The Zealous Esquires
“We’ve received a positive response from Dr. Andrei Sakharov!”
“Dr. Sakharov?” Yoo Jae-won’s eyes lit up from the very first sentence. This was a major breakthrough.
“Yes, sir. The Soviet authorities—no, the Russian government—slashed next year’s research center budget and drastically reduced the number of researchers. Dr. Sakharov was deeply disheartened. On the other hand, the terms we offered were so generous that he initially refused to believe them. Once we showed him the photographs and news articles, he finally sent a positive reply. As soon as a few administrative procedures are completed, he’ll be able to make the move.”
“Excellent news. Don’t let your guard down until the contract is signed. Handle the details with care, and don’t lose any of the others either.”
If Dr. Sakharov joined ID High Tech, it would deal a serious blow to North Korea’s nuclear development program. Of course, his absence alone wouldn’t extinguish their nuclear ambitions, but there was no cheaper or more reliable way to restrain them.
“Understood. I’ll do my utmost.”
After finishing his pleasant conversation with Mikhail Ivanov, Yoo Jae-won once again logged into Nextcom to check on world affairs. If he failed to carefully monitor how his actions were altering the flow of history, he would be the one to suffer the greatest losses. That was why he kept Nextcom, newspapers, and television constantly within reach.
“Hmm. Nothing unusual today.”
The United States had no noteworthy news. Europe was the same. For Yoo Jae-won, the absence of news was good news. The last thing he checked was Korea.
“Huh? It would have been nice if Korea had been as uneventful as America or Europe, but that wasn’t the case.”
As he flipped through the pages one by one, starting from the headlines, a particular article caught his eye.
— Prosecutor Jung Byung-woo Resigns.
It wasn’t a main story. It was a brief notice reporting that a single prosecutor from the Prosecutors’ Office had submitted his resignation. If Yoo Jae-won hadn’t been reading carefully, he might have passed it over entirely; the article was that small. The newspaper company had apparently judged that the matter held little social significance.
Yet Yoo Jae-won remembered the name Jung Byung-woo. When he remembered someone’s name, it meant that person had left a strong impression. Jung Byung-woo was no exception. He was the very prosecutor who, just a few weeks earlier, had handled the investigation into the slush funds of the Busan Group’s owner, who had received a prison sentence in the first trial.
“What’s going on?”
Jung Byung-woo had worked diligently on the investigation and secured a guilty verdict, fulfilling his duties as a prosecutor. If anything, he should have been promoted. Sudden resignations were rare. Moreover, this case was no ordinary matter—it had stemmed from the nationwide Nakdong River phenol contamination incident. The President himself had even issued a directive for a thorough investigation. In effect, it had been an order from above. By following the President’s will so faithfully, Jung Byung-woo had essentially seized a golden opportunity. Yet he had suddenly resigned.
“There’s no reason given either.”
People in positions as coveted as a prosecutor’s rarely submitted resignations. Even when they were caught accepting bribes or committing corruption, the punishment usually ended at a pay cut. Because prosecutors held the power to indict, their fellow prosecutors could easily shield one another from serious consequences. The only cases where resignations occurred were when someone failed to adapt to the organization or had to step down due to illness. Prosecutor Jung Byung-woo fit neither category. Yet nowhere in the article was there any mention of health issues. It simply stated that he had resigned for personal reasons and that the resignation had been accepted.
“What? They’ve already accepted it?”
The more he looked, the more suspicious it seemed. Yoo Jae-won couldn’t simply let it go. He immediately sought out an expert. The person best suited for this was Choi Kang-wook. As a former member of the judiciary, he would be able to resolve Yoo Jae-won’s curiosity.
Coincidentally, Choi Kang-wook had just logged into ID Talk. Checking the clock, it was 4 p.m. in San Francisco, where Yoo Jae-won was, and 9 a.m. in Korea, where the workday was just beginning. Yoo Jae-won opened the chat window without hesitation.
Two weeks had passed. It was already mid-October. As autumn deepened, the surroundings had visibly changed. The green trees were beginning to turn yellow and red, and a cool breeze blew in the mornings and evenings. Still, San Francisco never dropped below freezing even in the depths of winter, so there was no need for heavy coats.
During those two weeks, several important events had taken place within ID Group. The biggest was the transfer of 3 billion dollars from ID Investment to Japan. The funds had been sent in installments over a week, accompanied by currency exchanges. The sheer volume had caused the yen exchange rate to fluctuate sharply for a time.
Next came the full-scale development of the next version of Android. The new version emphasized multi-core systems, stable support for various hardware, and internet server functionality. A 3D technology development consortium encompassing VGA manufacturers had also been launched. Led by John Carmack, the consortium had received an unexpectedly enthusiastic response from companies and developers alike. Everyone was participating with great zeal, and the standard for the 3D library was rapidly taking shape.
