The Italian Mission Page 12

  Wang uttered something between a curse and a cough. “He means he wants to make sure he’s in charge. That’s not going to happen. How many agents do you have searching for the fugitive?”

  “We had eight from our department on the ground in Italy, but three have been killed. So five now. Leong wants us to team up with one of his officers, an Agent Cho. He says she will run the operation going forward.”

  “She?”

  “Yes.”

  Wang thought for a moment. He didn’t like State Security agents mixing with military intelligence. Leong and his people were always overcautious, but he couldn’t afford to ignore them — yet.

  “Send three of your people to work with this Cho character, and keep two in reserve. I want to know everything she does. We’re not going to sit by while Leong screws things up. As I’m sure you appreciate, there is only one way to guarantee that this fake Lama makes no more inflammatory statements.”

  “I understand.”

  “Also, there is no reason why we should be burdened with the complex diplomatic procedures involved in bringing his accomplices to justice. I believe you indicated they were South African nationals? An immediate resolution of all issues would be preferable.”

  “I agree.”

  “Good.” Wang disconnected and lit a cigarette.

  31.

  Florence, Friday Morning

  The first thing Conti felt when he came to was cold concrete against his cheek. He tried to move his hand from his side to touch his face, but couldn’t raise it more than a few inches.

  “You are awake?” The muffled voice came from a dark corner. With effort, Conti moved his head and surveyed the room. They were in a damp basement that smelled of garlic and wine corks. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the Panchen Lama in the corner, hands and feet bound. Li Huang lay inert beside him.

  “Yeah. Can hardly move though. They shot me with some kind of nerve block this time. I’m starting to feel like a pin cushion.” He struggled and sat up partway, able to lean his head and shoulders against the cement block wall. “Is she O.K.?” He nodded in the direction of Li Huang.

  “They put a needle in her arm. She has not moved for over an hour. But she is breathing. We must find a doctor.”

  “That’s not going to be easy.” Conti dragged himself over to a short flight of wooden stairs. A faint light came through the uneven floorboards above. His legs flopped behind him like dead fish, but his arms had regained some of their strength. He pulled himself up, one step at a time until he reached the trap door at the top of the stairs. He pushed against it, but it wouldn’t budge. In frustration, he banged his fist on the boards.

  A muffled, angry voice yelled from above. “Stop that fucking noise!” A gun went off and splinters exploded from a plank near his head. Conti rolled off the side of the stairway and tumbled back to the floor.

  “Damn! Touchy bastards.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “Feel like I’ve gone fifteen rounds with a boxing kangaroo. But that shot of adrenaline did me some good. I can feel my toes again.”

  “What do we do now?” the young Lama asked.

  “Sit quietly and wait — or pray. I sent a text to Jill before I tried to play the hero. It should have gone through by now. They took my phone, so I don’t know. I’m hoping an Italian SWAT team will bust in here any minute. If not, we’re in trouble.”

  “What will these people do to us?”

  Conti considered whether to give the young man his honest assessment. The South Africans, and whoever was giving them orders, had gotten what they wanted. Conti had remained conscious long enough to hear the message they’d put up on the Internet. They wouldn’t want to risk the Chinese government capturing the Panchen Lama and persuading him to retract it.

  Conti dissembled. “Not sure.” He changed the subject. “What were you planning to do once you got out of China?”

  The Lama studied his hands. “I told you. Marry Li Huang. Go to New York and become an artist.”

  “You don’t want to be involved with Tibet at all?”

  “When I was a small boy, the monks decided I was a reincarnated Lama. They brought me to Lhasa. Old men in purple robes, smelling of sweat and sheep dung. I did not want to become one of them and I do not now. The Tibetan people should not be slaves to the monks any more.”

  “Is that what the Chinese taught you? That the Tibetans were slaves to the Lamas?”

  “I have read many history books. Written by Westerners, not Chinese. I have …”

  “Yes?”

  “… a deep feeling for the people of Tibet. They have endured centuries of feudalism. I do not want to be responsible for returning them to such a repressive social system.”

  “Is the Chinese way better?”

  “No. Neither is good. One has economic poverty and the other spiritual poverty. Tibet must find a middle way.”

  Conti shifted his weight from one hip to the other. The pain increased as the feeling in his legs returned. The young man had a depth of intellect he hadn’t appreciated before.

  “You wouldn’t be much help to the Tibetan people as an artist in New York though, would you?”

  Instead of getting angry, the young man looked thoughtful. “Perhaps I would.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The Buddha taught by example. A life lived with integrity may inspire others.”

  Upstairs, a cell phone rang. Skinhead stubbed out his cigarette and picked up the phone. “Yeah?”

  Matthis’ harsh voice came from the other end of the line: “Just talked with Yinglong. He saw the message on the Internet.”

  “Good. Did the money transfer?”

  “Five million euros.”

  “You told me we were getting ten.”

  “Yeah. The bastard says the job’s not finished yet.”

  “Not finished?”

  “Wants us to … um, take care of the Lama so he doesn’t cause trouble down the road. Then we’ll get the rest of the money.”

  “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “It is now. Says a photo of the two of them — dead — will do.”

  Skinhead nodded. “What about the American?”

  “No witnesses.”

  32.

  Langley, Late Friday Night

  “What are you doing here at this ungodly hour?” Mobley surveyed McCullough, whose beige suit still looked perfectly pressed at two a.m.

  “The Dubliner closes at 1:30,” the younger man answered simply.

  ”Gimme me one of those, will ya’?” Mobley reached across his desk towards McCullough, who was knocking an unfiltered Marlboro out of a soft-sided pack.

