One Trillion Dollars Page 10

  “The money? What money?”

  “What was I talking about the whole time? The trillion dollars, whaddya think?”

  Lino’s eyes narrowed. He took another look at the business card: Family and Inheritance Law. Something was up. “I don’t think I want to know what it is you’re trying to sell me.”

  “Didn’t it piss you off that fate flew past you like that?”

  “Sure. But it is how it is. I have a younger brother, and he happened to be the youngest Fontanelli on one particular date. That’s the way it goes — can’t do anything about it.”

  Randy looked at him with something that resembled a smile. “Well,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “You can do something about it. And it amazes me that you haven’t thought about that on your own.”

  The carefully prepared plans had to be completely re-worked. The transfer of the funds would not be done in Florence, but in Rome, directly in the Department of Finance. Strict security measures were put in place and a new date was set for the transfers.

  “We should charter a helicopter,” Eduardo said during their discussion. “At least as long as the reporters are camped outside our gate.”

  “They’ll let our vehicles pass,” his father argued. He looked like he hadn’t slept a moment since the press mob arrived. “We don’t have to throw money out the window.”

  John wanted to tell the Vacchis about the strange phone call, but kept delaying it — never finding the right moment. And the longer their discussion went on the less appropriate it seemed to bring up. Maybe it wasn’t all that important anyway.

  One thing in favor of processing the money transfers in Rome was that it would make it easier to deal with the one other official snag they would have to address before John could get the money.

  “There’s a small complication,” Alberto said with a wide smile. “In brief, you must become an Italian citizen.”

  John’s U.S. citizenship was complicating the entire process. As a U.S. national, Gregorio told him, he’d have to pay taxes on his global income — including the inheritance. At the moment, avoiding this this was their main concern as was no hope of reaching an agreement with the American IRS, the only option that remained was for John to change citizenship.

  John wasn’t too keen on the idea. “My grandfather fled from Mussolini. He fought hard for his American citizenship. I don’t like the idea of giving mine away.”

  “I do hope you have noticed that Mussolini is no longer around,” Alberto said dryly.

  “I really liked my grandfather, you know? He was very proud to be an American. To me, it seems like treason to give up my own citizenship.”

  “Your patriotism and sense of loyalty to your family honors you much,” Gregorio told him. “But don’t you think that several hundred billion dollars is rather too high a price for patriotism?”

  “It is, but that doesn’t mean that I have to like the idea. And I really don’t like it.”

  “You’re taking this too seriously,” Eduardo interjected. “You will be a super rich man, John. Your wealth will be greater than most countries’ gross national product. You will be able to go to wherever you desire. To see things realistically, you don’t even have to honor the agreement with the Italian finance minister. What is he going do if you were to leave the country? Nothing. Think about the significance your citizenship in the gargantuan scheme of things. We’re talking a trillion dollars.”

  John gave up. “All right, fine. When is this going to happen?”

  “As soon as everything has been prepared; secrecy, personal protection and so on. And the prime minister wants to meet with you after the ceremony,” Gregorio told John. “Next Thursday.” He seemed like he could hardly wait.

  John stood by a window in the library and watched the press from behind the heavy curtains. They looked like an audience for an outdoor concert as they sat and stood around in the grass. He wondered about their stubborn persistence, despite being told he would not be giving any interviews until the transfer was officially complete. It was a very odd situation and that he was the source of all this made it even stranger. No, he was not really the cause, at least not personally. It all went back to a dream of limitless wealth — a dream that just happened to have become his reality. No one knew how scary so much wealth could be.

  He decided he would tell the world of the burden Giacomo Fontanelli had placed upon his shoulders.

  “John? Oh, there you are.”

  It was Eduardo. John turned around. Eduardo came in, followed by a man as big as two normal-sized people, a wide-shouldered colossus who was a head taller than John and whose girth would frighten a heavyweight boxer.

  “May I introduce you to Marco? Marco, this is Signor Fontanelli.”

  “Buongiorno,” Marco said with a deep voice and reached out a shovel-sized hand. John had to force himself to shake it. The man’s arm muscles flexed and his suit looked like it was about to burst at the seams, but the actual handshake wasn’t all that bad.

  “Marco is from Italy’s best security service,” Eduardo explained.

  “Security service?”

  “Your bodyguard, signor,” Marco said.

  “My …” John swallowed hard. Oh yeah. The Vacchis did mention something like that. A hundred years ago in another life. Bodyguard. Like a king who needed to be protected from conniving rivals. “Bodyguard. I understand. You’re supposed to protect me.”

  “Si, signor.”

  The mere presence of this man was scary. No doubt he only had to be there physically to scare off any would-be plotters. A bodyguard; that really brought it home to him.

  He looked at Eduardo, who was beaming with satisfaction. “And how’s this going to work? I mean, will he be around me constantly, go with me everywhere …?”

  “Scusi, signor,” Marco interjected. “The greatest danger to you is being kidnapped for ransom. Except in situations where bodily force is required, such as getting you through a crowd of people unharmed, I will always be only as close to you as necessary to prevent danger to you.”

