The Italian Divide

by Allan Topol

  Craig looked up on the roof. He saw another blond brute. The house was a perfect sanctuary for a villain like Igor.

  Approaching the entrance, Craig noticed the bulge in front of the man’s jacket. Undoubtedly a gun.

  “I’m here to see Igor,” Craig said.

  “Name?”

  “Enrico Marino.” Craig flashed his Enrico Marino Italian passport.

  “Step inside.” The guard said.

  Craig entered a magnificent white and black marble floored entrance hall.

  The guard followed him inside and said, “Raise your hands.”

  Craig did what he was told and the guard patted him down roughly.

  Relieved that he hadn’t brought a weapon, Craig replied, “Do you treat all of Igor’s guests this way?”

  The guard ignored Craig’s words. He took out his phone and said something in Russian. He heard a response, then told Craig, “Follow me.”

  The guard led the way along a marble corridor to a study with French doors leading to a patio with an amazing view of the sea.

  Igor was standing when Craig entered. He motioned for the guard to leave, which pleased Craig enormously. His plan depended on being alone with Igor.

  The fifty-five-year-old Russian was obese—about five ten and two hundred and eighty pounds, Craig guessed. His face was red from the sun or alcohol. His hair was thin and coal black. Craig guessed he dyed it. On his face, he had a perpetual scowl.

  Igor shook Craig’s hand and pointed to two leather chairs off to one side that were separated by a table with a pitcher and two glasses.

  “I prefer to talk inside. It’s cooler with the air conditioning.”

  Once Craig sat down, Igor poured two glasses from the pitcher.

  “Limoncello,” he announced. “The drink of the region.”

  Craig took a small sip. It was cold and refreshing. Also dangerous. The alcohol content was high. He cautioned himself against drinking too much.

  Igor raised his class and said, “Here’s hoping you have many more races like Stresa.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  “So you’re looking for a new sponsor?” the Russians said.

  He certainly doesn’t waste time on small talk, Craig thought. And Craig was pleased. He didn’t want to have to face questioning about how long he had been racing and what he had done before that. “That’s right. I’ve lost Federico. He had gotten two of his friends to contribute small amounts. I imagine I’ll lose them as well. So I need help.”

  “How much are you looking for?”

  “Federico and his friends were putting up two million euros a year combined.”

  The Russian stared at Craig. “I’ll give you three, but—”

  Craig laughed. “There’s always a but.”

  “I’ll want my name on your car and on the shirt you wear.”

  “I can live with that.”

  “So we have a deal?”

  Craig reached out is hand.

  Igor shook it. Then stood up. “I’ll get the vodka. We always celebrate with that.”

  He brought back the bottle, a Russian brand Craig didn’t recognize, and two glasses. Relaxed, he settled back into his chair across the table from Craig and poured two glasses.

  “To our success,” Igor said.

  The Russian downed his and refilled it. Craig took a sip. As he prepared to shift the conversation, he thought about Jonathan’s warning. Igor was dangerous and couldn’t be underestimated. Craig didn’t dare drop his guard.

  “I’m happy to have your support,” Craig said. “But Federico was my friend. I want to know who killed him.”

  “Sorry. I can’t help you. Talk to the police.”

  “They said the killers were Russians. I thought you might know something.”

  Igor laughed. “You figure all Russians are one big family.”

  Craig narrowed his eyes and looked right at Igor. “No, but there were rumors that Federico was mixed up in money laundering, and you control that business in Italy—at least for Russians.”

  Igor looked alarmed. “Where did you hear that?”

  “From Federico,” Craig said. Dead men can’t expose a lie.

  “Well he was wrong.”

  Igor hesitated for a minute then said, “I don’t like what you’re saying. I’m not sure I want to sponsor you.” He reached for the phone.

  He’s planning to call security. I can’t let him do that.

  Before Igor could get his hand on the phone, Craig flew out of his chair and across the table sending the pitcher, bottle, and glasses flying.

