The Italian Divide (18 page)

He decided to try another approach to persuade Parelli.

“As I have said, I am proposing a confidential transaction. However, as we both know, despite this there is always a possibility that one of your political opponents will learn that I have provided money to you. As long as it is in the context of the acquisition of your property, including the winery, that will seem justified. Without that fig leaf, we will be exposed.”

Parelli shook his head. “In view of the disparity between what you will be giving me and the value of the property, that fig leaf, as you called it, will be an illusion.”

“Perhaps. But it will give you something to argue about. Values are not so precise. Buyers often pay a premium. People will regard me as an eccentric. Someone from China who doesn’t truly understand wine.”

Zhou believed he was making a sound argument, but Parelli responded with a stone face. “I will not sell my winery.”

Was Parelli bluffing? Zhou, who prided himself on reading the mind of his adversary in a negotiation, had no idea. He had never dealt with an Italian before. He didn’t know how they operated. He did know, however, what he wanted: ownership of the winery. He also knew that Parelli needed a deal more than Zhou. Without it, Zhou would survive, but Parelli would be destroyed.

Calmly, Zhou stood up. “I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me, Mr. Parelli. I have enjoyed drinking your superb wine and viewing your property. It is unfortunate that we weren’t able to reach an understanding. However, we’re both businessmen. We realize this sometimes happens.”

Parelli rose as well. When he remained silent, Zhou continued. “Now I’d appreciate it if you asked your driver to take me back to Malpensa Airport.”

For a moment, Parelli stared hard at Zhou as if he were trying to read his mind from his face. Zhou showed him steely resolve. Then Parelli said, “Give me a moment to think about this.”

“Certainly. As long as you like.”

Parelli walked across the room to the window. While finishing his glass of wine, Zhou watched Parelli from behind as he looked out at his vineyards and the winery—the property for which he had a great attachment. He was obviously deep in thought, considering Zhou’s offer.

After several minutes, Parelli whirled around and said, “How do we maintain confidentiality? If it ever came out that Chinese money was financing my campaign, even under the cover of the sale of my winery, I would have no chance of winning.”

Zhou suppressed his joy at Parelli’s words and responded in an unemotional tone. “I will have my lawyers draw up the agreement in the next several days. To deal with the confidentiality issue, the contract will be for the sale of the winery and other property. However, we will delay the closing of the transaction for one year. That will give you time to win the election and divide the country. Nothing will be disclosed now. And even when it is disclosed in a year, the purchase price will not be revealed.”

“But I cannot wait a year for the money. I need it now.”

“I understand. As soon as the papers are signed, I will place one billion euros in a numbered account in your name in a Swiss bank that has promised me complete confidentiality. You may draw on those funds immediately for your campaign. So there is no way you can be hurt by this transaction.”

“You’ve thought of everything. Haven’t you?”

“I’ve tried to, Signor Parelli. It is in both of our interests for you to win this election.”

Parelli approached Zhou. “I don’t know what the custom is in your country, but here we shake hands when parties reach an agreement.”

Zhou reached out his hand. “We are in Italy. We will follow Italian customs.”

Before leaving, Zhou reached into his bag to take out a cell phone, and handed it to Parelli. “This has a new encrypted technology which the NSA of the United States can’t break. If you ever have to call me, use this phone. Turn on the power and press the number one. The call will go right to my matching phone.”

On the ride back to the airport, Zhou relaxed, feeling very satisfied. He had gotten exactly what he wanted. With his financial help, he was confident Parelli would win.

For Zhou, this whole endeavor underscored the stupidity of Western democracy. With enough money, a candidate could get control of a country. Then he could wreck it. Or even dismantle it. Fortunately, nothing like that could ever happen in China.

Bordeaux

B
efore the interrogation of Vladimir Radovich, Craig and Giuseppe met in the Bordeaux courthouse across from the prison with Jean-Claude, Giuseppe’s French police contact, and Pierre Rousseau, the chief prosecutor for the District. Pierre, about forty, Craig guessed, had a beak for a nose. He was nattily dressed with a patterned silk Hermes tie, freshly pressed gray suit, and highly polished shoes. He had a haughty expression.

