The Rise Of A Billionaire 1943-Chapter 63 - 71: Predators

How could things possibly be that simple?

No matter how the world changes, capital is never absent.

World War II may have been a battle of justice against evil, civilization against barbarism, freedom against enslavement—and justice did triumph over evil.

But as people cheered for victory, they never realized that, under the shadow of the goddess of justice, capital disguised itself as an angel, swinging its claws in the darkness, harvesting the world’s wealth.

"In 1944, just before the Normandy landings, over a thousand agents from major American corporations entered Britain through various channels. They were like a pack of hyenas, trying to plunder wealth from the shattered corpse of postwar Europe.

World War II was a feast of wealth—or rather, a feast for American corporations! No one has ever tallied how much wealth those companies amassed during the war, but after the war, they reached into all of Europe—not just after 1945, but during the war itself!"

There was a time when Pierre scoffed at such claims. But after coming to Britain, he had witnessed firsthand, more than once, how those impeccably dressed men wielded the club of capital to harvest wealth. The riches the British had spent centuries plundering from around the world were now being reaped by American capital during the war.

While Allied soldiers sacrificed and bled for the cause of justice, Wall Street’s capitalists were wantonly harvesting the wealth of other countries, standing atop the corpses of Europe’s old powers and tearing at their already filthy flesh.

Unlike Wall Street’s financial capital, Pierre had neither sharp claws nor deep pockets—and, most importantly, he lacked Wall Street connections.

This meant that, in this feast of capital, the best Zhenhua Company could hope for was to sip a little soup.

So who are the ones truly feasting?

He turned his gaze to the other passengers on the plane. Among them, there were surely real predators.

As Pierre observed the other passengers, one of them was also watching him. The man looked to be in his forties. When their eyes met, the other man nodded slightly. Neither spoke, but like wolves in the jungle, they recognized each other for what they were—predators. Kindred spirits always recognize their own.

Finally, the plane from Sicily landed at Brindisi Airport. Both Allied and Italian troops were stationed at this airport. As soon as the plane landed, those men in fine camel-hair coats and felt hats immediately began greeting the nearby soldiers in English.

Without exception, all of them tried to hire soldiers as their drivers. While they were chatting with Allied officers and trying to use dollars to hire drivers, Pierre and Alfonso had already approached an Italian Air Force major.

"Hello, sir."

Alfonso spoke fluent Italian. In fact, with the help of the system, Pierre had already learned Italian—though he wasn’t very fluent yet.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" The officer looked over the two foreigners.

"We’re businessmen from Spain..." Alfonso had barely begun to introduce themselves when Pierre simply took out two packs of Camel cigarettes from his bag and placed them on the officer’s desk.

"Sir, I’d like to rent a car and a driver from you. The daily fee is one pack of Camel cigarettes; the driver’s wage is extra."

It was a simple and direct approach, but highly effective. Whether during wartime or in postwar Europe, cigarettes were the best hard currency—especially American brands like Camel and Lucky Strike.

"I’ll fill up your tank. Five packs of Camel for a can of gasoline."

No more words were needed; the deal was struck. Just as Pierre and Alfonso got into a Fiat sedan and were about to leave, someone stopped their car. It was none other than the man from the plane.

"Hello, gentlemen. You got a car so quickly? If it’s convenient, could I catch a ride into town with you?"

The man got straight to the point.

"I’m Mickey Anastasio from Morgan Bank. Here’s my card. Gentlemen, I believe we’ll have opportunities to work together. Don’t you think?"

As he spoke, Mickey handed his business card to Pierre.

Throughout the entire process, he didn’t so much as glance at Alfonso, not even once.

"How many of you are there?"

Taking the business card, Pierre curiously sized up this guy.

"It’s just me,"

Mickey shrugged helplessly and said.

"They thought I was Italian, so since I can speak Italian, they sent me here. God knows, even my father can barely speak a few sentences of Italian. Just call me Mickey."

Putting away the business card, Pierre smiled and said,

"Get in the car, Mickey."

"Luckily I ran into you, otherwise I probably would’ve wasted a lot of time. By the way, which company are you representing?"

Mickey looked at him with great interest and said,

"On Wall Street, whether it’s Italians like me or Chinese like you, we’re extremely rare."

"Oh?"

Pierre asked curiously,

"Why do you think I’m Chinese?"

"Haha, if you’re not Chinese, what else could you be—Japanese? They’ve all been interned. Which company are you with? Citibank? Did you come from the Shanghai branch?"

"I represent myself."

Pierre winked at him. Mickey was stunned for a moment, then said excitedly,

"My friend, you’ve done what everyone wants to do but doesn’t dare,"

Then he pointed out the car window and said,

"Do you know what this is?"

"What?"

"Wealth!"

Mickey grinned.

"Wealth everywhere. Anyone who comes here, as long as they seize the opportunity, can get rich. Do you believe it?"

Mickey then shrugged again, a bit helplessly.

"I came here, but unfortunately I don’t have any money. There’s wealth everywhere, but it definitely doesn’t belong to ordinary people. Ordinary people don’t have enough capital to pry open the opportunities and gold buried here—unless you’re a millionaire..."

Suddenly, as if thinking of something, Mickey studied Pierre seriously, a faint smile appearing on his face.

"Li, am I right?"

The sudden question made Pierre’s heart skip a beat.

Crap!

My identity’s been exposed!

Who is this guy? Could he be an intelligence agent?