utopia unraveling (The Virtagwala Series Book 1)

by Kyle Malinowski

  Zhang looked mysteriously at Rove, and then asked Kay, “Is she still on the phone?”

  Kay nodded her head, and Zhang told her to patch it through to Rove’s office. Calmly Kay explained that for reasons unknown she had been experiencing problems switching lines between the lobby and office. The only option he had was to get the phone out in the lobby. Frustrated, he stood up and asked Rove and Chamberlain to hold for a second.

  Xavier followed Zhang to the door, and the second he stepped out; he slammed the door shut and quickly locked it. Zhang pounded on them, to no avail. The doors were not opening. Rove turned to the only occupant of the room. He had to get Zhang out. ‘There is something going on here,’ he could tell. Three and half years prior, Zhang had nominated Chamberlain, his political henchman, to the cushy position of Chancellor of the UV. For all intents and purposes the Chancellor did not hold any legitimate power. It was the political figure that connects the National Government to the school. That Chancellor made quarterly reports to the Parliament and was up for reappointment every time Parliament was reelected. Rove loathed Chamberlain, and thought he only would destroy the University. From the horror stories his wife had told, he wasn’t too far off base.

  “Sylvester, why did you ask Artimus to join us this morning?” Rove asked turning towards him and crossing his arms.

  Chamberlain’s eyes grew large, “I, I didn’t ask him, he insisted. I couldn’t just tell him no.”

  “Yes you could have. It’s really easy. No,” he smiled insanely, “super simple. But Mr. Chamberlain I need some information, and not Zhang’s information: your information. As Chancellor of the University you have a certain position of authority – a position that allows you to make some very important decisions for the future of the institution. Do you not?”

  Chamberlain was beginning to sweat, confused by what was going on. Rove had lost his typically rather cheerful demeanor for a more stern attitude. Continuing, he demanded “Then, Sylvester, tell me what the University is doing with its piece of land over in Villaggio.”

  Chamberlain was becoming overwhelmed, so he shook his head, distinctively changing his style of speech, “Mr. President, it’s an investment. That’s it; we’re just holding it. Maybe putting some nice plants on it, you know some flowers or something,” his tone was sincere, and Rove was becoming confused.

  He leaned over Chamberlain getting frustrated, “Then Sylvester, why is there a fence around the piece of land with a big sign saying the Villaggian campus of the UV is coming soon?” he paused, Chamberlain clearly not keeping pace with the conversation, “What is going on Sylvester?”

  Chamberlain began to wheeze. He shook his head, and looked at Rove. When he spoke, his tone was strained, and hollow, “Mr. President,” Artimus’ pounding thundered back to life, and his shouts at Chamberlain echoed through the door, “Mr. President you must be mistaken, there stands to be no intent of expanding to Villaggio. We wouldn’t want to intrude on our rival, Villaggian College’s domain.”

  Rove glanced to his door, and then back at Chamberlain. Enraged he leaned down over the slug, and growled, “Sylvester Chamberlain if I find out that something is going on with this land in Villaggio, I will not sleep, eat, or rest until I make sure you cannot show your face on this island again. EVER! I have that ability, and for you I will not hesitate in exercising it,” Chamberlain’s cowered as Rove roared on, “If one crane is moved on that land, one piece of stone or concrete laid for a foundation I will have the National Guard seizing your office and at saber-point if necessary, dismissing your administration faster than you would be able to get off this sofa. DO I MAKE MYSELF PERFECTLY CLEAR?”

  Zhang’s pounding continued to resonate through the high ceiling chamber. Ray and Lyons’s attempts to restrain Zhang could be heard. It wasn’t till Chamberlain responded affirmatively, and Rove went and opened the door, did the pounding stop.

  Zhang freaked out, “Rove, what was the meaning of that?”

  Rove straightened his jacket, and smacked Chamberlain on the back, “First of all, it is Mr. President to you Artimus,” he glanced down at the sludge, “Second, I just needed to have a nice one on one with my boy Sylvester here,” Chamberlain looked at him with contempt, “Now don’t forget what I told you Sylvester. Hopefully next time we cross paths it isn’t in your office, that just won’t be as fun,” he said waving as Chamberlain left with his tail between his legs, and Zhang enraged.

