The Italian Divide (19 page)

“I’m in Turin,” McKnight said. “I’d like to meet you about a mutually beneficial business opportunity.”

As McKnight talked, Alberto was working on his computer to confirm what McKnight was saying. It checked out. Victoria Bank was one of the largest in Hong Kong, and William McKnight was the President and CEO. Alberto was troubled by McKnight’s call. Coming immediately after Federico’s murder and the Singapore transaction with Federico’s bank, this was a peculiar, Alberto thought. There had to be a relationship between these events.

He invited McKnight to come to his office in three hours. Before the meeting, Alberto had plenty to do.

He called in the head of the bank’s IT department and his director of security. “Here’s what I want you to do,” he told the two men. “I’ll be using the small conference room next to my office for a meeting. I want you to install a concealed video recorder and also concealed microphones. Can you do that in a couple of hours?”

“Definitely,” one said.

“Absolutely,” the other replied.

They were finished an hour before McKnight arrived.

The Hong Kong banker looked exactly like his picture on the computer. Alberto presented an amicable façade when he offered coffee, which McKnight declined, but all the while he was wary and on guard.

Smoothly, Alberto led to McKnight to one of the two chairs in a direct line of the video camera lens; he took the other one directly across from McKnight.

McKnight had asked for the meeting. Alberto let him talk first.

“As you are no doubt aware, my Victoria Bank is one of the largest in Hong Kong.”

Alberto nodded.

McKnight continued. “I have had my people conduct research on Turin Credit. I’m tremendously impressed. Your bank is very efficiently run. Your percentage of under-performing loans, according to the recent study of the Bank of Italy, is one of the lowest in the country. You not only have a strong position in Italy, but you’ve effectively expanded throughout Europe and even into Turkey and elsewhere in the Middle East.

“On the other hand, the strength of Victoria Bank is in Asia, particularly in China and Southeast Asia. We have very little overlap. In short, our two banks would be a perfect fit. Together, we could capitalize on global opportunities that individually would elude us.”

“What is it you’re proposing?”

McKnight cleared his throat. “I’d like to acquire your stock in Turin credit for 16 billion euros in an all cash transaction. I believe that’s a considerable premium above your present value.”

Alberto was stunned by the size of the offer, but he had no intention of selling. “I appreciate your interest,” he said politely, “but my stock is not for sale. Nor am I seeking any foreign investors for Turin Credit.”

“You don’t think 16 billion is a generous offer?”

“The issue isn’t the purchase price. My stock is simply not for sale.”

McKnight smiled, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “Oh come now, Mr. Goldoni. We’re both businessmen. We know that everything is for sale if the price is right. And as for my 16 billion, I have room to move. No one’s first offer is ever their last.”

Alberto looked squarely at McKnight. “Let me explain to you about Turin Credit. The bank was started by my great grandfather in 1920. He was a war hero of Italy in the First World War. Aside from the eight years that my great grandfather left Italy to go to New York in 1938, the bank has been in my family. My great grandfather turned it over to my grandfather, who built it into the second largest bank in Italy. My father, unfortunately, died young. So I succeeded my grandfather. With our international expansion, we have become the largest bank in Italy. One day my son, now a student at the London School of Economics, will succeed me.”

“But with 16 billion euros you and your son will be able to live well.”

“It’s not a question of money. I promised my grandfather on his deathbed that I would never sell my interest in the bank.”

“Humph,” McKnight said dismissing Alberto’s words. “Those promises are never intended to be taken seriously.”

“Mine is. And even if I hadn’t made it, I would want control of the bank to remain in the family. So I appreciate your coming, but our business is now over.”

Alberto expected McKnight to rise and head for the door, but he remained seated.

“I understand you were good friends with Federico Castiglione,” the Hong Kong banker said.

Alberto eyed him suspiciously. “That’s right.”

“Well it’s very unfortunate what happened to him.”

“What’s your point?”

“Simply that we have a bizarre coincidence. Federico refused to approve an investment in his bank; he died in a jewelry robbery; the transaction went through; and now here I am offering to buy your interest in another bank.”

