The whole thing was chaotic. She threw the notebook and pen across the room and felt an impulse to toss it all into the garbage can. If it only weren’t so hot. And this headache … She got up, went to the fridge, and drank a few large gulps of ice tea directly from the container.
The first banks were opened in Genoa and other Italian cities during the twelfth century. They took people’s money for safekeeping, offering interest and loaned it to merchants, craftsmen, and to members of the upper classes. The initial custom was to give the banks the money for safekeeping and when traveling to pay for things with a voucher from that bank. During the fourteenth century Venetian banks allowed people to get more money out of the bank than he had deposited for the first time. During the fifteenth century the Arabic numerals and commercial accounting were widely adopted across on the entire European continent, and the method of double-entry bookkeeping first appeared in Italy. But Giacomo Fontanelli didn’t use this system: his system didn’t appear to follow any system at all.
What if he had accrued assets the previous years and didn’t list them, perhaps to circumvent taxes, or just out of laziness? It seemed possible with him. Since she never even got close to copying all of his accounting books, she found no other solution than to return to the Vacchi archives. At least if she wanted to get any kind of clarification on the matter.
Go back to Florence? Tell the Vacchis something they probably don’t want to hear? She watched the dancing dust particles in the room lit-up by the sunrays streaming through the window, and then suddenly her mind danced just like the dust. Without further thought, without hesitation, like a hunter knowing when exactly to release the projectile, she fetched her diary, leafed through it until she found Cristoforo Vacchi’s phone number, went to the telephone, and dialed.
“Off course, Signorina Valen,” Cristoforo said right away. The old man sounded tired or sad, which was hard to say, but he did seem to be happy to hear her voice. He didn’t’ mention or complain about the fact she hadn’t been in contact for two years. “Come whenever you wish.”
The room was not big and the rounded corners made it seem even smaller. An oval shaped table stood in the center that made it look like an arena. Gray armchairs on rollers surrounded it in three rows. There was a white curtain hanging at one end, though it was impossible to know what it was hiding.
“The executive directors meet here three times a week,” Paul Siegel explained as he nodded at the walls, which had light colored wood paneling with white cloth. He looked at John and shook his head. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? That of all the places for us to come across one another again it should be here.”
John nodded. “Yeah, really crazy.”
“It was unfortunate that I wasn’t there the time you called me from the Waldorf. I was in Japan for two weeks. By the time I got back you were all over the media. I thought by then it was a bit late to return your call.”
“Yes, there wouldn’t have been much point.”
Paul reached into a pocket and pulled out a business card. “But I swore that I would give you my cellphone number if we ever bumped into one another again. So I’m doing what I promised. No, don’t say anything, a promise is a promise. And who knows, maybe you’ll find yourself having the same experience.” He wrote a phone number on the backside of the card and gave it to John.
John looked at the impressive looking symbol of the IMF and the equally impressive title under Paul’s name. He turned the card around and read the phone number. “That’s funny.”
Paul was sticking his pen back into the slot of his notebook. “What? That I have a mobile phone? I tell you, I won’t set a foot out of the house without it anymore. As soon as they invent one that you can get integrated into the body, I’ll be first in line.”
“No, I meant the number. That’s your birthday. How did you manage that?”
Paul was all too happy to explain. “That’s real easy. You used to be able to choose a number, and I was one of the first one there when there was still plenty to select from.”
“It’s easy to remember, that’s for sure.”
“Sure, if you know me well enough.”
They sat down, John in the chair of the Russian IMF delegate and Paul in that of the Saudi Arabian. They filled-in the three-year gap since they had last met in Paul’s apartment in Manhattan’s West Village, when John was a poor bum who owed money to all and everyone. Two years ago Paul, after a short relationship and just after John’s inheritance, changed jobs going from being a consultant to work for the IMF and moved to Washington. That’s why John had not been able to get hold of him at his old address. They both had a lot to tell. Paul had glasses now, which looked good on him, his unruly dark-brown hair was cut in a new style that didn’t suit him as well, but otherwise he was the same guy he had always been: intelligent and with a lot of common sense.
John needed a lot longer to tell Paul all that had changed in his life, and when he was done, Paul looked at him long and silently.
“I don’t know if I should be jealous or feel sorry for you,” he finally admitted. “Really, one trillion dollars … good Lord! It’s a question of either being a blessing or a curse.” He laughed. “At least I don’t have to worry any more about whether or not you’ll starve.”
John had to laugh too. Things were suddenly like they used to be. Like those times they sat on the broken wall of the ruined building on Thirteenth Street, discussing everything but mainly girls. “What do you think about all this? Just between you and me?” he asked Paul.
“What, the suggestion about the Philippines?”
“Everything; what I’m doing with the money, McCaine, Fontanelli Enterprises, the prophecy.”
