The Ionian Paradigm

by Daniel Leston

  After that, one thing led to another.

  Since Elizabeth had to select a site to host the DeCaylus Corp semi-annual meeting with her European managers, she decided it made complete sense to choose Corfu. Why not schedule the proceedings several days apart at the same location? she reasoned, basically combining business with pleasure. Then the scenario evolved further when their sixteen-year-old son, Jake, learned of the plan. Since he and Marko, Nick and Maria’s son, had been best friends growing up, he begged to go to Salonika over his summer break a full two weeks in advance of his parent’s departure for Corfu, thus giving him additional time to spend with those he still considered his second family.

  They saw no reason to refuse him, much to the boy’s delight.

  While still waiting for Elizabeth, David’s eyes were now drawn to the appearance of a magnificent yacht of striking proportions slowly making its way into the eastern harbor. Even from the Hilton’s height and distance, he could appreciate the impressive size of the vessel, its sleek and ultra-modern design quite unlike any other luxury yacht he’d ever seen. Was this the timely entrance of the Russian oligarch, Alexei Talanov, to be honored a few days hence? He guessed so. It seemed somewhat improbable such a vessel belonged to anyone else. Currently, throughout the Mediterranean, the flagrant ostentation of new millionaires was becoming a common sight—whereas this, however, appeared to go well above and beyond!

  Here was the unmistakable toy of a multi-billionaire.

  CHAPTER TWO

  With a breaking dawn at its stern, the sleek 342-foot super-yacht, Corrina, slipped through a low, lingering mist as it made its unhurried way into the larger of Corfu’s two harbors. Framed by an impressive sunrise behind it, the stealth-contoured hull was uniformly painted in tones of muted silver, the colors imparting a distinct visual elegance that drew admiring eyes from all those following the progress of its dramatic entrance. Only after it positioned itself in the deep waters well away from the crowded docks of lesser vessels was her fore and aft anchors lowered, securing a prominent position on the sea’s gentle swells.

  While this took place, Alexei Talanov watched with approval through the tinted, one-way glass windows of the ship’s master suite. The overall timing of the entrance had been perfect. It was a small matter, to be sure, but he was by nature a showman, always appreciative of the effect personal grandiosity had on others. As such, he knew when even the simplest of maneuvers was performed properly.

  His captain was to be commended.

  The Corrina was among Talanov’s most recent acquisitions, for scarcely two years had elapsed since he took possession. With a price tag exceeding 320 million euros, the ultra-modern craft boasted state-of-the-art amenities guaranteed to impress virtually anyone. Besides having eight luxury cabins accommodating sixteen guests, a dining salon, a helicopter pad with hanger—plus a 34-foot speedboat kept in the hull for shore transportation—it also maintained over fifty staff and permanent crewmembers. Among these were six highly paid security personnel whose sole responsibility was to protect the yacht and its owner at all times. Carefully selected from the Russian military, they were a continuing comfort to Talanov.

  His personal input and requirements toward the ship’s final design had been considerable, demanding nothing but the very best in its construction and interior décor. And there was more. Being a workaholic, knowing he intended to spend much of his time aboard the ship, he altered the Corrina’s original layout to include what he referred to as his ‘work center’, a sizeable enclosure connected directly to his master suite and crammed with all of the electronic communication capabilities necessary to properly conduct his expansive daily business activities.

  At thirty-eight, Talanov was slim, fit, and above average in height, his blue eyes and tanned features highlighted beneath the thick blond hair that his personal barber kept fashionably trimmed at the exact length he preferred. Likewise, he knew he could well afford the great pleasure and status owning the Corrina provided. As the youngest player amongst Russia’s growing list of entrepreneurial success stories, his estimated wealth according to Forbes Magazine amounted to over 12.5 billion U.S. dollars. In reality, this appraisal by western experts actually was somewhat on the conservative side, for much of his fortune was intentionally hidden or otherwise undisclosed—as was the overall worth of the other nineteen multi-billionaires based within Russia. Collectively referred to as oligarchs, their actual wealth was difficult to ascertain; this primarily due to their secretive natures, which made precise calculations by outsiders almost impossible to gage.

  This tendency wasn’t all that they held in common, for another shared characteristic was an ingrained sense of fear. Though insatiable risk-takers all, deep down most of them shared an innate apprehension of what the future might hold. As good as life presently was for them, they fully recognized that nothing was chiseled in stone, the potential danger to their existence not something to be ignored. Their spectacular rise came fast on the heels of untried capitalism after the fall of the former Soviet Union, and the longevity of Russia’s shaky transition to a free market economy still remained an open question. Threats took many forms, all capable of being lethal. The absolute worst case scenario, of course, would be a violent form of communism storming back into power, putting them outside the law and subject to imprisonment or even worse. As unlikely as this presently seemed, nothing was beyond the realm of possibility.

  Experience taught them a myriad of lesser dangers also existed, all of which required constant vigilance. Most were political in nature. Not the least of these was when an oligarch financially backed a corrupt government leader only to then have him turn on him for political gain. It was a common enough occurrence. To help thwart the chances of this, each had learned the wisdom of hedging bets by buying the favor of as many local and national officials as feasible. The financial investment this required was substantial, but ultimately critical. A tight balancing act perhaps, yet doing anything less might conceivably verge on suicidal.

