Bandwidth

  “$45, once around the park. What de yous say?”

  Hayden shook his head as if to say “she’s not in the mood.” The man got it.

  Hayden put his arm around Michelle to move her along. They walked the wall of the park, making their way to Columbus Circle.

  “Hayden. Can we just sit here on the wall?”

  “Sure.”

  “ I mean, just sit. No words. No questions?”

  “Of course.”

  Michelle struggled to smile. A taxi blared. A kid on a skateboard rode past on the sidewalk stones. Tail lights flickered.

  “Thank you, Hayden,” she said. She touched the side of his face the same way she had stroked the horse. Then she kissed him.

  PART III

  (2006)

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  For Immediate Release: European Commission Continues Review of Cheyenne Acquisition

  Amsterdam, The Netherlands and Salt Lake City, Utah – March 16, 2006: Cheyenne B.V. today received notice that the European Commission continues to review the pending sale of the company to Lyrical, Inc.

  Cheyenne remains confident that the Commission will approve the transaction, and that the sale will happen on schedule by the end of the year.

  Cheyenne and Lyrical look forward to their continuing discussions with the European Commission to demonstrate the competitive benefits that the acquisition will deliver.

  Last year, Cheyenne announced that it had agreed to be purchased by Lyrical, Inc. for US $300 million. For more information go to http://www.cheyenne-acquisition.com

  # # #

  Graham Eatwell tossed the press release in the trash. “American PR stunt,” he grumbled.

  Cannondale’s people were trying to turn up the heat by cranking out press releases intimating that the Commission was likely to approve the acquisition. But that kind of tactic was not going to work on Eatwell. He’d decide on the acquisition when he was good and ready, and no bloody Yank was going to rush him.

  The sun hadn’t shone in Brussels for 28 days. The city’s trench-coated inhabitants scurried from building to building on stone pavements under black umbrellas in an animated version of a Magritte canvas. Sometimes the stones would shift when stepped on and spit out a stream of water the way oysters do when they jettison waste.

  That’s it , Brussels is one big oyster bed, Eatwell thought to himself as he hurried down Rue Franklin, happy to have finally found an analogy for a thought he’d had for a while.

  He was going to have lunch at La Trattoria, one of the many Italian places decorated in hard wood and amateur wall murals that surrounded the Berlaymont building - home of the European Commission. The Berlaymont had finally shed the enormous white sheet that had shrouded it for more than a decade like some Christo stunt, part of a project to eviscerate asbestos from the bowels of the building.

  Eatwell had summoned Kuipers to eat with him. Funny, he thought, when they were boys they were all about cricket bats and rugby balls. Now it was all so serious. Eatwell had made a career of diplomacy, which in his mind was nothing more than a license to fib for one’s country, to defend it at all costs, whoever the aggressor. In his case, his borders went well beyond the White Cliffs of Dover. He was odd for a Brit. His nation was Europe, and even though affected sophistication wouldn’t allow him to gush patriotism, he was, at heart, the soppiest of flag wavers.

  Kuipers was already at the table.

  “Graham,” Kuipers said, standing up for the embrace. “Menno,” Eatwell said, hugging and looking Kuipers in the eye for an extended moment. “It’s tremendous to see you. What has it been, six months? Please, sit.”

  “So, your star keeps rising, huh Graham?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Enjoy it. The kind of success you’ve been having doesn’t come around all that often.”

  “Enough of me, Menno. How are you?”

  “I’m well. I’m planning to retire next year.”

  “You’re not? I thought you’d work until they carted you out of the office.”

  “I’m bored, Graham. There are few challenges left for me. I had a privileged childhood, lived through the war, met my wife, buried my wife. I don’t feel the need to prove anything to anyone anymore.”

  “I’m still saddened when I think about your Karin. How long has it been now, six years?”

  “Yes, six. It’s just that I find it difficult to get excited about much of anything anymore, Graham, save our new mutual friend.”

  “Cannondale?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the situation?”

  “He’s got lobbyists coming to see me, Graham.”

