The Italian Divide

by Allan Topol

  “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

  Luigi 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

  “How 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.

  Looking around, Alberto saw that every table was taken. He heard the sound of voices in a myriad of languages. Loudest among them was a table of eight Russians, their decibel level rising with increased alcohol consumption.

  Alberto had never been to Biarritz, the glamorous resort in the Basque country of southwest France. He was impressed with the incredible sophistication of the Hotel Du Palais and the outstanding food. The rack of lamb from the Pyrenees he was now eating following his poached sea bass was perfect and went well with the 2000 Château L’Evangile Federico had selected.

  “My family is from South West France,” Amelie answered. She was stylishly dressed in a pale pink silk dress and was fiddling with a ruby and diamond bracelet. “Biarritz was a whaling station until Napoleon III built a summer house here for his wife, Empress Eugenia, in 1854. That house, the Villa Euge
nia, is now the Hotel Du Palais. After that, the town became hot. My family began coming here during the summers in the eighteen seventies and built a family compound. By the end of the nineteenth century, Biarritz had become the most exclusive watering hole for European royalty and the rich and famous. Princes. Artists. Tycoons. Lots of those people and my family, as well, kept their wealth and positions throughout the First World War and even during the Depression. Biarritz was the place to be in the twenties and early thirties. Then …”

  She paused to sip some wine. Alberto glanced at Federico who seemed to have tuned out. He must have heard the story many times, Alberto thought.

  Amelie said. “Then the damn Nazis came. They ruined everything.”

  “What happened to your family compound?” Dora asked.

  “My family stopped coming. The SS took it over. Colonel Schultz used it as his headquarters to round up Jews for deportation to the camps.”

  “Was there much of a resistance movement in the town?” Alberto asked.

  “Insignificant,” Amelie replied, looking away.

  When no one responded, she added, “What could they do? The Germans had overwhelming military power. They were in control until the allies began bombing which destroyed almost all of Biarritz. But not the hotel Du Palais. The allies spared that. My family compound was leveled in the bombing. Colonel Schultz was in the main house when it was bombed. He and his whole staff were all killed. So the story has a happy ending.”

  “Not for some,” Alberto said. “Not for the Jews who were deported.”

  Ignoring his words, Amelie continued. “Let me tell you about the rebuilding from the ashes.”

  Federico interjected. “And now Europe is on the verge of its next round of destruction.” He sounded distraught.

  The words, coming without warning from Federico, who hadn’t seemed to be listening, startled Alberto. “You mean because of our financial mess?”

  Federico looked around the room nervously as if he was being pursued. Then he leaned forward in his chair and spoke softly. “That’s what makes us so vulnerable. We’re on the cusp of another round of conquest. Globalization is the worst thing that ever happened to Italy. Our small businesses are being destroyed. They want us to lose our character, to be like everybody else.” He pointed to the table of eight loud Russian men. “In the meantime, people like that are running around Europe with suitcases of cash.”

  “Are you worried about the Russians?” Alberto asked in a gentle voice.

  Before Federico had a chance to answer, Amelie said, “Federico has become so gloomy and pessimistic lately. I don’t know why.”

  Rather than respond, Federico emptied his glass of wine and signaled to the waiter for another bottle. They had already finished two, a white and red after a round of champagne, with Federico doing most of the drinking. Alberto was concerned that his friend was becoming unraveled because of whatever dangers he faced.

  “We French are resilient,” Amelie continued, speaking nervously and sounding anxious to change the subject. “Look what happened to Biarritz. In the nineteen sixties and seventies, surfers were attracted by the great waves along the coast of Biarritz in spite of the rubble and flattened town. The wealthy followed them and began settling there about thirty years ago. My family came back and built several houses, including the one Federico bought for me as a wedding present.”

  “Like Napoleon the Third,” Dora, said, and Amelie smiled.

  “Now we have plenty of Russians,” Federico interjected.

  “Shh. Keep your voice down,” Amelie said.

  Federico ignored her. “Oligarchs arriving with suitcases filled with dollars and euros, having looted the state. Their bodyguards are former KGB agents.”

  Amelie turned to Dora. “There’s a very fashionable boutique in town—Natashka. The proprietor carries all the top designers—including Dior, Armani, and Valentino. And she knows her business. You should let her dress you. Feel free to use my name.”

  Alberto could guess what his wife was thinking: I dress myself.

  “I don’t think I’ll have time on this trip,” Dora said politely.

  “Are others of your family here this weekend?” Alberto asked Amelie.

  “My brother and sister in-law and their children are down from Paris. They have their own house a block away. You’ll meet them at brunch tomorrow at our house. We’re at 90 Avenue Carnot, facing the public garden. Come at 11:00.”

  “We’d like that,” Dora said.

  “What does your brother do?” Alberto asked.

  “He’s in high tech. Computers and stuff I don’t understand.”

