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- Herausgeber: Tatatà Publishing
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
Will you join the quest for a legendary treasure hidden in the Holy Land?
Spurred by a Saudi tycoon, trader and collector Larry H sets on a journey to the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict, fighting against extremists of three different religions.
"MACHSOM" is an action-packed, pulse-pounding Adventure Thriller for those who love the Indiana Jones' series as well as Clive Cussler, Wilbur Smith, Tom Clancy and James Rollins.
What readers say about MACHSOM
"An engaging read that captures right from the start."
"Raiders of the Lost Ark meets the Political and War Thriller genre."
"It takes courage and much knowledge to write about the conflict between Israeli and Palestinian people: this is one of the most controversial subjects and one that Thriller authors usually avoid. Lisi's novel will help you understand it better without boring you with History lessons."
"Much more than a treasure hunt."
"Read it if you're into (or even skeptic about) Abrahamic religions"
"Larry H and the other characters are interesting people and the setting is fascinating, but I mostly enjoyed the solid plot. It avoids cliches, and keeps you turning pages."
About the Author
Andrew Lisi is an Amazon and Kobo Bestseller author of Adventure Thrillers.
Born close to a U.S. Navy Base in Gaeta, Italy, he holds a Bachelor's in Political Science and a Master's degree in International Relations. Fascinated by history and different cultures, he lived in the Middle East, Asia and Africa.
He started working on MACHSOM in 2010 during his Middle Eastern Studies Program at Ben Gurion University of the Negev, Israel. There he researched the origin of the Arab-Israeli conflict and how Jabotisnky's Jewish Legion 1917 helped sowing the seeds of the modern IDF (Israel Defense Forces). He also spent several weeks in Ramallah and Bethlehem with Palestinian families.
In this first novel of the Larry H series, he
merges the Political and Archeological Thriller genres, aiming to convey to the International public the extreme tension that only the ones who live in the "Holy Land" can fully understand.
ALSO INCLUDED: the prequel to MACHSOM, where Larry H and his late mother Cristina explore a new-found and mysterious area of Napoli Sotterranea, the underground catacombs of Naples, Southern Italy.
WHAT'S NEXT? The upcoming books in the series will feature new adventures by Larry H in Ethiopia, Cambodia and the Canary Islands.
˃˃˃ If you love adventure thrillers, check out the sample or buy MACHSOM now.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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Machsom
A Larry H Adventure
Andrew Lisi
Contents
A Gift For You
Cast Of Characters
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
What’s Next
Larry H's Adventures Continue…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
A Gift For You
Would you like to get the MACHSOM’s prequel for FREE?
Sign up for Larry H's Newsletter and you will receive NEAPOLIS ARCANA, a short story set in the catacombs of Naples, twenty years before MACHSOM.
The unpublished story NEAPOLIS ARCANA is only available for newsletter subscribers.
You won't find it anywhere else, not even for sale.
Sign up now and get the story for free:
tatatapublishing.com/free-story
“MACHSOM - A Larry H Adventure” English Edition
Copyright © 2020 by Andrew Lisi
Published exclusively by Tatatà Publishing
tatatapublishing.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in an information search system, published, used for commercial exploitation, or transmitted, in any form and by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or any other, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This novel is a work of invention. Names, characters, places and events are the fruit of the author's imagination or in any case are used in a fictional context, and any reference to people who really existed, alive or dead, real events and places, is absolutely random.
Cast Of Characters
Larry Horwitz, aka Larry H, a New York trader obsessed with collecting precious objects.
Shawn Mullin, former Navy SEAL, Larry’s bodyguard, expert in weapons and military technology.
Merryl Terreri, Larry’s ex girlfriend who writes for the New Yorker.
Ben Lilienblum, old Orthodox Israeli, expert on biblical texts and translator from Aramaic.
Abdurahman El Bassam, Saudi tycoon and Magnus Arabia CEO
Hans Rudhart, head of the German Templers’ sect.
Salem al-Faruqi, Magnus Arabia’s Manager in Palestine.
Yossi Attish Levi, head of the Jewish National-Religious colony south of Bethlehem.
Sarah Solomon, IDF officer.
Khalid Hadid, member of the Magnus Arabia team that welcomes Larry in Jerusalem.
Mohamed, Filastin Huratan’s physician.
Faheed, American-Palestinian traveling to Bethlehem.
