Over Turkey 06:00 Sunday 2 January T+3hrs

For a while I followed the bombings using the internet setup on the Gulfstream – a smaller version of Jim’s monitor. All the major networks had contacted an assortment of cops and commentators but their stories were the same – horror, outrage, sympathy, incomprehension.

Our own worker-ants were doing a good job of picking up crumbs and delivering them to the The World Online’s inbox, but that’s all they were – crumbs. Shocked families, bewildered managers, stoic firemen and EMTs, opportunistic politicians... all the usual suspects. Our forums were already overflowing with theories and emotions, but no hard evidence. It wasn’t long before I lost concentration and started scanning other news, even though I was being paid to follow this story. And paid very well!

Two years earlier I had been holding down a great job as health correspondent for The Economist. Emily and I were nesting in the Cotswolds. Apart from Em’s health, life was good. Then came The Call from Jim Wallace.

‘How would you like to work for Shan Gupta, Gipsy girl?’ It sounded like the opening line of a joke. Knock knock. Shan Gupta was a medical doctor, chemist, and the creator of a huge pharmaceutical empire in India. A self-made billionaire. As a medical journalist I’d met him, of course, and emailed him once or twice, but I didn’t expect he’d remember me.

‘What’s the punch-line, Jimboy?’ He knew how crazy it sounded. I could hear him smiling.

‘Here’s the thing, Gip. He’s planning to launch an online newspaper. Do for the internet what Ted Turner did for cable news.’

‘CNN is doing it already. Everybody is.’

‘Yeah, but Shan’s been doing some research. Well, actually, he hired me to do the research. I reckon there are two big gaps. One is for a publication which is online first, not the bastard child of some newspaper or TV network. And the other gap is for a global medium which isn’t associated with a particular country or religion.’

‘Oh... kay,’ I said slowly. ‘But why his interest in the media?’

‘Same as all those other billionaires, I guess. Turner, O’Reilly, Murdoch ... something to play with.’

‘And your interest? Other than the research, I mean?’

‘He wants me to run it. Choose my own team, complete editorial freedom, blank check. The usual Maurya working conditions.’ Shan’s company, Maurya Pharmaceuticals, was famous for spoiling their staff rotten.

‘But... you’re at the top of your game, Jim. You’ve only been at Newsweek for what... a year?’ 

‘Yeah. But so are you, Gip. At the top of your game. Did you hear when I said blank check?’ 

‘So, it’s true!’

‘What?’

‘That everybody has their price!’ Fortunately I’ve known Jim for years, and he knows when to take me seriously. I hope.

He chuckled. ‘So what’s your price, Gipsy girl?’

I pumped up the accent. ‘A lobster dinner and an bonzer bottle of Chablis, Bruce. What’s he offering?’

‘Think of a number and treble it.’ He paused just long enough to show he wasn’t bullshitting. ‘But... the money is only part of it. Shan is planning to base his new outfit in Istanbul, because he says it’s the middle of the world. In several senses. But only a core team will actually work there, all the grunt work will be contracted out, and you could live wherever you like. You’d get your own full-time research and support team. And we’ll have stringers all over the world. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands.’

‘Jesus! Are you serious?’ You have to admit it sounded pretty far fetched.

‘You have no idea. Most of our material will come from citizen journalists – stringers, blogs and forums. I know this is not new, but we’ll go the whole nine yards – a news wiki, in real time.’

‘But... you’ll need a magic ingredient, Jim. There are lots of chat forums out there. The net is chocka bloggers...’

‘You’re right, Gip, and the magic ingredient is money. We’re going to pay these citizen journalists, and we’re going to moderate, sub-edit and translate their stuff into all the major languages in a couple of minutes.’

‘Fucking hell, Jim. How to make a small fortune on the internet...’

‘Yeah, I’ve heard that one already – start with a big fortune. But that was my brief from Shan. To tell him what could be done if money wasn’t a limiting factor. Once I started thinking about the possibilities, it’s like there was no end to them.’

‘But... holy shit, Jim, how do you know that he’s... serious?’

‘He’s already put up the money! It’s in a trust fund in the Channel Islands. I’ve already had it checked out. It’s... enough money to buy a country. He’s not messing around.’

‘So... you’re really thinking about doing this?’

‘Sure. Do you think I’d be wasting your time otherwise? It’s the real deal. Fair dinkum, Sheila. Whaddaya think?’

