Chapter 2

“There’s a hole in the building, sir.”
“A what?”
“A hole, sir.”

Michael Han wore a better suit than anyone else in the room. He earned less than the men around him, but his tailoring cost twice as much, and it fit him properly. Italian-made, single-breasted, lined with purple silk. His shirt was cut to his frame. He kept himself in shape at forty-eight, better than the rest of the board, whose ties clashed with their jackets and whose knots hung loose. Michael’s knot was a Windsor. To them, Windsor was only a whiskey, best drunk in the Yeoido room salons.

On his wrist, a 1963 Space Dweller Rolex. He had tracked it down in Kyoto, a collector’s piece found after months of searching. The others might have spent more on their watches, but none had Michael’s taste.

More than clothes or watches, his ability to speak English set him apart. At twenty-eight he had memorized participles, watched CNN late into the night, and drunk German beer with expats in Itaewon back before it was fashionable. While his peers feared the language, Michael saw it as a ladder. The world market was larger than Korea’s. There was money beyond the peninsula. He had brought it home.

Now he sat here, the first man without Gu blood to take a seat at this table. He had built factories in India, Malaysia, the Philippines, winning market share and profits the others could only envy. He had seen unions rising in Korea and convinced the family to move production abroad. His foresight gave them their foothold in new empires. A walking, breathing rags-to-riches story, his parents were poor farmers.

Despite those beginnings, Michael looked more old money than the nouveau riche around him. His years overseas taught him that standards mattered, not just price tags.

“Sir…” The head of PR leaned close, her voice barely audible. “There’s a problem.”

Michael didn’t turn his head. His smile stayed fixed on the table. “Not now,” he whispered.

The Gu family didn’t notice the lining of his suit, the decadence of his watch, or his immaculate tiepin. They didn’t care. They adored Michael for other reasons. They adored him because he had made rich men richer, and had done it without fuss. He worked with their hierarchy, not against it. He never demanded revolutions in method or structure. He simply drove his subordinates to the edge, smoothed deals with English the family could not speak, and left them only the easy work; cutting ceremonial ribbons, stamping a spade into dirt.

The family had given Michael opportunity. In return, he had given them numbers. Very large numbers.

A meeting of this size would normally have been held at the family mansion on Seoul’s outskirts. But they respected Michael enough to come here, to the thirty-third floor of their new Yeoido headquarters. Michael had told them there was something they had to see, and they had come to see it.

Michael did not appreciate the interruption. The newly appointed head of PR leaned down again, whispering in his ear.

“Are you still planning to give them the tour?”

“Of course. They want to see what their money has built. I want them to see what I have done with it.”

Michael smiled across the table at the Gu uncles, at the dignitaries. “Technical problems. We’re out of batteries. We must stop using Japanese ones.”

The table laughed. There had been no need for explanation, but they enjoyed his quip.

Uncle Gu wagged a finger with mock severity. “Yes, yes, always the Japanese. They never last.”

Michael gave a small, easy laugh and let the moment pass. He flicked his fingers at the AV technician by the wall. A screen came to life, filling the conference room with sound and light. A slick promo began to roll, showing sweeping shots of the new headquarters and, inevitably, the jewel at its centre: the media bubble. In unison, the family settled into the back of their chairs, their eyes caught by the moving images.

The PR head pressed on, her voice low under the soundtrack. “Sir… perhaps we shouldn’t show them the media bubble.”

Michael kept his eyes on the screen, nodding as though he too were admiring the spectacle. “The media bubble is the showroom. If we show them one room, it will be the bubble. What kind of suggestion is that? Why are you troubling me with this now?” His voice was calm, his expression warm, but his words carried a private edge meant only for her.

She swallowed. “There’s a hole in the bubble, sir.”

Michael’s smile held. “A what?”

“A hole, sir.”

“A hole? What kind of hole?”

“A large one. Large enough to let the rain in”

Boy 2: “I want the one in red.”

Boy 1: “Of course you do, mate. And you know what, I’m gonna let you have her.”

Boy 2: “Are they speaking in English?”

Boy 1: “I think so. Can’t quite make it out. Allez, allez, ALLEZ! Mate, these Frenchies have you on the run.”

Boy 2: “Early ambition, mate. AB’s class will tell.”

Boy 1: “Both, mate. They’re talking both. Bit of Korean, bit of English.”

Boy 2: “What are they saying?”

Boy 1: “Something about some bloke not turning up.”

Boy 2: “Not turning up? What’d he do that for? Left the ladies alone with the boys on a Saturday afternoon. He’ll live to regret that. Come on you ABs.”

Boy 1: “He’ll live to regret it, and you’ll live to regret coming out in public to watch this match. Cross kick, up and under—he’s only gone and grabbed it...”

Boy 2: “Foot in touch! Ref! Foot in touch! Yes. Lineout. AB’s ball.”

Boy 1: “Fuck! Lucky, lucky, lucky. Right, I need another drink. Same again?”

Boy 2: “Hmmm.”

Boy 1: “You’ll have another even though you ain’t finished that one, you tortoise. Ladies, what are you drinking?”

Red: “Are you paying?”

Boy 1: “Am I paying? Would I be asking if I wasn’t? Here—you’re closer to the bar. Get me three Hoegaardens and whatever you’re drinking.”

Blue: “You are not waving your credit card at me.”

Boy 1: “I’m gesturing with it. Not really waving.”

Red: “I’ll take it. See what damage I can do with it.”

Boy 1: “I knew one of you would see sense.”