Bandwidth (12 page)

“I guess I’ll wait for the next bubble then.”

“It won’t be bandwidth and it won’t be water, I’ll tell you that right now. And that’s what you do, Peter. You need to strike now before someone decides to come in and regulate this stuff.” “Look, Timmermans and Michelle can do what they want. That’s their prerogative, but I’m going to pass.”

“But why? It could mean a lot of money.”

“I already have a lot of money.”

“That’s true, but wouldn’t more be nice?”

“Possibly.”

Vaughn was irritated. Aaron had sent him to Amsterdam to slap the kid around with dollar bills and now the kid wasn’t playing ball.

“Timmermans and Michelle will be surprised. Cannondale will be surprised. He doesn’t want there to be ill will between the three of you. He wants to make sure that you guys share in the glory of what you’re creating here.”

“That’s generous for a guy who has never set foot in this office.”

“He’s a busy man.”

“Yeah, very busy.”

“Look, I don’t have time for this, Peter. The offer is on the table. Do you want it?”

Peter stared at Vaughn for a moment. He suspected it could amount to a lot of money.

“No.”

“Suit yourself,” Vaughn said, getting up out of the chair. “Mistake, big mistake.”

Vaughn took a quick survey of Peter’s office and shook his head. It was certainly a departure from Timmermans’. A large poster of FC Groningen’s 2005 squad dominated one wall. A blue lava lamp oozed in the corner just beneath a velvet painting of Princess Diana. There were a small set of bull horns that Peter had won at a fair, and a naked female mannequin with a man’s toupee glued where her pubic hair should have been.

“Nice toupee,” Vaughn said.

“Thanks. Give my best to Cannondale.”

Hayden was in a cab heading to his apartment in New York when his Blackberry started chirping.

“Hayden?”

“This is Hayden. Who’s this?”

“It’s Michelle – Michelle Vandermullen.”

Hayden paused for a moment.
Michelle from Cheyenne?
She

sounded like she had been crying.

“Michelle, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I’m in New York. Can we meet?”

“Of course. Where?”

“The Oak Room at the Plaza.”

“Give me 30 minutes.”

What was Michelle doing in New York? Did she come over with Timmermans? Was Aaron in town?
He’d soon find out.

He spotted her in the back of the bar in one of the comfortable leather chairs at a table for two. She was nursing a martini — straight up, olives. It was just one more thing Hayden liked about her.

“Michelle.”

She smiled a worried smile and motioned for Hayden to sit down.

A waiter came over.

“Drink, sir?”

“Bourbon and ginger.”

“Michelle, what are you doing in New York? Is Timmermans here? Aaron?”

“No, neither of them. I had to get away, Hayden.”

“Away from what?”

“Cheyenne, Timmermans, Peter, Aaron – the whole thing. It’s …”

“It’s what?”

“It’s all consuming. It’s all I work on. I needed a holiday. I needed to be anonymous.”

“New York’s a good place for that, unless you’re famous,” Hayden said, trying to make a joke. Michelle flashed a half-hearted smile, as if to say “nice try.” She was so damn pretty — thin, but not too thin; great shoulders, long neck. The way she ate the olives was borderline erotic.

“Things are going well at Cheyenne, no?” Hayden asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

“Too well.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re making a lot of money, Hayden. A lot of money.” “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, in principle.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“What is it that you say – ‘the ends don’t always justify the means?’”

“That’s right. Which means are you talking about?” 

“I don’t know. It’s just the way that … well ….”

 It was a chore pulling information out of her.

“How well do you know Aaron, Hayden?”

“At this point, probably as well as anyone knows him. Why?” 

“No, I mean, do you really feel that you know him?” 

“Aaron has always been a bit of a puzzle. I think anyone who knows him would tell you that.”

“I’m under a lot of pressure to make the numbers look good, Hayden. More than I’ve ever felt.”

“Pressure from whom?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve gotten creative before, but not like this.” 

“What do you mean, Michelle?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does, Michelle. Tell me. I want to know.”

“It’s better that you don’t know, Hayden.”

