The Italian Divide

by Allan Topol

  “Where’s your family live in France?”

  “A small town in South West France.”

  “Can you go there and stay with them for a little while until this is all over?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Go as soon as you can. Without telling anyone where you’re going. I’ll call and tell you when you can return.”

  “Good. I’ll do it now.”

  She turned toward the house. He grabbed her by her arm.

  “Let me ask you a few questions first.”

  “Sure.”

  “Did Federico have any enemies?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know of any.”

  Craig needed to ask her about the possibility of Federico’s bank being involved with organized crime. Russian gangs could be involved as well.

  “Some Italian banks have been involved with organized crime. Do you think he—?”

  “Absolutely not. I know Federico. He would never have.” Then she paused in mid-sentence. “I have to be honest. He never discussed his bank business with me. Still, I find it hard to believe.”

  “Was his bank having any problems?”

  She shrugged. “I just don’t know. He never discussed his business with me. Do you really think this is about organized crime?” She looked terrified.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will you help me find out who killed Federico by trying to persuade the Italian authorities to intervene?”

  “I’ll see what I can do on my own. Then I’ll try to get them involved.”

  Craig left the house. This time he made it to his car without an incident.

  As he turned the key in the ignition he decided it would be too dangerous to stay at home in Milan tonight. His Russian assailants knew where he lived. By now, they might have bugged his house. Or they might have changed their mind and decided it would be better to kill him. No, going home wasn’t an option. It would be best to get out of Milan.

  Besides, he wanted to get started immediately on finding out who killed Federico. He headed toward the A4 highway in the direction of Turin.

  After driving an hour, he was satisfied he wasn’t being followed.

  He had to decide where to begin the search for Federico’s killer. He recalled how angrily he had dismissed Elizabeth’s story of the rumors linking Federico’s bank to money laundering and organized crime. He didn’t want to believe—no, in fact he couldn’t believe that his friend Federico would have been involved in something illegal. Or that he could have been so wrong in judging Federico, but what if …

  Though he found it extremely unlikely, this is where he had to begin.

  Craig continued driving to Turin. There he took the first flight to London.

  London

  “Let me tell you a little about the Reform Club,” Jonathan Abramson said to Craig.

  They were walking along Pall Mall and approaching the Admiralty Arch.

  Craig wasn’t particularly interested in learning about the Reform Club, but he wanted to be polite to Jonathan whose help he needed.

  When Craig had been Director of EU Counterterrorism, a drug cartel from Mexico was using British and Spanish banks to launder their money, Craig had enlisted the help of Jonathan who had founded a bank consulting firm based in London. He had been impressed with how well connected Jonathan was throughout the European banking business. Jonathan seemed to know everyone and everything in European banking.

  For Jonathan, this was quite an accomplishment. From their time together, Craig had learned that Jonathan, now 63, grew up in a poor Jewish section of East London. He waited tables evenings at a posh Mayfair restaurant to work his way through the University of London where he graduated with honors and a law degree. After two years of grinding away at a boring law job—“what other kinds are there,”— Jonathan had told Craig, he tried to make the jump into banking. But the doors were slammed shut, and he had no doubt that it was because of British anti-Semitism. So he flew across the pond and went to work at Goldman Sachs in New York.

  Ten years later, Goldman selected Jonathan to head up its European operation. He had a choice of living in London or Paris, and he selected London. “I wanted to sneer at those bastards who wouldn’t let me play in their sandbox.” Within fifteen years Jonathan was able to retire from Goldman with a huge bank account and open his consulting firm.

  Craig particularly liked the fact that Jonathan was incredibly discrete.

  As a result of the latter, Craig was willing to trust Jonathan with the secret of his Enrico Marino identity. Not surprisingly, Jonathan had done a double take when Craig entered his office along St. James half an hour ago.

  “Okay, what’s the Reform Club?” Craig asked.

