early 1980s. It made for a kind of clamorous escape from the fierce undercurrents of unrest that were edging the great South American Republic of Argentina toward outright revolution.
It was a sanctuary from the hatred of the populace, a sanctuary with sweet tea, sugary pastries, and piped tango music. And it still stands today, still frequented by Argentinian military personnel, right next to the venerable old Harrods building, that far-lost symbol of a far-lost friendship.
The Generals and the Admirals always met here pre-1982 to indulge in military plots and plans against the British government. At that time they were just working out ways to look better, to stem the engulfing tide of the seething, restless middle classes. They were trying to stay in power. So unpopular was the junta that they really needed a rabble-rousing foreign policy to hang on to their limousines.
And in so many ways the year 2010 was not much different. The shattering defeat of 1982 still rankled with the populace down all the years. And the visions of the Falkland Islands—their very own Malvinas—still stood stark before them; high, wide, and handsome, very British and now chock-full of oil.
The inflamed, reckless ambitions of a junta of long ago was just as virulent in 2010, but now it lurked in the minds of a new breed of Argentinian military officer, better equipped, better trained, and better educated.
Which was why, on this cool, sunlit Monday afternoon, two senior Argentinian officers, one a General, the other an Admiral, plus a medium-rank Cabinet minister, were sitting quietly at a corner table in the confiteria , awaiting the arrival of a Russian emissary on an obviously secretive mission.
The appointment had been arranged by the Russian embassy, but it was stressed their official would not be in residence there. And the Russians had stressed they preferred the meeting to take place somewhere discreet.
And now the Argentinians waited, staring out through the wide windows onto tony Florida Avenue, down which their visitor would probably walk from the Claridge Hotel.
And they were not kept waiting long. At 4:32 p.m., the stocky, quietly dressed Gregor Komoyedov arrived. He was in his mid-fifties, wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, and dark red tie, and carrying, as arranged, a copy of the New Yorker magazine. He stepped into the crowded confiteria and stared around. The Argentinian Minister, whose name was Freddie, turned and held up his hand. The Russian nodded and made his way through the throng to the corner table.
Freddie stood up and introduced General Eduardo Kampf and Admiral Oscar Moreno. All three of them were wearing civilian clothes, and they each shook the hand of the Russian Minister for Foreign Trade, whom the President had selected for this mission on the basis of his superior worldliness.
“I expect you would like some coffee, being a Russian,” General Kampf said and smiled.
“That would be very civilized,” replied the Russian. “Perhaps we should speak in English, your second language, I believe…?”
“No problem,” replied the General. “And I should confirm we are extremely anxious to hear your business here—your embassy was very closemouthed about it…for a minute we thought you might be declaring war!”
“Ah, you military guys, that’s all you think about. My own background is deep in the Russian oil industry, strictly commercial. To us, war is unthinkable, mainly because it gets in the way of making money!”
Everyone laughed. Mostly because the Argentinians were not yet aware of the colossal insincerity of that remark. But old Gregor was a wily Muscovite wheeler-dealer from way back. He knew how to coax a subject along gently.
The coffee and pastries arrived, and, at a nod from the Admiral, the piped tango music began to play a tad higher. “I don’t think we will be overheard,” he said. “And I am looking forward to your proposition.”
Gregor smiled. “But how do you know
It was a sanctuary from the hatred of the populace, a sanctuary with sweet tea, sugary pastries, and piped tango music. And it still stands today, still frequented by Argentinian military personnel, right next to the venerable old Harrods building, that far-lost symbol of a far-lost friendship.
The Generals and the Admirals always met here pre-1982 to indulge in military plots and plans against the British government. At that time they were just working out ways to look better, to stem the engulfing tide of the seething, restless middle classes. They were trying to stay in power. So unpopular was the junta that they really needed a rabble-rousing foreign policy to hang on to their limousines.
And in so many ways the year 2010 was not much different. The shattering defeat of 1982 still rankled with the populace down all the years. And the visions of the Falkland Islands—their very own Malvinas—still stood stark before them; high, wide, and handsome, very British and now chock-full of oil.
The inflamed, reckless ambitions of a junta of long ago was just as virulent in 2010, but now it lurked in the minds of a new breed of Argentinian military officer, better equipped, better trained, and better educated.
Which was why, on this cool, sunlit Monday afternoon, two senior Argentinian officers, one a General, the other an Admiral, plus a medium-rank Cabinet minister, were sitting quietly at a corner table in the confiteria , awaiting the arrival of a Russian emissary on an obviously secretive mission.
The appointment had been arranged by the Russian embassy, but it was stressed their official would not be in residence there. And the Russians had stressed they preferred the meeting to take place somewhere discreet.
And now the Argentinians waited, staring out through the wide windows onto tony Florida Avenue, down which their visitor would probably walk from the Claridge Hotel.
And they were not kept waiting long. At 4:32 p.m., the stocky, quietly dressed Gregor Komoyedov arrived. He was in his mid-fifties, wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, and dark red tie, and carrying, as arranged, a copy of the New Yorker magazine. He stepped into the crowded confiteria and stared around. The Argentinian Minister, whose name was Freddie, turned and held up his hand. The Russian nodded and made his way through the throng to the corner table.
Freddie stood up and introduced General Eduardo Kampf and Admiral Oscar Moreno. All three of them were wearing civilian clothes, and they each shook the hand of the Russian Minister for Foreign Trade, whom the President had selected for this mission on the basis of his superior worldliness.
“I expect you would like some coffee, being a Russian,” General Kampf said and smiled.
“That would be very civilized,” replied the Russian. “Perhaps we should speak in English, your second language, I believe…?”
“No problem,” replied the General. “And I should confirm we are extremely anxious to hear your business here—your embassy was very closemouthed about it…for a minute we thought you might be declaring war!”
“Ah, you military guys, that’s all you think about. My own background is deep in the Russian oil industry, strictly commercial. To us, war is unthinkable, mainly because it gets in the way of making money!”
Everyone laughed. Mostly because the Argentinians were not yet aware of the colossal insincerity of that remark. But old Gregor was a wily Muscovite wheeler-dealer from way back. He knew how to coax a subject along gently.
The coffee and pastries arrived, and, at a nod from the Admiral, the piped tango music began to play a tad higher. “I don’t think we will be overheard,” he said. “And I am looking forward to your proposition.”
Gregor smiled. “But how do you know
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