Ursula Valens was still speechless. She ate her salad with fried chicken breast and watched van Delft write notes, serve customers, and work the cash register, as if he’d been doing it for years. And all the while a thousand questions were running through her head. Until they all came down to one; “Why?”
He told her, “Officially, it was due to internal restructuring.” He paused for a moment to make it clear this was not the whole story and especially not the truth. “They fired one guy for taking a handful of pens home for his kids; they were ad gifts that cost thirty pfennigs a piece. Theft, it’s called. They practically spied on him until they found a reason to fire him. I mean, the same thing could’ve happened to me too, so I was actually lucky.”
“But who can be crazy enough to fire someone with years of…”
“I could quote Hamlet now, but I won’t. You knew that Grüner und Jahr now belongs, like almost half this planet, to the conglomerate owned by your friendly environmentalist and young trillion dollar heir, right? Well, I was cheeky enough to think that I could get round the censorship imposed on us since the takeover”
“Censorship?”
“Of course no one rings from London to say you may or may not print this or that. Perhaps only Goebbels could’ve been so heavy-handed, or Randolph Hearst, but these days? No, when you want to keep things secret then you fill the empty spaces in the papers with something else, preferably with petty gossip, trivial rubbish about celebrities, and try to justify it by saying ‘that’s what people want to read’. And you have to print what the people want to read, otherwise you’ll lose sales and readers and advertisements and go under in the sea of competition. What happens? Well, no one will know that there is this war in Africa, or about the famine, or care about political opinion.” He shoved his glass around the marble tabletop a bit. “Everyone knows what stories the people upstairs think bring in sales and ads, and which stories don’t. And when someone gets fired, there is always a good neutral reason, redundancy, some faux pas, any old thing. But everyone knows that the main reason someone gets sacked is because they’ve displeased London.”
Ursula watched the man with the reddish-blond hair. Van Delft had gained quite some weight since she last saw him, and he didn’t look as healthy anymore either. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to believe that things were as bad as he said.
Van Delft looked at her too. “Sounds paranoid to you? Like a loser’s excuse?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “What did you do?”
“I printed a report about the catastrophic conditions in a Bulgarian chemical plant that belongs to the Fontanelli group. It was an ugly contrast to the chorus of praise concerning their environmental activism and recycling concepts. The report was four pages long with seven color photographs. A week later there were talks about a restructuring and by month’s end I was on the street. I got compensated, sure, but at my age it still means over and out for my career.”
“But all this stinks … badly!”
“Of course. It’s supposed to. Can you imagine how careful the other employees are now, those with kids in college and mortgages to pay? This is terror by truest definition of the word. Terror, wrapped in silken lies about sales pressure and efficiency drives.” Van Delft looked at his glass, lifted it to his lips and downed the water. “Enough crying. What about you? What brings you to Hamburg? How is school?”
Still thinking about his story, she told him all there was to be told. Now it was his turn to look flabbergasted.
“For God’s sake, Ursula, you wanted to get your doctorate. Didn’t you want to evaluate the Vacchi archives and re-write the economic history of the past five hundred years?”
“Yes, I did.” She brushed her hair back from her face and gathered it but it was useless without a hairpin. “Little girl’s dreams. I wrote resumes and did bookkeeping instead. I could tell you more about Ethernet cables than you would ever want to know.”
He really appeared concerned. “But that was your dream, your vision. You said the archive in Florence was heaven-sent …”
Ursula Valen stared at her glass and saw the windows of the bistro reflected it. “Heaven-sent. Yes, back then I thought so.”
Cristoforo had contacted her off and on afterwards, wanting to know how she was doing. He never attempted to force her into anything. He just stopped calling one day.
“And now? I mean, that’s over, but what’s keeping you from getting your doctorate?”
“Debts, for a start, I have to earn money. And besides, who am I? One of the countless women who have masters degrees without doing anything with them.”
“You are the woman that got access to the Vacchi archives.”
“I still would like to know how.” She stared into space, reflected back, saw in her mind the narrow rows of account books, the smell of dust and leather, the testament under glass … She dismissed the thoughts. “No, that chapter is closed.”
Van Delft wanted to reply, but simply looked at her pensively, and said: “You know what’s best.”
For a short while they watched the passersby out on the street, and then Ursula asked in a soft voice without looking at van Delft: “Has he really got so powerful? Fontanelli, I mean.”
“That’s what’s being said. I don’t know anything about the financial world. But once in a while I see Jo Jenner from the economics section, maybe you remember him. He was always dressed so fancy with fifties-style eyeglasses…“
“Yes, I think I know who you’re talking about. He was always a little pale.”
“He gets even paler when Fontanelli is brought up. He says one can’t believe what a giant he had become. He says the trillion dollars were like an explosive, enough to blow up a whole block. But Fontanelli subdivided the explosives into little packages and placed them at strategic places. Now he could blow up the whole world with a single push of a button … theoretically speaking.”
