I left the office at around 4 p.M. And went to Tenth Street, where I’d arranged to meet my landlord. I handed over the keys and took away the remainder of my

things – including the envelope of MDT pills. It was strange closing the door for the last time and walking out of the building, because it wasn’t just that I was leaving an

apartment behind, a place I’d been in for six years – I felt at some level that I was leaving myself behind. Over the past few weeks, I had shed much of who I was, and

even though I’d done this with considerable abandon, I think I’d unconsciously felt that as long as I was still living in the apartment on Tenth Street I would always have

the option, if it became necessary, to reverse the process – as though the place contained a part of me that was ineradicable, some form of genetic sequencing

embedded in the floorboards and the walls that could be used to reconstitute my movements, my daily habits, all of who I was. But now, climbing into the back seat of

a cab on First Avenue – with the last few items from the apartment stuffed in a holdall – I knew for sure, finally, that I was cutting myself adrift.

A little over an hour later I was gazing out at the city from the sixty-eighth floor of the Celestial Building. Surrounded by unpacked boxes and wooden crates, I was

standing in the main living area, wearing only a bathrobe and sipping a glass of champagne. The view was spectacular and the evening that lay ahead promised, in its

own way, to be equally spectacular. And I remember thinking at the time that, well, if this was what being adrift was like, then I reckoned I could probably get used to it

…

*

I got to Van Loon’s place on Park Avenue for eight o’clock and was shown into a large, chintzy reception room. Van Loon himself appeared after a few minutes and

offered me a drink. He seemed a little agitated. He told me that his wife was away and that he wasn’t very comfortable entertaining without her. I reminded him that

apart from ourselves, the dinner was just going to be Hank Atwood, Dan Bloom and one adviser apiece from their respective negotiating teams. It wasn’t some

extravagant society bash he was throwing. It would be simple, casual, and at the same time we’d get a little business done. It would be discreet, but with far-reaching

implications.

Van Loon slapped me gently on the back ‘“Discreet, but with far-reaching implications.” I like that.’

The others arrived in two shifts, about five minutes apart, and soon we were all standing around, glasses in hand, pointedly not discussing the MCL–Abraxas merger.

In line with the casual dress-code for the evening, I was wearing a black cashmere sweater and black wool trousers, but everyone else, including Van Loon, was in

chinos and Polo shirts. This made me feel slightly different – and in a way it reinforced the notion that I was taking part in some super-sophisticated computer game. I

was identified as the hero by being dressed differently, in black. The enemy, in chinos and Polo shirts, were all around me and I had to schmooze them to death before

they realized that I was a phony and froze me out.

This mild feeling of alienation lingered through the early part of the evening, but it wasn’t actually unpleasant, and it occurred to me after a while just what was going

on. I’d done this. I’d done the merger negotiations thing. I’d helped to structure a huge corporate deal – but now it was over. This dinner was only a formality. I wanted

to move on to something else.

As if they somehow sensed this in me, both Hank Atwood and Dan Bloom, separately, discreetly, intimated that if I was interested – down the line, of course – there

might be some … role I could play in their newly formed media behemoth. I was circumspect in how I responded to these overtures, making out that loyalty to Van

Loon was my first priority, but naturally I was flattered to be asked. I didn’t know what I would want from such an arrangement in any case – except that it would have

to be different from what I’d been doing up to that point. Maybe I could run a movie studio, or plot some new global corporate strategy for the company.

Or maybe I could branch out altogether, and diversify. Go into politics. Run for the Senate.

We drifted into an adjoining room and took our places at a large, round dining table, and as I elaborated mentally on the notion of going into politics, I simultaneously

engaged with Dan Bloom in a conversation about single malt Scotch whiskies. This dreamy, distracted state of mind persisted throughout the meal (tagliatelle with

jugged hare and English peas, followed by venison sautéed in chestnuts), and must have made me seem quite aloof. Once or twice, I even saw Van Loon looking over

at me, a puzzled, worried expression on his face.

When we were about half-way through the main course – not to mention all the way through two bottles of 1947 Château Calon-Ségur – the conversation turned to

the business at hand. This didn’t take long, however, because once the subject had been raised, it quickly became clear that the details and the fevered numbercrunching

of recent weeks were largely cosmetic and that what counted more than anything else right now was agreement in principle. Van Loon & Associates had

facilitated this, and that was where the real brokering skill lay – in orchestrating events, in making it happen. But now that the thing was virtually on auto-pilot, I felt as if I

were watching the scene from a distant height, or through a pane of tinted glass.

When the plates had been cleared away, there was a tense pause in the room. The conversation had been manoeuvring itself into position for some time, and it

seemed now that the moment was right. I cleared my throat, and then – almost on cue – Hank Atwood and Dan Bloom reached across the table and shook hands.

