Chapter 6
Ian Summerton looked at his wrought gold watch en nodded at the man who sat opposite to him in the dark brown Chesterfield. The tight leather between the deep naps creaked as Ian reached out for his glass on the low table next to the chair. Glass was a bit of a denigrating reference to the fine crystal balloon in which the old cognac was pensively whirled around.
The standing clock stroke discretely but clearly once. The sound vibrated long through the silence.
“He will be here any moment now. The flight from Zürich had quite some delay. And at this hour of day it is not obvious to get from Heathrow into the city centre. Even now they have increased again the congestion tax.”
Ian had a deep sonorous voice. A voice expressing experience and determination. A voice that also did not expect but a listening and agreeing ear. The man in front of him answered: “I don't understand why he is not taking one of their corporate jets. Don't they have sufficient of these things? I just hate the hassle in the airports and crowded aircraft. And they are never, never on time.”
The silence returned, interrupted by the crackling of the open fire with its imposing chimney dominating the room. The large gloomy oil painting that hung slightly reclining from the chimney, depicted a standing Thomas Moore. It was one of the few portraits that had not ended up in a museum, but had remained part of the private collection of the club. It showed Moore dressed up in his official gowns, as lawyer at the court of Hendry VIII. Ironically, the painter had brushed through the elevated windows the bustling London at the end of the fifteenth, early sixteenth century. In the background one could distinguish the Tower of London.
The room was barely lit by some dimmed spots so that the flames could project a whimsical play of light and shadow on the wood panelling surrounding the place.
The door, cunningly hidden in the wood panelling, was opened silently by a lackey wearing an all-black tuxedo and white gloves. It seemed like a piece of the wall was taken away. The servant retreated discretely with the wet coat of the new visitor draped over this left arm.
“Sorry my best friends, the bad weather above the Channel is to be blamed.”
Without even looking once at the two men, he made his way to the small bar. He turned some bottles and investigated the labels. He took one of the royal glasses and poured himself a large dash of cognac. He swallowed the liqueur instantaneously, savouring the titillating warming drink that swept through his gullet.
Although in the outside world their respective organisations were continuously in fierce competition, nobody would have noticed that in the small room. On the contrary, over the past years their collaboration had tightened and several, well kept secret meetings had been held. It was also for the best that only a few people were aware of their gatherings. The different anti-trust committees from both Europe and the United States would have quite a grind if only they would suspect this.
Ian had just turned sixty and was the senior of the three. He compensated his rather small posture by wearing flamboyant yet fashionable clothes. His luxuriant grey-white hair was artistically semi-long and fell over his forehead in a lascivious wave. Modern and colourful glasses provided the finishing touch to his look. For more than twenty years he had been the strong man at GPC, one of the most prestigious consultancy firms in the world. Ian's personal network consisted mainly out of heads of state, first ministers, highly placed officials. Actually, none of the leading and less leading countries in the world would take a decision without checking with him or his team first. Whether it concerned a state reform, a military decision or the voting of a controversial law.
The second man, who had kept silent since his complaint about the late arrival of the third guest, was Vladimir Tikhonova. In his fifties and since a couple of years the head of The Asian Consulting Group. Under his leadership the group had grown to become the number one consulting practice in the emerging markets. It was not obvious for everyone how he, arriving from an unclear past, could have become the man at the top in just a few months. On the other hand it was hardly a secret that his connections with the still influential Russian secret organisations had rendered him good services. It was also well known that he could call himself friends with the Chinese and Indian statesmen who preferred him because of his Greek-Russian descent. His gift to digest huge amounts of alcohol had proven to be a trump over his competitors during tough negotiations. His slightly swollen face with on the nose some irregular bumps and purple veins, betrayed that his lifestyle had started to demand its toll.
The third person, Juergen Birkvald, had entered the EMEA organisation as a promising MIT graduate. He had quickly climbed up the ranks, outpacing everyone because of his unique technical knowledge combined with political insights. He was only in his mid thirties and had already been appointed last year as the new CEO of EMEA. His company was smaller, but not less influential in the large and complex European Union. Originally from Denmark, the two meter long Brikvald towered with his athletic figure over his two colleagues. It had been Ian Summerton himself who had approached Juergen some years ago during a lecture at MIT. Juergen’s mentors had already put him on Ian's radar screen because of his trailblazing research in the application of cloud supercomputers to solve complex simulations and projections. At that moment, Ian decided not to take him on board, but to follow and steer him from a distance. Ian loved to gradually build up his power, to imperceptibly manipulate people. He knew that one day this would come in handy.
