The Italian Mission Read online

  “What are you going to say to him?” Jill asked.

  “I’m going to find out just how badly they want the young Lama back. Oh, and one more thing. And it’s even more troubling than the rest of this mess.”

  The three of them exchanged puzzled glances.

  “Yes?” Jill asked.

  “The Dalai Lama and the Panchen Lama head up the, um, committees … that pick each other’s successor, right?”

  “Close enough.” Jill said. “When either one dies, a group of High Lamas from the Gelugpa lineage searches for his tulku, his reincarnation. The Panchen Lama is the second highest ranking after the Dalai Lama, so he is expected to play a leadership role in choosing …”

  Mobley cut her off. “O.K., O.K., I get it. The point is that the Chinese want their own guy, the counterfeit Panchen Lama, to be the one who picks the next Dalai Lama — so they have someone in the job they can control. They want the real Panchen Lama, the one you’re chasing, back under wraps when the Dalai Lama …”

  “So what’s the big deal?” Conti broke in, leaning forward and drumming his fingers on the table.

  “The big deal, pal,” Mobley didn’t try to hide his irritation at the interruption, “is that the Dalai Lama’s seriously ill. He’s been flown to Cedars-Sinai in L.A. — the intensive care unit.”

  24.

  Florence, Thursday Afternoon

  Conti and Jill sat in a small, out-of-the way trattoria on a back street a few blocks off the Piazza del Duomo as the last of the lunch crowd filtered out. An elderly waiter dressed in a frayed white coat brought a tray of several kinds of salami, paper-thin slices of proscuitto, peppers, and cheese. Conti picked up a piece of hard salami, rolled it up and munched as he eyed the front door.

  “You should eat something,” he said.

  “How you can eat at a time like this?” Jill asked.

  “Gotta keep your strength up in this business. Never know when you’ll be able to eat again.” He popped a hot pepper into his mouth. “Can’t get this stuff in Washington, much less Langley.”

  “I eat yogurt for lunch.” Jill tapped her foot on the floor and looked at her watch. “Maybe we’ve got the wrong place.”

  “Nope, there’s only one Giampietro’s in Florence. Been here forever. Best unknown place in town. Been unknown since the twenties.” Conti chuckled at his own joke.

  Jill gave him a bemused look. “Why are you in such a good mood?”

  “Guess I like the cloak and dagger life more than I realized. It’s good to be back in the game. Don’t mind the company either. You’d make a good undercover agent. Kind of a Jackie O vibe you’ve got going there.”

  Jill had tied a scarf around her head and wore sunglasses. She scoffed. “I was going for Audrey Hepburn.”

  “Yeah, I can see that too. Maybe a few years ago.”

  “You sure know how to make a girl feel good.”

  “There they are.” Conti pointed to two men coming through the front door. He gestured to them and they walked over warily, pulled out chairs and sat down.

  “So nice to see you again,” Conti greeted them. “The back of my head is almost healed from the last time we met.”

  The tall, pinch-faced South African ran his hand over his buzz cut. “Sorry about that. All in the line of duty, right?”

  As he spoke, the shorter, stocky man scowled at Jill, fingering an angry red welt on his chin. She met his glare without flinching. The first man noticed the staring contest and laughed harshly. “Now, now, Tony, bygones are bygones and all that. You two had a go at each other. I’d call it a draw and say we forget the whole thing. Like I said, just business.”

  They continued to glower at each other.

  “I’m John Conti and this is Jill Burnham.”

  “We know who you are — now. I’m called Skinhead and this is my partner Tony. You and I crossed paths once before, but you probably don’t remember. In Kabul. We were doing a little job for Blackstream at the time. Looking for a weapons cache in the back of a mosque in Jada Maiwand.”

  “Ah, yes,” Conti speared a cube of provolone with a toothpick and pointed it at the South African. “Now that you mention it, I do remember. Didn’t recognize you without the black hood. As I recall, your brilliant plan was to blow the whole place up.”

