Family Trust

by Kathy Wang

  “See you,” Camilla said, in a clouded voice. “Drive safe.”

  Kate was already in the Subaru, driving forward, when the large shaggy object came hurtling at her. At first she thought it was some sort of animal and automatically braked, with force. Strands of blond hair flew at the windshield, as tufts of shearling excitedly bounced. A set of hands materialized in front.

  “Jesus!” Kate yelled. She rolled down the window. “Hey! Stop! What are you doing?”

  “Kate!” Camilla cried. She waved frantically. “I won’t talk to Denny again, I promise! I realized I maybe didn’t even say sorry to you, and that’s why you left. I’m sorry!”

  “I know you’re sorry,” Kate said. She was still breathing heavily, the shock of thinking she’d nearly hit an animal not having yet departed. It had started to rain, and she turned on the windshield wipers. “Thanks,” she said. “Now I have to go home.”

  She kept her eyes firmly forward, concentrating on the back-and-forth movement of the wipers, until she heard Camilla turn away from the car. Then she counted to twenty and began to drive.

  When she was almost completely down the long driveway she gave in and took one last glance in the rearview mirror. But she was already too far away, and it was already too dark to make out what she really wanted to see: whether Camilla Mosner still stood out front, waving good-bye.

  Chapter 12

  Fred

  Fred always felt better about himself in a foreign country.

  For starters, he was usually richer overseas, the benefit of holding American currency in an era in which oil prices continued to crater and the Greeks lurched ineptly from one economic disaster to the next. There was also China’s unprecedented rise of the last two decades—equipped with his Lion credentials, Fred did an excellent imitation of a moneyed mainland businessman on an acquisition spree, armed to spend recklessly abroad. Then, since he was good at selecting clothes, had an expensive haircut, and always meticulously researched the trendiest restaurants in a new city—the ones with the hardest-to-land reservations and hostesses who looked through you like water—Fred was almost always a far more splendid personage overseas than at home.

  This was especially true in Bali, a destination that warped the rules of reality. Here, slurring Russians in singlets playing grab-ass were revered gentlemen, while pasty Germans bearing vague resemblances to composite sketches of pedophiles were feudal lords, come to visit for their customary fortnight. Labor was so inexpensive that the title of managing director on one’s business card indicated a staff of hundreds (Fred had 2.5, a team of junior analysts who constantly hinted they were searching for other jobs, and a disloyal assistant he technically shared with Griffin Keeles who considered it beneath her to book his travel).

  He was staying at the Biasa in Seminyak, a luxury resort markedly nicer than what he ordinarily would have selected, especially as it fell outside the bounds of Lion’s stringent travel policies (he was thus absorbing the entire cost himself, yet another gross injustice perpetrated by that cheap fucker, Leland). When he’d made the booking Fred had naturally assumed Erika would be with him, and an extravagant hotel ranked high on her list of Important Details. The Biasa’s onerous cancellation policies meant that it made no financial sense to change the reservation; as such, he was determined to enjoy himself.

  Upon arrival he’d been upgraded to a villa, a small free-standing structure with a private pool and outdoor bathtub, filled with dark wood furniture and lighting that even at maximum power cast a seductive atmosphere. Fred had never before stayed in such lavish or spacious accommodations, save for a few bachelor parties at the MGM Skylofts, and on those occasions they’d been stuffed at least two per bedroom.

  The villa even came with a personal “butler,” a steward supposedly solely dedicated to the comfort of his charges. The manservant, a portly local named Bawa, greeted Fred effusively upon check-in and then disappeared. He reemerged once per day to obsequiously set up the complimentary afternoon repast, pouring the ginger tea with great care. On the second morning Fred inquired if Bawa might venture out and purchase some local souvenirs for him, inexpensive trinkets to bring home for colleagues, but Bawa replied with toadying servility that the concierge might be better equipped to assist in such matters. The concierge, in the same fawning manner, pointed him back to Bawa.

