masse from the Ottoman Empire.” He allowed himself a smile at Don Francisco’s raised eyebrows. “I do not criticize your decision; indeed, have I not made the same one myself? But the regional consequences were undeniable: the marrano business networks that you managed in the Mediterranean faltered when your direct control dissipated.
“Besides, the trade in the Mediterranean is changing and as it does, it attracts new scrutiny. Any determined attempt to track where my trades ultimately resolve would reveal a suspiciously high percentage of them ending quite favorably in the hands of the xuetas of Palma. Not that I am particularly worried about the Spanish government: Olivares’ hordes of auditors and investigators have troubles enough without worrying about small fish such as myself. Besides, they would only discover that I am facilitating trade upon which they grow ever more dependent, as their failures in war and diplomacy mount.”
Nasi nodded. “So, since exposing your past did not threaten you personally, your primary fear was for how it might impact your community.”
“Exactly. I was particularly worried by a group of broadly inquisitive Portuguese nationalists that I knew: they would have found me extremely useful against their Spanish occupiers. Even though attempts at directly extorting me would have been fruitless, the related knowledge of how we xuetas have been manipulating trade would been decisive leverage against my community.”
Nasi steepled his fingers. “Our old Ottoman masters might have seen a similar advantage in coercing you to become their confidential agent-and not just with regard to the Spanish, but all the European nations of the Mediterranean.
Miro nodded. “So, to protect my community, I left my life as a broker quickly, unannounced-and with no time or opportunity to access my own funds in Venice.”
“And now you hope to go into business in Grantville?”
“That is my hope. Although I am open to opportunities involving an official position, as well.”
Evidently Don Francisco heard the subtle inquiry; he shook his head-sadly, Miro thought: “Had you arrived two years ago…” Nasi shrugged. “But now, if I tried to-to find a place-for you, there would be strong accusations of nepotism. And let us speak truth: what credentials, besides your claims of who you are and what you have done, do I have of your abilities and accomplishments?”
“None whatsoever.” Miro smiled and stood. “My regards to your family.”
August 1634
While he waited for the bank’s chief officer, Senor-no, “Mister”-Walker, to finish guiding an elderly lady through a lien agreement, Estuban Miro considered his unusual situation. He was, by any reasonable assessment, a relatively affluent man, yet all his money was trapped in a Venetian bank. Radio was, unfortunately, no answer to his predicament. Even if access had not been highly restricted, no responsible bank would transmit or receive confidential instructions through these devices, since their nonofficial operations were expressly excluded from any assurances of secrecy.
So he would have to endure the to-and-fro tedium of exchanging bonded letters with Venice. The first several would be necessary to establish his identity, achieved through a multi-tiered set of codes and checks. Next would come detailed financial instructions, and finally, the actual transfer of credit to the bank here in Grantville. Even if he was fortunate, it would be at least four months before any of his assets-other than his emergency stash-became available.
So here he sat, waiting to see if there was a way to parlay his remaining travel monies into real estate. If the bank was willing to extend him any credit whatsoever, it might allow him to buy a humble property in which he himself could live while subsisting upon the meager rents generated by boarders. The plan elicited a small grin: the price of his newfound freedom was, evidently, a life of penurious humility. His old, Talmud-spouting neighbor in Palma would have found much to appreciate in this pass of events.
However, it wasn’t the frugality of the investment that irked Miro: it was the wrongness of it. There was a new kind of business booming here in Grantville, which was the epicenter of an expanding trade in information and credit-based (or as some called it, “liquid”) finance. In all the known world, only Venice and Amsterdam had possessed primitive precursors of this kind of fluid commercial network. And of course they-and so many others-had now assiduously studied and selectively adapted the vast array of up-time financial instruments for the specific needs of their rapidly altering markets.
These trends were spawning a peculiar kind of economy, particularly in Grantville: here, the power of the up- timer bourse was not vested in traditional accumulations of common goods, coin, and land, but in a far-flung network of high-value, and often rare, equipment, information, and expertise. Interestingly, many of the most lucrative contracts involving the transfer of these “new goods” resembled the contraband trade. The freight was extremely low-volume, high-value, and required maximum security: the most common examples were bonds, contracts, bank notes, correspondence, research, copied up-time books, sometimes gems and specie. And in addition to safe transport, these objects also wanted rapid transport: it seemed that a constant challenge in this new economy was that its crucial assets were always needed in too many places at precisely the same time. And that, Miro knew, was the key to a whole new kind of wealth: anyone who could figure a way to swiftly and safely move these key resources from one nexus of need to another would become a very rich man, indeed.
But how to do it? Airplanes possessed the obvious, needed characteristics-but, just as obviously, were not a practical answer at all. Regularly chartering airplanes was as completely out of the question as was owning them. Those few that existed were already overtaxed, and those in private hands seemed to spend half of their working hours commandeered by the government or its confidential agents. Furthermore, the airplane’s need of specialized infrastructure-airfields, prepositioned fuel and maintenance caches, repair personnel and ground crew-made the establishment of a broad, commercial network based upon these rare and complex vehicles something far beyond his capacity for investment, even if all his Venetian resources were at his fingertips…
But they were not, and that lack echoed the very problem he sought to solve: if only there was a faster way to transfer the funds, to access his remote capital for a timely local investment…
Miro caught movement from the corner of his eye: Coleman Walker was finally heading his way, the banker’s elderly customer now being escorted to her safe deposit box by a teller. However, before Walker crossed half the distance, his subordinate-an eager, but somewhat disheveled looking fellow named Marlon Pridmore-rose and snared his manager with an eager, urgent phrase. Behind, the elderly lady reemerged from the vault, evidently in some dither of uncertainty, her eyes scanning intently for her implicit savior, Mr. Walker.
Miro, sensing a further delay in the offing, edged closer-and heard Marlon Pridmore gushing: “So we’ve got the burner running at peak efficiency now, even with alternate fuels.” Walker, facing slightly away from Pridmore, rolled exasperated eyes as his employee burbled on: “I tell you, Coleman, that balloon of mine is going to soar…”
By which time the little old lady had returned: she scooped her desperate arm through Walker’s, who allowed himself to be drawn away with an apologetic glance.
Which Miro hardly saw. All he could see was the radiant glee of the ballooning enthusiast who stood before him, albeit now somewhat sheepishly.
“Sorry, sir-I just get carried away when I’m talking about the balloon I’m building.” Pridmore looked away guiltily. “Other folks can get pretty tired hearing about it.”
“Not me,” Miro averred flatly. “Tell me more.”
Pridmore did just that. In excruciating detail. Miro estimated that he had understood about one third of Pridmore’s discursis, possessed a vague conceptual appreciation of a second third, and was absolutely baffled by the rest. But he also knew that none of that mattered: what mattered was that Mr. Marlon Pridmore-an indifferently skilled bank officer-might be able to construct a working balloon. Or, in Estuban Miro’s mind, a commercially viable form of air transport.
Pridmore was wrapping up: “I’m actually amazed you can follow all this, Mr. Miro, particularly without any drawings or models to show you. Understanding a blimp is easier when you can see it.”
“Well, then: may I see it?”
Pridmore, like a proud father being asked to display his newborn child, beamed mightily. “Why, sure you can! Whenever you want.”
Miro rose. “How about now?”
