The Italian Divide (11 page)

Craig told her he’d like to speak with Signor Goldoni.

“Who should I tell him is calling?”

“Enrico Marino. I—”

“Oh. You’re the race car driver?”

“I am, but please tell Mr. Goldoni I want to talk to him about Federico Castiglione.”

“Hold on for a moment. I’ll see if Mr. Goldoni is available.”

After a delay of almost two minutes, Craig heard, “This is Alberto Goldoni. Why are you calling me?” Alberto sounded worried.

“I just came from a meeting with Amelie, Federico’s wife. He and I were friends. She asked me to help her find out who killed Federico.”

“But I don’t understand. You’re a racecar driver. Are you a policeman, too?”

“I’m not, but I know people in law enforcement. I plan to enlist their help, but before that I want to talk to you. The more facts I give them the more likely they are to become involved. Amelie told me you and your wife Dora had dinner with them Saturday evening.”

There was another long pause. Alberto’s a cautious man, Craig thought. He’s deciding whether he should talk to me.

After a delay, which seemed interminable to Craig, Alberto said, “Can you meet me in my office in Turin tomorrow morning at 10:00?”

“I’ll be there.”

As Craig resumed driving, he felt exhilarated. Racing had been a wonderful and exciting interlude. But now he was returning to his former life in the world of espionage. And that was what he loved best.

Circumstances had forced him to abandon it for twenty-one months—except for the Argentine mission—both the crummy politics of Washington and his need to hide from Zhou. Charging back into his former life carried risks. Zhou might learn who he was despite his change of appearance. He was willing to risk it.

Turin

C
raig spent the night in Turin at the Grand Hotel Sitea in the heart of the city. Normally, he liked to walk around this unfairly maligned industrial city that was home to the Fiat Automobile Company. It had numerous parks and tree lined squares. He loved dining at Del Cambio with its old luxury of crystal chandeliers and large gold encrusted mirrors.

This evening, after being attacked in Milan and not wanting to be recognized, he left his car with the hotel valet, stayed in the hotel, and had room service for dinner.

The next morning, wearing sunglasses in the bright sunlight, he walked to the headquarters of Alberto Goldoni’s bank. Turin Credit was located in a four-story gray stone building along the lively Piazza San Carlo. Along the way, Craig stopped and looked into retail stores, pretending to window shop. He was using his favorite technique to make certain he wasn’t being followed.

Satisfied no one was tailing him, he crossed the wide boulevard to the Turin Credit headquarters. Craig saw there were two armed guards in front of the building, one on each side of the front entrance.

This wasn’t unusual, Craig told himself. There was a retail branch of Turin Credit on the ground floor. It made sense to have armed guards in front.

What did surprise Craig was that inside the building, across the marbled floored lobby from the retail bank, in front of the elevators leading to the offices upstairs, were two more armed guards. And he found another two on the top fourth floor where Alberto’s office was located.

When Craig entered Alberto’s suite, the secretary with the cheery voice, who was a bit overweight with dark black hair and a pleasant smile, asked Craig if he would autograph a book on auto racing. “It’s for my twelve-year-old son. He’s crazy about the sport.”

Craig signed the book for her, and she thanked him profusely. Then she led him into Alfredo’s office. It wasn’t particularly large and was furnished simply with handsome, decades-old wooden pieces. Nicely framed family pictures were scattered on a couple of tables. There was no “love me” wall with photos of Alberto with statesman and powerful industrialists. It was not the type of office Craig had expected for the owner and CEO of Italy’s largest bank.

Alberto stood up from his desk and came forward to shake Craig’s hand. Creases and lines were prominent on his face and forehead. Worry? Or just aging? Craig wondered. He had Googled Alberto that morning. The banker was 53; he looked like 63.

“You have an attractive family,” Craig said pointing to the pictures.

“Thank you. Dora and I are proud of our two children. The picture on the right was taken about six months ago. Our son, Ricardo, is a student at London School of Economics. Our daughter, Ilana, is studying law at Bologna as I did.”