“I have no opinions about prophecies. I’ve made too many of my own already,” Paul answered and leaned back. “You probably knew that already. Otherwise … I don’t know. When I found out that you were coming, I did a little research. I could not find out that much though, a bit about Malcolm’s previous firms, nothing exciting, and his career history. They were sad to see him leave at IBM, he had good grades at university. Some of his former professors remembered him and considered him to be a sort of oddball, that’s it. And Fontanelli Enterprises? Well …” He rubbed his nose the same way he always had in the old days. “I am not that happy with it… with the fact that such a colossus exists. Every economist feels that way. It is not good for the economy when there is one participant that is so much bigger than any other. You dominate large parts of the market, more than you probably realize, and this is an uncomfortable situation for me.”
“What would you do in my position?”
“Ho, ho!” Paul shook his head. “If I only knew…” He glanced around at all the empty chairs. “I think I would spend it. I would invest it in projects to create economic equality for women all over the world. Women are the key. Many of our projects have convinced us this is true, and it’s been a known fact for my colleagues at the World Bank. Everywhere where women are educated and are free enough to decide what happens in their own lives the birthrates drop to an acceptable level. Everywhere women own property instead of being property themselves, the standard of living rises to a level where people can afford to consider environmental issues. In many aid programs, it’s the women who receive the money too, because they improve things with it, while the men only get drunk or buy gold watches.”
“Then you should support my Philippines suggestion.”
“John, yes, but the IMF is not the right instrument for this. We are an institute for overseeing the international monetary system, that’s it. We depend on the cooperation of governments, and have to follow all sorts of political constraints. No, what I was talking about was something that a private organization could do. We cannot.”
Suddenly it was no longer the old days sitting on the wall, now it was the present again. They sat at the table across from each other; the one a representative of the top monetary guardian of the world and the other the wealthiest man on ear
th. The same table where each week decisions were made that had major consequences for entire nations or regions, and outside the room sat a dozen men waiting for them to reappear.
John stood up. “I‘ll think about it.”
The Rolls Royce awaited her as she stepped out of the train station in Florence. However, it wasn’t Benito behind the steering wheel, but a young man Ursula had never seen before. He was wearing a uniform. He took her suitcase, opened the door smoothly and flashed a pair of bright eyes at her.
“Benito had a stroke,” Cristoforo Vacchi told her as they drove off. “It’s not as bad as it could’ve been, but he can’t drive anymore. Now he lives with a family that cares for him. Ever since he could walk again, he comes every day and polishes Emmy — the radiator figurine, you know.”
Ursula nodded.
The Padrone looked more gaunt than she remembered, almost too skinny. John Fontanelli leaving must’ve been hard on him.
“Signor Vacchi, I’m sorry that I haven’t…”
“I knew you would return one day,” he said interrupting her with his gentle smile. “It was only a question of when and why.”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you’ll like the why.”
She was sure she had to be wrong — that she had terribly miscalculated something. At best, the Vacchis would laugh at her; at worst she would get shouted at. She would return home tomorrow, burn all papers from her studies, and apply for a job as a waitress at the Parapluie Bleue.
She took another deep breath and told him what she noticed in Giacomo Fontanelli’s books. She felt as if she had just ordered her last meal before she was executed.
But Cristoforo said only, “Ah!” and nodded after she was done telling him. “That old mystery …”
Ursula opened her eyes widely as she said, “You know?”
The Padrone smiled. “Oh yes. My family has been wracking their brains for a long time over that. Actually, we don’t have the slightest idea where the money originally came from.”
$31,000,000,000,000
“WHAT YOU EXPERIENCED in Washington was stubbornness,” McCaine explained to John. “The force that maintains everything we’re fighting against. People want everything to stay the way they are comfortable with.” He made a fist. “Now do you see that there was no point in expecting people to volunteer to behave differently? That’s not part of human nature. Force is the only weapon that will bring results.”
John nodded glumly. “That means our fight goes on.”
“You can bet on that.” McCaine grabbed the fax. “News from Collins; the expansionary work is coming along as planned. His people are practically doing nothing else other than unpacking new computers, connecting them, loading programs, and starting their work. In short, the results will be available as scheduled.”
“Good,” said John. “And what’ll we do in the meantime?”
McCaine gave him a strange look. He stood up and started pacing back and forth in front of the windows. He had not done that for a long time. The city glowed under a bright August sun — it looked like somewhere on the Mediterranean Sea.
“You could help me,” McCaine said unexpectedly and stopped pacing, looking at John. “You could help in a way that might sound crazy, maybe it’s even quite an imposition, I don’t know, but you could be an enormous help.”
“If you’re trying to make me curious, you’ve succeeded.”
“We have a fight ahead … a tough fight. Our enemies are sounding the trumpets of war on all fronts and there is going to be bloodshed. We might be forced to do a few things that aren’t in the rule books, if you understand what I’m trying to say. To get to the point, under the current circumstances, the most useful thing would be a distraction.”
“A distraction?”
McCaine looked at him in a way that reminded John of Jack Nicholson. “I don’t wish to be in the papers for everything that I do or don’t do, do you understand? It’s that simple. And that’s why it would be nice if the media had something else to report on.”