  “Me, too. Relentless. And these bloody press releases.”

  “So you understand what I mean. The whole thing is beginning to get out of hand. I wish I had fully understood it earlier — the technology, I mean. I can’t help feeling responsible for allowing this thing to get into motion.”

  A waiter arrived. Kuipers ordered wild boar soup as a starter, followed by Osso Buco. Eatwell ordered a caprese salad and sole meunière. They asked for a bottle of white Sancerre.

  “Well, there’s no need to flog it to death, Menno. What’s done is done, and whatever progress has been made to date has no bearing on the acquisition proceedings.”

  “You’re not going to let it through, are you Graham?”

  “Of course not. I never had any intention of letting it through, but I can’t give that impression. I’m supposed to be steeped in objectivity, don’t you know.”

  “Graham, I haven’t felt so against something in quite some time.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “I feel like you and I are the only ones minding the store on this one, Graham. No one else seems to care about Cannondale. I can’t let it happen.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “But I’m getting pressure from a lot of directions on this. I’ve got U.S. congressmen calling my office, and I’ve got bloody German and Dutch members of the European Parliament doing Cannondale’s bidding for him. Last week, I got a rather odd, but polite letter from Riga-Tech, the Russian company that sold the satellite to Cheyenne. I’ve got the U.S. Trade Representative coming over next week threatening retaliation if we don’t maintain openness in the technology sector. Bloody U.S. Trade Representative coming over here in the name of free trade. Can you believe that? It’s as if Cannondale has his own, personal battering ram.”

  The starters arrived. “Bon appetit,” said the waiter.

  “By the way, what did the letter say?” asked Eatwell.

  “Which letter... oh, from the Russians —Riga-Tech? It asked for clarification on our current stance. Reading between the lines, I take it they don’t get paid in full by Cannondale for their satellite until it goes up.”

  “What is your current stance — public I mean?”

  “I don’t know. It’s going to be tricky. There’s no real legal basis for denying Cheyenne clearance to use satellites and send signals within the Netherlands as part of its network. For Christ’s sake, Graham, Cannondale seems to have even gotten to the prime minister.”

  “De Weld?”

  “Yes. He’s a big Cheyenne fan these days. Thinks it’s great for competition. Thinks it’s great for the Netherlands and for Barroso’s Lisbon Agenda to promote economic growth and innovation throughout Europe. He wants to be the technological savior of the Netherlands before the next election. And he’s been spending a lot of time in Silicon Valley. I think he wishes he was part of all that. Scotland’s got Silicon Glen, England’s got Silicon Fen, DeWeld is looking to create his own little Silicon Canal.”

  “Your prime minister doesn’t have the spine to stop this, Menno. But you do, and you’ve got the platform. You’ve got to get creative, Menno. You’re going to get steamrolled if you’re not careful. But you can’t come across as a zealot on this.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Kuipers and Eatwell ate and
talked. Waiters dashed in and out of the kitchen. The hostess took a reservation on the phone. “Oui monsieur,” she said. “Á treize heures et demi. Pas de problème.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  "I hate Frankfurt,” Timmermans said from a comfortable chair across from Hayden in the lobby of the airport hotel. “Not a damn thing to do here.” Aaron had given a speech earlier in the day at a gathering of bankers, and then immediately boarded his plane for the return to Utah. Aaron had asked Hayden to stay behind to be a fly on the wall during Timmermans’ meeting with the two men who ran the Russian satellite company, Riga-Tech. The point of the meeting was to keep up relations with the Russians. Aaron had only forked over half the money to purchase the satellite, with the agreement that the other half would come upon launch. He knew the Russians were getting antsy with the regulatory circus.

  It was vintage Aaron, having a man stay to observe and eventually report. Aaron knew that at some point down the road, in a quiet moment when it was just the two of them over a glass of Pinot Noir at Kshanti, he could turn to Hayden and say, “So, how was Frankfurt, my friend?”

  “Funny how Aaron seems to disappear just when things are getting interesting, don’t you think?” Timmermans said, digging for the silver cigarette case in his coat pocket.

