Location: Private Room, Restaurant Le Taillevent, Paris
Date: Evening of January 2, 1990
Point of view: Omniscient (Focus on Jerry Sanders)
The contrast was dizzying. Twelve hours earlier, Jerry Sanders stood in a cold concrete factory, under the pale neon lights of the red suburbs of Paris, sealing a pact of industrial destruction that would raze Silicon Valley to the ground.
Now he was sitting in one of the most exclusive and opulent shrines in the French capital.
The private lounge of the restaurant Le Taillevent, near the Champs-Élysées, offered a padded atmosphere, protected from the rest of the world by thick light oak woodwork and heavy velvet curtains. The meal had been a masterpiece of French gastronomy, a symphony of black truffles, roasted turbot and melt-in-the-mouth meats, all washed down with bottles of wine whose price exceeded the annual salary of a worker in Ivry.
The sommelier, with absolute discretion, had just dropped off two Baccarat crystal balloons containing an outdated Louis XIII Cognac, as well as a cedar box filled with Cuban cigars. He bowed slightly and closed the double door, leaving the two men in complete privacy.
Jerry Sanders heaved a long sigh. He unbuttoned the waistcoat of his tailored suit, loosened his silk tie, and slipped into the comfort of his padded chair. The armor of the flamboyant CEO of Advanced Micro Devices, the arrogant and unwavering showman, had just cracked to make way for man. A deeply exhausted man, but incredibly relieved.
He grabbed the gold cigar cutter from the table, prepared a Cohiba with ritual precision, and lit it. He closed his eyes, exhaling the first wisp of thick blue smoke.
"God I needed it... Sanders whispered, his voice gravelled by alcohol and jet lag.
On the other side of the table covered with an immaculate tablecloth, Lazare Bonaparte watched him in silence. The young Frenchman of twenty-three did not smoke. He gently swirled the amber liquid in his crystal glass, his smooth face betraying neither fatigue nor drunkenness. He wore a dark suit, with a perfect cut but absolute sobriety, almost clashing with the theatricality of his American guest.
"You look like a man who just escaped the gallows, Jerry," Lazarus noted softly.
Sanders opened his eyes and let out a deep chuckle.
"That's exactly it, Lazarus. The gallows." The American took a sip of Cognac, savoring the fire of the alcohol in his throat."You can't know what it is. The last six months have been absolute hell. When Andy Grove launched his armada of lawyers against me to ban me from using the 386 microcode... he was not seeking to win a case. He tried to bleed me white. To make me die of financial exhaustion. »
Sanders pointed his cigar at Lazarus, his gaze suddenly filled with the ghosts of his recent anxieties.
"To keep my factories open and honor our Chicago Pact, I had to turn to the scavengers on Wall Street. Junk bonds. High-risk bonds with usurious rates of fourteen percent. It was a programmed suicide. Every morning, I woke up sweating. I saw the bankers come into my office in Sunnyvale, snatch my company out of my hands, and sell it in parts to Intel. I thought I was going to lose everything. My whole life's work. »
The sixty-year-old engineer locked in the body of the Builder listened with cold empathy. Lazarus knew the price of war. He knew the pressure of survival.
"But this morning... Sanders continued, his face suddenly lighting up with a greedy, almost childlike smile. "When you turned on that black machine. When I saw this operating system running 3D effortlessly, with a processor that humiliates all American R&D... I knew I was saved. »
The American leaned forward, the adrenaline of victory taking over from fatigue.
"Next spring, Lazare, AMD's stock will break through the ceiling of the New York Stock Exchange. With the margins that we are going to make on AMD-Volta, I will repay these vulture bankers to the last cent even before the end of the year. I'm going to clean up my debts. And above all... I'm going to destroy Andy Grove. He thought of burying me, it is I who will pronounce his funeral oration. »
Lazarus put down his glass. He liked the clarity of Sanders' ambitions. It was a simple, readable mechanism: survival, revenge, triumph.
"And then?" asked Lazarus, his voice calm, almost whispered. "When you win this war, Jerry. When Intel is on its knees and you are the undisputed king of the valley. What will you do with this victory? »
The question seemed to surprise Sanders. He blinked, took another puff from his cigar, and his eyes were veiled with a sweet melancholy. The corporate warrior suddenly gave way to the aging man.
"I'll retire, Lazarus," Sanders confessed, a disarming sincerity in his voice. "I will leave this basket of crabs. I grew up in the poor neighborhoods of Chicago. I fought all my life to prove that I wasn't just a carpet salesman, that I could build an industrial empire. I spent thirty years looking over my shoulder to see who was trying to slit my throat. I'm tired. »
He looked at the amber reflections in his crystal glass, already seeing his future.
