The Italian Divide

by Allan Topol

  Waiting for Zhou and his entourage at the airport were three black Mercedes sedans for Zhou and his men to drive. One was bullet proof. Zhou would be riding in the back of that car. One of his men would be driving. Two more would be in the car with him. His other five men would be split between the two other cars, one to ride in front of Zhou’s car; the other behind.

  An hour and a half later, the caravan passed through the town of Locarno, which also fronts on Lake Maggiore. Once they crossed the bridge over the River Maggiaone, they were in Ascona; then turned left onto via Delta, passed the Park Hotel and approached number 16.

  The instant they were in front, the door opened. Someone inside must have seen them coming.

  Zhou had taken over the house for the last two years. By now, the routine was settled. Zhou paid 100,000 euros for the five nights. In return, Hans Wilhelm, the caretaker, arranged for a team of maids and a kitchen staff to come in every day between 3 p.m. and 6 p.m. They cleaned the house. Then they all left until the next afternoon. Zhou and his group had the house to themselves.

  Once Wilhelm showed Zhou the food, he and his staff departed.

  Zhou, as he had in the past, took the master suite, the largest room on the top floor facing the river on one side and Lake Maggiore in the distance. The head of Zhou’s security group assigned the other rooms, except for the room next to Zhou, which would be occupied by Qing Li.

  As Zhou got off the elevator on the top floor, he saw Qing waiting for him. “I’ve swept your room for bugs,” Qing told Zhou.

  “And the other rooms?”

  “Also clean. We have to go to your room to talk. I have something to tell you.” Qing sounded worried.

  Once they were in Zhou’s room, Qing took out his hand held computer and turned it over to Zhou. “Look at this article that just went up on the International Herald website.”

  In stunned disbelief, Zhou read Elizabeth’s article, exposing in detail his agreement with Parelli.

  Her source? He asked himself. Who was her source?

  Then it struck him. There was only one possibility: Luciano. Zhou had made a critical error not having Qing kill Luciano.

  At the end of the article, he saw a news flash stating that Parelli would be giving a speech at seven this evening. He checked his watch. That was in a couple of minutes.

  Zhou turned on the television across the room to CNN. Moments later, he saw Parelli’s picture on the screen. He grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

  Parelli was speaking to the media with a cluster of microphones in front of his face. Zhou listened intently.

  “It is with the deepest regret,” Parelli said, his expression grim, “that I have decided to withdraw from the election and terminate my New Italy Party. I do so because the disclosure of the sale of my farm and winery to a Chinese man has caused a backlash among my supporters. Unfortunately, many of them have withdrawn their support even though everyone recognizes I did nothing illegal or inappropriate. It was my property and I was free to sell to whomever I wanted. I am truly astonished in this age of globalization that some people should be so narrow minded to believe that Italian property must be sold to an Italian.

  “I feel dismayed because I wanted the best for the people of Italy and my New Italy Party would have done that. The Chinese man involved, a very respected international business figure, purchased my farm and winery, just as he purchased two top wineries in France. He did not want—nor did I promise him—any influence in the new Northern Italy nation should I have been elected.

  “However, I realize that in politics perception often trumps reality. And that is all I have to say.”

  Reporters fired questions but Parelli ignored them. Holding his head high, he turned and walked away.

  Zhou wasn’t surprised by Parelli’s withdrawal. He didn’t have any choice after the publication of Elizabeth’s article. She had destroyed his campaign.

  As for the monetary consequences for Zhou, they wouldn’t be significant. His lawyers hadn’t yet forwarded the agreement to Parelli for his signature; now they wouldn’t. Parelli had no doubt spent on his campaign some of the money in the Swiss account, but in such a short period it couldn’t have been that much. Zhou had set up the account with a provision permitting him to take back the funds at any time until the agreement was signed. Nor was he disappointed that he wouldn’t own Parelli’s winery and vineyard. If he made a move into Italian wines, and he might very well do so, he’d go after the more prestigious Gaja or Antonori.

