The Italian Divide Page 3

  Alberto tore down the stairs so quickly he lost his balance and tripped and fell. He heard a car roar away. From the bottom of the path, he looked up. No one had followed.

  He paused for a moment to dust himself off. He had torn his pants at the knee and was bleeding.

  Breathless, he resumed running. He didn’t stop until he entered the hotel.

  He had to get out of Biarritz and damn fast. He was hoping these people didn’t know who he was and wouldn’t follow him to Turin.

  Stresa, Italy

  The light blue Jaguar barreled over the crest of a hill on the narrow mountain road at 120 miles an hour.

  Craig was fatigued. Still, he kept pushing the powerful car to the limit of what it could do. And what he could do.

  Having passed beneath the Matterhorn, Craig was on the final leg down the mountain to the finish line in Stresa on the banks of Lake Maggiore. At the top of the mountain, above the tree line, snow was visible on the jagged peaks. A bright blinding sun was beating down on the road. Craig was grateful for his custom made Maui Jims.

  “Great view of the lake below,” Luigi, his navigator, said. “But don’t you dare look.”

  They were communicating through microphones and headsets hooked up to their racing helmets which permitted them to hear over the drone of the engine.

  In rally races of this type, drivers start each day’s race sequentially. This was the final day of the race and Craig, with the best time after two days, had the honor of starting last. Carlucci, with the second best time, had started right before Craig.

  All that matters is how long it takes a driver to complete the course. Whoever has the shortest time is the winner. Craig knew that when they had started today, his total time for the race was three minutes and ten seconds less than Carlucci’s. However, Craig had no idea how fast Carlucci was covering this final leg.

  Fortunately, the rain had held off.

  As soon as that thought passed through Craig’s mind, he saw a dark sky ahead. With almost two hours of driving left until reaching the finish line at about four this afternoon, there was now a good possibility he’d be driving in rain.

  Half an hour later, Craig was gripping the wheel hard, cutting a switchback turn a bit too closely when the skies opened up. On the left was a steep vertical drop down the side of the mountain.

  “No,” Craig told himself. “No.” This race will end differently today. This won’t be Sardinia.

  They had crossed the tree line. Craig strained to see the road through his wipers which were working furiously.

  “Want to ease up?” Luigi asked.

  “No,” Craig said tersely. “Carlucci will have the rain, too.”

  “I hope so.”

  They were constantly moving downhill, and that made the road particularly treacherous. They passed a cluster of about twenty spectators standing along the road, getting drenched to watch the cars pass their village.

  “Hairpin turn on the right in one kilometer,” Luigi said.

  “Roger that.”

  “Another to the left seconds later.”

  “Roger that.”

  Through the corner of his eye, Craig saw Luigi gripping the hand support on the front dash.

  Craig blasted into the first turn at full speed. The wheels spun. Craig turned into the spin to maintain traction. They were dangerously close to the edge of the road, which had no guardrail—just centimeters from a drop into the abyss.

  The car bucked. Craig wasn’t sure they would hold the road. He sucked in his breath. The car straightened out. Craig floored the accelerator.

  “The next turn is even harder.” Luigi barked. “Cut your speed.”

  Craig didn’t listen. His guess was that Carlucci had passed these two diabolical turns before it started to rain. By easing up now, he’d lose valuable time to Carlucci.

  Craig realized he was being reckless, but he pressed the accelerator to the floor. The speed increased.

  “Here comes the turn,” Luigi called.

  Craig was gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, perspiration dotting his forehead, as he headed into the turn. He cut it close. His tires were on the gravel at the edge of the road. The car began to spin. Craig held his breath, but kept control. They were out of the turn, heading down the mountain.

  “Great driving,” Luigi said in a voice filled with admiration and relief. “Those are the two toughest turns.”

  Craig was tempted to ease up, but he didn’t.