"With the money from this Trojan Horse, I'm going to buy a huge estate in Napa Valley. Hundreds of hectares of vines in the sun. I want to produce my own wine. I want to breed thoroughbred racehorses, and sit in the stands with a hat on and watch them win. I want to wake up in the morning without reading stock prices, without thinking about lithography yields or patent lawsuits. I just want to... Peace. Enjoy life before it's too late. »
The American dream in all its purity. The rise, the war, the fortune, then the rest of the lord on his lands. It was a human, tangible, warm ambition.
Jerry Sanders smiled at the sight, then turned his eyes to his young host. The expression of AMD's CEO then became more scrutinizing, more curious. The light intoxication of Cognac loosened his tongue and his audacity.
"It's the classic dream of a tired old man, I agree," Sanders chuckled softly. "But you?"
Lazare ne cilla pas.
"What's with me?"
"I spent the day with you, Lazarus," Sanders said, leaning on the table. "You are an absolute mystery. You never talk about money for yourself. You don't wear a Rolex. You drive in an armored car sad to death. You're twenty-three, damn it! You are about to become one of the richest men in the history of mankind. The whole world will kneel before your technology. »
Sanders pointed the glowing tip of his cigar at the young Frenchman.
"What is a kid your age going to do with tens of billions of dollars and control of the digital world? What is your dream, Lazarus? Buying a private island in the Pacific? Build a palace? To become the master of Europe? What makes you run? »
The crackling of an ember in the small fireplace in the living room echoed in the silence that followed. Lazare Bonaparte looked at Jerry Sanders, the industry veteran who thought he had seen it all, and felt the existential chasm between them open up yawning under the table of this Michelin-starred restaurant.
Location: Private Room, Restaurant Le Taillevent, Paris
Date: Evening of January 2, 1990
Point of view: Omniscient (Focus on Lazare Bonaparte)
Far from the industrial fog of Ivry-sur-Seine and the air-conditioned air of the Bunker, the private room of the Taillevent offered a sanctuary of oak woodwork, velvet and subdued light.
The dinner was coming to an end. On the table covered with an immaculate white linen tablecloth, the remains of a roasted turbot and crystal glasses testified to a meal worthy of the greatest heads of state. The sommelier had just closed the door after dropping off two balls of outdated cognac and a box of Cuban Cohiba cigars, illegally imported into the United States but perfectly legal here, in the heart of Paris.
The atmosphere had changed dramatically. The electrical tension that had reigned that morning in Lazare's office had dissipated, replaced by the quiet euphoria of two generals who had just validated an infallible battle plan.
Jerry Sanders sank into his padded chair, unbuttoned the waistcoat of his suit, and cut off the end of his cigar with a gold guillotine. He lit it slowly, savoring the first wisps of blue smoke. The AMD CEO had relaxed features. The weight of the bankers and the impending bankruptcy seemed to have disappeared.
"You know, Lazarus... Sanders began, his voice made gravelly by cognac and the fatigue of jet lag. "For months, I woke up sweating in the middle of the night. I saw Andy Grove buying my factories for a symbolic dollar. I saw the Wall Street guys throwing me out on the street. »
He took a sip of the amber liquid.
"But after what I saw this morning... I know I'm going to survive. Better still: I'm going to bury them. The American smiled greedily. "When our chip comes out this spring, AMD's stock is going to go through the roof. I'm going to buy back my junk bonds before they even understand what's happening to them. I'm going to destroy Intel. »
Lazare gently swirled the cognac in his glass. He didn't smoke, just listening to the Silicon Valley veteran open up. The young Frenchman wore a dark suit, of sober elegance, without any ostentation.
"And then?" asked Lazarus calmly. "When you win the war, Jerry. What will you do with this victory? »
Sanders burst into a deep chuckle. The Hollywood showman let his true dreams shine through, those of a kid from Chicago's poor neighborhoods who had spent his life fighting to prove his worth.
"I will retire, Lazarus. I'll leave this basket of crabs. With the billions that this chip will generate, I plan to buy a huge estate in Napa Valley. I want vines as far as the eye can see. I want to breed racehorses and watch them race on my own track. I want to wake up in the morning without wondering which competitor is trying to stab me in the back. I just want to... enjoy life. »
The American exhaled a long cloud of smoke, his eyes shining, staring at the molded ceiling as if he could already see his future Californian vineyards.
Then he lowered his eyes and looked at his host. Sanders' expression became more curious, more scrutinizing.