  As the wealth of these individuals grew, they’d learned yet other means of self-protection, the most common being the absolute necessity of establishing broad diversification in all of their business dealings, whether it be in oil, gas, minerals, heavy manufacturing, construction, banking, retailing, telecommunications—or whatever other opportunities presented themselves. By doing so, they increased their value to Russia’s still struggling economy, which in turn greatly reduced their exposure to opportunistic politicians.

  The working theory was that the bigger the target, the less vulnerable it became, and Talanov understood this established premise well, mastering it to perfection over the past dozen years of his meteoric rise. However, the intrinsic problem in pursuing this principle was it could on occasion conflict with the similar interests of competitive and ruthless peers. Thus he selected all his acquisitions with caution, always careful not to purposely tread on the toes of other established billionaires. The result of any such hasty miscalculations could prove deadly.

  This was a lesson Talanov had learned early in life.

  When just a child he was spirited out of Moscow for a full year by his late father to live secretly with his fraternal Greek grandmother in a tiny village outside Athens. His sire had found himself in direct conflict with one of the earliest of Russia’s rising oligarchs and given reason to believe his family was in serious danger. It took a period of time to resolve the issue before his cautious father felt comfortable enough to bring his son home.

  Since this event pertained to an item now high on Talanov’s agenda for the day, the memory of that traumatic experience played on his mind as he walked into his office. Unlike every other area of the Corrina, here the décor—or distinct lack thereof—was intentionally severe, almost Spartan in its simplicity. This was a location reserved solely for business, not a place for entertainment or any visual distractions.

  As always, his long-time business associate awaited his arrival.

  After
a brisk nod of greeting, Talanov sat in his padded chair behind a wide, glass-topped desk that was devoid of anything extraneous. It held only what he expected to see each morning; a single pen, fresh legal notepad, and a closed folder, which he now flipped open and began to rapidly scan. It contained twenty or more typed sheets, all prioritized for his attention and approval, several requiring his signature.

  “Pavel, I don’t see anything here regarding Oleg Deripaska. Did our agents come up with nothing overnight?”

  “Not as of an hour ago,” came the disappointing reply. “I’ll re-check the latest e-mails just to be sure.”

  Talanov silently watched as his assistant did so, thinking how fortunate he was to have Pavel Bedev in his service these many years. Though the man appeared in many ways the direct physical opposite of his employer—several inches shorter, with coarse black hair and narrow, unimposing stature—he remained the only person the oligarch trusted implicitly. And with good reason. Being the same age as Talanov, Bebev’s loyalty and unquestioning devotion had become a firm constant since their shared university days back in Moscow. The initial root cause behind the man’s almost slavish devotion was something he’d intuitively recognized, yet wisely chose to accept, nurturing it to his own personal advantage. The effort had proven well spent. In addition to being incredibly efficient, Bedev’s sharp mind and insightful business acumen now made him a most reliable asset—talents Talanov drew upon daily.

  “There’s nothing, I’m afraid,” said Pavel, turning away from his personal computer console and cell phone, “which I fear can be interpreted in a couple of different ways. Either the rumors about Deripaska’s intention to move on that Siberian coal plant are completely false, or he’s being remarkably tight-lipped about his objective. If it’s the latter, you may be better served to take a wait and see approach before making a serious bid for ownership. There are other comparable facilities to be looked at. I see no point in needlessly creating an enemy of the man.”

  “That’s your final advice on the matter?”

  “It is.”

  Talanov returned his attention to the folder. Though he wasn’t pleased about being denied something he wanted, he nonetheless recognized the wisdom of backing off for the time being. What was going unsaid by Pavel was their shared knowledge that Oleg Deripaska was reputedly the Russian president’s favorite industrialist. If true, then it gave the older oligarch a distinct advantage, making him doubly dangerous to unnecessarily provoke.

  So be it.

  He continuing to read, placing his signature where necessary.

  “Pavel, I’d like to see the final list for Saturday’s function at the Hilton. Has Minister Stephanidis sent you his—”

  “He has. It’s the bottom three sheets in the folder. Over sixty attendees in all, as I recall.”

  Talanov glanced through the list, a faint smile crossing his lips as he located the one name he sought. Excellent! He’d worried the American might not have traveled so great distance to attend. “Since this is a morning function, perhaps we should make their evening something special for them to remember.”

  “In what way?”

  Talanov’s smile deepened.

  “I’m thinking a night of drinks and entertainment aboard the Corrina to express my gratitude. We certainly have time to arrange it.” He paused, circling the name that so interested him. “See to it. Make sure all of them are issued formal invitations.”

  Before the folder was closed, a curious Bedev noted the identity. The name didn’t surprise him.

  It was Prof. David Manning.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Hilton Apollo Lounge. Three Days Later.

