The Italian Divide

by Allan Topol

  “That thought never even crossed my mind.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “But now that you mention it, I guess it could be a by-product of saving Italy.”

  Betty took a deep breath, stood up, and paced around the office for a moment.

  “I can’t send you to Singapore without President Worth’s approval. My relationship with him is different than what I had with Treadwell. Worth’s a good man, although a little timid sometimes. Have you ever met him?”

  “No.”

  “He’s heard of Craig Page. And he’s grateful for what Craig Page did in Argentina. So you have that going for you. Also, he’s worried about increasing Chinese power. He doesn’t want us to drop to second place on his watch. So that’s a plus.”

  “You want me to go with you to meet with Worth about this?” Craig was hoping the answer was, “yes.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. We’ll have to tell him about your Enrico Marino new ID.”

  “That’s okay with me. I’m not worried about Worth selling me out to Zhou.”

  Betty picked up the red phone on her desk. He was impressed at how easily she got through on a direct line to President Worth. No secretary involved. At the end of the conversation, he heard her say, “Thirty minutes is good, Mr. President. We’ll be there.”

  They took the chopper to the White House.

  Once the three of them were in the Oval Office, standing on the royal blue carpet with the presidential seal in the center, Worth pointed to Craig and said to Betty, “You told me you were bringing Craig Page with you, but he doesn’t look like the pictures of Craig Page I’ve seen. In fact, he looks a lot like Enrico Marino, the Italian race car driver.”

  Worth winked at Craig and pointed to the living area where the three of them sat down.

  “Would you like to tell me how Craig Page, America’s super spy, became Enrico Marino, the race car driver?” Worth said.

  “It’s a long story, Mr. President.”

  “I’d love to hear it. I have a great deal of appreciation for what you did for our country in Argentina as well as in past missions.”

  Mindful of the time demands of the president, Craig compressed his story to a ten-minute summary. At the end, Worth said, “Are you still worried about Zhou Yun seeking revenge?”

  Craig was impressed that Worth immediately cut to the heart of the matter.

  “I am, Mr. President, but I don’t live my life in fear. If he finds out who I am, and comes for me, I’m prepared to defend myself.”

  “I don’t doubt that at all. Now what’s this about today?”

  Craig glanced at Betty to see if she wanted to make the presentation to Worth, but she nodded to him. So Craig told Worth what was happening in Italy and why he wanted to go to Singapore as an American representative. He decided to omit Chinese involvement with Parelli because, as Betty had pointed out, that had not yet been established. Even without Parelli, and merely dealing with the Milan bank transaction, Zhou and the Chinese were involved, which should be enough for Worth.

  When Craig was finished, Worth was nodding. Craig took this as a positive sign.

  “You’ve presented me with a troublesome set of facts,” Worth said. “I’d like to know if you’re right about Zhou and the Chinese trying to take over Italian banks. They might then try to take over other banks in Europe. We can’t let that happen. On the other hand …”

  Oh, oh, Craig thought. What’s coming next.

  “On the other hand, the Europeans should be out front on this. Perhaps, Craig should brief them on what he’s learned.”

  Betty had that special look in her eyes, which Craig recognized meant that she had just been served a pitch she planned to hit out of the park.

  “With all due respect, Mr. President, lately the Germans and French have been rejecting everything we suggest.”

  Worth ran a hand through his hair. “I guess that’s right.”

  Craig exhaled with relief. “Thank you, Betty. Does that mean I can go to Singapore as a presidential envoy to try to get the facts from Lin Yu, the Singapore banker?”

  “Absolutely,” Worth said. “Pick another false name. Betty will give you an ID. I would like you to involve Jennifer Nelson, our ambassador in Singapore. Have her go with you to your meetings. She’s smart, politically savvy, and knows the country.”

  “I’ll do that Mr. President.”

  “Good. I want you to pull out all the stops. Threaten that the United States will blacklist Lin Yu’s bank and put it on a list like Iranian banks that US firms won’t be able to do business with. I want you to find out who was responsible for the transaction with Federico’s bank and his murder. Was it Zhou Yun or someone else.”

  “I’ll be firm about this, Mr. President. I promise you that.”

  “Good. I want you to be.”

  “Oh God,” Betty said. “Don’t encourage Craig anymore. He’s generally out of control.”

  “I never believed that the meek will inherit the earth,” Craig said. “We unfortunately live in a brutal world where might prevails. Timidity in dealing with people like Zhou Yun is a prescription for failure and disaster.”

  On the way to the airport to catch the flight to Singapore, Craig’s phone rang. It was Jonathan, the bank consultant in London.

  “Just wanted to pass along a little news.”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “Those Swiss bank accounts you were interested in have been moved to Moscow.”

  “A real shame. What happened to their owner?”

  “The news must have upset him. He had a fatal heart attack.”

  “Yes!” Craig cried out. “Yes.”

  Kuznov’s people must have killed Igor and made it look like a heart attack.

  Craig breathed a sigh of relief. He’d never have to worry about Igor sending someone to kill him again.

