“And besides,” Lee went on, “where would I have enough money for such a card?”
The meeting continued. The next man discussed investments with U.S. private equity firms and hedge funds. Again the returns were impressive, as were the CIC’s investments in corporate bonds.
The CIC’s investments were not only made for financial gain. Each held strategic considerations as well. Companies who counted the CIC, the investment firm, as an important shareholder tended to support policies beneficial to China, the country. Such policies included favorable tariffs on Chinese imports; support, or at least silence, on the issue of reunification with Taiwan; and a steadying hand on the issue of revaluation of the Chinese 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
The 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 it.
“Hey, Dad. Happy birthday.”
Fifty or so well-dressed, rosy-cheeked men and women crowded the three tables in 21’s private upstairs dining room. Though not acquainted with most of them, he recognized many of the faces. He saw the mayor and the chief of police and a famous newscaster. There were several prominent executives from Wall Street. He spotted the head of a big investment bank and, seated at a table across from him, the man he had replaced a year earlier. As one, the faces turned toward him. The women smiled. The men waited for their cue.
“I brought something for you,” said Astor, clutching the gift. “To help you celebrate.”
Edward Astor stood up laboriously, making no move to approach and welcome him. “Today is Thursday, is it not?”
“October fifteenth,” said Bobby Astor. “At least, I hope.” A few guests chuckled. He chuckled, too, pleased to have broken the ice, his eyes flitting nervously from face to face, marshaling support.
“Still at Deerfield, young man?” It was the mayor. Astor recalled hearing his father denounce him in terms that would make a marine blush. Yet here he was, seated at his father’s side and somehow aware that Astor had attended Deerfield Academy. Astor saw his father’s eyes flash. The mayor could not have asked a worse question.
“No, sir,” answered Astor. “I didn’t-”
“He was kicked out,” Edward Astor stated, in the same stentorian baritone. “My son the pyromaniac.”
Astor tried to grin. The effort was painful. “It was just a paper fire…in my trash can…bad grade on a test.”
“A paper fire that enveloped the curtains and severely burned one of your fellow students.”
“Just his hands. Only second-degree. He’s fine.”
A silence fell on the room. All the bonhomie and goodwill present when he’d entered had vanished as if sucked out through a pressure grate. The smiles vanished, too.
“My son attends the Kent School at present,” said Edward Astor.
Astor tucked the birthday gift back under his arm. It didn’t matter what he had brought. It wouldn’t be enough. “For the moment, at least,” he added sheepishly, hoping to win back the crowd. “I’m getting a math test back tomorrow.”
There was a guffaw and a few chuckles. His father cleared his voice and the laughter stopped. “Speaking of tomorrow, there is school?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pray tell, Robert, how did you get leave to join us this Thursday at nine o’clock in the evening?”
Astor hadn’t expected the question. Or if he had, he’d expected it man-to-man, when he could make up a bullshit story about getting permission from the dean of students. He was a good liar, but he was punching above his weight with the chief of the New York City Police Department staring at him. He looked at his father, standing there like a statue in a three-piece suit, hands tucked into his waistband, eyes boring into him as if he’d been caught stealing someone’s wallet.