When Alberto had been ten years old, his parents sent him to boarding school in Switzerland. There he had been bullied by Hans, a Dutch boy, two years older, who called Alberto “a Jew coward,” beat him, and stole money from him. Alberto had been close with his grandfather. When he returned home on break, he told his grandfather what was happening. His grandfather enlisted the help of a tough longshoreman from Genoa who taught Alberto how to fight.

When he went back to school, he waited for Hans to attack him. Then he used everything he learned, effectively breaking Hans’ nose, knocking out two of his teeth, and sending him to the local hospital. The school threatened to expel Alberto, but classmates came to his aid, testifying it was self-defense. In the end, they expelled Hans. No one ever bothered Alberto again. He became known as “Alberto the fighter.” And right now, he was prepared to fight for what was his.

Outraged, Alberto shot to his feet. “Don’t you threaten me, Mr. McKnight.”

McKnight stood as well. He stared hard at Alberto, who refused to be intimidated and stared back. “I’m not threatening. Merely referring to your friend’s death.”

“Leave now, Mr. McKnight, or I’ll call security to evict you.”

McKnight handed Alberto his card. “Think about my offer, Mr. Goldoni.” He walked toward the door. “Call me when you’re ready to talk.”

Alberto asked an armed guard to accompany McKnight on his way out.

Once McKnight left, Alberto gave an order to increase security at his home and office. Then he went home to tell Dora about his meeting with McKnight.

Her anger matched his. “This is a free democratic country. These people, whoever they are, can’t force you to sell. And I assume you have no desire to accept his offer or to negotiate with him.”

“None at all. I am just concerned about the danger I’m exposing us to. After what happened to Federico. I’m increasing security at home and the office. But let’s be realistic. If someone wanted to kill me, they could find a way.”

She tapped her foot on the floor. “I have an idea. Last year you worked with Giuseppe Mercurio, the Director of EU Counterterrorism in connection with money laundering by an Iranian.”

Alberto nodded. “I liked him a lot.”

“Then call him. If he’ll see you now, fly to Rome immediately. Tell him about McKnight and enlist his help.”

“Giuseppe’s jurisdiction is in counterterrorism.”

“McKnight’s threats constitute terrorism. At least try to get Giuseppe’s help.”

“I’ll do that.”

Paris

G
iuseppe proved to be correct. When Craig called Elizabeth from the airport in Bordeaux while waiting to board a flight to Paris and asked her to have dinner with him that evening, she said, “I’d love to.”

She suggested nine o’clock at Apicius. “Jean-Pierre Vigato is the best chef in Paris. I did a profile on him for the paper a few months ago. And I’ve gotten to know Emanuelle. She’ll give us a corner table where we can talk.”

When he arrived in Paris, Craig checked into the Hotel Bristol. As he was dressing for dinner, his phone rang. It was Giuseppe.

“I just finished the most remarkable meeting,” Giuseppe said. “Alberto Goldoni flew down from Turin to see me. He had a visit from William McKnight, the president of a large Hong Kong bank, Victoria. McKnight offered to buy the stock in Alberto’s bank. When he refused to sell, McKnight referred to what happened to Alberto’s good friend Federico and told him to think about it. Alberto had made a secret video recording of McKnight’s visit. He gave me a copy. McKnight is clearly threatening Alberto.”

“What exactly did McKnight say about Federico?”

“It’s very unfortunate what happened to his good friend Federico Castiglione.”

“Subtle.”

“Yeah. Real subtle. Then while Alberto was in the air on the way to Rome, his wife called and told him about a more explicit threat which had been left on the answering machine at home. ‘Soon you’ll be dead, Alberto.’ This was from a man with a Russian accent.”

“What did you tell Alberto?”

“To get security at his office and home. Which he had already done, and to let me know if he hears from McKnight again.”

“How’s Alberto taking it?”

“He’s madder’n hell. Alberto’s a fighter. I’m sure he’s frightened, but he’s not showing it.”