  “And you stopped us. You Yanks were never going to win that war playing nice. You realize that now, don’t you?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t really a war at all,” Conti responded.

  “Can we save the debate for another time?” Jill cut in. “The Chinese could be anywhere. Let’s get this done. You have the Panchen Lama. We want him. I understand that you … gentlemen … are working for General Ellis. And he’s told you to cooperate with us. So you’re going to hand the young man over to us. Do I have all that right?”

  Skinhead raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “Well … yes.” He shook a cigarette out of a Marlboro box, and held it in his teeth without lighting it. “And no.”

  A long silence descended on the table. Jill narrowed her eyes and spoke. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “We’re not lawyers,” Skinhead responded, pulling out a book of matches and lighting up.

  “And?”

  “So we don’t have what you might call … conflict of interest…rules.”

  “Stop talking in riddles,” Conti spat. “What are you trying to say?”

  “We’re not in this for altruistic reasons. We’re in it to make a buck, aren’t we Tony?” The other man didn’t acknowledge the question. He was still staring daggers at Jill. “And if we can get two, um, clients to pay us for the same job, we’d be stupid to pass up an opportunity like that, wouldn’t we?”

  “Who else is paying you?”

  “That’s something I can’t divulge without permission of the other client.”

  “Why you insolent …” Jill began, but Conti put his hand on her forearm.

  “How much for the Lama?” he asked.

  “Ten million. Euro.” Skinhead answered.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “My other client is a very powerful gentleman. We’d be risking our lives if we handed the Lama over to you against his wishes. If you knew him, you’d understand that’s a bargain price.”

  Conti stood up stalked around the table toward the two South Africans. Before he got there, Skinhead whipped a pistol out of a shoulder holster under his jacket and pointed it at his antagonist’s chest.

  “Hold on, mate. Wouldn’t want to make a scene, would you? Now be a good fella and walk over there.” He motioned with the pistol toward a wall with a drainpipe running from the floor to the ceiling. “You too.” He waved the pistol in Jill’s face. She glanced at Conti, who nodded. She rose slowly and followed him. The old waiter trundled out of the swinging doors. Seeing the gun, he spun on his heel and retreated back into the kitchen.

  “Lock them up,” Skinhead ordered. Tony shoved Jill toward the wall, took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and fastened one manacle to each of the Americans after passing the chain between the wall and the pipe.

  “Now,” the South African said, “I’d prefer not to hurt either of you. We really should be on the same side, even if your government is too meek to do anything about it.”

  “We are most definitely not on the same side.” Conti said. “You’re going to cause a disaster in Tibet if you go on with this. Can’t you see that?”

  “I do what my client says. Well, one of my clients. Unless, like I said, you’d like to change your mind and buy out his interest. Tell you what, special rate today. This afternoon only. Nine million euro. A cool million discount. Can’t say fairer than that.”

  Conti looked at Jill who shook her head. “No. We’re not doing that. But if you take these cuffs off right now and lead us to the Panchen Lama, we’ll go easy on you when we report to your government.”

  Skinhead laughed. “We’re long past that, dearie. We won’t be going back to Joburg anymore. Citizens of the worl
d, we are. With enough money, plenty of places will take us in. If you don’t want to do business, we’ve got to run.” He looked around the empty restaurant. “Kind of a dump isn’t it? The Dagoes would be better off with the insurance money. What do you think, Tony?” The other man grinned and took a lighter out of his pocket. He walked across the room to a battered oak sideboard, picked up a bottle of olive oil, drained it onto a few tablecloths and lit the corners.

  “If you’d had the balls to do this kind of thing in Kabul, you might have won,” Skinhead sneered as he headed out the front door.

  25.

  Flames licked the sides of the tablecloths, and dark smoke from the burning oil began to fill the room. Conti looked up at the tin ceiling, searching in vain for sprinkler heads.