  Zhou called his Swiss banker to transfer back the bulk of the one billion euros from the Parelli account.

  There was a moment’s pause. Zhou expected to hear the banker say the transfer was made. Instead, Zhou heard, “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Parelli took it all except for 1,000 euros and moved it to a bank in Palermo, Sicily. It’s gone.”

  “Make a claim to the bank in Sicily. Demand the money.”

  “Unfortunately, the Palermo bank is controlled by the Mafia. They don’t respond to demands from other banks. Doing business in Sicily is a challenge.”

  Zhou knew he had a lost cause. “That thief, Parelli,” he wailed in frustration and hung up.

  So Parelli would be able to pay off his debts and turn a nice profit when all this was over. Zhou swore he’d gain revenge, but right now he had to concentrate on closing the deal for Alberto’s bank. That would be a success Zhou could point to with the Central Committee if Mei Ling came to them with the loss of one billion euros to Parelli. It was about all Zhou could salvage from his Italian operation that was going from bad to worse. He had to gain control of Alberto’s bank.

  Zhou had to move on from the Parelli fiasco. He had no choice. He explained to Qing what Tyler had told him about Barry Gorman, and about the meeting he had set with Barry Gorman, who was really Craig Page.

  “I’m not surprised,” Qing said. “I could never understand what Barry Gorman was doing. That made me suspicious. For example, his press interview.”

  “Thursday morning, we’re going to kill Craig Page,” Zhou said coldly.

  “How do you plan to do that?” Qing sounded excited.

  “Let’s start with the fact that I have a great advantage. I know that Barry Gorman is Craig Page, but Page isn’t aware that I know.”

  “Are you certain of that?”

  Zhou didn’t like being questioned. “Yes, I’m quite certain. I have to assume Page is planning to kill me when he comes Thursday morning. He’s still trying to avenge his daughter’s death.”

  “That’s a reasonable assumption.”

  “So I have to kill him before he gets here at ten Thursday morning and make sure it can’t be attributed to me. I don’t intend to give him the address here until an hour before our meeting so Page won’t be able to plan a move against me.”

  Qing was nodding. “Do you know where he’s staying in Ascona?”

  “I’ve had someone hack into the computers of all the leading hotels in the area, but none of them have a reservation for Barry Gorman. My assumption is he won’t be staying here Wednesday evening. He’ll come into Ascona in the morning of our meeting. Via Delta is the only road leading to this house. I want you to work with the eight security men I’ve brought. Thursday morning, I want four of them placed on via Delta close to this house’s driveway. Two on the north and two in the south because we don’t know which way he’ll be coming. One as spotter. One as a shooter.”

  “I’ll do it. What about the other four?”

  “Station one along the driveway, leading to the house and one in the back between the house and river, in case the first four miss. And leave the last two with me in the house, in the event Page, who’s tricky, finds another way to get inside. Once Page is shot, it will be up to the killer to escape. You explain to all eight men that if they do the shooting, or if they’re the spotter, they can’t be taken alive under any circumstance. Tell the others to fasten weights to Page’s dead body and d
ump it into the river downstream from the house where the river flows into the lake.”

  “I understand,” Qing said. “Do you have a photograph of Barry Gorman?”

  Zhou reached in to his bag and extracted a dozen copies. “This was taken from the Philoctetes website.”

  “What will you do until Thursday morning?”

  “What I would normally do at this conference. I want to hear some of the speeches, particularly that of Jane Peterson, the chairman of the US Federal Reserve who will be talking tomorrow morning about their view of interest rates. Also, mix around with other delegates. Attend receptions.”

  Zhou could tell that Qing wanted to say something, but he was hesitating.

  “What are you worrying about?” Zhou demanded.

  “I think you should stay here in the house until Page is dead. He knows what you look like. He may try to kill you before Thursday morning. At the conference, we may not be able to protect you.”

