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  “Your dinner, sir,” Bernard announced.

  “Thank you, Bernard.”

  “Shall I pour?”

  “Yes. And pour a glass for yourself.”

  “Sir?”

  “Join me, Bernard. Eating alone is so dismal.”

  Bernard poured the wine, wiped his hands on his apron, and drew the chair at the far end of the long table from Eatwell. They chatted. The meat was good with the creamy béarnaise. It was all good, save the loneliness.

  They had all left his life, one by one — his parents, his colleagues at Downing Street. All had gone on to fame or faded obscurity. He was okay with it, though. He had found that life was a bit that way, a series of decks on a cruise ship. Some decks were music and laughter and drink. Some were reserved for pondering. Still others, like the captain’s bridge, kept the vessel on course. That’s where Eatwell saw himself firmly perched at this moment in time, at the helm. Yes, Europe needed him to make the right decisions, however unpopular. He would not shun his responsibilities in carrying this vessel called the European Union to port. Problem was, he wasn’t entirely certain where that port was.

  “Bernard, what say you of the Canary Islands this time of year?” Eatwell said, making himself a perfect mouthful of steak, a couple of frites, salad, and a daub of béarnaise at the end of his fork.

  “Good weather right about now, I imagine, sir.”

  It was going to be all right. Eatwell would see to it.

  PART II

  (2005)

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Cheyenne was humming. Timmermans and his CFO, Michelle, had taken it public in the Netherlands. It was now trading as an American Depository Receipt (ADR) on the Nasdaq in New York, which allowed Americans to purchase shares. The company didn’t have customers yet, but the stock had almost doubled on the promise of riches alone.

  Timmermans was spending almost all of his time negotiating endless partnership agreements between Cheyenne and municipal water suppliers throughout Europe to allow communications signals to flow through their systems. Peter had swallowed his pride from the experience with Cannondale in Brussels, and had spent the winter and summer cobbling together the necessary land and water-based technology. He was now supervising a series of tests. For his first test, he had chosen to send a scanned photo of a crotch shot from the Kamasutra to a fellow grad student back in Groningen. Peter hooked up his computer to the water device with three assistants looking on. There was much rejoicing when he hit “Send.” Within a minute, the friend in Groningen sent back an email that simply said, “Ouch.” It wasn’t quite, “Come here, Watson, I need you,” but it was good enough for Peter.

  They were at the helm of pushing the concept of two cans and a string out further than anyone ever had. The media had already put them on the cover of Wired Magazine. In addition, BusinessWeek, The Financial Times, Le Monde, and the Economist had run major stories. There would be talk shows and girls, and hopefully, lots of money. But before any of that could happen, they needed to finish the testing.

  The second test involved audio. For this, Peter bought a list of email addresses from a guy who created mailing lists of people who regularly bought CDs online. Peter had zoned in on a select group of people and contacted them to see if they would participate in the trial in return for free Cheyenne service for a year when the system was fully operational. To his amazement, the majority of them said yes.

  The inaugural audio file, T. Rex’s “Bang a Gong,” was sent to a 20-year-old girl named Karin, who worked in her father’s insurance company in Maastricht. “Ladies and gentleman,” Peter said as he was about to hit the button, “I give you T. Rex.” His assistants tittered. The girl reported having some difficulty detaching the file, which they identified as a problem with her computer.

  Dozens of albums followed. They downloaded Elvis collections to a fry cook in Tilburg. They sent Jerry Jeff Walker’s “Live at Gruene Hall” to an accountant in Haarlem. They sent John Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme” to an artist in Breda. Dvorak’s Symphony No. 9, “From the New World,” went to a builder in Apeldoorn. A secretary in Rotterdam had requested “Trafalgar” by the Brothers Gibb. Peter guessed that the woman must have just had a bad break up, because that album contained what was, in Peter’s mind, one of the better bust up songs of all time: “How Can You Mend A Broken Heart.” Peter began to hum as he sent the file, and then stopped himself. Shit, I’m a saddo, he thought.

