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Seeing the World on Ten Coffees a Day

Seeing the World on Ten Coffees a Day
There is no stopping Starbucks' worldwide expansion. One man thinks he can at least keep up. Meet Winter, Starbucks hunter.

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From the Jul. 12, 2004 issue
By Daniel Roth

By 9:10 a.m., John "Winter" Smith—just Winter to those who know him—had already been up for three hours, visited four Starbucks, eaten one Starbucks doughnut, and downed a Starbucks DoubleShot espresso and 12 ounces of regular Starbucks coffee. He's jittery, but he's still on his game: Standing at the counter of Starbucks No. 5 for the day, an unremarkable strip mall location in Scottsdale, Winter realizes something is amiss.

Trump: The Trophy Life

The Trophy Life
You think Donald Trump's hit reality show is a circus? Spend a few weeks watching him work.
Monday, April 5, 2004
By Daniel Roth

Donald Trump is not a great promoter. He has explained that to me a number of times already. "See, I don't view myself as a good promoter," he said during a five-hour flight from New York to Los Angeles on his private 727. "People say I'm a great promoter. People say I'm the greatest promoter that there is. Anywhere." So when we meet the next morning in the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel, it's a relief to see that he's working through his promotional problems: On his head is a red baseball cap bearing the coat of arms Trump created for himself (a hand clutching an arrow, resting on a knight's helmet, which is perched over three leaping lions) and, emblazoned in gold, trump international, the name of his Florida golf course. His yellow Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt also sports the insignia, as does the white golf shirt underneath. Only his khakis are logo-free, along with his golf cleats.

What Donald Trump is great at, Donald Trump tells me, is building buildings, inside and out. And today he's focusing on the minute details of the inside, climbing into a limo for a trip to the factory of J.P. Weaver Co., which makes, he says, "the most incredible moldings you'll ever see." Trump is adding a 17,000-square-foot ballroom to his Palm Beach private club, Mar-a-Lago, a 128-room mansion built in 1927 from Dorian stone imported from Italy and containing 36,000 Spanish tiles dating back to the 15th century. And as soon as he walks into the company's showroom, designed to resemble a room at Versailles, he has seen enough.

"This is exactly what I'm looking for," he says to owner Lenna Tyler-Kast, his plastic cleats clicking along the hand-laid cherry floor. The room is a riot of celadon moldings—flowers in urns, flowers on their own, curlicues, leaves, tasseled ropes, ribbons. "Not the ceiling, by the way," Trump warns. "The ceiling no, the walls yes. I also think the mirrors should have this." He fingers a delicate strip of molding that splits a mirror into a grid. "The moldings are very important in the mirror." A few minutes later, as Tyler-Kast handles other business, Trump marvels at what he's seen. "Unbelievable," he says in a low whisper. "Can you imagine if I can pull that off in a huge room?" As soon as she comes back, though, the famously pursed lips return. "What's your price? I hope that you'll give me a discount. No. 1, because I'm Trump."

Skype: Catch Us If You Can

Catch Us If You Can
The folks who brought you Kazaa have a new hit called Skype—and a plan to set phone calls free. If the telcos want to fight back, they'll have to find them first.

Monday, January 26, 2004

By Daniel Roth

Near the center of the walled medieval district of Estonia's capital, Tallinn, sits the NoKu bar. It's almost impossible to find, on a cobblestone street behind a pair of old, unmarked wooden doors that unlock only with a magnetic keycard, and up a set of rickety stairs. In Estonian, "NoKu" is an acronym for "young culture"; the private club is full of twentysomethings in jeans, drinking local Saku Original beer to rock music. The bar's name has another meaning: Read as one word, it's slang for "penis." Both the hidden nature and the cheeky attitude of the place fit perfectly with the company I'm here to meet.

Almost a dozen computer programmers and engineers are gathered around a large wooden table in the back of the bar on this bitterly cold mid-December night. They work for a startup called Skype, which produces software that allows people to make free, incredibly clear voice calls from their PC to any other PC in the world. "We're building the next great communications platform," declares Andreas Sjoelund, a product manager who has shuttled to Estonia from his native Sweden. Next to him is white-bearded Kaido Karuer, the eldest of the group at 34. The rest include a few Estonians straight out of college and a dark-haired Russian who, when Estonia declared independence in 1991, chose not to ally himself with either Russia or Estonia and is now stateless. Just about all the Skypers are in their mid-20s and perfectly fluent in English. And every one of them is confident that what they're doing will make telephone companies irrelevant.

"We've designed this to be able to support an infinite amount of users," says Sjoelund. Karuer tones him down: "We can't do much more than six billion, actually." When asked to name the company's biggest competitor, three at the table quickly reply, "No one."

Normally, bragging Baltic programmers don't inspire much fear among the FORTUNE 500. But these guys do.

Pat Robertson's Quest for Eternal Life

Pat Robertson's Quest for Eternal Life
He's making bets to ensure that his evangelical empire outlasts him. His portfolio so far: a gold mine in Liberia, a mothballed oil refinery, and $78 million in losses.
Tuesday, May 28, 2002
By Daniel Roth

Jesus mania swept Liberia. For eight nights last December the nation's TV channels--both of them--simultaneously showed programs created by Pat Robertson's Christian Broadcasting Network. There was the Prodigal Son parable told from a Nigerian point of view; animated Bible episodes; stories about people who said they'd had out-of-body experiences and come face to face with the Almighty; and the true tale of a Mexican family who stayed together thanks to God. For two nights the stations simply broadcast testimonials from Liberians detailing Jesus' role in their lives. Those without televisions (the vast majority of the country) could catch the same fare at local "video clubs"--converted storefronts where people paid the equivalent of a few pennies to gather around a TV and VCR.

That was just the buildup. In February, at a national three-day prayer-and-fast rally partially funded by Robertson, Liberia's President--a U.S. prison escapee who, according to Human Rights Watch, has run "the whole gamut of human rights abuses"--declared he had seen the light. "We in Liberia recognize that there is a higher authority," said Charles Taylor, decked out in a short-sleeved white suit and standing on a red-carpeted stage at the center of the Samuel K. Doe stadium in Monrovia. "I am not your President. Jesus is!" He instructed the estimated 65,000 people in the crowd to prostrate themselves and join in a song that he would lead despite his position--face down on the carpet. As the rally ended, Taylor presented a ceremonial plate to an American preacher named John Gimenez who had helped organize the event. "Thank you," Taylor said. "Tell Pat Robertson, and please present this to him as a token of our appreciation."

About 190 miles away, in a densely forested region of Liberia called Bukon Jedeh, Robertson's employees were busy working on a much more valuable token of Taylor's appreciation. There a crew of 35 Liberians were digging deep holes into the red, claylike soil on a plot of land contracted out to Robertson. Their goal was to uncover the spot, beneath the gravel and laterite, that they believed held five million ounces of the stuff that the Book of Revelation says lines the streets of heaven: pure gold. Gold that if sold on the open market could reap about $1.5 billion.

Behind the media blitz of Monrovia and the trenches of Bukon Jedeh is the tale of Pat Robertson's search for immortality. In the past few years Robertson has slowly slipped out of view, especially in politics, where his ambitions once extended to the White House. But he has hardly gone into retirement. In fact, friends and family say he's working with more intensity than ever. His mission: not just to boost his $300-million-a-year empire--dominant Christian broadcaster CBN, an all-graduate-level university called Regent, and his Operation Blessing global charity--but also to make sure it lasts forever.