It was raining in Seattle.
It was a cold, miserable rain in the second week of March 1940. It turned the sky, the water of the bay, and the dirty asphalt of the roads into the same shade of hopeless grey.
Julian Graves stepped out of a yellow taxi. He paid the driver, adding a large tip. He opened a black umbrella, a perfect circle of expensive silk. He was a sharp, dark figure against the grey.
He was not on Wall Street. He was in an industrial park. In front of him was a long, low, functional building. A sign read: BOEING - PLANT 2.
The air did not smell of expensive cigars and leather-bound books. It smelled of wet metal, motor oil, and the salty, fishy smell of the nearby Puget Sound. From inside the building, he could hear the constant, angry sound of riveting, a machine-gun-like thud-thud-thud that was the heartbeat of a dying company.
Julian smiled. He loved this. This was real. This was where the money came from.
He walked into the front office. It was plain. A wooden desk. A tired-looking secretary. A few framed pictures of airplanes on the wall.
"Julian Graves," he said, his voice smooth and calm. "I have a ten o'clock meeting with Mr. Philip Johnson."
The secretary, who was used to loud-talking factory foremen and angry suppliers, looked up in surprise. She had not seen a suit this expensive in her life.
"Ah... yes, Mr. Graves. Mr. Johnson is expecting you. Please... have a seat. They are just finishing a... a production meeting."
Julian knew this was a lie. He was being made to wait. It was a classic power play. We are busy. We are not desperate. You are not important.
Julian simply nodded politely, sat in the hard wooden chair, and crossed his legs. He did not read a magazine. He did not tap his foot. He just sat, perfectly still, a picture of calm, patient power. He was a predator. He had all the time in the world. The prey, on the other hand, was bleeding out.
He let them wait for fifteen minutes. Then, a man in a rumpled suit, his tie pulled loose, opened the door. He had dark circles under his eyes.
"Mr. Graves? Philip Johnson. Thank you for coming. Please."
Julian followed him into a conference room. It was not like the Continental's new room. This one was a work room. The table was covered in blueprints. There were models of airplanes on a shelf. The room was filled with five other men, all of whom looked as tired and stressed as Mr. Johnson. They were engineers and managers, not bankers. They were men who built things, and they did not trust men who only built wealth.
"Gentlemen, this is Mr. Graves from... is it 'Continental'?" Johnson said.
"Continental," Julian said. He took off his coat and folded it neatly. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Johnson. And you, gentlemen. I am here because I believe you are building the most important piece of technology in the world."
This was a good start. The men, who had looked suspicious and angry, softened. They were proud of their work.
"You like the B-17, then?" one of the engineers asked.
"Like it?" Julian said, allowing a note of true wonder into his voice. "Mr. Beall, your work is genius. A flying fortress. Four engines. A 2,000-mile range. It is not just a plane. It is the future of aviation. And the future of national defense."
The engineers nodded. This man understood.
"I am a banker, gentlemen," Julian continued, his voice becoming serious. "My new bank, Continental, does not invest in small, safe ideas. We invest in the future. And this," he said, tapping a blueprint of the B-17, "is it."
He paused. He looked at Philip Johnson. "I also know... that genius is expensive."
The friendly air in the room vanished. It was replaced by a cold, hard silence.
"And," Julian said, his voice dropping to a sympathetic whisper, "I know that the First National Bank of Seattle are... well... they are very good accountants. But they are not visionaries."
No one spoke. Julian had just, in the most polite way possible, told them: I know you are broke.
Philip Johnson's face hardened. "Mr. Graves, our financial arrangements are the private business of this company."
"They were," Julian said, his voice still soft, but now with a sharp steel edge. "But on April 30th, they are going to become very, very public. Am I wrong?"
The men stared at him. Their secret was out. The wolf was in the room.
"When that bank's accountants seize your assets," Julian continued, "when they take your factories, your machines... and your patents... do you think they will care about your 'vision'? They will not. They will sell this plane, this genius, to Douglas, or to Martin. They will sell it for pennies, just to get their $2.8 million back. And the B-17 will die. Right here. In this room."