  While enjoying an afternoon drink with his long-time friend, Nick Travlos, David watched in amusement through the lounge’s wall of tinted glass as their two sons cavorted in the Hilton’s large swimming pool. Boys being boys, they were clearly conscious of the attention drawn from a trio of young girls sunbathing close by while they were vying to impress with their less-than-expert diving skills. After yesterday’s full schedule of sightseeing, today had been designated one for rest and relaxation—but try telling this to a pair of energetic teenagers.

  David finished his scotch and soda, signaling the waiter for another round of drinks. “You know, Nick, I can’t believe how much those two have grown over the past few years. Doesn’t seem possible. Both Jake and Marko have shot up like weeds since Elizabeth and I returned to Boston. Jake’s already only a few inches shorter than me.”

  Nick grinned.

  “So welcome to the club. As you must’ve noticed, Marko is proudly sporting a dozen or so wispy hairs on his upper lip, believing this is the beginning of an actual mustache. I tried to get him to shave it off back in Salonika several days before Jake arrived, but he wanted none of it. I suppose he hoped to impress his buddy.”

  David chuckled.

  “Which reminds me,” he said, “I haven’t yet thanked you for letting Jake spend part of his summer break with you and Maria. I hope it wasn’t too big an imposition. You weren’t given much advance notice.”

  Nick appeared offended.

  “Are you kidding me? He was a joy. No trouble, whatsoever. When Marko found out he was coming, he couldn’t talk about anything else for days. To be honest, my only concern was after three years apart they might find themselves relative strangers. Things like this can happen. But my worries were unfounded. It wasn’t the case at all. They took up right where they’d left off, best friends like they’d always been.”

  Pleased, David sipped at his glass, again looking out at the pool and thinking back to the auspicious afternoon just over a decade earlier when these same two precocious boys inadvertently set him onto the path of the second of his historic archaeological discoveries—an example of how just one chance event can sometimes spiral into something quite remarkable.

  Never a big advocate of fate, it came close to making David a believer.

  The boys were only five at the time, David babysitting them from his former lab in Salonika. As a favor to Marko’s father, he’d just finished a cursory examination of a thirteenth-century leather-wrapped aurochs horn passed down to Nick from his great-grandfather, a man employed as a surveyor in Siberia for the tsarist government roughly a century before. Deeming the horn interesting, yet of no particular monetary value beyond its worth as a treasured family souvenir, he’d been distracted by a brief phone call in his office. Not fully appreciating the mischievous nature of the rambunctious children, he returned to find the two had begun peeling back the ancient leather, effectively damaging the horn as an artifact. Only when he saw what was concealed beneath did David realize its importance. After this, one thing led to yet another, eventually culminating weeks later with him and Elizabeth high in the rugged mountains of distant Asia, unearthing what was now Mongolia’s supreme national treasure.

  It was curious how such small incidents often became momentous.

  Nick brought him back to the present by asking, “So how did Elizabeth’s meetings go with her European managers? As I recall, she was never a big fan of that particular chore. I assume everything went okay?”

  David lifted his shoulders.

  “As well as to be expected, I suppose. She doesn’t talk about it much, and I can’t really blame her. But it’s reached a point where she’s seriously considering making a change in DeCaylus Corp’s executive structure, one that should relieve some of the growing pressure she’s been feeling.”

  “What sort of change?”

  “It’s not definite yet, but she hopes to bring a former vice-president out of retirement, setting him as a personal liaison between herself and DeCaylus Corp—someone in regular contact that she can trust to speak and function on her behalf with the necessary authority. Basically, a reliable go-between to handle all of her present responsibilities. It’ll be a slow building curve to implement, of course, but it should turn into something worthwhile. The trick will be establishing this unique position without a
ppearing to tread on the toes of her existing senior managers. That she wouldn’t do. She thinks far too highly of her executive team back in Boston to risk disrupting them in any way. Done properly, however, it shouldn’t happen.”

  “Sounds to me like a glorified personal assistant working full-time out of corporate headquarters.”

  “In a way, yes.”

  “You mentioned—what?—a specific retired vice-president? So she’s already selected her man?”

  “She has. And I heartily agree with her choice. His name is Ted Quenton, a man originally hired by her late father more than forty years ago, someone held in high esteem by all of DeCaylus Corp’s top management. If anyone can be accepted in this new role, it will be him. I’ve only met Ted in person twice, but we worked together closely over the phone a couple of years back when I got caught up in all that trouble in West Texas.”

  “I assume you’re referring to that business with the Aztec gold discovery? I remember the resulting media coverage and all the prolonged problems you encountered.”

  It was a memory David didn’t like dwelling on.

  “Well, just let me say it would’ve been an even bigger nightmare if it hadn’t been for Ted’s connections and computer expertise. Because of his investigative skills on my behalf, lives were saved—perhaps even my own.”

  “In other words, he’s got Elizabeth’s complete trust.”

  “And mine also.”

  David felt it time to change the topic to one he found interesting by gesturing at the magnificent yacht anchored well out in the harbor. “So what can you tell me about this Talanov fellow we’re honoring tomorrow?” He paused to sample his fresh drink. “I have to admit I don’t know much about him.”