  In the end Fred walked to town himself, where he found some inexpensive sarongs and painted masks. The three-block return journey felt agonizingly long due to the heat, and as he passed couples and families along the way, he was lonely. Aside from Jack, he didn’t personally know a single person attending the retreat. And even if he were to spot one of tech’s famous faces milling about—which so far he hadn’t—he couldn’t imagine actually instigating a conversation, like some ridiculous founder hounder.

  Fred planned on striking out that evening, at the very least to buy some stranger—preferably a stunning yet impoverished local—a drink, but back in the room, he was struck by an intense misanthropy. He canceled his dinner reservations at a trendy Italian restaurant on the beach he’d had the concierge make months in advance and ate at the Biasa’s outdoor restaurant instead, staring gloomily at the ocean.

  * * *

  Just another five minutes, Fred thought. Then he’d call Jack.

  He removed from his pocket the now-crumpled itinerary that had become soft with sweat and again verified that he had the correct time and place. For an hour so far that morning he’d been checking and rechecking the paper, circling the beach as he attempted to conceal his growing panic. Where the hell was everyone?

  While in earlier years Fred had assumed a high barrier to entry to be a reliable indicator of the nature and quality of the corresponding assets being shielded, he had long since learned his lesson, both personally and professionally. Newly opened clubs with costly drinks and power-crazed bouncers turned out to be half empty and filled with other disappointed men once you’d bribed your way inside; snooty women who rejected you at first approach were just as vapid in bed the next morning and resembled ogres with their makeup off. Thus Fred had expected the Founders’ Retreat to be like other conferences he’d attended, only with better attendees—packed with boring keynotes, mediocre lunches, and useless networking; casual discussions on favored bolt-holes, should the unwashed masses revolt after automation had taken all their jobs. The events entirely located at some massive resort, its amenities largely ignored by the men in dark suits parading into conference rooms.

  Instead, the instructions on the personalized agenda couriered to him at the hotel (the cover page stamped Confidential, Not to Be Forwarded or Photographed) had led Fred to this dirty beach, to which he’d arrived half an hour early, via the hotel’s complimentary shuttle. In contrast to the pristine scenery surrounding the Biasa, the water here was oiled and murky, and the rough sand was heavily strewn with misshapen plastic and latex objects. Behind him, tanned Indonesians hawked umbrellas and sun chairs of marginally clean appearance; the prices lent confusion as to whether they were being sold or merely rented. The only other parties present were holiday goers of a look and caliber Fred had identified as definitively Not Founders’ Retreat material. A group of retiree-aged Australians lay naked under towels with their torsos exposed, as masseurs lazily slid elbows down their backs; nearest to Fred was a group of well-endowed British girls in crop tops, who appeared to have just landed from a connecting flight.

  “I said to Liam, where’s my facking suitcase?” one of the girls spat, as she dug dirt out from under her nails. Next to her, a thuggish friend puffed miserably on a cigarette.

  Fred was hit with a fresh wave of despair. He felt alien and out of place, dressed in loose linen pants and a matching ecru shirt. The outfit—touted as ideal for the climate given its natural fibers and protection from the sun’s aggressive rays—had been purchased from the hotel gift shop the night before. Even though he’d studied the weather forecast and packed multiple suits, in his zealousness to avoid checking
baggage he’d omitted anything that could be qualified—using the given Founders’ Retreat terminology—as High Resort Casual. In a ridiculous inversion, the getup cost more than he would have ever paid in the United States, but the boutique proprietor had whispered that Christy Turlington was part owner and did its purchasing, an outrageous and irresistible lie.

  Finally, eighty minutes past the designated hour, Jack appeared. He made no apologies and instead unhurriedly led them to a small cruiser manned by staffers wearing white polo shirts with Killer in embroidered script on the chest. Fred had assumed it was the name of the boat, which was a glossy black and white, but it turned out to be the much larger vessel the tender eventually sailed up to, a sleek and elegant mega yacht trimmed in dark wood with a striking orange hull. As Jack and Fred walked the treaded shallow ramp, staff members waited along its sides, backs ramrod straight. When they reached the top, a porter pointed to Fred’s shoes. “Yes?” he asked. The man repeated his motion.

