London Calling

The London taxi windows were open wide. Equipped with heat but no air conditioning. Typical British manufacturing standard. However, the city seldom had a heatwave. The unusual spike in temperature this fall brought London into the 80’s for several days. At least the breezes off the Thames made the adjacent streets comfortable.

But the weather was not impacting the two men who concentrated intently, oblivious to the poor flow of air. Re-organizing their briefcases and loosening their ties, they passed the Oxford tube station heading to Charing Cross and their hotel.

“Now that I have seen your professional presentation,” confessed Eloy de la Prado, “I see my approach plays a minimum role. I will spend time practicing in front of a mirror to beef it out.”  At 6’ 2”, Eloy had difficulty finding a comfortable position on the taxi’s bench. Like his father, he was lanky with olive-colored skin and a slightly hooked nose.

“Beef it up.” In his late twenties he absorbed his surroundings, mused Gannon.

“Sorry. I am a quick learner,” said a nervous Eloy to the owner of the company.

“You’re faster than I am with Spanish,” grinned Gannon Waters. In his late fifties he had sold his U.S. business so he could concentrate on the European growth potential he envisioned. With long greying hair, Italian suits and London light pink shirts and wingtip shoes with the standard white socks, he had the air of a typical European businessman or Euro congress member, easily slipping into different roles to benefit his objective in any of the eighteen countries comprising the European Union. Until, that is, when he started to speak with that mid-western American accent.