“For many Americans, normality still feels elusive. The dust has settled in New York, but dusty coffins still arrive from Baghdad. Regardless of our respective political stripes or what we think about the War on Terrorism, we’re involved. We have no other choice than to be involved – to be engaged.
“Bottom line, normality as we once knew it is gone. It isn’t coming back. You know, after September 11, I wondered how long it would take for things to feel right again. Of course, for those who lost loved ones, things will never feel right. But for those of us who didn’t, I think it only took several weeks to breathe again– a testament to how quickly human beings can bounce back.
“I say several weeks because that was how long the baseball season was postponed that year. I was invited to see the Yankees play in the World Series. I went out to Yankee Stadium. I bought a hot dog and a coke and a program. There’s something soothing about the act of filling in the score card with a freshly sharpened pencil. It was at that moment that I knew we were going to be okay. And we were. We are.”
Hayden smiled. He had actually been the one at the Yankees game, but he had given the anecdote to Aaron.
“So I wonder: if people can get on with their lives the way that they have, why hasn’t the market fully rebounded from the drumming it took only a few short years ago? I don’t know the answer, but like you, I want that to change.”
Aaron paused for effect.
“On a beautiful day in September of 2001, America and Americans became a little more complicated. We became a little older. But complexity and age need not lead to cynicism. That wouldn’t be in our character. Neither is defeat. Unfortunately, that’s what it feels like the markets have done – given up.
“What concerns me now, is that we continue to blame each other for what happened on 9/11. That’s not in our national character either. Within months of the single largest act of terrorism on American soil, the recriminations began – special Congressional hearings, the “independent” 9/11 commission, Bush is a liar, Valerie Plame, and on and on. The fact is, 9/11 did exactly what Osama wanted it to do – it divided us.
“Blaming ourselves has become the national obsession as of late. We must retrieve the unity that we felt right after 9/11. If we don’t, kiss this great American experiment goodbye.
“Action is what best defines our character. At our core we are doers. And what we need to do right now is get this economy back on its feet. We are rebuilding this country again — slowly, methodically, deliberately. Corporations are licking their wounds. People are buying things again ...”
Aaron was getting a good reaction. Heads nodded. People looked at each other as if to say, “The man is right.” He went on to discuss the hardships that companies would continue to face in the near term, and how it was crucial for the success of the American economy that people put their money back into the stock market, and that they carry on as they once had.
As Aaron prepared to close, Hayden saw something he hadn’t seen before in Aaron’s eyes — sincerity, not the kind of sincerity that executives feign to get them through annual shareholder meetings and analyst calls, but a deep-rooted sincerity that said, “I mean it.”
“… the Fed is doing a good job of guiding interest rates. Europe is beginning to take growth, innovation and structural reform seriously. In my industry, demand for IT software for everything from security to collaboration is bouncing back.”
The hair on Hayden’s neck rose on end. Aaron was rising to the occasion as gracefully as he ever had.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, a few short years ago our country, and all that it stands for, was attacked. People still hurt, but we must look forward, not back. The construction crews and architects are rebuilding the lower end of Manhattan as we speak. The scars on the Pentagon are beginning to fade. Democracy has a fighting chance in the Middle East, and people are investing again. They are acting. I challenge you to act. Act the best way you know how. Just act.”
The crowd clapped forcefully. It was a home run, and Aaron knew it.
“Well, old boy, you did it again,” Aaron said to Hayden as he departed the stage.
“It was all you, Aaron.”
“Nonsense. You make me look good, Hayden.”
“I’m glad it worked out.”
An invisible bond — the kind that rises up between people who go through a test together and come out smiling — began to swell inside both men. They turned to each other and shook hands. And at that moment, Hayden liked Aaron a lot. Aaron was cigarettes and booze and dancing all night long. Not liking Aaron was kind of like being a teetotaler. Aaron got the adrenaline running in you. He made you feel like you were flying, but just as you were about to let out a yell, he’d disappear, leave, or get led away by someone in the room who wanted a quick word with him.