  Northern Italy

  In the Venice hotel suite, Luciano had given Elizabeth a card with both his cell phone number and his office number at Parelli campaign headquarters in Milan. She tried the cell first. When that kicked over to voice mail, she left her name and number and dialed the office.

  A man answered, “This is Stefano.” He sounded like a young man.

  “I’d like to speak to Luciano, please.”

  “He’s ill and no longer with the campaign.”

  Elizabeth wasn’t surprised based on how Luciano had looked in the Venice hotel room.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, I’m Elizabeth Crowder, foreign news editor of the International Herald. I’d like to arrange an interview with Signor Parelli.”

  “Please hold for a minute. I’ll check his availability.”

  Stefano came back a moment later. “Signor Parelli said he’d be pleased to give you an interview. Can you come to his farm in Piedmont tomorrow morning at ten?”

  Elizabeth was delighted. “I’ll be there.”

  “Good. I’ll email you directions.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Elizabeth took an early plane from Paris to Malpensa where she rented a car. The Parelli farm was south and west of the airport in the heart of Piedmont, the most prestigious wine territory in all of Italy.

  She arrived a couple of minutes before ten on a cloudy overcast day. A maid answered the doorbell and asked Elizabeth, who was holding a case with her laptop, to wait. A few minutes later, she saw Parelli charging down a circular staircase dressed in a pair of khakis and a light blue shirt open at the neck. He seemed full of energy and vitality. If she hadn’t known his age, she would have guessed fifty or fifty-five.

  He walked up, kissed her on both cheeks, and said, “Well, well, the famous Elizabeth Crowder. It’s my honor to be interviewed by such a well-known journalist. I just didn’t think you’d be so attractive.”

  Talk about pouring it on thick, she thought.

  “I subscribe to your newspaper,” he continued, “and regularly read your articles. The analysis is usually excellent—although, I th
ought you got a little carried away with that Savior or Sinner headline.”

  “I’m flattered you read it.”

  “The trouble with our Italian papers is they’re too provincial. We don’t get much news outside of Italy. For that, I need your paper.”

  “I appreciate your taking the time from your busy schedule to talk with me. I’d like this to be an in-depth profile.”

  “Excellent. That’s what I was hoping for. In order to understand my motivation, you’ll have to take a little walk with me.” He pointed to her feet and her white leather shoes with one and a half inch heels. “Can those shoes handle a mile on a dirt road?”

  “Signor Parelli—”

  “Please. Roberto.”

  “Okay, Roberto. These shoes could handle twenty miles on a dirt road.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  As they walked he talked about the history of the farm, how many generations of Parellis had made wine here, and how much the winery meant to the family. “It’s not just a business for the Parellis. It’s a source of pride. We want to make the best wine in all of Italy. The best wine in the world.”

  Parelli was charming. Listening to him speaking in his melodious voice, she found herself being captivated by him.

  He stopped and pulled some grapes off a vine. He explained to her how the process of making wine went. “It’s in my blood,” he said.

  “But you’re leaving all this to become a politician.”

  “My country is very important to me. It’s second after my family. Nothing is more important than family—my wife, Diane, and my children.”

  She thought about what Hanson had told her about Parelli’s affairs and the prostitute in Venice. She didn’t think that he could honestly believe what he had just said. But she had learned long ago that some Italian men always had a bizarre sense of morality. Seven hundred years ago, Boccaccio had memorialized that in his Decameron.

  “You’d like Diane,” he said. “She’s American, too.”

  “Does she have a career?”

  “She owns and operates a boutique on via Montenapoleon in Milan called Diane’s. She carries high-end casual clothes. She started the business and made a huge success. I’m very proud of her. But her work is quite demanding. She wanted to be here to meet with you, but the business kept her in Milan.”

  “Why’d she want to meet me?”

  “She was upset by the headline on your Venice article. She wanted to convince you that I want to help Italy. That’s all. She figured she’d be able to talk to you because you’re an American as well.”

  All of this sounded good to Elizabeth, and he was quite convincing. Still, she wondered whether Diane had said anything remotely like it, or whether he was making it up out of whole cloth.

  They kept walking until they reached a small cemetery surrounded by a chain link fence. Parelli opened the gate and led her inside. “My family has been buried here since 1750.”

  He walked to one side and stopped at a marker that read “Mario Parelli.”

  “My father,” he said, pointing. “We were very close. He’s the inspiration for me to go into politics. I was in awe of the man.”

  Again, she thought about what Hanson had told her about Roberto’s final blow up with his father before Mario’s death.

  He moved ten yards to the right. She followed him to the graves of his mother and four sisters. Parelli told her the story she had head from Hanson of what happened on that fateful day when the Nazis had killed all five.

  When he was finished, with tears in his eyes, he pointed to the graves and said, “I have gone into politics for them to make life better for the Italian people. So there will never be days like that again.”

  He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Throughout her career, Elizabeth had seen other politicians like Parelli who were able to cry on demand.

  “Let’s go back to the house,” he said. “There we can do the formal interview.”

  As they left the cemetery, he placed an arm around her shoulder. She cringed and he pulled it away. He said, “The ground’s uneven here. I didn’t want you to trip.”