  He moved on to the next portion of the testing — data. He chose material from authors who tended to write long — Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Gibbon, Vidal, Faulkner. Then came the granddaddy of them all — the complete unabridged edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. It worked beautifully, even as a handful of bearded ethical hackers that Peter had contracted attempted to bring down Cheyenne’s network.

  The final test was video. For this, Peter chose one of his favorite movies of all time — “True Grit” with John Wayne. “It’s going to be hard to squeeze a man of the Duke’s stature through a water pipe, but here we go,” Peter said to one of his assistants. Another assistant began a drum roll. Another made an embarrassing attempt at whooping like a cowboy. “Fill your hand, you son-of-a-bitch,” Peter shouted as he hit the button.

  It was the kind of moment that geeks live for and non-geeks shake their heads at. Peter was proud. The conviction he felt began to surge from some darkened place within him. He was pretty sure that he had a hard-on.

  They were ready, or at least getting close. The tests were telling them what they needed to know. The glitches were being addressed, at least the ones that they could predict. It would only be a matter of time before they were ready to put the first satellite in the sky. The satellite would fill in the gaps in the network where signals could not flow through municipal water supplies, or act as a backup when terrestrial signals failed. Cheyenne’s system would not function without a satellite. They needed one fast.

  A satellite was important for two other reasons: one, to create the kind of momentum that would make Eatwell and the European Commission think twice before rejecting Lyrical’s eventual acquisition of Cheyenne. Two, rumor had it that N-tel, the state-run Dutch telecom carrier, was working hard on a technology that also promised to deliver unlimited bandwidth to the masses, although the scope of its technology was unclear because N-tel was keeping it under tightlyguarded wraps.

  Under normal circumstances, it could take a year for delivery of a new satellite. Cheyenne didn’t have that kind of time. They needed a satellite now. Aaron could live with a refurbished bird. He told Timmermans to make the necessary calls to get the ball rolling.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A Swiss banker named Otto Jagmetti who was fond of wearing bowler hats and fob chains had read about Cheyenne’s need for a satellite to fill the bandwidth gaps on its network. He offered his help to Timmermans in securing a Russian-made satellite supplied by a firm called Riga-Tech in Moscow. Riga-Tech had just what they

  needed – a satellite that had been purchased by another company a year earlier, but the company was having financial problems and had decided against a launch. The satellite was sitting in storage. It was Cheyenne’s if they wanted it. Deal.

  Timmermans put a down payment on the satellite on behalf of Cannondale. They would pay the rest upon launch. But getting permission to beam signals down to the Netherlands and other parts of Europe was a different story. Civil servants like the Dutch Minister of Waterworks still held the cards on that one.

  Gazing out the window of his office near the Paradeplatz onto Lake Zurich, Jagmetti was relishing the middle man deal he had just brokered between three Cold War remnants – an insecure Russia desperate to regain its place in the world, an envious Europe trying to jump start an innovation culture, and a cocky America that still held the marbles.

  And in completing the deal, he had also managed to please a new client – one that was so mysterious that Jagmetti referred to him in his own mind only as “the Client.” The Client had e
xpressed a strange interest in knowing when the next communications satellite might be launched over Europe. The Client was precise. He wanted to know when and where. Jagmetti was happy to provide the Client details based on what he knew from his dealings with the Russians and Cheyenne, but he remained curious why the Client wanted to know so much about a communications satellite.

  The beautiful thing was that Jagmetti didn’t need to ask questions. That wasn’t his job. His job was to do what his clients asked of him, keep his head down, and get very rich in the process. None of that Anglo, moral claptrap about taking only “clean” clients. What was “clean” anyway? That was a sucker’s game. He took all kinds of clients, the same way lawyers did, and he didn’t make apologies. Business and morality were mutually exclusive. Morality was for Sundays. Morality was expensive.

  A gentle sun danced on the water. The lilies in his office emitted a fresh, clean smell. It was satisfying to be Swiss. He took his coat from the rack, put it on and walked downstairs. He needed lunch. He decided he’d eat at Cantinella Antinori in the old town near St. Peter’s Church. They had excellent veal.

