The night was darker than usual; it wrapped around him like a black, impenetrable cloak. There were no stars, no moon, and the sound of the surf sounded like the wheeze of a giant.
“You must do something now,” the dark voice said. “You can no longer wait and hope that God will tell you what to do.”
John looked down on the wrinkled, well-read newspaper lying on his lap. It was a copy of the Corriere della Sera, and it featured the Stern article from Ursula Valen, which detailed the Vacchi accomplishments concerning the Fontanelli fortune. And the article made him, the heir, sound like a stupid, ignorant, no-good and a clueless, arrogant man not worth the effort, and on whom generations of intelligent, faithful Vacchis had, in retrospect, wasted their time.
“You need help,” the stranger insisted. “And no one except me can help you, believe me. It is time that we meet.”
“Alright, you won. Tell me where, when, and how.”
“Come to London. Be discrete, please. Take a normal scheduled flight. Only you.”
John let out a sound that sounded like half a sigh and half laugh. “Alone? Why on Earth should I do that? I don’t know you. You could be a wanted mass murderer or a cunning kidnapper.”
“You may be accompanied by your bodyguards, of course. What I meant was that I won’t show myself if you bring a Vacchi or if the press catch wind of this.”
“Alright.” Was that smart? He would know afterwards. But what was he risking? A flight and a day. So long as he didn’t know what to do to fulfill this prophecy every day was a lost day anyway.
“Good. Get something to write with. I will tell you the time and the flight number for you to take.”
The following morning John and Marco flew from Florence to Rome and from Rome to London.
$18,000,000,000,000
AS THEY GOT off the plane at Heathrow, just two passengers among many traveling business men with thin leather briefcases, John noticed that he was starting to feel nervous. He took off the fake glasses Marco loaned him and shoved them into his jacket pocket. As they were riding the endless moving walkways he watched for anyone who seemed to be looking out for him, but this was an airport, and many people were on the lookout for one thing or another.
Suddenly there was a man standing in front of him who reached out a hand and said: “Mr. Fontanelli?” with the same dark voice he knew all too well by now. He was half a head taller than John, about fifty years old, had thick dark hair and eyebrows, and had the build of a boxer. “My name is McCaine. Malcolm McCaine.”
They shook hands and John introduced Marco. “This is my bodyguard, Marco Benetti.”
McCaine was a bit surprised to hear the bodyguard’s name, but he also shook Marco’s hand.
“Come with me, I have a car. We can talk in my office.”
He walked ahead, so briskly that John had a hard time keeping up. People instinctively got out of the three men’s way as they all but marched down the hall. Outside the main airport entrance stood a Jaguar in a “no-parking” zone. McCaine unlocked the doors. He pulled the parking ticket from underneath the wiper blade, crumpled it into a small ball and tossed it over his shoulder.
He drove away. John watched the man surreptitiously, or so he hoped. McCaine was wearing an expensive Savile Row suit and custom-made shoes, but he still somehow looked carelessly dressed, even unkempt, as if he had only the most casual dress code, but McCaine didn’t seem to care. His tie had a sloppy knot and his shirt was wrinkled because it had slipped too far out of his pants. Only the shoes shone like new.
“A bit of preliminary information for you,” McCaine said with eyes focused on the traffic. He used every opportunity to make a lane change just to be a bit faster. “My office is in the city. I have an investment firm, Earnestine Investments Limited. Earnestine is my mother’s middle name, just as an aside. I don’t have much imagination as far as names for my firms are concerned. I always name them after family members. The firm’s net worth at the moment is around five hundred million pounds, which is not much when compared to the big firms, but enough to join in on the fun and games.”
John felt frustration welling up in him. Was this all it was about? Just another money shark? The only difference from the others was the cunning way he drew John’s interest. He sank deep into his seat, already figuring that the day would be a waste. He already knew that he would say “no” to everything this guy had to offer, be it wheat commodities, pig stomachs or pension funds, and fly back as soon as possible. And change his home phone number.
They moved past high rises with shiny facades and old buildings made of hewn stone. He barely took note. They finally drove down into a spacious and well-lit underground parking garage. The car was parked in a reserved spot not far from the elevator, which took them higher and higher. As the polished elevator doors finally swooshed open they stepped out into a very large, well-lit open office area. There were rows of desks full of telephones and computer monitors. Men and women of every skin color sat before them, making phone calls, sometimes with several phones at once never taking their eyes off the changing and flashing numbers and diagrams on the screens for even a second.
“We deal mainly with stocks,” McCaine explained as they weaved their way through the maze of desks and office chairs. “A few of my people also deal with currencies, but we basically don’t have the finances to make enough from it. We do it simply to keep in practice.”
John smiled sourly. So that’s the problem. Currency trading; he had learned that meant buying and selling large quantities of money in the currency of one country or another and trading when there was enough difference to make a profit. To make it worthwhile, investors had to put in very large sums of money; hundreds of millions per transaction or more. It wasn’t hard for John to guess what McCaine was after.