Ibrahim, Omar and Ashraf: Palestinian employees of Magnus Arabia
Shavo: Armenian counterfeiter from Jerusalem.
Elia Horwitz, Larry’s father, former Mossad agent.
Cristina De Ferraris, Larry’s mother, Italian-American explorer and collector.
Prologue
“It is useless to hope that an agreement between us and the Arabs will be willingly accepted, neither now nor in the foreseeable future. Our settlement in Palestine [...] must continue under the protection of an iron wall that this population will never be able to breach.”
-Vladimir Ze'ev Jabotinsky, 1923
East Jerusalem, Occupied Palestinian Territories
August 2004
The only sound that could be heard from Herod’s Gate on that quiet Thursday afternoon was that of bulldozers rumbling back and forth over the distant hills. Beyond the Garden of Gethsemane, the row of concrete pillars had begun to take shape, looking like a long, poisonous snake.
They called it machsom: it was the new barrier that Sharon’s government had recently decided to build in response to the suicide bombings in the bars and streets of Israel.
After four years of unprecedented, daily violence, the Israelis have decided to erect a barrier. Is it an act of desperation or the only sensible move available to them? Merryl Terreri, Middle East correspondent for the New Yorker, spoke into her Dictaphone. The renowned American magazine had sent her on assignment to investigate and explain to the West what on earth was going on in the Holy Land. Was there any hope of ending the escalation and the vendettas? What would the construction of the Wall mean?
Merryl had begun her research as soon as she landed in Tel Aviv on the previous Monday. She had interviewed a fellow American and then several locals in the neighborhood near the beach. The capital was still reeling from the shock of the suicide attacks that had massacred dozens of people outside the nightclubs. The victims were often Russian or Arab immigrants with Israeli citizenship. Historically leftist and “open-minded”, the people of Tel Aviv were now dejected and resentful. There was no hope for a ceasefire, let alone a return to the negotiating table in order to end the conflict. Merryl heard the weariness and despondency in all the comments that she recorded. On Thursday morning, as she was checking out from the Hilton Hotel, she tried to question the receptionist, but was able to only get one comment out of her: «Every day we wake up knowing that, on that very day, some of our fellow countrymen will be killed or wounded.»
The cynical and jaded outlook that Merryl had absorbed over the past three days made the 110° F degree weather even more oppressive. It was for this reason, among others, that she decided to head to Jerusalem. She arrived after a long bus ride, exhausted but happy. The “holy city” nestled in the green hills welcomed her with its mild climate, reminding her of her hometown of Bryce, Utah.
Her goal on the following day was to speak with at least three or four residents of the eastern sector. She made her way towards the Damascus Gate, beyond which the ancient city—surrounded by the Sultan's mighty walls—devolved into a maze of dirty streets that smelled like sewage, punctuated by darkened shops. With studied nonchalance, holding a couple of tangerines in her hand, she asked the fruit vendor what he thought of the latest developments and the Wall that was being built on the hillside beyond them.
«The situation in Jerusalem is complex. Here we live side by side with the Jews. But all they do is attack us. The wall is just another violation of our rights. How am I going to visit my cousin and family in Ramallah? This is apartheid.»
Given the situation, Merryl said to the vendor who looked old but was probably only forty, the unhappiness of the Israelis was understandable. «Don’t you think it’s a normal reaction to the cruelty of the suicide bombings? The Israelis see the continuous incursions of your “cousins” from the West Bank as a real threat to their personal security.» As she said these words, she noticed that her interlocutor had started to frown.
«Seven shekels,» he said, holding out his hand for the money. He was writing her off, but Merryl was used to dealing with recalcitrant people in her line of work, so she kept at it as she slowly and tactfully pulled out some bills.
«I’m sorry, I still haven’t gotten used to the currency. How much is this? And what do you think of the massive support from the Palestinian public for the suicide bombers? Do you agree that these acts of terrorism can be justified?»
In reply, the vendor took one of the bills out of her hands and brusquely dumped a pile of coins in her open palm in change. «Of course,» he said in reply. «No Jew should feel safe after that bastard invaded our sacred Mosque.»
Merryl came out of the store, upset and concerned. As she crossed the busy street and headed back to the hotel, she pulled out her Dictaphone. Yes, of course. Everyone agreed that the Second Intifada had started on September 28, 2000. And the spark that lit the fuse was Ariel Sharon, who was already hated for his role in the massacres of Sabra and Shatila in 1982. With his visit to the Al-Aqsa esplanade, he wanted to show the world that Israel still controlled East Jerusalem; the result was that he ignited the fury of Palestinians and Muslims around the world and was to be expected when the leader of the "infidels" leads his military forced up to the third most sacred mosque in the world.
