Chapter Text
Excerpt from Florian Möller ”The Economic Miracle in the Valley” ZEIT 1/4/2017:
“Ludwig Beilschmidt began his professional career as an accountant for DanskeBank after graduating with a bachelor's degree in political economics from Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität in Munich. During his time as a student, he worked extra hours writing articles for the finance students’ paper, Schuldschein. Writing remained a passion he continued to pursue even after graduation. In 2006 he published his first book ‘ 21st Century Greed and all its consequences’ an examination of the dotcom bubble and its fallout, but he’s best known for his critically acclaimed ‘ Anatomy of Late Stage Capitalism’ . The book shook the market when it was first released. It has since been both praised and criticized by leading experts in fields such as economics, finance, and political science for its thorough critique of the American economic system and infrastructure.
Following the book’s success, Beilschmidt worked briefly as a professor of business economics at the Technical University of Munich before pursuing a career as an investigative journalist.
Ludwig Beilschmidt became a household name among those in economics and political science, but what brought him into the mainstream was his series of investigative reports on the Swiss tech company Nytrix published in Deutschland Aktuell , the high scale fraud that is still regarded as one of the largest in recent European history.
Today, Beilschmidt has left investigative journalism behind, instead he’s Industrie Heute’ s new correspondent in Silicon Valley, the 'new economy’s epicenter' according to Beilschmidt himself.
[…]
'When the biggest banks on Wall Street start questioning capitalism there is a simple question: what’s going on? This is what I want to explore,' Beilschmidt explains in a recent interview with us."
—-
The Californian heat was unlike any other heat Ludwig had endured before. It was dry, thick and only made worse by the concrete slabs seemingly lining every stretch of ground around him, leaving little to none space for any greenery. The air was heavy with the smell of sunscreen, sweat and diesel emitted from the long line of waiting taxis, their motors still on and quietly humming. It was a far cry from the rain soaked streets of Berlin.
San Francisco International Airport was bustling with people; families dressed in sweatsuits pushing their kids and large vacation bags on luggage carts, and businesspeople not entirely dissimilar to him passed by in long strides, checking their smart watches or taking calls.
He adjusted the strap of his leather satchel and squinted against the sun, trying to find the taxi the editor in chief at Industrie Heute, Alice Kirkland, had promised she’d booked for him. He finally spotted the driver at the end of the taxi line, a short, round man in a white button down, armpits bleached pale yellow from sweat, holding a sign with Ludwig’s name and the name of the journal.
“You’re going to Palo Alto?” The man asked through broken English and Ludwig only nodded.
The man helped him load his bags into the trunk of the car before holding the door open for him. The man honked at least twice while trying to leave the airport premises, loudly swearing in Polish at taxis that cut it a little too close. A necklace of brown glass beads and a Catholic cross cast in iron dangled from the rear view mirror. Beneath it, the AC was on full blast, drowning out the radio. If Ludwig really concentrated, he could hear the beat to some American pop song currently topping the lists.
Ludwig scribbled brief notes in a crumpled little pad he always kept in his breast pocket as they passed through the landscape. Towers of glass and steels rose on the horizon as though sprouted straight from the ground, the next one flashier than the previous and all of them stood as some sort of monument to lavish excess. The highways passed over and under each other and the combined smog from all the cars could be seen by the naked eye, rising like venomous smoke. Large billboards screamed promises of AI-driven utopias, all funded by the people Ludwig was about to meet. Ludwig would’ve laughed at how ridiculously over the top it all was if it hadn't had the global impact it had.
Silicon Valley was a city with too much money and too many questionable investments.
Ludwig arrived at the upscale AirBnB the journal had rented for him a little over an hour after stepping off the plane. It was smaller than his own apartment in Berlin, but infinitely more sleek, almost entirely devoid of personality. The kitchen and the living room shared an open floor plan, only somewhat divided by a large kitchen island, a plasma TV mounted above it. The kitchen was bigger than one person would need, all in white, dark wood and chrome. The bedroom housed little aside from a queen sized bed, closet with sliding mirror doors, and a desk.
He barely had the time to drop off his bags and take off his shoes before he felt his phone ping, informing him of a new text. It was from Alice.