Jim did a lot of things well, but an Australian accent wasn’t one of them.

‘I don’t know Jim. I’m completely fucking gobsmacked to tell you the truth. Listen, Em and I are in the groove, you know, but... shit, when opportunity knocks. So, whose doors are you knocking on?’

‘For the health beat, just yours Gip.’ 

‘I’m flattered! And the other beats?’

‘Georghe Dorin for politics, Russ Kleinschmidt for economics, Mikaela Nilsen on the environment, Ume Noburu on science, José Guevara on sport...’

‘Holy crap, Jim, that’s like the who’s who. Whatever you’re smoking, I want some!’

‘Well, to be fair, none of them has committed yet. Shan has asked if we can all fly to Istanbul next weekend. Meet him and get the feel of the proposal before we make any decisions.’

‘We?’

‘Yeah – the whole crew. I haven’t committed either. If I can’t get my dream team I’ll just go back to my life.’

It sounded suspiciously like he was saying if we didn’t take the job, he wouldn’t either. But for once I didn’t say the first thing that came into my mind.

‘A freebie to Istanbul? No strings attached? Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ 

He laughed again. ‘So you were right after all, Gip. Everybody has their price!’ 

++++++

The gorgeous life-jacket-demonstrator broke into my reverie to ask what I’d like for breakfast. ‘I’m sorry, we don’t have any bacon on board, miss. We weren’t expecting a passenger. But we have eggs, and I can make Indian breakfasts...’ She was so beautiful, and so anxious to please.

‘What does the crew normally have?’

‘We are having idli sambar...’

‘I’m sorry, my knowledge of Indian food is limited to things that begin with tandoori.’

She laughed, showing perfect white teeth.

‘Oh, no problem, miss. It is like a pancake made with fermented rice and dhal – lentils – and served with a vegetable curry. I could make scrambled eggs to go with it.’

‘I’d love to try that. Thank you!’

As she glided away to the galley I thought of asking how she got into that sari. Maybe she’d demonstrate... Then I remembered we both worked for the same man, and decided I’d ask instead if she could make an espresso to go with the pikelets and cackle-berries. See if she could figure that out.

I used the keyboard and trackpad built into my seat, and the oversize monitor on the wall in front of me to scan for the latest on the bombings but there was nothing new so I let my mind drift back to that first meeting in Istanbul.

We were sitting on packing cases in the unfurnished building in Karaköy, with those incredible views across the waters of the Golden Horn to the iconic mosques of Constantinople.

I knew everyone in the room, some more by reputation than in the flesh. Jim, of course, is right up there – the guy who really did write the book on the way the world produces and consumes news.

Amanda Jones is a legend in the arts world, not only for her profound understanding of every form of creativity and culture, but also for her ability to put it across to cretins like me.

Linus de Boer is that most unusual animal – an expert in everything to do with the military, who is also a paid-up pacifist. I call him Oxy, short for oxymoron, like ‘military intelligence’. He sometimes calls me Darwin, when he’s out of reach, for reasons best ignored.

Enoch Mabuza is an inspiration, not only for his insights and contacts in the third world, but because his own life is an example of what can happen when you connect the dots of opportunity, talent and hard work.

If I sound star-struck it’s because I was. These were the gods of my world.

Shan Gupta was there too – a god from another world. He didn’t make a grand entrance, or arrive with a flock of acolytes, just a flask of coffee and a cooler of sodas. He shook hands with everyone and knew who we were without needing introductions. This is a guy who does his homework.

He was forty something, slim with dark hair and eyes, clean shaven, café au lait skin, features which would not be out of place anywhere in the middle east or northern India, but put together really well. About my height, five nine or ten, and slim – no evidence of affluence around the circumference, as Em would say.

He spoke with the accent of his public schooling in England and medical degree from Cambridge. Like me he never actually practiced medicine, but he went into R&D for a pharmaceutical company in Germany, then he set up his own small lab in India and suddenly was producing patents of a quality and quantity which made the industry sit up and notice.

He began working with a small manufacturing firm to produce his formulations, for sale in India and neighboring countries. His drugs proved to be far more profitable than the company was expecting which, paradoxically, left them with a major headache. Their agreement allowed them to use Shan’s patents with no upfront payment, but a large royalty on sales. This arrangement meant their chemist was now making more money than they were. Before long he bought the company and renamed it after an ancient Indian empire.

