Bandwidth by Angus Morrison

to own things, Hayden. And then this kid — this wonderful Dutch kid ...”
    “Peter?”
    “Yeah. This kid who doesn’t get up much before noon, this kid who finds it right there in a glass of water perched on some titty magazine next to his desk. You’ve gotta love that.”
    Yeah, you do gotta love that , Hayden thought to himself as the car pulled up to the restaurant.
    “Oh, by the way, Hayden, in addition to being my speechwriter, you’re now Director of Communications.”
    “What?”
    “Yeah. I like the sound of it, don’t you?”
    “Director of Communications of what?”
    “I don’t know, we’ll see.”

CHAPTER NINE

    Aaron got out of the car first. “Monsieur Cannondale, bonsoir,” the owner beamed from the steps, reaching to shake Aaron’s hand. He was a small, fat, sycophant with a painted, Peter Lorre smile - the kind of smile that small, fat, sycophants perfect. Claude was his name. “Ça va, Claude?” Aaron said without accent. Hayden grinned.
    Typical Aaron charm. He didn’t speak a word of French, but he could give the impression that he did. Inside, sumptuous women, most of whom looked more Latin than northern European, took their coats and guided them to the private room decorated in Victor Horta art nouveau.
    “Don’t get too friendly with these girls,” Aaron whispered to Hayden. “They’ll break your heart.”
    Hayden was introduced to Timmermans and to the boy wonder, Peter. He also met Cheyenne’s talented but quiet CFO, Michelle Vandermullen. Hayden caught himself staring at her, but not before she had caught him. She was lovely — blonde, blue eyes, red lips and a cream cheese complexion. Two of Cheyenne’s lawyers were also there, as was Aaron’s attorney — a pug-nosed Italian from Brooklyn named Fiorello Bertolini.
    A throng of niceties ensued — handshakes, pats on the back, fake smiles. When the guests settled in, Claude read the menu: wild mushroom tarte with truffles, seared fois gras, asperges à la Flamande, and escargot for starters. Grilled squab with potato truffle confit and swedes, tripe a l’Armagnac, giant ravioli stuffed with wild boar and pumpkin, and steak topped with truffles and duck fat. Aperitifs were passed around — Campari, Kir Royale, Vodka, Port. Water with lemon for Aaron.
    “Gentlemen,” Aaron said with a sudden tone of seriousness. With that one word the meeting had begun. “Let’s get right to it. Valuation. How is the world going to value Cheyenne? It’s not going to be an easy story to tell the general public. To some it may sound like science fiction, but then again, that’s what I like about it.”
    Peter, who had been looking at Aaron skeptically from the get go, finally pinpointed what he didn’t like about this Cannondale. He reminded him of the cocky American business students he had come across while he studied at the University of North Carolina for a year. God, he disliked them — their arrogance, their one-dimensional pursuit, their almost religious belief in the power of capitalism to heal mankind’s ills.
    “Look, it’s very simple, Aaron said. “Before I move on investing in this ... if I move on this ... the first thing we need to talk about is valuation.”
    “What are you talking about?” Peter said abruptly. Aaron ignored Peter at first, but then turned directly toward him.
    “How much do you think this thing is going to ultimately be worth, my friend?”
    “I don’t know. Millions, I suppose,” Peter said.
    “Millions, really?” Aaron said, slightly annoyed at Peter’s naiveté. “How many ... Two million? Two-hundred? A billion?”
    “A billion sounds good,” Timmermans joked.
    “You see my point. It’s ultimately only worth what the market says it’s worth. And the market will value it more favorably when it knows that someone with a track record that speaks for itself has invested — someone who is willing to assume the risk.”
    “This is bullshit,” Peter squawked. One of Cheyenne’s