“Nothing like Cheyenne’s, right?”
“Not even close. My guy says they are stumbling in the dark.”
“I could have told you that, Elliot. It’s going to take them years.”
“Maybe, Aaron, but these Europeans have a way of protecting the home team, if you know what I mean. This guy Kuipers likes the stage, Aaron. He’s smitten by the limelight. He’s got fucking busts of Metternich in his office, for God’s sake. He’s basically denying us permission to use the satellite over Holland, at least for now.”
“What an idiot.”
“Nonetheless, Aaron, he’s pretty firm on this.”
“It’s me.”
“What’s you, Aaron?”
“They can’t stand the fact that an American wants to foot the bill.”
“That is a problem, Aaron. It has been from the beginning. They don’t like guys like you. You’re as toxic as Bush. Makes them crazy.”
“Have you talked to Vaughn over at Teestone yet?”
“No. I think Timmermans has though.”
“Get on the phone with them, Elliot.” Aaron looked over at Hayden, who was feigning sleep with his eyes closed. Hayden could feel Aaron’s eyes on him.
“Tell Vaughn to get moving on the announcement, Elliot. We’re going to have to crowd out Mr. Kuipers on this. I don’t care what it takes. It’s just hard to believe.”
“What is?”
“That these guys are willing to sacrifice what is inherently good for their own people for the sake of trying to act as a counterweight to the United States. Typical European pettiness.”
“It makes them feel relevant, I suppose.”
“Get on the phone with Vaughn. If there’s anyone who can push this through quickly, it’s Vaughn – Vaughn and Braun. Clear your calendar, Elliot. We’re going to London.”
The press release hit the wires at 8:00 a.m. on Thursday, December 15, 2005, New York time to give the Street time to digest it before the opening bell at 9:30.
For Immediate Release:
Lyrical, Inc. Buys Cheyenne B.V. for $300 Million
A New Generation of Bandwidth Services; Provides Unlimited Voice, Video, Data Over Municipal Water Systems; Fastest Connection Speeds in the World.
Salt Lake City, Utah and Amsterdam, The Netherlands –
Lyrical, Inc. (NASDAQ) acquired the outstanding shares of Cheyenne B.V. in an all cash deal worth $300 million, which represents a 36% premium over yesterday's closing price .
Subject to completion of the transaction and regulatory approval, Cheyenne, a global leader in communications solutions, will become a media and entertainment arm of Lyrical, Inc.
“The technology that Cheyenne is developing offers a rare glimpse of the future,” said Lyrical President, Richard Blyth. “Soon, the complaints about bandwidth limitations will be a problem of the past.”
“Lyrical brings us the kind of breadth and scale that we need at this point,” said Cheyenne CEO, Phillipe Timmermans. “Most important, our shareholders will benefit from increased synergies with one of the world's true technology powerhouses.”
Cheyenne is the world's only provider of a highly secretive technology it has developed called “STS” or “Seamless Transmission System,” which allows consumers to send and receive voice, video and data through water pipes in their homes.
Teestone Financial will act as dealer manager for the offer in the United States and as financial adviser to Lyrical. For further information about the offer, please contact Joseph Schwartz or Terence McDonald at Teestone Financial at +212.472.4376.
# # #
“Just the first volley,” Aaron beamed as he read the release on his laptop in his suite at the Savoy. Gathered around him were Pettigrew, Timmermans, Peter, Vaughn and Cheyenne’s CFO, Michelle. And then there was Hayden – Aaron’s newly minted Director of Communications. He felt like a tagalong.
“This dog is definitely gonna hunt,” Pettigrew said, patting Aaron on the back.
“Okay, Vaughn, why don’t you give us the rundown of what to expect today,” Aaron said.
Vaughn gave Aaron a perplexed look. “Aaron, I know it’s been a couple of years since anybody has been buying anything, but you’ve been through acquisitions a hundred times. You know the drill.”
“Of course I do, Vaughn, but I thought it might be nice if you explained it to some of the virgins among us today,” Aaron said, looking over at Hayden and Peter, then breaking into a broad smile. Everyone laughed.
“Well, it’s quite simple. Aaron, you will make the announcement and then do a Q&A. We’ll keep it short and sweet.”
Pettigrew nodded excitedly, as did Timmermans.
