wearing bowler hats and fob chains had read about Cheyenne’s need for a satellite to fill the bandwidth gaps on its network. He offered his help to Timmermans in securing a Russian-made satellite supplied by a firm called Riga-Tech in Moscow. Riga-Tech had just what they
needed – a satellite that had been purchased by another company a year earlier, but the company was having financial problems and had decided against a launch. The satellite was sitting in storage. It was Cheyenne’s if they wanted it. Deal.
Timmermans put a down payment on the satellite on behalf of Cannondale. They would pay the rest upon launch. But getting permission to beam signals down to the Netherlands and other parts of Europe was a different story. Civil servants like the Dutch Minister of Waterworks still held the cards on that one.
Gazing out the window of his office near the Paradeplatz onto Lake Zurich, Jagmetti was relishing the middle man deal he had just brokered between three Cold War remnants – an insecure Russia desperate to regain its place in the world, an envious Europe trying to jump start an innovation culture, and a cocky America that still held the marbles.
And in completing the deal, he had also managed to please a new client – one that was so mysterious that Jagmetti referred to him in his own mind only as “the Client.” The Client had expressed a strange interest in knowing when the next communications satellite might be launched over Europe. The Client was precise. He wanted to know when and where. Jagmetti was happy to provide the Client details based on what he knew from his dealings with the Russians and Cheyenne, but he remained curious why the Client wanted to know so much about a communications satellite.
The beautiful thing was that Jagmetti didn’t need to ask questions. That wasn’t his job. His job was to do what his clients asked of him, keep his head down, and get very rich in the process. None of that Anglo, moral claptrap about taking only “clean” clients. What was “clean” anyway? That was a sucker’s game. He took all kinds of clients, the same way lawyers did, and he didn’t make apologies. Business and morality were mutually exclusive. Morality was for Sundays. Morality was expensive.
A gentle sun danced on the water. The lilies in his office emitted a fresh, clean smell. It was satisfying to be Swiss. He took his coat from the rack, put it on and walked downstairs. He needed lunch. He decided he’d eat at Cantinella Antinori in the old town near St. Peter’s Church. They had excellent veal.
On his way to the restaurant, Jagmetti stopped by Sprungli to get a box of chocolates. Outside of the store, he took a breath of crisp air. He found it difficult to believe that just 200 years ago, they were trading livestock in this fabled square. He was now a true “Zurcher,” but it hadn’t always been that way. His father came over from Italy in the 50s to work in a turbine plant. His mother was a Swiss-German nurse. They worked hard so that he wouldn’t have to, then they died.
And so, over his veal, Jagmetti quietly toasted his parents with a nice Dole red wine. It seemed the perfect way to congratulate them, and himself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Vaughn, it’s Aaron Cannondale.”
“Aaron, how are you?”
“Fine. Let’s get this Cheyenne acquisition rolling. They’re past their IPO, they secured their satellite deal, and they’re making good progress. Whadya say?”
“When?”
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks? You sure about that, Aaron? The Euros aren’t going to take too kindly to that. They’ll think you’re pushy.”
“I am pushy. Let’s do this thing. And let’s make a show of it while we’re at it. I want this to be so far out there in the public imagination that the Euro weenies and the folks in Washington can’t possibly back away from it.”
“Ok, Aaron.”
“Are we gonna have any problems with the Justice Department?”
“No.”
“Good. Call me when
needed – a satellite that had been purchased by another company a year earlier, but the company was having financial problems and had decided against a launch. The satellite was sitting in storage. It was Cheyenne’s if they wanted it. Deal.
Timmermans put a down payment on the satellite on behalf of Cannondale. They would pay the rest upon launch. But getting permission to beam signals down to the Netherlands and other parts of Europe was a different story. Civil servants like the Dutch Minister of Waterworks still held the cards on that one.
Gazing out the window of his office near the Paradeplatz onto Lake Zurich, Jagmetti was relishing the middle man deal he had just brokered between three Cold War remnants – an insecure Russia desperate to regain its place in the world, an envious Europe trying to jump start an innovation culture, and a cocky America that still held the marbles.
And in completing the deal, he had also managed to please a new client – one that was so mysterious that Jagmetti referred to him in his own mind only as “the Client.” The Client had expressed a strange interest in knowing when the next communications satellite might be launched over Europe. The Client was precise. He wanted to know when and where. Jagmetti was happy to provide the Client details based on what he knew from his dealings with the Russians and Cheyenne, but he remained curious why the Client wanted to know so much about a communications satellite.
The beautiful thing was that Jagmetti didn’t need to ask questions. That wasn’t his job. His job was to do what his clients asked of him, keep his head down, and get very rich in the process. None of that Anglo, moral claptrap about taking only “clean” clients. What was “clean” anyway? That was a sucker’s game. He took all kinds of clients, the same way lawyers did, and he didn’t make apologies. Business and morality were mutually exclusive. Morality was for Sundays. Morality was expensive.
A gentle sun danced on the water. The lilies in his office emitted a fresh, clean smell. It was satisfying to be Swiss. He took his coat from the rack, put it on and walked downstairs. He needed lunch. He decided he’d eat at Cantinella Antinori in the old town near St. Peter’s Church. They had excellent veal.
On his way to the restaurant, Jagmetti stopped by Sprungli to get a box of chocolates. Outside of the store, he took a breath of crisp air. He found it difficult to believe that just 200 years ago, they were trading livestock in this fabled square. He was now a true “Zurcher,” but it hadn’t always been that way. His father came over from Italy in the 50s to work in a turbine plant. His mother was a Swiss-German nurse. They worked hard so that he wouldn’t have to, then they died.
And so, over his veal, Jagmetti quietly toasted his parents with a nice Dole red wine. It seemed the perfect way to congratulate them, and himself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Vaughn, it’s Aaron Cannondale.”
“Aaron, how are you?”
“Fine. Let’s get this Cheyenne acquisition rolling. They’re past their IPO, they secured their satellite deal, and they’re making good progress. Whadya say?”
“When?”
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks? You sure about that, Aaron? The Euros aren’t going to take too kindly to that. They’ll think you’re pushy.”
“I am pushy. Let’s do this thing. And let’s make a show of it while we’re at it. I want this to be so far out there in the public imagination that the Euro weenies and the folks in Washington can’t possibly back away from it.”
“Ok, Aaron.”
“Are we gonna have any problems with the Justice Department?”
“No.”
“Good. Call me when
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