The Rise Of A Billionaire 1943-Chapter 62 - 70 – A Gold Mine

The report listed various strengths and weaknesses, and concluded bluntly:

"Inferior to German and American engines in all key respects."

Pierre nodded thoughtfully.

"Not yet," he muttered.

"If I’m going to bring in engines, I’ll wait for the best. Once Germany is defeated, I’ll make a trip there... and bring back a Beetle while I’m at it."

Where could you find truly dirt-cheap technology?

The answer was simple: in the hands of defeated nations.

In Britain, tech-scouting was more like a gamble—picking up scraps others had overlooked. It was all about luck and sharp eyes.

But defeated nations were different. They were like treasure vaults plundered by the Forty Thieves—overflowing with gold. If you had money and connections, you could acquire not just cutting-edge technology, but the talent behind it.

And not just from Germany.

Right now, even Italy, freshly defeated, looked like a hidden gold mine. What caught Pierre’s attention was a small news article in the paper:

"To alleviate the government’s financial distress, the Italian government will sell off all official assets, including merchant vessels..."

Reading the piece, Pierre recalled something he’d once read:

In July 1943, a coup toppled Mussolini. He was arrested and detained. Marshal Badoglio, former Chief of the General Staff, formed a new government.

Two months later, Badoglio’s regime surrendered unconditionally. German forces quickly seized Rome. Badoglio and members of the royal family and cabinet fled at night in five cars to the Adriatic coast and escaped to the south aboard two Allied speedboats.

Although Badoglio later declared war on Germany and the Allies officially recognized Italy as a co-belligerent, they never truly trusted him. The new government received little better treatment than Mussolini’s.

Even worse, Badoglio’s military regime had no public support. The Allies, hoping to replace him with a more controllable puppet, began undermining him economically.

The southern government, despite hosting the king and claiming legal authority, had nothing—no territory, no army, no industry. It’s only hope was Allied funding.

But the Allies gave no meaningful aid. Aside from a few million dollars in the early days, they never offered another cent.

Eventually, financial collapse brought down Badoglio’s regime.

The U.S. and U.K. never said a word. They simply withheld funds.

To stay afloat, Badoglio ordered the sale of government assets, including merchant ships. But with Allied interference, no buyers stepped forward.

Merchant ships... merchant ships!

Pierre’s eyes lit up at the thought.

He needed merchant ships.

Whether it was to transport future settlers to North Borneo, or to ship equipment and supplies for postwar reconstruction, merchant vessels were essential.

And these Italian ships were the only available source. No other country would sell during wartime. Even when surplus goods flooded the market after the war, that wouldn’t happen until 1946.

"By then, the good stuff’ll be long gone..."

He tapped the newspaper thoughtfully.

"Looks like a trip to Italy is inevitable."

But getting there—that was the challenge.

Why were there no buyers?

Sure, Allied interference was one reason. But a more practical one was wartime travel—it was complicated and risky.

Still, with enough money—or the right favors—anything was possible.

In fact, he didn’t even need money.

All he needed was a takeoff permit.

Cobham’s aerial refueling company still had two planes. If one could get clearance to fly, that was all it took. And it wasn’t a stretch—after all, six of his planes had already been requisitioned by the military. The Pentagon owed him favors.

So Cobham made a few calls, and within half a day, secured a temporary flight permit to Spain.

The aircraft was an old prewar model, but it could easily reach Spain. From there, Pierre could take a commercial flight to Brindisi, Italy.

Flights between Spain and Italy hadn’t been suspended—Spain was still quasi-Axis, after all.

By the end of 1943, Pierre finally boarded a plane bound for Brindisi.

Officially, he wasn’t there as a representative of Zhenhua Corporation.

He was just a regular passenger.

The engines of the aging JU-52 sputtered like a chronic cough.

Old it might be, but the ride was smooth.

As the plane droned along, Pierre leafed through a dossier—documents he’d obtained in Sicily after the first landing.

64 ships, totaling 287,000 tons—this was the fleet the Italian government still officially owned.

These ships had not been confiscated by the Allies—at least not on paper. Italy was now considered a co-belligerent; the Allies couldn’t just seize a partner nation’s assets. Not openly, anyway.

Even though the U.S., Britain, and the USSR had plenty of dirty tricks, they still kept up appearances.

At that moment, Alfonso returned to his seat beside him.

"Sir, we’ll be landing in Brindisi in about three hours."

"Alright."

Pierre nodded without looking up.

Alfonso was the manager of a Spanish company Pierre had just acquired.

Upon arriving in Spain, his first move had been to purchase a local firm. That company would now act as the buyer of the Italian ships.

Why go through all that trouble?

Simple: plausible deniability.

He still had plenty of business to do with the Allies.

A purchase made under a neutral Spanish front would draw far less attention.

"Once we land, just go ahead and place the bid," Pierre said, closing his eyes to rest.

But even mid-flight, his mind was running numbers—calculating the optimal price to offer for the ships.

Even in wartime, capital never sleeps.

Wherever there’s opportunity, it arrives with a scythe to reap profit.

If not for disrupted trade routes, Italy would already be crawling with international financiers.

Just like in Britain—hundreds of U.S. investment agents roamed the streets, waving dollars and snatching up everything of value.

The result?

Britain won the war, but lost everything else.

And even now, on this very flight to Brindisi, some of the passengers might well be American vultures.

How they got into Spain was anyone’s guess.

But anyone with a nose for blood and gold would certainly be on their way to pick at Italy’s corpse.

Opening his eyes again, Pierre scanned the cabin.

Several well-dressed men in suits, speaking fluent English, caught his attention.

The corner of his mouth curled slightly.

"Looks like... this won’t be as simple as I hoped."