The Amateur Government
Jeon Myeong-heon’s voice thundered across the gymnasium. “No one understands the true nature of this civilian government better than I do! What kind of people are they? They speak of economics without grasping even its most basic principles. They cling to beliefs completely detached from reality and treat those delusions as gospel!”
The longer he spoke, the louder his voice grew. It carried more power than any young man’s could. One might have believed he had secretly found and consumed an elixir of eternal youth. “The most glaring example of their amateurism is the movie Jurassic Park. They claim a single film is worth more than exporting a million cars, and they lament why Korea cannot produce such movies. That alone proves they have no understanding of industry whatsoever.”
Jeon Myeong-heon grabbed the glass of cold water on the podium and drank deeply, as though his throat were on fire. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. President Kim’s love for movies was legendary. Steven Spielberg’s Jurassic Park had become a global phenomenon and set records in Korea as well. Envious of that success, the president had taken to repeating that one film was worth more than exporting a million cars—an obvious jab at Jeon Myeong-heon’s future automobile venture. Even though those exports had been achieved through aggressive low-price volume sales, it marked the first meaningful overseas sales after decades of effort in the American market. Every time the president mentioned movies, Jeon Myeong-heon felt an overwhelming urge to shut his mouth.
“What is the automobile industry? It is the ultimate composite of modern industry—glass, rubber, electronics, steel, and countless other sectors must all work in concert. That is why it creates the highest employment and distributes the fruits of growth across the widest population. And what about the film industry? Employment is temporary, and profits concentrate in the hands of a few investors.”
Jeon Myeong-heon’s words flowed like a river. When he had first run for president in 1992, his speeches had been raw and unpolished. Years of political experience had sharpened his rhetoric to a terrifying degree.
“Equating the film industry with the automobile industry is something only someone utterly ignorant of industry could do. After that remark, did the civilian government make any real investment in the film industry? Censorship remains alive, and countless restrictions persist. If they truly valued the film industry, they would never have left it in such a state!”
Jeon Myeong-heon’s prepared remarks were nearing their conclusion.
“Fellow party members, do you realize that this amateur government is now gambling with the people’s livelihoods? They are squandering astronomical amounts of foreign reserves every single day to defend the exchange rate—all for the hollow title of reaching ten thousand dollars in per-capita income and entering the ranks of advanced nations. Companies are collapsing left and right, yet they continue this daily money festival solely to secure another term in power. We must stop this madness immediately. What happened in Thailand may no longer be someone else’s problem!”
Every word struck like a dagger. Everyone in the gymnasium—both the Tongil National Party members present and those watching through cameras—could tell he had come here with his blade already sharpened.
“Fellow party members! The economy must be entrusted to experts. That expert is none other than Jeon Myeong-heon. Make me the presidential candidate of the Tongil National Party once more! This time, I will win. I will save the Republic of Korea from economic crisis, turn it into a true advanced nation, and build a country where prosperity is shared by all rather than monopolized by a few!”
When his speech ended, the gymnasium erupted in thunderous cheers. Jeon Myeong-heon could barely suppress the upward curl of his lips. The manuscript that had just shaken the hall had, of course, come from Yoo Jae-won. It captured exactly what he had wanted to say. Reducing the Kim administration and the civilian government to the single word “amateur” was pure Jeon Myeong-heon style—an accusation even the most hostile media outlets could not easily dismiss. As he gathered the pages afterward, his hands moved with unmistakable affection.
A few days later, Kia Motors Group—formerly the eighth-largest conglomerate—signed a debt deferment agreement. It was bankruptcy in all but name. The rumor that even the top ten chaebols were no longer safe had become reality. An emergency expanded economic ministers’ meeting was held at the Blue House, yet no effective policies emerged. In the presidential approval poll conducted that same day, Jeon Myeong-heon began surging ahead alone.
Autumn had arrived. Around the world, autumn usually evoked images of abundance. This year, however, was different. Across East Asia—especially in Korea—only a bleak, desolate feeling remained. After Kia, companies such as Ssangbangwool and Taeil Precision had collapsed in succession, and the aftershocks were still rippling outward. The foreign-exchange crisis that began in Thailand had spread to Indonesia and other East Asian nations. Hedge funds, sensing weakness, were amplifying the damage.
Yoo Jae-won, still in San Francisco, monitored the situation closely. He checked repeatedly, worried that events might deviate from what he remembered. Even so, his daily routine continued—programming, the core of his expertise, and managing ID Group. From planning the next Tiffany Phone model to developing various internet services and even angel investing, the range of matters requiring his attention was vast. Fortunately, his capable executives handled much of the workload, allowing him to maintain the golden balance of eight hours of work, eight hours of personal time, and eight hours of sleep.
With that personal time, Yoo Jae-won had been diligently cultivating his relationship with Tiffany’s family. While most of his hours were spent with Tiffany herself, he also met frequently with her parents and even her grandfather, Fredrick Taylor II. Awkwardness naturally faded with repeated encounters. These meetings were not entirely personal, either. They often discussed global affairs and economic conditions, during which Yoo Jae-won shared his own vision for the future.
This weekend, he had a fishing appointment with Steven—his future father-in-law. Despite his scholarly appearance, Steven knew how to enjoy leisure. Yoo Jae-won had noticed it the moment Steven purchased an electric bicycle ahead of everyone else. His interests were wide-ranging: intense cycling, golf, and fishing, all pursued at a level beyond mere hobbyist. To keep his weekend free, Yoo Jae-won had thrown himself into work even harder than usual this week.
