Departure(80)

“Oh for god’s sake, not you too, Nick. The whole world’s going crazy.”

According to my breakfast companion, the dispersal of the world’s great fortunes and the epidemic of undeserved wealth syndrome will be the ruin of the Western world.

“You want social impact, Nick? Think about this: there have been five mass extinction events on this planet. It’s a matter not of if but when the lights go out for good.” He tosses another piece of egg into his mouth. “We’ve got to get off this rock. How’s the survival of the human race for the greater good?”





In the cab ride to Oliver Norton Shaw’s home, my phone rings. Yul Tan. It’s 9:43 a.m. here, 6:43 a.m. in San Francisco.

Calls this early are rare in my world. Founders stay up late and sleep late. Investors spend the morning reading articles and sending e-mails, or having breakfast with acquaintances with warped worldviews.

I hit the answer button. “Nick Stone.”

“Mr. Stone . . .” I told Yul several times in the meeting to call me Nick, but I sense that there are bigger problems at the moment. His voice is nervous, agitated, a stark departure from his composure at our meeting. “I, uh, I thought I’d get your voice mail.”

“I can hang up and let you call back, if you prefer.”

He doesn’t laugh. An awkward silence stretches out, and I wish I hadn’t made the joke.

“I’ve been thinking about you. Where we might have met. I can’t stop thinking about it.” He coughs. “Can’t sleep.”

Silence. This is typically the point at which I would politely get off the phone and promptly start calling people about things like restraining orders and making sure that home alarm really does work.

Instead I shift in the backseat of the cab, turning my head away from the driver. “Yes . . . I’ve been thinking about it too. Do you have any idea—”

“No.”

I wait, but he doesn’t say another word, only coughs. I think he called me out of desperation.

Finally I say, “I’ve had these migraines—”

“Feels like my head is going to explode. Like I’m sick.”

“When did it start, Yul?”

“Right after I met you.”





Sitting in Oliver Norton Shaw’s study, I run through what I know: I got sick on the flight from London to San Francisco. I got better after I landed. Yul Tan got sick, seemingly with the same neurological disorder, shortly after he met me. That tells me it’s communicable. It’s a pathogen I acquired either in London or on the plane. I’ll make some calls after this meeting. I’m almost scared to fly home. Nothing I can do about it now, though. I just have to get through this meeting. I try to focus on my surroundings, anything but the nagging thought that I’m really sick.

Shaw’s study is decorated in the classical master-of-the-universe motif: mahogany panels, Persian rugs, two stories of bookshelves filled with ancient tomes he’s probably never read, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on Central Park, the type of view only acquired through inheritance or quick action, an all-cash bid the same day such a property hits the market.

Despite the lavish office, the sixtysomething-year-old man who shuffles in is warm and unassuming, almost grandfatherly. That surprises me. His reputation is just the opposite: a driven, borderline ruthless, uncompromising captain of industry who never relents once he sets a goal.

He extends his hand, but I beg off, saying I’m fighting a cold. That seems less jarring than “a mysterious illness of unknown origin.”

We recount the few times we’ve met: a few years ago in Sun Valley, an IPO party here in New York, possibly at the funeral of a friend of my father’s. Then he gets to it.

“I appreciate you coming, Nick. I requested this meeting because I’m interested in investing heavily in a few early-stage ventures. High-risk. High-impact.”

“That’s great. Unfortunately, our current fund is closed. We’ll probably raise again in two years.” Staying on good terms with folks like Oliver Norton Shaw is part and parcel of my business. Wealthy individuals form the bulk of our investors, and they’re usually the easiest to manage. But my words come out without conviction, and I realize that I’m not sure I’ll raise another fund in two years. This could be it for me—and I have no idea what’s next.

“I’m not looking for that kind of investment.”

Shaw talks at length about the type of investments he is looking for: global endeavors with the potential to impact every person on the planet, which may or may not make money. “I’m not interested in charity either, Nick.”

“What are you interested in?”

“I want to find the lever that moves the world. I’m looking for that nascent invention that will be the portal to humanity’s future. I don’t want to measure my return in dollars and cents, or positive press, or pats on the back at parties. All my friends are giving away their fortunes. I applaud them. Projects in the third world, inner-city initiatives, libraries, free Internet access, disease eradication. It’s all important. But it’s not who I am. I’m a builder. And I want to build something that will last an eternity, that will be the beacon that guides the human race into the long tomorrow, making us better, year after year. That’s why you’re here. I have a vision of what I want to build, but I need the pieces. I need the right people. I need access to those inventions and companies that could change history. There’s a hole in the world, Nick. That hole lies at the intersection of capitalism and government. There are countless inventions and organizations waiting down there in the dark. Their potential to benefit humanity is limitless, but they’ll never see the light of day. They’re too unwieldy for governments: they’re global, risky. Capitalism ignores them: it’s not their kind of return on investment. Some won’t make money at all. Some will take decades, maybe centuries, to build. Generations. Money isn’t as patient as it once was. I want to plug that hole. I want to build an organization, a foundation that can reach down, long and deep, across the ages, bringing these innovations to the surface.”