  He said it smoothly. Oh, so smoothly.

  He took her to his upstairs study where a maid brought coffee. She sat down at the desk and booted up her laptop while he slumped into a leather wing back chair facing her.

  “Now what can I tell you?” he asked.

  “You covered your reason for going into politics, which was my first question. Now, I’d like to ask you whether you conceived of splitting Italy into two nations, North and South, which is the program of your New Italy Party, or whether this was someone else’s idea.”

  “All mine. But not original. There are separatist movements in Spain. Both in Catalonia and the Basque country. In Scotland and in Quebec. None of those have moved beyond the talking stage. Here, I believe that I will win, and this dream of mine of a separate nation in northern Italy will become a reality.”

  “It sounds as if you are confident of victory.”

  “The latest poll in Italy Today shows me surging into the lead.”

  “I saw that. They also reported that this may be due to a recent increase in advertising by your campaign. Have you gotten an infusion of new money?”

  She was looking at his face, hoping for some visible reaction. There wasn’t one.

  “Not new. Just a continual increase as more and more people get on the bandwagon, as you Americans say. See, I even learned your slang when I spent that year in New Haven at Yale Law School.”

  If he was trying to divert her into talking about his time in the United States, he failed. She returned to the campaign.

  “Can you tell me who some of your largest contributors are?”

  He smiled. “You really don’t expect me to answer that. Do you?”

  She fired back quickly. “Are you receiving foreign money?”

  His eyes blinked, mouth tightened. She had hit a nerve.

  “Of course not.” He sounded defensive. “Who told you that?”

  “Well in this age of globalization, I thought—”

  “That’s absurd. And I won’t talk any more about the money issue. Move on to something else.”

  “I have been surprised that you have significant support in the south. Can you explain that?”

  “Many of those people believe the current Italian government tilts its efforts and attitudes to the north. They believe they will get better treatment from their own government in the south.”

  “But that’s not your concern because you’ll be ruling in the north?”

  “Correct?”

  “Who would be ruling in the south?”

  “The leaders whom they elect.”

  “Where would you divide Italy between north and south?”

  Elizabeth realized that was a difficult question. Parelli ducked it.

  “That’s one of the details that would have to be worked out after the election.”

  She was ready to move into sensitive areas. She waded in slowly. “I attended your recent speech in Venice in San Marco Square. I was impressed at how you interacted with the crowds.”

  “Those are my people. I believe in them. They believe in me.”

  “After the speech, I went to your suite at the Palace Hotel hoping to interview you. Luciano said it was not possible that evening and I should call another time.”

  “He should have told me. I would have made time for you.”

  “You seemed busy that evening. I noticed a Chinese man leaving a room you were in. Who was he?”

  Parelli looked mystified. “A Chinese man? I don’t recall any. You must be mistaken. It was late at night. Eyes can be deceptive.”

  It always amazed Elizabeth how some politicians lied easily and convincingly. Was it a trait they developed running for office or were liars attracted to politics?

  She reached for her phone to find the picture of the Chinese man she took in his hotel suite. Before pulling it out, she recalled exactly
what Craig said about thinking Zhou was involved and warning her to be careful because Zhou played rough. But this was her only opportunity. She had to take it.

  She showed Parelli the photo. “You’re a busy man, Roberto,” she said. “You meet so many people. Naturally, you can’t remember all of them. I wonder if this refreshes your recollection about the Chinese visitor to the Venice suite.”

  He took the phone from her and studied the picture, or pretended to be doing so. After a full minute, he replied, “Sorry. Never saw him before.”

  Elizabeth realized she had no chance of getting what she wanted from Parelli. She’d have to find another way to link Parelli and Zhou. For the rest of the interview, she tossed Parelli soft pitches, letting him talk about his life and his political program. No sense alarming him any further.

  * * *

  Diane’s boutique was located in Milan in prime real estate on via Montenapoleon between via Gesu and via S. Andrea, very close to Frette and Versace. It was right in the heart of the fashion capital of Italy that rivaled Paris.

  Fearful Diane might refuse to meet her, and wanting to have the element of surprise, Elizabeth decided to show up without first calling.

  When she asked a young sales woman, “Is Diane Parelli in?” the woman led her to an office in the back of the first floor, which was cluttered with clothes, boxes, and catalogues. Sitting behind a desk was a very attractive blonde. She looked to be around sixty, and Elizabeth concluded she had aged gracefully. Her smooth long hair hung down and framed a face bronze from the sun. She was wearing a navy skirt and pink silk blouse. A navy jacket was hanging on the wall. She had on a gold necklace. It was not ostentatious, but was in good taste like the rest of her appearance.

  As Elizabeth approached, she stood up, showing a good figure. She was athletic. Ran or played tennis. Something like that.

  “She asked to see you,” the sales woman said and then departed.

  “Elizabeth Crowder,” Diane said before Elizabeth had a chance to say a word.

  “Did your husband tell you I might be coming?”

  Diane brushed back a few strands of hair.

  “No, I recognize you from your picture which shows up in the paper and on your website. Also from television interviews you sometimes do.”