  “It looks like lots of other old, crusty, wood-paneled London eating clubs started by the powerful and wealthy in this town who didn’t want to share a restaurant with people like you and me.”

  Craig laughed.

  “But this one’s special,” Jonathan continued. “It was founded in 1836 by reformers who made up the leadership of the Liberal Party in England. It became their political clubhouse, and it was a palatial building when it was first opened. Now it’s a purely social club, not associated with any political party. One thing that made this place famous was the James Bond movie, Die Another Day. They filmed the sword dueling scene inside.”

  Craig knew exactly what Jonathan was talking about. “They dueled up and down that gorgeous wooden staircase.”

  “Exactly. You’ll see it as soon as we enter the front door.”

  That was five minutes later. The porter at the front door greeted Jonathan warmly. He stared hard at Craig. Jonathan, an intimidating presence at six-feet-six inches tall, with a neatly trimmed short salt and pepper beard, stared right back. Then with a twinkle in his eye he said, “Richard, this is my friend Enrico Marino.”

  “Aha. That’s what I thought. I didn’t want to say. I follow auto racing and belong to a club here. Congratulations on your victory in Stresa, Mr. Marino. I made a few quid betting on you.”

  As they sat in an isolated corner of the dining room, Jonathan said, “It’s nice being with a celebrity.”

  “Oh shut up and tell me what to order.”

  “It’s old style British cooking at its finest. Bland is best. Sole and boiled potatoes. Thank God for the French, Italian, and Greek chefs who moved to London.”

  The waiter came over. They both ordered consommé, followed by sole and potatoes. Jonathan selected a 2005 St. Emilion which he called a claret in deference to the British designation for Bordeaux.

  Once the waiter was gone, Jonathan said, “Alright, what’s on your mind, laddie?”

  Craig laughed. “Don’t be putting on British airs for me. You’re only two generations removed from Lithuania.”

  Jonathan laughed as well. “True, but look how far I’ve come. Not bad for the son of a tailor.”

  Craig’s expression turned serious. “I want to talk about Federico Castiglione who was murdered in Biarritz.”

  “I heard that. The papers said it was a jewelry robbery.”

  “As usual they had it wrong.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m determined to find out.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Federico was my good friend. I would never have had a career in racing without his support. I’ll do anything for someone who has been good to me.”

  “I don’t doubt that. However, is it possible that you’re also itching to get back into the law enforcement game? That you’ve been like a fish out of water, and now you see a chance to plunge back in.”

  Craig thought about it for a minute. “That’s possible. Still, I have strong personal motives.”

  “How can I help you?”

  The consommé and wine arrived. They stopped talking until the waiter left.

  “There are rumors that Federico and his bank were involved in money laundering. He was murdered by Russians, which adds s
ome credibility to that scenario. I recall that you were involved with a project having to do with money laundering by Italian banks. So I thought—”

  “What you’re recalling is an investigation of the Vatican bank.”

  “Yeah. I guess that’s right.”

  “I had only a minor role. An American outfit did the heavy lifting. It’s hard to believe that a priest from God’s bank could be involved in corruption and money laundering. He and two colleagues were charged with moving money for businesses based in Naples, a haven for organized crime, into Switzerland.”

  “How did it end?”

  “The priest and his colleagues were arrested by the Italian police. Then the Pope undertook a full-scale investigation, and the Vatican instituted changes. Not a happy situation.”

  “People are people. I was wondering if you’ve ever heard anything about the involvement of Federico or his Milan bank in money laundering—or anything else illegit?”

  Jonathan paused to sip his consommé, then said, “I have heard a rumor that Federico was involved with one of those Naples banks tied to organized crime in a money laundering scheme. But it was just hearsay. I wouldn’t put much weight on it.”

  “Who would know?”

  “That’s a tough one.”

  “C’mon, Jonathan. I need help.”

