Bandwidth

  “I do, Aaron.”

  “It’s all about having your boys in place, Hayden. You know, there are a thousand things out there that can kill you — pancreatic cancer, heart attack, a bullet, a guy behind the wheel with a blood alcohol level that would have felled Fatty Arbuckle. And then there are errors. Errors kill, Hayden, remember that. But you know what worries me the most?”

  “No, what?”

  “What worries me most is that you can do your best to avoid the external things, but there’s something sinister about your own mind turning on you, about giving up. That’s what happened to my father. It’s not happening to me. That’s why Cheyenne is so important, Hayden. It’s fresh. It’s new. It’s alive. It’s the most important project I’ve got going.”

  For most men, an undertaking like Cheyenne would be the biggest thing in their lives. For Aaron, it was a “project.” Hayden found himself looking around the room. Aaron’s soothing voice floated in and out. Langhorn — the chicken man — cackled with someone in the corner. Chris Babcock – the survivor — had that schizophrenic look of confidence and fear that people get when they know they’ve squeaked by. Mason – the ambassador — pondered another canvas.

  Important people were about, but for a fleeting moment there was an absence of mystique. It was a canvas of smiles and handshakes and backslapping that always seemed to look good in the right kind of lighting, regardless of the decade. But it was also as if a camera shutter had opened and closed in a split second, and in that second Hayden could see every blemish, every look of fear out of the corner of the eyes of the confident, every desperate attempt to recreate the blip of unprecedented prosperity the world was unlikely to ever see again. Hayden wondered how it would all look tomorrow without the halogen glow. Aaron’s world was larger than life. Part of Hayden wanted to shun it, but he couldn’t help but embrace it.

  “I better get going,” Hayden said.

  “So soon?” Aaron said. “You disappoint me.”

  “I have an early morning. I’ve gotta make you look good, Aaron.”

  “Good man. Have Orthanel show you to your guest room. I’ll see you for breakfast.”

  Hayden made his way toward the door. Before he left, he turned to have one last look around the room. He noticed Aaron catch the eye of Vaughn, who was chatting in the corner with a nubile blonde – one of the handful of modeling agency girls that Aaron regularly flew out from New York to beautify his parties. Aaron motioned for Vaughn to follow him into a wood-paneled side room.

  What’s that all about? Hayden wondered. Aaron caught Hayden’s eye and winked as he and Terry Vaughn went into the side room. The door closed slowly.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  In the mid-1990s, undersea cables could transmit about two million simultaneous telephone calls across the Atlantic and about 500,000 calls across the Pacific. By 2000, an 80 Gbps cable installed between the U.S. and China provided more capacity than all of the trans-oceanic cables installed since the first telegraph cable was laid across the Atlantic in 1858. Worldwide

  demand for bandwidth had well exceeded 700,000 terabits per day — well more than 120 billion books, or more than everything that mankind has ever written. Yet about half of all US home Internet users were still dialing up with narrowband connections (56Kbps or less), putting the U.S. a generation behind Japan and Korea in highspeed broadband adoption.

  At Cheyenne’s headquarters, Timmermans, Michelle, and Peter were very different now than they were before the London and New York trips. They could not believe how well the events had gone. Confidence was high.

  After years of bandwidth glut, capacity and demand were beginning to measure out. And, with upgrade costs prompting some of the early bandwidth players to give up once and for all, Cheyenne’s STS technology, which would deliver information directly to homes and businesses through the water system, had a leapfrogging advantage. The promise remained intoxicating.

  And Timmermans, Michelle and Peter were getting rich, at least on paper. Timmermans was rich enough to buy a new Mercedes. Michelle was rich enough to purchase new houses for her parents and her sister, who had never gotten her act together. Peter was rich enough to buy whatever he wanted, and yet he couldn’t decide what he wanted, so he bought season tickets to FC Groningen games for most of his friends. In European technology circles, Peter had become a bit of a tech deity, showering his insights on younger adherents the way guys his age had done in the States in the late 90s. At work, he would show up at 10:30 in the morning, brainstorm a bit with the programmers, play a couple games of fussball, and leave by 4:30. Occasionally he’d make a speech to some technology crowd.

  Life was good. Peter looked on with particular amusement as the press stumbled over itself for a chance to tell the rags to riches story of a new technology upstart and the men behind it, warts and all. It was a curious thing, Peter thought, how perfectly mundane conversations within Cheyenne could take on legendary proportions in the hands of journalists. He’d always thought Jesse James and Wyatt Earp were probably just normal guys behind the hyperbolic myths that reporters had created around them. Now he knew for certain that they were just everyday guys.

  Everything Cheyenne did seemed to have a superlative attached to it now — “Game-changing,” “Never Before,” “Europe’s Turn,” “The New Tech Savior.” Some of it was plain fiction. A Dutch newspaper ran an account of him in a supposed closed-door meeting with Timmermans discussing roll out phases of Cheyenne’s technology. According to the article, Peter started swearing wildly at Timmermans, finally putting his fist into one of the pictures hanging on Timmermans’ wall. Timmermans didn’t have any pictures on his walls.

