The Italian Divide Read online

  When Craig had read about it in the Financial Times several months ago, he had felt betrayed. It was only because of Craig and Elizabeth that Mei Ling was the Chinese President.

  “I couldn’t believe it. After his brother had her husband and son killed, and tried to kill her, too”

  “I asked her about it on one of her visits to Paris. She refused to discuss it. She simply said he was the best one for the job.”

  “He must have had something on her.”

  “Either that or he’s leveraging the support his brother had with the powerful Chinese military.”

  The sommelier came over with the wine. Craig tasted it. The fruit was ripe; the color was bold, and the taste was smooth and rich.

  “You’ll be pleased,” he told her.

  She took a sip and smiled appreciatively. “You’ve never picked a wine I didn’t like, but this is amazing.”

  “Turriga is a cult wine in Sardinia. Fabulous in every year.”

  “On the subject of wine, Zhou has gotten into the business in a big way. He’s acquired DRC in Burgundy and Chateau Margaux. Both deals were made through dummy French companies in an attempt to conceal his ownership.”

  “You’re kidding. Those are French national treasures.”

  “They may be, but Zhou Yun has the money and he likes good wine.”

  “Bullshit. He wants the prestige of owning them. He bought them because he can.”

  Their first courses arrived, and they paused to eat. He hadn’t had much food in the last three days. He was starving.

  After a minute she said, “Now that I know the name you’ve been using, this afternoon before we met for dinner, I went on line and checked on the results of races you’ve been in. You’ve done very well.”

  He had to concede she was trying hard to make up with him.

  “Thanks. Did you look at the Sardinia race where your good friend Betty met me?”

  “You went off the road in that one. A reporter said it was a miracle you and your navigator are still alive.”

  He paused to sip some wine. “Yeah. Well, Betty showed up when I was in the hospital and took advantage of my weakened condition to persuade me to help her on a job in Argentina.”

  “Were you involved in that matter concerning General Estrada with Argentina and Brazil?”

  “You know about it?”

  “Of course. It was a huge story we covered. An unidentified American agent played a role, but no one in the media was able to identify him.”

  “You won’t out me, will you?”

  She laughed. “Of course not. Besides it’s old news. Where are you living?”

  “Milan.”

  “Back to your Italian roots.”

  Their main courses came. Craig took a bite of the veal chop. It was superb. Then he asked Elizabeth, “What stories are you covering yourself these days?” He smiled. “Besides auto races?”

  “Most of my time is spent supervising the other foreign reporters and reviewing their work. When I write myself, I’ve been particularly focused on Europe.”

  “Not on the United States, with your background there?”

  “We have a reporter in Washington. I cover EU political and economic developments. The biggest story right now involves the Italian election in September and Roberto Parelli’s plans for Italy.”

  “I can’t really take Parelli seriously. Italy always has many small parties. They get a few votes. Maybe a couple of seats in the parliament, and they’re finished.”

  “Parelli’s different. He’s a major force. He’s striking a chord that appeals to voters.”

  “But his program is so extreme.”

  “Extremist politicians often have success in Italian elections. I’ve decided to see for myself. Parelli is giving a major speech tomorrow evening in Venice in San Marco Square. I’m traveling there in the morning. I intend to hear the speech. Maybe interview him afterwards. The latest polls show Parelli’s moving close to the front spot. Would you like to come with me?”

  He left her invitation hanging in the air.

  After they finished their main courses, and before dessert, Craig excused himself to go to the men’s room. When he reentered the verandah, he looked at their table. Elizabeth was talking on her phone.

  Same old Elizabeth, he thought angrily. Her job always comes first. She hasn’t changed at all. He’d like to take that phone and toss it into the lake.

  He walked softly toward the table, convinced that she was so engrossed in her conversation she didn’t even know he was approaching. He stood next to the table and stared at her. After about thirty seconds, she glanced up at him. “This is news you’ll want to hear. It involves one of your sponsors who finances your racing career.”

  “Yeah, what?” He sat down.

  “Federico Castiglione was shot and killed around midnight in a jewelry robbery at his summer house in Biarritz.”

  Her words rocked Craig. “What?” He leaned back in his chair. “That can’t be!”

  “It’s confirmed. Federico’s dead.”

  Craig put his head into his hands and lowered it to the white linen tabletop. For Craig, Federico’s death was an enormous loss. It wasn’t merely his financial support for racing. The two men had grown close during the last year and had spent lots of time together. Starting from scratch, in his new life in Milan and being on the road so much of the time racing, Craig had very few friends. He had been the most close to Federico—a wonderful man. And now he was dead.

  “The story doesn’t make sense,” Craig said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A jewelry robbery? Nobody—and certainly not Federico—would let themselves be killed in a jewelry robbery. They would let the thieves take the stuff. That can’t be what happened.”

  “That’s all I heard. The call came from one of my reporters in Paris. I told him to fly to Biarritz and get on the story.”

  “Will you let me know if he learns anything?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll call immediately.”

