One Trillion Dollars

  About this Book

  Yesterday John Fontanelli was just a pizza delivery guy in New York City. One day later he’s the richest man in the world. One trillion dollars — one million times one million — $1,000,000,000,000: more money than anyone could imagine. For generations the Vacchis, an old Italian family of lawyers and asset managers, had supervised the fortune as it grew over five hundred years, until one particular date that the benefactor had stipulated in his will. The youngest male descendant was fated to oversee the fortune for the good of humanity. John relishes his new life of luxury, rubbing elbows with royalty, buying up corporations, fielding a flood of beautiful women — until one day the phone rings, and a mysterious stranger tells the trillionaire that he knows what dirty secrets lie behind the fortune …

  The author

  Andreas Eschbach was born in 1959 in Ulm. He studied aerospace technology and worked as a software developer. He wrote his first novel as a scholar in the Arno-Schmitt Foundation “for highly talented aspiring authors,” and it was published in 1995. He is known for the bestseller “Das Jesus Video.” Andreas Eschbach lives as a freelance author near Stuttgart.

  Andreas Eschbach

  ONE

  TRILLION

  DOLLARS

  Democracy

  is the worst form of government

  except all those other forms

  that have been tried …

  Winston Churchill

  Prologue

  IN FRONT OF THEM the double-winged doors finally swung open, and they entered a room filled with an almost heavenly light. The middle of the chamber was dominated by a large oval table made of dark wood. Two men stood in front of it, looking expectantly at them as they entered.

  “Mr. Fontanelli,” the young lawyer addressed John as he closed the door behind them. “Let me please introduce my partners to you.” He gestured to the pair in front of the table. “First, my father, Gregorio Vacchi.”

  John reached out to shake hands with a stern looking man, whom he guessed to be in his mid-fifties. He wore a gray, single-breasted suit and a pair of thin-rimmed gold glasses. His attire and thinning hair made him resemble a typical bookkeeper. Indeed, it was very easy to imagine this man as a lawyer, perhaps specializing in tax laws, standing in a courtroom and dryly uttering paragraphs of law through his thin lips. His handshake felt cool, business-like, and he mumbled something like: “Pleased to meet you.” Even though, he didn’t look like the sort of man who knew the meaning of "pleased.”

  The other man was older. His unruly curly hair and bushy eyebrows made his face look a bit grim, yet more dynamic than the former’s. He wore a dark blue double-breasted suit with a very conventional club tie and a neatly folded handkerchief in his left breast pocket. You could imagine him in a fancy bar, laughing as he celebrated a victory in a murder case, a glass of champagne in one hand and pinching waitresses’ asses with the other. His handshake was firm, and he looked so intensely into John’s eyes that it made him uncomfortable. His deep voice said, “Alberto Vacchi. I’m Eduardo’s uncle.”

  Only now did John notice another person present in the room. Sitting in a wing-chair in front of a window was an old man. Though his eyes were closed it was clear he was not asleep; but rather as if he was too weary to have all his senses working at once. His wrinkled thin neck emerged from a soft shirt, covered by a gray sweater. He had a small silk pillow lying on his lap upon which his folded hands rested.

  “The Padrone,” Eduardo Vacchi said in a low tone of voice when he noticed who John was looking at. “That’s my grandfather. As you see, we’re a family firm.”

  John only nodded. He didn’t really know what to say. He was shown a chair to sit on, on its own on one of the long sides of the conference table. Across from him on the other side of the table were four chairs with their backrests pressed against the table in neat fashion. Lying on the table in front of each chair were thin folders, the covers made of black leather with crests emblazoned on them.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he was asked. “Coffee, mineral water?”

  “Yes, coffee, please,” he heard himself say. He had the same nervous feeling now as when he’d entered the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel only a short while ago.

  Eduardo placed the coffee cups on the table, which had been sitting neatly and orderly on a small trolley. Next, he put the creamer and sugar dispensers on the table; all made of silver. He poured coffee for each of them and placed the pot next to John’s cup. The three Vacchis sat down. Eduardo was seated to the right from John’s point of view, Gregorio, his father, next to him, and to John’s left sat Alberto, the uncle. The fourth chair remained empty.

  There was silence, broken only by cream and sugar being poured into the cups and the stirring of their spoons. John stared at the wonderful grain of the reddish mahogany tabletop. That had to be wood from the roots — burl wood.

  As John stirred his coffee with a heavy silver spoon, he furtively looked around him. Out the window — behind the three lawyers — was a grand, far-reaching view of New York. Sunlight danced between the concrete ravines of the skyscrapers and the East River sparkled a deep blue. Fine-spun salmon-pink curtains hung down on each side of the windows, which contrasted very well with the immaculate dark-red carpet and the snow-white walls. Unbelievable, John thought as he sipped his coffee, which tasted strong and robust, like the espresso his mom usually made for him.

  Eduardo Vacchi opened the file that lay before him on the table. The sound the leather cover made seemed a signal to the start for the proceedings. John set his cup on the saucer and took a deep breath; he was ready.

