Chapter Two

The village of Davos was never particularly well-suited for a large international conference. With a permanent population of only about 10,000, Davos had long been a marvelous destination for skiers, but since 1971, its name was principally known as the venue for the annual World Economic Forum event. As such, the word Davos was also inextricably associated with the swarm of billionaires, business moguls, celebrities, investors, and statesmen that would convene there.

Given the risks of so much money and power in one place, the conference naturally made tight security a priority, and, in addition to the regular attendees, the heavily armed personnel substantially increased the population of the town for the duration of the event. Snipers poised on every rooftop, security checks at every entrance, and meticulously controlled entry passes were just part of the infrastructure designed to keep the rich and powerful focused on their meetings, parties, and speeches, instead of any harm the outside world might want to foist upon them.

In the many decades the conference had been held, there had been no serious incidents or breaches, let alone physical harm, inflicted upon the invited guests. Being able to attend the conference at all was an expensive and coveted privilege, although the organization didn’t just sell the tickets online to the highest bidder. Merely selling the tickets would have destroyed the tremendous cachet that came with going to the WEF. There were in fact multiple hurdles to jump before a person could make plans to be part of the event.

To even have the opportunity to attend required an approved membership, whose cost could be as high as two million Swiss Francs for strategic partners, and then an additional 100,000 for each person who wanted to go. The list of invited guests was carefully curated, and although a core group made the annual pilgrimage, the attendees at the fringes of inclusion fluctuated from one year to the next, depending on their own individual fame and fortune. Much like the yearly Oscar awards show, the invisible committee deciding who was “in” and “out” was ferociously powerful from a social capital perspective.

As such, any financial costs were a modest price to pay for the kind of access which attending Davos provided. Senior representatives from all the biggest investment banks would be there, as would a smorgasbord of powerful executives and entrepreneurs. Goldman Sachs, BlackRock, J.P. Morgan, Alphabet, Baidu, Meta, Apple, and hundreds of other firms were represented, to say nothing of the dozens of important political figures. There were also the over-the-top parties, which were a form of one-upmanship unto themselves for the sponsoring organizations.

Unsurprisingly, the conference provoked ample criticism from citizens of the outside world not so richly blessed with connections and cash. The protests had become as reliable an annual event as the conference itself, with the media coverage of the protesters waxing and waning depending on the general economic state of the world. Some years the protestors were more zealous than others, yet the usual mob of social justice warriors were always in attendance.

During prosperous times, the outcry tended to be about environmental issues such as rising sea levels and climate change. During lean economic times, however, the protests doubled in size as well as decibels. The juxtaposition of videos portraying the desperate, hungry people of the third world with the pampered billionaires at this pinnacle of the first world was too irresistible for the media to leave alone, and since the raw ingredients of class warfare made for a tantalizing recipe, the news outlets dished it out with relish.

This is not to suggest that the conference didn’t try to pad its program with well-meaning initiatives. Over the years, there had been countless speakers, presentations, and banners related to eliminating the gender pay gap, addressing racial inequality, providing education to the children of Africa, and forging international agreements for asteroid mining rights. 

Just about the only verboten topic at the conference was taxation, which almost all the attendees preferred to keep unaddressed and safely off the agenda. Rich people came from all kinds of backgrounds, and had all manner of ostensibly noble causes, yet not a single one of them was eager to send even more of their income or assets to their native government than they were already paying. Thus, the topic of taxation never stood a chance of being granted an audience.

Judging from the awe-inspiring view the rooftop snipers enjoyed, all was proceeding smoothly on the streets below. The protesters, while raucous and loud as ever, were kept at a safe and substantial distance, and the procession of limousines and Mercedes sedans steadily made their way to the hotels and conference venues where each of the invitees was destined. The sky was crystal clear, and as alluring as the fabled slopes were for the alpine skiers at the gathering, it was the cocktail-fueled parties in the evening which brought in the crowds that actually mattered.

At the Hotel Waldhuus, Dylan Jenkins, who had been Thomas Peterson’s assistant for over seven years, was anxiously awaiting word from his boss. With his neatly combed blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and perfect posture, he could have easily been a cover model for the conference if they ever needed one. Dylan was in his mid-30s, fastidiously groomed, and had a positive energy and sincere smile that made him instantly likable. 

In spite of this charisma, Dylan had eschewed any kind of social life of his own, particularly since he had split up with his last serious boyfriend almost a decade prior. Since then, he had committed himself almost exclusively to making sure Mr. Thomas Peterson’s life ran with smooth predictability which, at the moment, it wasn’t.

Dylan Jenkins had arrived at the hotel three days before, and his boss should have shown up already or at least sent him a message. While standing at the edge of the Waldhuus lobby, Dylan had received a call from the limo driver, but the brief conversation did nothing to settle his already-frayed nerves. 