“Then you and Timmermans will do a splash of interviews – BBC, CNN, all the wires, the FT,
The New York Times
, the
Journal
,
De Telegraaf
and
NRC Handelsblad
from Holland, and a handful of other European newspapers.”
“Not
Le Monde,
right?” Pettigrew said. “Waste of time. Those guys can’t stand us.”
“No
Le Monde
, that is correct.”
“And we’re not granting any interviews to that Belgian rag,” Pettigrew said. “What’s the name of it again, Timmermans?”
“
Le Soir
.”
“That’s right, no
Le Sewer,”
Pettigrew said, intentionally mangling the name.
“It’s pronounced SOIRE, Elliot,” Timmermans repeated. The others laughed.
“SOIRE, SEWER, who gives a damn?”
Timmermans shook his head. He didn’t have much time for Pettigrew.
“After the interviews, it’s really nothing more than a big party,” Vaughn continued, “which will last until about noon, at which time, Aaron, you’ve got a brief lunch with Branson over at Virgin.”
“Love that guy,” Aaron said.
“Snap a few more pictures, shake a few more hands, thank everyone, and then we’re off to New York to do it all over again for an American audience.”
“Man, if they still flew the Rocket we’d be back in New York in a few hours. What the hell were they thinking getting rid of it?” Pettigrew said.
“The
rocket
?” Hayden asked.
“The Concorde,” Aaron explained. “That’s how we used to do these kinds of things — spend the morning in London, fly back to New York the same day in time for another dog and pony show followed by martinis at Sparks.”
“I miss that,” Pettigrew said nostalgically.
“So do I, Elliot,” Aaron said. “So do I.”
“Sounds good,” Vaughn said, straightening his tie. “Let’s do it.”
They gathered their things and made their way to the hallway, pairing up and chatting as they left. Michelle kept to herself, as she often did. Hayden was intrigued. He’d been intrigued since they first met at the restaurant in Brussels where Aaron laid out his conquest of Cheyenne.
Aaron and Vaughn huddled together on the far side of the room. Hayden paused awkwardly, not knowing whether or not he should wait for them. He made eye contact with Aaron, who shot back an emotionless stare that left Hayden cold. Aaron’s face said, “You’re excused.”
Peter, who was standing next to Hayden, leaned over and whispered, “This is going to be a circus.”
Pettigrew, whom Peter hadn’t noticed behind him, slapped him on the back and said, “Midgets and all, my friend, midgets and all.”
A pious-looking old man with a skull cap and flowing robes made his way through the early morning scrimmage of the Old City section of Sanaa.
The Yemeni sun burned away a cold mountain mist and brought
to life the earth-colored houses of the ancient place. The old man carried the traditional Yemeni jambiya dagger at this waist.
The marketplace was in full regalia. Guttural voices haggled over lambs, dried fish, mint, tomatoes, onion tops, and mangoes. Arms flailed. Women in raspberry-colored shawls laughed and gossiped as carriers from Wadi Dahr and other surrounding areas transported bundles of qat — Yemen’s universal stimulant — on their heads. In the distance, the great old friend known as Mount Nuqum put its arms around the citizens of Sanaa, as it did every day, as it had forever.
The old man passed through the market quickly, taking little notice of the sounds and smells around him. He crossed a cobblestone street as a young boy encouraged two goats to walk through a wooden door leading to the first floor of his family’s house. The street rose to a tiny square where more goats milled around unattended. The man came to a house, looked around, and went in.
The first thing he smelled as he entered the house was horse dung. Not many people kept animals in their homes anymore, but that’s where “Tulsa” was kept — the skinny filly that the young inhabitants of the house bought upon their return from the United States. Tulsa looked to see who was there.
“Kayfa halik? (How are you?),” the old man said quietly, extending his hand to her muzzle.
Tulsa snorted and bowed her head to smell the man’s palm. The man patted the animal, then climbed the stairs to the first floor. This room had a sweet smell of coffee, tobacco and dried goods. It was the storage floor. He went up to the second floor. There was a diwan, a sitting room for guests. Breathing hard, he climbed to the third floor where he found the two young men tapping furiously at their keyboards.
Colorful rugs and stuffed cushions lined the room. Incense burned in a metal bowl.
A copy of the Koran rested upon a rosewood stand in the corner. Around the outline of the window that looked onto the city was an aqd — a plaster molding with leaves and flowers and the name “Allah” deeply etched in it.