  On his way to the restaurant, Jagmetti stopped by Sprungli to get a box of chocolates. Outside of the store, he took a breath of crisp air. He found it difficult to believe that just 200 years ago, they were trading livestock in this fabled square. He was now a true “Zurcher,” but it hadn’t always been that way. His father came over from Italy in the 50s to work in a turbine plant. His mother was a Swiss-German nurse. They worked hard so that he wouldn’t have to, then they died.

  And so, over his veal, Jagmetti quietly toasted his parents with a nice Dole red wine. It seemed the perfect way to congratulate them, and himself.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Vaughn, it’s Aaron Cannondale.”

  “Aaron, how are you?”

  “Fine. Let’s get this Cheyenne acquisition rolling. They’re past their IPO, they secured their satellite deal, and they’re making good progress. Whadya say?”

  “When?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Two weeks? You sure about that, Aaron? The Euros aren’t going to take too kindly to that. They’ll think you’re pushy.”

  “I am pushy. Let’s do this thing. And let’s make a show of it while we’re at it. I want this to be so far out there in the public imagination that the Euro weenies and the folks in Washington can’t possibly back away from it.”

  “Ok, Aaron.”

  “Are we gonna have any problems with the Justice Department?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Call me when you’re ready to pull the trigger. And, oh yeah, Terry. One more thing.”

  “What’s that, Aaron?”

  “Let’s do it at the Savoy.”

  “The Savoy in London?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like the old days?”

  “You got it.”

  “Why the Savoy, Aaron?”

  “I always liked those little sandwiches without the crusts that they serve at high tea.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  For over 2000 years, the Netherlands had been trying to fashion a country out of the sea with a series of dikes, polders and windmills. Today, it was twice the size of New Jersey, and was essentially a delta comprised of silt from the mouths of the Rhine, Waal, Maas, Ijssel and Schelde Rivers. The average elevation of the country is 36 feet. When a plane

  lands at the Amsterdam airport, Schiphol, it is hitting the runway at six feet below sea level.

  The 12th province of the Netherlands, a place called Flevoland, was carved out of the sea. It is considered one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World by the American Society of Civil Engineers.

  And so, Elliott Pettigrew — part pitbull, part lobbyist, part Louisiana Good ol’ boy, and Aaron’s man in Washington — thought it fitting that the Netherlands was the birthplace of Cheyenne.

  Aaron had sent Pettigrew to Amsterdam to meet with Kuipers at the Ministry of Waterworks. Aaron thought it wouldn’t hurt to butter up the Dutchman before Lyrical and Cheyenne made the acquisition public.

  Tech rags had spilled endless ink about Cheyenne’s technology. European futurists were brimming with excitement about the impending possibilities of unlimited bandwidth delivered, not by thousands of miles of unused fiber that had been hastily put in the ground by the world’s telecom companies, but rather through a completely new and promising technology. Meanwhile, the rumors about the Dutch national telephone company, N-tel, developing a type of rival technology continued to swirl despite the fact that Cheyenne’s technology was considered to be in a league of its own.

  Even before Cannondale had become interested in Cheyenne, Timmermans and Peter had secured Kuipers’ permission to use the Dutch national water system to send data on a trial basis – a decision for which Kuipers still punished himself. Kuipers hadn’t really understood Cheyenne’s technology. He thought he was helping the small Dutch company get a head start. But of course, that was all before Cannondale entered the picture.

  Now, the headlines blared about how Cheyenne had secured a satellite. The upstart was on its way. But what was done could be undone. Kuipers had the power to be a kingmaker, and like Eatwell, he sure as hell had no intention of crowning Cannondale.

  Kuipers’ Amsterdam office was located at 156 Beatrixstraat. The lobby was a combination of brushed steel, pine tables, trendy halogen lamps and fresh tulips. “Euro-crap,” Pettigrew muttered under his breath.

  “Meneer?” a short-haired, middle-aged woman said from behind the lobby desk.

  “Elliot Pettigrew to see Mr. Kuipers, please.”