  “No fire suppression in these old buildings,” he said, as much to himself as to Jill. “We’ve got to get out.” He grabbed the cuff on her wrist, then pulled the chain as hard as he could against the pipe with both hands, but the chain wouldn’t break and the pipe didn’t budge.

  “What now?” she asked, coughing.

  “Yell!” Conti began shouting. “Emergenza! Incendio!” At the same, he started kicking the base of the pipe as hard as he could. Jill watched for a moment, then joined in screaming and the kicking.

  Black billows drifted from the burning tables toward their side of the room. Conti thought he saw the door to the kitchen open and close again, but couldn’t see clearly through the gathering clouds. Jill coughed and used her sleeve to wipe the tears forming in her eyes. Conti resumed pounding on the drainpipe, first with his fist, then with his shoulder.

  “Get down!” Conti yelled above the increasing crackling of the fire. “Less smoke near the floor.” He gave the pipe one more savage kick and filthy water began to leak out of a small hole at the bottom. The flames started to devour the dry oak of the tables, and waves of heat blasted across the room. They sat on the floor facing each other, sweat pouring down their faces, taking turns kicking the bottom of the pipe. The hole got slightly bigger, but the pipe refused to budge.

  Suddenly, a loud whooshing noise came from the area near the front door. A plume of white powder shot through the smoke clouds toward the burning tables, and the flames began to diminish. Out of the gloom, an apparition in a gas mask carrying a fire extinguisher materialized. In a matter of minutes, the fire was out. The spectral form hurried over, produced wire cutters and tried to cut the chain between the handcuffs. He was saying something, but the words were muffled by the mask.

  “Here, let me.” Conti took the tool and squeezed with all his strength. The chain snapped and the three of them ran out of the restaurant and collapsed against the front of the building. The third man pulled off his mask and all three sat doubled over, coughing violently. When he recovered his breath, Conti took the gas mask from Cadiz and examined it.

  “Thanks, friend. I thought maybe we’d had it. Where’d you get this?”

  “Another compartment in the back of the van,” the Rabbi said. “Mossad knows what they’re doing — usually. But this gas mask must have been around since Adam and Eve. Doesn’t work worth a damn.” He coughed again and spat into the gutter.

  “What took you so long?” Jill asked.

  “So long?” The Rabbi snorted. “Nice. When the South Africans came out of the restaurant without you two, I started to follow them. Luckily, I looked back and saw a wisp of smoke coming from below the restaurant door. It took me a couple of minutes to find the extinguisher and the mask.”

  “Which way did the bastards go?”

  “This is a one-way street,” Cadiz answered. “Only one way to go. Can I assume from the handcuffs and the fire that the meeting did not go well?”

  “They refused to hand over the Lama. Said they have another client paying them for the same job.”

  The three of them stood, slowly regaining their equilibrium, and crossed the street to the van. Cadiz opened the back hatch and took three bottles of water out of a built-in refrigerator.

  “Some vehicle,” Jill remarked.

  “Yes,” the Rabbi responded. “It would be fast too — but it’s armor plated. Anyway, there’s no need for speed when we don’t know where we’re going.”

  “Back to the AISI headquarters.” Conti opened the passenger side door for Jill. Then he slid in. “I expect Italians can track the car.”

  “How would they do that?” Jill asked.

  “What make was it?” Conti asked Cadiz.

  “Big black Mercedes. AMG. Took off like a race car.”

  “Florence is different from American cities,” Conti turned to Jill. “Although it looks like it’s jammed with traffic, there aren’t really that many cars driving in the center. Not enough room. The police usually know what’s going on. A car like that would stand out.”

  “O.K., I’d better let Mobley know what happened.” With some effort, Jill extracted her mobile from her pocket, punched in a speed dial code and held it up to her right ear while she covered her left with her hand. She spoke too quietly for the others to hear, her frown becoming more pronounced with each passing moment. Finally, she disconnected, pursed her lips and stared out the window.

  “Well?” Conti asked. “You don’t look happy.”

  “I’m not. Things are even more … urgent. Mobley just had another visit from the Chinese Ambassador.”