“As-salaam aleikum,” the man said to the younger men.
“Wa aleikum as-salaam,” they repeated perfunctorily, keeping their eyes on their computer screens. To them, the old man was a teacher of sorts, a mentor.
Yemen was not home to any of the three men, but it served them well. The country had always been a crossroads of sorts. It was both a frontier and a metropolis. Most important for the old man and his two missionaries, Yemen took the traditional Islamic sacredness of hospitality to heart. It was the sort of place that didn’t readily give up its secrets.
“I’m in,” Nabil, the youngest and the most talented of the two young men, said excitedly, tapping at his computer.
“Where are they on the list?” his partner, Hassan, asked.
“Step twenty-seven.”
“That’s good,” said the old man.
“We’ve spaced them out — we’ll add the patch somewhere between steps thirty-three and forty-seven,” Nabil said.
The old man nodded, pleased.
Nabil and Hassan had known each other since they were six years old in Pakistan. More than friends, they had been classmates at one of that country’s better known madrassas — sent there by their parents who wanted something more for the boys than the toil and despair that had been a fixture of their own lives.
At the madrassa, the boys relentlessly recited the Koran and lived a simple life devoted to Islamic learning, self-reliance, and absolute devotion to Allah. Initially, Nabil and Hassan disliked the madrassa – so strict, so stern, so entirely foreign from the laughter they remembered in their homes. Later, they came to understand the wisdom of their parents and embraced the teachings willingly.
The madrassa had prepared them for dealing with Allah, with hunger, with women and temptation. Neither Nabil nor Hassan could point to America on the map when the old man had offered to pay for their education in, of all places, America. Their parents were initially against it, but the old man had convinced them of the merits of his charity. Besides, the boys wouldn’t be gone long.
“It is near,” the old man said. He unfurled a carpet from the corner of the room, placed it on the ground and prostrated himself. “It is near.”
Somewhere in the mix of jet fuel and asphalt at the Salt Lake City International Airport, Hayden was pretty sure he smelled sage.
He was greeted by one of Aaron’s drivers in a black Lincoln Town
Car. London was behind them now. Wall Street was pleased by the much-needed injection that Cheyenne was giving to the market. The stories had been written and the company’s stock was soaring, as was Commissioner Eatwell’s blood pressure.
Hayden had heard from Pettigrew that Eatwell had been primed to call a press conference the same day that the deal was announced, but that he was talked out of it by his staff who thought that it would be interpreted as defensive.
Aaron had ticked the Euros off something fierce, but it didn’t seem to bother him. In fact, Aaron did what he often did when he stared adversity in the face and came out smiling – he sent out party invitations. Hayden felt compelled to attend.
The car pulled through the gate and onto the half-mile stretch of road leading up to Kshanti. Along the way, gardeners and landscapers turned their heads to see who it was. It was sunny, about 76 degrees. Orthanel, Aaron’s manservant, waited at the door. He was one of Hayden’s favorite fixtures of Kshanti, mainly because he was so out of place. Orthanel was from one of those isolated sea islands on the Carolina coast where blacks still spoke Gullah, an archaic almost Elizabethan form of English mixed with Creole and a few West African dialects. His father had been a sharecropper. Orthanel picked cotton, too, until someone suggested that he put his face to use in the movies. So he did. He played bit parts — slaves, Indians, clowns, drunks, Uncle Toms, shoeshine boys, shrimpers, Egyptians, and butlers. And yet he was never really discovered.
“Mr. Hayden, how you been?”
“Not bad, Orthanel. You?”
“Not bad, not bad at all. Thanks for askin’, but I got the gout in
my big toe.”
“Ouch. What are you doing for it?”
“Doctor gave me some pills, but they ain’t workin’. Chocolate
fudge ice cream seems to help,” Orthenel said with a smile that slowly broadened across his face. “Mr. Cannondale is expecting you. He has house guests. I’ll bring you to him.”
“Not necessary, Orthanel, I know the way. China Room?” “Yes sir.”
Hayden walked through two broad hallways to a thick wooden
door which led outside to the cloisters — possibly his favorite place in Kshanti. Aaron had brought them over, stone by stone, from an abandoned monastery in the south of France. At the center of the cloisters was a Biblical garden where Aaron had the gardener plant flora specifically mentioned in the good book. Aaron wasn’t the least bit religious; he just liked the concept of having a Biblical garden.