  “Never,” Zhou said emphatically. “I refuse to hide in a cave like a sniveling coward. I’m the finance minister of the world’s most powerful nation and I intend to conduct my business. Craig Page will not upset my activities. Do not suggest that again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Zhou thought about his plan some more, he realized it had one weakness. By killing Barry Gorman so close to the house he was staying in, he would be drawing suspicion to himself with the Swiss authorities, who would eventually learn that Barry Gorman was involved in a struggle for control of the Turin Bank to which Zhou had ties. The Swiss were good at cutting through bank chains of ownership. Their banks created enough of them. And if Page’s killer were captured either alive or dead and he were Chinese, or Craig’s body was discovered in the river close to Zhou’s house on Delta Road, that would heighten their suspicions. Zhou was confident he could buy his way out of being implicated, but he didn’t need the aggravation. It would be neater and cleaner to kill Page before he ever got to Ascona.

  He told Qing that was what he wanted to do.

  “Work with my computer people in Beijing.” Zhou told Qing. “Find out when Barry Gorman is scheduled to fly into any airport in Italy or Switzerland. Once we have a flight, we can send a couple of my men to meet that flight. Then follow Page as he leaves the airport and kill him before he ever reaches Ascona. That’ll be much better.”

  Qing raced off to his own room to hook up with Zhou’s computer people. Half an hour later, he returned looking dejected. “No flights for Barry Gorman into any European airport. They will keep checking every few hours and let me know if that changes. They said he might be flying under another name.”

  “I thought of that,” Zhou said. “We could station a couple my men at each of the two Milan airports and Zurich. We could give them Barry Gorman’s picture and tell them to wait for him near the exit for customs.”

  “I’ll arrange it,” Qing said.

  “Only for tomorrow and Wednesday during the day. I want them back here Wednesday by midnight. We’ll need everybody here to carry out our attack on Thursday morning.”

  “Understood.”

  “Also, tomorrow and Wednesday I want the other two men at the house at all times—one in front and one in back. You’ll accompany me to all events at the conference, armed at all times.”

  Qing was holding up a picture of Barry Gorman and staring at it.

  “Does he look familiar?” Zhou asked.

  “On Italian television, I saw a man who looked exactly like Barry Gorman.”

  “Who was he?”

  “An Italian race car driver named Enrico Marino.”

  Zhou gave a long low whistle. “Check your computer. Find out how long Enrico Marino has been racing.”

  Qing dutifully complied. After a moment, he said, “The earliest article in which Enrico Marino was mentioned was published a little over a year ago in connection with a race in Southern France.”

  Zhou now understood how Page had spent his time after disappearing. First plastic surgery. Then rebirth as Enrico Marino, a racecar driver. Now death in Ascona.

  Washington

  Monday afternoon, Craig flew from North Carolina back to Washington to brief Betty. When he arrived at CIA headquarters, she said, “No sense doing it twice. President Worth wants to hear all of the details straight from you. The chopper is waiting.”

  Craig was surprised. He would have expected Worth to rely on Betty for a briefing. He was also surprised when he spoke in the Oval Office an hour later. Worth asked probing questions getting into the minutia of the operation. He even wanted to know where the boat would be waiting for Zhou.

  Craig decided that as long as Worth had ultimate responsibility he had to know what he was authorizing. And after all, Switzerland was an ally and China was the second most powerful nation in the world.

  “What about the risk of civilian casualties in Zhou’s house?” Worth asked.

  “It’s a small place. Zhou told me he would be taking it over.”

  “There may be local people. Maids. Cooks. That sort of thing.”

  “Correct.”

  “Minimal at 3 a.m. We’ll be careful.”

  “How are you careful with tear gas?” Betty interjected.

  “I mean we’ll only fire our weapons at enemy combatants.”

  “Be realistic, Craig. In the fog of tear gas, it will be chaotic. Civilians are likely to be hit.”