  “Thank you,” Fred said. “They’re very comfortable.” They were also Gaziano & Girling, but he saw no point in sharing that.

  “Actually, he’s telling you to take them off!” Jack shouted over the wind. “I completely forgot Reagan doesn’t allow shoes. I can’t remember why. Maybe the wood!”

  “This is Reagan’s boat?”

  “Yes! Only my second time on it. One day he just randomly asked to meet here. Apparently there are hidden rocket launchers. Isn’t his life crazy?”

  Reagan was already on board, in conversation with two men Fred recognized from their Facebook executive bios. Both were younger than him, he recalled grimly. He was at the point where age was the first metric he checked of anyone successful, scrolling immediately to the college graduation year on LinkedIn (he’d long removed any indication of his own).

  There was a current of excitement in the atmosphere, undercut with confusion. There didn’t appear to be any indication of an expected order of events, and given the lack of shoes and ambiguous dress code, many of the attendees looked to be in a state of slumped undress. It was as if everyone had shown up to an orgy that had been prearranged in advance, only to arrive and find the hosts missing. The boat was crowded, though Fred and Jack were thankfully on the lower deck, where there was still enough space to maneuver; on the level above there were at least another hundred people. A few dozen model types were peppered through the crowd; they moved with languor, not bothering to disguise their boredom.

  Fred tried not to gape. He had become so accustomed to the situation in the Bay Area—where any woman in possession of the merest sliver of attractiveness strutted around like a harem master—that the sheer appearance of so much physical beauty stunned him. Say what you wanted about an Ivy League education or ferocious ambition; all of that receded in the face of these faces—unwrinkled, unblemished, and even when irregular still perfect. As Fred watched, a young brunette in dreadlocks linked arms with Mason Leung, the diminutive sixty-two-year-old Chinese-Malaysian head of TelBank, who in the last five years had released three hip-hop albums. Mason, Fred noted, had been allowed to keep his shoes—a pair of forest green loafers that looked to have hidden lifts.

  He realized he had unwisely lost track of Jack and now found himself mired in the most loathsome of social situations: adrift, literally at sea, with everyone in eyeshot engaged in conversation. Even the porters were batched together. No way he was going to be that guy, the one who sidled up to a group, quietly lurking, nodding with vigor at the occasional stray factoid. He’d rather be solo, aloof in repose, a stance several of the less-popular model types had also adopted.

  Luckily just a few minutes passed before Reagan appeared, Jack in tow. He led them to a small setup of a few lounge chairs around a table, a short walk made considerably longer by his pausing every few seconds to call out to various acquaintances and best friends. Reagan had definitely aged less than Jack, Fred saw, though some of it was because he’d always carried an extra thirty pounds on his frame. Fred noted with relief that Reagan was dressed similarly to himself in a linen long-sleeved shirt and pants, the clothes perfectly tailored to graze his rotund body. He no longer shaped his hair with handfuls of gel; now it was soft and parted neatly, a peppered black-and-white marriage of Mao and American WASP. Though for the straight patrician look the hair was too long. A bit from the front had escaped, forming a kiss curl across his forehead.

  “Nice boat,” Fred said.

  Reagan gave him a back slap, as if they’d always been the best of friends.

  “Yeah,” Jack chimed in. “I was just telling Fred you’ve brought the term obnoxious Asian to a whole new stratosphere.’

  “Stated by the guy whose parents own half the malls in Singapore and a good portion of the largest developments in Hong Kong. And what’s this I’m hearing about Project Carton?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Right.” Reagan snorted. Then, to Fred: “There’s an egg being erected right now in China. Know anything about it?”

  Fred shook his head.

  “Well, there is one. A giant egg, in Hangzhou. A literal fucking egg, though I guess not so literal, because this one’s actually a building. An egg encircled by five smaller eggs, each intended to house a select number of the wealthy bourgeoisie I’m so callously being accused of being a member of right now. A whole carton of them, each decorated with gold and silver reflective windows, with so much crystal that they make Versailles look like a Chinese official’s cheap imitation. And each one is named after a specific gem.”

