5
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
The town so big they named it twice, Thrasher mused as he looked out through the narrow window of his Learjet at the forest of towers blanketing Manhattan.
David Kahn was ensconced in an office in one of those towers. Throughout the rough-and-tumble world of commercial real estate and investment banking, the man was known as Jenghis Kahn. Nobody said that to his face, though. Very few got to say it more than once, even behind his back.
His office was high up in the Chrysler Building, which he owned. An icon of art deco architecture, the building’s interior had been completely remodeled, Thrasher saw. High-speed elevators, swift and quiet. Elegant carpeting along the corridors. The walls were hung with photographs of Manhattan scenes: ghetto kids playing in the spray from a fireplug, glittering Broadway openings, the Twin Towers collapsing in smoke and death.
He’s a Noo Yawkah, Thrasher realized. Born in Oshkosh, but he’s made the Big Apple the center of his soul. Assuming he has one.
Kahn’s outer office was larger than Thrasher’s entire suite, back in Houston. You could play a hockey game in here, Thrasher told himself as he plodded across the thick carpeting to the desk where a lone executive assistant sat, pointedly ignoring him by keeping her beady eyes focused on her desktop display screen.
She was middle-aged, lean, lantern-jawed, with her graying hair pulled back in some sort of knot. A dragon, guarding the entrance to her master’s lair.
As Thrasher stepped up to the desk, the dragon looked up at him.
“Arthur D. Thrasher, I presume.” Her voice was a surprisingly smooth purr.
“That’s me!”
“Mr. Kahn is on an international call at the moment. Please have a seat. He’ll be with you shortly.”
Thrasher grinned. He’d seen this ploy before. I’m so busy and powerful that you’ll have to wait before I have the time to listen to your pitiful little spiel.
Chuckling to himself, he went to the nearest couch and sat down. The coffee table in front of the couch held a scattering of business magazines. Thrasher picked up a copy of Forbes. Sure enough, it was the edition that featured the nation’s wealthiest people. David Kahn and his brother Charles were tied for fourth place, just ahead of Will Portal.
The minutes ticked by. Thrasher put the magazine down, pulled out his handheld, and checked his phone messages. Nothing that can’t wait, he thought. Besides, if I try to make an outgoing call the dragon lady will probably throw a hissy fit.
He went back to the magazine. One of the articles was about the shaky financial status of the private space-launch business. Four firms, all deeply in debt, competing for the contract to run cargo and people to the International Space Station. Not enough of a market to sustain four companies, the article concluded. Thrasher agreed.
They’re at the mercy of the goddamned government, he fumed. NASA’s got them by the balls. The tourist market that they all banked on hasn’t materialized. Not yet.
“Mr. Thrasher.”
He looked up.
“Mr. Kahn will see you now.”
Thrasher saw that the door to Kahn’s private office had magically opened. He rose to his feet, beamed his brightest smile at the dragon lady, and went through.
David Kahn sat behind a massive desk almost as big as a helicopter landing pad. He was an old man, so shriveled and wizened that even his completely bald head was creased like a badly rutted road. He had a hooked nose and narrow, cold eyes. His skin was gray and wrinkled like old parchment. That’s what his brother would look like in ten years, Thrasher thought, if it weren’t for the cosmetic surgery industry.
Then he realized that Kahn was sitting in a powered wheelchair. Attached to the seat’s back was a stack of electronics boxes, beeping softly. For god’s sake, Thrasher thought, the man’s on life-support.
As brightly as he could, Thrasher said, “Mr. Kahn.” He put out his hand, but the desk was too broad for him to reach the old man.
“Mr. Thrasher,” said Kahn, his voice a harsh croak. He ignored Thrasher’s extended arm and gestured with one clawlike hand to the plush chair directly in front of his desk.
“It’s good of you to take the time to see me,” Thrasher said as genially as he could manage, while he sat down.
Kahn was in his vest and shirtsleeves. Still he looked almost formally dressed, compared to Thrasher’s suede-shouldered western-cut jacket and onyx bolo tie.
“Cut the crap, Thrasher,” Kahn rasped. “My brother tells me you want us to put up the money for a mission to Mars.”
“Part of the money,” Thrasher countered. “A billion a year each, for five years.”
“Why?”
“To get to Mars! To put human explorers on the red planet. To fulfill the dream of the ages.”
“I told you to cut the crap. What’s in it for me?”
Thrasher smiled minimally. “To begin with, you’ll get a sizeable tax break.”
“We could donate the money to charitable causes here on Earth and get the same tax deduction.”
“But not the same publicity. Not the same good will.”
“I don’t want publicity and I don’t need good will.”
“The Mars program will stimulate lots of businesses,” Thrasher explained. “Aerospace construction, rocket engine development, electronics—”
“Hah!” Pointing an accusing finger, Kahn said, “That’s where you’ve made your money, isn’t it? Electronics. Cell phones. Global positioning systems.”
“True enough.”
“So this is just a ploy for you to make more money.”
“It’s much more than that.”
Kahn almost smiled. “I have nothing against making money, you know.” Hunching forward and clasping his mottled hands together on the desktop, Kahn went on, “Now, how will this scheme of yours make money for me?”
Thrasher leaned back in the plush chair, thinking, Pretty much what I expected. What’s in it for numero uno?
“Well,” he said, drawing out the word, “as this program builds up, we’re going to hire lots of engineers and technicians. Mostly in the Cape Canaveral area, I imagine.”
Kahn muttered. “Real estate values are very depressed there.”
“At present.”
“And California? What about the Bay Area, Silicon Valley?”
Looking out for his little brother, Thrasher thought. He replied, “Same thing, pretty much. Houston, too. There’ll be a bit of a housing boom there, as well.”
Kahn stared fixedly at Thrasher for a long, silent moment. Thrasher thought he could see the wheels turning inside the old ogre’s skull.
At last Kahn shook his head. “It’s not enough. How many engineers will you need to hire? Not enough to start a real-estate boom.”
“But it’s not just the engineers,” Thrasher immediately replied. “There’s a multiplier effect.”
“Multiplier?”
“Engineers need technicians. Technicians need warehouse operators, truck drivers, clerks, secretaries. Their spouses need supermarkets, babysitters, car dealers, auto mechanics. And schools for their kids! Teachers, school bus drivers.”
“And real estate agents.”
“You bet! There’s a boom for you!”
Kahn unlaced his fingers and eased back in his wheelchair. “Let me think about this,” he said. “And talk with my brother.”
“One other thing,” Thrasher said. “The banking industry in those areas—particularly the Cape, in Florida—is pretty depressed right now.”
Kahn nodded.
“If I were involved with the banking industry, I’d start quietly buying out some of those locals, while the prices are still low. Once we announce the Mars program, prices will skyrocket.”
The old man actually smiled. “I’ve already thought of that.”