Benigno sighed and did as asked. The old man, who wore only worn-out red sports pants, looked at them myopically, smiled sadly and said something. Then he went over and pat John lightly on his arm.
John looked at him confused. “What did he say?”
“He said, what good will it do him if he waits for the fish to get bigger if he’s already starved to death?”
It was already so late in the evening that something resembling a cool breeze blew in from the sea. They had eaten very well, as usual, with a guilty conscience, but with a good appetite. Two of the younger bodyguards went out with the motorboat to retrieve the scuba gear that John and Patricia had left.
The big yacht swayed lightly on the waves. If you stood by the railing and paid close attention, then you could hear the stabilizers working. Clouds that looked like columns of smoke covered part of the starry sky. One could even imagine the scent of a fire.
Patricia sat in the salon, busy writing letters. Benigno Tatad sat on the bow and stared lost in thought at the water. John made his rounds on the yacht, talking with the stewards, the cook, the engineer, and finally with Captain Broussard. Everything was in order so John retreated into his cabin.
This was the one room onboard he considered to be the least comfortable of all. It was more like a garishly furnished hotel room rather than a home. Tonight, though, he was glad to be able to lock the door behind him. He dropped into one of the two easy chairs, stared into the air, and then he grabbed the telephone to call McCaine.
“What really destroys the environment is poverty,” McCaine said after John told him what happened today. “It’s not the overpopulation, not the lack of education … poverty. Nothing will stop someone who’s starving from killing an animal for food — it doesn’t matter if it’s a near extinct species. He needs to eat. Nothing will stop someone who is freezing from chopping down a tree and allowing the desert to expand. He needs wood to burn, and it’s either him or the tree. People in poverty have their backs against the wall and when you don’t have a choice, you can’t think or care about anything else. Poverty is the core of the problem.” McCaine stopped talking, or maybe it was only problems with the satellite. “I can’t disagree with you,” he said. “The question is, what did you learn from that?”
“I’m wondering if it might not be better to initiate many small projects, all over the world, aimed at all the many different local problems. Like here in the Philippines. After dinner I made some phone calls to people the government guy onboard suggested. Turns out a lot could be done here with a ridiculously small amount of money. If the dynamite fishing were stopped, letting the coral recuperate for a few years, then life would return and so would the fish. Even sinking old tires into the sea as a reef replacement would help. All it needs is someone to do it. Simple films could be produced in all the different dialects found here to teach the people certain things. Efficiency could be improved too. Hell, a third of the fish catch gets spoiled … six hundred thousand tons per year, just because there aren’t enough refrigerators, ice machines, and such, and the roads are in bad shape. I figured out a sum of ten maybe fifteen million dollars, allocated over a few years and in the right places, could work wonders here.”
“Hmm, I’m sure you know that there are countless such projects already in progress all over the world.”
“Naturally. But after all I have a whole damn trillion to give away…”
“Maybe twice that by now, I suspect.”
“The more the better. At any rate it’ll be enough for a hundred thousand such projects. A hundred thousand points on the globe where we can get involved in improving lives and moving life in a positive direction. A bunch of needle pricks, but on a massive scale, like acupuncture for the planet, that’s how I see it.”
McCaine let out a grunt. “What you suggest is a hit-or-miss thing. Not quite what we’re looking for to accomplish our task.”
“It would be something real,” John insisted. “Not like those giant plans we follow the whole time … with some future plan in mind.”
“Do you know what you are doing? You’re escaping to local problems because global problems are too complex for you to comprehend. If you return to linear thinking you’ll make everything worse. It is this line of thinking that put the world in this situation in the first place. It may very well be that such projects could be useful, but as soon as our computer model…”
“But that’s only a model! Not reality. A model can never take into account all those details that make up reality.”
“Luckily, that is not necessary. The calculations for an orbit around the earth are also only a model, a pretty rough one even, but still the satellites we use to communicate continue to work dependably.” McCaine said patiently. “Look, John, let me give you another example. The island you were on — Panglawan, you said?”
“That’s right.”
“I take it that the village was situated very close to the water, even though there was flat land behind it and lush forests.”
John was truly surprised by this accurate description. “Yes.”
“Do you know why?”
“No.”
“It’s because that forest belongs to the Philippine ambassador to the Vatican, just like those sugarcane fields further inland. The pious gentleman has forbidden anyone but those who work for him from living in his forest. Do you see the correlation? The villagers don’t build their huts on stilts or in trees because it’s romantic, but because the space by the sea belongs to no one. Almost all the land in the Philippines belongs to twenty family clans who managed to move themselves into advantageous positions during colonial times and they don’t want a thing to change. They will be grateful when you solve their problems without questioning the existing power structure. No, John, you will spend your money and then, within just a few years, everything will go back to what it was like before you came. This is not what was meant with ‘returning the future for mankind’.”
John felt the phone getting heavy in his hand, and he felt like a rapidly deflating balloon. “Hmm,” he said. “I guess I can’t disagree with you there.”