On Friday morning, the American journalist crossed through the Damascus Gate once again. She had an appointment with Zvi Shimoni, an Israeli artist who was well respected in the West and favorable to a compromise with the Palestinians. However, their conversation didn’t go beyond basic introductions. They had just sat down at the small Armenian Tavern in the old city when a deep explosion made the walls shake. Three loud bursts followed suit. The customers all got to their feet in fear. It was the sound of grenades and they were followed by rounds of gunfire. These came intermittently, like a sequence in Morse code. This was Merryl’s first assignment in the Middle East; she had never been in this kind of situation before. She went pale, her arms froze, and she gripped her chair.
«Don’t worry,» Zvi told her, «there’s nothing to be afraid of. Actually, for someone in your line of work, you’re lucky.» His smile shone through the tenseness. «Come on, maybe I can show you something.»
They ducked into a nearby alley and walked quickly against the wave of people searching for shelter.
He picked up where he left off, shouting in order to be heard amidst the screaming and yelling, the sound of people running, the knocking on doors, opening and slamming shut.
«I’ll tell you the truth. We’ve gotten used to it, as awful as it is. They call it the Second Intifada, but these attacks are completely unlike the first revolt of 1987.»
They headed downhill on a small cobblestone road. At every intersection, he looked right and left and then made a motion to her to follow.
«I remember. When kids used to throw rocks...» Merryl said, trying not to trip on the stone staircases that were worn down by centuries.
«Yes, well, not exactly...» replied Zvi. «They certainly didn’t come this far and weren’t as influenced by Islamic fundamentalism as they are now. These days, mothers in Nablus and Gaza proudly send their children off to blow themselves up on buses, to kill as many of us as possible.»
They walked past some stands selling dusty trinkets that apparently hadn’t been touched by tourists in a very long time.
«If I’m not mistaken, there have been almost thirty thousand attacks and clashes to date, right?» she asked.
«It’s possible,» he replied, «and this one definitely won’t be the last.»
A few seconds later, Zvi took her arm and yanked her to the right. It was as if they had come out of a cave: the light hit her in the face. To each side were bare, ochre-colored walls. They turned left and found themselves on a balcony.
Zvi pointed downwards, towards the square.
«What you see down there is the Western Wall. Also called the Wailing Wall. Great view, right?»
The famous holy place for Jews was practically empty. Merryl saw medics tending to a few elderly orthodox men who had fallen to the ground and who were surrounded by pools of blood. Dozens of IDF soldiers rushed the walls. The gunfire started up again and they clambered over and below.
Zvi went up to someone who was also looking on and swearing loudly. They exchanged some incomprehensible words. Then he turned back towards Merryl.
«Just like I thought… Like every other damn Friday morning.»
The sound of children screaming caught their attention. They heard the roar of another grenade.
«What’s going on?» she asked. «Why did you bring me here?»
«You had to see this, Merryl. It’s that muezzin. The chanting coming from it intoxicates and hypnotizes the passers-by, and shortly after the sermon, he incites them to go to holy war. Then, like puppets, they come rushing out towards our Wall, which, as you can see, is directly adjacent to the Al-Aqsa Mosque. When things are calm, there are no suicide bombers. And then they send kids who throw rocks. But today, they hit innocent people, who were there only to pray.»
«But what about your soldiers? Are they saints? Why are they firing machine guns and throwing grenades?» Merryl asked in shock.
«No, they’re just blanks, to disperse the angry mass. Those people have to understand that they can’t go beyond the Wall; they have to leave us alone and let us have peace.»
Peace... Shalom… that’s what you say when you greet each other. Thoughts swirled through Merryl’s mind. Every Jew she had met in those five days had greeted her with the word shalom. Sure, maybe it was just another way of saying hello, but it was really so absurd. Absurd for me but apparently not for the people who were born and raised in this insanity.
Merryl managed to get back to her office at The New Yorker that weekend. She delayed handing in the piece because even though she had experienced so much on location, she still felt uncertain. She wanted to be optimistic about a possible ending to the conflict; one that got the Israelis discussing not only with the Palestinians, but the entire Arab world.