She was a strikingly beautiful young woman, Craig thought. With her long brown hair and smile, she reminded him of his own daughter, Francesca.

Alberto led the way to two leather chairs in a corner, and they sat down, facing each other. Craig decided not to take notes for fear of spooking Alberto. With his superb memory, he’d recall what Alberto said.

“Federico was my friend,” Alberto began. “Anything you can do to help find his killers would mean a great deal to me as well as Amelie.”

“I appreciate that.”

“What can I tell you?”

“I learned from Amelie that you and your wife, Dora, went to Biarritz to spend the weekend with Federico and Amelie. Was there some occasion?”

Alberto coughed and cleared his throat. “It was very strange. Federico called me last Thursday. He sounded frightened, almost terrified about something, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. He asked Dora and me to come to Biarritz. He said we’d have dinner Saturday evening at the Hotel Du Palais. Then Sunday morning the two of us would go off alone on the beach and talk. At dinner, when our wives went to the ladies room, I tried again to get him to tell me what this was about, but he refused.”

“How did he seem at dinner?”

“Morose. He tuned in and out. Drank a lot. He was clearly worried. He made disparaging comments about Russians. When he and Amelie were getting in the car to leave and I said goodbye, he whispered into my ear, ‘Be careful, my friend.’ From that, I understood he believed I was at risk from whatever threat he faced.”

This would explain Alberto’s anxiety, Craig thought, and the guards in the bank.

“How did you learn about his death?”

“He and Amelie left the hotel about 11:30. Dora went to bed. I was in the bar having a drink, but concerned about Federico and what he had said. I didn’t want to wait for the morning to talk. So I decided to walk up to his house, hoping he would talk to me. I saw the police cars and ambulance. I tried to go into the house, but they stopped me. My French isn’t too good. The most I could understand was that Federico had been killed in a jewelry robbery and Amelie was all right. I knew she had a brother in town for the weekend, and since I didn’t know her that well, I decided that Dora and I should leave Biarritz immediately. As I was walking back to the hotel …” Alberto hesitated to go on.

“What happened?”

“Someone was following me in a dark blue Mercedes. The person aimed a gun with a silencer at me and tried to hit me. I changed direction and got out of the line of fire. Then I ran down some stairs to elude whoever was in the car.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“I couldn’t see the gunman. He was driving and blinded me with a bright flashlight. I tried to see the license plate, but couldn’t. I raced back to the hotel. Dora and I packed up and we came home.”

“You drove?”

“No, we went by private plane. It’s one of my few luxuries,” he added apologetically.

“You’re frightened. Aren’t you?”

“Of course. After what Federico said. And of course after someone following me and trying to shoot me.”

“Do you believe Federico was killed in a jewelry robbery?”

“Of course not. It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I know Federico. He would never fight with robbers. He’d let them take what they wanted and call his insurance company. The same as any sensible person.”

“Amelie said the men were Russians,” Craig interjected.

Alberto raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know that. As I said, Federico was ranting about Russians at dinner.”

“Do you have any idea why Russians or anyone else would want to kill Federico?”

“None at all,” Alberto declared.

“Was his bank involved in any way with organized crime?”

“Never. That’s inconceivable. I think the law enforcement people you talk to should look at overdue loans. Perhaps he had some from Russians and that’s why they killed him, or perhaps they had been hired by someone who did have overdue loans.”

“Is there anything else going on in the Italian banking business that might have impacted Federico’s bank?”

Alberto thought about the question for a moment. “Last year, two different Chinese banks bought an interest in two smaller banks in northern Italy. One in Verona and one in Bologna. I didn’t find those surprising. As you know, we’ve had a great deal of turmoil in the Italian banking industry because of this recession which won’t go way, and because of EU establishing stricter bank regulations that make it harder for all of us to do business. But I haven’t heard that any foreigners were trying to take over a portion of Federico’s bank.”

“Is there anything else you think would be useful?”

Alberto closed his eyes for a moment and held a hand against his forehead.

“Nothing I can think of—only to emphasize that I want Federico’s killers caught and brought to justice. I’ll do anything I can to help. It means a great deal to me.”

