The Italian Divide (2 page)

Radovich lifted his hand and moved it toward his jacket. Convinced Radovich was going for his gun, Qing reached for his ankle. As Qing made contact with the cold metal, the phone in his pocket rang. Radovich dropped his hand.

Qing took out his phone. He immediately recognized the Beijing number. He had to take the call.

“Yes,” he said tersely in Mandarin.

“Status?”

“Final arrangements are being made.”

“Any issues?”

Qing looked at Radovich whose hands were on the table.

“None for me. Any change at your end?”

“No. Proceed.”

The caller in Beijing clicked off, but Qing decided to use the call to bluff Radovich. He pretended the conversation was continuing, and he switched to English.

“Are you with Sergei now?” Qing said.

He waited a few seconds, then continued. “Tell Sergei I’m in a meeting with Radovich and Boris, his people in Biarritz… . No, I don’t think we have a problem.”

Qing stared at Radovich, hoping that invoking the name of Sergei, the Moscow crime boss, would be enough to ensure that he abandoned his intention of trying to kill Qing. “Do we?”

“Tell Sergei, no problems,” Radovich said.

Qing breathed a sigh of relief. He repeated Radovich’s words, then put away the phone.

“Okay, now let’s talk about the job,” Qing said.

“We’re ready,” Radovich replied.

“I want you to kill an Italian banker.”

Biarritz

June 1

A
lberto Goldoni stood at the window of his eighth floor suite in the Hotel Du Palais in Biarritz. A powerful storm was ahead. As he watched the angry swirling sea crashing against the rocks below, he wondered what he was doing here.

Thursday, two days ago, he had been in his office at Turin Credit bank when Federico Castiglione had called from Milan. In a frightened voice, Federico had said, “We must talk. You have to meet me in Biarritz over the weekend.”

Because of their friendship and the obligation Alberto’s family had to the members of Federico’s family, he’d do anything for Federico. Still, he was mystified by the proposal and curious about what Federico wanted to discuss. “Why wait until the weekend? I can come to Milan today.”

“No, it’s better outside of the country. Please believe me. Amelie and I will get to our house in Biarritz late Saturday afternoon. You should stay at the Hotel Du Palais. We’ll have dinner in the hotel Saturday evening with our wives. Then early Sunday morning, you and I can talk on the beach. No one will be able to overhear us.”

From the determination in Federico’s voice, Alberto realized further questioning was pointless. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. This is important for you, too… . Not just for me.”

Without saying another word, Federico had hung up. Now at eight thirty on Saturday evening Alberto and his wife, Dora, having flown up in his bank’s private plane early in the morning, were dressing for dinner.

Federico was the CEO and largest stockholder in the National Bank of Milan, the third largest in Italy. Alberto’s bank was the largest in the country. Whatever was happening to Federico undoubtedly involved banking business or finances in Italy. Both of them had barely survived the financial upheaval of 2008. Now there must be a new threat to their survival.

Alberto would try to find out what was happening this evening at dinner. He didn’t like having to wait for tomorrow morning. But he knew Federico. The man could be stubborn. If he decided on something, there was little chance of convincing him to change.

As if reading his mind, Dora called from behind Alberto. “Are you worrying about Federico?”

He whirled around and looked at her wearing a white silk bra and panties, sitting at the vanity table, brushing her long black hair. They had been married for twenty-two years, and he still found her as beautiful as the day he had met her at the University of Bologna where they were both students. He also respected her views and intellect.

“Federico sounded upset during the call Thursday.”

She put down the brush. “I can’t understand why he couldn’t come to Turin to talk to you. Or ask you to go to Milan.”

“He made it sound as if he was afraid of someone who was there.”

“And he wanted to slip away from them?”

“That’s what I thought. But no matter what, if Federico wanted me to do this, I had to.”

“You’re a good person, Alberto.”

“Not really. I made you suffer through a day on one of the great beaches in Europe. And dinner in the hotel should be a hardship as well.”

