of his country for twenty years, and done so well enough to merit a change in posting. He’d actually handled his ministerial job quite well, the international community judged, but Qian Kun was often the one who had to explain to the Politburo that the Politburo couldn’t do everything it wanted to do, which meant he was often about as welcome in the room as a plague rat. This would be one more such day, he feared, sitting in the back of his ministerial car on the way to the morning meeting.
Eleven hours away, on Park Avenue in New York, another meeting was under way. Butterfly was the name of a burgeoning chain of clothing stores which marketed to prosperous American women. It had combined new microfiber textiles with a brilliant young designer from Florence, Italy, into fully a six percent share of its market, and in America that was big money indeed.
Except for one thing. Its textiles were all made in the People’s Republic, at a factory just outside the great port city of Shanghai, and then cut and sewn into clothing at yet another plant in the nearby city of Yancheng.
The chairman of Butterfly was just thirty-two, and after ten years of hustling, he figured he was about to cash in on a dream he’d had from all the way back in Erasmus Hall High School in Brooklyn. He’d spent nearly every day since graduating Pratt Institute conceiving and building up his business, and now it was his time. It was time to buy that G so that he could fly off to Paris on a whim, get that house in the hills of Tuscany, and another in Aspen, and really live in the manner he’d earned.
Except for that one little thing. His flagship store at Park and 50th today had experienced something as unthinkable as the arrival of men from Mars. People had demonstrated there. People wearing Versace clothing had shown up with cardboard placards stapled to wooden sticks proclaiming their opposition to trade with BARBARIANS! and condemning Butterfly for doing business with such a country. Someone had even shown up with an image of the Chinese flag with a swastika on it, and if there was anything you didn’t want associated with your business in New York, it was Hitler’s odious logo.
“We’ve got to move fast on this,” the corporate counsel said. He was Jewish and smart, and had steered Butterfly through more than one minefield to bring it to the brink of ultimate success. “This could kill us.”
He wasn’t kidding, and the rest of the board knew it. Exactly four customers had gone past the protesters into the store today, and one of them had been returning something which, she said, she no longer wanted in her closet.
“What’s our exposure?” the founder and CEO asked.
“In real terms?” the head of accounting asked. “Oh, potentially four hundred.” By which he meant four hundred million dollars. “It could wipe us out in, oh, twelve weeks.”
Wipe us out was not what the CEO wanted to hear. To bring a line of clothing this far was about as easy as swimming the Atlantic Ocean during the annual shark convention. This was his moment, but he found himself standing in yet another minefield, one for which he’d had no warning at all.
“Okay,” he responded as coolly as the acid in his stomach allowed. “What can we do about it?”
“We can walk on our contracts,” the attorney advised.
“Is that legal?”
“Legal enough.” By which he meant that the downside exposure of shorting the Chinese manufacturers was less onerous than having a shop full of products that no person would buy.
“Alternatives?”
“The Thais,” Production said. “There’s a place outside Bangkok that would love to take up the slack. They called us today, in fact.”
“Cost?”
“Less than four percent difference. Three-point-six-three, to be exact, and they will be off schedule by, oh, maybe four weeks max. We have enough stock to keep the stores open through that, no problem,” Production told the rest of the board with confidence.
“How much of that stock is Chinese in origin?”
“A lot comes from Taiwan, remember? We can have our people start putting the Good Guys stickers on them ... and we can fudge that some, too.” Not all that many consumers knew the difference between one Chinese place name and another. A flag was much easier to differentiate.
“Also,” Marketing put in, “we can start an ad campaign tomorrow. ‘Butterfly doesn’t do business with dragons.’ ” He held up an illustration