Two entire floors of the Hotel Belvedere had been rented by Caesar Demas to accommodate the large staff that operated his private foundation. For his own comfort, though, the billionaire had secured a sprawling villa in the nearby mountains. He was a man who loved quiet whenever possible. And on the day before the start of his organization’s fifth annual World Peace Summit, he had a lot of thinking to do.
Demas, with his neatly trimmed beard and carefully managed salt-and-pepper hair, stood on the massive veranda with a cup of mint tea in his hand. The view of the Alps was stunning, to be sure, but that particular moment, he wasn’t contemplating the scenery.
That afternoon Demas was expecting a visitor who might be able to help move him, maybe, just a little closer to his ultimate goal.
He had not yet finished his tea when Alexi, Demas’s longtime administrative chief, entered the security foyer of the villa’s private quarters, along with the visitor from the U.S. State Department, and pressed the buzzer signaling their arrival.
Using a remote, Demas unlocked the door. He gave a warm welcome to his guest, while Alexi simultaneously vanished from the room.
Strolling out onto the veranda, Demas made small talk with Mr. Burke until he sensed that it was time for business. Then he jumped right to the point.
“I was very happy to hear that Secretary of State Danburg will be addressing our peace conference. Has he arrived?”
“He has. We traveled together. The accommodations are greatly appreciated. Secretary Danburg should be settled into his suite shortly after our security people complete their sweep.”
“I was hoping to be able to get a sense of his remarks.”
“We knew you would,” Burke replied with a smile and handed Demas an envelope. “Here’s a draft of his speech. I had the privilege of working on it with him. We’re asking that it remain embargoed until thirty minutes prior to his remarks tomorrow afternoon.”
“Of course,” Demas said courteously. He understood the rules. He opened the envelope and began to scan the draft. After a minute, Demas looked up.
“There is a strong implication here,” Demas responded tapping the printed speech with his finger, “that the United States might be willing to initiate a unilateral offer to share some of its weapons technology, in the hopes of obtaining what you refer to as ‘the hope of universal deterrence.’”
“Yes, in the interests of peace,” Burke replied. “Mr. Demas, the administration also wants you to know that we recognize the fact that you’ve been a good friend to the Corland administration. When the rest of the world was denouncing our use of the RTS weapon system, I know you consulted with U.N. Secretary General Beragund on our behalf. The secretary general’s conciliatory remarks regarding the United States were deeply appreciated by President Corland. I am certain you played a primary role in making that happen.”
“America is a key player in our hopes for global peace. Anything I can do to help, just ask. And yet…”
The envoy from the State Department listened carefully for Demas to finish his thought.
“And yet,” Demas continued, “if the United States is willing to seriously consider sharing its weapon technology with other nations, then the question remains…”
“Yes?”
“Which weapons systems are we specifically referring to?”
“Of course, that’s a key question,” Burke replied, eyeing his host closely.
“For instance, would the United States be willing to share its RTS technology?”
For the next few moments there was dead silence. Burke’s expression showed a lack of surprise. He knew where this was going. But he had to avoid jumping in too quickly. He was certainly not about to reveal any details about President Corland’s willingness to negotiate an international credit-for-weapons trade.
Caesar Demas was a master at getting to the core of an issue, while maintaining a perfect poker-face demeanor. There wasn’t an ounce of emotion on his face. Nothing to reveal just how important the RTS weapons system was to Demas’s ultimate mission.
Finally Mr. Burke responded. “There may be the potential for dialogue on that subject, yes. Which is why we are bringing this subject up with you first. Rather than using the usual official diplomatic avenues of exploration, we thought we’d approach you directly. Here at the conference. As you can imagine, this is a tremendously sensitive issue.”
“Yes, of course,” Demas agreed. “Using the formal diplomatic methods between nations can be clumsy. And so very public. And if things don’t work out…it could be an embarrassment to your administration. With me, on the other hand, I can act as an unofficial envoy for your position. I can do some investigation regarding the sharing of the RTS system with those nations that could provide economic and trade assistance to the United States. I could test the waters…find out its net value. I can work a lot of that through the U.N. And if my efforts fail, and the press gets a hold of it,…you can just denounce me to the media as some kind of nosey busybody!”
Burke and Demas shared a polite laugh. Finally the State Department official extended his hand to the billionaire. “I think we have an understanding,” Burke said.
“At the same time,” Demas added with a note of hesitation, “I am aware that the designer of the RTS system, a former Air Force pilot, is engaged in a dispute with Congress. A brazen act, if you ask me…refusing to divulge his design to his own government. Are you sure that the specifications for his weapon system will be available to share with other nations at some point?”
“That’s just a minor issue. Joshua Jordan will be forced to comply. You needn’t worry about that.”
“Just one final suggestion,” Demas stated as he walked his guest through the cavernous living room to the front door of the villa’s private quarters. “I hope you don’t consider me arrogant in saying this, but you may want to modify Secretary of State Danburg’s speech slightly.”
“Oh? How?”
“I would make your intentions at sharing weapons technology even more ambiguous. Not quite so obvious. That might give me more leverage in my private negotiations, behind the scenes. Just a thought.”
Mr. Burke acknowledged the request with a nod of his head.
As soon as Burke was gone, Demas immediately placed a call to an ocean shipping office in the industrial harbor of Rotterdam.
A phone rang in the small import-export office tucked among the miles of shipping docks and mammoth industrial loading cranes that stretched along the Dutch coast.
Petri Feditzch, the office manager, answered the phone.
“It’s me,” Caesar Demas began.
Feditzch was a good soldier in Demas’s small army. He knew better than to interrupt. He waited for his boss to continue.
“You need to inform the messenger that our project has to be delayed temporarily.”
“Should I give him a timeline? How long does he wait?”
“You will tell the messenger,” Demas elaborated, “a few days, at least. Perhaps longer. Maybe permanently. Tell him to hold until he hears further. Is that clear?”
Petri Feditzch hung up the phone and wiped his mouth. He lit a cigarette. He would delay the call until he had finished his smoke. Feditzch’s background as a former member of the Soviet KGB made him a tough customer.
But even with that, he was not looking forward to the phone call he now had to make.