by Allan Topol
“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.
Besides, Zhou Yun, even more than his brother, was responsible for the death of Craig’s daughter, Francesca. Zhou Yun was the one in Calgary at the time and must have given the order. Craig had his own score to settle with Zhou Yun.
However, that was all off in an uncertain future. For now, Craig had to decide on his next move.
As he sipped coffee, his phone rang. He saw it was Elizabeth calling. “Listen, Craig,” she said without bothering with formalities. “I have some news for you.”
“What’s that?”
“I just learned that a Singapore bank—Pacific Sun—has acquired a 19 percent interest in Federico’s bank. The transaction was announced a few minutes ago.”
“That is really something. They didn’t wait too long after Federico’s death to get the deal done. It can’t be a coin
cidence. His death and this agreement must be related.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. Have you made any progress?”
“Not yet, but this will help. I also heard that two Chinese banks made investments in banks in northern Italy last year.”
“That’s right. One in Bologna and one in Verona. What about the money laundering by Federico’s bank?”
“Neither his wife nor his lawyer knew anything about that. I’ve reached out to some other sources. I’m convinced Federico was a victim, not a criminal.”
“If that’s your conclusion, it’s good enough for me. I’ll let you know if I learn anything else.”
Craig quickly ended the call because he was anxious to pursue what he hoped would be valuable assistance.
He put her news of the investment by the Singapore Bank together with the other pieces. Russian killers. Possible involvement of organized crime. Two Italian banks having been acquired by Chinese banks. He had been attacked by Russians.
Craig was convinced he now had enough to involve Guiseppe Mercurio, the head of EU’s counterterrorism agency based in Rome. He reflected for a moment on his prior relationship with Giuseppe, who had been Craig’s deputy when he held the EU counterterrorism position. He had lobbied hard for Giuseppe to succeed him when he became CIA Director for his brief stint in that job. He hoped Giuseppe would become involved in solving Federico’s murder. The man was savvy as well as effective; and Craig liked working with him.
Craig decided to call him. They had spoken so often in Craig’s prior life that Giuseppe’s number was permanently etched on his brain.
But he hesitated for a minute. At this point only Betty Richards, the CIA Director, Elizabeth, and Jonathan knew that Craig Page had become Enrico Marino. Alberto suspected Enrico was someone else, but he had no idea that someone was Craig Page. How should he deal with Giuseppe? Try to keep his cover or not?
It only took him a few seconds to decide. Giuseppe knew how to keep secrets and he certainly had no love for Zhou Yun.
Besides, Craig wasn’t good at disguising his voice.
He decided to level with Giuseppe.
“It’s a colleague from your past. We worked together disarming suicide bombers in Trastevere a couple of years ago.”
There was a pause. Then, “Oh really.” Giuseppe sounded surprised. “That’s not all we did together. It’s good to hear from an old friend.”
“I’ll be in Rome today. How about a quiet dinner?”
“Come to my house at eight.”
Craig liked that. No one could overhear them talking.
Beijing
Sitting in his corner office on the 51st and top floor of the Zhou Yun Enterprises headquarters in Beijing, Zhou Yun should have been a happy man. He was the wealthiest person in China. And according to Forbes, number three in the entire world. His industrial empire that began in energy and real estate now had tentacles reaching around the globe. As the Finance Minister of China, he had great political power as well.
Still, Zhou Yun was unhappy and miserable. And he knew the dual causes for that.
The first was the death of his brother, one time head of the Chinese armed forces and President of China before Mei Ling. The incredibly close bond between the brothers was demonstrated by the men displayed in the only two photographs on the walls of Zhou Yun’s office.
One was a picture of a sad-looking Zhou Yun when he was only fourteen and his brother was twelve. The boys were surviving in Beijing on their own because during the Cultural Revolution Mao had banished their parents to the countryside for re-indoctrination. Their mother starved to death. When their father returned after four years, he was depressed and beaten down, a shell of the man who had gone.
The other picture was Zhou Yun again with his brother. This time Zhou Yun was smiling with pride as his brother assumed the presidency of China.
Zhou Yun had a third picture in his office. That one, he kept in his center desk drawer where only he could see it. And he did at least once each day. It was a picture of Craig Page, then CIA Director, the man whom Zhou Yun held responsible for his brother’s death, as if Craig had pulled the trigger himself.
It constantly gnawed at Zhou Yun’s insides that he hadn’t been able to find Craig Page and to gain his revenge. For a man with Zhou Yun’s money and resources, the world was small. He should have been able to locate Page. He hadn’t given up. He would never give up until his last dying breath.