“The power structures are the key,” McCaine went on. “You don’t need to go into all the details. That applies to us too, by the way. Our easy days are over. The big boys in the world now understand what’s going on. The US and Japan … currently, there are plots being hatched against us you won’t believe. All in secrecy, of course.”
To John this sounded a bit paranoid. “Are you sure?”
McCaine laughed darkly. “I only have to look across my desk to be sure. We’re being flooded with lawsuits, for supposedly breaking laws of competition, cartel allegations, laws on co-determination, environmental codes, everything they can think of, even lawsuits for product liability claims and all of it demanding ridiculous sums of money, and it’s all lies. They claim to have witnesses to testify that we work for the CIA. How do you like that? We might as well hand out company passes to the revenue officials in Japan, that’s how often they come to ask stupid questions and stop the work in our factories. Or listen to this one: we wanted to take over the Bank of Rabat, had everything worked out and got confirmation for the deal, then, the American secretary of state’s plane landed, supposedly to refuel while returning from a trip to Israel. Oddly, it took them four hours to fill up the fuel tanks, and the next day we were told ‘Sorry, but the deal went to Chase Manhattan.’ Shall I go on?”
“I believe you,” John looked perturbed. “Would you like me to come back?”
“If you’ve acquired a law degree and ten years’ experience, sure. But otherwise there’s nothing you can do to help, and I’d rather you be there for now so that you can play the figurehead for the environment. Have you heard about the forest fires?”
“What forest fires?”
“In Indonesia fires to clear land have spread out of control. There are fears that practically the entire forest may burn down within the next few weeks. It’s so bad because they
have the worst drought in fifty years there. It’s an unprecedented catastrophe. Smoke and ash has drifted as far as Malaysia and Singapore. I think you might even see it in the Philippines within the next few days, and this is just the start.”
“And what should I do?”
“Condemn the misuse of nature, the feeble and pathetic politics of the governments … say things like that. We’ll write a rough speech when the time is right.” McCaine sounded like he was playing for time.
John said a bit reluctantly, “I have a real problem hanging around here vacationing when we have all those lawsuits and problems you just told me about. Don’t get me wrong, but I’d like to know if anything will be left of my firm when I return.”
McCaine laughed, and this time it even sounded like an amused laugh. “The lawsuits are real, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t have things under control. The war is on. The Japanese finance firms, who put the revenue officials on our ass, are suddenly having problems getting money from the financial markets. One of them, Yamaichi Securities, the oldest Japanese brokerage firm with a correspondingly high profile, is involved in a very embarrassing blackmail scandal, which is causing more and more customers to take their money out. I’ll be surprised if they survive the year. And as for the US — well, God’s on our side. We’ve found out that the president has had an affair with an intern in the White House. When he had enough of her, he found her a seventy thousand dollar job at the Pentagon. What do you think we could do with that? The man will be sweating like a pig. He won’t have time for plotting against us. He’ll wish he’d had his balls cut off, I promise you that.”
“Hmm,” John said. “I don’t know. I’m not really convinced. Hasn’t every president under than sixty had an affair? I doubt it’ll upset that many people.”
That was a good point, McCaine thought after the call ended.
He wanted another gulp of coffee, but there was only a brown ring on the bottom of the cup, and the pot was empty too. He put both on the coffee table next to the many empty cups already there. He needed to start cleaning up after himself. He could not allow a maid in here anymore since there were too many secret documents lying. Papers were stacked on every table and even on the floor. The way things were right now, he was sure that the Americans would have spies working to see what exactly Fontanelli Enterprises possessed, what they could do and what their intentions were. That’s why he had guards posted outside his office, that’s why he locked his doors personally every evening, and if it started to stink in here then that’s the price he had to pay.
He took his notepad and went back to the conference room, which he had been calling the war room of late.
“… the prime minister is on our payroll, so it won’t be a problem,” someone was saying as he came in. It was a thick-necked man with long gray hair tied back in a ponytail.
McCaine took a look at a map of South America on the projector screen. He didn’t know which prime minister the man meant, and he didn’t really care. It was more important to keep Fontanelli’s mood under control. To have him back now would have caused too many problems, not to mention that McCaine would have to explain what he was planning and the preparations being made for moves that were not exactly morally above board.
He sat down. “Mr. Froeman.” He turned to the man with the ponytail. “Gentlemen, please excuse the interruption. Mr. Fontanelli has just brought up a doubt concerning the Clinton affair, which I think is worth considering.”
“And that would be?” Froeman asked with a grim look.
“He wasn’t impressed by the affair. He said that every president under sixty has had an affair.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said a skinny young man sitting directly by the overhead projector.
McCaine locked his fingers together. “We might be overestimating the effectiveness of this story.”