  The International Herald Tribune called Peter the “the black-clad, side burned, hell-raising king of all Euro geeks.”

  “Really?” he said to himself as he read the line in the folded paper from the comfort of his toilet. They said that in addition to being the technical brains behind Cheyenne, he was Europe’s Marc Andreesen — a poster child of sorts for the continent’s nerds who desperately wanted to take the tech baton from their American brethren. And like Andreesen, the press heaped a pitying praise on him as the wunderkind who got relegated to the sidelines while the suits and spin doctors maneuvered their way into the limelight.

  Cheyenne was only a year and a half old, but already Peter knew it would be a short-term adventure. There would be a hangover at some point, and he didn’t want to be around for it. For now, though, the money was good, and the prospects for even more were high.

  Meanwhile, Vaughn had traveled over to Amsterdam to speak with the Cheyenne team. Behind closed doors at the party in Utah, Aaron had instructed him to put some golden handcuffs on them, just in case any of them were getting antsy with their new-found success. Vaughn had already spent the morning with Timmermans and Michelle. Now he was about to meet with Peter.

  Peter’s office phone rang. “Peter, Mr. Vaughn asked if he could see you. Is it a good time?”

  “I thought he was catching a plane back to the States.”

  “He asked if he could have a final word before he left.”

  “Let him in.”

  Vaughn ducked as he passed through the door to Peter’s office. He was a giant – tall and slim. He had that salt and pepper hair that seemed to be congenital in successful businessmen’s DNA. And his baritone voice — Peter couldn’t help himself from being hypnotized by it. Shit, the man even smelled good.

  “Peter. I wanted to swing by before I left.”

  “That was good of you.”

  Vaughn knew what he had to do. “Listen, Peter, I was just talking to Timmermans and Michelle about how well the whole announcement went, and how glad we are that all of you have been able to put some cash in the bank. I know that as someone coming from graduate school life it must seem like an awful lot of money.”

  “It does.”

  “It seems like that now, but a couple of years from now, it will seem natural, even normal. That’s how mon
ey works. You’ll want more things, more toys.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You will, believe me. Anyway, this financial stuff may seem complicated, but that all depends on the light in which you view it. It only seems complicated. I’m sure if you tried to explain the technology behind Cheyenne to me, I would feel the same way.”

  “Most basic thing in the world – water.”

  “Yes, but what you’re setting out to do with it is hardly basic. You’re creating the future, Peter, and that’s gotta feel good.”

  “It’s not a bad perk.”

  “No, it’s not. There are other perks available to you, you know.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, the life blood of investment banking is relationships – preferably long-term relationships, like what we’re doing with Cheyenne, for example. There are a lot of outfits out there that just churn clients, make the quick buck, and move on. Teestone is not like that.”

  “Really?” Peter said, somewhat sarcastically.

  “Not at all. You see, Peter, my first priority is to make sure that the management teams of my clients are happy. Without happy management, it’s just a house of cards waiting for a stiff wind to roll up.”

  “Ah huh.”

  “Now, some banks are bigger than Teestone. Some claim to have underwritten more deals in this sector. Some know Europe better than we do, but you guys put your faith in Teestone, and for that we are grateful.”

  “I’m just the tech guy.”

  “But without you, Peter, this whole thing would have been just another idea scribbled on a piece of paper.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way.”

  “I do, and here’s what I want to do, Peter. I’ll get our brokerage guys to open an account for you with Teestone. You could put $1 in it to get started if you want, or you could put $10,000, it’s up to you.”

  “What sort of account?”

  “A special account, the kind that we only do for top clients. We used to do it in the 90s. I’ve always thought it was something we should dust off and bring back. It’s a way to show our appreciation. I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s tied to the IPO market. You see, Peter, there are dozens of other companies out there like Cheyenne with real vision, and thankfully, they are starting to hit the market again. They need to raise money. You’re lucky that you don’t have to do that. You’ve got Cannondale bankrolling you now.”

  “If you consider that a bonus.”

  “It is. Believe me, you should feel good about the fact that you don’t need to whore around to raise capital. It’s been a tough few years. We only take on companies that we think are the real deal. I like to think of them as one big family of like-minded companies with like-minded management who want to change the world and do a little good. Cheyenne is in that league, Peter. You guys are Varsity. You get better jerseys.”

  “Is that right.”

  “Let me give you a better jersey, Peter. May I open this account for you? My people will take care of everything. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”

  “I don’t have to watch over it? Because I really don’t have the time.”

  “No. We’ll hook you up with a money manager who will do it for you. I think you’ll be pleased by what you see.”

  Peter thought for a moment. “Have you made the same offer to Timmermans and Michelle?”

  “Of course.”

  “And they took it?”

  “Of course.”