  John stared at the man. He was suddenly aware that he automatically thought that a guy who had so much muscle wasn’t able to form a complete thought on his own, let alone clearly articulate it. “A kidnapping … I understand.”

  “More of my colleagues will be arriving this afternoon,” Marco went on, “they will patrol the grounds with German Shepherds and install additional alarm devices. Our goal is to assure complete safety for your bedroom without requiring one of us to be physically present in it.”

  “Oh, that sounds good.”

  “You can count one hundred percent on our discretion even right outside your bedroom door,” the bodyguard assured him. He sounded more like a sociology teacher than someone who lifted weights and practiced karate kicks every day.

  “Fine,” John said. Then he remembered something else. “May I know your last name?”

  The question seemed to take the big guy off guard. “No one has ever asked,” he admitted. “But it’s Benetti. My full name is Marco Benetti.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” John said. He nodded once and they shook hands once again.

  Meanwhile the estate was being turned into a fortress. Men with shoulder rigs and German Shepherds patrolled the grounds. The outdoor lights remained on for the entire night. Cameras were installed on every corner of the house.

  On the other side of the old and massive iron fence the reporters endured their stay. They had campers, sun umbrellas and tents. They aimed their cameras at any bit of activity in and around the house. To John, they seemed more like a pack of wolves with every passing day.

  When he walked along the hallways in the house, he could always hear a phone ringing somewhere, sometimes loud and clear sometimes muffled, and far away. Gregorio, Alberto and Eduardo took turns going out to the gate every couple of hours to answer some of the journalists’ questions. It all seemed to John like a flood crashing against the house’s walls, releasing forces that
they would not be able to withstand forever.

  The same day as the bodyguards had started their work, John was introduced to another person; a small, older man of around sixty with a particularly good posture. He was an Italian language teacher.

  “But I speak Italian,” John argued.

  “Scusi,” the professor said with a shake of his head, “what you are doing is abusing the language of your forefathers. You speak chewing gum Italian. Your choice of words is grotesque, your sentence structure a catastrophe. Let us begin straight away.”

  And so they retreated into the library where the professore taught John Italian vocabulary, the rules of grammar, practiced conversation, the pronunciations of words and whole sentences over and over again. They did this each morning and each afternoon for two hours at a time.

  The professore moved into a small guest room in the Vacchis’ house. Another guest room was occupied the following day by a somewhat heavyset yet elegant middle-aged woman. “Signora Orsini is a dance and behavioral tutor from Florence,” Eduardo said with a shit-eating grin. “She once attempted to teach me good behavior. Perhaps she’ll have more luck with you.”

  “My concept is as follows,” Signora Orsini said with a warm and welcoming smile, “In the morning we’ll concentrate on proper etiquette, and in the afternoon we’ll practice dancing. You must learn how to dance so you can conduct yourself properly in social gatherings.”

  Somehow John expected that she would say something like that. “I have language lessons in the morning,” he informed her.

  “Then get up earlier,” Signora Orsini replied.

  Once, as he left the language class and went down the stairs to meet Signora Orsini, he saw Eduardo come in with a carton full of letters and heard him tell his father: “We’ll have to establish a secretariat.”

  Gregorio took one of the letters and looked at it. “This looks Russian.”

  “A big secretariat,” Eduardo added with a frown. “This is probably only the beginning.”

  The days began to take on an otherworldly routine all of their own. There were new stories in the newspapers every day, filled with the minutiae of John’s life broadcast on airwaves around the world; details he had already forgotten about. He called his mother, and she told him how upset she was about the intrusive TV people. On CNN, he found out what positive opinions his former classmates and teachers had of him. NBC broadcast an interview with Sarah Brickman, who stared into the cameras and told the reporter, more than a few times, that John was the greatest, the only love she ever had.

  A man waited patiently in the hall, until John’s Italian lessons had ended.

  “Belfiore,” he introduced himself while bowing, showing his balding head. “I’m here in the name of the government.”

  “From the government?” John looked around apprehensively, but none of the Vacchis was there. “Sounds exciting.” This man came in the name of the government, and now he had to talk with him alone?

  “Well, I hope I can live up to your expectations. I’m here to …”

  John tried smiling the way Signora Orsini had been working so hard to teach him; hospitably and confidently. “Let’s go into the salon,” he suggested gesturing with one hand towards the door; he felt like an actor.

  “Yes,” the man nodded thankfully. “Very well.” He took his briefcase and followed John.

  Oh yes, refreshment, Signora Orsini would be proud. “May I offer you something to drink? Maybe a coffee?”

  “A small espresso, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  John rang a bell and Giovanna showed up. “Would you please bring us two espressos?” Dammit, he felt such a phony. But nobody seemed to notice. Giovanna nodded and disappeared. He went further into the salon with this government person. There was no trace of a Vacchi here either. What now? Offer a seat. “Please, have a seat, Signor Belfiore.” He just wasn’t used to entertaining official guests. “So, what is it that brings you here to see me?” It was as if he were reciting some lines he had learned for a school play.