“Hmm,” Froeman said. He leaned forward in an aggressive pose, placed his elbows on the table, and toyed with the thick signet ring on his finger. “It all depends how we play it,” he said after a few moments staring into space. “Let’s say we don’t go with the usual sensationalist revelation, but instead do something else. Something even better. We’ll let it leak, nothing concrete, nothing provable: make him think he can wiggle his way out of it by denying the allegations.”
“And then what?” a black man with a scar on his chin sitting beside him asked.
“If we could get him to deny the affair under oath,” Froeman explained with an evil grin, “then he would be breaking his oath of office. Then we could bring out our evidence and break his neck with it, whenever we wanted.”
“Since when does an American president swear an oath not to have an affair?” his neighbor grumbled.
“The president swears to obey the laws of the United States when he gets sworn into office. Do you really want to argue with me if perjury is breaking the law or not?” Froeman said, wondering why his time was being spent on such a stupid question.
“Wait a second!” McCaine raised a hand. “I don’t want to topple the president. I only want to keep him preoccupied with other things.”
Froeman nodded impatiently. “That’s clear. We’ll see to it. But you would not mind calling him to ask for a few favors, I take it?”
John woke up unusually early. When he got on top deck he could smell smoke. He scanned the sky, and it looked gray, an unhealthy, threatening gray. They were not rainclouds, but clouds of smoke.
All the sun tarps where still rolled up on board ship and no one was about. He could already feel the heat of the coming day. He went up to the sun deck, sat down at the still empty breakfast table, and looked at the landscape, which looked like paradise.
After a while Benigno came up the stairs. He put on a fake smile when he saw John. “Magandang umaga po, Ginoong Fontanelli,” he said and sat down across from John.
“A good morning to you too, Ginoog Tatad,” John said. He pointed at the empty table. “Did you notice anything?”
“The table isn’t set yet.”
“I don’t mean that. It’s still too early. Take another look.”
The Filipino stared at the table trying to find the answer.
“It’s gray,” John said helping him a bit. “It should be white.” He wiped his hand over the surface and held it up. It was black. “Ash and soot from the forest fires in Indonesia.”
Benigno looked at the dirty hand, and then he looked at the smudge the hand had left on the specially treated wooden table. “That is disgusting,” he said.
“Isn’t it? It looks like things are coming to a head.” John pulled out a kerchief and wiped his hand with it. “By the way, I want to go back to that island today and have another talk with the people in the village. There still are a few things I don’t quite understand.”
$33,000,000,000,000
THE NEWS THAT the same strangers who had caught Pedro and Francisco at dynamite fishing had returned to the village made its rounds in no time, and especially the part about them handing out ten dollar bills, real American dollars. Soon, the visitors were sitting down, surrounded by everyone, except those who had gone out to fish, which basically meant they were surrounded by people who either had no boat or whose physical ailments kept them from going to sea.
They asked the villagers all sorts of questions, about the village, if they had a telephone, where they buy groceries, and where they sell their catch. They told them about the town of Tuay and the market there, where they could buy rice and coconut oil, and where they could sell their catch to the local fishmonger with his ice chest, and that there wasn’t just a telephone in Tuay but also a real post office, and also a government office, a doctor and a church.
“Ask them,” John said to Benigno, “who sells them the dynamite.”
Suddenly their smiles froze, and they wouldn’t look the visitors in the eyes, one village snuck out of the hut, despite the dollar bills they said they would be handing out. John didn’t need an interpreter to know that the
question was unwelcome.
“Tell them that we won’t report them, that we have nothing to do with the police.”
“I already have,” Benigno told him.
John’s mouth was taut as he thought for a moment. “Look, Benigno, there must be at least one person who profits from what’s going on here. There’s got to be someone who profits if everything stays as it is, and it has to be someone with enough power to make sure nothing changes. I just want to understand, that’s it. We are on the rim of a spider’s web, and I want to find the spider. Tell them!” He rolled the bundle of money up and shoved it back into his pocket for all to see. “Tell them that we can go to another village to get answers.”
Now they started to talk, though still reluctantly. It’s the fishmonger who sells them the dynamite. He’s also the one who sells them the gas for the boats so they can go further out to sea where there’s still fish. It costs 5 pesos for one trip, but most of the people don’t have that much. The fishmonger loaned them the money but wanted 8 pesos in return.
“Bastard,” John said. “That’s sixty percent interest.”
Most of the fishermen had debts, debts that kept on growing. Somehow, they said sadly, they never managed to repay them. There were still a few places, secret spots far out in the ocean, actually too far out for the small boats, where decent amounts of fish could still be caught. Sometimes they could even catch a lapu-lapu, one of the finest fish in the Philippines an it brought in good money, but even when this happened it only meant that the fishmonger would strike out one number and replace it with another in his black account book, and the fisherman had to ask for yet another loan to buy rice.
“How many fishmongers are there?” asked John.
In Tuay there was only the one, Joseph Balabagan was his name. No one could afford to get on his bad side.
“So he’s the one who sets the prices,” John nodded, “and the fishermen have no other choice but to go along. They’re stuck with him.”
One Trillion Dollars Page 47
