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Wait a minute, Eatwell thought. Kuipers had mentioned that Cannondale’s lobbyist, “Pettichew” or “Levichew,” someone with that kind of name, had paid him a visit. The meeting hadn’t sounded threatening, at least from the way that Kuipers had described it. In fact, Kuipers made it seem like he had skillfully danced around the man. Surely, being outwitted couldn’t have bruised the American’s ego enough to want to kill Kuipers?

He sipped his tea. Who? Who had the motive? Just then he remembered his lunch with Kuipers. The letter. Kuipers had mentioned a letter that he had received from a Russian company that was supplying Cannondale and Cheyenne with satellites. Name was “Riga-Tech.” Kuipers said the letter was “odd but polite.” He never expounded on what he meant by “odd.” Eatwell’s mind began to race. It seemed fantastic - Russian satellite company, Wild West economy, people showing up dead. Clichéd it may be, but it made sense.

The full impact of what had happened began to rain on Eatwell. Had the Russians become fearful that Kuipers wasn’t going to grant satellite rights? Good God, had Kuipers said something to them? Had they heard
Any Questions
and gotten the impression, as DeWeld had, that he, Eatwell, was prejudiced against Cheyenne? Had his slip led to Menno’s death?

What about the Swiss banker that Kuipers had mentioned — Jagmetti? Eatwell had promised his friend that he would call the man, but what was the point? Kuipers said the man would be expecting his call. Eatwell rifled through bits of paper on the counter to find the number. He couldn’t think straight.

Avenue de Tervuren was quiet. Too quiet. Then he heard it again - the car. Same drill. It pulled up in front of the apartment. The engine went silent. No doors, no voices. Eatwell peeked around the corner of the drapes. The same two orbs sat motionless.

He looked through his documents for the banker’s number. There it was — inside the coffee table book on a piece of scrap paper between pages 89 and 90. He had used it as a page marker. Just then, he heard a noise at the front door. He ran to the kitchen to get a knife and tiptoed toward the foyer. The door knob jiggled and then began to turn. Eatwell’s body coursed with adrenaline. He raised the knife into position. He was pretty good with a knife. He remembered his mandatory military duty. They had given him the full training. It had been a while, though, since he had simulated cutting a man’s throat on a stuffed dummy. And he’d never actually done it on a real human being.

Eatwell moved behind the door as it crept open. A man’s body passed over the threshold. Before the man closed the door, Eatwell rushed him in a clumsy attempt to put him in a headlock in preparation for the fatal slash across the neck. The man moaned and fell to the floor. Eatwell struggled to get clean access to the throat. He couldn’t see the face. The man kicked and tried to bite Eatwell’s hand. Something was wrong. This body, this heap, it felt familiar. It smelled familiar. It shouted, “Graham, what that hell are you doing?”

It was Derek. He had returned early from a shoot in Zambia. He looked into Eatwell’s terrified eyes.

“Graham, stop. It’s me. It’s me!”

Eatwell pushed himself away, horrified at what he had almost done. Derek gently took the knife and set it on a table. Eatwell stood up and stared at Derek.

“I’m sorry,” Eatwell said, shaking. He began to sob. 

Eatwell strolled into his office in the Commission with an assuredness that masked his concern about Kuipers’ murder, and what it might mean for him. “Never let them see your emotions,” had always been his motto. And he never did.

He was scheduled to meet with his chef de cabinet — an officious,

difficult Frenchman named Albert Janeau, who had earned his stripes as a lawyer in the French ministry of foreign affairs. Janeau was a political animal. Eatwell was impressed with his fox-like ability to maneuver in and out of tight situations. He and Eatwell had never been particularly close, but Janeau was the kind of troublemaker you wanted on your side. He also had an uncanny knack for getting into Eatwell’s brain - an essential job requirement for a chef de cabinet, but an equally uncomfortable trait at times.

Janeau would want to discuss the Cheyenne acquisition. The Frenchman had been almost giddy in recent days about his ability to creatively find a way to keep the acquisition at bay – something that Eatwell had clearly signaled him to do. The two had never articulated their mutual disdain for men like Cannondale; it was just evident. They were both hard-core socialists. Still, Eatwell was about to severely disappoint Janeau. Things had changed. Other forces were at work. He needed to stall Janeau until he figured out how he was going to play his next card. For the first time in a long time, Graham was scared.

