Chapter Twenty-Six #2
As if on cue, a man in a black suit entered the dining room, carrying a stack of dark blue folders embossed with the Hearts United emblem. He moved from guest to guest, placing a folder in front of each. At the same time, five uniformed waiters stepped in to clear the table.
“This isn’t a detailed plan,” Westcott said, watching the folders make their way around the table, “but it will give you a clear overview of what I have in mind. Read through it, it’s only five pages, and let me know what you think.”
One of the UN representatives, a distinguished woman in her thirties who Westcott knew was a rising star within the Office of the Special Adviser on Africa and who had the secretary-general’s ear, was the first to finish reading. She gently closed the folder and cleared her throat.
“Mr. Westcott,” she said, her South African accent unmistakable. “I’m not sure about this. Your plan calls for the relocation of thousands of people. Maybe more. There will be protests and international pushback, and even accusations of neocolonialism.”
Westcott had expected the woman’s reticence. In fact, he had counted on it.
“I understand the optics,” he said calmly.
“But history favors those who see beyond the moment, doesn’t it?
The reality is, to raise a nation, sometimes a village or two must be moved.
Mind you, we’re not talking about forced displacement here, but about dignified relocations with planned communities, clean water, medical clinics, and schools.
It’s an upgrade, ladies and gentlemen, not a loss. ”
Westcott let his words settle. He knew that by responding to her openly and without sounding too defensive, he’d just addressed the concern that at least half of the guests seated at the table were thinking but were hesitant to voice. Her doubt had served its purpose.
“But still a sacrifice,” the UN official murmured.
Westcott looked around the table once more, meeting every eye in turn.
“I don’t take that lightly. But ask yourselves .
. . what’s the greater injustice? Delaying meaningful progress for another generation, or offering millions the opportunity to break free from fossil fuel dependence and step into a future powered by clean energy?
And, if you look at the bottom of page four, you’ll see that the revenue the government will be able to generate from the sale of electricity will be enough to fund nationwide universal health care. ”
Westcott let that sink in for a few moments, then said, “I won’t apologize for Hearts United’s ambition, dear friends. The world needs bold leadership, and that’s what I’m offering you.”
A beat of silence followed, then Ambassador Nyambe leaned back in his chair.
“I’ll need additional details, of course,” he said, “but I’m prepared to speak to the new minister of land management and support any action plan that has your name on it.”
“I have a feeling he’ll be much more receptive than his predecessor,” Westcott said.
“He will. And I’ve received word from Kinshasa, no later than yesterday, that our president trusts you. In fact, we all do, Mr. Westcott.”
Westcott inclined his head. “And I can assure you that trust isn’t misplaced,” he said, then added, “Thank you all for coming. Your presence here tonight means a lot to me.”
The guests rose, thanking him not only for the fabulous meal but for his vision.
It was like a scene from the Vatican. One after another, the UN representatives, the World Bank executives, and the ambassadors offered their gratitude with the subtle reverence of men and women who knew real power when they saw it.
Westcott offered them polite nods and calm assurances he’d take care of everything, but still let them feel that they were part of something noble.
Eventually, the room emptied, and with the large double door of the private room now open, the soft jazz coming from Unique’s main dining room a floor above filtered through.
Westcott remained seated, one hand resting on the rim of his wineglass, then decided, since he’d been so reasonable, that he could indulge in one more sip.
The wine was a Louis Jadot Clos Vougeot Grand Cru 2015.
Westcott closed his eyes to really focus on the notes of cooked cherries, dense blackberries, and black pepper on his palate.
While the wine had a long finish, the tannins were still a tad high, which he thought muted the flavor complexity of the wine.
He knew the 2015 vintage was still a bit young and needed another three to four years to fully bring out the depth it promised, but it hadn’t mattered tonight.
With the guests he’d hosted, none of them would have noticed the difference anyway.
Still, the wine pulled him back to a morning two decades ago—before the diagnosis, before the speeches, and before Hearts United had become more than an idea—when he and his wife, Nailah, had visited the estate.
Clos Vougeot was one of Burgundy’s most storied—and most famous—grand cru vineyards and had been producing wine since the twelfth century.
His kind—and oh so beautiful—Nailah had laughed that day.
And it hadn’t been the composed, diplomatic laugh she’d come to offer at galas or donor dinners after the diagnosis, but the real one, full and melodic, with a little hitch at the end that made it sound like she’d surprised herself.
He remembered exactly how it sounded, and he could still hear it .
. . when he let himself. For a moment—a second, really—the memory caught him off guard.
He felt the beginning of something stir in his chest, but he shook it off, as if brushing away a speck of dust from his cuff.
I can’t let myself go down this rabbit hole. There’s nothing for me in there.
Westcott set the glass down gently in front of him, just as the figure of a man appeared in the doorway. Westcott gestured for him to come in and take a seat.
Charles Mpassi stood well over six feet.
He was lean, fit, and built like the sprinter he once was.
In 2005, he’d brought home a silver medal in the four hundred meters at the Francophone Games that had taken place in Niamey, Niger.
After that, he’d served five years in the Congolese Republican Guard.
That was when he’d seen firsthand the brutality, the corruption, and the cowardice of the men in power.
It had driven him to leave the country of his birth behind and to start over in France.
He was now the director of the Office of Special Projects at Hearts United and had been so since its inception.
There wasn’t a single file that crossed Everett Westcott’s desk without first passing through Mpassi’s hands.
He was the only man Westcott trusted completely.
Mpassi pulled out the chair Ambassador Nyambe had occupied earlier and sat down.
“What is it?” Westcott asked.
“I have news from Mallorca,” Mpassi said. “And it’s not good.”