During dinner they discussed what she had come across, the riddle the Vacchis had known about for some time.
“If you take into consideration that the assets the super rich Medici possessed during their heyday weren’t much more than four hundred thousand florins,” Cristoforo Vacchi said while he blotted his lips with a thick, starched napkin, “then you realize that three hundred florins was quite a nice fortune back then. But less nice, of course, if you had debts equal to this sum.”
“Giacomo Fontanelli was a candidate for the debtor’s tower,” Alberto threw in, handling his knife and fork. He meant the usual European way of punishing those who could not repay their debts; imprisonment in one of the towers of the town walls.
The Padrone took his wineglass and sipped. “At the very least he got himself into quite a tight corner.”
Ursula asked, “Was it possible that he accumulated reserves over the years that were not notated in the books? Then the last page would be a summary of the total debts to be repaid. I can imagine that he took care of his worldly business before he retreated into the monastery.”
“In principle, yes,” Gregorio said thin-lipped, though he appeared to disagree with the idea. “But, according to his records there are no indications how he could’ve accumulated such reserves. Business just wasn’t doing well enough, to put it bluntly.”
Ursula put her fork down and looked at the three men. “And this never aroused any suspicion? Never made you doubt your mission? Not knowing where the fortune originally came from?”
No one said anything. They only glanced at each other. Cristoforo also put down his fork and knife and folded his hands on the table behind the plate and said: “To understand this, Miss Valen, you must know that we have not been in possession of Giacomo Fontanelli’s books for all that long. We acquired them when I was a child before the outbreak of World War Two, and back then no one had the time to study them. To be honest, we found out what you discovered only a few decades ago.”
“A few decades?” Ursula echoed in surprise. When they drove here from the train station, it had sounded as if the Vacchi family had been wondering for centuries about this. “How come? I mean, where were the tomes kept for centuries?”
“In the Monastery of St. Stephanus.”
“Fontanelli’s monastery?”
“Right. It used to be a small monastery in the foothills of the Apennines. If you leave Florence and head towards Forli you pass by the ruins. It had been abandoned in 1890, and was empty until Mussolini used it as an ammunition dump. It was blown up just before the war ended, apparently in an air raid.”
“And the books?”
“As far as we know, they had been brought to Rome along with other documents when the monastery was abandoned. They must’ve been stored there for several decades until someone got the idea to hand the account books over to our family.”
“And who was that?”
Cristoforo shrugged his shoulders tiredly. “I’m sorry, but as I said I was a child.”
“Hmm, you said there were other documents…”
“My father told me about them once, but he didn’t know what kind they were or where they were kept.”
“But they might be of interest.” She felt a surge of adrenalin. “Don’t you think?”
He awoke because the sun was shining on his nose and made it itch. He looked out the window. The clouds below were a magnificent sight, and so was the dark-blue sky above. He glanced at his watch. Not much longer to go. He could hear the bodyguards talking in low voices further back, but he could not understand what they were saying because of the steady noise of the engines. Probably just chit-chat. He would have never even dreamed that a part of fulfilling the prophecy would involve pretending to be a playboy with some hired supermodel. How ridiculous. How embarrassing if the truth should ever come out.
The landing was like all the others, and the airport also looked like all the others. They taxied to their designated security area, and as usual a limousine was waiting for him. It was a long white one and it looked like a Cadillac, but it wasn’t. Not that it mattered. At any rate, he had flown so often during the past two years that he started to worry about being overexposed to radiation. It would be good to stay on the ground for a few weeks. To hell with the reporters!
During the drive he only glanced out briefly. The air-conditioner was on full blast and Manila looked like any other large city, even when viewed from a luxury car. There were the usual high-rises, wide streets, far too many people, and gaudy advertisements, similar to those in LA. There were workers paving streets in the heat or jack hammering concrete.
“The harbor,” Marco said as they left the main road to drive down another wide street full of potholes.
John was surprised how pleased he was to see his yacht again. It looked magnificent, a large gleaming white symbol of luxurious living. It had been two years since he was last aboard. While he sat in his office day in and day out pretending to understand business matters, he had sent it sailing around the globe without him, to keep things in working order and to keep the crew on their toes. What a waste!
Captain Broussard stood by the railing next to the bridge and waved to him. John waved back. Just as he was about to set foot on deck, he noticed something approaching with quick steps, something colorful and swirly, and before he knew what it was a slim scantily dressed woman took a hold of him and kissed him passionately. Long and hard.
John was stiff and defensive at first, but then he began to enjoy it … really. He embraced her too and felt soft, hot skin underneath aromatic cloth, smelled her hair, and felt a definite reaction of a certain body part …
Patricia DeBeers released her embrace and stepped back, as if she needed to take a long hard look at him after a prolonged absence. She looked good, far better than he remembered. Her figure was perfect, as was her face, she was the embodiment of female beauty, and the tropical sun made everything look even better. Maybe the trip would be more fun than he had imagined.