Shan proved to be even more adept in the boardroom than in the laboratory, and soon Maurya became a major player in the Indian pharmaceutical industry. After a string of corporate acquisitions in Europe and the far east, Shan was heading a mid-sized global corporation churning out products from micronutrients and cosmetics to over-the-counter, generic and proprietary drugs. Then there was the ARV thing in the nineties, which he used very effectively to promote his other lines, and suddenly Maurya was in the big league and a household name. Literally. Take a look in your own bathroom cabinet.

Russ and Georghe were the last to join our little gathering – their connection in Budapest had been delayed. Russ Kleinschmidt was Europe’s answer to Jim Wallace, a professor of journalism and an economist of note, while Georghe Dorin was the consummate global political analyst.

After a few pleasantries, Shan got down to business with a refreshing lack of false modesty. ‘I’ve been fortunate enough to become quite wealthy, and in India we believe it is important to share good fortune with others. Of course I could simply continue to give away a lot of money to the underprivileged, but I want to give them something even more valuable. The truth.’ He looked at us steadily, to make sure we understood this wasn’t bullshit.

‘When I began to make money, one of the first things I discovered was that I could afford better information, and this meant I could make better decisions. Of course it helped me to become even richer, but it also made me realize that a lack of good information is one of the key reasons why poor people stay poor. And that restricting access to information is a key strategy used by the wealthy and powerful to... close the door behind them.’

I could see Enoch nodding. If anyone knew the link between ignorance and poverty, Enoch did. But most of our small group looked neutral, or skeptical. Every journalist has heard the old gag: ‘Never let the truth get in the way of a good story,’ but I knew of very few who bought into it. We all did our best to bring ‘the truth’ to the people.

As for sharing the truth with the world’s poor – a couple of years earlier someone would have pointed out that the masses didn’t have access to the internet. But the explosive growth of cellular networks in the developing world, together with huge increases in bandwidth and decreases in user-fees had changed all that. Today pretty much everyone could connect to the internet. Automatic translation and voice synthesis meant language and literacy were no longer barriers, either. In short, online news was no longer the preserve of the rich and educated. For the poor and illiterate it was the only way to go.

‘Dr Gupta, may I ask a question?’ Ume Noburu’s name was synonymous with science and technology. Fortunes had been made by companies whose gadgets, software or sites she endorsed, and lost by those she didn’t. I wondered if she would raise the issue of internet access in the developing world after all.

‘Only if you call me Shan.’

‘Sure, thanks Shan. What you said about the truth being more expensive than spin – it’s very true. Free is the magic word, but somebody has to pay, eventually, and there’s only so much advertising to go around. Murdoch’s News Corporation tried to sell quality journalism online, but he forgot that his target market was raised on bootleg music.’

The Indian must have read the small nods and shifting of bums in seats, and known that Ume had raised a concern we all shared. He didn’t look at all surprised.

‘Ume, I happen to believe that Rupert Murdoch was right. Bloggers talking to each other is no substitute for quality journalism. But Murdoch and his kind come from a newspaper paradigm, where the internet means replacing newsprint with computer monitors. I belong to a different paradigm, one that works with energy, reactions and catalysts. The way I see it, we should be paying our audience to write their own newspaper. The better their stories are, and the more people who read them, the more we should pay. They are the energy, we’ll be the catalyst. We provide anyone who has a story to tell with the means to reach a global audience, regardless of location and language, and we reward them for their effort...’

I was still grappling with this when Ume cut in. ‘Sorry, Shan – I still don’t see how this project can be sustained when your money runs out.’

‘My apologies, Ume. You’re right – I can’t sustain this project indefinitely. And you’re doubly right when you say there’s only so much advertising to go around. But I’m not aiming to get a piece of the advertising pie, I intend to get all of it!’

There was a collective in-breath from the group. All except Jim, who smiled at us like someone who knows how the joke ends.

Shan smiled too. ‘The simple fact is that more readers equals more advertisers. My plan is to capture ALL the news audiences, no matter where they are, what their interests, or what language they speak. And ALL the advertisers.’

There was a silence as we digested his words, and as he waited for our reactions. I wondered what he’d say if I suggested that he should pay patients to design their own drugs? If we were hearing this from anyone other than Shan Gupta, I for one would be heading out the door to see the sights of Istanbul about now. But I reminded myself that this was a man who saw opportunity long before others, and who was prepared to put vast sums of money where his mouth was. Even more important, Jim Wallace shared his vision, so I stayed. So did the others.