  “Mr. Fontanelli,” the young lawyer said. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table and hands folded together. His voice didn’t sound so welcoming anymore, but rather official. “I asked you to bring along a form of identification for this meeting, maybe a driver’s license, a passport, or whatever. It’s only for the sake of formalities, of course.”

  John nodded. “I’ve got my driver’s license … one moment please.” He hastily reached for his rear pocket and was startled to find nothing there. But then he remembered that he had stuck the license into the inside pocket of his jacket. With a hot, shaky hand he slid the card across the table. The lawyer took the license, glanced at it briefly, and then with a nod handed it to his father. Gregorio Vacchi, however, studied the driver’s license so intently that it almost seemed as if he thought it might be a fake.

  Eduardo gave a thin smile, “We also have identification documents with us.” He pulled out two large very formal looking pieces of paper. “The members of the Vacchi family have been residents of Florence for several centuries, and for generations almost every male member has been a lawyer or trust manager. The first document substantiates this; the second one is an English translation of the first, authenticated by a notary public from the state of New York.” He handed both papers to John.

  John looked at them, a bit lost. The first document, stuck inside a clear plastic cover, seemed to be quite old. It was written in Italian of which John could only read maybe one out of every ten words. It was written on ancient gray paper, decorated with crests and had a whole collection of stamps and signatures on the bottom. The English translation, a neat laser-printed piece of paper, had the usual official stamps and signatures, and the text sounded equally confusing, being written in typically convoluted legal language; but it basically said what the young Vacchi lawyer had told him; as far as he could comprehend. He put the papers down on the table and folded his arms. One of his nostrils was twitching; he hoped nobody noticed.

  Eduardo folded his hands together once more. John’s driver’s license was now being scrutinized by Alberto. He nodded his head
satisfied and then pushed it into the middle of the table.

  “Mr. Fontanelli, you are the heir to a significant fortune,” Eduardo began again, once more in a formal tone of voice. “We are gathered here to announce to you the sum and the conditions for acceptance of the inheritance; in case you wish to accept it, we must explain what stipulations are necessary.”

  John nodded impatiently. “Err, yes — could you tell me who it is that died?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hold back the answer to that question for the time being. It is a lengthy story. At any rate, it is not a member of your immediate family.”

  “And why am I inheriting something?”

  “That cannot, as I said, be explained in one or two sentences. That is why I wish you to have just a little more patience. For the present moment the question is; you are supposed to inherit a large fortune. Do you want it?”

  John laughed impulsively. “Okay, how much is it?”

  “Over eighty thousand dollars.”

  “Did you say eighty thousand?”

  “Yes, eighty thousand.”

  John leaned back and took a large gulp of air. Wow. Eighty … thousand … dollars! Man, oh man, no wonder there was all this fancy acting stuff! Eighty thousand dollars — that is a nice sum of money. All at once! He had to let that sink in first. That meant … that meant … he could go to college … easily, and without having to work a single hour for some stupid pizza delivery service, or some other poorly paid, stupid, mundane job. Eighty thousand … all at one time! Just like that! Unbelievable!

  If he … okay, he’d have to watch out and not get carried away. He could stay at the same place, keep sharing an apartment with a few others. That was okay, nothing luxurious, but if he lived a thrifty life style … man, it was still enough to get a used car! Some nice clothes. This and that. Ha — no more worries!

  “Not bad,” he finally said. “So, what is it you want from me? If I’ll take the money or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got a stupid question; is there a catch to this whole deal? Will I inherit something less nice along with it, or what?”

  “No, you’re inheriting money. If you want it you can have it and do with it as you wish.”

  John shook his head — he simply couldn’t believe it. “Could you ever imagine me saying no? Could you ever imagine anyone saying no?”

  The young lawyer raised his hands. “It is simply a formality. We are obliged to ask.”

  “All right, you asked — and I say yes.”

  “Good. Congratulations.”

  John shrugged his shoulders. “You know, I’ll only believe this when I have the bills in my hands anyhow.”

  “That’s perfectly all right.”

  But it was not true; he did believe it already, as absolutely crazy as it was. Four lawyers had come all the way from Italy to New York to give him, a poor, untalented pizza delivery driver, eighty thousand dollars. Just like that! From out of nowhere! But there was something about this room that made him believe; made him believe he was at the threshold of a turning point in his life. It seemed as if he had been waiting all his life for this. Crazy — he felt a nice warm, cozy feeling in his belly.

  Eduardo Vacchi closed his file, and, as if he had been waiting for this moment, his father opened the one lying before him. What was his name again? Gregorio. John felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck, and an eye started to twitch. This looked way too rehearsed. Here comes the big surprise — here comes the rude awakening. Now he had to watch it!

  “For reasons that are yet to be explained,” Eduardo’s father began, his words coming out dry as dust, “your case is unique in the history of our firm. Even though the Vacchis have managed fortunes for generations, we have never been involved in such a case, and may never be again. Considering the circumstances here and now, it seemed for us wise to be a bit too careful rather than too careless.” He took off his glasses and twirled them slowly in his fingers. “A colleague and friend of ours had an unfortunate thing happen to him some time ago. While reading a last will and testament to an heir, the client suffered a heart attack. It may very well have been the sum of money he heard that caused this misfortune. I must add that the sum in question was far larger than my son just mentioned, however, the heir was not that much older than you are. Neither he nor anyone else knew that he had an ailing heart.” He placed the glasses back on his nose, adjusted them in place, and looked John in the eyes again. “You do understand what it is that I’m trying to tell you?”