  The race finished on Corso Umberto, the main road running along the lake through the heart of Stresa. The finish line was in front of the municipal building. Crowds of people lined both sides of the road. The rain had stopped. The sun was shining.

  In a matter of seconds, Craig would find out if he had a better time than Carlucci and everyone else—whether he had won the race. He was nervous and excited, the adrenalin surging through his weary body.

  He passed the square in front of the municipal building and braked to a stop. He and Luigi climbed out of the car. They were heading toward the race headquarters in front of the municipal building to get the result.

  There was no need to do that. People rushed up to Craig and Luigi shouting, “You won! You won!!” He glanced up and saw a scoreboard, showing he’d won by a minute and three seconds.

  Craig was ecstatic. Luigi hugged him.

  When they reached the headquarters desk, a man handed Craig a trophy and each of them a check. One million euros for Craig, five hundred thousand for Luigi.

  Luigi hugged him again.

  Photographers were snapping pictures. Video cameras were rolling.

  A TV reporter holding a microphone interviewed Craig and Luigi. More reporters approached.

  Craig spotted Carlucci sitting with a drink at one of the tables in a small café in front of the municipal building and walked over. When Carlucci stood up, Craig, the American hiding in Europe, held out his hand, but Carlucci ignored it. European style, he hugged Craig and smiling through crooked teeth said, “Good race. We’ll see what happens in Munich.”

  After the reporters had their stories, Craig and Luigi went into the café where the owner cracked open a bottle of Moet and poured glasses for them. By the time they drank one glass and started another, two good-looking, shapely women, one blond, the other brunette, sat down at the table. They were matching bookends with short skirts and halter tops.

  Glass in hand, Craig stood up and said to Luigi, “Have fun. I’ll call you about the next race.”

  Craig drifted away while glancing over his shoulder. The women were all over Luigi. The crowd had thinned out. Craig planned to walk back to the Grand Hotel Des Iles Borromees where he was staying to shower and sleep for about four hours. Then he’d have a quiet dinner alone in the room.

  But before he did any of that, Craig had to call Federico and let him know he’d won. Federico would be thrilled. He was surprised to reach only Federico’s voice mail. He thought Federico would be waiting for his call. The banker must be in a very important meeting. Craig left a message saying, “Great news. We won. I’ll deliver the trophy to you tomorrow in Milan.”

  As he left the café, another photographer with a video camera approached and began filming Craig. He saw the name on the camera was “International Herald” and did a double take. That was Elizabeth’s newspaper.

  Perhaps his tired eyes were deceiving him. He blinked and looked again. It was International Herald. He had seen it correctly.

  Behind the cameraman, he spotted a woman holding a steno pad, a brunette in a sleeveless blue print dress with short hair. She had an athletic figure, with muscular arms and legs. In the glare of the sun from the lake, he couldn’t see her face clearly. Then she moved to the right, and he saw it was Elizabeth. What the hell was she doing here?

  He hadn’t seen her since they broke up in their Washington house twenty-one months ago. She looked as youthful as when he first met her. Her face had a serious, intense look. He wondered why she came toda
y. Had someone told her he’d be racing?

  He hadn’t thought about Elizabeth for months, but as he saw her now, all of the bitterness he felt at the time they separated welled up in Craig. To be sure, they had been through a great deal together, but he couldn’t forgive her for putting her job ahead of their relationship. They had once been very passionate about each other, and even with the passage of time, he wasn’t willing to forgive her.

  “Any chance a hard working reporter can get an interview with the winner?” she asked while smiling anxiously. Although she had surely stared at many photos of “Enrico” she must have been stunned by his appearance and his sudden physical presence.

  “I’m sure we can find a table in the café,” he replied coldly.

  “How about doing it at dinner this evening? 8:30 at the Grand Hotel?”

  The words “No way” were almost out of his mouth when he pulled them back. Don’t be a fool, he told himself, and behave like a grade school kid. Besides, he’d learned long ago never to sever a relationship. Life was long. It was impossible to know what would happen in the future.