“The hardship will be having to put up with Federico’s new French wife, Amelie.”

“I know you liked Bonita, but it’s not Federico’s fault she died.”

“He didn’t even wait six months to remarry.”

Alberto didn’t have a retort for that. He had been surprised as well.

“And then he picks a sexy French bimbo,” she continued. “A former model. Ach! You men. You’re all the same.”

“Hey. I didn’t do anything.”

The ring from Alberto’s cell phone resting on the desk interrupted their banter. He picked it up and saw the caller was not identified. “Yes?”

“This is Roberto Parelli.” The voice was raspy and strained. “I’m sorry to bother you on the weekend, but I’ve been busy with my political campaign and Luciano told me that my loans are due tomorrow.”

“Actually, they were due six months ago.” Alberto had spoken about it with Roberto several times. “I gave you additional time to pay them back.”

“Well now, I need more time.”

“How long?”

“Another six months.” Parelli wasn’t asking. He was demanding. “The election is on September 30. Less than four months. I expect to win. When I do, donors will step forward to pay off my debts.”

Alberto’s heart was pounding. This was a tough decision. The loans totaled 310 million euros. Considerably more than the value of the collateral: The Parelli farm, vineyard, and winery. The prudent thing for Alberto to do was call the loans and seize the property. That would mean not only destroying Parelli financially, but also effectively ending the heavily in debt political campaign of the controversial Parelli. The candidate was either Italy’s savior or agent of the devil sent for the nation’s destruction.

Alberto hated being in this position. He was a banker, not a politician. He despised Parelli’s New Italy party and what Parelli wanted to achieve, but he didn’t think that should influence his decision. Still, he was only human. Subject to the same passions which Parelli provoked in others.

“I’ll give you one more week. That’s all,” Alberto said firmly.

He noticed Dora moving close to him, a concerned look on her face.

“But don’t you realize what I’m trying to do for the country?”

“I’m very sorry. I can’t give you preferential treatment. It’s a question of fairness among all the bank’s clients.

“I have promises of large contributors.”

“I hope you receive them and will be able to repay the loans.”

“You’ll be wrecking my campaign.” Parelli was raising his voice. “Think about the consequences for you.”

The comment rankled Alberto. Parelli was threatening him. That only strengthened his resolve. “I have thought about them.”

“Well, think some more.”

“My mind is made up.”

“You’ll pay for this. Are you sure you want to deal with the consequences?”

“Positive,” Alberto said without flinching.

Parelli hung up.

From outside, Alberto heard the sound of thunder. The skies opened. A pelting rain smacked against the windows.

“Parelli?” Dora said.

He nodded. “A very unpleasant call with an arrogant man and a not-so-veiled threat of unspecified consequences.”

“Should you talk to the authorities?”

“Too risky. Some powerful people are supporting him. I gave him another week. I’m sure he’ll continue pressing me for further extensions.”

She sighed.

“What do you think I should do?” he asked.

“What are the latest polls showing?”

“Parelli’s party is leading all the others at 40 percent. But the sharp rise he’s had for weeks has ended. It seems as if he’s leveled off.” He shrugged. “Maybe even headed downward. It’s impossible to predict. So what do you think I should do?” he repeated.

“Like you, I hate Parelli’s program. I’d love to see him eliminated from the campaign, but I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“I’ve been more than reasonable, delaying the calling of the loans for six months.”

“I know, but if you do, his backers will vilify you. They’ll claim that a banker is deciding the fate of Italy.”

“Correction. A Jewish banker.”

“For sure. When all you’re doing is behaving like a sound businessman.”

“Besides, what can he do to me?” Alberto said pensively.

Unanswered, the question hung in the air until Alberto said, “We better finish dressing. It’s almost nine o’clock. Federico is always on time.”

She put on her coral silk dress and asked him to zip it. As he did, she said, “I’ll bet there’s a relationship between the danger Federico’s facing and the Parelli loans.”

He gave a long low whistle. “What makes you think so?”