  “What’s the situation with Riga-Tech?” asked Hayden. “I’m the bishop and you’re the rook, that’s the situation. It’s all part of one big chess game, my friend, and the guy who’s moving the pieces is about 35,000 feet over Newfoundland right about now.”

  Hayden took his micro-recorder from his sport coat pocket and clicked it on. “Note to self: what am I doing here?”

  Two men walked into the room. Hayden had an immediate flashback to a series of advertisements that used to run on the Metro North trains out of New York’s Grand Central Station. They were called “The Rothman’s Man,” and were a collection of powerful, heroic, Constructivist-leaning WPA mural style images of squarejawed men clad in Rothman’s suits scaling buildings, pulling trees out of the ground with their bare hands, or pumping hand cars down railroad tracks with their ties flapping in the wind. The tag lines said things like “Adores his in-laws, passed on Mensa, and really enjoys his commute.”

  The figures now standing in front of Hayden were the Russian version of Rothman men. They were life-sized placards of the new Russian economy - suits, slicked back hair, tough, humorless. It was interesting to actually see them in person. Hayden had become curious when Aaron asked him to stay behind for the meeting and did a little homework.

  The first man was Zlotnikov. He was young and well built. The second man was Tebelis. He had dark glasses and a turtleneck sweater, the kind of garb that could have snatched him a role as one of the mute, East German bad-guys in a Bond film. Both men had firm handshakes; Zlotnikov, in particular. Neither man smiled. It was a funny scene, one Hayden would have ridiculed as “B” movie stuff had he not been a real-life participant. He had a hard time taking it seriously. The most intriguing bit of all, though, was that the two men weren’t what they said they were. On paper, they ran Riga-Tech. The reality according to Hayden’s contacts, however, was that Tebelis owned nightclubs and Zlotnikov dealt in stolen Mercedes. Hayden hadn’t shared these factoids with anyone.

  “Who’s he?” Zlotnikov asked Timmermans, pointing to Hayden.

  “This is Hayden Campbell, Cannondale’s director of communications.”

  “Director of communications of what?”

  “Good question,” Hayden said.

  “Cannondale asked him to be here,” Timmermans interjected, trying to keep things moving.

  They made their way into a quiet ante-room. It could have been any business hotel, anywhere. The idea was to fly in, take care of affairs, wash down a wurst with a glass of Spaten, and fly out again.

  “This Dutch man, Kuipers, he does not like us,” Zlotnikov began. “We have good satellites; you have good technology, no?”

  “It’s not you he has the problem with, it’s Cannondale,” said Timmermans, lighting a Dunhill.

  “He does not want to take American money? Idiot.”

  “They want to keep the technology in European hands.”

  “And you? Are you not European?”

  Timmermans looked puzzled.

  “It does not bother you?” Zlotnikov asked.

  “I’m a businessman.”

  “I see,” Zlotnikov said, pleased by Timmermans’ candor. He took a handkerchief out and wiped his brow. The man didn’t appear the least bit nervous, but he was a world-class sweater.

  “We want to be in a position to launch the satellite when Kuipers and his Euro-cronies lose their little battle,” Timmermans said.

  “Are you so confident that he will lose his battle?” Zlotnikov said, scratching his pug nose.

  “This is larger than one jingoistic bureaucrat,” Timmermans said, mashing his cigarette into the ashtray.

  “We know something of bureaucrats,” Tebilis grunted.

  They were the first words Timmermans and Hayden had heard the man speak. Hayden watched quietly as the men completed their business by toasting the universal thread of capitalism with raised vodka glasses and a bowl of caviar.

  With the deal completed, Zlotnikov began to talk about the “New Russia” under Putin. Hayden’s sources indicated that Zlotnikov and Tebelis were both actually Latvian by origin, but grew up in Moscow. Zlotnikov was sixteen when Yuri Vladmirovich Andropov became General Secretary of the Soviet Union. Zlotnikov’s parents sent him to school to study engineering, which led to his interest in technology.