  He landed on top of Igor’s chest, reached his hands up, and clasped them around Igor’s thick neck. The Russian was gasping for breath.

  “Did you order the hit on Federico?” Craig cried out.

  “No. No!”

  “Who did? Tell me or I’ll strangle you.”

  The Russian’s face was turning even redder. Craig eased up a little. He didn’t want to lose Igor.

  “I had nothing to do with his murder.”

  “Was Federico mixed up in money laundering?”

  “No—no,” Igor stammered. “No. I tried to involve him. He refused to do it.”

  “Then tell me who killed him.”

  “I heard powerful people in Moscow arranged it. I don’t know for sure.”

  “Tell me which people.”

  Igor spit in Craig’s face. “Go fuck yourself.”

  Craig tightened his grip again. “Tell me who killed Federico.”

  “Take your hands off me and I’ll give you some useful information.”

  Craig did as Igor asked. The Russian was gasping for breath. Finally he said, “Federico was clean. He didn’t do anything wrong. He was a victim.”

  Craig believed Igor. Craig was also convinced Igor would rather die than give up the names of any of the people in Moscow who had arranged the hit on Federico. So Craig climbed off Igor. He grabbed the phone from the floor and disabled it. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out the list of Igor’s Swiss bank accounts he’d gotten from Jonathan, and tossed it to Igor.

  “I don’t want your thugs to bother me when I leave your house and drive away from Ravello. So I had someone put together a list of all your Swiss bank accounts with the money you stole from Russia. If I don’t show up alive in Zurich tomorrow, that list will be delivered to President Kuznov along with your address here in Ravello. Russia will convince the Swiss to turn over your accounts. But you won’t have much time to enjoy your new poverty. I’m sure Kuznov will send a team of assassins to kill you.” Craig paused and walked toward the door. Then he added, “Sorry it didn’t work out for us to be partners in racing.”

  Craig ran out of the room, along the corridor and through the front door of the villa, passing the guard running toward Igor’s study.

  Craig wasn’t convinced Igor would let him escape even after Craig had threatened to forward the bank accounts to Kuznov. It was fifty-fifty at best, he thought.

  Craig had to assume Igor would maximize his chances of staying alive, by sending his two goons after Craig.

  Once he left Igor’s house, Craig didn’t take the steps down the hill. That’s what they would be expecting and people would see him. Instead, he ran into the woods, which shortened the distance to the road below and his car.

  As he ran, Craig tried to put himself in the minds of Igor and his guards. Though cars weren’t permitted up the mountain, Craig knew that small electric carts were used to ferry up and down luggage and supplies to Villa Cimbrone, a hotel at the top. Chances were Igor’s men would take one of those carts down the hill and beat Craig to the road.

  Then what?

  There was only a single road out of town. It would be an easy matter for the guards to find a place to park just off that road and wait for Craig. In the daylight, they could see the driver of every car that passed and ambush Craig.

  With that in mind, Craig couldn’t relax, even when he reached his rental car, a navy BM
W. He checked for bombs and drove away from the town toward Naples. The sea was on the right, far below the cliff from which the road had been carved.

  As Craig drove, he kept looking for a waiting car. About a mile out of town, he passed a gray Mercedes up ahead parked on a side road on the left. There were no cars immediately ahead or behind Craig. He increased his speed.

  The Mercedes pulled on to the road and began following Craig. It had to be the Russians. They were moving up, shortening the distance between the cars.

  As they neared a blind curve, the Russians pulled up on the left, alongside Craig. The guard on the passenger side lowered his window and leaned out with a gun. Craig recognized him as the man on the roof of Igor’s house. He had not seen the driver before.

  Craig realized their plan was to shoot him, forcing him to lose control of his car and plunge down the hill to the sea below.

  He saw only one way to stop them. He slammed on the brakes and immediately threw the BMW in reverse, hoping no one was coming up behind him.

  His car bucked and then moved backward.

  The Russians couldn’t react. Craig decided to turn around and drive in the other direction. Then he’d outrace the Mercedes. With his experience in rally races, he thought he might be able to do it.

