When the elevator door opened, two large men stepped out, talking to each other. Mike had no idea Cecelia could scream so loud or run so fast. She was out the front door and running up the street before he even realized what had happened. It took three blocks for him to catch up with her, and another twenty minutes to calm her down. They made their way through a nearby park, Mike trying to answer each nearly hysteric statement with a calming, soothing tone and a reassurance that she was all right, that things were going to be fine.
Suddenly, he realized that they were talking about the present, about what had just happened. Cecelia was scared, all right, but she was in the present, instead of locked inside herself or wandering in the past.
“Cecelia! Do you realize you’re talking to me about what you just saw?”
“Of course, you idiot, what else would I be talking about?”
Despite her words, he grinned. It was the first flash of the old Cecelia he’d seen since her rescue. He didn’t know how long it would last, but it gave him hope that Cecelia was coming back into possession of herself.
Mike walked her slowly back to the car and helped her inside. Not wanting to subject her to another traumatic experience, he decided to get her away from the city.
When they were crossing back over the Bay Bridge, he asked, “How would you like to visit Tony? This is the time of year when they prune the vines, and the drive should be beautiful. I know he would love to see you, too. He was calling the hospital almost every day. In his own way, I think Tony cares about you almost as much as I do.”
She just stared ahead.
That’s okay. I saw the real Cecelia, for just a second, back there. I know she’s still in there, somewhere.
______
Driving up the Silverado Trail, Tony was proudly sitting behind the wheel of his old Lincoln Continental convertible. Built before the war, the elegant car could be easily recognized by its unusual design and the external casing of the spare tire on the rear of the trunk. Mike sometimes thought Tony loved the Continental like a member of his family.
Tony was born to be a tour director. He was telling stories nonstop, chattering away to Cecelia and Jacques, who sat up front with him. The top of the car was down on this warm, sunny day. The four of them were all together, touring the Napa Valley and listening to Tony narrate his dreams, many of which Mike had heard before.
Tony was in his element, pointing out pieces of land he planned to purchase. He had given them a map marked with small, numbered dots used to index each parcel of interest.
Tony continued his running commentary. “Without their leaves, the trunks and limbs of the vineyards are clearly visible. They remind me of the cardiovascular system. Look at the dark brown soil, the green, rolling hills studded with California live oak trees, and the cloudless, blue sky. Don’t you think this is the kind of scene the impressionist painters were trying to capture?”
Cecelia didn’t say much, but she seemed interested in Tony’s stories and enchanted by the scenery; she was even the first one to hop out, when the car stopped, to stretch her legs and take in the view.
Noticing how well Cecelia was reacting to his stories, Tony decided to describe Claudine’s role in helping him when they had done the original research about each of the parcels. “She helped me collect so much information on our weekend field trips. You should have seen her. With that heavy survey instrument balanced on her shoulder, she hiked all over these hills like a mountain goat. It’s entirely possible that she was the most attractive pack animal that this land will ever see.”
Tony started to point out the different restaurants and bed and breakfasts that he and Claudine had frequented. Mike thought he heard a tinge of regret mixed with Tony’s nostalgia.
Eventually, they left that area and came upon Rutherford Hills, for which Tony had a whole new set of tales. “Someday, wines made from grapes grown in this region will be among the most acclaimed of all the California wines. Mark my words,” he said, “one day, in the not-so-distant future, cabernet sauvignon from this valley will sell for twenty-five dollars a bottle!”
“Come on, Tony, be realistic,” Mike said. “Do you realize how few of even the finest wines have ever sold for that kind of price?”
“That’s exactly my point. There will come a time when the very best wines produced here will be regarded as comparable to the world’s best. And that’s coming from someone who was born in Italy!”
Next, they drove on through Calistoga to St. Helena and Yountville—more dots and more stories.
When they entered Alexander Valley, Mike was amazed at how much larger it was than all the others. Tony began to explain how, unlike the Napa and Sonoma valleys, this valley ran from east to west. For grape-growing purposes, the experts had divided the valley into three separate zones, he told them: the valley floor, the foothills to the north, and the bench ground to the south. Tony explained how the unique air drainage patterns, microclimates, and soils distinguished one zone from another and how each section was specially suited for growing distinct varieties of grapes.
Suddenly, Jacques spoke up. “Wow, Tony, this place is really vast. This would be some hiding place. I mean, they could look for you for years and never find you, I’ll bet.”
“You don’t know how right you are, Jacques. Even if someone came snooping around, they would be noticed.” Traveling farther down the road, Tony continued, “Today this valley is mostly cattle country, but someday it will be as important as the developed wine regions, even in Europe. You’ll note that there aren’t any dots here on the map.”
Turning south into the Sonoma Valley, they drove toward Healdsburg. “Lots of dots here,” Mike noted, leaning forward to look at the map Tony had just handed to Cecelia.