  Suddenly, Peter had a vision of a winding river cutting through the mountains of northern Wyoming, a river flush with browns and rainbow. The kind of money that Vaughn was talking about could put him over the top, to a place where he wanted to be. But then again, he already had a lot of money, at least on paper. What Vaughn was describing seemed a bit too easy.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “You’ll pass? What do you mean you’ll pass?” Vaughn said, startled. “Do you realize, Peter that these bubbles only come around every decade or so? Who knows what the next one will be – biotech, carbon trading, mortgages?”

  “I guess I’ll wait for the next bubble then.”

  “It won’t be bandwidth and it won’t be water, I’ll tell you that right now. And that’s what you do, Peter. You need to strike now before someone decides to come in and regulate this stuff.” “Look, Timmermans and Michelle can do what they want. That’s their prerogative, but I’m going to pass.”

  “But why? It could mean a lot of money.”

  “I already have a lot of money.”

  “That’s true, but wouldn’t more be nice?”

  “Possibly.”

  Vaughn was irritated. Aaron had sent him to Amsterdam to slap the kid around with dollar bills and now the kid wasn’t playing ball.

  “Timmermans and Michelle will be surprised. Cannondale will be surprised. He doesn’t want there to be ill will between the three of you. He wants to make sure that you guys share in the glory of what you’re creating here.”

  “That’s generous for a guy who has never set foot in this office.”

  “He’s a busy man.”

  “Yeah, very busy.”

  “Look, I don’t have time for this, Peter. The offer is on the table. Do you want it?”

  Peter stared at Vaughn for a moment. He suspected it could amount to a lot of money.

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself,” Vaughn said, getting up out of the chair. “Mistake, big mistake.”

  Vaughn took a quick survey of Peter’s office and shook his head. It was certainly a departure from Timmermans’. A large poster of FC Groningen’s 2005 squad dominated one wall. A blue lava lamp oozed in the corner just beneath a velvet painting of Princess Diana. There were a small set of bull horns that Peter had won at a fair, and a naked female mannequin with a man’s toupee glued where her pubic hair should have been.

  “Nice toupee,” Vaughn said.

  “Thanks. Give my best to Cannondale.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Hayden was in a cab heading to his apartment in New York when his Blackberry started chirping.

  “Hayden?”

  “This is Hayden. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Michelle – Michelle Vandermullen.”

  Hayden paused for a moment. Michelle from Cheyenne? She

  sounded like she had been crying.

  “Michelle, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m in New York. Can we meet?”

  “Of course. Where?”

  “The Oak Room at the Plaza.”

  “Give me 30 minutes.”

  What was Michelle doing in New York? Did she come over with Timmermans? Was Aaron in town? He’d soon find out.

  He spotted her in the back of the bar in one of the comfortable leather chairs at a table for two. She was nursing a martini — straight up, olives. It was just one more thing Hayden liked about her.

  “Michelle.”

  She smiled a worried smile and motioned for Hayden to sit down.

  A waiter came over.

  “Drink, sir?”

  “Bourbon and ginger.”

  “Michelle, what are you doing in New York? Is Timmermans here? Aaron?”

  “No, neither of them. I had to get away, Hayden.”

  “Away from what?”

  “Cheyenne, Timmermans, Peter, Aaron – the whole thing. It’s …”

  “It’s what?”

  “It’s all consuming. It’s all I work on. I needed a holiday. I needed to be anonymous.”

  “New York’s a good place for that, unless you’re famous,” Hayden said, trying to make a joke. Michelle flashed a half-hearted smile, as if to say “nice try.” She was so damn pretty — thin, but not too thin; great shoulders, long neck. The way she ate the olives was borderline erotic.

  “Things are going well at Cheyenne, no?” Hayden asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

  “Too well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re maki
ng a lot of money, Hayden. A lot of money.” “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, in principle.”

  “Then what’s the issue?”

  “What is it that you say – ‘the ends don’t always justify the means?’”

  “That’s right. Which means are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just the way that … well ….”

  It was a chore pulling information out of her.

  “How well do you know Aaron, Hayden?”

  “At this point, probably as well as anyone knows him. Why?”

  “No, I mean, do you really feel that you know him?”

  “Aaron has always been a bit of a puzzle. I think anyone who knows him would tell you that.”

  “I’m under a lot of pressure to make the numbers look good, Hayden. More than I’ve ever felt.”

  “Pressure from whom?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve gotten creative before, but not like this.”

  “What do you mean, Michelle?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes it does, Michelle. Tell me. I want to know.”

  “It’s better that you don’t know, Hayden.”

  “Why? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

  “No. They …”

  “Who is ‘they?’ Tell me, Michelle. Who are you talking about?”

  “I can’t, Hayden. I can’t!” She banged her fist on the table and started to cry.

  “Ok, ok, Michelle. That’s fine. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Can we leave? Can we get some air? I need some air.”

  “Of course.”

  Hayden opened his wallet and left cash. Michelle took her belongings. They exited onto 59th Street and crossed traffic to the sidewalk along Central Park. A hansom cab was parked there. The horse had his nose in a feed bag.

  “Purfect night for a ride now, isn’t it?” the Irish driver said. “Where can I take yous?”

  Michelle stroked the horse’s head gently, oblivious to the driver’s question.