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Authors: Christopher Reich
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yuan.
This last issue was especially important to Magnus Lee. He had been shocked by the trade representative’s announcement that the country would continue following a policy of currency appreciation. China was currently suffering a severe slowdown in economic activity. While officially it was announced that the economy was growing at over 9 percent per annum, he knew better. The undoctored reports showed the economy puttering along at an anemic 7 percent, a disastrous figure in a land where over 100,000 people joined the workforce each day. As a trained economist, he knew that only by boosting the sagging export sector could his country reinvigorate its fortunes. And to do that it must make its goods more attractive to foreign markets. There was only one solution: depreciate.
Lee had another reason. Like all government officials, he had personal interests in the private sector, namely real estate development. Everyone knew the bottom had fallen out of the housing market. No one better than he. Until the economy picked up, he would have no buyers for his many luxury projects. There was far more to it than that, but Lee forced himself not to think about it. All would be better in a matter of days.
The last director rose and spoke for ten minutes about the council’s ambitious forays into real estate. The most recent land deals included purchases of 200,000 acres of prime farmland in Colombia, 50,000 acres in Peru, a million acres in Chile, a gold mine in South Africa, a silver mine in Australia, a diamond mine in the Congo, and a parcel rich with uranium in Australia. There were also purchases in Namibia and Pakistan, and even in the United States of America.
“I must report some bad news,” announced the director of real estate and natural resources. “I am sad to say that two of our esteemed country managers were killed in Zambia during the past week. On a visit to one of our gold mines, the men were trapped by miners demanding an increase in pay from four to six dollars a day and a decrease in weekly hours from eighty to sixty. Naturally, our managers refused. The miners beat them to death with their pickaxes.”
“Savages,” said Lee.
With that, he declared the meeting adjourned. As he shook hands and wished his directors a good day, he reviewed the meeting’s highlights. Ever larger stakes in ever more companies in the U.S. and Europe. Ever more purchases of mineral-rich land in countries around the globe. Ever more bond purchases of U.S. Treasuries, increasing America’s reliance on China. Each year his country was growing stronger and the rest of the world weaker.
It was only the beginning.
10
T he New York Stock Exchange stood at the corner of Wall Street and Broad in Lower Manhattan. Built in 1903, the building hearkened back to the Parthenon, with six Corinthian capitals (or columns) supporting a broad marble pediment. Since 9/11, it had been customary to drape an American flag over the breadth of the building’s façade. Astor’s father had worked here for six years. In that period Astor had visited the floor a dozen times, but never once had he thought to contact him. Setting eyes on the building, he considered how easy it would have been to give him a call, to say hello and suggest they meet for a drink around the corner at Bobby Van’s.
How very easy…
Astor slowed his pace, then stopped altogether. A rueful smile crossed his lips. No, he reminded himself, it wouldn’t have been easy at all. His father had never liked unannounced visits.
“Robert, is that you?”
Astor took another step into the room and tried to stand taller. The year was 1987, early October. He was fifteen and five feet, eight inches tall and prayed nightly that he would keep growing. His father’s birthday present was wrapped and tucked under his arm. He was dressed in his school uniform—blue blazer, gray trousers, white shirt, and striped tie—and it dawned on him that he had made a mistake in wearing
This last issue was especially important to Magnus Lee. He had been shocked by the trade representative’s announcement that the country would continue following a policy of currency appreciation. China was currently suffering a severe slowdown in economic activity. While officially it was announced that the economy was growing at over 9 percent per annum, he knew better. The undoctored reports showed the economy puttering along at an anemic 7 percent, a disastrous figure in a land where over 100,000 people joined the workforce each day. As a trained economist, he knew that only by boosting the sagging export sector could his country reinvigorate its fortunes. And to do that it must make its goods more attractive to foreign markets. There was only one solution: depreciate.
Lee had another reason. Like all government officials, he had personal interests in the private sector, namely real estate development. Everyone knew the bottom had fallen out of the housing market. No one better than he. Until the economy picked up, he would have no buyers for his many luxury projects. There was far more to it than that, but Lee forced himself not to think about it. All would be better in a matter of days.
The last director rose and spoke for ten minutes about the council’s ambitious forays into real estate. The most recent land deals included purchases of 200,000 acres of prime farmland in Colombia, 50,000 acres in Peru, a million acres in Chile, a gold mine in South Africa, a silver mine in Australia, a diamond mine in the Congo, and a parcel rich with uranium in Australia. There were also purchases in Namibia and Pakistan, and even in the United States of America.
“I must report some bad news,” announced the director of real estate and natural resources. “I am sad to say that two of our esteemed country managers were killed in Zambia during the past week. On a visit to one of our gold mines, the men were trapped by miners demanding an increase in pay from four to six dollars a day and a decrease in weekly hours from eighty to sixty. Naturally, our managers refused. The miners beat them to death with their pickaxes.”
“Savages,” said Lee.
With that, he declared the meeting adjourned. As he shook hands and wished his directors a good day, he reviewed the meeting’s highlights. Ever larger stakes in ever more companies in the U.S. and Europe. Ever more purchases of mineral-rich land in countries around the globe. Ever more bond purchases of U.S. Treasuries, increasing America’s reliance on China. Each year his country was growing stronger and the rest of the world weaker.
It was only the beginning.
10
T he New York Stock Exchange stood at the corner of Wall Street and Broad in Lower Manhattan. Built in 1903, the building hearkened back to the Parthenon, with six Corinthian capitals (or columns) supporting a broad marble pediment. Since 9/11, it had been customary to drape an American flag over the breadth of the building’s façade. Astor’s father had worked here for six years. In that period Astor had visited the floor a dozen times, but never once had he thought to contact him. Setting eyes on the building, he considered how easy it would have been to give him a call, to say hello and suggest they meet for a drink around the corner at Bobby Van’s.
How very easy…
Astor slowed his pace, then stopped altogether. A rueful smile crossed his lips. No, he reminded himself, it wouldn’t have been easy at all. His father had never liked unannounced visits.
“Robert, is that you?”
Astor took another step into the room and tried to stand taller. The year was 1987, early October. He was fifteen and five feet, eight inches tall and prayed nightly that he would keep growing. His father’s birthday present was wrapped and tucked under his arm. He was dressed in his school uniform—blue blazer, gray trousers, white shirt, and striped tie—and it dawned on him that he had made a mistake in wearing
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