But there was something that irked her. She had studied the history of the region in depth, from the pre-Romanic era to Islamic rule and up until WWI, when the British took it away from the Turks, opening it up to Jews and their dreams of a return. She had read up on Zionist thought, how their leaders had been inspired by Garibaldi's nationalistic movements, how they had founded the Jewish state, and their repeated victories over all the Arab armies. She was left with the nagging feeling that there was one too many groups of people on that narrow strip of land.
Later that year, the UN Assembly ruled that the Wall erected by Israel went against international law. But the machsom, with its hundreds of miles of cement, electrified fences, watchtowers, aerial surveillance, patrols, and checkpoints, was already a reality, its route dividing villages, families, and even the city of Bethlehem itself.
1
New York City, NY
August 10, 2019
For Larry Horwitz, also known as Larry H, it was just another day dealing with the graphs and charts on his computer screen, shut in his home office on the Upper East Side while the rest of the city was on vacation.
He had been staring at the iMac for three long hours, as if at any moment an X marking the spot where the treasure lay hidden would appear. It felt like he was about to find out the secret location of some unprecedented wealth. He was in the midst of an intense trading session, one that was proving to be far more successful than what he had hoped for at the start of day. Although he wouldn’t admit it, out of superstition, he was trying to end that day of speculation by breaking his earnings record of $286,000.
He didn’t notice someone calling him from the next room. The voice grew ever more insistent as time passed. Then all went quiet. Larry went on as if nothing had happened, focusing on the prices of five different stocks.
Suddenly, someone slammed down a mug of coffee on his desk, pulling him out of his trance. It was Shawn, the coffee pot full of steaming brown liquid in his right hand.
«Here’s your hourly dose of caffeine. Black, boiling, and sugar-free. How about a break?»
«Thanks, buddy,» Larry replied, shifting in his seat towards him, and looking at him blankly. «Things are a little tricky now, I can’t…»
«...do more than you already did this morning? I thought you were up by 120. You usually sell at that point.»
«No, I just can’t make up my damn mind. I feel like this time it’s worth the wait. Two more trades, just an hour or so more. If I’m right, tonight we’ll go out and enjoy something a little stronger than coffee.»
«Well, you look like someone who needs a break. Will it be your treat?» Shawn asked.
«Definitely. It’s on me,» Larry nodded, turning back to the screen. His green eyes were bright but his complexion was sallow and he had dark circles under his eyes. «As long as I don’t lose everything.»
2
Larry had chosen the right stocks and he knew he was already halfway there. But that’s how day trading is, something of a constant bet, with no security. He kept on trading, hunched over in his office chair with its tall, padded backrest.
Outside it grew dark. But he didn’t notice. He was in the zone: that state of creative ecstasy that people experience when they are so deep in their commitment that they forget all external stimuli. His senses were heightened by the challenge. The pleasure of playing drove him forward. It had been a while that he was unaware of the passing of time.
The temperature in his lair was set to perfect conditions, but even so, sweat ran down his wide forehead and his neck. The colored graphs fluctuated like maelstroms in fish tanks but to the lay person they meant nothing. Larry held his breath for twenty-eight seconds. The stakes were rising. Suddenly he slammed both his hands down on the vintage industrial iron desk, making the screen wobble. The coffee splashed onto his fingers and the stack of papers around it.
«Holy shit. Holy fucking shit!»
He regretted not having set the stop-loss option. Now he was losing everything. His entire capital was at stake, wrapped up in a bundle of shares of unknown companies. Once upon a time they were pieces of paper, representing partial ownership of a company’s profits. Now, although the substance remained the same, they merely felt like chips in a poker game.
He wasn’t competing with anyone. The challenge was entirely psychological, only against himself. And maybe not even that. Any results he brought in were the fruit of his years of experience in equity investments combined with his growing impatience with the ranks of bosses and their rules, all of which had led him to start his own business. His ex-colleagues laughed at him and treated him like a loser when he left a secure job on Wall Street. This was his revenge. Making money from home, neither slave nor master to anyone. It was just between him and the markets.
Devouring new information and experiences, Larry had trained for a long time to get to that level. Day trading was his passion. It had allowed him to buy a penthouse in one of Manhattan's best neighborhoods in cash.
On that day in August, he set his capital as high as his risk profile. He put his $120,000 of savings into play, like an all-in poker player.
