The Prometheus Deception (36 page)

Manning had also emerged as a major philanthropist, albeit a controversial one. He had given hundreds of millions of dollars to help bring inner-city schools on-line, to use modern technology to help further educational goals. Parker had heard rumors, too, that Manning had anonymously given billions to help underprivileged children in the form of scholarships to institutions of higher learning.

And, of course, the business press idolized him. For all his vast wealth, he always came across as unassuming and unpretentious; he was depicted not as reclusive so much as retiring.
Barron's
once dubbed him the “Daddy Warbucks of the Information Age.”

But Parker could not shake his feeling of unease. Yes, some of it had to do with the unpalatable prospect of relinquishing control—damn it, he'd nurtured InfoMed as if it were his own child, and it pained him to think of it being reduced to a tiny component of a giant conglomerate. But there was something more than that: it was almost a clash of cultures. At the end of the day, Parker was a businessman, plain and simple. His chief investors and advisers were businessmen. They talked the language of finance: of return on invested capital, market value added. Of cost centers and profit centers. Maybe it wasn't high-minded, but it was honest and Parker could understand it. Yet that wasn't how Manning's mind seemed to work. He thought and spoke in sweeping terms—about historical forces, global trends. The fact that Systematix was immense and exceedingly profitable seemed almost incidental to him. “Look, you've never cared for visionaries,” Gupta once said to Parker, after one of their marathon strategy sessions, and no doubt he was on to something.

“I'm so pleased you could come, all of you,” Gregson Manning told his visitors, shaking their hands firmly. Manning was tall, well built, and slender, his hair dark and glossy. He was ruggedly handsome, square-jawed and broad-shouldered, with an unmistakably patrician air. His features were fine, his nose aquiline and strong, his skin unlined, nearly poreless. He radiated health, self-assurance, and, Parker had to admit to himself, charisma. He wore khakis, an open-necked white shirt, and a lightweight, cashmere blazer. He gave a warm smile, revealing white, perfect teeth. “I wouldn't be here if I didn't respect what InfoMed has accomplished, and you wouldn't be here if…” Manning trailed off, his smile widening.

“If we didn't appreciate the forty percent premium you're offering for our shares,” the rumpled, big-bellied chairman of the InfoMed board, Alex Garfield, interjected, laughing. Garfield was a venture capitalist of limited imagination who happened to have provided a much-needed infusion of cash during InfoMed's infancy. His interest in the company didn't go much beyond the terms for which he could swap his equity stake. Adam Parker didn't admire Garfield, but he always knew where he stood with him.

Manning's eyes sparkled. “Our interests converge.”

“Mr. Manning,” Parker said, “I do have some concerns—they may be moot in light of such financial considerations, but I may as well voice them.”

“Please,” said Manning with a tilt of his head.

“When you acquire InfoMed, you're not only acquiring a vast medical database, you're acquiring seven hundred dedicated employees. I'd like a sense of what's in store for them. Systematix is one of those companies that people know everything and nothing about. It's privately held, tightly controlled, and a lot of what it does is pretty damned mysterious. And the obsession with privacy can be a little unsettling, at least if you're outside it.”

“Privacy?” Manning tilted his head, his smile fading. “I think you have things precisely backward. And I would very much regret if you found our larger aims here to be mysterious.”

“I don't think anyone exactly understands your organization chart,” Parker said testily. Looking around the room, sensing the awe with which the others regarded Gregson Manning, Parker realized that his remarks were less than welcome; he also realized that this was his last opportunity to voice them.

Manning fixed him with a stare, forthright yet not unfriendly. “My friend, I do not believe in the regalia of the traditional organization, the partitions and barriers and ‘dotted-line reporting' relations. I think everyone here knows that. The key to our success at Systematix—our not inconsiderable success, I think I can say without immodesty—has been to jettison the old ways of doing things.”

“But there's a logic to any corporate structure,” Parker said, pressing the point, as the other men in the room looked at him with unfriendly stares. Even Tony Gupta reached over and put a cautioning hand on his arm. Still, Parker wasn't used to holding his tongue and he was damned if he was going to start now. “Subsidiary divisions and whatnot, there's a reason for flowcharts, I hate to say it. I just want to know how you intend to integrate the acquisition.”