  John, who had tried hard to follow his words, just nodded, and then he shook his head. “No. No, I don’t understand anything anymore. Will I, or will I not inherit eighty grand?”

  “You will … don’t worry.” Gregorio looked down over his nose at the files before him. He shuffled the papers. “Everything that Eduardo told you is true,” He looked up to John again, “except for the sum.”

  “Except for the sum?”

  “You’re not inheriting eighty thousand, but over four million dollars.”

  John just stared at him. To him, it seemed as if time had stopped. He simply stared, and the only part of his body that moved was his jaw, falling, bit by bit.

  Four!

  Million!

  Dollars!

  He finally managed to say something. “Wow!” He laughed and ran his fingers through his hair. The he laughed some more, like some nut. Four million dollars! He couldn’t restrain himself. He laughed and laughed until the lawyers began to think they might have to call an ambulance.

  Four million! Four million!

  Then he stopped and looked at the lawyer from Florence, Italy again. The spring sunlight coming through the windows made his thinning hair look like a halo. He could have kissed him. He could have kissed them all! They came here to place four million dollars right in his lap! He laughed again, and again, and then once more. “Wow!” he said again after he caught his breath. “Now I understand; you thought that I would keel over when I heard the amount of money all of a sudden, right?”

  “That is one way to put it,” Gregorio Vacchi said nodding with a hint of a smile.

  “And do you know what? You were right. I would’ve keeled over. Oh, man.” He put a hand before his mouth and didn’t know where to look. “Did you know that I had the worst night of my life the day before yesterday? And only because I didn’t have enough money for the subway … a lousy dollar and twenty five cents. Now you come here and tell me I’m to get four million dollars …”

  Phew. The good Lord knows that was no lie with the heart attack; his heart was pounding hard in his chest. Just the thought of all this money made his circulatory system go wild, as if he were having sex.

  Four million dollars! That was … that was more than just money. That was another life. With this amount of money he could do what he wanted. With this amount of money he didn’t have to work another day of his life. Whether he was a student or not — or the lousiest painter in the world — it simply didn’t matter anymore.

  “And that’s really true?” he asked suddenly. “I mean, maybe someone will come out of that room over there and say, ‘smile, you’re on Candid Camera!’ or something like that? We’re talking real money from a real inheritance?”

  The lawyer raised his eyebrows as if this was an absurd question. “We’re talking about real money. Don’t worry.”

  “I mean, if you are joking with me I’m gonna strangle someone, and I don’t know if the TV audience will like that.”

  “I can assure you that the only reason we are here is to make you a wealthy man.”

  “Okay.” He really wasn’t worried about all this, but he just had to say what he just said. It’s as if he got rid of the danger that this was not true simply by mentioning it. Something gave him the impression that all this was indeed true. It felt hot in here. Odd, when they entered the room it felt cool, as if the air conditioner was set to max low temperature. Now he felt as if his blood was about to boil in h
is veins. Was he developing a fever? Maybe it was just the aftermath of the night before last, when he had to go home by foot and walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, where the chilly moist air blew in from the ocean making him feel like an icicle.

  For some reason he glanced down. His jeans suddenly looked shabby to him, his jacket … the ends of the sleeves were a bit frayed. He had never noticed before. The cloth was beginning to wear thin. His shirt was a rag, bought from a second-hand shop. It hadn’t even been a nice shirt when it was new. Junk. Crap. He caught Eduard’s eye, who was grinning at him silently, as if he knew what was going through John’s head. John felt the red in his face … hot, throbbing embarrassment. The skyline outside the windows still looked like a shiny dream made of glass and crystal. So now he was a man of means. John Salvatore Fontanelli; son of a New Jersey shoemaker, has made it, without any personal contribution, without doing anything for it, simply by fate. Maybe he always knew about this deep down inside and that’s why he never made any great efforts. Maybe a fairy whispered to him as he lay in his crib that this day would come?

  “Okay,” he said, clapped his hands once and rubbed them together. “And now what?”

  “You will accept the inheritance?”

  “Yes sir!”

  The lawyer nodded satisfied and closed the folder. John leaned back and took a deep breath. What a day! He felt like he was filled with champagne, with many, many funny little bubbles rising inside him and erupting as a silly giggle in his upper chest.

  He was curious how an inheritance such as this would be processed. How he would receive the money; he thought it would hardly be in cash. They couldn’t do a bank transfer because he no longer had a bank account. Maybe he would get a check. That’s it! And it would be an indescribable pleasure to take it to the same bank that closed his account, and to shove the four million dollar check under that person’s nose that was in charge of his account, and to see the stupid face he would make! It would be pure, tremendous gratification to act like a stuck up rich bastard!