“Hi Ludwig, I hope you had a safe trip! I know it’s last minute, but Apollo Partners is hosting a party to celebrate a newly launched fund. We just managed to secure you a spot on the guest list. Everything’s already been fixed, I sent the outlining, disclosure guidelines and agreement to your mail. Please read through them carefully.”
Ludwig had done some brief research on Apollo Partners in preparing for his latest book, a newly established but already booming venture capitalist company in Silicon Valley that despite its uncreative name had curated a lot of interest on the market, boasting an impressive portfolio and highly valued stocks. The inner workings of the company itself was unknown to the public, like similar companies, Apollo Partners took its secrecy extremely seriously.
He’d only brought one suit, Silicon Valley wasn’t exactly known for its fashion in the same way Wall Street or The City of London was, so he doubted anyone would notice if he reused it for a couple of events. It was dark, fitted and unmistakably European for better or for worse.
—-
The party was held at a popular rooftop bar on the other side of Palo Alto, on top of one of the towers that Ludwig had noted on his entry to the city. The tower was even more obnoxious up close and designer lamps larger than Ludwig’s kitchen hung from the lobby’s ceiling.
He was greeted by the receptionist, a lanky, young man, who asked for his name, ID and signature on a NDA in exchange for his press pass.
“Please note that you do not have a photo pass,” the man told him, “even photos taken on your phone for private use will result in expulsion.” He put a navy blue smart key on the desk. “Scan this key in the elevator and go to floor number forty seven. I wish you a nice evening, sir!”
The rooftop basked in the late afternoon sun, crowds dressed in sharp suits and expensive blouses and skirts gathered in the shade beneath several large bone white parasols. A mixture of startup founders, VCs, and influencers mingling and trying to catch the attention of the highest roller in any given group.
“Champagne, sir?” A waitress approached him, balancing a large tray of tall glasses on her left hand. A small bead of sweat rolled down her freckled forehead.
Ludwig carefully took one, “Thank you.”
She gave him a polite nod before silently moving along.
The sun burned his eyelids and ears, he really should’ve put on sunscreen before leaving the apartment. He skirted the outside of the crowds, he recognised several of the faces present tonight, international investors, CEOs, all people he had either met, read upon or investigated.
And then Ludwig saw him.
Alfred Jones stood at the center of a small circle beneath one of the parasols, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong and tanned forearms. His navy eyes gleamed as he explained something to the group of people surrounding him. He was animated when he spoke, swirling the champagne in his glass and when he laughed it spread like ripples. Ludwig had seen pictures of him, but he was broader than Ludwig expected, his presence effortlessly commanding.
And then Alfred looked up, his gaze zeroing in on Ludwig as though he had felt Ludwig’s presence all along. Ludwig wasn’t usually skittish, he prided himself on his nerves, but something about the immediate recognition that passed in Alfred’s eyes, noticeable enough for Ludwig to catch where he stood almost on the opposite side of the rooftop made Ludwig’s heart jump.
Jones excused himself, confidently stepping away from the crowd, eyes never leaving Ludwig’s. He slowly smiled as he approached Ludwig and it was already full of bite.
“Well, well,” he began when he was nearly in front of Ludwig. He folded his arms, the drawl in his voice almost comical and he gave Ludwig a quick up and down. “If it isn’t Europe’s most famous broken heart.”
Ludwig, unfortunately, knew exactly what he meant, but it still startled him all the same, “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on,” Alfred beckoned, leaning closer. “Feliciano Vargas? Pretty boy model? Grandson of that Italian stockbroker?” He tilted his head, a daring sharpness in the corner of his eyes. “You two made quite the splash. Or, should I say, quite the tabloid spread.”
Ludwig bit his tongue. Feliciano’s shit reputation was contagious and now seemed to haunt Ludwig wherever he went; it was a stubborn bruise on his career and private life that never seemed to fade. Though, at least five years of engagement to Europe’s most promiscuous man had made him adept in the art of feigning apathy. He forced a smile, “I see you keep up with trash journalism. I would’ve guessed you were more a Wall Street Journal type of guy.”
Alfred was practically leering at him now, as though deriving some sort of morbid satisfaction from the entire exchange — which, despite having just met the man, Ludwig was sure he was. Ludwig didn’t see it, but he felt the gaze of nearby partygoers discreetly shift toward them.