“Instinct. And Federico telling you that whatever is happening to him will affect you as well. Federico may also have given loans to Parelli.”

Alberto opened his mouth to argue with Dora. Then closed it. Over the years, her instincts had often been correct. There could be a link between what was happening to Federico and Alberto’s loans to Parelli. Perhaps the discussion with Federico would illuminate it.

Aosta, Italy

L
uigi had laid out some maps on the table in the lounge of the Hotel Milleluci. Craig Page studied the maps as if his life depended upon it, which it did. Today they had completed the second of three legs of a rally race on narrow roads in the Italian Alps. Craig, calling himself Enrico Marino, behind the wheel of a light blue 1996 Jaguar modified for racing, outfitted with a 510 horse power motor, and his navigator, Luigi, had turned in a dazzling performance so far in this race.

After the second leg, Craig was in first place. He was three minutes and ten seconds ahead of Carlucci, an experienced driver, who like Craig was based in Milan and who had won more than a dozen majors in his career. No one else was even close to the two of them.

Craig desperately wanted to win this race. It would be his first victory in a major.

This afternoon they ended in Aosta, referred to as the “Rome of the Alps,” in the shadow of the peaks of Mont Blanc and San Bernardo. Tomorrow their route would carry them up into some of the most rugged roads in the Alps, to finish the race in Stresa—on the shore of Lake Maggiore.

“I think you’re wrong” Luigi said.

The firmness of Luigi’s tone startled Craig. In their discussion about strategy for tomorrow, Craig faced the dilemma which confronted leaders in many sports, including golf and football,. Should he play it safe, take it easy, and try to sit on his lead? Craig could do that tomorrow by driving at his average speed for the first two days, figuring it was good enough to get him into first place and should be sufficient to win. Or he could keep pushing to increase his speed, which meant a greater chance for a crash, on the assumption that Carlucci might do better today.

Luigi was arguing for Craig to play it safe. He was reluctant to reject his navigator’s advice because Luigi had been in many more races. But Craig was twenty years older than Luigi. He didn’t have a great deal of time to win a major.

Pondering the question, he sipped some Armagnac and looked up at the old wooden beams across the ceiling of the lounge.

The phone in Craig’s pocket rang. He saw the caller was Federico Castiglione, his close friend and his largest financial backer.

“Congratulations,” Federico said. “I got the results of today’s race from the sports network on my computer. You had an incredible day.”

“It’s not over yet. Carlucci will come out tomorrow loaded for bear.” Federico had told Craig he was planning to come to Stresa and meet him at the finish line. So Craig added, “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

“I’m real sorry. I have a business crisis. I won’t be able to come.”

The disappointment was evident in Federico’s voice.

“Are you stuck in Milan?”

“Actually in Biarritz. I have a critical meeting here.”

“Well that’s too bad. “I’ll do my best to win this one for you.”

“I would like nothing better.”

“I’ll deliver the trophy to you. To put in your office or home.”

“No, no. It should be yours.”

“I owe you too much. I want you to have it.”

“Thank you. Good luck tomorrow.”

“We’re revving it up,” Craig said to Luigi. “We can’t let Carlucci win.”

“Remember Sardinia.” Luigi sounded alarmed.

Craig could never forget it. Last October, Craig had started the final round, fifteen seconds behind Carlucci. In his effort to make up that time, he had pushed too hard and lost control of the car, which flipped over as it rolled down a hill. Miraculously, the car didn’t explode, and Craig and Luigi had survived with relatively minor injuries. Both ended up in the hospital where they were treated for mild concussions and bruises.

“That was the rain,” Craig said.”

“And the prediction tomorrow is for rain as well. You’ll be at a disadvantage with rear wheel drive.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m going for broke.”

Biarritz

“H
ow did you happen to own a house in Biarritz?” Dora asked Federico and Amelie.

The two couples were seated in the luxurious dining room of the Hotel Du Palais, at a table adjacent to the sweeping concave window that faced the sea. Sheets of heavy rain pounded against the glass.