Manning spoke to him as if to a slow child. “Who invented the modern corporation? Men like John D. Rockefeller of Standard Oil, and Alfred Sloan of General Motors. In the postwar era of economic expansion, you had Robert McNamara at Ford and Harold Geneen at ITT, Reginald Jones at General Electric. It was the heyday of multiplex managerial strata, with chief executives assisted by staffs of planners and auditors and operations strategists. Rigid structures were necessary to conserve and manage the scarcest resource of all, the most
valuable
asset of all: information. Now, what happens if information becomes as free and copiously available as the air we breathe or the water we drink? All that becomes unnecessary. All that gives way.”

Parker recalled a quote of Manning's that had once appeared in
Barron's
—something to the effect that the goal of Systematix was “to replace doors with windows.” And he had to admit that the man was mesmerizing, as supernally articulate as his reputation had suggested. Still, Parker stirred in his seat uneasily.
All that gives way
. “Gives way to what?”

“If the old way was vertical hierarchy, the new way is the forging of horizontal networks, cutting across organizational boundaries. We're about building a network of companies that we can
collaborate
with, not direct from above. The boundaries are down. The logic of networking puts a premium on self-monitoring, information-driven systems. Continual monitoring means we eliminate risk factors within the organizational structure and outside of it, too.” The setting sun behind Gregson Manning cast an aura around his head, adding to his unsettling intensity. “You're an entrepreneur. Look ahead of you, and what do you see? Atomized capital markets. Radically dispersed labor markets. Pyramidal organization yielding to fluid, self-organizing means of collaboration. All of which requires that we exploit connectivity, not just internally but externally as well, arriving at common strategies with our partners, extending control beyond the purview of ownership. Informational channels are recombinant. There must be transparency at all levels. I'm merely giving words to an inkling, an intuition I think we've all had about the future of capitalism.”

Parker was baffled by Manning's words. “The way you're talking, it sounds as if Systematix isn't really a corporation at all.”

“Call it what you like. When boundaries are truly permeable, there isn't anything so localizable as a traditional firm. But we've already lived through an era of managerialism answerable to no one. Ownership can only be fragmented, risk disaggregated only for so long. The poet Robert Frost said good fences make good neighbors. Well, I don't believe that. Porosity, walls you can see through, walls you can move whenever you need—that's what the world requires these days. To succeed, you've got to be able to walk through walls.” Manning paused briefly. “Which is easier when there aren't any.”

Alex Garfield turned toward his CEO. “I don't pretend to follow all this, but, Adam, the record speaks for itself. Gregson Manning doesn't have to defend himself to anyone. I think all he's saying is he doesn't believe in a collection of sealed-off business units. He's talking about integration in his own way.”

“The walls have to fall,” Manning said, sitting up very straight. “That's the reality behind the rhetoric of reengineering. You might say we're turning back the Industrial Revolution. The Industrial Revolution was about the division of work into tasks; we're trying to go from tasks to
process,
and to do so in a domain of absolute visibility.”

Frustrated, Parker pursued his line of questioning. “Yet so many of the technologies you've been investing in—these networking technologies and the rest—well, I don't understand the thinking behind it,” Parker said. “And then there's that FCC report that Systematix is about to launch another fleet of low-earth-orbit satellites. Why? There's already so much bandwidth available. Why
satellites?
”

Manning nodded as if pleased by the question. “Maybe it's time to raise our sights.”

There were grunts of assent and laughter around the room.