  Belfiore pulled something out of his case that turned out to be a map. He spread it apart on the table. “This,” he said pointing to an area on the map surrounded with colored marker, “is the Calmata. It’s a nature preserve. It is a very nice and charming quarter located by the Tyrrhenian Sea. It is about twelve square kilometers in area and barely fifteen minutes away from the nearest airport. These are a few photos.” He retrieved a few large photos that depicted an idyllic wild looking Mediterranean landscape with no roads, power lines or houses.

  “Nice,” John said after he glanced at them. “And what does all this have to do with me?”

  “Signor Fontanelli, I’m sure that you will want to find an appropriate estate for yourself after the transfer procedures have been accomplished. A villa right here,” he pointed to about the middle of the marked area on the map, “would offer you an exceptional view not only of the sea, but also of the mountains. You’d be surrounded by pristine, unsullied nature, a landscape where you can go riding or for walks: a steep, picturesque coastline right on your doorstep, while the bay over here could be turned into a mooring…”

  John thought he wasn’t hearing the man right. “Didn’t you just tell me that this area is a nature preserve?”

  The man waved John’s comment away and said: “Yes, but to be truthful not a very notable one. There aren’t any endangered animal species there or anything. We would welcome it if you could accept a few constraints as far as utilization of the area is concerned, but our experts consider it to be of no consequence if the area were to be utilized as a residence.” He leaned over the map. “We allowed ourselves a few suggestions how the road should be planned, along with the water and power lines. These are just ideas, of course, we would not wish to constrain you too much if you happen to have your own thoughts on the matter.”

  John blinked a few times and he started to realize what was going on. Italy wanted to keep him in the country. As long as he was a resident he would have to pay taxes here, and in exchange they were willing to offer him a choice piece of land. His gut reaction was to oppose the idea. Though it was something he’d never done, he suddenly felt like he was haggling with a prostitute.

  “I must think about it first before making any decisions, Signor Belfiore.”

  “It’s a wonderful piece of land, Signor Fontanelli. A true paradise.”

  “No doubt. But I don’t have the money yet.”

  “We both know that’s just a formality. If you want, we could drive there together and take a look.”

  “Thank you, but I won’t leave the premises until the appointment with the notary public.”

  “Then, perhaps directly after that?”

  “As I said, I must think about it first.”

  “May I leave the map and the photos here?” He almost sounded like he was begging — as if he had been threatened with a beating if he should dare to return with a no.

  “Certainly,” he said nodding and trying to sound like he dealt with these issues every day. He accompanied the man to the front door and said good-bye the way Signora Orsini taught him. Beyond the gate there was a storm of flashing lights.

  Luckily, the journalists had held up the sedan flying the standard of the Vatican on little flags at the front of the car. The guards were busy keeping the horde of photographers at bay as they who attempted to sneak into the grounds alongside the vehicle as it drove in.

  “My God,” John said as he looked to Signora Orsini. “How does one address a cardinal?”

  She made big eyes. “You call him ‘Your Eminence,’” she told him. “And if you are a devout Catholic you must kiss his ring.”

  “And if I’m not?” John looked down into the yard.

  “Then you don’t.”

  “Thank God.”

  Eduardo received the guest in front of the house and brought him into the salon.

  “Cardinale Giancarlo Genaro,” he said by means of introduction. “We are very honor
ed.”

  “Your Eminence,” John said and bowed his head slightly. A deep bow only for leaders of nations, Signora Orsini had taught him.

  The man was dressed in red and accompanied by a young man in a black cassock. The cardinal cut an impressive figure. He was a very large man with ice-gray hair and had a stern face and taunt lips. He seemed to be unsure as to how he should address John, and after a few embarrassing seconds when neither man was certain how to react they simply shook hands.

  Say hello, offer a seat, get a drink. John went through the whole ritual of politeness and felt like he was getting the hang of it.

  “John, may I call you John?” asked the cardinal, sitting on the chair as if he were on a throne. “I have learned that you are a Catholic. Is my information correct?” The cardinal and his silent assistant, who remained standing beside his chair, looked at him inquiringly.

  John nodded slowly. “I was baptized in a Catholic church.”

  The face of the high church official twitched a bit. “To me it sounds as if you haven’t been to church since your First Communion.”

  “More or less,” John admitted, “except when my oldest brother got married.”

  “That is regretful, but it isn’t my duty to judge you on this account.” He smiled graciously. “I assume that you at least stand close to the Holy Roman Church. His Holiness himself requested that I invite you for a private audience.”

  John was amazed to see that Giovanna hardly dared approach the man when she arrived with the mineral water, as if she thought it more appropriate to crawl through the room on her stomach.

  “A private audience?” John looked to Eduardo, but he was a few paces away looking at the paintings on the wall as if he had never seen them before.

  “And the Holy Father also asked me to present this to you.” When the cardinal made a small gesture the pale assistant brought forth from somewhere inside his cassock an illustrated book with a portrait of the pope and handed it to the cardinal. He took it without even glancing at the assistant and passed it on to John. “A gift from his Holiness.”

  John held it in his hands; photos from the life of Pope John Paul II. “Thank you very much,” he said, wishing he could have said it with more sincerity.