Alberto’s last sentence seemed odd. Craig picked up on it. “You mean because he was your good friend?”

“That’s part of it. But there’s more.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our families are bound together and each owes an enormous debt to the other.”

“Could you explain that?”

“My family’s Jewish. When we were expelled from Spain in 1492 by Queen Isabella, my ancestors traveled east across France and settled in a small town in Piedmont, in the area of northern Italy that welcomed Jews. This was in contrast to most other parts of Italy that severely restricted the movement and activities of Jews. Then in 1848 King Carlo Alberto and his son Vittorio Emanuele not only declared the First Italian War of Independence, … but also emancipated the Jews. My family took advantage of this new freedom and moved south to Turin. My great grandfather, Alberto, for whom I was named, was a hero in World War I fighting in the Italian cavalry. He could have sat out the war, but he was a patriot, so he enlisted. He received many awards from the king. After the war he founded a small bank named Turin Credit, which was the beginning of this bank.

“When Mussolini came to power, my great-grandfather walked a careful line, neither supporting nor opposing Mussolini and the fascists. He was a good man trying to protect his family and to survive in a difficult political climate. To digress for a moment, do you know the origin of the word ‘fascist’?”

Craig shook his head. Alberto continued, “It’s actually from a seal of ancient Rome. The Roman Empire seal had bunches of wheat joined together with a sword. Mussolini’s objective was to return Italy to the glory of the Roman Empire so he took that seal and its depiction. The word for a bundle of hay was fascico and it came to mean a group or association. Political organizations in Italy were known as fasci, and Mussolini founded the National Fascist Party (partito nazionale fascista) in 1919.

“At any rate, Mussolini refused to comply with Hitler’s demand to round up and to deport Jews to the concentration camps. That came later after Mussolini was deposed the first time and the Germans occupied much of Italy. However, Mussolini, a man of contradictions who always tried to play both sides, promulgated Nazi anti-Semitic regulations in 1938 that, among other things, prohibited Jews from owning large businesses like banks.”

“What did your great-grandfather do?”

“He turned his bank over to Federico’s great grandfather, Fabrizio, who wasn’t Jewish and who worked in the bank. My great-grandfather decided to take his family to the United States until the trouble was over. He and Fabrizio had an oral understanding that when he returned to Italy, Fabrizio would return the ownership of the bank to him.”

“Where did he go in the United States?”

“New York. Others in the family went as well. There he worked for the Bank of New York. As a smart man who knew banking, he rose high in the organization. After the war, they wanted him to stay, but he loved Italy and soon returned. He found that while a few of his family had been deported and executed by the Germans, most had been hidden by Italians. They helped some to escape into Switzerland.”

“Did Fabrizio turn the bank back over to him?”

“Exactly as promised.”

“That didn’t always happen with businesses that had been turned over.”

“I’m aware of that. My great grandfather was so grateful to Fabrizio that he gave him—not lent, but gave him—the money to start his own bank in Milan. This is the bank Federico ran. So you see the families owe a great debt to each other. That’s why I would do anything to help find Federico’s killers and bring them to justice.”

“I’ll do what I can. Believe me.”

“I have no doubt.”

Alberto was staring at Craig. “Computers and the Internet are wonderful things. Tracing Enrico Marino wasn’t difficult. His life began two years ago. After our conversation today, I’m convinced you’re much more than a race car driver.”

Craig shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Don’t worry,” Alberto continued, “I have no intention of sharing my suspicions with anyone else. Nor am I interested in your secrets. I’m simply happy we’re on the same side.”

“You’re a very wise man. Thank you for your discretion.”

After Craig left Alberto, he went to a small, dimly lit espresso bar and sat down in a corner. As he thought about Alberto’s parting words, he realized by wading into the investigation of Federico’s death, Craig risked blowing his carefully constructed Enrico Marino cover. With that came the possibility that Zhou Yun with his worldwide operations and relationships would learn where Craig was and would try to kill him to avenge his brother’s death. Craig had to take his chances. He was tired of running and hiding.