John felt dead, as if his heart had been removed and there was a hole in its place. “She insisted taking a regular airline flight,” he told him. “And she didn’t even want me to take her to the airport.”
“Hmm.”
“Do you think it’s true when a woman says she needs time to go away to think about everything? Do you think there’s a chance of her returning eventually?
Someone knocked. One of the secretaries stuck her head through the door. McCaine made her a rude gesture for her to get out.
“I don’t know, John. But if you want to know what I honestly think …” he hesitated.
“Yes?” John said with big eyes.
McCaine bit his lower lip, looking like he regretted to have started. “Naturally, I can only judge things from what you have told me, John.”
“Yes, and?”
“I’m sorry to say this, but she seems to be a woman with principles … principles that mean more to her than you do.”
John groaned. There still was a heart there … at least a spot that could still feel pain.
“And,” McCaine added, gouging the open wound, “it is obvious that she cannot deal with the responsibility that comes with the inheritance. You, John, can. It is a great burden, and it sometimes hurts, but you still carry it. That is what makes you a true heir. And as sorry as I am, but your partner in life must be capable of giving you support, or she can’t be your wife.”
Yes, that had to be it. John stared straight ahead, looked at the dark-blue and black lilies on the carpet and saw them coming apart like cracks, yes, cracks.
“You will get over it,” McCaine said. “But you can’t let yourself drift, John.”
“I just don’t know what to do,” John whined.
“John, dammit, you have a task. You have a responsibility. You are the heir!”
“If I weren’t then she would not have gone away.”
McCaine made a noise that sounded like a subdued curse trying to squeeze through his teeth. He walked a few paces across the room and ran his fingers through his hair. “For God’s sake, John that is below you. I can’t keep watching this. Now quit feeling so damn sorry for yourself.”
John flinched. It was like being struck by a whip.
“Out there is the true misery,” McCaine said somewhat loudly and pointed at the phalanx of TV sets. “We see it beamed on every TV channel right into our homes and no one realizes that this is a view of future — our future! If you and I, John, don’t get a grip on each other and do what must be done, you know what the outcome will be. Do you understand? We cannot afford to sit around licking our wounds and feeling sorry for ourselves. We must take action. Each day counts. So move on, there’s a lot to be done.”
“Lots to do? What?”
McCaine stomped through the room, stopped before the world map and slapped a hand against Central America. “Mexico City! The first preparatory environmental summit is to be held here next week. It is a meeting of experts from national working groups, and you must attend.”
“Me?“ Disconcerted, John stared at the map. His only contact with Mexico so far had been tacos in fast food restaurants … when he was sick of pizza. “But I’m not an expert on anything.”
“But you are John Salvatore Fontanelli. You are the donor of the Gaea Prize. They will attentively listen to you when you have something to say. And you will learn much about the state of the world if you listen to them.”
John rubbed his face with a hand. “To Mexico? I have to go to Mexico?”
McCaine folded his arms. “At least it will keep your mind off other things.”
McCaine took him to the airport and gave him last-minute instructions for the talks in Mexico City. The stack of documents and literature was impressive: there were binders, bound scientific studies from all over the world, data discs, resolution contracts, translations, and synopses. The nine-hour flight would be just enough time to flick through all this stuff.
As usual, the car was waved on through to the tarmac, where Money Force One stood at standby. There was a smell of jet fuel and burnt rubber in the air when they got out of the car. The ground was still wet from the previous night’s rain and there was a brisk wind blowing over the wide flat terrain.
“It will be a balancing act when you get there,” McCaine shouted to be heard above the engines warming up. “On the one hand we have to strive to get the groundwork started for a globally binding agreement on climate protection measures, but on the other we can’t let it cost us anything yet. That’s what the concept of the pollutant exchange is based on, do you understand?”