  The waiter approached. Jonathan waved him away. “There’s a Russian, Igor Mallovich, who runs a money laundering operation using Naples banks and others in Italy. He has a big business. Russians, both expats and those still living in Russia, forward money they’ve stolen from the state or made from criminal activities in Russia to a bank in Naples, BNA. Igor controls BNA. He then moves the illegal money from BNA via correspondent banks in Italy who get a hefty fee to safety in a Swiss bank where he has his own money stashed.”

  “Sounds like a sweet way to make money.”

  “Oh it is.”

  “Where could I find charming Igor if I wanted to ask him about Federico?”

  “Unless you’re crazy, you don’t want to meet with Igor. The man’s a horror. Talking to him would be bad for your health.”

  “I am crazy. So tell me.”

  Jonathan shrugged in resignation. “This time of year, he’s in Ravello, about an hour and a half south of Naples, hiding out from the Russian government which would like to get their hands on him. He has a palazzo there. From Swiss banks he deals with, I could get an address and phone number for you.”

  “That would be great.”

  “We’ll go back to my office after lunch. I’ll work on it.”

  * * *

  Jonathan finished punching buttons on his computer, wrote an address and phone number on a piece of paper, and handed it to Craig. “You didn’t get this from me.”

  Craig memorized it and tore up the paper.

  “Thanks, but that one was easy. Now for the hard one.”

  “I’m not going to like what I hear.”

  “I need leverage over Igor.”

  Jonathan looked worried. “Why am I helping you? I must be crazy myself.”

  “Not really. You hate the idea of crooks like Igor corrupting the banking system in Europe.”

  “I guess that’s it. All this proves that I shouldn’t drink at lunch. It wipes out my normal inhibitions.”

  Craig was hopeful Jonathan would help.

  “What exactly are you looking for?” Jonathan asked.

  “How did Igor get his original nest egg?”

  “He cleaned out a Russian bank. As a result, he and his wife and children can never set foot in that country. Russian President Kuznov would love to get his hands on Igor, but Kuznov hasn’t been able to find him, and I doubt if the Italians would extradite. Also, Kuznov hasn’t been able to locate Igor’s accounts in Switzerland. If Kuznov could get the account info, the Swiss banks might turn the funds in the accounts over to the Russians. Since the United States lowered the boom on a couple of Swiss banks, and imposed a nine billion dollar fine on BNP Paribas, the French bank, they’re all nervous as hell about aiding criminals. They’re afraid the United States will blacklist them. It’s a whole new world for banks since 2008.”

  But you could learn the number of Igor’s Swiss accounts. Couldn’t you?”

  Jonathan nodded weakly. “I have friends in Zurich. Even with that, it would cost me some chits and take a couple of hours.”

  Craig checked his flight. “I’m on the last nonstop to Naples. It leaves in two hours. Why don’t you send it to me electronically.”

  Jonathan shook his head emphatically. “Too dangerous. If Igor gets hold of your BlackBerry, he’ll know where you got the info. I’ll be a dead man as well as you. There will be other planes tomorrow. Go take a walk and come back in two hours.”

  Craig left the office. He walked only as far as the mall where he sat down on a park bench and went to work on the web. It was amazing how much information was easily available about individuals on the Internet—even scoundrels like Igor.

  The Russian who had been a banker in Moscow relocated to Italy and Switzerland six years ago, Craig learned. What really got Craig’s attention was that Igor had a great interest in professional sports, having bought a Manchester soccer team two years ago and a minority interest in a Brooklyn NBA basketball team. An idea was taking shape in Craig’s mind.

  When he returned to Jonathan’s office the consultant was waiting for him. “I have what you need.”

  “Wonderful. Talk to me.”

  “Igor has his money stashed in three accounts in a Zurich bank and two in Geneva. I had my secretary type the five account numbers.”

  He handed a piece of paper to Craig and said, “You want to commit these to memory also and tear it up?”

  “Nope. I want to keep this one. I’ll be able to use it. I assume you kept a copy.”

  “Of course.”

  “In forty-eight hours, if I’m still alive, I’ll call you.”

  “And if I don’t hear?”