  Ray didn’t say anything immediately after reentering the office, but then exclaimed as if ripping at the seams, “We didn’t know you had it in you Mr. President. Kay and I were taking bets.”

  Rove grabbed his sunglasses and briefcase, piping “Well you don’t lie to me. I hate liars and will do everything in my power to smoke those sons of bitches out,” he joked with his friend.

  “Well did you discover anything?” Ray asked

  “Yes, I will explain all in due time. But first can you get me a little information on this ‘land acquisition’? I think with a little more information I can make a better judgment to continue prying or just forget about it.”

  Ray jotted down his assignment as they moved out of the office en route to the President’s next agenda item.

  9

  Harry Kingston had worked for the Virtagwallan World Bank since his undergraduate days at Villaggio College. By the time he graduated with a dual degree in finance and political science he had already achieved the rank of branch manager for the downtown branch in Villaggio. Through his thirty-year tenure with the Virtagwallan World Bank, Kingston ascended quickly to the position of Vice President for Governmental Affairs. Years and years of training had prepared Harry Kingston for the day that he received the phone call that the parliament, informing him they had authorized the issuing of six billion dollars in prime governmental bonds. After fully negotiating the contractual terms with Finance Minister Sensado in a meeting with the Prime Minister and James Kompco, the embattled president of the power company, all he needed was the president of the bank to complete the transaction.

  Kingston confidently strolled into the Virtagwallan World Bank building - one of the tallest and most sophisticated buildings in downtown Ponchertrain. He moved past the front desk, saying a blanket hello to all the staff working behind it. In the elevator he slid his key into the panel and pressed the ‘Executive Suite’ button. The elevator instantly rocketed upwards, as Kingston fiddled with his bag. When the elevator stopped he walked into the plush office suite from which President Edmond Whidbey reigned. His secretary told him that Mr. Whidbey had been waiting for him, allowing Kingston into the President’s palatial office.

  ‘This is the greatest view of Ponchertrain,’ Kingston thought every time he stepped foot in to the office. Edmond Whidbey, a powerful man pushing his late sixties had an intense personality, and was an intimidating force with whom to reckon. He didn’t raise his head from the script he was writing when Kingston entered the office. Finally stopping and looking at Kingston, Whidbey motioned for him to sit down.

  “Have you brought me the contract, Kingston?” Whidbey asked flat out, without any formal greetings or sentiments.

  “If you are referring to the six billion dollar purchase of Virtagwallan governmental bonds, then yes I have,” he remarked pulling out the folder containing the forms. “With your signature we will transfer the six billion dollars into the controlled account established by the Virtagwallan government. What they do with it after that I do not care.”

  “And neither do I,” Whidbey quipped forcefully taking the file from Kingston. He slid fashionable readers over his eyes and looked down at the forms, “As long as we hold the bonds at the end of the day that’s all I care about.” He read the forms for about ten minutes, sitting in silence. He then looked up at Kingston and asked him, “And you took this from the liquid financing account GEI-820ez correct?”

  Kingston nodded his head, “Yes I did. It hasn’t grown as rapidly as we previously thought but six billion is only about 20
% of the actual holdings of that account.”

  Whidbey nodded, “And that account is funded by long term loans we pulled from that bank in New York?”

  Kingston nodded, “Yes. We took a twenty five billion dollar line of credit at a .3% interest rate for five years to do things just like this; assisting the Virtagwallan government as the recession surely comes to our shores. That money was meant as a cushion. We can’t afford for companies and individuals to start defaulting on their homes and business.”

  Whidbey pulled out a pen, “No, we can not,” he signed the form, and looked at it again, “Kingston, I want you to lengthen the amortization of the costs of these bonds over a hundred year period as opposed to the ten year life of the bond. Even if the Virtagwallan government doesn’t call the bonds earlier, which I suspect they will do from the desire of RPC to repay its debt to them, we will still be able to post higher profits in the shorter term. The advantage to that will make our quarterly profits and cash flow just that much stronger now,” he smiled and pointed at him, “which means a boost in your bonus, and a continued signal of our bank’s strength.”