“Oh, I read everything,” Alfred said innocently, “including that book you wrote. Anatomy of Late Stage Capitalism , right? The one where you called Silicon Valley a ‘cesspool of unchecked narcissism and greed’ .”
Ludwig’s mouth tightened, “And I stand by it.”
Alfred didn’t roll his eyes, but Ludwig knew that behind that veneer of politeness, he did.
“Of course you do,” Alfred continued, feigning sympathy. “A few bad investments and one cheating ex, and suddenly you’re on a crusade against the entire tech industry.”
Against better judgement, Ludwig stepped closer. He felt himself slip into his old persona of investigating journalist, prodding and risk-filled. Refusing to be intimidated he leaned in, close enough to catch the vague scent of Alfred’s cologne, something dark and surely expensive. “I say better a crusade than a con.”
Alfred looked amused, almost taken aback, “Careful, Beilschmidt. It’s a long fall from that moral high ground.”
Oh, this absolute piece of work.
Ludwig forced himself to exhale; he’d rather be eaten alive by stray dogs than let Alfred even catch a glimpse of how successfully he had riled Ludwig up.
Alfred’s smile lingered in the space between them, raising an eyebrow as if daring Ludwig to crack beneath the pressure now.
Ludwig would never allow him the satisfaction.
Ludwig leaned back slightly, still giving Alfred his most practiced polite smile.
“Moral high ground,” he repeated as though he considered the phrasing. “I’d say it’s more of a vantage point. You can see just how empty all the promises people like you make from up here.”
Alfred’s eyes narrowed, smile never faltering and it looked like something human stretched over something inhumane, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. “That so?”
“Absolutely,” Ludwig continued without thinking, doubling down like an idiot. His first day and he was already picking a fight with one of the people whose company he was supposed to get valuable information from and about. “Take Apollo Partners, for instance. AI platforms promising to ‘connect humanity’ while mining every last drop of personal data. Revolutionary, some might say, but I’d call it for what it is, a sophisticated con.”
The sharpness in Alfred’s eye softened just a fraction and the knowledge that he had struck a nerve only served to further spur Ludwig on.
“Oh, but what do I know?” He added with a casual shrug, swirling the tall glass in his hand as though he’d been unbothered the entire time. “I’m just the guy who got duped by a pretty face, right?” He met Alfred’s gaze. “What’s your excuse?”
Ludwig saw the small jump of a muscle in the side of Alfred’s jaw as he clenched it. For a brief, satisfying second, the man’s cocky facade slipped to reveal a glimpse of irritation beneath. It was gone almost immediately, replaced by that same leer.
“My excuse?” Alfred replied, again feigning innocence but this time not entirely without bite. “I don’t need one. You, on the other hand…” He looked down at Ludwig’s suit, at the frayed ends of his shoelaces and slowly looked up again. “You look like you’d need a few more.”
Ludwig’s fingers curled tighter around his glass. He was suddenly painfully aware of he looked, of how he looked in comparison to the man in front of him — Alfred was polished, Ludwig still a bit puffy from the flight, his shirt collar digging into his neck like a noose.
He should stop now, before it got out of hand and Alice caught wind of it. He considered it and then he caught Alfred’s eyes again and he decided that if Alice somehow found out about this it would be a problem for future him.
“You know what I need?” He asked, voice dangerously soft, “I need you to get the hell out of my way.”
Alfred’s smile only widened at that, he tilted his head to murmur something only Ludwig could hear. “Oh Beilschmidt. I haven’t even started getting in your way yet.”
He gave Ludwig a last glance as he pulled back, his navy eyes almost looked royal blue in the orange light reflecting from the floor, softened the sharpness of his jaw in its warm light and his pink lips stretched around a smile that held a promise in its bared teeth. And then suddenly he turned around, walking back to where he had left, the relaxed slope of his shoulder annoyingly self-assured.
Ludwig watched him go, blood simmering hot in his veins.
A few curious glances darted his way. Ludwig ignored them, trying to hide the undeniable tense expression of his face by taking a sip of champagne. Fine. If Alfred thought he would be too scared to play this game coming here as a correspondent, Ludwig would prove him wrong.