“I've been talking about business,” Manning went on. “But think about our own lives, too. You mentioned privacy earlier. The conventions of privacy treat the private sphere as a domain of personal freedom.” Now Manning's expression became grave. “But for many, it may be the sphere of intimate violation and abuse, neither free nor personal. The housewife who is raped and robbed at knifepoint, the man whose home has been invaded by armed marauders—ask them about the value of privacy. Information in its full amplitude means
freedom from
—freedom from violation, freedom from abuse, freedom from harm. And if Systematix can move society toward that goal, then we are talking about something we've never had before in human history—something very near to
total security
. To some degree, surveillance has played a larger part in our lives, and I'm proud of the role we've had in that—the cameras in elevators and subways and parks, the Nannycams and all the rest of it. And yet truly sophisticated surveillance systems, what you might call panic buttons: these things currently remain the luxuries of the rich. Well, let's
democratize
them, I say. Bring everyone into view. Jane Jacobs wrote about ‘eyes on the street,' and we can go even beyond that. The rhetoric about the global village has been just that, rhetoric, but it can be
real,
and technology can make it so.”

“That's a lot of power for one organization to take on.”

“Except that power, too, is no longer a discrete location, but a
web
of sanctions throughout society. In any case, I think you're looking at it too narrowly. Once truly meaningful safety and security become pervasive, all of us end up finally having power over our own lives.”

Manning was interrupted by a knock; his personal assistant stood at the door looking concerned.

“Yes, Daniel?” Manning asked, surprised by the intrusion.

“A phone call, sir.”

“Not a good moment.” Manning smiled.

The young assistant coughed quietly. “The Oval Office, sir. The president says it's urgent.”

Manning turned to the assembled. “You'll forgive me, then. I'll be right back.”

*   *   *

In his large, hexagonal office, sun-bathed yet cool, Manning settled into his chair and put the president on the speakerphone. “I'm here, Mr. President,” he said.

“Listen, Greg, you know I wouldn't bother you if it weren't important. But we need a favor. There's a pattern to the terrorism, and we've got a missing link in the skies over Lille, in France. A dozen American businessmen were killed in that tragedy. Yet none of our satellites were overhead at the right time. The French government's been hammering us for years to stop the overflights, stop invading the privacy of their citizens, so the eyes are usually switched off over that segment of the continent. Or so my experts tell me, it's all Greek to me. But they're telling me that Systematix satellites were in position. They'd have the imagery we need.”

“Mr. President, you recognize that our satellites haven't been approved for photo reconnaissance. They're strictly licensed for telecommunications, digital telephony.”

“I know that's what your people told Corelli's guys.”

“But it was your administration that decided to restrict nongovernmental surveillance instrumentation.” As Manning spoke, his eyes drifted toward a photograph of his daughter on his desk: a sandy-haired girl with a dreamy, giddy smile, as if she were laughing at a private joke.

“If you want me to eat crow, Greg, I will. I'm not too proud to beg. But goddamn it, this is serious. We need what you've got. For Chrissakes, cut me some slack. I haven't forgotten what you've done for me in the past, and I won't forget this.”

Manning paused, allowing a few seconds of silence to elapse. “Have your NSA techies call Partovi at my office. We'll transmit whatever we've got.”

“I appreciate it,” President Davis said hoarsely.

“I'm just as concerned about the problem as you are,” Manning said, his eyes lingering again on the sandy-haired little girl. He and his wife had named her Ariel, and she had indeed been a creature of magic. “We've all got to pull together.”

“Understood,” the president said, awkward in his importuning. “Understood. I knew you'd come through for me.”

“We're all in this together, Mr. President.”

Ariel's laugh had been like the tinkle of a music box, he remembered, and his mind, usually so tightly focused, began wandering.

“Good-bye, Gregson. And thank you.”

It occurred to Manning, as he switched off the speakerphone, that he'd never heard President Malcolm Davis sound so strained. A taste of misfortune could do that to a man.

SIXTEEN

The pension was in a seedy area of Brussels, the Marolles, a refuge for the city's poor and disenfranchised. Many of the seventeenth-century buildings were crumbling, collapsing bit by bit. The impoverished residents of the tenements were mostly Mediterranean immigrants, many of them Maghrebis. A stout, suspicious Maghrebi woman was the proprietor of the pension La Samaritaine, perched glumly behind a desk in the dark, malodorous warren that served as the hotel's lobby. Her customary clientele were transients and petty criminals and destitute immigrants; she regarded the too-respectable-looking man who arrived in the middle of the night with minimal luggage, wearing good clothes, as peculiarly out of place here, and therefore suspect.