They got to McCaine’s office, which was separated from the huge, main office by a glass wall and glass door, and was almost half the size. It had a splendid view over the city. Lying on the floor was a somewhat worn Persian rug. The giant desk with giant office chair behind it looked expensive but tacky. Neither the conference chairs nor the book and binder shelves matched with the other office furniture.
“Please, have a seat, Mr. Fontanelli.” McCaine said and gestured to the couch. “Mr. Benetti, may I please ask you to wait outside with my secretary? Miss O’Neal will bring you a coffee or whatever you wish.”
Marco looked at John. John nodded. This wouldn’t take long anyhow. Marco went out to where a couple of uncomfortable looking visitor’s chairs stood next to the secretary’s desk. McCaine closed the door and it was as if all noise from outside had been turned off; the glass walls and door were apparently soundproof.
“So,” he said as he let the Venetian blinds down some. “Forget the investment company. That’s only a toy. It’s my training ground, if you will. I certainly didn’t ask you to come here to offer you any investments. If there is one person on this planet with enough money then it is you.”
John looked at him, surprised, wondering exactly what this all about?
“I know a whole lot about you, Mr. Fontanelli, as you’ve no doubt noticed. I think it’s fair if I told you a little about me.” McCaine sat on the edge of the desktop and crossed his arms. “I was born in 1946, here in London. My father, Philipp Callum McCaine, was a high-ranking officer in the Royal Air Force. This was the reason why my family, this means my parents and me as I have no brothers or sisters, lived in fourteen different cities in eight different countries and explains how I learned five foreign languages fluently. I don’t quite remember any more how many different schools I attended, but I was done with school at one point and was drawn to companies with international operations, mainly because I’ve never developed a sense of nationality, due to the all the traveling we did. After trying this and that, I ended up with IBM and was trained to be a programmer. That was in the mid-sixties, when punched cards and magnetic tapes were still in use and a computer cost millions. By the way, I have nev
er given up programming. My broker,” he gestured to the venetian blinds with his head, “sometimes works with programs that I wrote. The quality of programs can be a deciding factor in this business. Some of the big broker firms on Wall Street make billions in profits and re-invest up to a third in data processing software! But I doubt there is a boss anywhere else that does the programming himself like I do here.”
John looked with amazement at the man who seemed so full of energy. He just didn’t look like a person who could find a computer’s on/off switch, much less to do programming. “I understand,” he said lamely just for the sake of saying something.
“Fine. Then back to the beginning,” McCaine said with a vigorous movement of a hand. “Due to my knowledge of foreign languages, I was sent abroad by my company; all over Europe. I was in Belgium, France, Germany, Spain. I was in all those places writing programs for IBM customers. Back then computer systems that were connected with others across international borders mostly belonged to banks, and that’s how I became an expert in transnational computer projects. And that’s also why I was chosen in 1969 to work on a contract from Italy. It was a very special and challenging contract.” McCaine looked at John with penetrating eyes. “The client was very unusual. It was a law firm in Florence.”
John gulped some air. “You …?” he unintentionally uttered in surprise.
“Yes. The original version of the program with which you manage your bank accounts was written by me.”
Marco was leafing through an uninteresting magazine, all the while keeping an eye on his charge, who was still visible because the blinds were drawn only halfway down. He looked up when he saw John jump to his feet and pace around the office gesticulating. Even McCaine started to walk around, looking more like a mad bull in an arena. The bodyguard asked himself what was going on in there. At least it didn’t look like they wanted to strangle each other. His muscles relaxed, and he leaned back again.
“Would you like another coffee?” the secretary asked, a pretty young woman with pale skin and red hair done in a beehive. Marco was unable to conceal his attraction.
“No, thank you,” he said smiling. “But maybe a glass of water?”
“This contract changed my life,” Malcolm explained. They were both now sitting on the chairs in the conference corner of the office. McCaine was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He kept his eyes fixed on John. “The Vacchis were very secretive and didn’t want to tell me what it was all about. For a while I thought that they wanted to launder mafia money with the system I programmed. But regardless of what it was they were trying to keep secret, if they needed a program to be written then I had to know exactly what for. The programmer is like a priest during a confession: you must tell him the things that you would otherwise keep secret, like the IRS or other officials, otherwise the program won’t work. And I had to test the program, and when I saw a sum of three hundred sixty-five billion dollars pop up on the screen, my eyes almost popped out of my head. You can probably imagine.”
“Three hundred sixty-five billion?” John echoed in surprise.
McCaine nodded. “Your fortune almost tripled in the past twenty-five years.”
John opened his mouth but nothing came out; he couldn’t think of anything to say. He closed it again.
