The Blue House Welcome
The day after the Information Super-Highway announcement, Yoo Jae-won rose early and rubbed himself down with cold water. The shock of the icy liquid snapped his drowsy mind wide awake. It was so cold it nearly made him angry, yet he used that surge of irritation to sharpen his focus. The reaction itself revealed how heavy the coming visit to Cheong Wa Dae weighed on him.
To be honest, Yoo Jae-won had slightly underestimated the power of the Blue House. It was understandable. The current president’s nickname was “Water Roh,” and in his previous life Jae-won had been too busy enjoying himself to grasp how politics actually worked. By the time he regained his senses after the regression deal and began studying in earnest, years had already passed, leaving him only books, papers, and newspapers as indirect sources. Yet the man who had once staged a coup alongside Chun Doo-hwan possessed formidable drive once he made a decision. The journey to Cheong Wa Dae proved far more elaborate than Jae-won had imagined.
“Then we shall proceed to the Blue House.”
“Yes. I appreciate it.”
Kim Dae-seok usually drove Yoo Jae-won’s Grandeur, but today was different. A Cheong Wa Dae security officer took the wheel. Naturally, they had not sent only a single driver. Escort vehicles flanked them front and rear, police motorcycles accompanied the motorcade, and traffic signals were reportedly being controlled along the route. Jae-won found the scale excessive for a mere businessman. He wondered whether news of Microsoft’s scouting offer had reached the president, or whether reports had finally arrived that Soviet and Chinese intelligence agents had tried to approach him only to be blocked by the Americans. Perhaps this ostentatious escort was simply the regime’s way of locking the barn after the horse had bolted.
Or maybe it’s none of that.
The simplest explanation was that the president wished to honor the two hundred million dollars Jae-won had won from Microsoft. In the 1980s and 1990s, any recognition from abroad became major news. In the seventies, even winning an overseas music competition had warranted a ticker-tape parade through Seoul, complete with open cars, cheering crowds, and confetti raining from rooftops. Yoo Jae-won’s achievement stood apart. He had not merely been acknowledged abroad; he had been fully validated in the United States itself. Every piece of software released by ID Technology sold better in America than in Korea, and every dollar of revenue flowed back home. Korea’s export-first policy had been national doctrine since the seventies and remained unchanged even into the twenty-first century. To a president and his economic officials obsessed with exports, Jae-won must have looked like a model son. He imported no raw materials; he created enormous value from nothing but ideas.
“They wouldn’t actually hold a parade, would they?”
Yoo Jae-won had resigned himself to whatever awaited. The one consolation was that such lavish treatment meant his own market value had risen. No one would object if he acquired Dacom shares at a favorable price or received other benefits. Still, he refused to grow complacent. The military regime would end with President Roh. Kim Young-sam would follow, and while the three-party merger prevented talk of a true regime change, the arrival of a fully civilian government would bring changes nearly as profound. Any favors granted now could become liabilities under the next administration, so it was wise to lay groundwork in advance.
I should reach out to DJ as well.
After DJ, real power would shift to the market. If Jae-won avoided mistakes, future governments would need ID Group more than ID Group needed them.
As expected, the road to Cheong Wa Dae proved arduous. Broadcast vans began tailing them the moment they entered Seoul, and a full press contingent waited at the Blue House gates. When Jae-won stepped out of the car, camera flashes erupted so brightly the world turned white. Reporters shouted for him to look their way or raise his hand. President Roh himself stood at the entrance of the guesthouse to greet him.
“I am overwhelmed by Your Excellency’s gracious welcome.”
“Haha, ‘Your Excellency’? You may call me Grandfather as you did before.”
That had been in fifth grade, when Jae-won still carried the roundness of childhood. Now the baby fat had mostly vanished. At home he had measured himself at 165 centimeters already; if he continued growing he might clear 170, even reach 180. His present appearance was far more mature than the last time they met, so childish behavior would only seem distasteful. Acting composed and adult-like would earn more favor, and the calculation proved correct.
Cheong Wa Dae’s reception exceeded expectations. Jae-won was even asked to sign the official guest book while presidential photographers and journalists captured every moment. He could already picture the nine o’clock news that evening. Only after several prepared ceremonies did he finally sit down to a meal, not alone with the president but with the prime minister and other cabinet ministers. There he was obliged to recount the Microsoft trial once more. He had lost count of how many times he had told the story; this was at least the fourth telling, yet every listener heard it for the first time and leaned in with genuine interest. Only the teller grew weary of repeating himself. Still, the repeated retellings had taught him which parts fascinated and which bored, allowing him to pace the narrative perfectly. The moment he described contacting James Augustine—the decisive witness—and the security challenge that followed held everyone’s attention. Of course, the instant the judge awarded two hundred million dollars remained the true climax.
“So you have not yet received the payment?”
“No. It was only the first trial, so enforcement is limited. Microsoft appealed, and we filed our own appeal to expedite collection. Their conduct was so outrageous that we intend to push for a larger penalty on appeal.”