“Why? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“No. They …”

“Who is ‘they?’ Tell me, Michelle. Who are you talking about?”

 “I can’t, Hayden. I can’t!” She banged her fist on the table and started to cry.

“Ok, ok, Michelle. That’s fine. I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

“Can we leave? Can we get some air? I need some air.” 

“Of course.”

Hayden opened his wallet and left cash. Michelle took her belongings. They exited onto 59
^th
Street and crossed traffic to the sidewalk along Central Park. A hansom cab was parked there. The horse had his nose in a feed bag.

“Purfect night for a ride now, isn’t it?” the Irish driver said. “Where can I take yous?”

Michelle stroked the horse’s head gently, oblivious to the driver’s question.

“$45, once around the park. What de yous say?”

Hayden shook his head as if to say “she’s not in the mood.” The man got it.

Hayden put his arm around Michelle to move her along. They walked the wall of the park, making their way to Columbus Circle.

“Hayden. Can we just sit here on the wall?”

“Sure.”

“ I mean, just sit. No words. No questions?”

“Of course.”

Michelle struggled to smile. A taxi blared. A kid on a skateboard rode past on the sidewalk stones. Tail lights flickered.

“Thank you, Hayden,” she said. She touched the side of his face the same way she had stroked the horse. Then she kissed him.

For Immediate Release: European Commission Continues Review of Cheyenne Acquisition

Amsterdam, The Netherlands and Salt Lake City, Utah
– March 16, 2006: Cheyenne B.V. today received notice that the European Commission continues to review the pending sale of the company to Lyrical, Inc.

Cheyenne remains confident that the Commission will approve the transaction, and that the sale will happen on schedule by the end of the year.

Cheyenne and Lyrical look forward to their continuing discussions with the European Commission to demonstrate the competitive benefits that the acquisition will deliver.

Last year, Cheyenne announced that it had agreed to be purchased by Lyrical, Inc. for US $300 million. For more information go to http://www.cheyenne-acquisition.com

# # #

Graham Eatwell tossed the press release in the trash. “American PR stunt,” he grumbled.

Cannondale’s people were trying to turn up the heat by cranking out press releases intimating that the Commission was likely to approve the acquisition. But that kind of tactic was not going to work on Eatwell. He’d decide on the acquisition when he was good and ready, and no bloody Yank was going to rush him.

The sun hadn’t shone in Brussels for 28 days. The city’s trench-coated inhabitants scurried from building to building on stone pavements under black umbrellas in an animated version of a Magritte canvas. Sometimes the stones would shift when stepped on and spit out a stream of water the way oysters do when they jettison waste.

That’s it
,
Brussels is one big oyster bed
, Eatwell thought to himself as he hurried down Rue Franklin, happy to have finally found an analogy for a thought he’d had for a while.

He was going to have lunch at La Trattoria, one of the many Italian places decorated in hard wood and amateur wall murals that surrounded the Berlaymont building - home of the European Commission. The Berlaymont had finally shed the enormous white sheet that had shrouded it for more than a decade like some Christo stunt, part of a project to eviscerate asbestos from the bowels of the building.

Eatwell had summoned Kuipers to eat with him.
Funny
, he thought,
when they were boys they were all about cricket bats and rugby balls
. Now it was all so serious. Eatwell had made a career of diplomacy, which in his mind was nothing more than a license to fib for one’s country, to defend it at all costs, whoever the aggressor. In his case, his borders went well beyond the White Cliffs of Dover. He was odd for a Brit. His nation was Europe, and even though affected sophistication wouldn’t allow him to gush patriotism, he was, at heart, the soppiest of flag wavers.

Kuipers was already at the table.

“Graham,” Kuipers said, standing up for the embrace. “Menno,” Eatwell said, hugging and looking Kuipers in the eye for an extended moment. “It’s tremendous to see you. What has it been, six months? Please, sit.”

“So, your star keeps rising, huh Graham?”

“Hardly.”

“Enjoy it. The kind of success you’ve been having doesn’t come around all that often.”

“Enough of me, Menno. How are you?”

“I’m well. I’m planning to retire next year.”

“You’re not? I thought you’d work until they carted you out of the office.”