‘Excuse me, Shan...’ 

‘Please go ahead Russ.’

‘I agree that the big thing today is quality. Not only in news coverage, but in everything. But... we are also talking quantity here, aren’t we? Unless I have misunderstood, you are planning to set up the world’s biggest news-gathering and dissemination structure – using amateur reporters. And your success... your financial viability... depends on achieving extremely high quality and extremely large quantity, and then giving away the end result?’

Bloody good question. Wish I’d thought of it myself. Shan looked pleased.

‘Precisely, Russ! That’s exactly how I see it! Except that we’re not really giving anything away – we’re buying media share and selling it to advertisers. But I think your central point is... how do we achieve quality and quantity using untrained journalists?’

Russ nodded, and Shan carried on. ‘I freely confess the mechanics of actually doing that were beyond me, which is why I turned to Jim Wallace. I knew that, if anyone could work it out, he could. Please Jim, would you tell everyone what you told me?’

We all knew Jim Wallace to be a media visionary and a masterful teacher, but the next hour blew us away. With nothing but his voice and his hands he described the assignment Shan had given him, the way he’d set about the task, and what he found. Nobody interrupted. Nobody asked questions. Nobody needed to. He’d thought of everything.

What Jim had done was the equivalent of Andrew Wiles’ solving of Fermat’s Last Theorem. Just like Wiles, Jim brought a number of seemingly unrelated tools to bear on the problem – in Jim’s case ranging from frequent-flier miles and trade-exchange vouchers, to credibility algorithms and semi-automated translation. He’d assembled these pieces into a surprisingly lean and elegant structure, drawing on decades of media experience, finished off with what he called the ‘three R’s’ – resources, revenues and responsibilities.

The climax to Jim’s presentation was the answer to a question we hadn’t even asked: if the content of the new publication was coming from citizen journalists, what were we doing here? Jim’s answer was that we’d be like the judges on one of those big-budget TV talent shows. They aren’t expected to sing, dance, cook, design clothes or tell jokes, and in most cases they don’t even decide on the winners, the viewers do. But the judges’ credentials and opinions must be – if not beyond reproach – at least well-informed and entertaining. They add so much value that most people can’t imagine their shows without them.

In short, as senior editors we wouldn’t write the news – we’d predict and interpret it, and package and present it to a huge audience who may not know very much about the subject, but who weren’t afraid to say what they thought. We’d be the catalysts, just like Shan said.

Suddenly a lot of things made sense. There were many fine journalists out there, but each of us in this room had a reputation for sticking our necks out, and for being right most of the time. Just as important, none of us was stereotyped by our nationality – we were all reporters without boundaries.

And each of us had developed our talent for edgy reporting in spite of the corporate straitjackets we wore. Which was what made Jim’s proposal so irresistible. Simply put, his idea was to set us free – to go wherever we wanted, talk to whomever we wished, and engage with a global audience in pretty much anyway we liked.

‘Look, with Shan’s backing and money I can do for news what Wikipedia have done for knowledge. But that’s not enough for me. It’s too... neutral. Anonymous. I want a publication with a persona, a life-force. We need to be recognizably human, with opinions and ideas, strengths and even weaknesses. I want you guys to be that persona.’

When Jim finished there was a long silence. It felt stupid to applaud, but the blinding brilliance of his vision had created a pressure in the room which had to be released. I felt like crying, or yelling, either of which would have been even more stupid than clapping. It was José who got it exactly right.

‘Sooo... what was the question again?’

When order was finally restored, and another round of drinks handed out, Shan brought us back to the nitty- gritty.

‘For me, having come this far, the issue is simple. If we don’t do this, somebody else will. Once someone has seen the future – the way Jim has – it’s just a matter of time until it becomes the present. So we have a choice. Do we, in this room, make it happen? Or do we follow it on the news?’

There were no takers, so he continued.

‘I know that every other major news organization will latch onto Jim’s ideas, as soon as they hear them. Which is why we need to offer the full-strength formula right from the beginning. And, as Jim said, that means we need each of you.’

He reached into a satchel and brought out a bunch of A4-sized manila envelopes, which he began to hand out. ‘I realize that I’m asking you to invest your careers in this idea, so I’ve prepared a detailed business plan for you to look at. You’ll also find a written offer of three years of work at twice your present income, paid yearly in advance, with a 50 percent bonus at the end. In other words, I’m offering nine years’ income for three years of work.’