  “Fine,” he told her, as he turned to leave.

  * * *

  Craig had stayed only once before at the Grand Hotel Des Iles Borromees. It was about nine months ago with Nina, a widow from Milan whom he had been seeing during the twenty-one months he and Elizabeth had been separated, except for the time he was away in Argentina. They didn’t click enough for a long-term relationship, but the sex was good, and she was fun to be with from time to time.

  The hotel was a magnificent stone structure with a rich history of one hundred fifty years. Immersed in a park facing Lake Maggiore, it had magnificent views of the Borromees Islands and the surrounding Alps. The seven-floor structure, with one hundred seventy-four rooms, still maintained its Belle Époque character. It had been built to last for centuries; it had survived two European world wars and was still going strong.

  As he entered the marble floored lobby, Craig was greeted like a celebrity. The employees behind the reception and concierge desks, as well as guests, stood up and applauded. Shouts of “Congratulations, Signor Marino!” filled the air.

  The manager led him up to the royal suite on the sixth floor with a huge living room and bedroom as well as a balcony overlooking the lake. Champagne on ice and a large vase of flowers were waiting for Craig.

  Once the manager was gone, Craig, ignoring the champagne, showered, and collapsed into the bed.

  Four hours later he woke up fully refreshed. While dressing, he thought about his last dinner with Elizabeth twenty-one months ago.

  They had met at Tosca, their favorite Washington restaurant, following a miserable day for Craig. He had been fired by US President Treadwell after only three weeks as CIA Director. The president had decided to sacrifice Craig at the altar of U.S.–Chinese relations.

  For Craig, that had been a bitter pill to swallow. All he had ever wanted to do with his life was to serve his country, the United States he loved, although it wasn’t perfect. Despite losing his wife because of poor medical care she received in the Middle East when he worked there for the CIA, he had soldiered on. Later, he had lost his daughter, Francesca, his only child. Now his country had rejected him.

  Craig had come to Tosca expecting understanding and sympathy from Elizabeth. Now that he didn’t have the obligations of a job, he was looking forward to planning the next phase of their life together. Though he had thought he’d never marry again after the death of his wife, Carolyn, he was beginning to change his mind.

  Before he had a chance to say a word, she tossed a bucket of cold water in his face. Excitedly, she told him that the publisher of the International Herald had called to offer her the position of foreign news editor based in Paris. And she had been thrilled to accept it, without even discussing it first with Craig.

  He was outraged. Sure, they weren’t married, but they had a life together, or so he had thought.

  Once she broke the news to Craig, he had understood how much his entire life was unraveling. Chinese President Zhou had a brother Zhou Yun—one of the most powerful men in China—with whom the president was very close. Craig had no doubt that Zhou Yun would come after Craig to gain revenge for what had happened to his brother.

  When he was fired as CIA Director, Craig lost the protection of the US government. He would be an easy target for Zhou Yun.

  That evening, Craig, realizing he and Elizabeth were finished, had developed a plan to elude Zhou Yun and to live the rest of his life. He underwent extensive plastic surgery to create a new persona for himself as Enrico Marino, a racecar driver—an adventure he had always wanted to pursue.

  He had warned Elizabeth to be vigilant in Paris because Zhou Yun might have someone following her and even attack her in the hope she could lead him to Craig. She said she’d get a gun. He had no doubt she felt she could take care of herself.

  They had parted, without any visible emotion, early the next morning. He was firmly convinced she didn’t care what happened to him. All she cared about was her career.

  Well, he had thought, to hell with her. He had plunged into auto racing with a vengeance and had been successful. He was daring, at times reckless. Luigi had once told him that he had a death wish. And maybe that was true. He didn’t have much to live for.

  Now, twenty-one months later, she had come in search of him. But why, he wondered, as he picked up a tan sport jacket and put it on over a light blue shirt. Then he walked out of the door toward the elevator.