“About thirty percent of our proposed acreage is located in the Sonoma Valley, fifty percent in the Napa Valley, and the remaining twenty percent in the Russian River Valley and Carneros region,” Tony said. They turned west and gradually made their way toward the Dry Creek Reservoir and the small river resort town of Rio Nido. From there, Tony turned on to a highway marked “River Road.” They followed the Russian River Valley eastward. “There’s something I want to show Cecelia,” Tony said. Almost immediately they were suddenly surrounded by giant redwoods. Cecelia’s eyes gazed up at them in wonder.
“No matter how many times I’ve driven through here,” Tony said, turning to look at her, “I’m always impressed by these ancient trees. I hope the federal government has the sense to protect them from any further logging. These redwoods certainly should be considered an endangered species.”
It was one-thirty when they stopped at the Washoe House, an old bar and restaurant, long one of Tony’s favorites. Upon entering, they were greeted by the intoxicating aromas coming from the kitchen. Mike, however, was more interested in what he saw on the ceiling.
“What on earth is all that?” he asked, staring up at the ceiling, which was covered with dollar bills.
“If you’re going to eat here, you have to give me a dollar,” said a voice from behind the bar.
Tony nodded his head, encouraging Mike to do as he was told. He walked over to the bartender, handed him a dollar bill, then watched as he took a fifty-cent coin from the cash register, placed the flat side of a tack against it, and carefully wrapped the bill around the coin with the sharp point of the tack sticking out. With a quick flick of his wrist, he threw the whole thing up toward the ceiling. The tack and the dollar bill stuck there, and the coin dropped down toward the bar. The bartender snatched it in midair and dropped it into the open cash register.
Mike and Jacques clapped their hands in appreciation and astonishment. Amazingly, so did Cecelia.
“Thank you, thank you.” The man bowed as if he were quite the magician. He then gave them a friendly smile and said, “Each year, just before Christmas, we take the money down and give it to the local boys’ home. Thank you for your contribution.”
After a leisurely lunch, the foursome he
aded east, passing through the Carneros region, the last area marked on Tony’s map.
“This region is particularly well suited for growing the kind of grapes that make good champagne. Someday, the champagnes produced here will compete with the ones produced in France, mark my words.”
“Didn’t you say the same thing about the cabernet?” Mike laughed.
______
By the time they reached Tony’s ranch, the sun had begun to set. Cecelia was tired and went to the guest room to take a nap. Mike and Jacques followed Tony into his office. The walls were covered with topographical maps of each of the areas that they had just driven through. The maps were riddled with numbered pins, corresponding to the numbered dots on the diagrams they’d been using.
Moving over to an open walk-in safe, Tony pointed inside to the file cabinets neatly arranged along both walls.
“Each number refers to a file, and each file contains all the information about each parcel marked on the maps. I’ve been collecting and updating this information ever since I was at Davis,” he said, managing to sound both proud and exhausted.
Mike let out a low whistle, obviously impressed. “Tony, this has to be the finest data bank on Northern California’s vineyard land in existence. How do you find the time to upgrade the information and keep everything current?”
“That’s what a bachelor does, way out here in the country.”
“Well, Tony,” Jacques said, putting a hand on his shoulder, “it’s about time we discussed the details of your proposed plan.
“I must say, I’ve been impressed with the boldness of your ideas ever since Mike first presented your investment summary to me. Before we get into the details, I need to ask you a question. Developing five thousand acres of grapes is an enormous undertaking. Are you certain that it’s what you really want to do? Your plan represents an enormous commitment. I’m curious why you are so certain that it’s the right thing for you.”
Tony smiled. “Ever since our Berkeley days, I couldn’t help but notice how similar our thoughts were regarding the spread of fascism and how different each of our interests were. Just look at the different paths our lives have taken since graduation. Ian is doing his thing in London. Claudine has introduced a new global system of wealth transfer. Cecelia has been helping people threatened by the Japanese. You two have become recognized experts in gold transfer and currency exchange, and I would like to think that I have been making progress in developing a new premium wine business here in Northern California. I find it interesting that each of us has developed the means, when combined, to pursue our original objective.
“Developing vineyards into an income-producing and appreciating capital asset to support your efforts just happens to be my contribution.
“The addition of twenty-five million dollars’ worth of Sentinel land to my family’s holdings will put the American wine industry on the world map.”
“Tony, let me ask you something,” Mike said. “In your opinion, how many acres of vineyards can be put into production without upsetting the market or creating unwanted attention?”
“I’d have to do some calculations, but off the top of my head, I would guess not more than five hundred acres a year. If we buy this five-thousand-acre package,” Tony pointed to a place on the map, “we will be acquiring about a ten-year supply of land. Each year, we should be able to establish approximately one hundred acres of vineyards in each of the five regions that I showed you.
“At that rate,” Tony concluded, “we could maintain a good balance between varieties, not oversupply the market, and not overburden the management team I’ve been developing—all without drawing too much attention to ourselves. After all, we’re not exactly newcomers to the business.”
