The Italian Divide (12 page)

Besides, Zhou Yun, even more than his brother, was responsible for the death of Craig’s daughter, Francesca. Zhou Yun was the one in Calgary at the time and must have given the order. Craig had his own score to settle with Zhou Yun.

However, that was all off in an uncertain future. For now, Craig had to decide on his next move.

As he sipped coffee, his phone rang. He saw it was Elizabeth calling. “Listen, Craig,” she said without bothering with formalities. “I have some news for you.”

“What’s that?”

“I just learned that a Singapore bank—Pacific Sun—has acquired a 19 percent interest in Federico’s bank. The transaction was announced a few minutes ago.”

“That is really something. They didn’t wait too long after Federico’s death to get the deal done. It can’t be a coincidence. His death and this agreement must be related.”

“Exactly what I was thinking. Have you made any progress?”

“Not yet, but this will help. I also heard that two Chinese banks made investments in banks in northern Italy last year.”

“That’s right. One in Bologna and one in Verona. What about the money laundering by Federico’s bank?”

“Neither his wife nor his lawyer knew anything about that. I’ve reached out to some other sources. I’m convinced Federico was a victim, not a criminal.”

“If that’s your conclusion, it’s good enough for me. I’ll let you know if I learn anything else.”

Craig quickly ended the call because he was anxious to pursue what he hoped would be valuable assistance.

He put her news of the investment by the Singapore Bank together with the other pieces. Russian killers. Possible involvement of organized crime. Two Italian banks having been acquired by Chinese banks. He had been attacked by Russians.

Craig was convinced he now had enough to involve Guiseppe Mercurio, the head of EU’s counterterrorism agency based in Rome. He reflected for a moment on his prior relationship with Giuseppe, who had been Craig’s deputy when he held the EU counterterrorism position. He had lobbied hard for Giuseppe to succeed him when he became CIA Director for his brief stint in that job. He hoped Giuseppe would become involved in solving Federico’s murder. The man was savvy as well as effective; and Craig liked working with him.

Craig decided to call him. They had spoken so often in Craig’s prior life that Giuseppe’s number was permanently etched on his brain.

But he hesitated for a minute. At this point only Betty Richards, the CIA Director, Elizabeth, and Jonathan knew that Craig Page had become Enrico Marino. Alberto suspected Enrico was someone else, but he had no idea that someone was Craig Page. How should he deal with Giuseppe? Try to keep his cover or not?

It only took him a few seconds to decide. Giuseppe knew how to keep secrets and he certainly had no love for Zhou Yun.

Besides, Craig wasn’t good at disguising his voice.

He decided to level with Giuseppe.

“It’s a colleague from your past. We worked together disarming suicide bombers in Trastevere a couple of years ago.”

There was a pause. Then, “Oh really.” Giuseppe sounded surprised. “That’s not all we did together. It’s good to hear from an old friend.”

“I’ll be in Rome today. How about a quiet dinner?”

“Come to my house at eight.”

Craig liked that. No one could overhear them talking.

Beijing

S
itting in his corner office on the 51st and top floor of the Zhou Yun Enterprises headquarters in Beijing, Zhou Yun should have been a happy man. He was the wealthiest person in China. And according to
Forbes
, number three in the entire world. His industrial empire that began in energy and real estate now had tentacles reaching around the globe. As the Finance Minister of China, he had great political power as well.

Still, Zhou Yun was unhappy and miserable. And he knew the dual causes for that.

The first was the death of his brother, one time head of the Chinese armed forces and President of China before Mei Ling. The incredibly close bond between the brothers was demonstrated by the men displayed in the only two photographs on the walls of Zhou Yun’s office.

One was a picture of a sad-looking Zhou Yun when he was only fourteen and his brother was twelve. The boys were surviving in Beijing on their own because during the Cultural Revolution Mao had banished their parents to the countryside for re-indoctrination. Their mother starved to death. When their father returned after four years, he was depressed and beaten down, a shell of the man who had gone.

The other picture was Zhou Yun again with his brother. This time Zhou Yun was smiling with pride as his brother assumed the presidency of China.