Craig was introduced by Giuseppe as “a good friend of Federico Castiglione and my consultant.” His name wasn’t given. Neither Frenchmen asked. Nor did they recognize Enrico Marino. Enrico’s racing fame hadn’t made it over the Alps.

As soon as Pierre uttered his first words, Craig disliked the prosecutor. Pointing to Craig, he said, “We can’t have outsiders present for our internal deliberations. It violates protocol.”

Craig doubted if Giuseppe would fight to keep him in the room. His fears were unjustified. “This is an EU matter. Not one governed by your Bordeaux protocol. I make the rules and I say that he stays.”

Pierre turned to Jean-Claude expecting support but all he heard was, “Let’s get started. Giuseppe, tell us what this is all about.”

For the next twenty minutes, Giuseppe described in detail everything he and Craig had learned about Federico’s murder. Pierre, taking careful notes, raised a question from time to time, which didn’t add much. Craig thought he just wanted to act as if he was in charge.

When Giuseppe was finished, Jean-Claude took over, “When we arrested Radovich, I seized his cell phone and bank records. He had four calls with people in Moscow in the two days before the murder. The names of the people he spoke with had been blocked. I didn’t want to involve the Russian police at that point.”

“Wise decision,” Giuseppe said. “With the corruption in Moscow, we can’t risk tipping off anyone involved.”

“Agreed,” Pierre added.

“What about Radovich’s Biarritz bank accounts?” Giuseppe asked.

“Patience. I’m getting there. 500,000 euros were transferred from a Moscow bank to Radovich’s account the day after Federico’s murder. No ID on the Moscow account.”

“That’s good work,” Giuseppe said.

“With all of that,” Pierre said, “we have a solid case against Radovich. I should be able to get him to confess to Federico’s murder. So we can wrap the case up.”

“That’s not what we want,” Craig interjected.

Pierre looked at him in surprise as if Craig had been permitted to hear the discussion but not participate.

“What do you mean?” Pierre asked.

“The endgame here isn’t whether Radovich killed Federico. It’s who hired Radovich to do it.”

“I’ll work on that as well.”

Jean-Claude broke in. “I’m authorized by the minister to offer Radovich a light sentence in return for that information.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when I interrogate him,” Pierre said.

“I’m planning to be in the room with you,” Jean-Claude responded.

“No,” Pierre said firmly. “I only talk to prisoners one on one. That’s what works… . And I’m the best prosecutor in all of France with the highest conviction rate.”

Craig and Giuseppe both looked at Jean-Claude. Would he dig in and argue? Even call the justice minister for support?

He didn’t say anything. Craig didn’t have a good feeling about this interrogation.

*     *     *

Craig, Giuseppe, and Jean-Claude were standing behind a one-way glass wall that permitted them to see into the interrogation room without the prisoner seeing them. They had ear phones to listen.

Wearing prison blues, Radovich entered the room with a swagger. He fit Amelie’s description of being tall. On his face, he had what a high school friend of Craig’s in Monessen, Pennsylvania described as “a shit-eating grin.” No trembling or fear visible. The thought of going to prison for a long time for murder didn’t seem to faze him.

Pierre came on strong. He told Radovich, “We have an eye witness who saw you kill Federico Castiglione.” Without identifying Amelie as the witness, he described the crime exactly as it was committed. He also told Radovich about the Moscow phone calls and the deposit into his bank account.

Radovich showed no visible reaction.

Pierre then said, “You’re going to prison for a long time. The only way you can get a light sentence is by confessing and telling us who hired you.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Radovich said defiantly. “You have the wrong Russian. You Frenchmen always mix us up.”

“Who’d you talk to in Moscow?”

“My mother,” he replied contemptuously.

“And I suppose she sent you the money?”

“No. That came from my girlfriend. I’m a good fuck.”

“You may be, but you’re not a good liar. Where’d you find the jewels you tried to fence in Marseilles?”

“A box on the street in Biarritz.”

Pierre shook his head. “That is about the stupidest story I’ve ever heard.”