With a careful reading of the market, and by observing the candlestick charts, he kept a sharp eye on the S&P 500. This is what his mentor, Timothy Sykes, the man who had turned $12,000 into $1,650,000 in day trading, had taught him to do.
There was a sudden dip but Larry didn’t panic. Immediately afterwards, with the confidence of someone who had spent at least ten thousand hours sniffing out such an opportunity, he purchased more shares of Uber.
It turned out to be the wrong move. The news came exactly one minute after his purchase. The FED had just raised the interest rate and the value of his stock plummeted. Suddenly the picture was entirely different; it was like a sudden hailstorm in the middle of summer. It was the worst trade of the day.
That’s enough; now I have to get back to the rules. I have to follow the strategy without straying by not even an inch, he said to himself.
Gradually, the road got easier. Larry managed to build up some profitable trades. He bought shares of smaller companies but with a much higher growth rate.
The day was not over yet. He had another loss soon after, and it was feeling like there really was no hope. It felt like he was taking one step forward and four steps back. The turning point came when he neither expected nor hoped for it anymore. The strategy paid off, and it was an adrenaline-rich experience, even though he had been preparing for something like this for months.
The trading day came to a close. Larry was quick to click and sold at just the right time. It was the third sale he closed for profit on that fiery afternoon. No textbook could have predicted this outcome; it just happened. First round $96,546. Second round $107,334. And third round $88,612. Total: a profit of almost three hundred thousand dollars before taxes.
He could have rejoiced then and there because he had never really gotten close to numbers like that before. He made some notes in an Excel file. He ran the numbers again. He went over everything three times and still couldn’t believe it. Finally, he leapt to his feet.
«Yes! Alright!» he hollered. «Christ almighty! Shawn, come here! I told you I wasn’t rusty... I thought I had it wrong but look at this!»
He swiveled over in his chair to make room for his friend, who peered at the screen.
«Well, alright! Way to go, Larry! We're all set.»
«Yep, if it had tanked, I would’ve had to go back to working for those ACF bastards,» Larry replied, bursting out in a loud Jeff Bezos-style laugh.
3
Before beginning their evening of celebrations, Larry needed an hour on his own, and asked Shawn to meet him directly at the club.
Like the apple that fell on Newton’s head, Larry was struck with awareness. He was now truly free. He had won his bet. He had achieved the goal he had been pursuing for more than three and a half years, since he had started trading from home.
Now he had time, time to devote to his obsession.
“Poor men have large TVs. Rich men have large bookshelves.” He had heard someone say that in a motivational video he saw when he was 24 years old. Tired of spending long days in a cubicle trying to sell life insurance, cold-calling strangers who hated him, he had turned to self-help books.
In the years that followed, he increased his collection of books like a determined ant, covering the walls with textbooks, novels, and essays in five different languages. He added shelf after shelf, each one dedicated to trophies from his “secret” expeditions. In the meantime he figured out how to make money his own way.
For some time now, Larry had been opting for selective ignorance, rejecting information fed to him by the television and social media. He wanted to choose what to feed his mind each day, and was intolerant of outside influences and distractions.
His thirst for knowledge came from his father, Elia Horwitz, one of the first computer engineers in Israeli history and a key contributor to Mossad’s technological progress. Elia was also responsible for innovations in the radar systems that led to victories against Syria and Egypt in the 60’s and 70’s. However, his father had paid the price for his successful career with his marriage to Cristina, the beautiful Italian woman he had met and fallen in love with during the exhibition at the Tel Aviv Museum of Art in 1981, and with whom he had three children.
It’s time to disconnect, Larry thought, pressing a button behind a heavy leather tome on the bookshelf. He heard the usual clicking and whirring sound and the wall library shifted slowly, opening just enough for him to squeeze through. He had to enter sideways; the mechanism had evidently been poorly designed.
«Damn, I should have used Bruce Wayne’s company. Everything always seems so smooth and perfect in the movies. In reality, having a proper hidden room behind your bookshelves is a mirage.»
The man who had built his secret den was the friend of an old colleague and worked as a carpenter in his spare time. In addition to paying him a hefty fee, Larry bought his silence by sending Shawn to find out what kind of skeletons he had in the closet. Now he knew how to blackmail him if he ever decided to reveal the existence of the Hall.
Larry had planned on having this secret gallery from the very start. He had chosen the penthouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan because of the space and immediately had the entrance to the north wing walled off and lined with bookshelves. Inside, he set up the entire collection that his mother had bequeathed him, as well as the archaeological finds he had unearthed himself.