She took his hand and said, “Come,” and pulled him after her to the afterdeck, laughing and acting giddy as a schoolgirl, and then they went through the glass door to the salon. Inside, she released him, closed the door, and then stopped three paces away from him with her arms crossed. “This was the job I’m here to do as I understand it. Are you satisfied?”
“Huh?” John said. Her voice had the same effect as a bucket of ice water, and then he understood. “Oh, yeah, sure … uh-huh … ahem, very realistic … absolutely.” It was all a show, of course, according to plan. Maybe there was even a screenplay they were supposed to go by during the next few weeks.
“Great. I like it when customers are satisfied.” She didn’t sound like she meant what she said. And it didn’t look like it either. She stood there with a sour expression and seemed disgusted with herself.
John made a clumsy gesture with a hand. He wanted to do something to calm her down. “Grand performance,” he said. “Like I said.”
She turned and looked out the window, at the bright blue ocean, and the forest of ships’ masts. She stood there for a while without saying anything; just stood there like a live calendar photo. “Do you know what I feel like, Mr. Fontanelli?” she finally asked her voice full of distain. “Can you guess?”
He suspected it had to do with how and why she was hired. He knew it without her having to tell him. “Listen…”
“No, you listen. You might be the wealthiest man on God’s green Earth, but this doesn’t give you the right to treat me like dirt. Okay, so I modeled for the Gaea prize. I happen to be a model, and I model for all sorts of things. But this doesn’t make me into a whore. Do you understand? You can rent my time, you can rent my looks for your purposes … that was the deal, and I will play along. I’m a pro. But you cannot buy my affection, Mr. John Fontanelli, mister one trillion dollars. I’m a model, but I’m a woman first. Do you understand? A woman.”
“Yes, I see that … Sorry, I meant to say I know …
that you’re a woman. It wasn’t my…”
She blinked as if she was fighting back tears. “Couldn’t you have thought of something else? Is that how one gets when one is rich? You think everything has to be done with money?”
“No, you don’t understand…”
“You could’ve simply asked me. Just ask, like a person simply asks another person. A man can ask a woman if she wants to be with him, even if it’s only for a short time, for a vacation, for a few weeks. Sure, she can say no, but you have to take the risk. Otherwise it’s worth nothing when she agrees, don’t you understand that?”
John looked at her helplessly. McCaine had done a number on him again. “Yes,” he told her. “I understand.”
She looked at him and shook her head letting her luxurious hair move like waves of wheat. “No, you don’t understand. You simply hired me. You’re paying for me. That’s why it’s not worth anything that I agreed … nothing.” She went off, down the dark hallway without turning on the lights. John heard a door closing — he sighed.
A steward appeared from somewhere with a phone. “For you, sir.”
It was McCaine. “The captain told me that you’d arrived. He said the first show already took place and that at least ten photographers witnessed it. Shall I send you copies of the papers as soon as you’re on the front pages?”
“Please don’t,” John croaked and fell into an easy chair. This trip would be worse than he had imagined.
“All right, then I won’t. Here some more details for the trip. You will start the cruise as soon as your baggage is on board. You will anchor in a small harbor in a bay further south. Tomorrow a representative of the Philippine government will come on board. He will accompany you, serving as an interpreter and will show you the most beautiful places of the thousand islands.”
“And where the reporters will be allowed to find us, I assume?”
“You just don’t worry about that. We have to let them work a little for their successes or else you won’t be interesting enough for them.” McCaine paused. “You sound depressed. Is something wrong?”
John leaned his head back against the soft cushion and stared at the patterns of the burl-wood paneling on the ceiling. He could see dragon’s heads and other make-believe images in his imagination. ”What? I’m doing just great.”
To offer the paparazzi something the program called for breakfast on top deck the next morning. The Prophecy was anchored near a small yacht harbor that was barely visited. They sat by the table on the sun deck in full view of anyone interested in taking a look. A canopy of blue sailcloth protected them from the sun, but not against the humidity that promised to get worse during the daytime.
“There are nineteen in total, Mr. Fontanelli, sir,” the steward told him barely moving his lips while he served coffee and fresh hot croissants.
“Nineteen what?” John asked irritated by the comment.
“Three in that gray Hyundai by the quay. Do you see? The man in the back seat has the largest telephoto lens I’ve ever seen.” He poured the coffee extra slow. Doubtlessly, the man had seen too many James Bond movies. “We have an excellent pair of binoculars on the bridge, and from up there you can scan the entire area without being seen. Do you see the large sailing yacht on the third pier from the outside, the one with the blue hull? One photographer sitting on the stern and two are…”
“All right already,” John said and took the cup. “Thank you. I don’t really need all the details.”
The steward seemed piqued. He remained silent as he finished setting the table until the appearance of Patricia made him forget everything else. He was so distracted by her that he spilled a few drops of coffee.
“What are you doing?” she ranted at the man.
“Excuse me, Miss DeBeers, please, I beg your pardon,” he uttered. “Of course I’ll get a fresh cup—“
“I should hope so, and today, if you don’t mind!”
“Today. Of course, Miss DeBeers.” He whooshed away.
