Reborn in America: Starting as a California Resident

The plane took off from New York and, after six hours, landed smoothly at Los Angeles International Airport (LAX) in California.

It was almost 10 p.m. at this point.

As California's busiest passenger airport and the third largest airport in the United States, it has been the gateway to the Los Angeles area since it began operating in 1948.

There are a total of 9 terminals in the airport. Pan Am occupies Terminal 4, where large passenger planes such as the Boeing 747 are parked.

Terminal 4 has 48 boarding gates, 21 of which are dedicated to cargo, and 6 of the remaining 27 are VIP gates.

Pan Am offers exclusive services to American Express's VIP customers, and Henry naturally enjoyed the special privileges of one of the VIP gates.

Despite the various subtle hints that the beautiful flight attendant Alice Williams was giving him, Henry acted as if he hadn't seen them and left the airport through a VIP gate with his four bodyguards.

Outside the airport, American Express had already prepared a car and driver for him.

Henry returned home without informing his family beforehand, so no one came to pick him up.

He could have taken a helicopter home, but considering the pitiful survival rate of plane crashes, Henry decided to spend more time traveling by land, after all, "safety first, man!"

"Back to Montecito."

Before Henry could finish speaking, the four bodyguards had already begun a deployment procedure as precise as a space launch.

Captain Liam, the white captain, pulled out a specially made magnetic card and swiped it across the electronic ignition of the Mercedes 600 SEL—this was a bulletproof version customized by Daimler for the Getty family, with an encrypted communication module embedded in the dial that was on par with the Pentagon.

Asian bodyguard Zhao completed a full electronic counter-surveillance scan of the car in 0.8 seconds. His grandfather was a radio specialist for President Hoover, and he was using Hitachi’s latest spectrum analyzer to detect eavesdropping signals.

Two Mercedes-Benz W116 sedans tore through the night at Los Angeles Airport, their chrome wheels adorned with a double serpent emblem that traced liquid gold-like trails under the streetlights.

In the Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham following behind, Lucas, a black bodyguard, held a Colt Python revolver in one hand, the Oklahoma oil well diamond embedded in the grip pressed against the bulletproof glass of the car window—this was a coming-of-age gift that the elder Getty gave to each of his family guards in 1953.

As the convoy drove along Century Avenue, Donna Somerset's "Hot Stuff" was bursting out of the Whiskey A Go Go club, the sonic boom crashing against the Kevlar coating on the Mercedes' body.

Liam glanced at Henry, who was resting with his eyes closed, in the rearview mirror, and quietly turned the air conditioning down to 16 degrees Celsius—a strange habit the employer had developed at Princeton: the closer one got to the core of power, the more one needed to stay awake at a low temperature.

"West Los Angeles, 22:17."

Zhao's synthesized voice came from the driver's seat. The Sony CRT screen in front of him was flashing green, and the satellite navigation system accurately marked every potential threat: three blocks ahead, a female star who had just been nominated for an Oscar was being mobbed by paparazzi.

On the right, in the parking lot of the Beverly Hills Hotel, plainclothes FBI agents are monitoring Mafia money laundering transactions.

Henry suddenly rolled down the car window, and the Santa Monica sea breeze, carrying the smoky aroma of Lawry's Steakhouse, flooded into the car.

He stared at the rainbow-painted Volkswagen T2s driven by hippie remnants on the coastal highway, the surfboards strapped to their roofs reminding him of the time in the 1960s when he acquired the first coastal oil field in Malibu.

His grandfather pointed to the Pacific Ocean with a cigar ring and said, "Remember, child, what flows beneath the seawater isn't salt, it's crude oil."

As the convoy sped along Sunset Boulevard, four Harley-Davidson FLH Raider motorcycles flanked it from a side road.

Lucas immediately pressed the red button on the center console, and two blinding xenon spotlights automatically rose from the trunk—an anti-ambush device developed by McDonnell Douglas for the presidential motorcade.

The riders froze instantly, like Greek sailors encountering Medusa, upon seeing the special California legislature pass hanging on the front of the Mercedes. The "Hells Angels" badge on the motorcycle handlebars was now clearly visible under the searchlights.

"Santa Barbara County boundary, 23:03."