AMD had even sent over their newly developed CPU. It was the famous DX4-100 model. As the name suggested, it was a high-performance processor running at a full 100 MHz. AMD, long the perennial second-place finisher that had only produced Intel-compatible chips, had poured everything into this new product. Its performance easily surpassed Intel’s DX2-66, while the price difference was minimal. Moreover, because the socket was compatible with Intel’s, users could simply purchase the CPU and install it immediately.
Before releasing it, AMD had wanted to verify compatibility with ID Technology. Instead of sending just one unit, they had shipped a hundred. They also promised to maintain close cooperation in the future and to provide full support for optimizing the Android operating system. It was a markedly different approach from Intel, which had grown somewhat sluggish after dominating the CPU market. For Yoo Jae-won, this was nothing but beneficial. His goal was to ensure that users could extract maximum performance from the Android operating system regardless of their hardware. That was why he immediately decided to optimize for AMD’s new DX4-100. Although the development schedule for the first patch version of Android 1.0 was tight, the abundance of human resources meant it posed no major problem.
What pleased Yoo Jae-won even more was the rising price of advertising slots in Android Adware. The number of ad slots, which had been twenty during the alpha phase, had increased by four in version 1.0, bringing the total to twenty-four. While an increase in slots might have lowered the unit price, reality proved the opposite. Android’s advertising effectiveness had already been proven with data. Especially after the acquisition of Microsoft, when DOS became obsolete and Android began its sweeping dominance, Adware gained even greater momentum. As a result, the unit price per slot had surpassed 300,000 dollars and was now approaching 500,000 dollars.
The roster of companies placing ads had also changed dramatically. Previously, most had been computer-related firms—small peripheral manufacturers, hard drive companies, and VGA makers. Now, numerous major American corporations were participating. Even automobile and insurance advertisements were coming in. It was as if a minimum of 12 million dollars in advertising revenue every hundred days was now guaranteed. On top of that, major computer manufacturers were purchasing hundreds of thousands of licenses for Android 1.0 each month. Revenue from the Android operating system alone was certain to exceed 100 million dollars. With the computer market poised to grow even larger in 1992, the outlook for sales was more positive than ever.
— Chairman, I apologize for keeping you waiting.
Choi Kang-wook’s message arrived during the final week of mid-October, more than ten days after Yoo Jae-won had asked him to look into Prosecutor Jung Byung-woo’s situation.
“It’s fine.”
There had to be a good reason for the delay. It was unthinkable that Chief of Staff Choi Kang-wook would be slacking off. If anything, it meant the internal affairs of the Prosecutors’ Office were that heavily veiled.
— It seems Prosecutor Jung conducted his investigation far too thoroughly.
What did that mean? If he had done his job too well, he should have received a commendation. Why had he been forced out of the Prosecutors’ Office?
Choi Kang-wook continued his explanation. The more Yoo Jae-won listened, the more absurd it sounded. Prosecutor Jung Byung-woo had indeed carried out a rigorous investigation of the chaebols as instructed by the President, but the atmosphere inside the Prosecutors’ Office had been different. There had been a prevailing sentiment that such aggressive action wasn’t necessary—that it was better to go easy. The higher-ups had expected a sentence around three years in prison with a five-year suspended sentence. Instead, Prosecutor Jung had charged straight into the Busan Group without hesitation. Since no chaebol in this era was free of corruption, a five-year prison sentence had been inevitable. By breaking the long-standing cozy relationship with the chaebols out of nothing more than a desire to impress the President, Prosecutor Jung had fallen out of favor with the higher-ups in the Prosecutors’ Office. Normally, the President would have stepped in to say something, but there had been no such intervention. His attention had been entirely consumed by preparations for the second mobile telecommunications business and the Information Superhighway project. Abandoned by the organization, Prosecutor Jung Byung-woo had been unable to withstand the internal pressure and had been forced out.
“I see.”
Choi Kang-wook’s explanation was entirely plausible. Moreover, it wasn’t mere speculation—he had met directly with senior and junior prosecutors at the Seoul Central District Prosecutors’ Office and heard the inside story firsthand. It could be considered accurate. Yet Yoo Jae-won’s uneasy feeling refused to dissipate. Choi Kang-wook’s report was quite precise, but he sensed there was more to it.
Yoo Jae-won’s intuition proved correct when, two weeks later, near the end of October, he received another call from Choi Kang-wook.
— Chairman, Presiding Judge Kim Chang-hwan has submitted his resignation.
Presiding Judge Kim Chang-hwan. He was the judge who had presided over the first trial of the former chairman of the Busan Group. In other words, the prosecutor and the judge who had led the investigation and trial of the Busan Group had both submitted their resignations at nearly the same time. Furthermore, although the resignation of a presiding judge was a significant matter, no article had even been published about it.
“As expected. Those two weren’t the type to stay quiet.”
When Yoo Jae-won confirmed that Judge Kim Chang-wan had also resigned, everything became clear. It was a warning. A demonstration of power.