Puzzled, John looked at her over the edge of his coffee cup while she sat down. As she had said yesterday, she was a pro. She was dressed in a scented morning robe, her hair tousled, but she still looked amazing. A casual observer could come to no other conclusion except that they had had a wonderful night of sex. No one on land watching them could hear her rough tone of voice.
“And — what are we going to do today?” she asked in a frosty tone but with a charming smile as she reached for a croissant.
John put down his cup. He thought he should make some attempt not to ruin the general impression. “I don’t know. A representative from the government is supposed to come later to guide us.”
“Oh, how exclusive.” She batted her eyes with exaggeration.
“Isn’t it?” Would they spit poison at each other like this for the next few weeks? What fun that would be!
“Last night,” she began to say, stopped, chewed, smiled, and then went on, “I read a guide about the Philippines. I got it from the ship’s library, can you imagine? It’s unbelievable what attractions they have here. You can take a rowboat along the underground river on the island of Palawan. There’s a giant cave system that hasn’t been fully explored yet. Doesn’t that sound exciting?”
“Hmm,” he said. “Sounds good.” He never even thought of reading a guidebook. Sometimes he had a feeling he was missing out on life, despite his wealth. Like right now for instance.
“Or the sulfur springs at the base of an extinct volcano, Mount Makiling, or something like that. That’s not far from here, maybe fifty miles. Tell me …” her voice went lower and sounded hopeful, “wouldn’t you like to go swimming in the sulfur springs?”
John stared at her. He wanted to reach for another croissant, but his hand forgot what he wanted it to do. “You’re not serious, are you?”
She pouted and pulled her feet up on the chair. He robe parted revealingly. “You could let me have some fun too,” she said suggestively. She turned her head to the stairs and shouted. “Where’s my cup, dammit?”
They were out of breath by the time they reached the fifth floor of the law firm; Ursula, because she was carrying a travel bag, and Alberto Vacchi, because he wasn’t as young as he used to be. His hands were shaking visibly as he unlocked the door.
“So,” he said still wheezing, “this is the apartment.”
Ursula squeezed past him and looked around. Nice. The ceilings were low, the walls were white stucco, the furniture from the last century, there was a fridge, a stove, and colorful bedding. The air smelled stale.
“It’s been awhile since the last person stayed here,” the lawyer apologized. He went over to the window and opened it wide. The city noises poured in banishing the feeling of timelessness she had felt when she stepped through the door. “Are you sure you want to stay here? It would be no problem to stay with us — the driver could…”
“You can close the window again,” Ursula said and put her bag on the bench in the tiny kitchen. “No thanks. It would be a waste to travel that distance every day. I’ll manage.”
Alberto closed the window again, and then he went looking through the cabinets. “Dishes, plenty of them … canned food.” He picked a can up and looked at the label with a raised head to put the lower part of the lens of his bifocal glasses to use. “Not even past its expiration date. That’s a surprise.”
Ursula opened the refrigerator door. It was turned on, but the only thing inside was a bottle of water.
“I can recommend some restaurants nearby where…”
Ursula shook her head. “I will fend for myself.”
The elder lawyer ran his fingers through his curly hair. “We should have thought about getting some groceries. Should I have some brought?”
“I’ll go shopping. I won’t need much; a few pani, some latte, a little verdura, e salame, vino rosso …”
“Bene. D’accordo.” He looked at his shoes thinking. “I will tell you the combination of the lock for the document room. I
t changes every month, but it’s still almost two weeks before the end of August. You’ll get keys … anything else?” He looked at her. “Oh yes, I’ll also notify the security service. They come by four times a day to check the house. They must know of your presence.” He thought for a moment, but could not think of anything else. He lifted a hand. “Si, that is all. There are phones everywhere here, so if you need anything, or if something is amiss, just call.”
“I will,” Ursula said with a nod. The elderly man with his dandy looking kerchief in the breast pocket looked almost touchingly concerned.
“What will you do?” he asked.
Ursula shrugged her shoulders. “Search. I’m good at that. Search until I find something.”
The government representative was a somewhat large Filipino. His name was Benigno Tatad and he was built like an Olympic swimmer. He greeted John kindly and told him that President Ramos personally sent his greetings. He appeared quite intimidated, as if wealth were something one had to drop on one’s knees before. When Patricia showed up he was totally caught off guard. With shaky hands he unrolled a map of the Philippines and suggested a course to set.
“Fairytale islands with lonely beaches,” he told them. He practically ran when John suggested he go to the captain to tell him the course.
Soon, the Prophecy took a southerly course. They passed Balayan Bay as the sun sank over the South China Sea and flooded the world with reddish and golden light. The sea was calm, dark gray, and violet against the silhouette of the northern coast of Mindoro as they reached the Verde Island Passage. They anchored by Puerto Galera at dusk and had the motorboat take them over to the exciting nightlife there.
They were an odd troop. Together with the bodyguards there were seven men assembled around Patricia. The supermodel seemed to enjoy the attention. She bounced rather than walked wherever she went, flirting with all around her and loving it.
“Are we being watched?” John asked Marco as they left the first disco.
One Trillion Dollars Page 44