Zhao's voice accompanied the ticking of an early Xerox LED digital clock on the dial.

Twelve spotlights suddenly illuminated the left side of the road. A senator's son was throwing a party on his ranch, and the Swarovski crystals on the bikini-clad women's chests refracted a psychedelic spectrum under the laser lights.

Henry tapped lightly on the car window, and Oliver immediately pressed the button on the car's Sony cassette player. Bach's "Air on the G String" instantly drowned out the wanton noise outside the window.

As Montecito's ornate cast-iron gates came into view, Liam honked the horn in a Morse code rhythm.

The manor's butler had already activated the same radio telescope installed in 1948 at the Palomar Observatory, and was now using a laser mapping instrument to calibrate the angle at which the convoy entered the gate.

As Henry stepped out of the car, his handmade Oxford shoes landed right on the first gold mine specimen in California in 1848—a historical fragment embedded in the marble steps that witnessed the Getty family ancestors using twenty boxes of explosives to wrest the land deeds of Montecito from the gold prospectors.

He looked up at the weather station dome atop the main building, its titanium alloy frame gleaming coldly in the twilight.

This equipment not only monitors the microclimate of the St. Ines Mountains, but also connects directly to Hughes Aircraft's KH-9 Keyhole satellite.

The scene of his father, George, adjusting equipment in the study suddenly flashed into his mind, causing him to unconsciously tighten his grip on the pocket watch in his suit pocket.

"Phew! It's so good to be home..."

The three-story Tuscan-style villa appears understated, nestled among oak trees, with only the Palladio columns on either side of the porch hinting at its extraordinary heritage.

As the residence of George Getty's widow, this building holds too many memories.

57000平方英尺的室内空间分布着13间卧室与19.5间浴室，每年仅房产税就相当于数十家普通家庭的全年收入——在1979年人均GDP不过万的时代，这栋价值1380万美元的房产足以买下整个街区的商铺。

Good evening, Jimmy.

"Welcome home, Master Henry."

The security supervisor bowed slightly, the Colt revolver on his tactical belt swaying gently with the movement.

As a former Marine, this Irish-American man has been in charge of perimeter security for ten years.

Henry glanced at the second-floor window lit by a nightlight: "Is Anne still working?"

"Ms. Lila delivered coffee half an hour ago."

Jimmy tapped his shoulder on the shoulder with the walkie-talkie. "Should we notify the young lady?"

"Let's wait until tomorrow morning."

Henry waved his hand to stop him, the custom-made cufflinks gleaming faintly under the chandelier in the foyer.

He knew that his eldest sister must be in the study checking the quarterly reports at this moment—since their father committed suicide four years ago, their mother had taken over the responsibility of managing the family trust fund with Annie.

The reason she is alone at home today is because after Henry officially came of age, their mother took a short vacation and is currently traveling around the world.

This Wharton finance master's student had to shoulder the heavy responsibility of managing a portfolio of oil stocks and real estate worth hundreds of millions of dollars all by himself.

As I walked up the walnut staircase to my bedroom, my childhood memories became clearer: my eldest sister used a calculator to figure out the compensation for the Ming Dynasty porcelain he broke; my second sister held up an anatomical chart to explain the formation of bruises; and my third sister could always accurately pinpoint the spot where he hid his snacks with an oil painting palette knife.

It wasn't until George's funeral, when his three sisters, dressed in mourning, shielded him in the center, that he realized these "tyrants" had long since become his final armor.

A blue ribbon from Yale Medical School is tied to the doorknob of the master bedroom on the second floor—Claire just passed her neurosurgery qualifying exam last week, and the 25-year-old doctoral candidate is currently interning at Massachusetts General Hospital.

In the next changing room hangs Catherine's Columbia University student ID; the 22-year-old art history major should be working as a curatorial assistant at the Metropolitan Museum of Art right now.

Henry gently stroked the height markings they had left on the doorframe, when he suddenly heard the rustling of papers turning in the study.

Moonlight streamed through the stained glass, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow on the family photo.

In the photo, a nine-year-old boy is holding a Junior Baseball League trophy, while his three older sisters' skirts are stained with the red clay of the baseball field.

At that time, they had no idea that three years later, that gunshot would forever shroud the Montecito sun in darkness.