Zhou Yun had a third picture in his office. That one, he kept in his center desk drawer where only he could see it. And he did at least once each day. It was a picture of Craig Page, then CIA Director, the man whom Zhou Yun held responsible for his brother’s death, as if Craig had pulled the trigger himself.

It constantly gnawed at Zhou Yun’s insides that he hadn’t been able to find Craig Page and to gain his revenge. For a man with Zhou Yun’s money and resources, the world was small. He should have been able to locate Page. He hadn’t given up. He would never give up until his last dying breath.

The other matter that vexed Zhou was the lack of respect China was receiving in the world despite its incredible economic success and military expansion. It should be ranked right up with, if not ahead of, the United States as a superpower. But people and the media, particularly in the West, still viewed the stature of China to be below the United States. Even worse, some had been discussing Russia, that economic and military pygmy, as a rival to the United States.

Zhou’s thoughts were interrupted by the intercom. “Qing Li is here,” his secretary said.

“Good. Send him in.”

Qing was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie like Zhou. That was a shift from his former position as a military officer. Zhou plucked him out of the People’s Liberation Army on his brother’s recommendation to be his special assistant. Qing, as a young soldier, had been one of those who fired on unarmed protestors in Tiananmen Square in 1989. That patriotism and willingness to follow orders had appealed to Zhou.

Qing sat in a chair facing Zhou behind his huge antique desk devoid of papers. He ran a finger over this thin mustache while waiting for Zhou to begin.

“When did you get back to Beijing?”

“An hour ago. I remained in Milan until I confirmed that the acquisition of stock in Federico Castiglione’s bank by Pacific Sun of Singapore had gone through. Then I left. I came here from the airport.”

“I heard about the bank acquisition from one of my financial advisers. That’s good. What’s not good is that Federico is dead.”

“As I explained on the phone, we had no choice.” Qing said it in a matter of fact tone devoid of emotion. “Lin Yu, the Singapore banker did everything he could to persuade Federico to sell. The man was stubborn and the other board members stuck with him until his death. Then they saw the wisdom of selling.”

Zhou was frowning. Lin Yu had failed him. “I understand everything you’ve said, and the acquisition is important to me. I’m not sorry I gave you the order to eliminate Federico. Still, I’m concerned this murder could be traced to us.”

“Impossible. There are no loose ends. Your friends in Moscow supplied the manpower I needed. I doubt if it would even get back to them, but that’s where it would stop.”

“Are the French police investigating aggressively?”

“Not at all. The Russians have friends in the Biarritz Police Department. There was only one thing …” Qing hesitated.

“What’s that?”

“Federico’s widow tried to enlist the help of an Italian race car driver, Enrico Marino.”

“What does he have to do with this?”

“He was a friend of Federico’s, but the Russians persuaded him not to help and the widow has left town. No risk to us there.”

Zhou wasn’t satisfied, but there was nothing he could do about it now. So he turned to the other part of Qing’s mission. “What about Roberto Parelli?”

I spoke with him in his hotel suite in Venice after a big speech he gave in San Marco Square. Parelli agreed to meet with you. He won’t travel to China, but he’ll meet with you at his farm and vineyard in northern Italy.”

Zhou tapped his fingers on the desk. He preferred that all meetings with foreigners take place in China. Being on his home turf wasn’t merely a matter of prestige. It meant that foreigners arrived exhausted from a long flight. After lots of food and alcohol they became much more malleable.

“Why won’t Parelli come to Beijing?”

“He said it would attract too much publicity. Also, his campaign is at a critical point, and he doesn’t want to take time away from it.”

“Isn’t he concerned that I’ll be recognized? That there will be articles in the press reporting on my visit? Those would destroy the purpose of our meeting.”

“He said that if you fly into Malpensa in an unmarked plane, he’ll have someone take you from the plane that will land on a remote runway and drive you in a car with tinted windows. Complete secrecy. No one would know you were there.”

Zhou nodded. He liked those logistics. Parelli was shrewd.

“There could be one problem,” Qing said.

“What’s that?”

“Parelli’s closest advisor, a man named Luciano, was strongly opposed to the meeting. Parelli overrode him, but Luciano could be trouble in the future.”