  “So, if I’m right that Federico would have turned over the jewels or insisted that his wife, Amelie, do it—and I know I am, that means somebody wanted to murder Federico, and they used the jewelry robbery as a cover. He must have had enemies, but I don’t know of any.”

  “There’s a great deal of turmoil in northern Italy with Parelli’s campaign. I wonder if that had anything to do with it.”

  Craig paused to ponder her words. “I guess that’s a possibility. Election campaigns like Parelli’s take a lot of money and banks have it. Maybe Federico refused to lend to Parelli and—”

  “Hey! Wait a minute.” She sounded excited. “One of our financial reporters recently did an article about well-respected Italian banks doing money laundering for organized crime. He included the Vatican’s bank, one in Naples, and Federico’s bank in Milan. When I asked for his evidentiary support, he had it for the Vatican and Naples banks, but there were only rumors about Federico’s bank. So I made him exclude Federico’s bank from the article. Still, where there’s smoke, sometimes there’s fire.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Craig said. “Outrageous. Federico wouldn’t any more be mixed up with organized crime than I could fly to the moon.”

  “Hey, don’t get pissed at me. I’m just trying to be helpful.”

  The waiter wheeled over the dessert card. “No dessert. I’ll have the check.” Craig told him.

  Then he turned to Elizabeth, “I’m driving to Milan tonight.”

  “What’ll you do there?”

  “Federico was more than my sponsor. He was my friend. I want to talk to Amelie. I have to find out who murdered him.”

  “You could go in the morning.”

  “I don’t want to wait.”

  The waiter brought the check. Craig signed it and said, “Put it on my room charge.”

  As he handed it back to the waiter, Elizabeth said, “I’ll go with you to Milan.”

  “No. You should go to Venice as you pl
anned. But call me if you hear anything about Federico.”

  “Whatever you want,” she replied coldly and pressed her lips together.

  Venice

  Elizabeth was amazed as she walked into San Marco Square. A platform with a podium and huge screen behind it occupied one end of the square. In the center, chairs were arranged in rows, theater style. Elizabeth estimated there were about three thousand altogether. A multitude of signs with Roberto Parelli’s picture, handsome and rugged, were tacked to posts and pillars around the square.

  At eight o’clock, an hour before Parelli’s speech, about half the chairs were occupied. Elizabeth made her way to the press table in front of the podium and put down her bag with a laptop inside.

  At one end of the table, she saw Carlo Fanti, the political reporter for Italy Today. Milan based, it was one of the largest selling daily newspapers throughout Italy. His thin glasses, as usual, were halfway down on his nose and a few hairs stood up on his mostly bald head.

  “Well, well,” Carlo said. “The high-powered international press has arrived. Looks like our little Italian election has become a global event.”

  “Parelli’s running an incredible campaign.”

  “He is, and he has an enormous number of enthusiastic supporters, but … please don’t quote me on this.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I think that Parelli may be peaking and spiraling downward soon.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Money is running low and there are almost four months until the election.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “Parelli is offering the country an alternative,” Carlo said with admiration. “We have to do something to jump start our economy or we’ll end up like Portugal and Greece. He’s striking a sympathetic chord with voters. Young as well as old. He even has support in the south.”

  Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “What do you attribute that to?”

  “Both the church and Mafia would like him to win for their own reasons.”

  “More power for both of them?”

  “Precisely. They’re a formidable combination in the south.”

  “I’ve heard rumors that Parelli has links to the Mafia. Any comment on that?”

  “You know the definition of rumors: something not based on knowledge.”

  That was a good dodge. Carlo, who was close to Parelli, wasn’t talking on that topic.

  “What about the allegations of Parelli’s womanizing?”

  “C’mon, Elizabeth. This is Italy. Men aren’t perfect here.” He paused for a second, then added, “They’re not perfect anywhere. Look at your presidents Kennedy and Clinton. They were a mass of contradictions on personal and political issues. So don’t judge Parelli too harshly.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t argue with Carlo. She wanted to meet Parelli and form her own judgment. About six months ago, Elizabeth had done a favor for Carlo. When the Italian president was visiting Paris, she used a chit to get him an invitation to the state dinner at the Elysees Palace. Now it was time to collect on that favor. Carlo would remember. She wouldn’t have to remind him.

  “I want to interview Parelli after his speech this evening. Any suggestions?”

  Carlo smiled, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “He’s staying at the Palace Hotel. Suite 401. But you didn’t hear it from me. Roberto tries to keep his locations secret. Luciano is the gatekeeper. He’ll be in the suite at all times.”

  “What’s his job?”

  “He’s Parelli’s closest advisor and confidante. Luciano’s father, Rinaldo, played that role for Mario, Parelli’s father, throughout Mario’s long political career. When Roberto decided to go into politics and run for office a year ago, not surprisingly he reached out to Luciano, who had been advising the People of Freedom party. Luciano dropped them like a hot potato and went to work for Roberto and his New Italy Party. He and Roberto are very close.” Carlo held up two fingers and pressed them together.

  People were pouring into the square. “How did you get to know him?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Luciano?”

  “No Roberto Parelli.”