We’d already crunched the numbers.

Jim broke the awed silence that followed. ‘Guys, I think I need to issue a disclaimer at this point. I wrote most of the business plan, but the financial offer – that’s all Shan’s work. I’m afraid my imagination didn’t stretch that far!’

He waited for the laughter to subside. There was a lot of nervous energy in the room. I was picturing myself in an Aston Martin. Double salary paid yearly in advance. Jesus! I wondered what the tax rate in Turkey was.

Jim looked pretty serious. ‘Like you, I like the sound of the money, but I’m not exactly suffering where I am. For me to do this, I need you all. If we’re going to get ahead of the news, and the industry, I need a team of mavericks to help me break the mold...’

‘Excuse me, Jim. What is a maverick? Is it like a millionaire?’ The soft-spoken Enoch brought the house down. I still don’t know if he was joking or serious.

We spent the rest of the day and evening together, talking through every element of the plan. After a while we moved to a cafe across the street, where the food and wine flowed – although I noticed the bottled water went down even faster. This was serious business.

I can’t pinpoint the moment when the decision was made. It’s more like we reached a stage where we could no longer picture doing anything else with our future. We started talking about ‘when’ rather than ‘if’. Which left only one question unanswered.

‘So what’s it called, Jim?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘Our new baby.’

‘Oh, right. I’ve proposed “The World Online” to Shan.’ 

‘TWO?’

‘To Shan.’

‘No, Jimboy. The acronym. T–W–O.’

‘Ah. I guess that would make you the TWO wit, Gipsy girl.’ 

‘Don’t say it. Twit for short?’

‘Hey, if the acronym fits...’

Nairobi Kenya 08:30 Sunday 2 January T+5hrs

Elroy Hardman broke his stride when they reached the swimming pool, glanced back at the house to make sure they were out of earshot of his wife and kids, and glared at his political attaché. ‘Who dreamed this up, Ben? We’re an embassy, not a fucking fortress...’

He smiled wryly as he realized the irony of what he had just said. ‘Well, OK, we are a fucking fortress. But there’s a big difference between deterring terrorist action, and challenging your host government to a pissing match. Damn!’

‘I gather it was proposed by the WHO, ambassador. Do you want to communicate your views to Washington, or should I talk to them first?’

Ambassador Hardman and Ben Berzack had not worked together for long, but the young head of mission had quickly learned that his battle-hardened deputy was highly adept at managing the byzantine politics of the state department. Hardman understood immediately what Berzack was hinting at. If an ambassador queried a directive but was told to go ahead anyway, there was no court of appeal. But if a subordinate queried it, the ambassador might have another shot.

Hardman was always careful to give credit where it was due – one of the traits that had brought him to the ambassadorial residence in Nairobi’s plush Muthaiga district. ‘Yeah, good thinking, Ben. By the time you call they’ll probably have heard from some of the other embassies, and have thought twice about this hare- brained scheme. Mind you it’s... what... midnight in DC?’

‘Yes sir. But they said they’d be standing by. I... we have to call in the next hour.’ 

‘Okay. Go ahead and call, then.’

‘And what about our staff? If they know we’re storing antiretrovirals...’ Once again Berzack’s apparently innocent question was loaded.

‘Right again, Ben. It’s going to be tough to pull this off without the staff knowing. Maybe better to make an announcement, if it comes to that. Damn, I really hope it doesn’t.’

‘At the same time, sir, a lot of staff, especially the Kenyan nationals, will be worried about their own health. Those who are taking ARVs, I mean. If you made an announcement, you could tell them that they’ll be provided for.’

The ambassador absent mindedly slapped a rolled up Sunday newspaper against his leg. There was no mention in the paper of the Indian bombings five hours earlier, but the online media were full of it.

‘I wonder if we can give that assurance, Ben? It could easily look like we grabbed the drugs for our own use. To protect our people, at the cost of the host population. I’m told the ARVs are the only thing keeping this region from meltdown. I can’t imagine who could possibly do something like this...’

After a lifetime in the diplomatic service, Berzack was not easily rattled. ‘Should we be reviewing our exit strategies, ambassador?’

‘Yar. Quickly and quietly, Ben. I’m afraid the turds are airborne and heading toward the fan, even as we speak.’