For the next half-hour, Pierre kept pressing Radovich and getting nowhere. Finally he quit.

So much for France’s best prosecutor, Craig thought.

When the four of them assembled for a post mortem, Giuseppe said, “According to Amelie, there were two Russians in the house. A tall one and a short one. We have the tall one, and he won’t talk. So Jean-Claude, you should have the French police in Biarritz double their effort to find the short one.”

“Exactly what I was thinking. I’ll let you know when we have him in custody.”

Craig and Giuseppe left the others and went to a nearby brasserie for lunch, where Craig ordered a nicoise salad and Giuseppe a croque madame.

“I’m trying to raise my cholesterol.” Giuseppe said.

Craig laughed. “Yeah, after the steak at your house, it should already be off the chart.”

“Not with all the red wine we had. That cancels it out. It’s my own Mediterranean diet.”

The banter made Craig realize how much he liked Giuseppe and missed working with him.

While they were waiting for the food to come, Giuseppe’s phone rang. Craig heard him say, “Yes … yes, I understand.”

When he hung up, he looked glum. “There’s nothing in the documents at Dominic’s bank to suggest any involvement with organized crime.”

“That’s too bad. Next stop for us is Singapore to talk to Lin Yu.”

“Agreed. I’ll have to get approval for the trip from the Finance Department of the Italian Justice Ministry.”

“But you work for the EU. Not Italy.”

“Those are the new EU rules for my trips outside of the EU. I’ll fly back to Rome today and try to get that approval as soon as possible.”

“You won’t have trouble, will you?”

“I shouldn’t. This is the third Italian bank takeover by foreigners. If it continues, we’ll lose control of our banking business and our economy will be in even worse shape. I don’t know what’s happening to my country that I love so much. Unemployment among young people aged 15 to 24 years is more than 40 percent. Almost 400,000 college graduates have left Italy to live elsewhere in the last decade, taking their degrees and education with them. Old age pensions are taking a huge bite out of our budget. Small businesses are shutting down in record numbers.”

“I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

“Yeah. Our economy is in the toilet. We’ve consistently had bad leadership. And on top of all that, Parelli is an existential threat to the country.”

“You’re taking him seriously, too.”

“The man’s awful.” Giuseppe was speaking with an intensity Craig rarely heard from him. “If Parelli were to win the election, it would be a disaster for Italy. Who else talked to you about Parelli?”

“Elizabeth during our brief dinner in Stresa. Speaking of disasters.”

Lunch came. After eating some of his sandwich, Giuseppe said, “Listen, Craig, you can bite my head off if you want, but I have some advice for you.”

“Have I ever been able to stop you from speaking your mind?”

“Okay, well here goes. I think you should call Elizabeth and have dinner with her in Paris this evening. Leave the brass knuckles and boxing gloves at home. Tomorrow, after I have my approval, I’ll join you in Paris. We’ll fly from there to Singapore.”

This wasn’t what Craig wanted to hear.

“Why are you playing matchmaker?”

“I like both of you. She was supportive and helpful to you when your daughter Francesca died. I saw how good the two of you were together, and—oh, the hell with it, that’s only part of it.”

A curtain of sadness descended on Giuseppe’s face. Craig sat silent, waiting for his friend to continue.

“Antonia’s death taught me that happiness and relationships like the one she and I had are precious. If you’re fortunate enough to have one, then treasure it. You understand what I’m saying?”

When Craig didn’t respond, Giuseppe added, “Don’t be such a hard-ass fool. Remember, I was with you in Rome when you found out your daughter Francesca had been murdered. You couldn’t help that.” He sounded emotional. “You lost that relationship. This one with Elizabeth is in your hands. Don’t piss it away.”

“Okay. I’ll call her. I hope she’s still not putting her career first.”

“She won’t be. Trust me. I know Elizabeth. She’ll be ready to start over with you. Just don’t fuck it up. Oh, and by the way, tell her I sent regards.”

Turin

A
lberto Goldoni was wary when he received a call from William McKnight, a man he had never met, identifying himself as the head of the Victoria Bank in Hong Kong.