  She picked up a phone, whispered something into it, hung it up and pointed to the elevators with an attitude that grated on him. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was that he disliked about her. It was a sort of continental arrogance he sometimes felt when he was in Europe.

  “Third floor,” she said sternly.

  “You don’t get laid much, do you?” Pettigrew mumbled incomprehensibly, turning to enter the elevator.

  Pettigrew took a seat in Kuipers’ waiting room. It couldn’t have been more different from the lobby. It had an old-school, Napoleonic grandeur that momentarily sent Pettigrew back to the big houses of his childhood in New Orleans. On one wall was a framed copy of Vermeer’s “The Art of the Painting.” Another painting was filled with Reubenesque nymphs frolicking near a pond with a grinning goat in the background. Not bad, Pettigrew thought.

  He could just see into Kuipers’ office from where he was sitting. There were urns, and ornate corbels on faux pillars midway up the walls. In the corners stood busts of august European statesmen.

  Another stern woman, maybe the receptionist’s sister, arrived to offer Pettrigrew coffee. “Black, please,” he said.

  He picked up a copy of The Financial Times from the coffee table just as a figure appeared in the office doorway.

  “Mr. Pettigrew?”

  It was Kuipers.

  “Please, come in, Mr. Pettigrew, sit down.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I trust you had a good trip?”

  “I did.”

  “Good. Now, before we begin, I must tell you that I am not a fan of your Mr. Cannondale.”

  “Oh?”

  “No, I’m not. And if you’re thinking of leaking that to the press, I’ll just deny it.”

  “May I ask why you have formed this opinion?”

  “No, you may not.”

  “In that case, you’re not going to like what I’ve come here to talk to you about.”

  Kuipers remained expressionless.

  “You are aware of Cheyenne’s intention to use satellites to fill out its network. We have made arrangements to supply Cheyenne with an initial bird.”

  “Who is we, Mr. Pettigrew?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We. You refer to we. I ask because it has never been entirely clear to me what your role is in Cheyenne’s affairs.”

  “We is Cheye
nne, whom I represent, Mr. Kuipers.”

  “Are you an employee of Cheyenne?”

  “Cheyenne has hired me as a consultant.”

  “But you are also a consultant for Aaron Cannondale and Lyrical, Inc., yes?”

  “I am.”

  “Mr. Cannondale appears to be quite anxious to help Cheyenne move ahead with the build-out of its infrastructure.

  “Well, the company is young. I don’t necessarily consider that rushing things.”

  “I would have thought that a businessman as savvy as Mr. Cannondale would understand the notion of patience in these types of affairs.”

  “Patience?”

  “ Let me put it bluntly, Mr. Pettigrew. I do not like Mr. Cannondale.”

  “You mentioned that.”

  “I like neither his arrogance, nor his presumption that because Cheyenne has received our blessing to conduct trials here in the Netherlands that he somehow has carte blanche with the future of this endeavor. I understand the American affinity toward getting things done quickly, Mr. Pettigrew, but on this matter I would advise that Lyrical err more on the side of delayed gratification than immediate conquest.”

  Pettigrew fumed, but he caught himself before he spoke. “Sir, you are absolutely right. That’s sound advice. I apologize for my abruptness. I know I can speak for all the principals at Cheyenne when I say that we are grateful for the opportunity to conduct our trials in the Netherlands. I think we all understand how potentially important this technology is. We have every intention of proceeding within the parameters laid out by the Dutch government.”

  “It is reassuring to hear that, Mr. Pettigrew.”

  “I can also speak for Mr. Cannondale when I say that he is anxious to work with the Dutch government on any steps that can be taken to ensure Cheyenne’s success, a success that Mr. Cannonale is eager to share with the Dutch people. On a larger, political level, we are, of course, well aware that the last few years haven’t necessarily been a high point in the transatlantic relationship, but the economic foundation of US/EU relations remains sound. Our view is that the more partnering we can do together on common interests the better both of our peoples will fare. You are aware of Mr. Cannondale’s recent plans to donate a new research facility in Utrecht?”