UBS's press conference failed to garner significant attention, despite journalists attempting to leverage the narrative of the first bank acquisition during the Great Depression as a compelling selling point.
However, public trust in the bank had reached an all-time low. It wasn't just United Bank's customers who were dissatisfied; influential figures in the financial world had also begun to take notice. Among them, the Chicago consortium was most keenly interested in these developments.
Kenilworth, McCormick Family Estate
Cyrus McCormick sat in his study, a grand room adorned with rich mahogany furniture and filled with the scent of cigar smoke. On the sofas nearby, five men were seated, including Aiken Wood and Emmond Pargana, their faces reflecting a mix of frustration and calculation.
"Union Bank is critical for our expansion," Cyrus stated, his voice sharp and commanding. He tapped the fragrant wood pipe in his hand, his piercing gaze fixed on his companions. "Why is Charlie Lee interfering in this, and how is it that none of us were aware of his involvement?"
Pargana, visibly agitated, replied indignantly, "Cyrus, it's a ploy by Union Bank's board. They're using us as pawns in their negotiation strategy!"
"Fool," Aiken muttered under his breath, his disdain evident.
Bang!
Cyrus slammed his hand on the desk, rising abruptly. His tall, thin frame cast an imposing shadow across the room, and an almost tangible tension descended over the group.
"Ploy?" Cyrus sneered, his tone icy. "Did you expect them to hand over the shares to you on a silver platter?"
In the free market, it was natural for businesses to maximize profits before exiting. From the perspective of Union Bank's board, this was sound strategy. For Pargana to label it a trick only revealed his own lack of insight.
Cyrus's eyes narrowed. "Are we clowns, then? Playing into their hands?"
Pargana, shamed into silence, hung his head.
Breaking the tension, Aiken suggested cautiously, "Cyrus, perhaps I could speak with Charlie. We might find a way to collaborate."
"Can you convince him to relinquish the bond issuance rights?" Cyrus asked, taking a deep drag from his cigar, his expression unreadable behind the smoke.
"That's unlikely," Aiken admitted. "But I might be able to secure the power of attorney—though it would require a share of the benefits."
Cyrus leaned back into his chair, silent for a moment. His face remained obscured by the curling tendrils of cigar smoke, leaving his thoughts a mystery to those around him.
"Fine," Cyrus finally agreed. "As long as you can secure the power of attorney, I'll support your efforts."
Bond issuance rights were critical to Cyrus. They promised immense profits by providing capital to local governments, which in turn offered lucrative business contracts. The opportunity to earn both bond interest and project returns created a financial cycle of staggering gains—one that Cyrus was determined to exploit.
While Aiken strategized how to approach Charlie Lee, the latter's think tank announced a new recruitment drive, sending ripples through Wall Street and financial circles.
By now, anyone involved in finance was aware of Charlie's think tank. It had become a symbol of financial power and innovation. With calculated precision, Charlie had revealed just enough about the think tank's funding and operations to stir public curiosity and admiration.
The salaries offered by the think tank were legendary:
• General members earned $5,000 annually.
• Board members received $13,000 annually, plus year-end bonuses.
• Top-tier leadership earned $25,000 annually, also with bonuses.
Though the highest positions were intentionally shrouded in mystery, the board positions alone were tangible enough to attract the best talent. The system of semi-annual performance reviews and transparent meritocracy ensured a steady influx of ambitious, capable individuals.
When news of the recruitment drive spread, financial elites across the country descended on Chicago. Resumes piled up like mountains, and the review process alone took hours each day. The rigorous campaign lasted two weeks, culminating in the selection of the crème de la crème.
Amid the buzz of the recruitment drive, Charlie Lee turned his attention to other pressing matters.
"Boss," his secretary reported one afternoon, "the second group of veterans has arrived in Los Angeles. There are 2,000 of them, and Instructor Hans is overseeing their training."
Charlie leaned back in his chair, allowing himself a moment of contemplation. He had also called Jonathan to finalize details regarding $150 million in funds set to be transferred through the United Nations Bank.
"What's Molly's status?" he asked casually.
The secretary replied, "She's visiting the last university on her list and should return shortly."
Charlie nodded, appreciating how his team managed operations even during his busiest periods. His empire had grown rapidly:
• The launches of McDonald's and Subway had been resounding successes.
• The American Aerospace and Skunk Factory International R&D Center had been established.
• Acquisitions of Jeep and Shunfeng Logistics were complete.
• Corporate restructuring efforts for Gold Arch and Aegis Bureau were underway.
• Charity programs had been rolled out.
• Negotiations with the Colt family and patent acquisition for Thompson firearms had progressed.
Yet, despite delegating responsibilities, Charlie found himself inundated with decisions. His recent streak of philanthropy and innovation had only heightened his visibility, making every step he took a subject of public and private scrutiny.
"Recruitment needs to wrap up soon," Charlie muttered as he strolled through the streets with his assistant, Jesse, nicknamed "Little Elk." "At this rate, your boss will burn out."
"Boss, you've been making a fortune," Jesse teased, her eyes twinkling.
"How much have you been spending lately?" Charlie inquired, raising an eyebrow.
"Not much," Jesse replied, forming a small gap between her thumb and forefinger. "Just a little bit."
"How much is 'a little bit'?" Charlie pressed.
"Maybe… $60,000 or $70,000?" she admitted sheepishly.
Charlie sighed, exasperated. "From next month, your spending limit is halved."
"Boss!" Jesse protested, her wide eyes brimming with mock tears. "Can't we reduce it by just a third?"
Charlie shook his head, muttering about her lavish habits. "If you exceed $50,000 a month, it comes out of your salary," he declared.
"Fine by me!" Jesse quipped, grinning. "Salary's overrated anyway."
"…Unbelievable," Charlie muttered, though his irritation was tinged with amusement.
Their conversation was interrupted when a distressed woman suddenly appeared, collapsing at Charlie's feet.
"Sir, please help me," she sobbed. "My child is sick, and I need money for a doctor."
Charlie studied her for a moment before motioning for Jesse to retrieve some cash.
Jesse handed him a roll of crisp $100 bills. Charlie peeled off two notes and gave them to the woman. "This should be enough," he said.
The woman wept with gratitude, bowing repeatedly before running off into the distance.
As onlookers began to gather, drawn by the commotion, Charlie gestured for his bodyguards to form a protective circle. The monk, his chief bodyguard, revealed his holstered firearm, effectively deterring anyone with less-than-noble intentions.
Charlie and Jesse quickly left the area, heading toward the riverbank.
"You're ridiculous," Charlie chided Jesse as they walked. "Do you really think you could protect me with your 'little fists'?"
"Boss, if anyone tries to hurt you, I'll smash them!" Jesse replied confidently, throwing mock punches into the air.
Charlie chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. "You're hopeless."
As the city lights shimmered on the river, Charlie allowed himself a rare moment of peace, even as he plotted his next move in the ever-changing game of power and ambition.