“Monique,” Eatwell shouted out from his office.

“Yes,” his secretary said, walking in.

“Could you please have Albert come in?”

“He’s already here, sir,” she said with a slight roll of the eyes. She and Eatwell harbored a mutual annoyance at Janeau’s eagerness.

Janeau hurriedly walked into the office. “Sir,” he said, almost out of breath.

Eatwell half expected him to click his heels. “Sit down, Albert.” “Thank you, sir.”

“Albert, I’d like to talk to you about Cheyenne. It’s important. I’ve seen the helpful analysis that our lawyers put together on the proposed acquisition.”

“It is superb, Commissioner. There are some final details that need to be addressed, but I think we have an excellent case. It will be extremely difficult for the Americans to make a convincing argument in favor of the acquisition. Shall I take you through the details?”

“Not necessary.”

“Sir?”

“It’s not necessary, Albert,” Eatwell said, fixing his steel blue eyes

on Albert in a dissatisfied stare. “I’m not convinced.”

“Sir?”

“It’s leaky, Albert.”

“Leaky?”

“I’m not convinced that it is going to hold up.”

Albert glared at Eatwell, baffled. The legal analysis was one of the best he had ever supervised; he knew it instinctively. Something else was at play. His mind raced through the possibilities. Had Cannondale gotten to Eatwell? Was Eatwell susceptible to bribery? Was Eatwell getting pressure from somewhere else? What had changed?

“What are you suggesting, sir?”

“I’m suggesting that the lawyers take another crack, Albert.” “Can you offer some guidance on what changes need to be made, sir?”

“You’re a lawyer, Albert,” Eatwell shot back, “figure it out.” “But sir ...?”

“Albert. It’s just not going to fly. Okay? See this bit here,” Eatwell said, holding up his own copy of the analysis. “The whole section on the effect on the common market is flawed, Albert. Flawed. The Americans will crucify us.”

“Sir, with all due respect, you’ve seen that section before and cleared it.”

Once again, Eatwell used his penetrating eyes. He gave Albert a look that said, “Don’t make me repeat myself.” Albert was on the brink of implosion. Absolutely nothing was wrong with the section. In fact, Eatwell had complimented him on the good work weeks ago. What the hell was going on?

“Very well, sir. I’m not clear why you suddenly have an issue with that section, but I will have the lawyers fix it.”

“There’s nothing ‘sudden’ about it, Albert. I’ve taken another look at it and I’m not happy with it. Is that difficult for you to understand? Shall I explain it further?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course.”

Albert rose slowly, seething. He began to walk out of the room. “Oh, one more thing, sir,” he said, pausing. He wasn’t going to let Eatwell off that easily.

“Yes, Albert.”

“What shall I tell the staff?”

“What do you mean?”

“What shall I tell them?”

Eatwell knew what Albert was doing. He had done it before. The Frenchman had a way of delicately letting him know that he didn’t intend to shrink away, that he fully intended to add a couple of coins to the gossip machine about Eatwell’s about-face around the commission.

“Whatever you like, Albert. Whatever you like.”

Eatwell swiveled his chair around to look at Rond Point Schumann out of his window. It was a particularly sunny day in the capital of Europe. He pulled Jagmetti’s telephone number from his pocket and began to dial from his cell phone.

"Otto Jagmetti, please,” Eatwell said somewhat sheepishly.

“This is Graham Eatwell. I’m calling because …”

“I know why you’re calling.”

“Do you, now? Well that’s jolly good, then, isn’t it?” 

“Please accept my condolences. Kuipers didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

“Thank you. No, he didn’t. I imagine you saw it on the news?” “I did. Tragic.”

“Now look, I’m not clear on why Menno asked me to ring you, but …”

“Because I can help, that’s why.”

“Help with what exactly?”

“With that annoying company, Cheyenne.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Jagmetti, what interest is it of yours?”

“It’s of considerable interest to me.”

“How?”

“This is something that is better discussed in person. I will be in Brussels next week. Could we arrange dinner?”

“I suppose.”

“Good. It’s settled, then. We can finalize when I get to town.” 

