NOTE: This is part of a continuing online novel. Here is the Table of Contents.

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His peace mission had set Thabo Mkebi’s mind reeling.

The problem in the Ivory Coast was repeated throughout the continent. Democracy was impossible, as the Americans and Europeans perceived it.

Even if an ethnic balance could be struck, marauding immigrants could easily tip it. Then the chief (or chief thug) who controlled the newcomers could reign like a dictator over everyone else.

It had been like that in America, too. Mbeki had seen “Gangs of New York” and enjoyed it. Politicians were just gang leaders who manipulated the hungry. That’s why America’s original Constitution was profoundly anti-democratic, the vote reserved to property owners, the heat of democracy contained by a Senate selected from legislatures, and a President chosen indirectly. Democracy hadn’t been fully realized until America was a majority middle-class nation, a people devoted to keeping what they had rather than grasping.

Africans were always grasping. It was the only way to survive.

Africa’s situation was made worse by artificial borders. Tribes were divided willy-nilly by colonial rulers, and liberation made these borders permanent. Some tribes were left permanentl majorities, others permanent minorities. Tribal loyalties dominated politics just as ethnicity did in Europe and religion in Asia.

Those religious wars had also spread to Africa. The Ivory Coast was a tribal conflict wrapped in religion, Muslim and Christian, a proxy war for America’s new war in the Mideast. Democracy could not solve it. The best he could do was paper it over, layer it with agreements to share the wealth between the competing parties.

The Americans kept demanding democracy, by which they meant free elections monitored by the Carter Center or some other group. But these were mere choices between gangs. South Africa had elections, too, but they were meaningless since the ANC always won. What made them meaningful was competition within the ANC, among various groups committed to a common set of values – negotiation, stability, progress.

Thabo Mbeki was tired. He was tired of lectures, tired of lecturing. He was tired of the zero-sum game. He was tired of being called on for Mandela-like wisdom when he was just an ordinary man.

Today, he hoped, he would not have to be wise. The Lady was escorting him to the Carlton Center for a personal briefing from Mr. Branson. Work on the Super Bongo was proceeding, and new people with new values would soon be following, she assured him as he relaxed into his seat.

He was whisked along a hallway, up an elevator, half-way up the building. A western-style lobby waiting room, with young African ladies manning the phones. New equipment, he noted with satisfaction, conservative attire. He nodded with satisfaction.

The conference room had a north view, toward Sandton and the other new districts. As he sat down, in a Chinese-made chair before an Indian-made conference table, the vertical blinds were closed and a screen rose up from the table’s center.

It was a good show. Sir Richard described the dimensions of his group’s current real estate holdings on a map of the city. He listed the huge banks that had already committed to trading here. He showed the trading floor, several floors up, and the banking vaults, many floors down. The presentation was filled with swoops and flourishes. Mbeki enjoyed it very much. Very modern, up-to-date. This was what he wanted, what he in fact expected.

When the 10 minute presentation concluded, Branson himself entered from a side door and sat at his right, beside another man he hadn’t recognized but who was introduced as a Dr. Florida. The Lady sat to his left, as she had before. A few of his aides, and bodyguards, sat in comfortable chairs behind him. One of the ladies from the lobby came in, with bush tea and china cups, pouring for the conference table, then offering the pot to the bodyguards who motioned her away. They would stay vigilant as they must, everywhere.

“This is just the first stage, Mr. President,” the man introduced as Dr. Florida said. “What we are doing now is building a capital base, demonstrating a business model. The hard work has yet to begin.”

“This month, we plan on meeting with a variety of major consulting firms around the U.S., hoping to bring some of their work here based on the tax advantages proven by our success so far,” said Branson. “That will mean converting other buildings to our use, as mixed-use developments with offices, residences, and full amenities.”

“We already have that, in Sandton,” said Mbeki quietly. He had learned long-ago that, with power, you didn’t need to raise your voice. “We don’t need more islands. Joburg is divided enough as it is. The city feels absolutely medieval.”

There was silence around the table for a few moments. Then The Lady spoke.

“I agree with the President,” she said. “Anyone who moves here must be committed to making a new world here, not just a new life. All of us around this table are interested in success, but we have nothing but money here so far.

“I have given much thought to the commitment we must demand, and the life we can offer,” she continued. “We must have security, I know, but it should come without walls, as our communication comes without wires. We must have comfort, but we must also be intimate with our neighbors, who have none. The people who come here, in other words, must be devoted to more than themselves. They must be devoted to the people.

“Here is what I propose. Those who move here bring all their hard assets, invested in our banks, in our real estate. They must sign contracts covering their behavior, not just guaranteeing they follow the laws of this country, but that they behave as we expect toward their neighbors. We should hold their passports and give them some form of corporate identification that the President will approve of.”

“But there must be some way of differentiating between those who are of this place, whether white or black, and those who are not,” said Dr. Florida. “How about VeriChips?” Seeing the looks of confusion around him, Dr. Florida continued. “It’s a rice-sized radio frequency identifier, implanted under the skin. It was first deployed to protect animals. It’s safe and effective. Everyone who belongs to Virgin Maverick, both employees and residents, can be Verichipped and tracked. Anyone else can be badged at our entrances and tracked as well, only more closely. In that way we wouldn’t need walls, we could have flexible borders, but we could maintain full security over our people.”

“What about those who enter without authorization?” asked Branson.

“A network of heat sensors and cameras could identify any intruders, even track them. But since most would have the Verichip, we wouldn’t be tracking that many people in this way, and would be able to devote real time personal attention to them. As to the rest, actions could be matched against past patterns, and active monitoring established only when they go outside those patterns.

“Look,” he said. “We want to reduce the need for security personnel, and for all the tools of physical security. But we can’t eliminate it.”

“The doctor is right,” Mbeki said with a wave of his hand before The Lady could object. “I appreciate the need for some kind of border control within your development, and appreciate the desire to make it unobtrusive. I also understand what The Lady is saying, about bringing in people committed to the goal of a new world here, with western values practically expressed in an African setting.

“Something else,” he added. “We need some control over capital exports. If this is just traders taking quick profits, as in the Caymans or Bahrain then I can’t countenance it. This was described to me as a new Hong Kong, a way to bring Western capital and southern labor together in a new kind of prosperity. That means manufacturing goods as well as services, world-class production and world-standard jobs that carry education benefits. This must build our middle class, not just our upper class.”

“You have my assurance,” The Lady said.

“But who are you?” Mbeki said sharply. “You are an American billionaire, Mrs. Kerry.” He emphasized the word American in a fairly nasty way. “We need African billionaires. And you have no official role here, can offer no guarantees that your word will be followed.”

“This is true,” she allowed, drawing her eyes toward the table demurely.

Branson caught the cue. “How much can you invest with us?” he asked The Lady.

“All I can, I will,” she said.

“Then let me offer this,” Branson said. “Mrs. Kerry is already a director of Virgin Maverick. We should offer her a line position, as a sort of…” He searched for the word, then turned his smile on full. “As a Secretary of State for the enterprise. She will be liaison with the government, and with those we recruit to work here. She will have executive authority to make changes under approval from the board, and subject to the government. We can draw up an employment contract to that effect, signed not just by us but by you, Mr. President. It can be held fast by your investment in the enterprise, Mrs. Kerry.

“Does that meet with your approval, Mr. President? We should all be bound, as Mrs. Kerry is bound, by our fortunes as well as sacred honor.”