The driver stated that Mr. Peterson never showed up, even though his jet had reportedly arrived in Zurich. When the driver tried to locate his intended passenger, the crew from Peterson’s jet said he had been escorted away, but they didn’t know where or by whom. There was nothing else to report.

So now the assistant had to try to put the pieces together on his own. Perhaps Mr. Peterson had found an alternate ride to the hotel, maybe joining the car of someone he knew. His boss wasn’t answering his calls or messages, so Dylan strolled over to the reception desk.

“Could you see if Thomas Peterson has checked in?”

One of the staff members gave her best attempt at a smile and said, “Sir, I’m sorry, we looked already as you requested, and he definitely has not. His suite is ready, though, for the entire week. Is there anything else?”

“No, that’s all right. Thank you. You’ve got my number if you hear from him.”

The clerk nodded and turned her attention back to the long line of new arrivals already waiting. 

Walking back toward the center of the lobby, Dylan began to further speculate what might have happened. Peterson didn’t have any particular reason to be at the conference until later that night, so this was not exactly an emergency. Still, the whole situation made Dylan uneasy. 

He considered stepping over to the bar adjacent to the lobby to calm his nerves but decided against it, since he was certain his boss would show up the moment he was downing his first Pimm’s cup.

Instead, Dylan decided to head upstairs to his own room for a while and catch up on emails, which seemed like the healthier and more responsible choice. This wasn’t the first time his boss had been sidetracked by something unexpected, and Dylan was confident he’d show up soon enough.

The helicopter slipped through the mountain air, making its way swiftly above the countryside. The passenger cabin wasn’t nearly as spacious or quiet as the Gulfstream’s, so Peterson spent his time looking uneasily at the landscape. Even if he had something to say to this Gerald Flynt character who had picked him up, it would have been an uncomfortable conversation, since they would have been practically shouting at one another to make themselves heard.

As pleasant as the scenery was, Peterson felt very awkward about this detour. Why would Kevin Toffler, whom he hadn’t seen in so long, want to get together like this? And why not at least reach out beforehand to make arrangements? Maybe his old friend’s heart had finally healed enough that he was ready to get out of his shell, but even a wounded spirit shouldn’t negate common courtesy.

After all, Thomas Peterson was not a man who enjoyed surprises, even pleasant ones. His life was based on the maxim: plan your work and work your plan. This helicopter junket was decidedly not part of his thoughtfully designed punch list for the week. More worrisome at the moment was the vista below. Breathtaking as it was, it looked completely unfamiliar. 

The landscape was very thinly populated, and the pilot definitely wasn’t following the path of any major thoroughfares. There were no car headlights, no streetlamps, and no houses. Peterson finally decided, rotor noise be damned, to say something to Flynt.

“How much longer until we’re there?”

Flynt shook his head and tapped his index finger a few times toward his ear to indicate he couldn’t understand.

Louder, Peterson repeated, “How much longer until we get there?”

Flynt leaned closer. “Just a few more minutes, Mr. Peterson. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Just sit tight.”

Peterson leaned back in his seat, not at all satisfied with the answer. He could sense they were starting to head lower, although the topography looked more like patches of farmland than a resort town. In fact, it looked nothing like Davos. He tried to calm down, telling himself he knew nothing about this part of the world and that perhaps the venue was merely out of sight due to the uneven terrain.

A few minutes later, the helicopter descended to the ground and eased its skids onto a square paved area surrounded by dead grass and snow. A modern-looking house was a short distance away, and two men standing on its porch bent down and jogged over as the copter’s rotors were spinning to a stop.

“Good. We’re here.” said Flynt as he opened the aircraft’s door and stepped down.

Peterson didn’t budge from his seat, and he shouted to Flynt, “We’re where? This isn’t Davos.” 

Flynt took on a slightly scolding tone: “Come on out, Mr. Peterson. Mr. Toffler is eager to speak with you.”

The furrow in Thomas Peterson’s brow indicated he was finally out of patience. Trying to conceal his frustration, he said, “Look, I don’t know who you are, or where we are, or where you think we’re going, but I’ve had it. I’m not just going to go wherever you say. Have your pilot take me back to the conference. If Kevin wants to see me, he can find me there. I don’t mean to be rude, and I’m sorry about any misunderstanding with my partner, but I just want to get to my hotel.” 

After an awkward moment he added, “Please.”

Flynt sighed and gestured to the men who had come over from the house. They immediately reached inside the cabin, each grabbing one of Peterson’s arms, and yanked him out of the helicopter.

Wincing from the pain in his shoulders, he shouted, “Get your hands off me! What the hell are you doing? Let go of me, you fucking apes!”

As Peterson was trying to pull away, the two men dragged him toward the entrance of the house, with Flynt following behind. The pilot spun up the rotors once more, lifting away from the pad. As he began the ascent, he saw the front door of the house slam shut.

Behind the pilot’s seat, the cell phone on the cabin floor buzzed, writhing around the floor as it vibrated. Dylan Jenkins was still trying to get an answer, but his boss had effectively vanished.