  Craig removed a pen and pad from Jonathan’s desk. He wrote a note to Russian President Kuznov explaining about the secret bank accounts where Igor had hidden the money he stole from the Russian bank. Then he handed it to Jonathan. “Put this note in an envelope with the numbers of Igor’s accounts. Seal it. Write on the front: ‘A gift to President Kuznov from Craig Page,’ and deliver it to the Russian Embassy in London.

  “How do you know Kuznov?”

  “Let’s just say that we saved each other’s asses twenty-one months ago.”

  As soon as he left Jonathan’s office, Craig dialed the Ravello number Jonathan had given him and asked for Igor.

  “Who’s calling?” a man replied in a gruff voice.

  “Enrico Marino.”

  There was a pause. Then Craig heard a bubbly voice on the line. “Congratulations Enrico. I watched replays of your last day in the Stresa race. You did a great job of driving.”

  “But now I have a problem I’d like to talk to you about.”

  Without hesitating, Igor replied, “With Federico’s death, you need a new sponsor.”

  The man may be a horror, but he was damn smart, Craig thought. “Exactly. I was hoping to meet with you and discuss that possibility.”

  “And how did you get my phone number?” Igor asked, sounding wary.

  “You’re a major figure in the professional sports world. We’re a small community.”

  “Then you know where I live as well.”

  Craig had better be careful. “I dialed a 39 country code. That’s Italy. A large country. I have no idea precisely where.”

  “I’m in Ravello,” Igor, said seeming to be satisfied. He gave Craig an address, the same one he’d gotten from Jonathan. “I’m halfway up the mountain to Villa Cimbrone. It’s a pink building. You’ll have to get here on foot from the town. There are no cars permitted on the roads going up the mountain. When would you like to come?”

  “How about tomorrow afternoon?”

  There was a pause. Finally, Igor said, “
Come at two o’clock.”

  Southern Italy

  Craig took the morning nonstop out of Heathrow to Naples. It touched down at five minutes past eleven. Once he left the highway in his rental car, he was driving on narrow mountain roads, sometimes not even wide enough for another car to pass. He recalled what John Steinbeck had written about this road. “It was “high, high above the blue sea, that hooked and corkscrewed on the edge of nothing.”

  Except for his speed, which was moderate, he felt as if he were in a rally race with the S-turns and switchbacks in the road. When he reached the coast, the Tyrrhenian Sea was off to the left, a straight plunge from the road high above.

  It was a bright sunny day. Craig was constantly checking the rear-view mirror, making certain he wasn’t being followed.

  Of the four largest cities on the Amalfi coast—Ravello, Amalfi, Positano, and Sorrento, Craig liked Ravello the best. It had a tranquility which the others besieged by tourists didn’t have. And high in the hills the air was dry and cool—the sky blue. It was no wonder that Ravello had been settled by wealthy aristocrats seeking a refuge from the hurly-burly life of Amalfi during the ninth, tenth, and eleventh centuries when the Republic of Amalfi was powerful. More recently, it had been the retreat of great writers, including D. H. Lawrence, Gore Vidal, and William Styron.

  Craig parked along the road on the way into Ravello. Then to minimize the chances of being recognized, he donned sunglasses and a blue cap that said “Italia” in red letters on the front that he had purchased at Naples airport. Satisfied he looked like a tourist, he set off on foot.

  In town, he walked for a while to make certain no one was following him. He found a trattoria, Sofia, on a narrow side street and ate pizza for lunch washed down by the lemon juice for which the region was famous.

  After lunch, he began climbing the steps and steep road that led up the mountain to Villa Cimbrone. He passed herb, vegetable, and fruit gardens. The view of the sea off in the distance was breathtaking.

  Halfway up, Craig saw a pink building—ten yards to the right. For confirmation that this was Igor’s house, Craig noticed in front a powerfully built blond man in a white shirt, blue slacks, and blue blazer, whose appearance cried out “bodyguard.”