A handful of men and women wearing uniforms came hurrying over from the terminal bringing the boxes with the literature to load them in the plane. The pilot also came over with a clipboard with a checklist clamped under an arm. He shook their hands and told them it was high time to get going. “If we miss our allotted slot for take-off it could take hours to get a new one. EUROCONTROL is swamped once again.”
“Yes, yes,” McCaine called out. “One moment.”
“Why should it not cost us anything?” John was asking.
McCaine seemed to be avoiding his eyes and looking at the horizon instead. “I already explained that.” Now he turned to John. “We’re rebuilding the conglomerate for a new strategy. If we agree to this phase, to put in flue gas cleaners and so on, this would reduce our financial leeway, which could make the difference between victory and defeat.”
All at once it all seemed so surreal to John. It was as if they were standing on a stage performing an absurd play. He had an odd feeling in his stomach and was unsure if it was the beginning of hilarious laughter or diarrhea. “When will we start doing something concrete?” he shouted above the engine noise. “All we ever do is buy stuff and increase our power, but we do nothing with it. Sometimes it looks like we're making things even worse!”
McCaine looked at him with a murderous expression. Clearly, he had deviated from the intended text. A fatal mistake for an actor. “You are not seeing the whole picture,” McCaine shouted back, “but I’m afraid there is no time to discuss this now. We’ll do it when you’re back.”
Suddenly they saw a car racing towards them at high speed. A second later Marco was by their side and quickly planted himself in front of John protectively. He said, “Maybe it’s better for you to climb aboard the plane now, Mr. Fontanelli.”
“What the hell …?” McCaine exclaimed.
The car came to a screeching halt, the door opened, a man sprang out and ran towards them.
“I’m looking for a Marco Benetti,” he shouted. He was slim, wore a dark suit, had a thin mustache and carried a small travel bag.
Marco still had a hand inside his jacket. “That’s me.”
The man pulled out an ID card from their own firm’s security detail. “Our headquarters received an odd telephone call from your wife, Mr. Benetti,” he reported quickly. “At least, they thought it was her. When we tried to call her back no one answered the phone.” He pulled out the car keys. “I’m supposed to relieve you — you can take the car.”
Marco turned pale. “Is something wrong with my daughter?”
“We don’t know. They thought it would be best for you to go and check on them … here.” He handed him the car keys.
“Go ahead,” McCaine told him when Marco still stood there uncertain what to do.
The pilot stuck his head out the window and pointed at his watch; it was time to leave.
“Yes, go ahead,” John told him. “We’ll manage.”
“Thank you,” Marco said and then moved quickly.
Later on, as they flew west over the Atlantic, John gestured for the newcomer in the security team to come over. “I would like to know what your name is,” he said.
The man looked at him with dead eyes like dark cold lava. “Foster,” he said, “my name is Foster.”
He left the car in a no parking zone. He had gone through red lights, ignored stop signs, and disregarded ev
ery speed limit in the city — nothing else mattered except speed. The house was an older building with six apartments located in Walton-on-Thames to the southwest of London. It looked so peaceful and tranquil that he shuddered.
He raced up the stairs, pulling the apartment keys from his pocket as he did. He unlocked the door, and then …
Karen stood in the hallway holding a baby bottle and a messy bib. “Marco?”
“Madre dios!” he exclaimed, literally deflating with relief, went to her and almost smothered her in his arms.
She was confused. “Hey, not so loud, she’s asleep. Let me put away the bib at least. Tell me, did I misunderstand something? Weren’t you supposed to be going to Mexico?”
Marco released her. “Did you call the headquarters?”
“The headquarters?”
He told her what had happened. “My baggage is on the way to Mexico now. I guess I’ll have to buy another razor.” He shook his head. “What made them think that you called?”
Karen shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. But I didn’t. I wanted to call Betty to ask her to come by for tea, but I couldn’t get through.”
“Couldn’t get through?” Marco went to the phone, took it in his hand and listened.
“The dial tone sounded odd this morning, by the way,” she told him skeptically.
