by Allan Topol
“More likely frightened and intimated by Zhou.”
“Well, regardless, McKnight’s given me enough to arrest the bastard for extortion. I’d like to toss him in an Italian jail and let him rot.”
“But that would interfere with my plan. So you can’t.”
“Unfortunately, you are right. Your plan better work.”
“Don’t they always?”
“No!”
“That hurt.”
Giuseppe’s secretary stuck her head in the office and said, “Jean-Claude from the French police is on the phone.”
Giuseppe put the call on the speaker. Jean-Claude sounded excited when he said: “Radovich, the Russian we arrested for Federico’s murder, is now willing to talk in return for leniency.”
Craig was pleased to hear that. If they got enough from the Russian to nail Zhou, he wouldn’t have to make himself a target with a competing bid for Alberto’s bank.
“Where is he?” Giuseppe asked.
“In the jail in Bordeaux. How soon can you get there?”
“About three hours.”
“You want us to get a statement without you?”
Giuseppe looked at Craig who shook his head.
“Three hours shouldn’t matter,” Giuseppe said. “We’ll do it together.”
“Good. My chief intervened with the head prosecutor. He fixed it so all of us can participate in the interview this time.”
* * *
Three hours later, Craig and Giuseppe were in the prosecutor’s office.
“I will begin,” the prosecutor said, “but the three of you can join in.”
He’s certainly sounding different this time, Craig thought. His boss must have leaned on him hard.
Jean-Claude looked at Giuseppe. “What do you want from Radovich?”
“We want to know who hired him to kill Federico. If we could get that, we don’t care what happens to Radovich.”
“You’re not suggesting I let him walk. Are you?” the prosecutor said.
“No. But I would like you to offer a sufficiently light sentence that he’ll be willing to tell us who hired him.”
“Okay,” the prosecutor said reluctantly. “I’ll offer him twenty years in jail.”
“I was thinking more like five,” Giuseppe replied.
“I agree with Giuseppe,” Jean-Claude interjected.
“Five for murder is ridiculous.”
Craig decided to remain quiet. He didn’t want to alienate this hardassed prosecutor who was about to blow the deal.
Jean-Claude looked angry. “He’ll never talk for twenty years. Be realistic.”
“I’m the prosecutor and I’m sticking with twenty years.”
Jean-Claude’s face was flushed with anger. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Then go over my head again. You know how to do that.”
Before Jean-Claude could respond, the prosecutor was interrupted by a phone call. Craig heard him say: “Yes, I see. Yes.” in a glum voice.
When he hung up, he sighed deeply.
“What happened?” Jean-Claude asked.
“Radovich is dead. They think someone poisoned him. The warden is investigating.”
“Oh damn it.” Giuseppe was shaking his head in anger.
“I’m sorry,” Jean-Claude said. “We messed up.”
No one disagreed with that assessment.
“What about the other Russian who was in Federico’s house?” Craig asked. “The short one.”
“We’ve been looking for him,” Jean-Claude replied. “So far no luck. We’ll redouble our efforts.”
When Craig and Giuseppe left the courthouse they stopped for lunch at a nearby brasserie.
“What’s your next move?” Giuseppe asked.
“Let’s give Jean-Claude twenty-four more hours to find the short Russian. If he doesn’t, I want to meet with Alberto and move up on my Barry Gorman competing offer for the Turin bank.”
“That’ll be tricky. Alberto thinks you’re Enrico Marino, the race car driver.”
“I’ll have to take him through it slowly. It’ll be better to do outside of Turin in case McKnight has people watching Alberto.”
“Where do want to meet him?”
“There’s an excellent little place in Orta called Villa Crespi. Not far from Turin. Arrange for Alberto to meet me there for dinner tomorrow evening at eight. If Jean-Claude finds the short Russian, we can always cancel the dinner.”
“Will do. I’ll have one of my people drive Alberto to Villa Crespi to make sure he’s not followed.”
Beijing
Elizabeth was traveling on a French passport as Simone Morey, a woman with dark gray hair who wore glasses with heavy black frames. Pushing a wheelie suitcase, she smoothly cleared passport control and customs at Beijing Airport. It was 6:30 in the morning and a tired looking agent had checked the computer and asked a perfunctory question about the nature of her visit. When he heard “tourist” he quickly stamped her documents.
From the terminal, without calling ahead, she took a cab to the house of Ned Burroughs, the Beijing Bureau Chief for the International Herald. She hoped to catch Ned before he left for the office.
Ned was a bachelor who lived on the tenth floor of a twenty-two story new high-rise inhabited by lots of Westerners in Beijing for business.
He was in a white terry cloth robe when he answered the door.
Fearful his apartment might be bugged, she raised a finger to her lips.
Ned immediately understood. Without mentioning her name, he pointed to the kitchen table at which he had been eating breakfast and said, “Help yourself. I’ll get dressed. I’d like to show you the garden outside. They did a nice job with the flowers.”
Hungry, she ate a bowl of shredded wheat. Then the two of them rode down in the elevator.
When they were outside, Ned said, “We can talk here. I have the apartment swept for bugs from time to time. They keep showing up and I keep destroying them. Ditto for the office. This is a tough place to work. What brings you to Beijing unannounced?”