They took the car for the long block to the Marriott at the Renaissance Center. As they entered the lobby, Tebelis — one of the Russian, Riga-Tech goons from Frankfurt — suddenly walked right by Hayden as if he’d never seen him and put out his hand to Aaron.
“You almost make me cry with dat speech of yours,” Tebelis said sarcastically.
Aaron looked stunned to see Tebelis.
“What are
you
doing here,” Aaron said dismissively.
“We must talk.”
Aaron paused and looked Tebelis up and down.
“Sorry Hayden, can you excuse us?” Aaron said, not turning his gaze from Tebelis.
“Sure,” Hayden said as Aaron and Tebelis headed for a hallway near the elevator bank.
Hayden smiled.
Nothing changes
, he thought. Just then, someone bumped him from behind.
“Sorry sir,” said a kid with a goatee wearing a phone company shirt and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He had a Walkman on his head and a tool belt big enough to take a deep sea diver to the bottom.
It was Shelly, Hayden’s former CIA colleague.
The kid smiled but didn’t make eye contact, just kept shuffling through papers on a clipboard and looking around as though he was searching for an outlet or something.
“Shelly? Jesus. Aren’t you being a bit obvious?”
“Dammit, Hayden, keep your voice down.”
“This is pathetic. Benbow’s got you checking up on me while I’m supposed to be checking up on Cannondale?”
“You could say that,” Shelly said. “Wait,” he said, pointing to the headphones. The walkman was a listening device.
“What are they saying,” Hayden asked, suddenly interested.
“The Russian is yelling at him. Says Cannondale hasn’t paid up. Dierdre, you getting this?” Shelly whispered into his lapel. “Cannondale’s telling him to calm down... take it easy. That’s this guy’s nickname, you know — ‘Easy.’”
“He’s got a nickname?”
“Oh yeah, this guy is nuts.”
“Why do they call him ‘Easy’?”
“Because when he doesn’t get his way he goes berserk. I mean crazy. The guy can snap at any moment. Two years ago, he lost it and ripped a guy’s ear off the side of his head with his bare hand.”
“His bare hand?”
“I’m not shitting you, Hayden. Shhh. Wait. He’s saying something.”
“Who?”
“Cannondale. He’s telling Easy not to worry ... everything will be taken care of. Easy is telling Cannondale he better get the money soon. Oh, Easy is leaving. He’s coming this way.”
Hayden and Shelly moved into a hallway on the other side of the elevator bank and watched the Russian cross the lobby, straighten his tie and creak his thick neck the way goodfellas do. He walked out the door and left.
Fifteen minutes later, Hayden met Aaron in the lobby for the trip to the airport. The post-speech euphoria was gone. He barely acknowledged Hayden as they walked out to the limo. And for the first time ever, Hayden thought he saw fear in Aaron’s eyes.
Aaron and Hayden got in the car as the bellman put their luggage in the trunk. They were silent during the half-hour trip to Detroit’s Metropolitan Airport. Hayden’s eyes were open to the perversity of power. He really wanted to like Aaron, but he had seen the underbelly. What is more, Hayden was completely unaware of the havoc that was about to be released in a series of digital ones and zeroes from Cody’s payload.
Graham Eatwell looked out his office window at the minions of briefcase soldiers below shuffling in and out of the EU’s bureaucratic cathedrals. He had made his decision about Cheyenne. He was going to
bless it. He had to in order to save his own neck. Though the analysis that his staff had reworked on the case was now tighter and more logical than the first version against the merger, he still had no intention of accepting it. His chef de cabinet, Albert, would go apoplectic. With the exception of the Dutch EU commissioner, who shared the Dutch Prime Minister’s desire to attract high-tech companies to the Netherlands, Eatwell’s peers would be puzzled. It would be a tough performance, but he had been on stage plenty of times before.
“Sir Eatwell, Albert is here to see you,” Monique said, peering into the office.
“Very well. Send him in.” Eatwell took a deep breath and braced himself.
“Morning, sir,” Albert said, walking quickly into the room. He had a smile on this face like a school boy who knew he had just aced a test.
“Good morning, Albert. Coffee?” Eatwell offered, pointing out the thermos and cups in the corner of the room.