“They had to be honest with me,” McCaine went on. “Until then, when I was in the house, the Vacchis were always careful to have all the doors locked except the one to the cellar. But, I had already told you of my suspicion that it was mafia money, or even drug money, so I threatened to go to the police unless they showed me the archive and Giacomo Fontanelli’s testament.” McCaine paused and shook his head. “I was absolutely fascinated. That was the most incredible thing I had ever heard in my entire life. At that moment I was convinced, absolutely convinced, that I had found my true calling. I quit my job at IBM, went back to London with my moderate savings and studied economics, political economics, and business administration — all at once. I lived in a cheap little apartment without heat, wore the same trousers for years and the same jacket. I never went out, didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, and lived like a monk. I gobbled down what I learnt like a starving man, sat up front in class, torturing the teachers with questions and passed all my tests with top grades. When I got my diploma I went to work as a broker at a bank. There I learnt, firsthand, everything there is to know about stocks, bonds, currency trading and so on. Then I started my own firm with my own money, plus a loan and what I had inherited from my father. I worked day and night until I was able to hire my first employee. I kept working like a dog until I turned my first significant profit, and went up from there. In all those years, in bad times and in good, I longed for this day, for the day I would sit across from you, the heir of the Fontanelli fortune, the heir of what I calculated would be a trillion dollars by the time it reached you.”
John just now noticed that he was staring at this man with eyes wide open. He probably looked ridiculous. McCaine, exuded so much energy such determination that John almost physically felt it, like sitting across from a hot oven.
“I’m afraid,” John said slowly, “that I’m still having a hard time understanding all this.”
“My mission, my task in life,” McCaine explained with determined look in his eyes, “has been to be on your side and to help you fulfill Giacomo Fontanelli’s prophecy. No more, no less. Everything I had done so far, my studies, the firm, were all preparation for this day, a sort of training, practicing, shadowboxing. To be of any help to you, I needed to know how to handle money, lots of money. I had to know how to act effectively within the realm of high finance. This was the only reason. Wealth doesn’t interest me. I don’t care if I drive a Jag or walk. Twenty-five years ago I acquired a freedom that only obsession with a goal, a vision, can provide. Since then I have known why I was born. I’m so very sure that it was fate — not a coincidence — that brought me to Florence all those years ago. I’m as sure as the knowledge that the sun will rise tomorrow morning. This talk, right now, has gone through my head a thousand times. I’ve worked towards this day for the past twenty-five years. All I had was a certain date — the twenty-third of April 1995 — and a phone number. It was the telephone number of the guest room in the Vacchi villa that had been prepared for the heir. I saw it on a list by that the telephone technicians, who had also put in the phone lines for the law firm. I knew the Vacchis wouldn’t change this number. So now,” he concluded with orgiastic satisfaction, “the moment is finally upon us. You are here!”
John swallowed hard. He didn’t know what to say. This man was either totally insane, or a genius. Or both. He asked, “How did you know the Vacchis wouldn’t change the phone number?”
McCaine smiled a short dark smirk; is eyes remained neutral. “Well, the symbolic meaning of the number twenty-three was obvious. The day in April. And they didn’t know that I knew the number. I took care not to be caught. It was clear to me that I had to do this secretly.”
“Why?”
“Because my intentions would question their competence.” He paused and took such a deep breath that John thought he mustn’t have drawn air since he began talking. “I regret what I am about to tell you, because I understand that you feel warmly towards the Vacchi family. They made you a wealthy man, and improved your life in a way that no one else could even dream of. And they want nothing for it. No favors. Not even a thank you. They are satisfied to have fulfilled the vows of their forefathers. Truly noble people, one would think.”
John nodded. “Yes, that’s exactly the way I see it.”
“But actually,” McCaine explained further, “they have their dark side. No doubt about it, they achieved a tremendous feat. But it is precisely the characteristic that made them capable of achieving it, which is now standing in your way. The Vacchis, Mr. Fontanelli, are people oriented in the past. They believe in tradition. They created a paradise in their village, a Shangri-la, where they are the kings. But if you ask yourself, totally unbiased,
what the Vacchis have done concretely then you will find that they were not able to help you, not concerning the prophecy. They have full confidence in you. You will accomplish it. You are the heir. You are the one that Giacomo saw in his vision. You will restore mankind’s future — somehow. You were left alone with this, right? The Vacchis cut you off from the world, shielded you, drew your attention to all the nice sparkly toys money can buy. The truth is, they don’t want things to change. There’s nothing wrong with that. The Vacchis are simply incapable of anything else. This is what allowed them to keep a tradition alive for five hundred years, a tradition of studying law and keeping the fortune as stipulated without being tempted to take it. And this same feature in their character prevents them from helping you bring about the changes the world needs.” He jumped to his feet, stood in the middle of the room with his arms stretched out, waving them like some Old Testament prophet, and said: “Do you see it now? The incredible twist of fate that made somebody like me aware of the prophecy, just at the right moment to be able to make the necessary preparations, to be able to stand by the heir’s side? Someone who thinks, feels, and acts in a different way from those that had guarded the fortune? Everything is happening the way it must. One cog turns another. I waited twenty-five years for you, waited and prepared, and now you are here. It has come to pass. Today is the day that will be remembered as the beginning of a new future.”
John stared at him. He looked away and put a hand over his eyes. “All of this is a bit too much,” he had to admit. His heart felt like that of an old man’s that could not handle excitement anymore. “And I still don’t know what your plan for the future looks like. The past, okay, I got that. But what would you do? What would you actually do with one trillion dollars to save the future?
One Trillion Dollars Page 26