  No sense fighting against the obvious. “You’re right, Betty. As in many other operations, civilian casualties are a risk.”

  Worth was tapping his fingers on the edge of his chair.

  “And that’s not your only problem,” the president said.

  “What else?”

  “You’ll have the Swiss police to deal with.”

  “We’ll get in and out before they arrive.”

  “And after that?”

  “The ambulance will help. I really think we can avoid a confrontation with them.”

  President Worth stood up and paced around the office. The moment of truth had arrived. Would he sign off on the operation?

  As Worth paced, Betty fiddled with a package of cigarettes.

  Finally, Worth said, “You’re good to go. Remember, both of you, what I told you said at the last meeting. Craig, you must keep Betty informed of everything in real time. And Betty, you’ll have to do the same for me. I want to be able to abort until the last moment. Are you both clear on that?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” they replied together.

  “You did a good job interrogating Tyler,” the president said. “I’m furious at him. When this is all over, I’ll discuss with the AG what steps we should take. He’s endangered your life.”

  “At least I know about it. I’ll act accordingly.”

  “Then I guess we’re finished. How are you getting to Ascona?”

  “There’s a late evening plane on United into Zurich. It’ll get there midmorning tomorrow. I’ll drive down to Ascona from Zurich.”

  Betty was shaking her head.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Too risky. Suppose Zhou wanted to take you out in a preemptive strike. Which airports would he be watching?”

  Craig thought about it for a minute before saying, “The two in Milan and also Zurich.”

  “Correct.”

  “So what do you recommend?”

  “Go into Munich. Then drive to Ascona.”

  “Good idea. Thanks. Also, the Chinese are great at hacking into online computers. So if we’re really playing it safe, I better not fly as Barry Gorman. How about getting me a false ID?”

  “That’s easy enough to do.”

  Two hours later, when Craig and Betty were ready to separate in her office, she gave Craig a hug—something she had never done before. “Be careful, Craig. We’ve been through a lot together. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You’re working too hard. You don’t have to worry. You’ll have me to deal with for a long time.”

  “I don’t h
ave a good feeling about this one.”

  Ascona

  Tuesday morning, Elizabeth decided to attend the plenary session at which Jane Peterson, the Chairman of the Federal Reserve would be talking about interest rates.

  The Global economic conference was being held at the Monte Verita conference center on top of a mountain on the outskirts of Ascona. Usually Elizabeth ran in the morning to stay in shape, but when she was in Ascona, she found another way to work out—the ultimate stress test—climbing the one hundred thirty-eight steps from via Borgo in the heart of the shopping area to the top of Mount Verita and the convention center. And they weren’t straight up the mountain. Instead, the stairs had lots of bends and turns.

  At eight in the morning following breakfast, dressed in shorts and a tee shirt and carrying a duffel bag with a change of clothes, her iPad, reporter’s steno pad, and pens, Elizabeth set off from the Eden Roc.

  Fortunately, there was cloud cover when she started the climb. Midway up the mountain, the sun was beating down on her. Crossing the road that ran from the town below up to the conference center, she was tempted for an instant to take the road the rest of the way up. Instead, she took a couple of deep breaths and quickly banished that thought.

  By the time she reached the top, sweat dotted Elizabeth’s forehead and her shirt was soaked. When she first attended the conference two years ago, she made friends with the director of the conference center who also operated a sixty-room hotel on the site. He let her use a hotel room to shower and change clothes.

  The morning session was scheduled to start at ten in the auditorium with Jane Peterson’s speech. Before that, Elizabeth walked around, talking to finance people she knew while keeping an eye out for Zhou Yun. No sign of him.

  At ten minutes to ten, she entered the auditorium, which resembled a large classroom with rows of desks gradually elevated until the last row had a steep view of the speakers below. The press table was in the first row on the left side facing the podium. Elizabeth greeted a couple of her press colleagues and sat down facing the stage and podium.