Larry spent most of his free time in the Hall. Three sides of it were lined with display cases and pedestals, and in one corner he set up an area for thinking. Nestled in a comfortable, large leather armchair, he spent his evenings listening to vinyl records: soul, rock, and world music.
This ritual had begun back when he was an insurance telemarketer and living in a small, old apartment in Queens. Even then, at the end of the day, he drank and smoked away the burden of responsibility. His ambition stayed constant. His sales targets grew alongside his compensation. The tarry, brown hash gave way to sativa cannabis buds; Glen Grant was replaced by peated scotch.
From working in insurance he had gone on to banking. He was hired by the ACF, the Andrew Carnegie Fund, one of the companies that dominated the looming skyscrapers of midtown Manhattan. He started out as a simple analyst, and to his great satisfaction he became Vice-President of Investments in the Middle East and Africa at only 32 years of age. His shoulders were burdened by ROE targets of hundreds of millions of dollars and he had to put up with harassment from bosses and investors who had entrusted him with all that money. His hard work and effort had brought him close to burning out. One day he woke up with the awareness that he couldn’t take it anymore. He decided he’d use his savings and expertise to start his own business. And little by little, he won himself the freedom to continue what his mother, Cristina, had started.
With some effort he shoved the library door open from 45 to 90 degrees. He walked into the Hall, which was almost as wide as the Metropolitan Museum lobby, which was located just a few streets away.
He picked up the faded cover of Sting’s “Ten Summoner's Tales” and put the record on the turntable.
«You’ve come a long way, Mom,» he sighed, staring at a framed photograph of a woman with raven hair and a Mediterranean complexion on the table to his right.
Cristina De Ferraris was born and raised on Lake Orta, in the province of Verbania, near the Italian border with Switzerland. Her parents, both Neapolitan, had moved there when her father was hired by Bialetti as a specialized engineer in the creation of the famous Italian Moka machine. She had gone to university in Milan and, after a brief stint in Etruscan excavations in Viterbo, her first assignment was in Egypt. Full of talent and initiative, at the age of 33 she was asked to run John Paul Getty’s collection in Los Angeles, and ever since then had lived in a villa in the hills of Bel Air. Larry, his older sister Dianne, and their younger brother Kevin were born and raised in America, a country that Cristina loved deeply. There, art was a business, just like any other, full of opportunities and free of the inane bureaucracy that kept her native country from thriving.
Larry inherited his mother’s obsession with art, as well as her sly smile. Over the years, Cristina focused on hunting for ancient treasures. Sometimes she found them in markets in the most unlikely places in Third World countries. Other times, she had to follow a scent and hire an ad hoc team to carry out the excavations. Often the authorities of the various countries on her map seized her finds, but this never stopped her. She had built up a small treasure trove, first for Getty, her employer, and later for herself.
When Larry and she traveled to Ethiopia together, Larry was only 17 years old.
A chill ran down his spine, making him shiver as if he had been pushed into a freezing cold lake. His face was expressionless; the only visible change was in his eyes, which he shut with the memory.
They had gone to Lalibela to look for new, intact, religious sites, far from the ones recognized as UNESCO World Heritage Sites. He had been standing outside the excavation, waiting for his mother. He suspected nothing, nor could he have done anything to help her. Cristina was trapped in the structure when it suddenly collapsed and thus her life had come to an end.
After the fact, it was easily explainable: the churches had been dug into the stone almost a thousand years earlier, chiseling and carving openings and supports with no serious engineering or architectural basis. She had been aware of the risk. But after a thousand years and only a few cracks to show for it, no one ever imagined a total collapse.
Larry had kept his pain hidden away but he knew right away that he wanted to carry on with his mother's mission.
He started in her native land, exploring the tunnels of underground Naples and finding gold coins dating back to Roman times. Then came Mexico, where he found two ancient, precious stones from the Mayan Empire. Since then, he hadn’t stopped, using all the vacation days granted him each year by the company to go on new expeditions, either with a few trusted collaborators or on his own. After a few years he had increased his mother’s collection, which he had inherited, earning him the respect of elite antiquities collectors.
But it was not enough. Those few, hard-earned days of vacation were never enough. This was another of the reasons why he wanted to start his own business. He needed to be able to work remotely, without being limited by time and space. Day trading met these requirements, but it was stressful and risky. However, he had the advantage of being able to leverage the experience he had gained on Wall Street.
