The Italian Divide (32 page)

“How long have we been married?” Dora asked.

“Twenty-two years. Why?”

“Have I ever pleaded with you—begged you,” she began crying, “for anything?”

He walked over and tried to put his arms around her. She pulled away.

“Well, I’m pleading with you … begging you.”

“Please reconsider. If the police go in full force, the kidnappers will kill Ilana.”

“Giuseppe and his people are professionals. They know how to handle situations like these.”

“This isn’t a situation. It’s our daughter.”

She threw her hands up in the air. “Ach, you’re so stubborn.”

“I’m calling Val and going.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

He realized that once he left, she could call Giuseppe. He was confident she wouldn’t.

As he headed toward the door, she called to him. “Be careful. I don’t want to lose both my husband and my daughter.”

They flew to Bologna in Alberto’s private plane. The passengers were just Alberto, Val, and the pilot. At the airport, they picked up a rental car. Val tossed a heavy weapons bag in the trunk and got behind the wheel.

Once they were on the road, Val said, “I did some checking on the web and GPS. The address is for a two story old farmhouse. It appears to be deserted. I’ve had experience in Afghanistan with rescue missions like this. My thought is that I go in armed with an assault rifle and grenades at my waist. I know you’re a good marksman, so I want you to grab a rifle and take cover behind the car. Watch the upstairs windows. If you see anyone, take them out. Don’t approach the house until I signal you to do so. Are you okay with that plan?”

“Absolutely.”

Alberto had been scared when they boarded the plane. Now the adrenalin was kicking in and boosting his courage.

“Do you have any children?” he asked Val.

“Two little girls. Five and three. If anybody grabbed one of them, I’d do just what you’re going.”

“You wouldn’t leave it up to the police?”

“Hell, no. That’s an expression I learned from my American buddies in Afghanistan.”

Alberto responded with a nervous laugh. He was glad to get confirmation from Val.

After driving half an hour, Val pulled over into a clump of trees.

“House is coming up on the right in a few minutes. Let’s get ready.” He took weapons from the bag, also Kevlar vests for both of them.

When they were prepared, he resumed driving.

Alberto looked out of the window. Val’s description was right. It was a faded and peeling white, wooden two-floor structure. In front, he saw a door and two windows on the first floor; there were two more on the second. The grounds were overgrown with grass and weeds. The fields which had once been planted looked abandoned.

Val turned in to the driveway and stopped ten yards from the house.

While Alberto took his position behind the car, rifle in hand aimed at the upstairs, Val raced toward the house brandishing an Uzi.

As he did, Alberto saw a motorcycle roar out from behind the house and across the field. The rider was wearing a black leather jacket and black helmet. His face wasn’t visible. Alberto realized there was no point trying to chase him. He was too fast in this terrain. Besides, it was clear Ilana was not on his bike.

Alberto held his breath as he watched Val kick in the front door. There was no gunfire.

Oh my God, she’s dead. And they left her body, Alberto thought.

He was overcome with grief. “No. Oh, no… . No.”

He remembered that Val had told him to wait behind the car for Val to call him before coming to the house, but he couldn’t help himself. With the gun in hand, he ran frantically.

When he got inside, he was blown away by what he saw. Two dead heavyset, blond young men—their faces bruised, were hanging from a beam that ran across the ceiling. Both had what looked like piano wire wrapped around their necks. Their bodies were swaying in the breeze from the open door.

“Downstairs is secure,” Val said. “Follow me upstairs.”

Val moved up the old wooden stairs as softly as he could. They creaked with each step. Alberto was right behind.

At the top, they fanned out, Val to the left, Alberto to the right.

In the second room he entered, Alberto saw her. Ilana was tied to a chair in a seated position. Except for the chair, the room was deserted. Ropes were wrapped around her chest. Her legs were tied to the legs of the chair. A cloth secured by masking tape covered her mouth. Her eyes were open and staring at him.

She was alive!

Thank God. Ilana was alive!

He raced over and awkwardly embraced her in the chair. A knife, he needed a knife.

Val entered the rom. “No one else is here.”