“I look forward to it.”

Jagmetti imagined the puzzled, slightly worried look on Eatwell’s face as they hung up. This was going to be beautiful.

Graham and Jagmetti had agreed to meet at Atelier de Grand’ Ile in Brussels, a Russian place that smelled of burnt wood where vodka flowed freely and beautiful women, drawn by the smell of money, stood like statues on the arms of short, round men who resembled stuffed cabbages. A large, annoying man who meant well played a violin near people’s tables.

Jagmetti arrived first, as he liked to do when meeting someone for the first time. It gave him the opportunity to absorb the place. If there was one thing that made him nervous, it was the unknown. He never quite understood why people put themselves at a disadvantage by showing up to a meeting late. He carefully placed his bowler hat on the seat cushion next to him. He never liked it to be too far away.

These Russians made him uneasy – so loud, so crass. Why couldn’t they just eat like normal people? Why all the carrying on? Across the room a man with sausage fingers raised a large prawn high above his mouth to the clear amusement of his friends at the table. Jagmetti nursed a Russian Standard vodka - so clean, so pure.

“Jagmetti?” Eatwell asked quietly, walking up to the table. “Sir Eatwell.”

“Please, call me Graham. May I sit?”

“Of course.”

Eatwell motioned for a vodka from one of the waiters. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Graham. I have followed your deliberations in the mergers world since you came to Brussels.”

“Have you, now? Look, Mr. Jagmetti …”

“Otto, please.”

“Otto, look. I’m not exactly in the best frame of mind these days.

I’ve just lost a dear friend. I’ve got my cabinet breathing down my neck about … well … breathing down my neck, that’s all.” “About the Cheyenne acquisition?”

“Yes.”

“Let it go through.”

“What?” Eatwell said, startled by Jagmetti’s directness. “Let Lyrical acquire Cheyenne. It is the best course of action.”

“Forgive me, Jagmetti, but you won’t mind me saying that I think it’s a bit early for you to be offering me advice on … well … anything, frankly.”

“I understand. We have just met, but I get the impression that you decided to meet me here tonight for a reason. You didn’t come here for petty conversation. You came here because you have a problem that you need to solve – one in which your dear friend Kuipers thought I might be helpful. So rather than chit chat, or waste your time, or even give you a shoulder to cry on, I am here to offer advice, and my advice to you, sir, is to let the acquisition go through.”

Eatwell paused to take in Jagmetti’s monologue. Part of him wanted to get up from the table right then and there, but the gentleman was right, he did have a problem that needed to be solved. He hated the situation he was now in, but he knew enough to know that Kuipers had given him Jagmetti’s name for a reason. Besides, Eatwell had already decided to let the acquisition go through. This Swiss banker was simply confirming his gut on this.

“How did you know my friend Menno, Mr. Jagmetti?”

“I helped him with a problem once. He was a good man.”

The violin player made his way over to their table. Jagmetti waved him off. “Would you like to hear my thinking on this, Graham?”

“Yes. Please continue.”

“As much as it pains you, as much as every fiber of your body is telling you to block this acquisition, you must address some real issues that have been swimming in your head. Candidly, they are:

“One: Kuipers is not coming back. He would not think less of you for reversing your decision, particularly considering the circumstances.

“Two: Whomever went after Kuipers clearly wants this acquisition to happen. If anything, his death appears to have been a direct message to you. I get the impression that he would have wanted you to heed that message. You are right to think that you are probably the next target.

“Three: As you know, N-tel is looking to develop a high-bandwidth product of its own. They are one of my clients. They are desperate to understand Cheyenne’s technology. If details of Cheyenne’s technology were to somehow find their way into N-tel’s hands and Ntel were to use its breadth and competitive advantage to take on Cheyenne … well … let’s just say that knowing a good capitalist when I see one, Mr. Cannondale may be less inclined to nurture Cheyenne going forward with as much gusto as he has to date. You see, Graham, you win all the way around. You may need to do some dancing with your people in the Commission, but by doing what I have outlined, you effectively get this monkey off your back. You help transform Cheyenne into a thorn in Aaron Cannondale’s rib cage, and you put European technology back into European hands by effectively handing it over to N-tel.”