“Clever girl,” mused Bettencourt. “Her presence of mind is amazing. This took place off the Horn of Africa, a few hundred miles from the failed nation-state formerly known as Somalia.”
The audience murmured, not sure if he’d made a joke or not.
“She stuck the phone in an empty mayo jar,” he explained. “Tossed it overboard. The US Navy traced the signal, found the phone. She’s been missing and presumed dead for about four years now. That vessel? You may not remember, but the Horizon was an MIT project, an electric-biodiesel hybrid meant to set a round-the-world record.
“And the handsome young man bleeding to death in the first frame? He’d proposed to her the day the Horizon left port. They were going to have their engagement party the day they arrived in back in Bordeaux. Presence of mind, intelligence, bravery, and devotion… this means nothing if you don’t have security.
“So we played this to the International Mercantile Shipping Association. Got us the first contract to secure the area with a private security force.”
He let the crowd sit for a moment as he prepared to change the subject. Too easy. He could make them feel sadness just as quickly as ecstasy, fear as quickly as hope.
“Think these pirates respect international waters? Hospital ships? Missions of mercy or exploration? No, they respect force. A borderless world, that’s where we’re headed,” he mused.
“What about territorial integrity? The rights of the indigenous peoples?” shouted a female voice from the audience. Bettencourt snapped around, but couldn’t identify the source of the interruption. He smiled.
“Sister, the automobile was tough on the carriage industry.”
“What about quality of life? Raising social standards?” she shouted back. Ah, yes — the attractive brunette near the back. Why did the activist types always wear glasses?
“I love this topic,” he shouted. “Let’s pretend we focus on social justice nonsense. Bettencorp’s medical subsidiaries start paying their janitors enough to drive a Cadillac and retire at fifty-three. Guess what? We just made less profit. That means less investment. That means we don’t come up with a new cancer treatment. We don’t add the next drug to the AIDS cocktail. But at least you feel good about it because our low-level staff drive caddies they didn’t earn.”
“But—”
“One more word from you, young woman,” he said, pointing. “And I’m going to have to hire you. Then you’ll really be in trouble. Look, you’re also entitled to believe the world is flat.”
Wait for it — line it up — get ready to take that swing—
“And when you make your first billion, I’ll let you debate me all afternoon.” He shrugged at the chuckles and flipped to the next slide, the big reveal. It was a beautiful shot of open ocean with a massive city rising up out of the water like the lost civilization of Atlantis. He’d paid top dollar for the shot, flown the film crew out from Tokyo, put them on a top-of-the-line helicopter with a gyroscopically stabilized camera mount and high-definition video system. Light glinted off the ocean waves like rolling gold. It was, in a word, perfect.
Bettencourt spoke as the camera rotated around the oceanic megatropolis.
“This is Anconia Island. Started initially out of the security concerns we talked about earlier. The goal was to have a stable, permanent presence off the Horn of Africa — one that could provide economic opportunity, private security, and a workforce free of national interests. These structural underpinnings were actually three different massive oil-drilling platforms at one point, all scheduled for decommission. We dry-docked them in the South Pacific, decontaminated everything, stripped all the equipment off and built these office-building and condominium-style high-rises.
“Don’t let the glass fool you, these are built for tsunamis, lightning strike, even a class-four typhoon. Each building has a specialized function. We have our own greenhouse and hydroponics gardens. We have deep-water portage and a jet-rated floating runway. We’ve already developed plans to expand that runway to accommodate passenger aircraft. Communication to the outside world is handled by a dedicated communication satellite, capable of supporting sustained traffic of 800 megabytes per second per terminal—that’s right, per terminal. That’s a must-have, considering that the population of Anconia is now approaching 3,000 souls. This includes a large contingent of IT personnel supporting Fortune 500 companies nationwide, including offshore software development, banking and datastorage. All of this in a non-extradition, non-national, untaxed environment where nobody can be involuntarily subpoenaed. We sublet fully forty percent of our facilities to like-minded corporate interests, and we intend to double the size of Anconia Island every five years for the next two decades.
“Anconia Island is already a shining beacon of security and prosperity for a lawless region. The local Somalis are a little slow to get on board, given a complex combination of political and cultural factors. But Bettencorps has a standing invitation to the Somali people. If you remember nothing else, remember this — we want them to be a primary beneficiary of this great endeavor. We intend to train them, we intend to employ them, and unlike the UN and their revolving-regime neighbors, we’re in the region to stay. Already we’ve set forth several strategic alliances with the local powers and engaged in some of the first sustained economic development in Somalia in more than a decade.
“I have a vision,” he said. “I want masses of Somali professionals commuting to Anconia Island for extended rotations. I want satellite facilities on the Somali mainland. I want white-collar workers, blue-collar workers, green-collar workers. I believe the people of the Horn of Africa are the single largest, untapped economic resource on the planet and they’re just waiting to be unleashed on the world.”
Time for the big wrap-up. He had them all, every single wide-eyed student.
“And here’s why I think this. You want to leave an impact on the world? Don’t write a textbook; invest in a company you believe in. Don’t graduate and become a literary critic; quit school and start a business. Don’t be an academic; be an entrepreneur. You, quite literally, own the future. And the only type of progress is economic progress.”
Cheers streamed from the audience, and he raised both hands in triumph. He wouldn’t be taking any questions, not today.
“Thank you everybody!” he shouted. And with that, Charles Bettencourt took three steps down to the auditorium floor. The pressing crowd surrounded him, massing together to try and get an up-close look, a handshake, the chance to shout a too-brief question.
A tiny, unwelcome thought crept into the back of his mind. Unknown to the enthralled crowd, the success of Anconia was far from assured. The glittering skyscrapers atop the island were still less than half occupied and the entire project painfully over-budget. To make matters worse, the Conglomerate had begun to demand certain… concessions.
An attractive young woman — a blonde? No, there were too many people for him to get a good look — pressed her entire soft hand into the immaculate woolen pocket of his tailored designer suit. She left something small and crisp behind as she withdrew her hand, no doubt a phone number.
Through the questions, the handshakes, the congratulations and the half-joking job requests, Charles couldn’t help but notice that nobody asked him what the local Somalis called Anconia Island.
They called it the Death Star.
CHAPTER 4
Inky-blue waters lapped against seawalls and along the length of the city’s largest dock. Glittering like a jewel in the warm Mediterranean night, the perpetually lit skyline of the grand harbor of Valletta, Malta was an ancient collection of baroque steeples and domes coupled with a rarified concentration of affluence few harbors could boast. Preparations for the Rolex-sponsored yacht race were in full swing, and the dock, wide as a three-lane highway, held the parked Bentleys and Maybachs of old money, the Ferraris and McLaurens of the more ostentatious. Each flashy supercar lay parked beside the long gangplanks before a line of custom-built megayachts. They were of every construction, flagged from Paris, Dubai, New York, Sydney, Tokyo, London, Shanghai, Venice and other farflung centers of power.