cross-Channel rail link. He drank only tea.
The sun had begun to slip, the final embers of day burning themselves out on mountain peaks as the shade temperature plunged several degrees. They retreated inside to the flickering hearth and the raw wood walls which acted as a backcloth to several fine pieces of art from the collection of the Corsa Foundation. The Japanese admired two slender Tang statues almost a metre high, remarking on how difficult it was to smuggle such large artefacts out of China without getting them damaged. Corsa promised to give him the name of his restorer on the Portobello Road.
A meal had been prepared which somehow managed to cater for all their dietary whims, even Mr Hagi, who seemed to enjoy little other than raw fish. He feasted on gravadlax. But no business was discussed, not during the meal.
‘A little like Poirot, isn’t it?’ the chemical king enquired, glancing around the dinner table. ‘When do you put on the funny accent and tell us who’s done the foul deed?’
‘According to much of your press coverage, you’re all as guilty as sin,’ Corsa replied. ‘That’s why you’re here.’
And with the minimum of fuss the table had been cleared, the fire replenished, drinks laid out and the staff dismissed. Wife and mistress were guided in the direction of the Jacuzzi.
‘My pitch is simple,’ Corsa began when all was quiet. There were no papers. ‘You have two thingsin common. You are exceptional business leaders, corporate warriors of the first class. Yet you are all being slowly bled to death because you don’t control the most important weapon in today’s corporate warfare – your images.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the Japanese. ‘No, Mr Hagi, that doesn’t apply to you – yet. But I hope to show you that it will.’
Corsa handed each one a thin sealed envelope. ‘For later,’ he instructed with deliberate mystery.
‘You see, the media control your images. Yet none of you control the media. We, the media, are the king-makers. And the destroyers, if need be. It’s quite simple. We say the currency is about to weaken, so the following day there’s panic selling in the financial markets. And the currency becomes weak. We print a story which states that two friends are rivals for political honours and, by the weekend, they’ve become those rivals. And if we suggest a husband’s close relationship with an actress is the subject of his wife’s close scrutiny, then you can bet that by the time the milk has splashed over his morning cornflakes that’s exactly what she’s doing.’
‘You admit you print it even if it isn’t true?’ the car manufacturer interrupted.
‘You miss the point. If we print it, it becomes true.’
‘To you truth is simply a commodity?’
‘Look, in your industry you send off researchers to find out what your customers want. If they want their cars green with sun roofs and chromium headlamps, then you manufacture cars that are green withsun roofs and chromium headlamps. If you run a television station or a newspaper you do exactly the same. Find out what the customers will buy.’
‘And manufacture it.’
Corsa let Nuclear’s remark stand to attention in front of them for a moment.
‘We don’t take hostages in the circulation war. If the great British public want to read that Martin Bormann is living as a bisexual vicar in Bognor Regis, or Five-A-Side Fiona does it with half the Chelsea team after every big match, they’ve got a right to it the same as any other customer.’
‘But that’s just the tabloids,’ Chemicals interjected.
Corsa beamed. ‘Think business! Not gutter press and respectable rag, but simply business.’
They looked nonplussed.
‘The tabloids encourage everyone to have sex at least nineteen times a week. If we don’t we’re all left to feel inadequate. Yet if we do, those very same tabloids splash our names all over the front page with illustrated highlights inside. Meanwhile the
The sun had begun to slip, the final embers of day burning themselves out on mountain peaks as the shade temperature plunged several degrees. They retreated inside to the flickering hearth and the raw wood walls which acted as a backcloth to several fine pieces of art from the collection of the Corsa Foundation. The Japanese admired two slender Tang statues almost a metre high, remarking on how difficult it was to smuggle such large artefacts out of China without getting them damaged. Corsa promised to give him the name of his restorer on the Portobello Road.
A meal had been prepared which somehow managed to cater for all their dietary whims, even Mr Hagi, who seemed to enjoy little other than raw fish. He feasted on gravadlax. But no business was discussed, not during the meal.
‘A little like Poirot, isn’t it?’ the chemical king enquired, glancing around the dinner table. ‘When do you put on the funny accent and tell us who’s done the foul deed?’
‘According to much of your press coverage, you’re all as guilty as sin,’ Corsa replied. ‘That’s why you’re here.’
And with the minimum of fuss the table had been cleared, the fire replenished, drinks laid out and the staff dismissed. Wife and mistress were guided in the direction of the Jacuzzi.
‘My pitch is simple,’ Corsa began when all was quiet. There were no papers. ‘You have two thingsin common. You are exceptional business leaders, corporate warriors of the first class. Yet you are all being slowly bled to death because you don’t control the most important weapon in today’s corporate warfare – your images.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the Japanese. ‘No, Mr Hagi, that doesn’t apply to you – yet. But I hope to show you that it will.’
Corsa handed each one a thin sealed envelope. ‘For later,’ he instructed with deliberate mystery.
‘You see, the media control your images. Yet none of you control the media. We, the media, are the king-makers. And the destroyers, if need be. It’s quite simple. We say the currency is about to weaken, so the following day there’s panic selling in the financial markets. And the currency becomes weak. We print a story which states that two friends are rivals for political honours and, by the weekend, they’ve become those rivals. And if we suggest a husband’s close relationship with an actress is the subject of his wife’s close scrutiny, then you can bet that by the time the milk has splashed over his morning cornflakes that’s exactly what she’s doing.’
‘You admit you print it even if it isn’t true?’ the car manufacturer interrupted.
‘You miss the point. If we print it, it becomes true.’
‘To you truth is simply a commodity?’
‘Look, in your industry you send off researchers to find out what your customers want. If they want their cars green with sun roofs and chromium headlamps, then you manufacture cars that are green withsun roofs and chromium headlamps. If you run a television station or a newspaper you do exactly the same. Find out what the customers will buy.’
‘And manufacture it.’
Corsa let Nuclear’s remark stand to attention in front of them for a moment.
‘We don’t take hostages in the circulation war. If the great British public want to read that Martin Bormann is living as a bisexual vicar in Bognor Regis, or Five-A-Side Fiona does it with half the Chelsea team after every big match, they’ve got a right to it the same as any other customer.’
‘But that’s just the tabloids,’ Chemicals interjected.
Corsa beamed. ‘Think business! Not gutter press and respectable rag, but simply business.’
They looked nonplussed.
‘The tabloids encourage everyone to have sex at least nineteen times a week. If we don’t we’re all left to feel inadequate. Yet if we do, those very same tabloids splash our names all over the front page with illustrated highlights inside. Meanwhile the
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