  “A few years ago, I did a feature on his vineyard and his wines. It ranked him along with Gaja and Antinori at the top of the Italian wine producers in terms of quality. He’s loved me ever since. We see each other from time to time.”

  “And he no doubt sends you wine from time to time.”

  Carlo smiled. “That’s true. But the praise I gave him was well deserved. Have you had one of his wines?”

  She shook her head.

  “Try the Barolo or Barbaresco. Though his production facility is near the family vineyard in Piedmont, he also makes a super Tuscan. You should try one of them. Unless of course, you’re too much of a French wine snob.”

  “Thank you, Carlo.”

  They both laughed.

  Elizabeth turned to her work. As she booted up her computer, she thought about her dinner with Craig. He had behaved like a miserable prick. Sure, she had made a bad mistake twenty-one months ago, but she had told him how sorry she was and how much she missed him. In view of their past relationship and all they had been though together, he had no reason to be so cold to her. In spite of the bizarre circumstance of his completely altered appearance and his shock at seeing her again, things had seemed to go well. They could easily have finished dinner graciously and behaved as people who meant something to one another. He could have left for Milan in the morning. There was nothing Craig could do for Amelie in the middle of the night. Rushing off for that reason was bullshit.

  It wasn’t Elizabeth’s fault that she had to answer her phone. She had even tried to help him by giving him information about Federico. Craig had been unfair. Apparently all of his racing success had gone to his head. He wasn’t the same person she found so appealing in the past. He was no longer the man she wanted.

  To hell with Craig. She thought wryly of the lyrics to an old song, “Got along without ya before I met you, gonna get along without ya now.”

  She took out her phone and called Jean Louis, the reporter she had assigned to Federico’s robbery and killing.

  “No information,” he told her. “The police have no leads.”

  Good, she thought. We’ll see if that self-important, big-shot celebrity Craig Page can find out anything.

  Ten minutes before the start of Parelli’s speech, all of the seats were taken. Crowds were standing in the back and on the sides of the square. They were both the old and the young, Elizabeth noticed. Men with children on their shoulders. Hundreds carried placards and chanted Parelli! Parelli! Parelli!”

  It was a loud boisterous crowd. Dusk was approaching. Incandescent flood lights were turned on.

  Parelli made his appearance to a loud, tumultuous, cheering crowd promptly at nine o’clock. The mayor of Venice introduced those on the platform, local politicians who had taken a place on the New Italy Party slate of candidates. Then he began a long laudatory introduction of Roberto Parelli.

  Elizabeth studied Parelli, sitting on the platform, smiling and looking calm and relaxed, his hands folded neatly on his lap. His thick hair, still brown with only a sprinkling of gray at the temples despite his age of 71, spilled onto his forehead. He was wearing a gray suit that looked expensive. It was perfectly tailored to his body. To Elizabeth, who had covered lots of politicians over the years, the word charisma seemed apt.

  Moments later, Parelli began speaking. Elizabeth was taking notes on her computer.

  “Thank you all for coming.” The title for my speech this evening is “History is Change.”

  “In 1861 Garibaldi and his followers created the present Italy. In a remarkable political feat, they fused together disparate people with little in common into a powerful nation state. In fact, prior to then, southern Italy had been a united kingdom by itself from the time the Normans seized the land from the Arabs in 1061.

  “I have great admiration for Garibaldi. What he did was righ
t for the time. But history is change. And political entities are constantly in flux.

  “We recall with pride the Roman Empire. That was a glorious time with all of Europe joined under the banner of Rome. But it didn’t last forever.”

  Elizabeth observed that the crowd was deathly still. People were hanging onto every word.

  Elizabeth was, as well.

  Suddenly she heard a commotion at one entrance to the square. About twenty protestors carrying signs that read: “No Parelli—Yes Italy” were trying to force their way into the square. They were shouting through bullhorns, “No Parelli! No Parelli!”

  Parelli stopped speaking. Elizabeth saw him looking in the direction of the protestors. About two-dozen policemen swinging truncheons converged on the protestors. The scene exploded into violence. Policemen were pounding protestors in the head. Police vans roared into the area. The police were trying to overcome the protestors to get them into the van, but it was proving difficult. The protestors were throwing rocks.

  Elizabeth thought about what she should do. Stay and hear the rest of Parelli’s speech, or race over to cover the scuffle between the police and the protestors. Where was the better story?

  Her reporter’s instinct told her she’d gotten the drift of what Parelli had to say; if she could interview a couple of protestors and learn what was motivating them, they might enhance her story.

  But the problem was that she found Parelli mesmerizing. She felt like Parelli was talking directly to her. And she imagined that others in the crowd felt that same way. She couldn’t leave.

  A few minutes later, protestors were taken away and silence reigned again in San Marco Square. Parelli resumed talking. “Here in Italy, democracy is a wonderful thing. But sometimes people misuse the democratic process. So my friends, let me return to my speech.

  “In the year 410, barbarians from the north conquered and looted Rome. From that point until the unification in 1861, the land we know as Italy went through an enormous number of changes as one group and then another took control of different portions. These included Arabs, Lombards, French, and Austrians.