1
RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL
Senor Vincente Robele's home was more of a castle than a mansion. The sheer size of the place coupled with the fortress architecture made an imposing presence to the few who had ever seen it. Tucked away out of sight, its winding driveway, once through the great iron gates, made a mile long turn along the foot of a small hill. The second gate, even more formidable in appearance than the first stood guard over a bridge. The stream at the bottom of the steep gulch served as a moat.
Robeles himself had lived a long seventy-one years. Now unquestionably the wealthiest man in all of Brazil, the scope of his personal fortune was obscured by his interest in holding companies and invisible international corporations. A widower for several decades, his interests had turned to collectibles.
He did not enjoy or appreciate works of art, and he spurned having too many such possessions. His appetites ran strictly to the very rarest, the most famous and the most expensive. He considered works of art priced at less than one hundred million to be only a cluttering presence in his small gallery. His interest in antiquities ran along the same line. The targets of his impulses at acquisition seemed more defined by his wish to keep objects out of the reach of other, lesser bidders than to follow any consistent interest.
The old man was not without ideals and spiritual concepts although there were very many veterans of both his rage and power littered through his past. In his younger years he had been little more than a violent young mobster preying on the citizens and businesses of Sao Paulo. In mid-life, the authorities began to apply more pressure than he could pay off. He took his substantial earnings into the legitimate business world at a time when money was scarce, becoming a land owner and industrialist. The unlikely combination of mobster and businessman had practically thrown riches his way, delivering him to his present state of wealth. His financial statement would be the envy of a third of the nations of the planet.
Now Senor Robeles felt the inevitable remorse of all successful men without progeny. Always a devout Catholic he maintained a personal priest as a permanent guest in his castle, although he suspected that Father Riaz had instructions by innuendo to divert his fortune into a gift to the Church upon his death. The old man sat quietly in his wheel chair on sunny afternoons enjoying his garden while he pondered this dilemma. He wondered if he had some remnant of the resolve of his youth. The success of the plan he was considering would depend on his expertise as a gangster more than his acumen as a businessman.
Robeles himself had lived a long seventy-one years. Now unquestionably the wealthiest man in all of Brazil, the scope of his personal fortune was obscured by his interest in holding companies and invisible international corporations. A widower for several decades, his interests had turned to collectibles.
He did not enjoy or appreciate works of art, and he spurned having too many such possessions. His appetites ran strictly to the very rarest, the most famous and the most expensive. He considered works of art priced at less than one hundred million to be only a cluttering presence in his small gallery. His interest in antiquities ran along the same line. The targets of his impulses at acquisition seemed more defined by his wish to keep objects out of the reach of other, lesser bidders than to follow any consistent interest.
The old man was not without ideals and spiritual concepts although there were very many veterans of both his rage and power littered through his past. In his younger years he had been little more than a violent young mobster preying on the citizens and businesses of Sao Paulo. In mid-life, the authorities began to apply more pressure than he could pay off. He took his substantial earnings into the legitimate business world at a time when money was scarce, becoming a land owner and industrialist. The unlikely combination of mobster and businessman had practically thrown riches his way, delivering him to his present state of wealth. His financial statement would be the envy of a third of the nations of the planet.
Now Senor Robeles felt the inevitable remorse of all successful men without progeny. Always a devout Catholic he maintained a personal priest as a permanent guest in his castle, although he suspected that Father Riaz had instructions by innuendo to divert his fortune into a gift to the Church upon his death. The old man sat quietly in his wheel chair on sunny afternoons enjoying his garden while he pondered this dilemma. He wondered if he had some remnant of the resolve of his youth. The success of the plan he was considering would depend on his expertise as a gangster more than his acumen as a businessman.