  “Is he the guy who’s in charge of their intel contingent in Washington?”

  “He’s head man for the Ministry of State Security for the entire Western Hemisphere. Low key — but a pretty big deal. He communicates directly with the Politburo’s Steering Committee.”

  “The nine men who actually run China,” Cadiz contributed.

  “Yes. So when he says something, it’s coming straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  “And?” Conti asked impatiently.

  “And the troubles in Tibet are escalating. The nationalists have threatened to start blowing up dams.”

  “Those facilities are heavily guarded,” Cadiz said. “Who could pull off something that big?”

  “The same person …”

  “Or corporation, or government,” Conti interrupted.

  Jill finished her thought. “… who is paying the South Africans to hold on to our young Lama.”

  “Still, it seems like a stretch,” Cadiz said.

  “Yeah, except that a power station on the Upper Yangtze was blasted to smithereens a few hours ago.”

  26.

  Back at AISI headquarters, the three of them sat around the conference table tending to their wounds. Conti had split his toenail kicking the pipe and was applying first aid to his bare foot. Jill daubed Neosporin on the wrist that had been rubbed raw by the handcuff. And Cadiz combed the soot out of his beard.

  “Let’s review,” Jill said as she wound a length of gauze bandage over her abrasions. “The South Africans have the Lama. And we think he’s still somewhere in the city.”

  “Yeah,” Conti answered. “The police are on alert but haven’t spotted the AMG leaving town. They’ve got a helicopter monitoring the main routes.”

  “And the South Africans have communications capability,” Cadiz added. “They’re putting photographs of the Panchen Lama up on the Net.”

  Jill went on. “An underground group in Tibet has gotten hold of high explosives and someone’s teaching them how to use them. The Chinese leadership is becoming increasingly frantic. My analysts believe the hardliners in the Politburo and the military want a full-scale crackdown in Tibet.”

  Conti stood up and paced around the table. “That would set the monks off. Then, who knows what? We could be looking at widespread genocide.” He poured a cup of coffee from a silver pot, then promptly set it down and forgot about it.

  Jill took up the narrative. “Construction projects in Tibet would stop — a serious blow to the American economy. The politicians will go crazy — understandably.”

  “Not just in America,” Cadiz added.

  “So
, I think what we have to do is clear,” Jill said. “Find this guy and get him back to the Chinese before the situation gets worse. I’ll check with Mobley but I imagine he’s come to the same conclusion by now.”

  “But the Chinese might kill the Lama if they get their hands on him,” Conti objected. “Fastest way to shut him up.”

  “I don’t think so,” Jill replied. “Wouldn’t they be better off getting him to call publicly for calm?”

  “Yeah. And then kill him.” Conti picked up the coffee again in a shaky hand.

  Jill looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You want out? There are other agents I can use if you’re having ...” her voice hardened almost imperceptibly, “… moral qualms.”

  Conti was silent for a moment, staring off into the distance. “No, he’ll have a better chance if we find him first. Then maybe we can bargain for his safety.”

  The Italian lieutenant knocked softly and came into the room, cutting the tension. “We have found the car.”

  “Where is it?” Jill asked.

  “In a vacant lot near the Viale Machiavelli, on the hill behind the Boboli Gardens. It’s parked under some trees. One of our officers spotted it. She was investigating a complaint. I hope your man was not in the car.”

  “Why?”

  “It was fire-bombed. Nothing left but a burned-out shell.”

  “Christ! Do we know who owned it?”

  “A doctor in Rome. Stolen two days ago.”

  “Can you take me there?” Conti asked.

  “Of course,” the young man smiled and bowed. “At your service.”

  “Should we all go?” Jill asked.

  “No,” Conti answered. “You have access to secure communications here. While I’m checking the car, see if you can track the location of the computers the South Africans are using to tie into the Internet. The CIA and Mossad can work with the Italians to find the source of the signals. Has to be wireless, since they’re moving around so much.”