Val removed a knife from his pocket and cut Ilana loose. She threw her arms around Alberto. They both cried in relief.

“I’m alive, Papa,” she said. “I’m okay.”

“Did they harm you?”

“Not at all. Two Russians were holding me prisoner. Beefy blond men. A few hours ago, the weirdest thing happened. Four masked men burst into the house, Italians from Naples, I think, based on their accents. They beat up the Russians, strangled them with wire and hung them from a ceiling beam. I was terrified.” She paused and took a deep breath. They never touched me. Afterwards, they brought me up here. I was sure they would rape me, but they didn’t hurt me at all. They tied me up and said, ‘We’ll notify your father to come and get you.’ How strange. Who do you think they were?”

“I have no idea.”

Alberto was lying. He realized Parelli was responsible for freeing Ilana. When Parelli had heard about her kidnapping, he had told Alberto he would try to find Ilana and that he had friends in the Bologna area. Also, Alberto knew that Parelli had friends in the Mafia. This was how they operated. The man on the motorcycle must have been one of theirs left behind to guard Ilana until Alberto came.

Alberto wouldn’t tell anyone. The Russians were kidnappers. On the other hand, some zealous prosecutor might say, “Murder is still murder.” They could go after Parelli and stories about his Mafia ties would hurt his campaign. So Alberto decided to keep this to himself.

He called Dora to tell her Ilana was alright. Then he handed his daughter the phone. While she talked to her mother, Alberto borrowed Val’s phone. He went into another room and called Parelli.

“It’s Alberto. Ilana’s safe.”

“I’m so glad.”

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“Friends help friends. Besides, we’re practically family.”

Turin and Paris

A
t three in the afternoon, Craig was in his sixth floor suite in the Grand Hotel Sitea, the most luxurious in Turin. After the publication of Carlo Fanti’s article, he had expected Zhou to find out where he was staying and send someone to attack him. But so far nothing had happened. His phone rang. It was Giuseppe.

“We’ve had a major development in Federico’s Biarritz murder.”

“Another false alarm?”

“No. This time it’s for real.” Giuseppe sounded excited. “The short Russian turned himself in to the police. His name is Boris Smirnov. He was afraid the Russian gang he’s with would kill him as they did Radovich. He agreed to talk in return for immunity from prosecution and resettlement in northern France where his Russian buddies won’t be able to find him.”

“Is Jean-Claude okay with that deal?”

“If we are. What do you think?”

“Based on what Amelie told us, he wasn’t the shooter. Letting him walk doesn’t bother me if, and it’s a big if, he can give us enough to nail Zhou. Will that hard-ass prosecutor in Bordeaux go along with the deal?”

“Jean-Claude isn’t taking any chances. He made a preemptive strike. He went right to the justice minister, who not only approved the deal but directed the police in Bordeaux to move Smirnov to a Paris prison. They’re holding him under an alias to get him away from those delightful Russians in Biarritz who poisoned his buddy, Radovich.”

“So you and I are going to Paris to question him?”

“Correct. Along with Jean-Claude. My plane leaves in fifteen minutes from Fiumicino. Where should I pick you up?”

“Turin Airport.”

“I’m on my way. See you there in about an hour and a quarter.”

Before leaving his sixth-floor suite, Craig glanced out of the window at the street below. He couldn’t believe what he saw. Getting out of a cab was a Chinese man who looked very familiar.

Craig pulled up on his phone the picture Elizabeth had taken in Parelli’s suite in Venice. It was a match. And the man getting out of the cab had been identified by Elizabeth’s bureau chief in Beijing as Qing Li, Zhou’s thug.

He had to be coming to kill Barry Gorman. Quickly, Craig bolted from his room. He took an inside staircase, racing down the steps two at a time. The day before, he had located the back exit of the hotel in case this situation should arise.

Craig guessed Qing would probably be in the hotel lobby. Craig could get from the first floor staircase landing to the rear entrance of the hotel without passing through the lobby. That back door opened onto a narrow street. Craig could race to the corner, find a cab there and escape before Qing ever even saw him.