“I’ll find a way to get around Luciano’s opposition.”

“Before your meeting with Parelli, I could go back to Italy and eliminate Luciano as an obstacle. Make it look like an accident in a car. Something like that.”

Zhou shook his head firmly. One thing he didn’t like about Qing was that he was too eager to kill people. Dead bodies piled up and sometimes came back to haunt and create problems. That’s what happened with the death of Craig Page’s daughter, Francesca.

“I’ll be able to get what I want without that,” Zhou said firmly.

“I understand. Would you like me to go with you to Italy for your meeting with Parelli?”

“No, it’s not necessary. I prefer to do this alone.”

Once Qing left, Zhou asked his secretary to arrange the plane for his trip to Italy. Then she said, “Mr. McKnight is here for your meeting.”

“Good. Show him in and serve tea.”

Zhou watched McKnight sipping tea nervously. The sixty-five year old pasty- faced Harry McKnight was an Englishman who had spent his entire life in Hong Kong. He was tall, with a bald head except for some gray around the sides, and blotchy, red skin on his face and neck. He wore narrow glasses that rested halfway down on his nose.

Zhou didn’t like the English. He viewed them as cynical and hypocritical, pretending to follow rules of fairness while they had raped and plundered China. Their efforts to get the entire Chinese nation hooked on opium because it was commercially advantageous to them was even more reprehensible than their participation in the African slave trade. Now finally they had been relegated to their just position on the world stage—as bystanders with delusions that they would one day return to their former glory. Their future was grim. They would have all they could do to ward off internal resurrection by a hostile Muslim populace constantly increasing in size.

Zhou watched McKnight squirm in his chair, while waiting anxiously to hear why Zhou had summoned him. Though McKnight was the President of Victoria Bank in Hong Kong, he served at the will of Zhou because Zhou had engineered a secret takeover of the Victoria Bank by the Commercial Bank of China, which Zhou owned. To the outside world, Victoria Bank was independent. In reality it was a subsidiary of Zhou’s bank. Chinese law permitted this deception.

Zhou glanced at the sweep second hand of his Rolex. When a full minute had passed, he began talking. “Turin Credit is Italy’s largest bank. Alberto Goldoni, the CEO, is the biggest stockholder with 18 percent of the stock. I want you to go to Italy and purchase Goldoni’s stock. Go up to a purchase price of 20 billion euros. I’ll secretly put up the cash. Of course, I’ll want final approval of the transaction, but I want you to keep my involvement confidential. That amount of stock should give you control of Turin Credit. After you obtain it, you’ll secretly transfer ownership to my Commercial Bank of China. You’ll continue to serve as a front even after control is transferred. Do you understand?”

“What makes you think Goldoni will sell?”

“As we both know, everything is for sale if the price is right. Besides, I’ve heard, and I’m sure you have as well, that most Italian banks are struggling because of their bad loans. Some are searching for ways to get out from under this problem. An infusion of foreign capital will be attractive to Goldoni.”

McKnight shook his head. “I know a little about Turin Credit. Their balance sheet is sound because of good management by Alberto Goldoni. He and I have spent time at a couple of international bankers conferences. He explained to me how much Turin Credit means to him because the bank was started by his great-grandfather.”

“All I’m asking you to do is buy Goldoni’s interest and you’ll have control of the bank.”

“I suppose that’s right, but it won’t be easy.”

“In return for doing this, I’ll pay you a bonus of 5 million yuan at the end of the year. Now do you have any questions?”

“After the investment by Pacific Sun in the Milan bank and in banks in Verona and Bologna last year by Chinese banks, I’m afraid the Italian government, the EU, or the United States may intervene to block this transaction. They’ll realize that in dealing with a bank as large as Turin Credit, an 18 percent stake will give the owner effective control.”

Zhou brushed aside McKnight’s comment with a wave of his hand. “You worry too much. Italy knows its banks are weak. It will welcome the infusion of foreign capital. The EU is a toothless entity. As for the United States, I have leverage and a powerful voice in Washington to prevent the United States from intervening. Anything else?” Zhou’s tone was dismissive. He didn’t want any more questions, but McKnight wasn’t finished.