There was a brief flurry of clapping and air-punching, after which a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and six glasses appeared on the table. Van Loon stood up and made a

show of opening the bottle, and then there was a toast. In fact, there were several toasts – and at the end there was even one to me. Choosing his words carefully, Dan

Bloom held up his glass and thanked me for my keen focus and unstinting dedication. Hank Atwood added that I had been the lifeblood of the negotiations. Van Loon

himself said he hoped that he and I – having together helped to broker the biggest merger in the history of corporate America – would not feel that our horizons had in

any way been limited by the experience.

This got a hearty laugh. It also eased us out of the main order of business and moved us safely on to the next stage of the evening – dessert (glazed almond brittle),

cigars and an hour or two of untrammelled bonhomie. I contributed fully to the conversation, which was wide-ranging and slightly giddy, but just below the surface,

thrumming steadily, my fantasy of representing New York in the US Senate had taken on a life of its own – even to the extent of my seeing it as inevitable that at some

future date I would seek the Democratic Party’s nomination for the presidency.

This was a fantasy, of course, but the more I thought about it, the more the fundamental notion of entering politics actually made sense to me – because getting

people on my side, getting them energized and doing things for me, was precisely what I seemed to be good at. After all, I had these guys – billionaires in Polo shirts –

competing with each other for my attention, so how hard could it be to woo the attention of the American public? How hard could it be to woo the attention of whatever

percentage of registered voters would be required to get me elected? Following a carefully worked-out plan I could be sitting on sub-committees and select committees

within five years, and after that, who knew?

In any case, a good five-year-plan was probably just what I needed – something to burn up the incredible energy and breath of ambition that MDT so easily

engendered.

I was fully aware of the fact, however, that I didn’t have a constant supply of MDT, and that the supply I did have was alarmingly finite, but I was nevertheless

confident that one way or another, and sooner rather than later, I would be overcoming this problem. Kenny Sanchez would locate Todd Ellis. He would have a

constant supply of the stuff. I would somehow gain permanent access to this supply. It would all – somehow – work out …

*

At around 11 p.m., there was a general movement to break up the proceedings. It had been agreed earlier that there would be a press conference the following day to

announce the proposed merger. The story would be strategically leaked in the morning, and the press conference would take place in the late afternoon. The glare of

media coverage would be intense, but at the same time everyone was looking forward to it.

Hank Atwood and I were still sitting together at the table, contemplatively swirling brandy around in our glasses. The others were standing, chatting, and the air was

thick with cigar smoke.

‘You OK, Eddie?’

I turned to look at him.

‘Yeah. I’m fine. Why?’

‘No reason. You just seem, I don’t know, subdued.’

I smiled. ‘I was thinking about the future.’

‘Well …’ He reached over and very gently clinked his glass against mine. ‘… I’ll drink to that …’

Just then, there was rap on the door and Van Loon, who was standing nearby, went over to open it.

‘… immediate and long-term …’

Van Loon stood at the door, looking out, and then made a motion to shoo in whoever was there – but whoever was there obviously didn’t want to be shooed in.

Then I heard her voice, ‘No, Daddy, I really don’t think—’

‘It’s just a little cigar smoke, for godsakes. Come in and say hello.’

I looked over at the door, hoping that she would come in.

‘… either way,’ Atwood was saying, ‘it’s the promised land.’

I took a sip from my glass.

‘What is?’

‘The future, Eddie, the future.’

I looked back, distracted. Ginny was stepping tentatively into the room now. When she was just inside the door, she reached up to kiss her father on the cheek. She

was wearing a strappy satin top and corduroy trousers, and was holding a suede clutch bag in her left hand. As she pulled away from her father, she smiled over at me,

raising her right hand and fluttering her fingers – a greeting which I think was meant to take in Hank Atwood as well. She moved a little further into the room. It was only

then I noticed that Van Loon had his arm stretched out to greet someone else who was coming in behind her. A second or two later – and after what looked like a

vigorous handshake – a young man of about twenty-five or twenty-six appeared through the door.

Ginny shook hands politely with Dan Bloom and the other two men, and then turned around. She stood at the table and put a hand on the back of an empty chair

that was positioned directly opposite where I was sitting.

The young man and Van Loon were talking now, and laughing, and although I found it hard not to look at Ginny, I kept glancing over at them. The young man was

wearing a hooded zip-front thing, a black crew-neck T-shirt and jeans. He had dark hair and a little goatee beard. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I recognized him. At any

rate, there was something about him, something around him that I recognized. He and Van Loon seemed to know each other quite well.