  Kingston took the folder, and spoke slowly choosing his words with remarkable precision, “Sir, pardon me for questioning your desires, but don’t those acts seem almost fraudulent in nature? By that, I mean isn’t it unethical to extend the amortization period of the cost of the bond, simply in order to inflate VWB’s profit margin? We will be posting massive returns of millions of dollars that we actually are not making?”

  Whidbey took off his glasses, “Kingston, listen,” he spoke confidently, and with a tone of remarkable authority, “Virtagwallan Government Bonds are rated at AAA+, the highest rating you can have. There are very few governments around the world with that type of solid score. In addition, their revenue stream from taxes and their profits from the nationalized gold mines are remarkably strong. The economy of this island, and therefore the tax base, has grown for the past three decades and is not going anywhere. So if we amortize these costs over a hundred years, as opposed to ten - which is the life of the bond - we will be able to post higher profits over the next ten years. At which point we will make an adjustment, write it off, take a temporary hit, and move forward. But that isn’t for ten years!”

  “So let me get this straight,” he took a deep breath attempting to understand, “You want me to post the bonds as long term investments which will inflate the equity of the bank. Then you want me to amortize, or spread the cost of these bonds over a one hundred year period as opposed to the industry practice of the bond’s life of ten years. All this is done for profits?” he asked turning his head, his face becoming significantly more serious and his voice dropping in tone “I thought you said we were not going to do that anymore. That we almost lost everything the last time we did it?”

  Whidbey closed the arms of his glasses in his hands, and leaned forward, his eyes clawing at Kingston, “What’s wrong Harry? You were the one that come up with this system, not me. So why not continue with your idea?” he spoke maliciously, glaring at Kingston.

  Harry’s eyes grew, “That was a special circumstance!” attempting to rationalize.

  Whidbey laughed and stood up moving to the window, “And I would argue, that we find ourselves in another special circumstance. Yet again. We need to continue to post profits so that our investors don’t get jittery,” he turned to look at Kingston, “Have you seen it out there Harry? The world is falling apart. The United States is experiencing its worst economic downturn since its Great Depression decades ago. That has significantly affected Europe which is dealing with the same issue and many others of its own – including remaining solvent and supporting their unified currency,” he looked back out the window, “And Virtagwalla is surely the next big kid to be bullied. However we don’t have the reserves and fat to cut like those two other economies do. So, we must make sure, as its principal financial institution, that we will continue to have the loose credit to keep its market’s moving. The signs are beginning to show up all around us. RPC was only the first rain drop of the impending storm,” he took his hands out of his pockets and moved back to the desk, “We as the bank, this nation’s bank, we need to make sure the umbrella is open, to protect its citizens from the rainstorm on the horizon. Our practices may be questionable, but in these times I assure you, the ends will always justify the means.”

  He nodded at Whidbey, and asked, “But this will be the last time we do this, correct?”

  Whidbey began walking Kingston out of his office, “I promise Harry we will surely stray from these deviate practices in the future. But I cannot promise we won’t use all the “Accounting Magic” we have at our disposal to ensure our balance sheets and financial statements are the strongest in the world. The more people trust us, the more they trust the government and the more the world trusts the nation of Virtagwalla. We must remain the financial beacon on the hilltop as the other banks are crumbling under their debt issues.”

  Kingston nodded, and painfully left the office. He slid into the elevator, heading towards his office to manipulate the books as his boss instructed.