  “Reagan, come on—” Jack groaned.

  “There’s the ruby egg, the emerald egg, the sapphire egg, the jade egg, the pearl egg, and, of course, the diamond egg,” Reagan said, charging forward. “And inside each of their lobbies, behind bulletproof glass, is an actual jewel, a twenty-carat sapphire here, thirty-carat ruby there, the best that Graff could source. A carton of Fabergé smack-dab in the middle of China, with parking spots that start at $200,000 each. If you’ve been living in the United States, you really can’t imagine the ostentatiousness. Vegas would be the closest, but even that barely compares.” Reagan abruptly stopped and scrutinized his champagne. He seemed to be searching for something within the bubbles; he squinted an eye and then moved the glass under his nose and inhaled the scent. Fred could see that Jack hoped he had finished, but Reagan downed the drink with a quick tilt and then went on.

  “Of course, given the current environment—scrutiny over income inequality, disturbing chatter about the government on social media, CEOs disappearing overnight—you’d think these eggs might be a problem, a convenient symbol for the serfs to glom on to when they rise up, right? That’s what one might think, unless a certain ranking politburo official’s grandson was enticed into buying a unit early, real early, on a floor so private no one else had moved in yet. The perfect place to stash a secret girlfriend who might be pregnant with triplet boys, eh? So now the project rumbles on—no permit delays, no nasty media coverage, no peep from the local mayor, who I hear normally is a real shakedown artist. And do you know who the genius is behind all this, albeit through several layers of shell corporations? The big fat goose that’s laying all these golden eggs, the birdie that’s secretly way richer than the rest of us?”

  “Reagan.” This time Jack’s voice held a distinct warning.

  “My man.” Reagan wrapped an arm across Jack’s shoulders. “The greatest. So humble. Anyway, yeah, this is a great boat. I’ve wanted one for a while. At least I can swim! You wouldn’t believe how many guys own these things who can’t even do that. You really think Paul Allen’s doing laps in the Atlantic?”

  “As if you know Paul Allen,” Jack sulked.

  “Well of course I do,” Reagan said good-naturedly. “Though I’m not sure he would say the same for me.” He turned to Fred. “Fred Huang. Really glad you could make it. You been to this thing before? And I assume Jack already told you a bit about our little project?”

  “Yes,�
� Fred said, leaving it vague which question he was answering in the affirmative. “I know the general background.”

  “And? What do you think? What about the name?”

  “Opus?”

  “Yeah. Too douchey?”

  “I think it’s fine, for now.” He was suddenly impatient. “Can you confirm what the number is likely to land at? For whatever we—you—are managing? How much do the Thais want invested in North America?”

  “The first year, just around ten billion,” Reagan said.

  Jack whistled and nudged with his elbow, past annoyances already forgotten. Fred could feel Reagan’s eyes on him, beadily gauging.

  “Of course, I’m sure Jack’s already told you the total they’re looking to eventually fund,” he continued. “Somewhere between fifty and seventy billion. They’re thinking at least half that concentrated in the US, and the rest in Israel, Europe, and of course Asia. But of the US piece, the vast majority will be in California. Silicon Valley, you guys are minting money. And all you want to do is spend it on bicycles and bunkers in the desert!”

  “There’s a lot of empty hype,” Fred said modestly, as if he were an active participant in it all. “But of course there are also real opportunities. Fewer unicorns want to go public these days. Just look at Uber, Pinterest, Airbnb. Everyone wants to stay private, maintain control, but the capital requirements are significant. The amount of money you’re describing, if managed correctly, would quickly establish Opus as a major player.”

  “Good, good.” Reagan pumped his fist. “The Thais will want to get in on at least one big name investment, a marquee they can wave around to the public. Preferably consumer facing, so people will have heard of it. They want to emphasize that they’re spending on innovation, building up the next Samsung instead of flying their lapdogs on Gulfstream G650s and getting tattoos near their dicks. Bonus points if the company has a founder who can visit and suck up, do some laps around the capital, Zuckerberg-style. You know, a Hugo Menendez sort.”