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Eatwell

“Thank you for asking that. Let me be very clear that neither my office nor the Commission as a whole approaches a potential merger or acquisition with any bias. In many ways, we try to act like judges. We assess the facts and then make a determination of what’s best for competition in Europe. That is our mandate - the interests of Europe, not one or two particular countries, or one company over another."

“I think we differ philosophically from our American cousins in that we view mergers in light of what is best for competition. The United States often views them in light of what’s best for consumers. There can be a fundamental disconnect there. When we see a situation where one entity could end up with a dominant position in the marketplace, it’s our duty to address that. We’re seeing a lot of this, particularly in the technology sector where the United States often has a competitive advantage.”

Dimbleby

“I’m sure Mr. Moore would probably like to add to that.”

Moore

“I would, thank you. What the commissioner says is true. Fair competition must be upheld, but the circumstances are not always black and white. Trade does not occur in a vacuum. The American government is always going to look at what’s best for consumers as a whole, not only consumers in our country, but hopefully around the globe. When a situation arises where consumers can benefit from a proposed merger, it’s our opinion that a body such as the Commission must take that into account.”

Dimbleby

“But what Commissioner Eatwell says about American technology has merit, does it not?”

Moore

“I’m not sure that it does. It makes the assumption that American technology is always superior to European technology, which we know is not the case. I think it’s folly to assume that an American technology always has a head start. Yes, on most days, capital is more readily available in Silicon Valley than it is in, say, Silicon Glen, but this shouldn’t really be a factor in the Commission’s mind. Consumers today have accumulated a body of rights. Many of those rights center around getting technologies into their hands regardless of where the technologies originate, regardless of who is footing the bill, and regardless of who is making a profit. To deny consumers progressive technology is to stifle. And to stifle is to limit the kind of progress I think we all want to see.”

Dimbleby

“I can’t help but make the connection between your comments and the current acquisition being reviewed by the Commission involving Cheyenne, B.V.
”

Moore

“I don’t think it’s productive to get into specific cases. Suffice it to say that consumers are in the driver’s seat these days. To deny them what they crave does no one much good.”

Dimbleby

“Commissioner Eatwell?”

Eatwell

“I agree. This isn’t the venue to get into specific cases, but I will emphasize once again that while the desires of consumers must be of paramount concern, they are not the only ingredient involved with making a merger decision. If a case arises where one group is primed to take a dominant position, we must look at that carefully, and then act.”

“Shithead,” Pettigrew erupted as he listened to Eatwell’s remarks on a radio in Aaron’s room at the Hotel Amigo in Brussels. Aaron sat next to him. Hayden was busy at a table in the corner cranking on a speech.

“He might as well tell the world that he’s not going to let this thing go through,” Pettigrew said.

“Looks that way, doesn’t it,” Aaron said, sipping a cup of coffee. “The Belgians do a good cup of coffee, don’t they. It’s Brazilian, you know.”

“What’s Brazilian?”

“The beans – the beans that they use to make the coffee. That’s why European coffee tastes better than American coffee. The Euros use Brazilian coffee beans. We use crap from Honduras and Tanzania.”

“Damn the coffee, Aaron. Are you listening to what’s going on here?”

“Relax, Elliot. That’s
your
job.”

“I know. That’s why it’s givin’ me a knot in my stomach. Aaron, you’ve gotta address this in your speech tomorrow at the American Chamber of Commerce. You can’t let this lie.”

“I don’t intend to, but dropping this into a speech is just going to fuel the flames. I’m the last person who should be commenting on this.”

“Agreed,” Hayden said from the corner.

“Excuse me, but why the hell are you here?” Pettigrew said to Hayden, annoyed.

“Because I invited him,” Aaron said sternly. “Because he’s the guy who puts my words on paper. Because he’s the director of communications. Got it?”

“Director of what?” Pettigrew said, incredulous.

“Communications,” Hayden said, shrugging his shoulders comically. It had become a bit of a running joke. That said, Hayden was taken aback by the compliment that Aaron had just paid him. Aaron was, of course, his own action agent, the final arbiter of what he said and did not say, but it was flattering to think that Aaron had come to think so highly of him. Plus, Pettigrew had been put in his place.

