Chapter Twenty-Six
Restaurant Unique
New York City, New York
Everett Westcott had learned years ago that few things encouraged diplomacy quite like a candlelight dinner.
Not just one or two candles to accent a table—though even that was better than nothing—but dozens, each one deliberately set in the dining room to bathe the space in a warm, golden light.
In Westcott’s opinion, candlelight had a way of softening hard lines and melting the otherwise defiant expressions negotiators so often wore on their faces.
Candlelight made people feel safe and nostalgic.
And in Everett Westcott’s world, that was half the battle won.
The private dining room at Restaurant Unique, which was located just off Park Avenue, radiated the kind of understated elegance that came with money.
Nothing was too showy, but everything, from the furniture to the arrangement of candlelight, had been carefully chosen.
The stone walls were broken up by deep blue velvet panels and several black-and-white and color photos of French winemakers, though most of the vintners were now long dead.
To the left of the long mahogany table that occupied the center of the room, a floor-to-ceiling window gave a striking view of a curated wine cellar, its racks lined with bottles Westcott had himself selected from his favorite regions.
That window had been his idea when he had bought the place seven years ago.
None of the men and women seated around the table knew he owned the place, and that was just how he liked it.
Westcott had arrived thirty minutes before his guests, and as it always was before any event he held there, the dining room had been swept for any kind of electronic surveillance.
The wine served to his guests was excellent, but short of exquisite, and the food sublime.
But for Westcott, total privacy was the real luxury.
Phones had been collected at the door, no exception.
In comparison to the big-event dinners he often held at Restaurant Unique, tonight’s guest list was tight.
Seated at the table were three high-ranking UN representatives, two deputy directors from the World Bank, and the ambassadors of France, Sweden, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
Westcott had invited these specific people because each of them had a stake in the success of tonight’s conversation.
Westcott sat at the head of the table, his sleeves rolled up, revealing strong, tan forearms shaped by years spent hauling sails and casting lines.
His tailored navy dress shirt, which hugged his athletic frame without clinging, was crisp and open at the collar, and his charcoal gray trousers were impeccably pressed.
On his feet, he wore a pair of butter-soft, Italian-made yachting shoes that were scuffed just enough to suggest they’d seen some real use.
He kept his hair, which had turned gray years ago, swept back.
All in all, Everett Westcott looked more like a man who’d stepped off his yacht in Monaco than someone who made policy recommendations to world leaders.
Though he knew he had a disarming smile, Westcott never let it smother the raw edges that made people—especially the kind who were seated around the table—believe he’d seen things, done things that very few had.
Since the start of the dinner almost three hours ago, Westcott had smiled a lot, drank little, and listened more than he spoke. But that was about to change.
He set his fork down and glanced at the Congolese ambassador seated to his left.
Ambassador Amadou Nyambe was in his late fifties, with smooth, dark skin and a shaved head, and he never seemed to be in a hurry.
He wore a finely tailored navy blue suit.
Westcott offered the ambassador a gracious smile.
“Ambassador,” he said, “I trust the meal lived up to your expectations?”
Ambassador Nyambe dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin, then smiled at Westcott.
“It was exceptional, Mr. Westcott. It truly was. Many thanks for your invitation.”
Westcott chuckled softly. “I do what I can to keep the diplomatic community well fed, Ambassador. Hungry people make rash decisions.”
A few around the table laughed quietly, Nyambe included. Westcott leaned in, his tone shifting just enough to signal a turn in the conversation.
“Ambassador, two months ago, you asked me how Hearts United could help your government reach its development targets by the end of the decade.”
The ambassador straightened his back. “I did.”
“Since then, Hearts United has been working closely with members of your government to make sure the solutions we would be offering truly represented the will of the people.”
“I’m aware of that, of course.”
“Well, I’m pleased to let you know we now have a final proposal,” Westcott said. “I’ll be presenting the initiative to your National Assembly shortly, but I thought it would be best to share it with you first. Would you like to hear what it is about?”