“It’s a long, complicated story, and it’s better for you if you don’t know the details. I need some help.”
“Sure, Liz. Anything.”
Hating that nickname, Liz, she cringed. It made her feel like a reptile. In the past, she had asked Ned not to use it. Today, she decided not to correct him.
She showed him the picture of the Chinese man she had taken on her cell phone in Parelli’s suite in Venice. “Do you know who he is?”
Ned studied it for a full minute. Then he responded. “His name is Qing Li. He’s a special assistant to Zhou Yun, the Finance Minister.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Absolutely. I’ve seen him with Zhou at press conferences covering economic issues. He’s like an administrative aide, a sort of chief of staff, but he’s also a bit of a thug. He has a military background.”
Elizabeth was excited. Ned was confirming that Craig was right about Zhou’s involvement with Parelli.
“What else can I do for you?” Ned asked.
“I gather that you see Mei Ling from time to time.”
“Thanks to your prior relationship with her, I have the best access of any foreign journalist. She always asks about you.”
“Here’s what I want you to do. Try to get in to see Mei Ling this morning for a few minutes. Tell her I’d like to meet with her secretly as soon as she can, and am traveling under a French passport in the name of Simone Morey. I’ll remain in your apartment until you come back with an answer.”
* * *
Three hours later, Ned returned.
“Mei Ling sent a car for you,” he said. “It’s waiting outside. A black sedan. The driver will drive you to your meeting with her.”
Elizabeth thanked Ned, took her wheelie suitcase, and headed toward the elevator.
She climbed into the back of the car. Without saying a word, the driver activated the door locks, looked around nervously, and started
the engine. He drove for an hour to a grassy area on the outskirts of the city, along a lake.
When the car stopped in front of a wood-framed house, the door locks were released. “Go,” he told her in English. She saw half a dozen soldiers in front of the house. They were on alert, gripping automatic weapons.
Carrying her bag, Elizabeth climbed the stairs to the house. Mei Ling was waiting inside.
“So good to see you again, Elizabeth. I use this house as a retreat from my office. We can talk freely here.”
One of Mei Ling’s aides fixed tea for the two of them and then departed, leaving them alone.
“Are you seeing Craig?” Mei Ling asked.
“We’ve resumed our relationship. He’s not an easy person.”
Mei Ling smiled. “You would never want ‘easy.’”
“That’s true. “I appreciate your meeting me on short notice.”
“For you, anytime. I’m sure this is important. Do you have some information for me?”
Elizabeth told Mei Ling everything she and Craig had learned about Zhou Yun’s efforts to acquire Italian banks. “I also believe, but can’t prove, that Zhou is financing Parelli’s campaign in order to gain a foothold in northern Italy, if the nation divides.”
“What do you base that on?”
Elizabeth told her about the Chinese man, now identified as one of Zhou’s aides, who had been in Parelli’s hotel room. Also, the sudden increase in Parelli’s campaign ads suggested he received new money shortly after seeing the man in his room. “I don’t have enough evidence to write a story about it, but I’m convinced this is occurring.”
Elizabeth’s information seemed to shake Mei Ling, who cupped her head in her hands.
When Elizabeth was finished, Mei Ling said, “We’ve always leveled with each other—you and I. So I will tell you that I knew Zhou was purchasing interests in several banks in Italy. However, I had no idea a banker had been murdered and another one threatened. And I certainly didn’t know about Zhou’s financing of Parelli’s campaign to influence the Italian election. If Zhou had revealed his plans, I would have refused to approve any of these actions. I very much appreciate your coming here at great risk to tell me about them.”
“It appears as if Zhou is trying to establish a major presence for China in Italy.”
Mei Ling nodded. “Which he’ll no doubt use as the wedge to gain business and influence elsewhere in Europe.”
“I think that’s right. Is this something you want?”
“Of course I want China to be a player in Europe, but devious operations like this are not consistent with my principles. They are not how I operate my government.”
Elizabeth had thought that was the case. Still, she was relieved to hear it from Mei Ling. “Can you stop Zhou in his Italian operation?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are the president.”
“Zhou has a great deal of support among the PLA.”
“Because of his brother’s role as head of the military?”
“That and his brother’s death,” she paused for a moment. “He used to be subtle in opposing me. Recently, he’s become more blatant. He’s convinced some top military men that I was responsible for killing his brother.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“These misconceptions are hard to change—and never forget that I have my own personal issues with Zhou because of what his brother did. He not only tried to kill me, but he arranged the murder of my husband and son—my only child. I found out later General Zhou ordered the captain of the navy ship to push him off the deck into the South China Sea. The two brothers were in a joint operation. I hold Zhou Yun responsible as well. So I will do anything I possibly can to gain revenge. I am patient. One day I will get it. You can be sure of that. Meantime I’ll try to persuade Zhou to call off his Italian operation, as you characterize it. And I’ll get a message to you letting you know whether I succeed.”
“How will you do that?”
“When is the last plane to Paris this evening?”
Elizabeth checked the schedule on her iPad. “Ten fifteen. Air France Flight 17.”