“Do you have enough to arrest McKnight for extortion?”

“Possibly, but it won’t do any good. You’re the one who taught me the only way to kill a snake is by cutting off its head. Not the tail.”

“I guess that’s right.”

“I’ll let you know if I hear anything else. Meantime, what about Elizabeth? Are you having dinner with her this evening?”

“Speaking of people who don’t quit—yes, nag.”

“Tell her I said hello.”

“Will do.”

“I’m supposed to meet someone from the Finance Department of the Justice Ministry this evening to get approval for my trip to Singapore. I’ll let you know what happens.”

“You’re not worried. Are you?”

“With those bean counters you never know.”

*     *     *

Elizabeth and Craig arrived at the same moment at the break in the stone wall, which was the entrance to the courtyard on Rue Artois in front of Apicius. The restaurant was housed in an historic Parisian mansion. Determined to make this evening work, he kissed her on each cheek and said, “So glad you could have dinner with me.”

She responded with a smile and took his arm as they walked along the stone path leading to the restaurant. He had to admit she looked fantastic. She must have gone shopping. She was wearing a short red, clinging sheath dress.

Inside, Emanuelle greeted them, then lead the way to a cozy and discrete corner table in the center room, right next to the floor to ceiling French windows that faced the courtyard.

Moments later, a waiter brought over glasses of champagne. “Jean Pierre wanted you to have these,” he said.

Raising his glass, Craig said, “To new beginnings.”

She raised hers as well and tapped it against his. “I’ll drink to that.”

After sipping, Craig asked, “How was Venice?”

She gave him a report of the charismatic Parelli’s speech and the audience’s reaction. Then told him what happened in Parelli’s hotel suite when she tried to get the interview. The prostitute didn’t interest Craig, but Parelli’s Chinese visitor made him wonder what was happening.

“Smart move,” he told her. “Taking the Chinese man’s picture.”

Emanuelle came over and took their order. Fois gras and frogs legs for her; crab with vegetables and rack of lamb for him. And of course a chocolate soufflé to share for dessert. He ordered a 2005 Premier Cru Chambolle Musigny from Roumier.

When she was gone, Elizabeth said, “I have to tell you about my meeting with Jonathan Hanson.”

“Who is he?”

He had my job at the newspaper until twelve years ago. Another expat living in France.”

As she repeated her discussion with Hanson, Craig ate a piece of bread from time to time. At the end, she said, “Hanson’s convinced that Parelli prevailing in the election and dividing the country would be a disaster for Italy, and I intend to stop him.”

Craig was frowning.

“You don’t agree?”

“Look, I think Parelli has to be stopped because of the Chinese involvement in his campaign, but apart from that it’s not for you or me to take a position. It should be up to the Italians. Perhaps dividing Italy might be best for the south as well as the north.”

Elizabeth looked surprised. “You’re joking. Right?”

“No. I’m serious.”

“I can’t believe it.” She sounded outraged. “Then you must think Lincoln was wrong going to war to keep the United States together.”

“Well let’s put it this way. Suppose there had been a vote in the entire United States and the people in both the North and South wanted to split the country. Why not? Would the two parts of the United States be worse off than the dysfunctional political mess we now have trying to get red and blue states to work together on anything?”

“There would be slaves in the South. You think that’s a good idea?”

Craig laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Even in the South, slavery would have ended in another decade or so. The world was changing. The point is that the South could follow a conservative view of less government; and the North a liberal view of more government. Both would be getting what a majority of their people wanted. Isn’t that what democracy is?”

“So you think Lincoln was a villain, not a hero?” she sounded exasperated and looked flushed.

Craig knew he should break off the discussion but he had to keep going.

“What I’m staying is that secession may not have been such a bad idea. Plenty of reasonable people said that at the time.”

“For a smart man, you sometimes say dumb things. You may look different, but you have the same personality. Name three of those reasonable people.”

“Truce,” Craig said, gaining control. “Let’s end this discussion.” He didn’t want this evening to conclude in disaster like the last one.