"It's the classic American dream, I agree," Sanders smiles. "But you? I spent the day with you, Lazarus. You never talk about personal turnover. You don't look at women in restaurants. You drive in a discreet armored sedan instead of a Ferrari. You wear a black sweater to the factory. »
Sanders leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"You are twenty-three years old. You are about to become one of the richest and most powerful men on the planet. The entire industry will kneel before you. What does a kid your age do with the world in his hands? What is your dream, Lazarus? A hundred-metre yacht? Buy a private island? To become President of the French Republic? »
Silence settled in the private room. Only the distant crackling of the embers in the small ornamental fireplace disturbed the tranquility of the moment.
Lazarus raised his glass, watching the flickering light of the candles reflected in the crystal.
The sixty-year-old engineer, the former DGSE agent who died in an inferno in Bali in 2026, felt the crushing weight of his existential lie weigh on his shoulders. How do you explain to this man, who thought he was living at the technological peak of his time, that the coming decades would turn into a nightmare of surveillance, predatory algorithms and digital chaos? How could he tell him that he was not building an empire for money, but to erect a fortress?
"Money is just ammunition, Jerry," Lazarus finally whispered in an abyssal voice, devoid of the slightest spark of youth. "And power is only useful if it serves to protect."
Sanders frowned slightly, intrigued by the sudden gravity of the answer.
"Protect from what? You have just designed the ultimate weapon. You no longer have enemies capable of reaching you. »
"I am not talking about industrial competitors," replied Lazare, putting down his glass.
The Builder's dark gaze was lost in the void, staring at an invisible point beyond the woodwork of the restaurant. He relives, for a fraction of a second, the blood of his adopted daughter, Camille, the death of his loved ones, the vulnerability of a digitized world where states were collapsing under the weight of disinformation and cyberattacks.
"The world we're entering, Jerry... The twenty-first century that is taking shape... will be of unprecedented violence. It will no longer be the violence of tanks and missiles. It will be the violence of information. Absolute transparency. Everything will be connected. Everyone will be traced, analyzed, commodified. The companies we compete with today don't want to sell computers; They want to possess the human soul, to lock it up in databases. »
Lazarus fixed his dark eyes in those of the American. The magnetism of the young Frenchman was almost unbearable.
"My dream is not to buy an island. My dream, Jerry, is to build an invisible wall. A sovereign, inviolable technological architecture, hermetic to the madness of the world. Lazarus lowered his voice, touching the inner truth that had been eating away at him since his reincarnation. "I have a family, Jerry. People I love. And I refuse to allow them to live in a world where their lives, their freedom, and their thoughts belong to algorithms designed by the NSA or Silicon Valley. I am building Volta so that they may have a sanctuary. »
Sanders remained silent, his cigar slowly burning between his fingers. He had crossed paths with visionaries, geniuses and sociopaths in his industry. Bill Gates wanted there to be a computer on every desk. Steve Jobs wanted the computer to be an object of art.
But the young man sitting opposite him was different. His motivations did not belong to the register of capitalism. They belonged to that of Greek tragedy.
The CEO of AMD suddenly had the disturbing, chilling sensation of not addressing a gifted twenty-three-year-old, but a tired old man, a survivor of a future war that was trying to alter the course of time. There was in Lazare's eyes a melancholy so ancient, a solitude so absolute, that it commanded respect.
Sanders slowly crushed his cigar into the crystal ashtray. Her smile had disappeared, replaced by a solemn gravity.
"You're the oldest kid I've ever met, Lazarus," the American whispered softly. "I don't know where you come from. I don't know what ghosts are chasing you that you feel the need to build such a fortress... But I'm damn happy to be on the inside side of your walls. »
Lazarus gave a very slight smile, a grin of mute gratitude. Sanders could not understand the secret of his reincarnation, but he had sensed its fundamental brokenness. It was the first time an industrial ally had seen him not as a calculating machine, but as a man carrying an inordinate burden.
The Frenchman raised his glass of cognac.
"To your vineyards in California, Jerry. May you find the peace you seek. »
Sanders grabbed his own glass, his eyes shining with a newfound determination. He understood that Lazarus was offering him wealth so that he would let him do his prophetic work in peace. The pact was sealed, not only by contracts, but by the blood of their respective dreams.
"And to your sanctuary, Lazarus. May he weather the storm. »
The crystal tinkled in the hushed silence of the private room. Tomorrow, they would take their planes, return to their factories, and launch the biggest economic offensive of the end of the century. But tonight, the Old World fell asleep one last time, unaware that two men had just redrawn the very foundations of its future.