  Before dessert, Amelie and Dora went to the toilette. Alone with Federico, Alberto made an effort to convince his friend to tell him what was bothering him. But Federico firmly resisted. “Tomorrow morning at 8:00, meet me at my house. We’ll walk on the beach. I’ll tell you everything.”

  His voice sounded tense.

  When dinner was over, Alberto, concerned about how much Federico had to drink, suggested that he and Amelie take a cab to their house, but Federico stubbornly refused. “It’s only eight blocks away. We’ll be fine.”

  Together, the four of them walked outside. The rain had stopped.

  When the valet brought Federico’s car, before getting in, he moved close to Alberto. His face was a mask of fear. “Be careful, my friend,” he whispered.

  After they drove away, Alberto asked Dora, “How about a night cap in the bar?”

  “You’re on your own. I’m exhausted and going to bed.”

  In the bar, Alberto ordered a Sambuca, but the barman told him, “Monsieur, you’re in the land of great Armagnac.”

  Alberto followed the recommendation, and the amber liquid was excellent. As he sipped it, he thought about Federico’s behavior during the evening and his closing words, “Be careful, my friend.”

  Federico might be unraveling. Or he might really be in danger. Also, he must think I’m at risk as well and was trying to warn me.

  Alberto was a man of action. He wanted to take control of situations, not be reactive.

  Perhaps Federico had been unwilling to talk in a public place. Alberto didn’t want to wait until morning to find out what was happening. It wasn’t his style.

  Alberto decided to walk to Federico’s house, thinking they probably wouldn’t be asleep yet. He’d ring the bell. In the privacy of Federico’s house, he’d compel his friend to talk and let him know what was going on.

  Alberto got directions from the barman. Without calling Dora, who might be sleeping, he set off, climbing the Edouard VII road, which ran from the hotel into the heart of town.

  Turning the corner to Avenue Carnot, Alberto stopped dead in his tracks. Up ahead, in the middle of the block, he saw two police cars and an ambulance, flashing lights on their roofs.

  Alarmed, Alberto resumed walking and checked the house numbers. The vehicles were in front of number 90, Federico’s house. Spot lights were illuminating the typical Basque house built of local red stone with an overhanging tiled roof, wooden balustrades on the second floor balcony, and whitewashed walls.

  Alberto ran along the cement path leading to the front door. Before he got there, a burly policeman stepped into the center of the path, blocking Alberto.

  With the little French Alberto knew, he tried to explain that he was Federico’s friend and he wanted to go inside.

  The policeman shook his head sternly. “It’s not possible.”

  “What happened?”

  The policeman fired off a few rapid sentences. Alberto didn’t understand everything he said. But enough to piece together that there had been a jewelry robbery. Amelie was okay. But Federico was dead!

  Again, Alberto begged the officer to let him get into the house. “To see my friend, Amelie. To comfort her.” But the policeman refused to budge.

  Recalling Federico’s closing words before he got into his car, Alberto realized that Federico knew he was in danger and thought Alberto
might be as well. Federico had been trying to warn Alberto. After what had happened to his friend, Alberto had to take Federico’s warning seriously.

  He made a snap decision. He and Dora were leaving Biarritz immediately.

  He turned around and scanned the area. He saw the emergency personnel and neighbors looking out of their houses. A dark blue Mercedes parked a block away on Avenue Carnot, facing Federico’s house, caught his eye. Alberto couldn’t tell whether anyone was inside. He took out his phone and called the pilot of his private plane, who had been sleeping. “We’re flying back to Turin in an hour. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  In the morning he’d arrange bodyguards around the clock for him and Dora.

  Then he called the hotel and woke Dora. “Start packing,” he said tersely. “I’ll explain when I get back in a few minutes.”

  “What happened?” she asked anxiously.

  He recalled the policeman’s words about the jewelry theft. He was convinced this hadn’t been the cause of Federico’s death.

  “Federico has been murdered,” he said.

  “Oh my God!”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Alberto walked swiftly along Avenue Carnot and turned right onto Edouard VII, retracing his route and heading down the hill to the hotel.

  As he glanced over his shoulder, he saw a dark blue Mercedes approaching from behind with only the driver in the car. Alberto broke into a run. The Mercedes sped up and kept pace with him.

  Whoever was in the car had to be connected to Federico’s murder. As he ran, Alberto strained his eyes, trying to see the license plate, but it was too dark. Without warning, the car stopped moving. Alberto was blinded. The beam of a bright flashlight was being shined on him. He could just barely see a gun with a silencer being pointed through the open car window. That was enough for Alberto. He pivoted sharply and ran back up the hill. From behind, he heard the ping– ping of the gun being fired at him. Alberto cut sharply to the right, running across the street behind the Mercedes and out of the gunman’s line of fire.

  From his afternoon on the beach, he recalled a set of about twenty cement steps that led down to the beach and a path below, straight to a rear entrance of the hotel. No car could follow him there. The driver would have to get out and pursue him on foot.