Making certain that he had Tony’s complete attention, Mike asked, “But why so much? Couldn’t you accomplish what you want to do and take a smaller bite?” He paused, looking his friend straight in the eye. “Your optimism aside, how do you know that there will be a market for so much premium-quality wine?”
“It depends on how fast the postwar market in America develops a taste for good wines, similar to the prewar markets in Europe,” Tony said. “Prior to the war, the yearly consumption of these wines in England, Italy, France, and Germany was approximately twenty gallons per capita. Consumption of wine in the United States is less than one gallon per person. When the war is won, a lot of people believe life in America will become increasingly concentrated in the cities, similar to Europe. As the urbanization of America occurs, the experts believe that national wine consumption will increase. If American consumption increases to just one-fifth of prewar European levels, or five gallons per capita over the next ten years, the demand for premium wine could be enormous. According to my calculations it will take a minimum of five thousand acres of fully producing vineyards to supply only five percent of the needs of a national market. I don’t think our biggest problem will be adequate demand; it will be creating an adequate supply.”
“Tony, what’s so important about supplying a national market? Wouldn’t the penetration of a limited number of regional markets suffice—and be less risky?”
“I think the distribution of food and alcohol is going to evolve into a business dominated by stores with multiple locations across the country—like a chain, you might say. Since the promotion and consumption of premium wine requires reliable consistency of carefully developed taste, only wineries capable of supplying a national market will be able to compete.”
“You’re talking about a very capital-intensive business,” Mike said, suddenly sounding like his father. “How did you arrive at an investment of approximately five thousand dollars per acre as a requirement to pay for all the costs, including the construction of a modern wine-making facility?”
“The time required to convert new production into properly aged wine ranges from three to seven years, depending upon the variety,” Tony said. “According to my calculations, I believe it will take seven to ten years before the revenues from the sale of Sentinel wines are adequate to show a profit and cover the annual costs of continued development. My best guess is twenty-five million dollars.
“And, in an unproven market like the one for American premium wines, the problems of organizing such a large amount of capital should protect us from competition, at least for the first few years. And with that kind of lead time, we should be able to establish ourselves as the industry leader.”
“You really have thought this through,” Jacques said. “Now I understand how you could absorb twenty-five million dollars without it being noticeable. But I have another question. Can you organize the operation so that the identity of the owners remains anonymous?”
“Are you serious?” Tony grinned. “In California, the title of land ownership can rest with a company of undisclosed shareholders. To be really careful, specially structured trusts should be organized.”
Tony grinned, clearly proud of the way he had answered their questions with such apparent ease. Jacques found himself wishing that Claudine were there to enjoy the moment with them.
There was a knock at Tony’s front door.
“Funny, I wasn’t expecting anyone,” he said, exchanging concerned looks with Mike.
Tony walked to the front door and swung it open.
“Dr. Tom? What are you doing here?”
______
“Thank God you’re all safe,” Dr. Tom said. After a brief exchange of greetings and inquiries about Cecelia’s condition, he revealed the reason for his unexpected visit.
“A few days ago, I received an important message for all of you. When Mike missed our appointment awhile ago, I got worried. I didn’t know how to get in touch with the rest of you, so I decided to hand deliver it. I hope you don’t mind my unexpected call.”
“What could be so important to cause you to drive clear up here?” Tony asked.
“This,” said Dr. Tom, pulling Karl’s telegram from his pocket. The creases were already well worn,
as if it had been read, folded, and reread numerous times.
Jacques read the note out loud, including its warning about Samson. “Tony,” he said, “it appears that we have something new to discuss. Why don’t you pour us some of your best wine? In fact, this could take some time—maybe you’d better bring a few bottles.”
______
The three young men took their former mentor into their total confidence, telling Dr. Tom everything, from the inception of the duplicate bond idea to what they intended to do with the money.
“I thought we’d have more time,” Mike said, shaking his head. “They’re already looking for us.”
Dr. Tom sat stunned for a few minutes, looking at the faces around him at the table. “What you did was brave, and believe me, I couldn’t be any prouder of all of you. But I think you should take Karl’s warning very seriously.”
“Dr. Tom is right,” said a voice from the doorway. They had been so immersed in their conversation that nobody had noticed Cecelia standing there, listening to them. They stared at her as if she had just risen from the dead.
“I think I’m the resident expert here on this Samson organization, and I say, if the Japanese were able to hire them, the Germans could, too.”
“Cecelia!” Mike said, knocking over his chair in his haste to run to her and hug her. It was his Cecelia who spoke, the one he had loved for so long. It was so good to hear her speak naturally that he didn’t even care about the danger her words implied.
“Do you have any way of getting in touch with Ian?” Dr. Tom asked. “I assume that if Karl knows what’s happening, Claudine is aware of her danger.”
“I’m headed to London the day after tomorrow,” Jacques said. “If I can’t reach him in the meantime, I’ll be able to warn him in person.”
Dr. Tom explained his use of the bank courier system. “It’s been working pretty well, even during the war.”
The Sentinels: Fortunes of War Page 15