“Aha,” said John. “But where is the problem? I mean, we own half of all newspapers and…”
“The problem is the other half … the media that we don’t own.”
John blinked as he looked at McCaine. “Hmm, sure. But I don’t get my part in all of this, I’m afraid.”
McCaine went back to his desk, opened a drawer, pulled out a newspaper that John could see was some gossip tabloid, and threw it down on the table. “Take a look at that.”
The paper was two weeks old. The headlines read: The most beautiful woman — the wealthiest man — is that love? There was a photo underneath the headlines that John recognized; it was the model Patricia DeBeers. She was walking on a sidewalk hand-in-hand with a man, whispering something into his ear. To his astonishment John realized the man was him!
“What’s this supposed to be?” he exclaimed.
“A fake. Well made, admittedly. This paper is notorious for such things. Normally they report on stuff like children with two heads, UFOs and so on, and no one cares, but the phones haven’t stopped ringing at their offices since that article appeared. All the world wants to know if the rumors are true.”
“Nothing is true, of course. I’ve never been for a walk with this woman, let alone hand-in-hand.”
McCaine said, “The favor I’m asking you for is that you do just that.”
John stared. “I must’ve missed something in our conversation. Please, say that again, what do you want me to do?”
“I know this is a bit out of the blue,” McCaine picked up the paper, folded it neatly, and then held it up like a piece of evidence in a courtroom. “Normally, there’s hardly anyone who believes this paper. Elvis shows up every six weeks or Nessie, and perhaps only a few nuts believe any of it. But the reaction to this article made me think. The world wants this to be true. The public would like to see nothing more than a liaison between the wealthiest man in the world and the most beautiful woman in the world. It would confirm all their preconceptions, like a fairy tale come true. They yearn for something like this.”
“That may be, but she means nothing to me. During the photo shoot we spoke maybe four or five words, and I had to concentrate not to stare at her breasts. That was all.” John fell quiet, a queasy feeling in his guts.
McCaine nodded slowly and thoughtfully. “But, it would be an effective distraction, don’t you think? You and Patricia DeBeers and a photographer keeps popping up to get that lucky shot, like when you two are holding hands? The media would go mad.”
“You’ve been up to something,” John studied McCaine’s inscrutable face. “Tell me that it’s not what I’m thinking.”
McCaine rolled up the paper. “I have taken the liberty of sending your yacht out. It was in Hong Kong anyway for a radar inspection. Today or tomorrow it should arrive in Manila. I also hired DeBeers to…”
“What? You hired her?”
“I had a confidentiality clause added into the contract, and I talked her agent into cutting the price so far they practically insisted on it — cut price relatively speaking, of course. It was quite interesting.”
“What did you hire her for?”
“You two will be the love-struck couple, at least when you’re in the public eye. What you do in private is your business. You sail a bit around the Philippines, let reporters find you, go shopping on land every once in a while, and please, arm-in-arm — for the sake of the press.”
“You’re not serious!”
“If the world looks at the Philippines, they should see the two of you, and not the stock market or the interest rates. That’s what I need.”
“You are serious.” John put his hand against his forehead as if he had a fever. “You’re really trying to make up some cheesy love story.”
“Come on, John.” McCaine threw the paper or what was left of it into the trash can. “God knows I could’ve thought of a lot worse than this … sending you on your yacht to cruise for a couple
of weeks with one of the most beautiful women in the world. Or? And who knows, maybe you’ll grow to like one another and …”
“No. That’s enough now.”
“… the dream might come true.” McCaine grinned as if it were a joke. “All right then, I’ll mind my own business. As you wish. But I do want to remind you that you should start thinking about starting a dynasty…”
“But not with a photo model who’s being paid,” John threw in. He was still annoyed. No. This was a bit too much. He would refuse. He would say no, just say no …
McCaine was serious again. “It would be of great help,” he said. “It will be difficult enough. We have to bring the governments of a half a dozen countries to their knees and a supranational organization too, and all the time competitors are waiting for the slightest mistake on our part. It would really be a great help.”
John closed his eyes and relented. “All right. When is this supposed to start?”
“As soon as you can leave, Miss. DeBeers is on her way already. She will be waiting for you on the yacht in Manila.”
“Oh, I can hardly wait.” John stood up and felt very tired. “I’ll go pack.”
McCaine grinned wolfishly. Come to think about it, he grinned wolfishly quite often lately. “Bon voyage,” he said. “Enjoy yourself.”
“Thanks a lot.” As he went out John glanced at himself in the narrow mirror that McCaine had hanging beside the door, and he murmured: “Do I really need this?”
Ursula was feeling better again. She had taken a nice shower and felt tired from the long train ride, and now she sat together with the Padrone and the other two older Vacchis at a beautifully set table. Only Eduardo was not there. They were in the dining room on the first floor and it smelled magnificently of marjoram, tomatoes, and oregano. Whatever it was that Giovanna was serving, it looked wonderful in the fine porcelain dish.
One Trillion Dollars Page 43