Initially he had lost a lot more money than he earned. But there too, his obsessive temperament had come in handy. And while his former ACF colleagues were sitting by their swimming pools on those hot August days, he was busy finding satisfaction. Almost $300,000 in a single day. That would be his ticket to freedom.
He smiled as he thought of how close he had gotten. A lot of people would say he had been “lucky”. But he had won his freedom with his brain, and he risked more than anyone he knew.
If he had followed the advice of his father—who had also loved living dangerously—things would have been different after college. In fact, both he and his brothers had embarked on careers that were generally considered “normal and safe”. And that was because, even after their arguments and separation, Cristina and Elia agreed on one thing: their children would lead more stable lives than their own. Thanks to Elia’s work with the Israeli army and hers in the art world, the three children never lacked for anything. All three seemed to have fulfilled their parents' aspirations: Dianne worked in a law firm negotiating contracts and acquisitions for multinationals; Kevin was an engineer like his father but in the energy sector, managing BP’s oil platforms.
And then there’s me, Larry thought, who not so long ago landed a safe and well-paid job on Wall Street…only to abandon it to build something of my own.
Just like you, Mom.
4
«My mentor once said to me, ‘If you become a master of your art, you will be rewarded financially, spiritually and philosophically. And that is the ultimate definition of success.’» Larry said, raising his glass to Shawn’s. «Here’s to financial, spiritual and philosophical independence! You’re next. I know it. Even if your success will go against my own interests!»
The two men stepped out onto the balcony of the famous Brooklyn club they had chosen for their celebratory drinks. Beyond the East River, Manhattan’s skyline sparkled. From the rooftop bar they had an unimpeded view that stretched from the massive bridges down to the Statue of Liberty.
Larry had opened his doors to the former Navy S.E.A.L. not long ago. Since returning from Iraq in 2011, Shawn Mullin had been unable to find any serious employment. His parents, elderly and sick, died while he was on mission on the other side of the world. He was traumatized and broke. There was nothing for him in Akron, Ohio besides a mountain of debts and a run-down studio apartment. The cold weather played on his nerves, making him feel as though he was stepping into a minefield.
For a while he was sucked down into a spiral of alcoholism and depression. But something told him that he could find new opportunities online. His hopes were soon dashed, along with all his savings, when he invested in “get rich quick” courses. It took him a year, but he figured out that the only people who earned money off those schemes were the self-declared gurus themselves, people who sold miraculous, life-changing info-products showing screenshots of their bank accounts, photo-shopped with a few too many zeroes.
He got the best results from a project he had started without any great expectations: a blog about military technology. For five years he wrote a new article each week about the weapons that he had become familiar with during the war, and about everything he continued to discover on international trafficking. That's how Larry found him. For a year Larry had been one of the most active members in the community, sending him questions, even at the oddest hours.
One day Larry asked to meet him. He wanted to make him an apparently absurd proposal.
«I’m a former investment manager from a major Wall Street hedge fund and I’ve gone into business for myself. I want you, a war veteran, to be my bodyguard, and follow me to the end of the world.»
The guy was probably a pothead with a few loose screws, Shawn thought. A rich guy whose good life went to his head. But Larry provided guarantees, and that’s what persuaded Shawn to meet him. He offered him room and board in Manhattan, a monthly salary and training in the art of trading.
«Where I come from, it doesn’t cost a thing to dream. I don’t know if I’ll ever manage to make a fraction of what you earn. I haven’t even started trading yet...» Shawn said, staring out at the view. «But let’s face it. If I chose to move here and become your babysitter, it’s because I had nothing going for me in Ohio. Ever since LeBron left Cleveland, the only thing left to do there is sniff glue or slit your wrists.»
«Why don’t you stop playing with the demo accounts? If you don’t put your own money in, you’ll never learn.»
«You’re right, I know. I’ve just been through the ringer with these online businesses.»
«I know. But the good stuff starts now. For two reasons.»
«And they are…?»
«Well, first off, those two women at the bar have been checking us out for five minutes.»
«Well, look who woke up! Leave it to me. Watch and learn,» Shawn said, walking over to the bar in the middle of the rooftop terrace. But before he got there, he turned back with a quizzical look on his face. «... And the second reason?»
«You’ll find out in the next couple of days.»