“No thank you.”
“I’ll get straight to the point, Albert. I’ve read the revised analysis. It’s still not going to work for us.”
Albert was stunned. The smile on his face disappeared.
“We’ve left too many cracks for the Americans to wiggle into.”
Albert remained quiet in silent rage.
“Now I want you to know, Albert, no one is blaming you. I don’t think it’s something that you or the staff could have fixed. It comes down to facts, Albert. They have a way of getting in the way sometimes.”
Still nothing from Albert.
Eatwell paused. “Albert, I’d like you to inform the chefs de cabinet at the meeting this morning.”
Still nothing.
“Albert?”
“Very well, sir. Will that be all?”
“Come now, Albert. You must see the challenge here?”
“The meeting starts shortly, sir. I’ll need some time to prepare. Will you excuse me?”
Eatwell could see that Albert had cut the rope. From that point forth, their relationship would degenerate into a stale “yes sir, no sir” with little warmth and zero trust. It was unfortunate, but it would have to be so. Albert was replaceable; Eatwell’s well being was not.
The chefs de cabinet had their meeting. Albert reluctantly delivered the news, which sent ripples through the Commission. Had Eatwell not been so transparent in his desire to nix the Cheyenne acquisition from the start, there would be less whispering at lunchtime over veal pizzaola and Chianti at the Italian restaurants that surrounded the Berlaymont in Brussels. Had Eatwell not built such a reputation for decisiveness, few would have taken much notice. Had other members of the Commission not harbored some of the same, general antipathy toward American wealth and bravado that Eatwell did, they would not have been nearly as animated as they were right now.
But it was what it was. Eatwell would sit in a room with the other Commissioners and patiently defend his decision. He would tell them that he was no longer comfortable with the merits of the case, and that it would be wiser to let the acquisition go through and use it as a negotiating tool with the discussions they were having with the Americans on bananas and airplanes.
A German commissioner, whose government had just denied an acquisition on the assumption that Eatwell would deny the Cheyenne deal, expressed hyperbolic shock at Eatwell’s decision. Eatwell took the man to task over his lack of legal training and unfamiliarity with the facts of the case.
An Italian commissioner called Eatwell a lapdog. A French commissioner called him a coward. A handful of other commissioners remained silent, either uninterested or unwilling to use their chits on this one.
The next day the Commission issued a short press release that simply said it had approved the acquisition based on the merits of the case. Eatwell led a press conference, did some one-on-one interviews with choice journalists, and then retreated to his office to dictate a letter to the U.S. Trade Representative requesting a meeting on other trade issues.
Eatwell took solace in the fact that once again, he had made the wise decision. Once again, he was the defender of Europe. By preserving his own well-being, he had ensured that he would be around to steer the EU through future battles. How selfish it would have been for him to have taken the stubborn approach. In the end, it was a good compromise. Most important, it had gotten rid of the shadows that lurked outside of his townhouse.
He thought he might need a larger envelope. The materials were thick. Otto Jagmetti sat in his office in Zurich surprised at just how much information Timmermans had provided him about Cheyenne’s satellite. The Belgian wasn’t a model of discretion. N-tel would be thrilled with the information. It would help them better understand the system that Cheyenne was putting in place. And the more they understood about Cheyenne, the better equipped they would be to challenge it in the marketplace.
Jagmetti passed the flap of the large envelope over the moistened sponge in the glass container on his desk. He sealed it, wrote N-tel’s address on the front and didn’t include a return address. He would mail it in the morning. His phone rang. It was the Client.
“Hello. Oh yes, very good to hear from you,” Jagmetti said, walking over to his window “It’s quite pleasant in Zurich today, thank you very much. And how about by you? … I see. The satellite? Well, it is operating quite nicely, from what I understand. Well, thank you very much. Certainly … not a problem. My pleasure.”
Aaron Cannondale was in his house in Osaka when he heard the news that Brussels had approved Lyrical’s acquisition of Cheyenne.
A beautiful woman named Yuri who was part of Aaron’s permanent Osaka staff poured him a cup of green tea as he soaked in an oval wooden tub. Aaron had a smile on his face.