  10

  The sunsets were to die for in Virtagwalla. This was one of the reasons why Xavier Rove made it a habit to read the newspaper, each day, on the back patio of his Settlerstown Presidential Mansion before dinner. Although Rove typically didn’t understand most of the financial section of the newspaper, he made a habit of always thumbing through it everyday. He had learned a great deal about stocks and bonds and the ways of business since taking the office of President, but he had been educated not in an economist’s classroom, but in one of that of an attorney. ‘The world operates differently in those two spheres,’ he often thought. Standing up, he stretched shaking the idea from his head. He walked through the sliding screen door into the first floor sitting room, and proceeded into the kitchen. Being yelled at by his chef, Darlene, he was shuffled into the dining room where he found his son sitting at the table petting the dog.

  “Hi dad,” Michael exclaimed excitedly, looking up and then going back to the dog.

  Xavier walked behind him and placed his hand on his son’s head. Rove proceeded to shake it, messing up the boy’s hair. Michael squealed, “Oh mom’s not gonna like that, DAD!” he laughed.

  At that moment, Rachel Rove entered the dining room sipping a martini, “Xavier, leave Mikey alone,” putting the glass down to look at a magazine that had been left on her plate. Without looking at her son she asked, “Mikey, have you finished your homework yet?”

  He shook his head negatively, but stayed silent, attempting to wait for his mother’s attention span to run out. Before long she looked up and screeched, “When I ask you a question you answer me, Michael. Do you understand me? Now, have you finish your homework? Yes or no?” she looked at him enraged.

  “No,” he responded again. Yet this time rather sheepishly.

  She rolled her eyes and took another sip of her martini, “Finish it before you go to bed. Ask your father if you need help. Mommy’s had a long day,” she explained, bookended with a long sigh.

  Xavier, feeling the tension, smoothly moved into his seat at the table. Looking at his son, “So Mikey, what did you do at school today? Anything exciting?”

  Mikey crossed his arms, his dirty blonde hair shifting slightly on his head. He looked at his dad as he processed his day and chose the events to share that wouldn’t freak his father out. Finally choosing a few good ones, he said, “Well, the actual classroom stuff was pretty boring.”

  “So not much has changed since when I was in the seventh grade. Go on,” Xavier joked, grabbing a steaming roll from the basket that had just been placed on the table.

  “Oh during orchestra class today our teacher mentioned that we would be playing a public concert at the mall in two weeks,” Mikey got himself excited. “You two should come, it will be great!”

  “I’ll come as long as you don’t get stuck playing those damn bells again like you did for the
Christmas concert. What a waste of my time,” Rachel spat, taking another long swig of her Martini. “DARLENE - GET ME ANOTHER MARTINI. MAKE IT DIRTIER! THIS ONE WAS LIKE A FRESHLY WIPED BABY’S ASS!”

  Xavier jerked at his wife’s sudden outburst. Taking a calming breath, he turned his eyes back to his son, “I will be there, when is it?”

  “Two weeks from Thursday. In the afternoon, I think, sometime around 2,” Mikey rambled, trying to remember.

  “Aw, damn, I don’t think I am going to be able to make it Mikey,” his mother said thumbing through the magazine.

  “Why not, Rachel?” Xavier turned, asking his wife slowly.

  “Ugh, I have a hair appointment with Limda Chi that afternoon, and I am not cancelling. It took like nineteen attempts to find a time that we both had free,” she remarked, acting as if it were a legitimate reason.

  Xavier gave her a disgusted and confused look. Shaking it off he told his son, “Well I will be there. I will be more than happy to move around my schedule to come see you play on the ol’ violin,” he finished with a chuckle.

  “DARLENE!” Rachel shouted again, with a subtle stomp of her foot, “God, I swear she moves like horse with a broken ankle,” Rachel exacerbated aloud, not seeming to target anyone in particular.

  Xavier couldn’t believe how his wife was acting. She was traditionally fairly irritable in the evening, but that night she seemed to be raging. Darlene, the Presidential Mansion’s loyal servant, scurried out of the kitchen apologizing to Mrs. Rove, as she handed off the fresh martini. Rachel didn’t thank her. Conversation beyond that was restricted primarily between father and son, with the occasional grey cloud comment from Rachel.

  Six minutes in to eating, after Mikey had clearly struggled to cut the chicken in his meal, his mother turned to him, “Mikey, get your elbows off the table.”