“I’m bored, Graham. There are few challenges left for me. I had a privileged childhood, lived through the war, met my wife, buried my wife. I don’t feel the need to prove anything to anyone anymore.”

“I’m still saddened when I think about your Karin. How long has it been now, six years?”

“Yes, six. It’s just that I find it difficult to get excited about much of anything anymore, Graham, save our new mutual friend.”

“Cannondale?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the situation?”

“He’s got lobbyists coming to see me, Graham.”

“Me, too. Relentless. And these bloody press releases.”

“So you understand what I mean. The whole thing is beginning to get out of hand. I wish I had fully understood it earlier — the technology, I mean. I can’t help feeling responsible for allowing this thing to get into motion.”

A waiter arrived. Kuipers ordered wild boar soup as a starter, followed by Osso Buco. Eatwell ordered a caprese salad and sole meunière. They asked for a bottle of white Sancerre.

“Well, there’s no need to flog it to death, Menno. What’s done is done, and whatever progress has been made to date has no bearing on the acquisition proceedings.”

“You’re not going to let it through, are you Graham?”

“Of course not. I never had any intention of letting it through, but I can’t give that impression. I’m supposed to be steeped in objectivity, don’t you know.”

“Graham, I haven’t felt so against something in quite some time.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I feel like you and I are the only ones minding the store on this one, Graham. No one else seems to care about Cannondale. I can’t let it happen.”

“Then don’t.”

“But I’m getting pressure from a lot of directions on this. I’ve got U.S. congressmen calling my office, and I’ve got bloody German and Dutch members of the European Parliament doing Cannondale’s bidding for him. Last week, I got a rather odd, but polite letter from Riga-Tech, the Russian company that sold the satellite to Cheyenne. I’ve got the U.S. Trade Representative coming over next week threatening retaliation if we don’t maintain openness in the technology sector. Bloody U.S. Trade Representative coming over here in the name of free trade. Can you believe that? It’s as if Cannondale has his own, personal battering ram.”

The starters arrived. “Bon appetit,” said the waiter.

“By the way, what did the letter say?” asked Eatwell.

“Which letter... oh, from the Russians —Riga-Tech? It asked for clarification on our current stance. Reading between the lines, I take it they don’t get paid in full by Cannondale for their satellite until it goes up.”

“What is your current stance — public I mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s going to be tricky. There’s no real legal basis for denying Cheyenne clearance to use satellites and send signals within the Netherlands as part of its network. For Christ’s sake, Graham, Cannondale seems to have even gotten to the prime minister.”

“De Weld?”

“Yes. He’s a big Cheyenne fan these days. Thinks it’s great for competition. Thinks it’s great for the Netherlands and for Barroso’s Lisbon Agenda to promote economic growth and innovation throughout Europe. He wants to be the technological savior of the Netherlands before the next election. And he’s been spending a lot of time in Silicon Valley. I think he wishes he was part of all that. Scotland’s got Silicon Glen, England’s got Silicon Fen, DeWeld is looking to create his own little Silicon Canal.”

“Your prime minister doesn’t have the spine to stop this, Menno. But you do,
and
you’ve got the platform. You’ve got to get creative, Menno. You’re going to get steamrolled if you’re not careful. But you can’t come across as a zealot on this.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know.”

Kuipers and Eatwell ate and talked. Waiters dashed in and out of the kitchen. The hostess took a reservation on the phone. “Oui monsieur,” she said. “Á treize heures et demi. Pas de problème.” 

"I hate Frankfurt,” Timmermans said from a comfortable chair across from Hayden in the lobby of the airport hotel. “Not a damn thing to do here.” Aaron had given a speech earlier in the day at a gathering of bankers, and then immediately boarded his plane for the return to Utah. Aaron had asked Hayden to stay behind to be a fly on the wall during Timmermans’ meeting with the two men who ran the Russian satellite company, Riga-Tech. The point of the meeting was to keep up relations with the Russians. Aaron had only forked over half the money to purchase the satellite, with the agreement that the other half would come upon launch. He knew the Russians were getting antsy with the regulatory circus.