Marco shook his head. “That’s no dial tone; the lines are down.” He put the phone down with a slow, thoughtful move. Naturally, it could be a coincidence, a misdirected call, a misunderstanding, overreaction or a problem with the lines. But he still had a nasty feeling.
$40,000,000,000,000
MEXICO CITY LOOKED like an endless ocean of concrete towers from up in the air, surrounded by mountains and volcanoes and covered with a brownish haze.
John was looking down at the homes of twenty million people — one of the world’s largest cities and an environmental disaster-in-waiting. There was no doubt it was an appropriate place to prepare for the next environmental summit. He closed the file, put it away and longed for his bed.
From the airport they went onward via helicopter, because, he had been told, there was no chance getting through by car. Rush hour, everyone said. Indeed, from above John saw nothing but vehicles lining every street as stationary as if they were parked. The roar of the helicopter’s turbine almost popped his eardrums.
They headed south, flying over the growing shadows of dusk. Just before they landed John recognized the famous library of the university and its giant mosaic, which he had seen pictures of in a travel brochure on the flight across the ocean. The talks would be held in the university, but a few days from now, after he had gotten over the jet lag.
Chris and Foster helped him out of the chopper. They got into the car and he thought that he had gone deaf.
The secure compound, where his living quarters would be, seemed like a virtual Elysium surrounded by a high wall with palm trees and a manmade stream gurgling through it. There were rolls of barbed wire on top of the walls, and smiling guards with holstered revolvers, and very sophisticated electronic surveillance gear, made in the USA. All this to ensure that none of the residents would be bothered or get in any danger.
A young man in a light suit went ahead to show John his apartment. John saw the clear water flowing along beside them and remembered reading in a brochure how the city suffered from constant water shortages. Mexico City was situated at two thousand meters altitude, and even oxygen was sometimes scarce.
The apartment was modern and austere. It was large, with white walls and a lot of metal and glass. The sparse pieces of fine colonial style furniture underlined the spaciousness of the rooms — it was a dream.
“Where is the bedroom?” John wanted to know.
Chris placed the travel bag containing the bare necessities on top of a low chest of drawers. “Do you need anything, sir?”
“Sleep,” he said.
“I understand. Good night, sir.” He closed the doors from the outside.
John collapsed onto the bed feeling as if he hadn’t just flown to a city in another time zone but also one where gravity was stronger than he was used to. He would hardly be able to get back up today. He knew he would fall asleep in his suit and look terrible tomorrow.
The phone rang. I’m asleep.
But it wouldn’t stop. He finally rolled over and picked up. “Yes?”
“This is Foster, Mr. Fontanelli.” The bodyguard’s voice sounded far away. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but maybe it is important…”
“Go ahead and tell me,” John mumbled.
“I’m in the guard house by the gateway,” he said, “and there is a young lady here. She said her name is Ursula Valen…”
“What?” It was like an electric shock. The sound of her name was a shot of pure adrenaline. Automatically he quickly stood up. Ursula? How in the world did she get here to Mexico? And then to be right here this very evening? How could she have known …?
“Are you coming down, sir?”
“Yes!” John bellowed into the phone. “Yes, I’m coming down! One moment, I’m on my way.” Ursula? Here? Unbelievable, simply unbelievable. He slammed the phone down and ran. He pushed the doors open and hurried across the cool, smooth marble floor, almost flew down the stairs, ran along the serpentine pathway between the palm trees and bushes, everything illuminated and peaceful.
When he got to the portal, Foster was standing out on the street with a puzzled expression on his face. “Now that is really odd …” he murmured, his hands on his hips.
“What? Where is she?” John gasped. He felt a stroke of shock go through him at the thought that it might all be just a dream.
Foster was looking down the road indecisively and rubbed his nose. “She just disappeared. I told her you were coming and then…”
“Disappeared? Where?”