“What do you want to do then, Aaron?” Pettigrew asked.

“I want you to pay another visit to the Water Miser.”

“Kuipers?”

“Yep.”

Eatwell caught the phone in his living room on the third ring.

“Graham. It’s Menno.”

“Menno. How the devil are you?”

“Not well, Graham.”

“What is it?”

“I received a call from DeWeld yesterday. He caught your performance on
“Any Questions.”

“Your prime minister must have some time on his hands. I didn’t know he was a fan of mine.”

“He’s not, Graham, at least not these days. He expressed concern that you seem to have already made your decision about Cheyenne, Graham. From the tone of your comments, I can’t disagree with him.”

“Was I that transparent?”

“A bit. Graham, it may be better if you refrain from making any public comments at the moment. I’m getting pressure here.”

“From whom?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Eatwell could hear an ambulance siren in the background. “Menno, where are you?”

“At a pay phone. Someone tapped my office phone.”

“That’s not cricket, now is it?”

“Graham, listen. Just please do me the favor of staying out of the limelight a bit. Can you do that?”

“If you’re asking me to tone it down, yes, sure, Menno. What’s going on, my friend?”

“Nothing. Graham, could you do me one other favor? I’d like you to make contact with a gentleman named Jagmetti in Zurich. He’s a banker. He is the gentleman who helped Cheyenne get their hands on a satellite through that Russian company, Riga-Tech.”

“Why do I need to contact him?”

“Because he’s the kind of man that fixes things, Graham. I think he could be helpful to us. I’ve already spoken to him. His number is
411 311 6414.
Have you got that?”

“…6414. Got it. This is a strange request, Menno.”

“That doesn’t matter now, Graham. Jagmetti will explain. Just promise me that you’ll get in touch with him. He’s expecting your call.”

“I’ll call him. Don’t worry. Just take care of yourself.”

“I’ve got to go, Graham. I’ll call you next week.”

Eatwell hung up the phone, thought for a moment, reached for his cup of Earl Grey from the coffee table and took a sip. Derek walked into the room dressed in a white bathrobe. He was younger than Eatwell — somewhere in his early 40s. He had brown hair and a wind-burned face from the documentary shoot he had just completed in Botswana. It was Sunday, the day they normally slept in, read papers, and kept the rest of the world at a distance. Derek could see the concerned look on Eatwell’s face.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Eatwell said, opening his arms. Derek went to him. They hugged. It was the kind of comfort that Graham could never allow himself to either give or receive from a woman. Even so, it always seemed temporary. That’s the way it was with them, some weeks together, other weeks on their own. It had to work that way, at least for Eatwell’s benefit. Being deep in the closet was a necessity in Graham’s world. He didn’t really even view himself as gay, at least in terms of making a formal statement. It seemed so final. To him, his sexuality was like having dual citizenship – he had the freedom to come and go; he just tended to prefer one place over another.

Eatwell sat down in his leather, winged chair. Derek rifled through the newspaper.

“I think I’ll go to Amsterdam next week,” Eatwell announced. “Amsterdam. Why?”

“To see Menno.”

“I see. How’s his head?”

“What do you mean?”

“Menno’s head. It’s oddly-shaped, no?”

“What?”

“Don’t you think so? Like an egg.”

Eatwell shook his head. He hadn’t really noticed the attributes of Menno’s cranium, but the egg analogy held, in more ways than one. There was a sort of Humpty Dumpty fragility to Menno. It had been that way since their youth. It seemed that Eatwell was always looking out for Menno.

Schiphol Airport on the outskirts of Amsterdam started early in the last century as a military base that consisted of a handful of barracks and a mud pool which served as a runway. It had since grown. So had the nearby Aalsmeer Flower Market.

Elliot Pettigrew had only been through Schiphol twice before. He

liked it. It wasn’t the kind of tat that you saw in American airports, particularly JFK, which to him was one of the more embarrassing welcome mats to any country.

