“Please pardon the odd nature of this conference,” said Mr. Sunday. “With the global pandemic, we’re all forced to make adjustments. But also, let me assure you that our proprietary ShowRoom video conferencing technology is bleeding edge. No one can participate without codes, such as those sent to you. Anyone who tries will discover how disheartening malware, ransomware, and computer tapeworms can be.”

The man was smiling as he said it. He even exuded warmth. A charm that twinkled in his green eyes, sparkled from his white teeth, and glowed from his palpable and potent persona.

Mr. Sunday wore a Brioni suit, dark blue with the faintest hint of a plaid in varying shades of thread on similar blues. A cream-white shirt and exceptional Stefano Ricci formal crystal silk tie. His shoes were Louis Vuitton Manhattan Richelieu made from waxed alligator leather. He wore a Richard Mille RM 022 Carbon Tourbillon Aerodyne Dual Time Zone Watch that retailed at just under $700,000. The diamond in his pinkie ring was 2.7 carats set into white gold with sixty-six tiny emerald chips orbiting the great central stone.

It was difficult to gauge his age on the video screen—he could have been forty or sixty, depending on the angle and where the colored lights hit him as he moved across the improvised stage. In blue light, he looked cadaverous, like a movie vampire. In green light, he became sinister, and those tones seemed to make his irises swirl with different shades of green and brown. But in the other shades, he was handsome and affable and looked like a monied entrepreneur and salesman. It was clear from this—and previous ShowRoom events—that Mr. Sunday seemed to be enjoying the effect, and he often moved into unflattering or distortive lights when making certain points.

The audience—sixteen men and women scattered around the world on six continents—were riveted.

“For the benefit of the two newbies to our little chat, I’d like to remind you that everyone can see me,” said Mr. Sunday, “but for the sake of privacy—and, well, security and discretion—none of you can see one another. I can hear you all, but when you speak, the others will only see your questions or comments as text. Is everyone comfortable? No need for a fresh cup of coffee or a bathroom break? No? Excellent. Let’s begin, shall we? Are you with me? Good.”

He paused to smile at each of the sixteen faces on the high-def screens. It amused him that they were about as racially mixed as was likely in a meeting of high-roller industrialists and military buyers. It was all one big happy world to him. The more the merrier. Life was a goddamned peach if you knew how to pick the right fruit from the right tree.