  Before he had a chance to turn around, a large truck coming from the other direction toward Ravello came around the blind corner and smashed head on into the Mercedes. The force of the impact knocked the Mercedes off the road.

  Craig watched it fly through the air. It landed with a thud on rocks below and was rapidly engulfed in flames.

  Goodbye Igor’s guards.

  The truck came to a stop, leaving a narrow opening on the road on its left side. Just enough for Craig to slip through and get the hell out of there before the police came looking for witnesses.

  Fifteen minutes later, he relaxed. When he passed the truck, he had seen the driver in the cab sitting with his head in his hands. No one could tie Craig to the crash.

  As he continued driving, he thought about Igor. He had offered the Russian a perfectly good deal, but Igor had failed to keep his end of the bargain. Now Craig would destroy Igor. He took out his phone and called Jonathan in London. “I enjoyed our lunch yesterday at the Reform Club.”

  “Did you have your meeting?”

  “It’s over and I survived, but I want you to deliver that letter we spoke about.”

  “I’ll do it this afternoon.”

  Good old Jonathan. No need to spell things out. “Thanks.”

  Once Jonathan hung up, Craig thought about his next move. He believed Igor about Federico’s innocence and had been relieved to hear it. He also believed that Federico had been a victim.

  That still left open the question of who had wanted to kill Federico and why.

  As Craig thought about his conversation with Amelie, he decided he had only one option at this point: talk to Alberto Goldoni. The Turin banker was a close friend of Federico’s. They had been together the last hours of Federico’s life. He was hopeful Alfredo could help him.

  He waited until he was on a wider road to pull over. When he called Alberto Goldoni’s office a woman with a cheery voice answered.

  Craig told her he’d like to speak with Signor Goldoni.

  “Who should I tell him is calling?”

  “Enrico Marino. I—”

  “Oh. You’re the race car driver?”

  “I am, but please tell Mr. Goldoni I want to talk to him about Federico Castiglione.”

  “Hold on for a moment. I’ll see if Mr. Goldoni is available.”

  After a delay of almost two minutes, Craig heard, “This is Alberto Goldoni. Why are you calling me?” Alberto sounded worried.

  “I just came from a meeting with Amelie, Federico’s wife. He and I were friends. She asked me to help her find out who killed Federico.”

  “But I don’t understand. You’re a racecar driver. Are you a policeman, too?”

  “I’m not, but I know people in law enforcement. I plan to enlist their help, but before that I want to talk to you. The more facts I give them the more likely they are to become involved. Amelie told me you and your wife Dora had dinner with them Saturday evening.”

  There was another long pause. Alberto’s a cautious man, Craig thought. He’s deciding whether he should talk to me.

  After a delay, which seemed interminable to Craig, Alberto said, “Can you meet me in my office in Turin tomorrow morning at 10:00?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  As Craig resumed driving, he felt exhilarated. Racing had been a wonderful and exciting interlude. But now he was returning to his former life in the world of espionage. And that was what he loved best.

  Circumstances had forced him to abandon it for twenty-one months—except for the Argentine mission—both the crummy politics of Washington and his need to hide from Zhou. Charging back into his former life carried risks. Zhou might learn who he was despite his change of appearance. He was willing to risk it.

  Turin

  Craig spent the night in Turin at the Grand Hotel Sitea in the heart of the city. Normally, he liked to walk around this unfairly maligned industrial city that was home to the Fiat Automobile Company. It had numerous parks and tree lined squares. He loved dining at Del Cambio with its old luxury of crystal chandeliers and large gold encrusted mirrors.

  This evening, after being attacked in Milan and not wanting to be recognized, he left his car with the hotel valet, stayed in the hotel, and had room service for dinner.

  The next morning, wearing sunglasses in the bright sunlight, he walked to the headquarters of Alberto Goldoni’s bank. Turin Credit was located in a four-story gray stone building along the lively Piazza San Carlo. Along the way, Craig stopped and looked into retail stores, pretending to window shop. He was using his favorite technique to make certain he wasn’t being followed.