“We have to do something about it,” John said and shoved the tray away. He had grilled turkey with salad, but he barely took a bite. The plate would be taken away and washed. The dishwashing liquid would bind the fats and be washed down into the sewage system. It would flow on to the sewage treatment plant, and from there John wasn’t sure what would happen next. At any rate, he had had no appetite since Collins’ presentation.
“Basically, you are right,” McCaine nodded while chewing. “But first, we have to know what.”
Collins had returned to his institute with a gigantic set of objectives in his briefcase and the assurance he’d get enough money for ten times as many new computers. They would be run day and night to calculate billions of combinations. Although his whole team would be working to exhaustion, it would take at least three months for results to come through. There could be not even the most basic idea of an effective strategy until then.
John hadn’t sleep well since Collins’ lecture, and he was plagued by nervous hyperactivity during the daytime. He could barely settle to read the papers, and in the evening he felt like getting drunk. “For two years now,” he said, cracking his knuckles, “we have done nothing but buy up companies. But the only real environmental contribution we made was to print forms on a few thousand tons of recycled paper instead of normal paper. This was never what it’s all about, was it?”
McCaine nodded. “That’s right. That’s not what it’s about.”
“It’s about our future on earth, right? But if you listen to what the professor says then it’s over. There is no future. It’s only a matter of time until we face catastrophe.”
“If nothing is done.”
“But what should be done?”
“He’s working on that.”
“And then? Will we be able to act? Are we powerful enough? Do we even have power? Can we really do something about it? Tell me.”
McCaine held the fork and considered John’s points, contemplating. “We have power,” he said in an easy tone. “Of course we have power.”
“But what sor
t of power? Will armies march if we order them to? Can we have people arrested? All we can do is fire people.”
“You don’t really want that … armies, I mean.”
“I only want to know what kind of influence we have.”
“I see.” McCaine went back to eating. He sawed off a piece of grilled meat, shoved it between his teeth and chewed. “I see,” he said again. “All right, it won’t be a bad idea to show some teeth. We will take the necessary steps.”
“All of Asia has a population problem,” McCaine explained, standing in his office in front of a large map of the world. “China is fighting it, remarkably effectively. India is trying to do something, though their results are meager. The Philippines are hopeless. Here, the Roman Catholic Church has strong influence, and it forbids any sort of contraceptives, and their machismo men are determined to have as many sons as possible. As a result their population is growing like crazy.” He tapped on the cluster of islands that made up the country. “So that’s where we start.”
John crossed his arms. “I suppose by starting a major ad campaign for our products, seeing that we’re the world’s largest manufacturer of condoms and the pill.”
“Too expensive, too much effort, too slow, too useless. Do you remember what I told you about the IMF? That is our leverage. We’ll apply financial pressure with a combined speculative attack on the national currencies of Southeast Asian countries like Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, the Philippines, and some others. The IMF will have to step in to give financial aid and one of the prerequisites will be massive birth-control measures.”
“Are you sure?”
“You yourself will fly to Washington and tell the president of the IMF that this is what you want before you stop our financial assault.” McCaine grinned maliciously. “Camdessus himself has six kids; I’m sure he doesn’t care much about birth control. We’ll have to apply massive pressure.”
John stared at the world map and tried not to let McCaine notice his apprehension. Me go to Washington? What had he got himself into?! “And,” he asked with a dry mouth, “what sort of financial attacks are we talking about?”
“Practically all currencies in this area are bound to the US dollar so they are overvalued since the dollar went up. This minimizes their chances of exporting goods. But the governments and companies there have large outstanding loans in US dollars that would be difficult to repay if their currencies fall against the dollar. To protect themselves, they have been buying dollars. What we will do is buy large numbers of futures options on the dollar against their local currencies with a one to two month option.” He picked up a thin folder with a memorandum that had the Fontanelli logo on the upper left and a red line going across the front from one corner to the other, which marked it as containing confidential information. He held it up. “Our analysts have calculated everything already. Once we reach a critical number, then their central banks will be forced to decouple their currencies from the dollar, and they will drop in value, at which point we buy them for less than we sold them for. George Soros did something similar with the British pound and sent the European monetary system into turmoil. It’s a safe business that will not only open IMF’s ears to our demands, but will bring in fat profits.”
John took the memorandum, leafed through it and looked at the photos and calculations in it. He wondered how long McCaine had been planning this. Or was their analytical department continuously working on plans like this? Perhaps. “And what if the IMF remains deaf?”
“It won’t. It will have to step in and give loans ourselves … for an amount of at least ten billion. It will be called an aid program in the news, or emergency aid. But when you take a closer look, all those billions will flow into our coffers instead, and those of whoever jumps on the bandwagon with us. The IMF will have to listen to us — otherwise we will simply suck them dry.”