The other matter that vexed Zhou was the lack of respect China was receiving in the world despite its incredible economic success and military expansion. It should be ranked right up with, if not ahead of, the United States as a superpower. But people and the media, particularly in the West, still viewed the stature of China to be below the United States. Even worse, some had been discussing Russia, that economic and military pygmy, as a rival to the United States.
Zhou’s thoughts were interrupted by the intercom. “Qing Li is here,” his secretary said.
“Good. Send him in.”
Qing was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie like Zhou. That was a shift from his former position as a military officer. Zhou plucked him out of the People’s Liberation Army on his brother’s recommendation to be his special assistant. Qing, as a young soldier, had been one of those who fired on unarmed protestors in Tiananmen Square in 1989. That patriotism and willingness to follow orders had appealed to Zhou.
Qing sat in a chair facing Zhou behind his huge antique desk devoid of papers. He ran a finger over this thin mustache while waiting for Zhou to begin.
“When did you get back to Beijing?”
“An hour ago. I remained in Milan until I confirmed that the acquisition of stock in Federico Castiglione’s bank by Pacific Sun of Singapore had gone through. Then I left. I came here from the airport.”
“I heard about the bank acquisition from one of my financial advisers. That’s good. What’s not good is that Federico is dead.”
“As I explained on the phone, we had no choice.” Qing said it in a matter of fact tone devoid of emotion. “Lin Yu, the Singapore banker did everything he could to persuade Federico to sell. The man was stubborn and the other board members stuck with him until his death. Then they saw the wisdom of selling.”
Zhou was frowning. Lin Yu had failed him. “I understand everything you’ve said, and the acquisition is important to me. I’m not sorry I gave you the order to eliminate Federico. Still, I’m concerned this murder could be traced to us.”
“Impossible. There are no loose ends. Your friends in Moscow supplied the manpower I needed. I doubt if it would even get back to them, but that’s where it would stop.”
“Are the French police investigating aggressively?”
“Not at all. The Russians have friends in the Biarritz Police Department. There was only one thing …” Qing hesitated.
“What’s that?”
“Federico’s widow tried to enlist the help of an Italian race car driver, Enrico Marino.”
“What does he have to do with this?”
“He was a friend of Federico’s, but the Russians persuaded him not to help and the widow has left town. No risk to us there.”
Zhou wasn’t satisfied, but there was nothing he could do about it now. So he turned to the other part of Qing’s mission. “What about Roberto Parelli?”
I spoke with him in his hotel suite in Venice after a big speech he gave in San Marco Square. Parelli agreed to meet with you. He won’t travel to China, but he’ll meet with you at his farm and vineyard in northern Italy.”
Zhou tapped his fingers on the desk. He preferred that all meetings with foreigners take place in China. Being on his home turf wasn’t merely a matter of prestige. It meant that foreigners arrived exhausted from a long flight. After lots of food and alcohol they became much more malleable.
“Why won’t Parelli come to Beijing?”
“He said it would attract too much publicity. Also, his campaign is at a critical point, and h
e doesn’t want to take time away from it.”
“Isn’t he concerned that I’ll be recognized? That there will be articles in the press reporting on my visit? Those would destroy the purpose of our meeting.”
“He said that if you fly into Malpensa in an unmarked plane, he’ll have someone take you from the plane that will land on a remote runway and drive you in a car with tinted windows. Complete secrecy. No one would know you were there.”
Zhou nodded. He liked those logistics. Parelli was shrewd.
“There could be one problem,” Qing said.
“What’s that?”
“Parelli’s closest advisor, a man named Luciano, was strongly opposed to the meeting. Parelli overrode him, but Luciano could be trouble in the future.”
“I’ll find a way to get around Luciano’s opposition.”
“Before your meeting with Parelli, I could go back to Italy and eliminate Luciano as an obstacle. Make it look like an accident in a car. Something like that.”
Zhou shook his head firmly. One thing he didn’t like about Qing was that he was too eager to kill people. Dead bodies piled up and sometimes came back to haunt and create problems. That’s what happened with the death of Craig Page’s daughter, Francesca.
“I’ll be able to get what I want without that,” Zhou said firmly.
“I understand. Would you like me to go with you to Italy for your meeting with Parelli?”
“No, it’s not necessary. I prefer to do this alone.”
Once Qing left, Zhou asked his secretary to arrange the plane for his trip to Italy. Then she said, “Mr. McKnight is here for your meeting.”
“Good. Show him in and serve tea.”
Zhou watched McKnight sipping tea nervously. The sixty-five year old pasty- faced Harry McKnight was an Englishman who had spent his entire life in Hong Kong. He was tall, with a bald head except for some gray around the sides, and blotchy, red skin on his face and neck. He wore narrow glasses that rested halfway down on his nose.