Free Seven Wonders by Ben Mezrich Page B

philanthropy had always served a purpose, ever since she had come into her own in her early thirties, and in this case, her millions hadn’t gone simply to prop up a species that was essentially a rock that could breathe.
    “We all do what we can,” Jendari said. A waiter in white tails spun by, offering a tray of specialty cocktails. Jendari accepted a martini glass filled with something viscous and blue, while Agastine went for one of the fruitier concoctions, vodka with chunks of pineapple and lychee dodging ice cubes in an oversize highball. The girls were content sucking air through bee-stung lips. “It just so happens I can more than most,” she continued. “Unfortunately, that means I’m usually a slave to my cell phone, even when I’m at a party.”
    She took a sip from the martini glass, noticing that a good portion of the nearby tuxedo- and designer dress–wearing crowd was watching her—some out of the corners of their eyes, some outright, over the shoulders of their dates or from where they were seated at the smattering of round hors d’oeuvre stations.
    Jendari enjoyed the attention. When she’d strolled down Central Park West in the waning daylight hours before the gala began, in her Versace and pearls, the tourists in shorts, T-shirts, and sneakers had stared because they didn’t know who such an elegantly dressed, handsome woman could be; here, the wealthy one percent of the one percent stared because they did.
    Most of the faces, Jendari recognized. There was Arthur Lemmon, the timber magnate. Hansel Gelter, whose consulting firm worked with nearly every big bank on Wall Street. Francis Lopeman, whose hedge fund had just narrowly survived an SEC witch hunt, with most of its eight billion dollars in assets intact. Jerry Grossberg, Alex Feinstein, and Dormac Cooper, the CEOs of the three biggest insurance giants in the country. And then, of course, the men whose names were their introductions: two Rockefellers, a pair of Bloombergs, a gaggle of Guggenheims, three Kennedys, a handful of Rothschilds, and at least one Trump.
    Almost all of the invitees were couples, captained by a tuxedoed man; Jendari counted an even distribution of first wives, second wives, mistresses, and expensive accessories. Years ago, Jendari had stopped inviting a date of her own. Not because she’d ever had any trouble finding an appropriate consort, but because what she had told Agastine was true. Her business was a constant pull, especially as of late.
    She wasn’t the wealthiest person in the room, or the only billionaire. But she believed her empire was unique in its scope—and had become even more unique over the past few years. Unique in a way that will one day affect every single person in this room—and all of the tourists on the streets of this city and all the other cities around the world .
    A man on her arm would only have gotten in the way. And besides, no man, no matter how pretty, could compete with the dazzle of the Swarovski crystals on her clutch, or the pearls resting on her décolletage.
    “Maybe you need a partner,” Agastine tried, oblivious to the chunk of pineapple that had now lodged itself in one of his dentures. “Someone whocould put a diamond on that lovely hand, big enough to make you forget about your cell phone for an evening.”
    Jendari looked at the two Ukrainians and tried to hide the distaste from her voice. “Unfortunately, I think I’m a few decades too late to join your traveling band, Mr. Agastine. Not that I don’t appreciate the offer.”
    She knew that Agastine was at least a billion dollars richer than she, but she doubted he could give her anything she didn’t already possess, except maybe some exotic venereal disease. Certainly she had enough diamonds. In fact, even tonight, despite the pearls, she was wearing one on a platinum chain, hanging down the center of her back. More than sixteen carats, a strange, smoky yellow color—and completely hidden from view. She’d