  The weather in Stresa was perfect that evening with temperature in the mid-seventies and low humidity. Dinner was being served in the hotel verandah, on the ground floor looking over Lake Maggiore. Stepping onto the verandah, Craig was impressed by the almost magical character of the setting. Off in the distance a few boats moved along the calm waters. The sun was setting behind the mountains, its rays still glistening on the water. The ten tables on the verandah were all taken by a dignified, mature crowd; men were wearing jackets accompanied by women in designer clothes, well-coiffed and bejeweled but not ostentatious. Elegant was the word that came to Craig’s mind. Not trendy or nouveau.

  Craig followed the maître d’ to the table. Elizabeth was already there, dressed in a colorful print Dolce & Gabbana dress, sipping a glass of champagne. As he approached she stood up, looking nervous, he thought. But how could she not be anxious? It would take a long time to become accustomed to the fact of his altered appearance.

  A waiter rushed over with a bottle of Tattinger and poured a glass for Craig.

  Elizabeth raised hers and said, “To the winner.”

  “Whatever made you come to Stresa to see me in my new life?” he said softly.

  “Your friend Betty.”

  “As in Betty Richards, the CIA Director.”

  “Yeah, that one. She called last week and told me she had a great idea for a feature for my paper: the rally race in Stresa. She said she’d seen a rally race in Sardinia last October. It was very exciting. An old friend of hers had been racing there. I recalled you once told me you had always wanted to race cars, so I figured Betty was telling me how to see you again.”

  “The sisterhood at work,” he muttered.

  “I think Betty understood how unhappy I was without you.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I have to admit the plastic surgeon did such a good job that I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

  “How can you be sure you’re really with Craig Page?”

  His voice had an edge. She ignored it.

  “Your walk. Your voice. Those haven’t changed.” She paused for a moment, then continued. “I realize now that I made a mistake by putting my job ahead of our relationship. I’ve changed. I’d like to pick up where we left off. I realize how special you are to me.”

  When he didn’t respond, Elizabeth added, “As the months passed, I missed you, and I wasn’t getting the satisfaction from my work that I expected.”

  Craig nodded.
He knew Elizabeth. It took a lot for her to say this. He wasn’t ready to forgive her, but he couldn’t dismiss her words. “Let’s take it one step at a time. Starting with dinner this evening. How’s that?”

  “Fair enough.”

  The maître d’ came over with menus and a wine list. Craig ordered black linguini with seafood and she asked for a cold crayfish salad. Craig followed with a request for a veal chop, and she ordered local freshwater cod caught in beautiful Lake Maggiore.

  She handed Craig the wine list. “I would never dare to venture into your field of expertise.”

  He selected an ’04 Turriga from Sardinia.

  “Did you ever hear from Zhou Yun?” Craig asked anxiously. “Did he or his people ever make any effort to reach me through you?”

  “I can’t say for sure it was Zhou Yun, but for the first year after we split, I felt as if I were under constant surveillance by Chinese men and sometimes women. They would follow me much of the time that I walked or drove in Paris. They did this in other places, too, when I traveled for the paper. I thought my home phone was tapped.”

  “Did anyone ever attack you or talk to you?”

  She shook her head. “It was all silent. I think their strategy was to unnerve me so that I would make contact with you, which I couldn’t do even if I wanted to because I had no idea where you were or how to reach you.”

  Craig looked around nervously. No sign of any Chinese. “Weren’t you concerned they would follow you to Stresa?”

  She shook her head again. “The surveillance stopped exactly one year after it began. I’ve seen nothing since. I imagine that Zhou Yun thought it was hopeless and gave up. Still, I was careful on the way here. Walking in town, I followed the Craig Page three-left-turns technique. Nobody was tailing me.”

  “I’m sure Zhou Yun is still determined to kill me, to gain revenge for his brother’s death.”

  “I agree with you. I don’t know whether you’re aware that Mei Ling appointed him Finance Minister.”