The journey from New York to Seattle in 1940 was not a simple trip. It was a long and tiring two-day flight, with multiple stops to refuel. They flew on a "Clipper," a large, loud, propeller-driven plane.
For Elias and Julian, it was an uncomfortable chore.
For Arthur, it was a miracle.
He sat by the small, round window, pretending to read a financial report. In reality, he was just watching the clouds. The last time he had been in the air, it was 2025. He had been in a smooth, quiet, carbon-fiber jet, checking his email on a device that did not exist yet. This plane was a rattling, shaking, metal tube. It felt like a machine from a history museum. And yet, it was flying.
He looked across the aisle. Elias Thorne and Julian Graves were sitting opposite each other, their briefcases on their laps. They both looked serious and tired. They were the two senior bankers, the 'sharks' from Wall Street.
Arthur was in the seat behind them. He was dressed in a simple, dark blue suit. It was well-made, but not expensive. He had a pair of plain glasses, a notepad, and two sharpened pencils. He looked exactly like what he was pretending to be: a 19-year-old assistant, probably just out of college, lucky to be carrying his boss's bags.
His job was to be invisible.
Julian leaned over to Elias. "I still don't like this," he whispered, loud enough for Arthur to hear. "This is a hostile meeting. We should be going in hard. You should be making demands, not... pitching."
"We are doing this Arthur's way, Julian," Elias said quietly. "My call was the threat. This meeting... this is the solution. We are not here to break them. We are here to partner with them. We are the rescuers, remember?"
"Rescuers," Julian scoffed. "We bought their supplier just to put a gun to their head. Now we're walking in and calling it a 'partnership'? They will laugh in our faces."
"They will not," Arthur's voice said, very quietly, from the seat behind them.
Both men turned, surprised. They had forgotten he was there.
"They will not laugh," Arthur said, looking past them and out the window. "Because they are desperate. And we are not just holding a gun, Julian. We are also holding a life raft."
He tapped his own briefcase, which was at his feet. "You, Julian, are the Head of Capital Raising. You have a full proposal to fund their entire B-17 production line. That is the life raft. You, Elias, are the Head of Mergers & Acquisitions. You own their landing gear. That is the gun. They will not laugh. They will listen."
Elias and Julian turned back around. The boy was right. As usual.
They landed in Seattle on the morning of May 3rd, 1940. The air was cool and smelled of pine trees and the sea. A black car, sent by Boeing, was waiting for them.
The drive to the Boeing factory was quiet. The factory itself was not one, large building. It was a collection of hangars and workshops spread out over a huge field. It looked more like a large farm than a major corporation. But Arthur knew what this 'farm' would become. He was looking at the birthplace of the modern world.
They were led into a long, plain, wood-paneled boardroom. About ten men were sitting around a large, dark table. They all wore dark suits. They all looked angry. These were the leaders of Boeing. Engineers, accountants, and one or two men who were clearly their bankers.
At the head of the table sat Philip Johnson, the President. He was a tall man with gray hair and a face that looked like it had been carved from rock. He did not get up.
"Mr. Thorne," he said, his voice a low growl. "You came a long way."
"Mr. Johnson. Thank you for seeing us," Elias said. He was perfectly calm. He was back in his element: the boardroom.
Elias walked to the head of the table. Julian sat on one side. Arthur, as planned, went to a small chair against the wall, behind Elias. He opened his notepad and took out a pencil. He was the note-taker. He was invisible.
"This is Julian Graves, our Head of Capital Raising," Elias said, gesturing to Julian.
Johnson nodded. "We spoke on the phone. You are the one who wanted 10% of my company for nothing."
Julian started to speak, but Elias raised a hand.
"And this," Elias said, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder, "is my assistant, Mr. Vance. He takes notes."
No one looked at Arthur. He did not exist.
"Let's not waste time, Thorne," said another man, a thick, tough-looking man who Arthur guessed was the factory manager. "You bought Axelrod. You think you have us in a corner. What is it you want? Are you going to triple the price of our landing gear? Is that your plan?"
Elias shook his head. "No, sir. We are not here to discuss the price of landing gear."
"Then what?" Johnson demanded.
Elias placed his hands on the back of his chair. He was not a shark. He was an honest lawyer.
"Gentlemen, you are one of the most important companies in America. You have a product—the B-17 bomber—that may very well decide the future of the free world. You are patriots. You are geniuses. And," Elias said, his voice full of sympathy, "you are completely, and hopelessly, broke."
The room was electric with anger.
"How dare you—" one of the bankers started.
"Please," Elias said, his voice still calm. "Let us be honest. You cannot pay your suppliers. You cannot pay Mr. Axelrod. You cannot pay your own bankers. You are trying to build the most advanced machine in the world, and you are doing it with pocket change. You are in danger of failing. Not because your product is bad, but because your finances are."
He paused, letting the truth sink in.
"We are here to fix that. We are here to give you the one thing you do not have: capital."
Julian, taking his cue, slid a thin, leather-bound proposal across the table to Johnson.
"That," Elias said, "is our new offer. Continental Investment Bank will provide a five-million-dollar line of credit to The Boeing Company. Effective immediately. That is enough money to pay off all your old loans. It is enough to pay all your suppliers. And it is enough to double your production of the B-17."
Philip Johnson stared at the proposal. Five million dollars. It was a fantasy.
"In exchange for what?" Johnson whispered. "Last time, you wanted 10%."
"We still want 10%," Elias said. "We will be your partners. We will take 10% equity in the company. And in return, we will fund your future."
The room was quiet. The Boeing team was looking at each other. This was the life raft. It was real.
But then, one of the bankers at the table spoke. He was a sharp-looking man from a rival New York bank.
"It's a trick, Philip," the banker said. "Don't you see? They own your supply line. This isn't a partnership. It's a hostage situation. If you say no, they will close the Axelrod factory. They will cut off your landing gear. You will be bankrupt in a month."
The anger was back in the room. The banker was right.
Elias Thorne stood tall. He had expected this.
"We own your supply chain," Elias said, his voice flat. "That is a fact. We have the capital you need. That is also a fact."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping. This was the moment.
"Make us a partner... or find a new way to land your planes."
The room was dead silent. The threat was on the table. It was clean. It was simple. It was brutal.
From his chair against the wall, Arthur Vance watched. He was not watching Elias. He was watching the other men.
He saw the engineers. They were looking at the proposal, almost drooling. They wanted the money. They wanted to build their planes. He saw the accountants. They were scared. They knew the company was on a knife's edge. They wanted the deal. He saw Philip Johnson. The president was torn. He hated being threatened. But he loved his company more.
And then Arthur looked at the rival banker. The man was not scared. He was not angry. He was... smiling. A small, thin smile.
Arthur's blood went cold.
The banker knew something. He was not afraid of Elias's threat. Why?
The banker leaned over and whispered something to Philip Johnson. Johnson's face, which had been pale, suddenly hardened. He looked at Elias with new anger.
"Mr. Thorne," Johnson said, his voice like ice. "I find your offer... insulting. And I do not respond well to threats."
He slid the proposal back across the table.
"The answer is no."