Chapter 13: Med-Ferry Acquisition (Part 4)

Chapter 13: The Med-Ferry Acquisition (IV)

After that, Med-Ferry kept pressing Fanhai Group, asking whether they'd match Qinghui's offer, saying Fanhai's tender offer undervalued Med-Ferry. Acting on Jing Hong's instructions, Zhao Hanqing merely replied, "Let us think it over," "We need a little more time," "We'll get back to you."

After dragging things out for a while, Jing Hong finally felt the timing was about right.

Jing Hong asked Goldman Sachs' Mr. Shen to serve as an intermediary, saying he wanted to arrange a meeting with Zhou Chang. Zhou Chang seemed rather surprised by the invitation, but in the end, both sides settled on a time.

"Where should we meet?" the Goldman Sachs executive asked Jing Hong.

"Let's do it at Qinghui," Jing Hong said. "I'll go over there. President Zhou is certainly a busy man—his schedule is jam-packed, not a minute to spare. Since I'm the one asking for the meeting, I should take up as little of his time as possible."

"...Alright." The other party asked again, "About how long will it take?"

Jing Hong smiled: "Five minutes should do it."

...

On the morning of the meeting, Jing Hong stepped into his walk-in closet, hesitated briefly, and finally picked out a navy three-piece suit in the British style, a white shirt, and a champagne-colored tie.

Once dressed, Jing Hong opened another drawer, glanced at the watch winder, and picked out a watch.

Jing Hong was usually pretty laid-back—at Fanhai he'd wear standard business casual: a pair of dress trousers, a shirt, and a business Apple Watch on his wrist.

Today was a rare exception.

When the time came, Jing Hong's driver took him to the Qinghui Tower. As pre-arranged, the driver gave their names at the gate, entered the parking garage, and drove right up to the elevator bank for Zhou Chang's private elevator—where Zhou Chang's assistant would be waiting.

Jing Hong arrived a little early, so he told the driver to just find a spot. Qinghui's executive parking garage looked very similar to Fanhai's—full of luxury cars parked overnight, some under covers, some not. Quite a few executives couldn't fit all their cars at home, so they parked them at the company. Most tech executives pinched pennies wherever they could—after all, parking spots in their neighborhoods were pricey; one was enough, and the company lot was free.

He checked his watch—still a few minutes to go. Jing Hong didn't reach out to anyone at Qinghui. He just stood quietly outside the elevator, waiting.

Jing Hong rarely had bodyguards around—same as his father, Jing Haiping.

Zhou Chang's father, Zhou Buqun, had a group of bodyguards wherever he went. A finance reporter from some TV station once caught Zhou Buqun on his morning jog—Zhou Buqun running in the middle, six bodyguards running alongside him, two in front, two behind, one on each side, their footsteps thumping along in sync.

On another occasion, a different finance reporter asked Jing Haiping, "Do you usually bring bodyguards?" Jing Haiping snorted and said, "Nope. I haven't done anything to feel guilty about." The implication being that Zhou Buqun had plenty to feel guilty about.

Of course, Jing Hong didn't usually roll solo either. Besides his driver, he usually had his assistant with him, but more often than not, he had an entourage—whether visiting a branch office or a partner, a big group would trail him, and another big group would greet him.

Occasionally, Jing Hong would bring bodyguards just for show, though he didn't really expect them to be useful.

Jing Hong trained in Taekwondo, and when he was in the States, he even kept a gun at home—though back then, nobody knew Jing Hong's father was Jing Haiping.

"..." Jing Hong suddenly recalled that during his time in the States, he'd once spotted Zhou Chang at a shooting range.

It was right after that business competition wrapped up, and Zhou Chang had made quite an impression on him. They were both in the Bay Area, but one at Stanford and the other at Berkeley—fifty miles apart—so they rarely crossed paths. But the big companies and events were mostly down in the South Bay, so seeing Zhou Chang there wasn't unusual.

They didn't know each other, so Jing Hong didn't say hi—he just watched from the entrance for a bit.

For some reason, the memory stuck with him.

Unlike most people, Zhou Chang shot with one hand. He wore ear protection and goggles, one hand casually in his pocket, calm and locked in. After a round, the target slid back—the center red circle was shredded.

Jing Hong watched for a bit, then moved to another lane.

Just as he was zoning out, Jing Hong spotted a Rolls-Royce pull in.

Zhou Chang's car—Jing Hong recognized it. He'd seen this car at business events before.

Jing Hong thought: Zhou Chang's just getting here now? Meeting's at 9, and he's rolling in at 8:55?

The next moment, the person stepped out of the car and slammed the door. Jing Hong was a little surprised to see it wasn't Zhou Chang at all—it was Chris Wells.

Chris Wells, like Hong Xu, had become a leading academic figure in AI in recent years, specializing in massive-scale training models. He was American, though born in Europe. Chris Wells was younger than Hong Xu, could handle a heavier workload, and had more management experience and engineering chops—and engineering meant you could productize and commercialize.

Fanhai had considered Chris Wells too, but going after him meant bidding against global giants like Google and Microsoft—too many variables. Second, after doing his homework, Jing Hong felt Chris Wells had a strong academic turf mentality, and he worried it could hurt the tech down the line—sure, you're the best today, but what about tomorrow? The day after? Hard to say.

Jing Hong didn't regret it. After joining Fanhai—or rather, after returning to China—Hong Xu's energy had become formidable, working over ten hours a day. And after all, Hong Xu shared the same language; if the language barrier were fundamental, even the strongest management skills would be diminished. Finally, on the engineering side, Jing Hong had brought in a former Stanford classmate—engineering was precisely his strength—and the two were collaborating very smoothly.

For Qinghui, however, after losing the race with Fanhai Group for Hong Xu, securing Chris Wells became a must. Jing Hong had already heard that Chris Wells had joined Qinghui some time ago.

So... Jing Hong thought, Zhou Chang even gave him his car to drive. That's dedication.

For some reason, whether in China or abroad, letting the other party freely use your luxury cars, mansions, private jets, private yachts, and so on—it was a tacky trick, but it worked exceptionally well. No matter how high the salary—10 million dollars, 20 million dollars—they were still just employees, every penny hard-earned, unable to appreciate the extravagant lifestyles of capitalists. With that in mind, the allure of "free entry into high society" was indeed quite powerful.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons Qinghui managed to win against the giants in the bidding war.

Chris Wells walked into the elevator, looking every bit the stereotypical tech nerd—white shirt, V-neck sweater, gentle expression, hair sticking up in disarray.

Jing Hong waited a bit longer, and finally heard a "ding" as the executive elevator opened. Zhou Chang's assistant spotted Jing Hong and came forward.

"I'm so sorry, so sorry," Zhou Chang's assistant said. "How long has President Jing been waiting?"

Jing Hong said, "Just arrived."

"Where's the car parked?"

"The driver grabbed whatever spot was available." After a few exchanges, Jing Hong gestured toward the elevator. "Let's head up. There are still two or three minutes left—don't keep your President Zhou waiting."

"Alright." The assistant pressed the elevator button, and the doors slid smoothly open again.

Zhou Chang never failed to be courteous, but he wasn't overly warm either—he'd only sent his assistant down when the appointed time was nearly upon them.

Jing Hong stepped into the elevator and suddenly realized—this seemed to be the first time he and Zhou Chang were meeting alone.