In about a minute, Craig reached the landing on the ground floor. From there it was a short dash to the heavy metal rear door.

Craig pushed it open and stepped out into the bright sunlight. As he did, he froze.

Qing was standing there with burglar’s tools for opening locks in his hand. Zhou’s henchman must have been planning to break into the rear entrance to avoid the lobby. The alley was deserted.

The instant Qing saw Craig, he dropped the tools and reached for a gun in a chest holster.

Unarmed, Craig couldn’t let him get his hand on that gun. In a throwback to his high school football days, he dove through the air and tackled Qing, driving him to the ground and falling on top of him. Qing tried to punch Craig in the head. Before he had a chance to make contact, Craig lifted his leg and drove his knee hard into Qing’s groin. Qing groaned and stopped swinging.

Craig grabbed the gun from the holster. He smashed Qing in the side of his head knocking him out. Then he took the gun, shoved it into his pocket, and ran.

At the corner, he flagged down a cab. “Airport,” he told the driver.

When he got to the airport and was waiting for Giuseppe’s plane, he thought about Elizabeth. He had been afraid to call her for fear of giving her location away. He hoped she was alright in his suite at the Bristol.

*     *     *

They were in the plane over the French Alps when Giuseppe’s phone rang. “Hello, Alberto,” he said. “I have Craig with me. I’m putting this call on speaker.”

Alberto wasn’t talking. He was crying.
Oh God, no, Craig thought.

After a few moments, Alberto got control. “Sorry. I’m just so, so happy. Ilana is free from the kidnappers, and she wasn’t harmed. I can’t tell you how ecstatic I feel. Thank you so much for all your help.”

Craig was wondering what happened. “Did the police find her?” he asked.

“It’s all very strange. Four masked men burst into the house where two Russians were holding her. They killed the Russians. Used string like piano wire to strangle them. They told me where to find Ilana.”

“Who do you think did it?”

“The Russians must have had some enemies. I don’t care who it was. I’m just glad my daughter is safe.”

When they hung up the phone, a puzzled Craig turned to Giuseppe. “Who do you think killed the Russians?”

“The wire is a Mafia signature. Sounds like Alberto wasn’t content to rely on me and the police.”

“That surprises me.”

“This is a wonderful country. Things surprise me every day.”

*     *     *

Dressed in prison blues, Boris Smirnov was perspiring heavily when the guards led him into the interrogation room and departed. He was short and squat, with a protruding belly and a long scar along his left cheek. His hands were cuffed behind his back.

Giuseppe and Craig were in the room with Jean-Claude. They had decided the Frenchman should take the lead, which he did when the four of them were seated at an old wooden table so nicked and battered that Craig thought it must have been around for the French Revolution. Perhaps aristocrats had been decapitated on this very table. Now that was a gruesome thought.

“You’re in deep trouble,” Jean-Claude said. “This isn’t Russia. It’s France. Here, we take murder seriously.”

“I didn’t kill nobody.” Boris said in French heavily accented with Russian.

“You can tell that to the jury. You have a problem, though. Most French people hate Russians. They don’t like the crime you people bring with you.”

Sweat was dripping into Boris’s eyes, which were twitching. “I didn’t kill the banker.”

Craig liked hearing that. Boris was aware of their target. “You’re telling us that Radovich killed the banker,” Craig interjected.

“Uh huh,” Boris said weakly.

“Louder,” Jean-Claude demanded.

“Yes.”

“But you put chloroform over his wife’s face. Didn’t you?” Giuseppe said.

“I’m not talking until you give me what I want.”

“What’s that?” Jean-Claude asked.

“No jail time and you give me a new identity in the north of France.”

“You have to be kidding,” Jean-Claude said.

“If they find out I’m a snitch, they’ll kill me. Same as Radovich. Besides, I didn’t kill nobody.”

“But you put chloroform over the woman’s face while your pal Radovich killed her husband.”

“Even if I did that, chloroform don’t harm nobody.”

“It makes you an accessary to murder. You’d go to jail for a long time.”

“If you won’t give me what I want, I’ll take my chances at trial.”