Ian looked concerned at his protégé as he poured himself a second large cognac. He knew Juergen as an almost-tea-totaller.
Something was going on.
“So, Mr. Summerton and Mr. Tikhonova, are you ready for it?”
He removed from a brown leather pouch a thin tablet computer and took a seat in the third chair around the small coffee table with ivory inset. A relic from past days that lords and adventurers were frequenting the club. And not as today, the three CEO's of the most influential consultants of the world.
“We have arrived at the point of no return.”
The tablet switched on immediately and had quickly established a fast wireless internet connection. Juergen used his own developed security protocol, one could not be cautious enough. His fingers hovered skilfully over a number of icons on the high definition touchscreen display. A complicated dashboard started to build on the screen.
With a swoosh of his fingers he arranged some dynamic graphs to the side. Vladimir and Ian could now get a clear view of a world map in which colours, numbers, lines and graphs continuously moved around.
He turned the tablet towards them.
“We are now connected life to the simulation programme that is running on the clusters based in San Diego, Zürich and Beijing. All imaginable variables one can think of, and some one cannot think of, from seismological models till religious patterns, from climate observations till the new European innovation programs, have all been applied. I am the only one who knows there is a dashboard, this dashboard, that brings it all together and correlates the results.” Juergen was excited. “All models are unanimous about the outcome and that within acceptable margins for the next fifty years.”
He halted for a moment while Ian and Vladimir stared at the dynamically changing image on the screen. The map of the world was now deep red, but in some areas bright green circles started to glow and were expanding rapidly. In the margin of the screen, line and bar graphs were displayed with changing numbers and shapes.
“So, it is possible.”
Juergen saw the relief in their eyes. A smile appeared around the otherwise hanging corners of Vladimir's mouth. The intelligent dark eyes from Ian observed both men. “I don't think we need to debate any further about the go or no go? For me it is obvious. How far do you stand, Vlad?”
Vladimir’s smile broadened. “Nor Raghavani, Yo Hong nor their councils, military and civic, will pose a problem. I have still some work to do with Krashnow, as he keeps interpreting this as a uniq
ue opportunity to restore the Russian power from the glorious past. But I will handle it. As always they trust us completely and regard us as the ultimate neutral and innocent source of information.”
“The same for the US and Europe,” Ian added shortly. He was still watching the tablet where in the meantime most of the map and the graphs had switched to green with here and there a speckle of orange.
A discrete double knock on the door was followed by two immaculately dressed lackeys each pushing a cart containing dishes hidden away under impressive silver cupolas.
One of them, clearly the most senior, addressed the audience announcing that, as requested, the lunch was to be served soon as the last guest had arrived.
With professional speed the century old cutlery was arranged on the small round table in the middle of the room. A bottle of champagne, a bottle white wine and a bottle of red wine were silently uncorked. The white wine was critically tasted by the senior servant. The red wine was artfully poured into a broad decanter. The other lackey swayed the wine around before he tasted. “Please allow the red one some more minutes to breathe. Than this excellent wine will most certainly please You. When You are ready, than I would like to invite You to the table.”
One could hear in their solemn tone that the You was pronounced with a capital Y.
With one finger brush over the touchscreen, the carefully organised information changed into a kaleidoscope of colours to disappear some seconds later as the screen turned black.
The three men took a seat at the table and with military precision the cupolas were lifted simultaneously by the servants who had placed themselves strategically behind their guests.
The senior lackey prepared himself to explain the different ingredients on the plates, but Ian interrupted him by putting his hand on the man's arm. Friendly he said: “it looks absolutely delicious, Jacques, we will most likely enjoy every single bite. If we need anything else, we will let you know. Thank you.”
Without any emotion Jacques replied: “but of course, sir, as you wish.” And with a short nod they left the room, taking one of the carts with them.
Ian took the bottle of champagne and filled the slender glasses in an angle of forty five degrees. He did not want to spill anything.
Together with the two others, they looked silently at the painting of Thomas Moore.
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The Abacus Equation Page 6