Unbelievable. John felt a feeling of absolute power suffuse his body. So they did have power. Money was the greatest power on earth. But their victory still had one element to tarnish it. “But if it works, then only because those countries get into financial trouble, right? That’s what we’re depending on?”
“No.” McCaine shook his head. “If we are willing to lose a few billion dollars, we could do this with almost any country in the world, regardless of its financial situation.”
The blemish was gone. John read the last page of the plan and studied the numbers. All figures in billions, it said above the numbers … large numbers. “Are you sure we have enough money for this?”
McCaine took the file from John’s hand with an impertinent grin and threw it on his desk. “No one said that it all had to be done with our funds. No, we’ll only fire the first shot. I will fly to Zurich later on to have a talk with the Bankverein. The noble gentlemen there are very willing and able to invest large sums for our purpose — very large sums even. If I’m able to make them comply with our requirements, then the dance can begin. And I will get them to, not to worry.”
John listened and had a light feeling, so light he almost floated. “That sounds good.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then give the word, and it will come to pass.”
John looked at McCaine, scrutinized the dark expectant eyes that seemed filled with boundless energy, ready to go out into the world and do whatever was needed for the prophecy. He took a deep breath, tried to get a feel for the moment. If this were a film, there would be dramatic music playing now, but this was no movie, this was reality. And he said, “Let’s go.”
McCaine nodded, pressed the button on the intercom, and said: “Set up the appointment for Zurich. This evening, and tell the pilots.” He released the button and smiled. “We’re on our way.”
There was an odd silence in which no one said a word.
“Ahem,” John said. “Is that it?”
McCaine nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. Then, ah, I wish you success and…”
“Thank you. Don’t worry.”
“I won’t.” John looked away, feeling awkward and out of place, but McCaine appeared keen to be left alone, to get back to his files. “We’ll see each other tomorrow?”
“I should imagine so, yes.”
“Well, then have a good flight.”
“Thank you.” As John was leaving, McCaine said, “Oh, there is one more thing that we should take care of.”
John turned around. “What?”
“I’ve meant to talk to you about it for some time now, but you’ve noticed the many problems lately …”
John came back to the desk slowly. McCaine was leaning back with his arms crossed and rubbed his nose with a hand. “Yes? What is it?” John asked. He must’ve missed something that McCaine was hinting at.
McCaine gazed at him. “The people at the Bankverein asked me a question, a question that we should have asked ourselves a long time ago.”
“And that would be?”
“What will happen to Fontanelli Enterprises if you should die?”
John stared at the large man sitting behind the large desk and his mind went blank. Like he couldn’t believe what subject they got to now. “Die?” he heard himself say. “Why should I die?”
“They are bankers, John, and bankers want guarantees.”
“I’m fulfilling a prophecy — God’s will. He won’t let me die until I’m done with it.”
“I’m afraid,” McCaine said with raised eyebrows, “bankers from Zurich aren’t God-fearing enough to see the logic in that.” He flicked a hand as though batting away an annoying fly. “You must understand these people, John. If they invest on our advice, then they want assurances that our aims will be carried out in full. They don’t want you to die and your parents to get everything and donate the money to the Red Cross. Do you understand? And I understand them in this regard. And it doesn’t matter if their worries are sound or not, they worry, and their worries are a problem for us. They can get in the way of t
he plan.”
John chewed on his lips. “So, what do you suggest we do?” he asked.
“A long-term solution is that you find a woman to marry and have children. Then we can point out that there are legitimate heirs who have been raised and educated properly and will be capable of stepping in to take the helm of the company.” McCaine lifted his hands and held them out like a fisherman showing how big his catch was. “But, as I’ve said, that is a long-term solution. It’ll take a few years to come to fruition. I should have another solution at hand when I meet them this evening.”
John still thought he was dreaming. “Nobody has mentioned anything like this before.”
“So far we have been dealing with relatively poor people, in a manner of speaking. These are bankers, John, men who together have more money than you. You don’t have enough to match what they are willing to loan us even if you sell everything. Other people’s money, John. I told you that this is the key.”
John nodded. “Yeah, sure, but I’m not sure I can get hold of a wife and child by this evening,” he said, suddenly worried that McCaine might already have planned something of the sort… a lightning wedding and adopted child, for instance.
McCaine shook his head. “You don’t need a wife and kid now, you need an heir, and to get that is quicker and easier.” He pulled out a sheet of paper from his drawer, took a pen, and shoved both towards John. “Write out a will and make me your heir.”
“You?”
“Stop!” McCaine said, raising both hands. “I don’t want you to misunderstand me. It’s only something for me to show the Bankverein, and since you know me it will be relatively plausible and convincing to name me your heir.”
John stared at the paper and then the pen. Slowly, he asked, “Is this … another test? A lesson in power?”
“That’s a good question. The answer is no. You don’t need to do this. I could try to convince the Bankverein another way, although I don’t know how.” McCaine put his hands on the desk with the palms facing up. “It would help us very much.”
One Trillion Dollars Page 41