President Roh and the ministers nodded.
“Tell me, did you apply to establish the investment bank in anticipation of the Microsoft verdict?”
Jae-won blinked. The Blue House had misunderstood the source of ID Investment’s capital. They apparently believed the two hundred million dollars from Microsoft would serve as seed money.
“Ah, ID Investment was founded with a portion of ID Technology’s profits, together with investments from family and close associates. Once the two hundred million arrives it will be deployed for further investment and research, but at present the fund stands at roughly thirty million dollars.”
By summer another seventy million would bring the total to one hundred million, yet the amount currently allocated to ID Investment remained only thirty million.
“Thirty million dollars?”
To Jae-won the sum was modest, but the reaction around the table made clear that thirty million dollars was anything but modest to them. Perhaps that explained their sudden, earnest curiosity about how software could generate such revenue. Profit margins were trade secrets, yet these men could uncover them with little effort if they chose. Deciding it was better to score points openly, Jae-won offered a rough but honest estimate.
“Take one copy of ID Office priced at one hundred twenty dollars. After taxes, production, and distribution costs, roughly seventy to eighty dollars remain. We have sold about three hundred sixty thousand copies so far. Wolfenstein is also selling well.”
“Truly?”
“Yes. Our company reported corporate tax of fourteen and a half billion won this time.”
Mouths fell open around the table. Not everyone’s, however.
“Still, is an investment company like ID Investment truly necessary? I have seen many firms expand too quickly while profits were high only to collapse later.”
President Roh’s question carried a note of concern.
“Thank you for your worry. However, I have no intention of managing every investment personally. I plan to recruit a capable professional from Wall Street and leave the actual investing to him.”
Vincent Greenhill would serve as his right hand. Soon Greenhill would leverage his own network to assemble a team of skilled fund managers and analysts. Jae-won would set the direction; they would execute. Instead of elaborating further, he turned to the topic the president and ministers most wanted to hear: what exactly ID Investment intended to invest in. The business plan they had received contained only polished language; these men believed the real strategy would be revealed only by the man in charge.
“As you may already know, ID Technology’s development team is based in Silicon Valley.”
The ministers nodded. The Silicon Valley legend had begun in the late seventies; its reputation was well established.
“Thanks to that, I stay well informed about developments there. The venture companies in the valley are creating technologies and products the world has never seen. Yet not all of them reach the light. Countless promising ideas die for lack of market fit or funding.”
“So ID Investment plans to invest in those companies?”
“Yes. Korea still lacks strength in basic and cutting-edge technology. Developing everything ourselves would be ideal, but purchasing what we need from abroad is not a bad alternative.”
Newspapers constantly called for acquiring basic technologies and investing in research, yet both corporations and government preferred projects that yielded immediate returns. Jae-won proposed a different approach: simply buy the technologies Korea required.
“Separating the wheat from the chaff will be crucial.”
That was true, though it did not apply to him.
“Therefore I intend to begin with companies in the information and communications sector, where I have confidence.”
“Information and communications?”
“Yes. The digital revolution has already begun in the United States. More material is now created on computers than in printed books. Digital data can be transmitted anywhere without loss, and that capability will generate enormous value. Since ID Office already helps create digital content, the logical next step is to build the pathways through which that content can flow freely.”
“Ah. That is why you acquired KETEL and purchased shares in Dacom?”
The sale of Dacom shares had evidently reached the president’s desk. Minister of Communications Hong Byung-do, seated a little farther away, gave Jae-won a meaningful wink—Don’t forget whose contribution that was.
“Exactly.”
Yoo Jae-won’s words were true, though he omitted one intermediate step: the oil futures investment. Once that trade multiplied his capital, he would use the enlarged fund to hunt companies and patents. With extraordinary luck he might even acquire Microsoft itself.
President Roh nodded. The vision was compelling—more compelling, in fact, than the routine reports he received from the Ministry of Science and Technology. At the same time, his interest in learning which specific investments Jae-won planned grew stronger. Asking directly would be awkward, but with the right connections the information would be easy enough to obtain. His expression softened.
“Still, will the public actually use services built on such expensive dedicated data lines? Spending taxpayer money on infrastructure that only benefits a narrow elite seems questionable.”
The question came from Minister of Science and Technology Lee Sang-hee. Although he held the science portfolio, his background was in pharmacy, leaving him weak on information technology. The president’s growing trust in Jae-won’s vision had clearly stirred competitive feelings.
Jae-won, who had intended to end on a gracious note, felt his temper flare.
“Are you referring to academic paper libraries, Minister?”
At present the internet existed mainly as a scholarly network. Even in the United States, FTP sites and bulletin boards had already drawn in students and ordinary users.
“If you think about it for even a moment, you will find many more uses.”
His rejuvenated body brought with it an excess of youthful blood; the irritation showed plainly. Especially when his own field of IT was being slighted, he could not stay silent.