The question was a formality. Everyone at the table knew why they’d been invited tonight. Westcott wasn’t seeking permission; he was giving the Congolese ambassador the courtesy of asking.
“Of course,” Nyambe said. “Please, I’m listening.”
Westcott placed his hands on the table, lacing his fingers loosely. “The Congo River is the heartbeat of your nation, Mr. Ambassador. It’s the second-largest river in the world by volume. But less than ten percent of its hydroelectric potential has been tapped.”
“I’m well aware that—” started the ambassador, but Westcott raised his right hand.
“Please, sir, let me finish,” he said, then continued to speak. “What that means for you, for Central Africa, and for the whole continent, really, is untold power. Literal power, Ambassador. The capacity to provide electricity to half of Sub-Saharan Africa.”
The French ambassador, a woman with silver hair and red glasses, said in heavily accented English, “But exploiting that potential will require massive infrastructure. As I’m sure you know, Mr. Westcott, Inga III has been stalled for over a decade.
The Chinese, the South Africans, and even the Spaniards tried. But ultimately, they all failed.”
Westcott nodded in agreement. Inga III was a proposed hydroelectric dam project on the Congo River that was intended to be the first phase of the larger Grand Inga complex.
Inga III alone, if done right, could generate up to eleven thousand megawatts of electricity.
But political instability in the region and concerns about the project’s governance had scared away many of the project’s initial backers.
Westcott looked to his right, where the two World Bank representatives were seated.
While the World Bank had initially backed a German-led initiative for Inga III, it had pulled out in 2016 following a disagreement over the strategic direction of the project.
In plainer terms, widespread corruption within the Congolese government had forced the World Bank to cut its losses.
“These consortiums failed because they focused on megaprojects with top-down financing.”
“And because there were heavy political strings attached,” the Swedish ambassador chimed in, his gaze steady on the Congolese ambassador.
Westcott’s face remained neutral, but he was glad the words hadn’t come from his own mouth.
What the Swedish ambassador had said was true, but the message was far more palatable coming from a neutral and well-respected European than from someone perceived to have an agenda.
Westcott knew about the Swedish ambassador’s reputation.
The man had once been a high-ranking officer with the Swedish police and was known as a corruption fighter.
Westcott had counted on him to speak plainly; it was, in fact, the sole reason he’d been invited.
And with just these few words, the ambassador had done his job.
Nyambe gave his Swedish colleague a warm smile, but Westcott noticed the smile didn’t reach the man’s hard eyes. Nyambe might speak with the soft cadence of a seasoned politician, but the eyes belonged to a man who had survived more than one corrupt regime.
“What I’d like to propose, Mr. Ambassador,” Westcott said with a disarming smile, “is something more . . . elegant.”
“What do you have in mind?” Nyambe asked.
“A hybrid model, some would call it,” Westcott said. “Hearts United would like to form strategic partnerships with local ownership and have a community-linked distribution.”
From the corner of his eye, Westcott saw the Swedish ambassador nod in approval.
“You see, my friends,” Westcott continued, addressing the whole table, “I don’t believe any of us, Hearts United included, have the means to electrify a continent overnight.
But what we can do is to start where it matters the most. And we do that by empowering the local communities along the Congo River. ”
“You mentioned a hybrid model,” Nyambe said, his eyes lighting up. “Does this mean you would bring private investment?”
“I would bring much more than investment,” Westcott replied, making eye contact with his guests around the table.
“Hearts United would bring stability. And only once the first stage proves viable would we expand. Think about it: Clean energy from the Congo River could power industries in Kinshasa, Brazzaville, and even into Angola.”
Turning to Nyambe, Westcott said, “Ambassador, Hearts United’s project would enable your government to export power to the fragile economies of your neighboring countries. The Democratic Republic of Congo could then reclaim its rightful place as the region’s stabilizing force.”
While Nyambe slowly nodded, Westcott looked at the UN and World Bank representatives.
“And even more importantly, my friends, Hearts United’s plan would lower Africa’s reliance on fossil fuels and build the continent’s independence, not deepen its dependence.
And I know this is a goal we all share.”