"This is an outrage!" one of the men shouted, standing up. "You come in here... who the hell do you think you are?"
Julian did not flinch. He looked at the man, and then at the rest of the table.
"I am the only man in this room who is not outraged," Julian said calmly. "I am not angry. I am not surprised. In fact, gentlemen... I am impressed."
The shouting man stopped, confused.
"I am impressed," Julian said, "because you have bet everything on this plane. You have risked your jobs, your money, and your company. You have risked it all for something you believe in. My new bank, Continental, only wants to be in business with men like you. Men who have the courage to build the future."
He had changed the air again. He was not an attacker. He was an admirer.
"And now," Julian said, "I am going to make you an offer. It is a very simple offer. And, gentlemen, it is the only one you are going to get."
The room was so quiet, the sound of the rain outside was suddenly loud.
"First," Julian said, "Continental will solve your problem with the First National Bank. The $2.8 million you owe them? We will pay it. In full. They are gone. You will never have to speak to them again."
The men looked at each other. This was... this was salvation.
"But," Julian said, "that is not enough. A company cannot run on an empty tank. So, second, we will provide an additional $2.2 million in fresh, liquid capital. For parts. For payroll. To keep the lights on and the assembly lines running."
He let that sink in.
"A total," he said clearly, "of five million dollars. In your accounts by the end of this month."
Philip Johnson was pale. He could not believe what he was hearing. It was a miracle. But he was a smart man. He knew miracles had a price.
"In exchange for... what?" Johnson asked, his voice a dry whisper. "What is the interest rate? What collateral do you want?"
"That, Mr. Johnson," Julian said, "is the most beautiful part of this deal. There is no interest rate. We do not want any collateral."
He looked at every man in the eye.
"We are not lenders," he said. "We are not a pawn shop. We are, as I said, partners. We are getting in the boat with you. We are going to bet on your success, not on your failure."
"What... what do you want?" Johnson asked.
Julian smiled, a friendly, warm, reasonable smile.
"In exchange for the five million dollars in capital," he said, "Continental receives a ten percent equity share in The Boeing Company."
Silence.
It was a total, shocked, frozen silence.
Then, the explosion.
"TEN PERCENT!" one of the engineers yelled, his face turning red. "That's... that's theft!"
"You're a goddamn vulture!" another one shouted, slamming his fist on the table. "You come in here, you talk about 'genius,' and you try to steal our company!"
"Get out!" the first man yelled. "Get out of this office! We would rather go bankrupt!"
Philip Johnson did not yell. He was shaking. He looked at Julian with a look of pure, cold anger. "Ten percent, Mr. Graves. That is not a 'partnership.' That is... that is conquest. You are trying to buy our life's work for a few million dollars."
Julian Graves stood, perfectly calm. He let the shouting fill the room. He waited for it to die down, until the men were just breathing heavily, glaring at him.
"Gentlemen," he said, and his voice was cold now. The charmer was gone. The killer was here. "You are emotional. I understand. You are proud. But you are not thinking clearly. You are thinking like engineers. You are not thinking like owners."
"Right now," he said, "you own 100% of a company that will cease to exist on April 30th. One hundred percent of zero... is zero."
"I am offering you ninety percent of a company that has five million dollars in the bank. A company with a clean balance sheet. And a company with a new, powerful partner on Wall Street, ready to fund your future. Because this war in Europe is not ending. And someone is going to have to build ten thousand of these planes. And we," he said, "will help you do it."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a single, thick, elegant business card. He placed it on the table.
It read: ELIAS THORNE. PRESIDENT. CONTINENTAL.
"You can keep your 100%," Julian said, buttoning his jacket. "You can keep your pride. And you can lose your company."
"Or... you can take our cash... and own 90% of the future."
He turned and walked to the door.
"I am at the Olympic Hotel for 48 hours. After that, I fly back to New York. And you... you can go back to counting the days until your execution."
He opened the door and looked back at Philip Johnson.
"100% of zero," he said. "Or 90% of everything. The choice is yours, gentlemen."
He walked out, leaving the stunned, angry, and terrified board alone in the room. The offer was on the table.