“Get a seat on that plane. Before takeoff, I’ll get a message to you. It will be a very simple ‘Yes,’ if I persuaded Zhou to stop his Italian operation. ‘No,’ if I did not.”
“I understand.”
“Before you leave, I want to ask you something.”
“Sure.”
“What do you think of US President Worth?”
“I’ve never really gotten to know him. Why do you ask?”
Mei Ling hesitated for a moment before saying, “He’s reached out to me. I want to know if I can trust him.”
“All I can tell you is that Betty Richards, the CIA director, feels very positive about Worth and I trust her. On the other hand, Zhou Yun’s meddling in Europe will undercut any relationship you develop with Worth.”
Mei Ling nodded. “That’s good enough for me. Thank you.”
Elizabeth was puzzled by Mei Ling’s question about Worth but didn’t pursue it.
Mei Ling stood. “The car’s waiting outside. Go now. He’ll take you to the airport. You’ll be safer there.”
Elizabeth understood why Mei Ling wanted her far from China. She expected Zhou to mount a major effort to find out who had supplied the information about Italy to Mei Ling and to seek retribution.
Orta, Italy
In the persona of Enrico Marino, Craig had been to Villa Crespi twice with Nina.
It was a gem of a small inn, built in the 19th century as a Moorish palace with spires by an Italian cotton trader who had been enchanted by Baghdad. To Craig, the interior resembled the stately home of an emirate with its elegant damask engravings, horseshoe arches, and turquoise fresco painted ceilings. The effect always made Craig feel as if he was in the middle of an Arabian desert rather than on the banks of Lake Orta in the heart of northern Italy.
Besides the surroundings, something else made Villa Crespi magical for Craig. The food was incredible. The restaurant was one of the best in all of Italy, which was saying quite a lot.
Craig arrived fifteen minutes before eight. He wanted to get settled before Alberto came.
As soon as he stepped through the heavy metal and glass front door, he received a warm greeting from the maître d’. “Oh, Signor Marino, it is so good to see you again.”
Craig explained that he was meeting another man for a business dinner. “We have to talk. Where do you think we should sit?”
“I’ll give you the end table on the verandah and I won’t use the one next to it. Would that be satisfactory?”
“Absolutely.”
Craig was seated at the table with a glass of champagne when he saw Alberto approaching.
Craig stood up and they shook hands. “So good to see you again, Enrico,” Alberto said.
The waiter wheeled over a cart and Alberto ordered champagne as well.
“Giuseppe was very mysterious about our meeting this evening. All he said was that I would obtain answers at my dinner with you. Even when I pressed him, he refused to say any more.”
Craig waited for the waiter to leave. He had thought long and hard about how much to tell Alberto and finally decided Alberto must trust his life to Craig and Giuseppe; Craig could do no less.
“I’m not Enrico Marino,” he said softly.
“You’re joking.”
“Unfortunately not.”
Alberto looked surprised. “You’re not Enrico Marino?”
“Well, I am and I’m not.”
“That’s a little too mysterious for me.”
“Until twenty-one months ago, I was Craig Page, an American who had worked for the CIA, and then—”
“You were head of the EU Counterterrorism Agency.”
“How’d you know that?”
Everyone in Italy does. You’re famous here. You saved the life of the Pope and the Vatican from suffering major damage. Then you seemed to have disappeared.
One of our papers—Il Messegero I think—ran an article in October speculating what happened to Craig Page.”
Craig hadn’t seen it. He must have been in Argentina at the time.
“What did they say?”
“That Muslims captured you and were torturing you in a prison in Libya.”
“Someone has a vivid imagination.”
“What really happened? Can you tell me?”
“A mission of mine became complicated. I was being pursued by some nasty people. To evade them, I had to change my appearance.”
“Plastic surgery?”
“Yeah. And after that, I did something I always wanted to do. Race cars.”
“Which you’re very good at.”
“I was fortunate. I had a great teacher.”
“Giuseppe was your deputy when you were head of the EU Counterterrorism Agency. He worked with you in saving the Pope and the Vatican.”
“He supplied most of the good ideas and the Italian relationships. Giuseppe is incredible.”
“I’ve known him only a short while. But I agree with that.”
“Let’s order,” Craig said. “Then we’ll continue.”
Alberto selected pasta with seafood and then squab. For Craig, fois gras pate followed by lamb. As he looked at the wine list, Craig had noted that they carried both the Barbaresco and Barolo from Parelli. He selected the Barbaresco, which was excellent.
When they picked up the discussion, Craig said, “I’ve been working with Giuseppe since shortly after Federico’s death. No one in Italy knows who I really am. Please do not tell anyone, or my life would be at risk.”
“You have my promise. My own life is already on the line.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Giuseppe told you about the threats McKnight made to me?”
“He even showed me the video of your last meeting with McKnight.”
“I could strangle the bastard.”
“But it won’t help you. He’s only the agent of a very powerful man.”
“Who’s pulling McKnight’s strings?”
“Zhou Yun. He’s the—”
“Chinese Finance Minister, a very wealthy industrialist, and also owner of the largest Chinese bank. It figures he would be involved.”
“Do you know Zhou?”
