The lobby is a forest of pinstripe suits and smart skirts. Crolius and Russell and several dozen colleagues have gathered from around the world for the next day’s announcement. The hotel has become their impromptu headquarters. Conducting a meeting from a nearby armchair is a tall, elegant man of 61, who has broken the pinstripe dress code by wearing a sports jacket. This is Göran Carstedt, of Gothenburg, Sweden. He can safely be numbered among Europe’s most accomplished executives: In the 1980s he headed Volvo’s operations in France and Sweden, and in the 1990s he built Ikea’s fledgling U.S. business into a blockbuster success before going on to head IKEA in Europe. Clustered in a corner are younger staffers newly hired to oversee operations in five cities. Anyone not engaged in conversation is hunched over a BlackBerry. Some are engaged in conversation and hunched over a BlackBerry.

The scene could be mistaken for a convocation at any cutting-edge business consultancy or investment-banking house or money-management firm. But all of these people are working for a fraction of what they could be earning. Crolius took a pay cut “north of 50 percent.” Carstedt draws a “minor” salary that “somewhat” covers his expenses.

And their business plan is not to trade derivatives, or launch a hedge fund, or consult on outsourcing, but to stop global warming.

And the chairman of their firm is Bill Clinton, who, somewhat to his own surprise, aims to repurpose business methods and business culture to solve the world’s problems—and who hopes to reinvent philanthropy while he is at it.

It was in the spirit of an experimenter, rather than a visionary, that Clinton established a foundation. What would become the Clinton Foundation’s signature initiative, an HIV/AIDS program, began fortuitously.

The story is one he enjoys telling, and tells often. I heard it in April, in his office in Harlem. The room is long and narrow, decorated in warm beiges, its walls and shelves lined with pictures and mementos. A portrait of Winston Churchill glowers from behind the former president’s desk, which Clinton left unused during our interview. Instead he gestured me to a sofa, sank into an armchair, and slung his left leg over one of its arms. He began the interview in this laid-back mode but gradually grew animated, sitting erect, leaning forward, punctuating with his hands.

Getting in to see him was not difficult: He said he was “thrilled” that I wanted to write about his foundation’s work. “I’m just so glad you’re taking this seriously,” he told me. “What I long to do is to see this integrated into every philanthropic activity from now on, where it’s appropriate.” I met with him on the day Boris Yeltsin’s death hit the news, a busy day, but as our interview stretched on past the hour mark, he showed no sign of taking the hint from aides who stood, paced, glared at wristwatches, and finally resorted to whispering into his ear. “Go ahead,” he told me. “Keep goin’. I’m too wordy about this. I care a lot about it.”