“Down there, around the corner,” the bodyguard said and pointed along the compound wall, up ahead to an intersection with a small side street with a few cars on it.
John darted off. “Sir, don’t …!” he heard the man calling after him, but somehow everything else seemed so unimportant. The only thing that mattered was catching up with her. He ran downhill, his legs pumping by their own accord; he was going to make it. The exhaust-filled air burned his eyes and choked him, but he kept running. He reached the end of the high wall, went around the corner, and saw a woman at the end of a small alley. He shouted, “Ursula!”
A blow to his head made the woman and the city and everything around him disappear.
McCaine woke up from the phone ringing on his nightstand. It was the telephone meant only for dire emergencies. He sat up and switched the light on. Three minutes before five. His alarm would have woke him in a few minutes anyhow. “They sure took their time,” he mumbled, cleared his throat and answered. “McCaine.”
“Chris O’Hanlon here, sir,” a voice said breathlessly. “Sir, something happened. We, uh, we lost Mr. Fontanelli.”
McCaine raised his eyebrows. An interesting way to put it, if you liked. “Could you tell me exactly what you mean by this?”
The man was obviously upset. “It was like this … well, Foster had the first watch at the gates and I took my turn to get a few hours sleep. I only woke up when the car came from the airport with the documents and the rest of the baggage, and that’s when he told me, he said it so matter-of-factly…”
“Told you what?”
“That Mr. Fontanelli came down and went out again after I had taken him to his apartment. He had told Foster that he wanted to go for a walk and that he had a meeting with someone from the university in a nearby restaurant…”
“Let me guess, he’s still not back.”
“Right, unfortunately, sir. And I could have sworn he would only drop on his bed from exhaustion, that’s how tired he looked …”
McCaine made a grunting noise. “Has that Foster ever thought about why secured living quarters exist?”
“I told him that already.
He’s feeling pretty bad, it seems he’s worried about his job and…”
“And for good reason,” McCaine said. “Keep this to yourself for now.”
“Yes, sir.” O’Hanlon swallowed hard. “My God, sir that would never have happened if Marco had been here.”
“Yes, I agree,” McCaine said. He took his appointment calendar from the stack of files that were, as usual, piled on the never used other side of his bed, and opened it. He did not have a single appointment today. He took the pen. “Calm down, Chris, and listen to me. This is what you are going to do …”
At first he had no idea what was going on. He felt only an awful throbbing pain in his head. Dazed, he touched the back of his head and felt dried blood. His fingers found a large bump that hurt when he touched it. This was not a good situation. A weird pressure weighted down his wrists; the sound of chains rattled whenever he moved. He finally managed to open his eyes and to see what it was: handcuffs.
“Great!” he uttered. Kidnapped!
He really had been kidnapped. He managed to sit up a bit even though his head felt as if it would split in two. He leaned against the wall with a groan. He looked around to see where he was.
He was in a cell. Bare brick walls all around. The only window was bricked shut except for a narrow slit left open at the top, glowing brightly from the dazzling sun outside, yet there was still only a dim light inside. In addition to the musty smell, the place also stank of body odor and excrement. It was a jail, no doubt. He estimated the cell to be about three paces wide and four long. He had to guess, because he could not move. His handcuffs were attached to a chain that was attached to a massive cast-iron pipe that ran from the floor up to the ceiling. He could only move within the immediate vicinity of the mattress he was sitting on. There was a bucket in one corner with a lid on it and a roll of toilet paper on top. Disgusted, John turned away and decided he would rather be constipated.
He had stumbled into a trap… like a damn idiot! He let out a sigh and felt like shaking his head, but didn’t due to the throbbing pain in his skull. Where did the kidnappers get Ursula’s name from? Odd. Maybe from the newspapers? It was possible that his brief intermezzo may have gone unnoticed in Germany, but he was a well-known person, and his private life was of interest to the public. The damn paparazzi were never there when you needed them, like right now.
One Trillion Dollars Page 60