Schiphol had the sophistication that one would expect in an international airport — leather chairs, restaurants, places to lie down, a hospital, TV rooms, reading rooms, crucial-looking women, tall girls, fat businessmen, huddled clans of Hassidim, Arabs, Africans dressed in fruit-colored robes, and beer and booze flowing 24 hours a day. It even had an animal hotel where God’s creatures could eat, drink and exercise while in transit. The place didn’t have an off switch. It was the Times Square of airports.

Pettigrew took the train into the city. He opted to walk from Amsterdam Central Station in the direction of the Dam. It was only five o’clock in the evening, but the dark cloud hanging over the city made it seem later. Cars and motorcycles had their headlights on. The decision to meet with Kuipers had been a bit spontaneous. Neither man had mentioned it to anyone. Kuipers didn’t want it getting around the ministry, and consequently out to the press.

Pettigrew had all he needed in his briefcase. He jumped on a tram. “Round Two,” he thought to himself as the car glided through the city. He vowed not to be quite as diplomatic with Kuipers this time around. In the briefcase was a strongly-worded letter from the U.S. Trade Representative to Dutch Prime Minister DeWeld indicating that if the Ministry of Waterworks did not come forth with a valid rationale for why a company like Cheyenne, which was using European technology, couldn’t receive satellite rights - something that the Ministry had originally indicated it was partial to - there would be hell to pay when it came to U.S.-Dutch relations.

It was the bombshell Pettigrew needed to transform Kuipers from pencil-necked bureaucrat with a Napoleon complex into a helpless jellyfish, and he was relishing it. The letter would put DeWeld in a tough position. He had been pulling some strings to get his eldest daughter into the University of Chicago’s MBA program, a program that by all accounts would not accept her based on her academic qualifications. He also had an upcoming election in 18 months.

DeWeld had always had an excellent relationship with the U.S. Through his stewardship, he had been able to carve out a nice slice of the American technology boom for the Netherlands via a series of tax breaks for U.S. companies and technology alliances between American and Dutch research facilities. In many ways, Cheyenne was a poster child for 21
^st
century transatlantic collaboration. There was no way that DeWeld was going to let an aging minister like Kuipers with less than two years until retirement — a guy that by all accounts DeWeld didn’t like anyway – mess that up.

Pettigrew climbed down from the tram in front of Kuipers’ building. He could see the light on in the second floor office.

Kuipers lit a cigarette at his desk. The smoke slithered upwards into the bluish halogen beam as he waited for the American with the strange Louisiana accent. Even without knowing about the letter in Pettigrew’s briefcase, Kuipers had come to a conclusion. He hoped Graham would understand. It ate him up, the realization that the Americans — and Cannondale in particular – might get their way. Kuipers didn’t dislike Americans. On the contrary, he quite liked their optimism. But he didn’t like losing to them, or anyone for that matter. He planned to inform Pettigrew that he had decided to grant Cheyenne full satellite rights. He had already informed his Prime Minister, who expressed his support.

Once he had made up his mind, it felt as if an anvil had been lifted off his chest. He was getting too old for this kind of political chess anyway. In less than twenty-four months, he would retire to his house in Spain. His grandchildren would visit. He would take long walks and re-read the great philosophers.

The doorbell rang. Kuipers had let his secretary go early that evening. He got up and walked to her desk to hit the button that opened the downstairs door. Pettigrew paused a few seconds. He looked at his briefcase and realized that he wanted to have the letter in the breast pocket of his coat for easy access. He figured gunslingers didn’t carry their weapons in a Samsonite, so why should he? He set the briefcase on the ground and opened it. A stiff gust reached in and yanked the letter out, blowing it down the sidewalk.

“Judas Priest,” Pettigrew called out, chasing the letter. Another gust lifted it into the air and launched it in front of the building next door. He grabbed it as it floated to the ground.

Just then, a deafening explosion ripped through the first floor of Kuipers’ building, followed immediately by a second blast. The force hurled Pettigrew’s body into the street, depositing him like a piece of luggage that had fallen off a truck.