—Chairman, the pressure from the companies is considerable.
The report Yoo Jae-won was receiving came from Vice Chairman Choi Kang-wook, detailing the situation in Korea.
“Just as expected.”
With foreign-currency procurement growing increasingly difficult, numerous companies were pleading with ID Group to sell them dollars. The irony was not lost on him. ID Group was not a bank. It was a private enterprise whose main business was IT. While ID Investment existed as a financial arm, its primary role was not lending but managing client funds for investment and growth. Nevertheless, ID Group was widely known to hold the largest foreign-currency reserves among Korean companies. Its headquarters might be in Korea, but its core operations were in the United States and Europe, making the dollar its functional currency. Moreover, ID Group’s growth rate was ferocious. It had never posted a loss, and after securing dominant positions in PC operating systems and office software, its performance had become overwhelming.
To other businessmen, the dollars ID Group accumulated so effortlessly seemed like child’s play. In truth, it was. Thanks to its monopoly, every finished PC came preloaded with Android OS, and every company using computers for work had to adopt ID Office. Yet those golden days were nearing their end. PC penetration in advanced markets was nearly complete, and shipment volumes were beginning to decline. Until the latest CPUs—Pentium 3 or Athlon 1G—felt insufficient to everyone, the massive upgrade cycles of the past would not return. Memory-chip price drops and falling shipment volumes already confirmed this was no mere prediction. Unlike before, when production volume directly translated into revenue, large memory-chip orders had decreased significantly, and prices were falling—rapidly enough that Ilseong Electronics was reportedly in considerable distress. Even Mirae Electronics, which had received early warning from Yoo Jae-won, was feeling the impact, though the damage to the Ilseong Group was far greater. Ilseong Electronics’ semiconductor division had been the group’s primary cash cow. As earnings shrank, the entire group’s operations faced serious disruption.
Another reason Korean companies were struggling to secure dollars was China’s emergence on the global stage. Many Korean exporters had competed on cost-performance. Now, Chinese products—backed by extraordinarily cheap labor—were flooding world markets, and Korean goods were losing ground. Moving upmarket was equally difficult, blocked by Japan’s formidable wall. Caught between China and Japan, Korea was often called the “sandwich” economy. The timing of this squeeze coinciding with the foreign-exchange crisis had multiplied the damage.
Still, ID Group remained the only Korean company with unrestricted access to dollars. ID Investment’s massive returns from U.S. IT-sector investments were well known. Riding the American IT boom, its investment profits had snowballed year after year. Rumors circulated that early investors in ID Investment’s IT products had seen returns exceeding ten times their capital. That was complete nonsense. ID Investment’s current products allowed free deposits and withdrawals. Earlier funds had been structured like hedge funds, with withdrawals restricted until liquidation, but the present offerings carried no such constraints. Consequently, individual returns varied widely. Very few people had kept their principal intact from the beginning, contrary to the rumors. The highest return ID Investment had ever recorded was 634 percent—achieved, naturally, by Yoo Jae-won himself. Using the proceeds from selling his stake after Android’s listing, he had purchased Trump Tower, erected new buildings in San Francisco and Seoul, funded the launch of ID Entertainment, and still paid bonuses to all employees—with money left over. He had placed the remainder in ID Investment and left it there. As a result, the private funds Yoo Jae-won could access immediately amounted to roughly thirty-three billion dollars. Adding dividends received from ID Group subsidiaries and the proceeds from selling his Ilseong Group shares brought the total past forty billion dollars.
It was an extraordinary sum. Few individuals in the world possessed that much cash. If the figure were ever reported, the world would be stunned. After all, Yoo Jae-won still ranked near the bottom of Forbes’ annual list of the world’s richest people. Forbes only counted publicly disclosed assets, and the only listed company in the ID Group was Android. Once Nextcomcast was relisted and the Time Warner merger concluded, his ranking would rise sharply, but for now it remained unchanged. He did hold the title of the world’s richest young person. Yet if it became known that he personally controlled over forty billion dollars in cash, his position on the overall rich list would shift dramatically overnight. Forbes had predicted that if all ID Group subsidiaries went public, his rank would climb significantly, but they could never have imagined he held this much cash on hand.
Even so, forty billion dollars was not enough to resolve Korea’s foreign-exchange crisis. For an individual, it was a vast amount, but on a national scale it was modest.
“Hmm. No sign the exchange-rate policy will change?”
—Unfortunately, no. Even if the policy were to shift, the daily cost of maintaining the current de facto fixed exchange rate means forty billion dollars would not last half a year. The only real solution is to change the exchange-rate policy and fundamentally restructure Korean companies.
—What worries me most is that no matter how much I explain, people refuse to understand—especially those at the Blue House.
Yoo Jae-won nodded at Choi Kang-wook’s words. Although the military-era figures had been replaced, the authoritarian mindset of those who had entered the Blue House with President Kim remained intact—perhaps even stronger. Having ousted the military regime and achieved impressive economic results, they carried themselves with unshakable confidence.
“With Grandfather Jeon Myeong-heon no longer at the Blue House, their arrogance must be even worse.”
Indeed, Jeon Myeong-heon’s departure had temporarily removed the strongest shield protecting Yoo Jae-won.
—It is highly likely the Blue House will contact you directly soon.
Choi Kang-wook’s greatest concern proved correct within days. A direct line from the Blue House rang on Yoo Jae-won’s mobile phone.