  “This Andropov, he was a poet as well as an overfed bureaucrat you know,” Zlotnikov said sarcastically, bumping back more shots of vodka. He was getting increasingly drunk.

  “Andropov?” asked Hayden, trying to imagine the irony.

  “Yes. He thought writers should be given the freedom to help the party and the state in its struggle for order. I remember one of his pathetic poems published after his death. It was called ... let’s see ... ‘Power Corrupts’.”

  “Let’s hear it then,” Hayden said.

  Zlotnikov stood up, paused dramatically and then recited the poem, word for word. When he finished, he bowed and said “translates better in Russian. I give you Y.V. Andropov, my friends, poet extraordinaire, and an idiot for sure.”

  The men clapped wildly, laughing. Hayden was beginning to like Zlotnikov. Just then, several unescorted women, a mixture of Germans and Hungarians, entered the room — an arrangement, no doubt, made by Zlotnikov and Tebelis. It was Hayden’s cue to leave. He didn’t want to get too chummy with these guys. One deep stare into the eyes of the Hungarian girl in his lap and he would be contemplating a lifelong relationship with her that would end three weeks later. That’s the way it was with him. Besides, Michelle was on his mind.

  Hayden smiled at the absurdity of four strange women entering a room to sit in the laps of men they didn’t know. What if people did that on the street or on the bus, or at the opera? Maybe the world would be a very different place, free of inhibitions like actually knowing someone before you slept with them. Maybe it was already that way. Maybe knowing people didn’t really matter anymore. Knowing someone didn’t stop people from mistreating each other. Having tea together didn’t stave off deceit. A lifetime of beers and baseball games together at the local bar didn’t stop men from sleeping with their best friends’ wives. What was the point in knowing?

  Hayden looked over at Timmermans, who was enjoying himself with two of the ladies. They were messing up his hair and loosening his tie. Timmermans had a broad smile on his face, the kind an awkward prep school boy would have on a visit to a brothel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Timmermans had read somewhere that in every two miles the average driver makes four hundred observations, forty decisions and one mistake. Once every five hundred miles, one of those mistakes leads to a near collision, and once every sixty-one thousand miles one of those mistakes
/>   leads to a crash.

  Timmermans had just crashed. Her name was Malene. She came from Bavaria. She had large breasts.

  He looked at the clock on the nightstand. “Grote ver Jezus!” he shouted. His plane was leaving in just over an hour. Malene’s artificially-tanned forearm lay across his hairy chest.

  “Wake up,” he said, stirring her.

  “Eh?” she said in a morning stupor. Timmermans got the sense that she was used to being awakened this way.

  “We’ve ... you’ve ... got to go. I need to catch a plane.”

  The full impact of what had transpired began to hit him. His heart rate accelerated. He began to talk to himself as he scurried around the hotel room picking up bits of his belongings. “Going to be okay. Just a mistake,” he said to himself. “Not something I regularly do. Love my wife. Can’t believe this happened!”

  He had compromised himself. Nothing he could do could change that. He picked up Malene’s black lace underwear and tossed it on the bed.

  Malene saw Timmermans look at his watch. “Yes, okay, I go,” she said, making her way to the bathroom. Her body was beautiful. Ten hours ago it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He had pounced on it like some crazed animal. Now, although her body remained beautiful, he wanted to dispose of it.

  He sat at the end of the bed. The bathroom door was open. “Tell me something. Why do men do this?” he said in a palliative attempt to make himself feel better.

  “You want to talk of such things now?”

  “No, you’re right … I …”

  “I suppose people want what they cannot have, and when they get it, they feel sad.”

  Timmermans thought for a moment, puzzled. He wasn’t sure if what she had said was profound or pitiful.

  “Call a cab for me,” Malene said. “Go have lunch with your wife.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  "Good evening ladies and gentlemen, I’m Jacob Dimbleby. Tonight our broadcast of “Any Questions?” comes to you from the beautiful Palais Royale in Brussels. The topic: “Nation States in an Internet World.” We’re honored this evening to have Michel Lorraine, president of FranzCom, France’s