  Satisfied no one was tailing him, he crossed the wide boulevard to the Turin Credit headquarters. Craig saw there were two armed guards in front of the building, one on each side of the front entrance.

  This wasn’t unusual, Craig told himself. There was a retail branch of Turin Credit on the ground floor. It made sense to have armed guards in front.

  What did surprise Craig was that inside the building, across the marbled floored lobby from the retail bank, in front of the elevators leading to the offices upstairs, were two more armed guards. And he found another two on the top fourth floor where Alberto’s office was located.

  When Craig entered Alberto’s suite, the secretary with the cheery voice, who was a bit overweight with dark black hair and a pleasant smile, asked Craig if he would autograph a book on auto racing. “It’s for my twelve-year-old son. He’s crazy about the sport.”

  Craig signed the book for her, and she thanked him profusely. Then she led him into Alfredo’s office. It wasn’t particularly large and was furnished simply with handsome, decades-old wooden pieces. Nicely framed family pictures were scattered on a couple of tables. There was no “love me” wall with photos of Alberto with statesman and powerful industrialists. It was not the type of office Craig had expected for the owner and CEO of Italy’s largest bank.

  Alberto stood up from his desk and came forward to shake Craig’s hand. Creases and lines were prominent on his face and forehead. Worry? Or just aging? Craig wondered. He had Googled Alberto that morning. The banker was 53; he looked like 63.

  “You have an attractive family,” Craig said pointing to the pictures.

  “Thank you. Dora and I are proud of our two children. The picture on the right was taken about six months ago. Our son, Ricardo, is a student at London School of Economics. Our daughter, Ilana, is studying law at Bologna as I did.”

  She was a strikingly beautiful young woman, Craig thought. With her long brown hair and smile, she reminded him of his own daughter, Francesca.

  Alberto led the way to two leather chairs in a corner, and they sat down, facing each other. Craig decided not to
take notes for fear of spooking Alberto. With his superb memory, he’d recall what Alberto said.

  “Federico was my friend,” Alberto began. “Anything you can do to help find his killers would mean a great deal to me as well as Amelie.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “What can I tell you?”

  “I learned from Amelie that you and your wife, Dora, went to Biarritz to spend the weekend with Federico and Amelie. Was there some occasion?”

  Alberto coughed and cleared his throat. “It was very strange. Federico called me last Thursday. He sounded frightened, almost terrified about something, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. He asked Dora and me to come to Biarritz. He said we’d have dinner Saturday evening at the Hotel Du Palais. Then Sunday morning the two of us would go off alone on the beach and talk. At dinner, when our wives went to the ladies room, I tried again to get him to tell me what this was about, but he refused.”

  “How did he seem at dinner?”

  “Morose. He tuned in and out. Drank a lot. He was clearly worried. He made disparaging comments about Russians. When he and Amelie were getting in the car to leave and I said goodbye, he whispered into my ear, ‘Be careful, my friend.’ From that, I understood he believed I was at risk from whatever threat he faced.”

  This would explain Alberto’s anxiety, Craig thought, and the guards in the bank.

  “How did you learn about his death?”

  “He and Amelie left the hotel about 11:30. Dora went to bed. I was in the bar having a drink, but concerned about Federico and what he had said. I didn’t want to wait for the morning to talk. So I decided to walk up to his house, hoping he would talk to me. I saw the police cars and ambulance. I tried to go into the house, but they stopped me. My French isn’t too good. The most I could understand was that Federico had been killed in a jewelry robbery and Amelie was all right. I knew she had a brother in town for the weekend, and since I didn’t know her that well, I decided that Dora and I should leave Biarritz immediately. As I was walking back to the hotel …” Alberto hesitated to go on.

  “What happened?”

  “Someone was following me in a dark blue Mercedes. The person aimed a gun with a silencer at me and tried to hit me. I changed direction and got out of the line of fire. Then I ran down some stairs to elude whoever was in the car.”