  “You don’t smoke.”

  “Last time I had one was when my daughter was in labor. About ten years ago now. Worse than when my wife gave birth. I wanted to kill the guy.”

  McCullough took out a second cigarette. “They weren’t married?”

  “Yeah, they were — wanted to kill him anyway.”

  “So tell me somethin’.” McCullough lit both cigarettes. “Our buddy over at the NSC, General ... what’s his name?

  “Ellis.”

  “Right, Ellis. Did he know that these South Africans were workin’ for someone else besides him? Must have, right?”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But he claims he didn’t. Says they came to him with a proposal. He knew them from Iraq. They worked for Blackstream then. A group of them split off when the contracts started to dry up after Afghanistan. Somehow they hooked up with a nationalist group in Tibet, who claimed that, with financial support, they could make things uncomfortable for the Chinese leadership.

  McCullough coughed. “But what was the point of that? Why’d Ellis want to kick the Chinese in the teeth? And why would the President go along with it? He, at least, should have known better.”

  “Obviously, they didn’t think it through. Ellis is a West Point guy from the seventies. Cold War mentality. Commies are the enemy. You do what
you can to mess with them regardless. Somehow he polished this turd enough that the President bought it. Sold him some story about how ethnic agitation in China would force liberalization.”

  “What a crock!”

  “Yeah. But the President is no genius when it comes to foreign policy. He’s just an old ward heeler like me. So they started funneling money to the Tibetans about a year ago, with the South Africans taking their cut. Then somebody got the bright idea of raising the stakes — to ‘liberate’ the Panchen Lama.”

  “And really start a fuckin’ war,” McCullough added.

  Mobley nodded. “All the while, apparently unknown to Ellis, the South Africans found another big client who wanted to do the same thing — destabilize Tibet. They fixed it so they’d get paid by both sides. Brilliant entrepreneurs, in a perverse sort of way. Until I talked some sense into the President and forced Ellis to stand down.”

  “So what you’re sayin’,” McCullough leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “is that we can’t stop what we started because some big money guy behind the curtain is still paying the South Africans to fuck with the Chinese.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Does the Joint Intel Committee know all this?” McCullough asked.

  “I haven’t discussed it with the full committee yet.”

  “Why you tellin’ me now?”

  “Why do you think? We’ve got to keep it quiet. No one can know that we were involved. So you can’t be jawing with your Senator friends about it. And if you already have, well, just make sure they keep their mouths shut.”

  McCullough looked abashed. After a moment’s uncomfortable silence, he changed the subject. “So we still don’t know who the guy behind the curtain is?”

  “I’m narrowing the possibilities. Not the Israelis, I’ve talked to them. The Europeans have no reason to agitate in Tibet — they’ve got contracts there just like we have. I doubt the Taiwanese are capable of pulling off this sort of thing — the mainlanders watch them like a hawk. It’s not the Indians — I had a full and frank discussion with their head of intelligence this morning. Could be someone with a commercial interest in Tibet, or maybe some Taliban-related group pushing up from the south. Or …”

  “Or what?”

  “Well, I can’t prove it, but this smells like an inside job.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that the Chinese government would have kept a pretty close watch on the Panchen Lama. He was under house arrest, after all, and the fact that the Dalai Lama isn’t getting any younger would mean they would be more vigilant, not less.”

  McCullough tapped his foot as he caught up with Mobley’s line of reasoning. “Yeah. I see what you mean. The closer it comes to picking a new Dalai Lama, the more nervous they’ll be about Tibet. So you suspect that someone in the Chinese government let him escape the country, then paid the South Africans to keep him out? But why?”

  “That’s the million dollar question.”

  McCullough’s phone rang. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  Mobley nodded and McCullough stood and walked into the outer office, answering his phone as he went. Five minutes later he was back in front of Mobley’s desk. “That was Senator Krug. He just got a call from the Chinese Ambassador.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  McCullough raised his palms and shrugged. “The Ambassador asked the Senator to ask you to call him.”

  “Why didn’t the Ambassador call me himself?”

  “Face. He doesn’t want it to look like he’s askin’ you for a favor.” McCullough slid his phone across the desk to Mobley. “Here’s the number. The Senator said he’s waiting for your call.”

  “Does no one sleep in this town?” Mobley filled his cheeks with air and blew it out through pursed lips. “O.K. What the hell.” He picked up McCullough’s phone and hit send.

  “Good evening, Mr. Ambassador. Or should I say good morning. How can I help you?” He flashed a sardonic smile at McCullough.

  Mobley listened, nodding as he did so. “Well, I take that as a very kind offer, Mr. Ambassador. But our people don’t have the Panchen Lama. So we can’t hand him over, can we, whether you give them safe passage or not?”

  Mobley pushed back from his desk and stood up, grimacing as he listened to the answer. “Oh, I see. You’re sure they’re both in the house in Florence? And you’ve got it surrounded?” Mobley nodded again, a pained look on his face. “Yes, we know about the South Africans. And no, we do not know who they’re working for.”

  The director listened again, this time for several minutes, before he spoke again. “I understand. We’re as interested in avoiding any further incidents as you are. I’m perfectly aware that China holds a good deal of our sovereign debt. Absolutely no need to bring that up. We’ll work with you to resolve this in as expeditious a manner as possible. If you’ll give me the name and contact number of your chief agent in Florence, I’ll put my people in contact with him right away. I have no doubt we can work this out to our mutual satisfaction.”

  Mobley rang off, sat back down, and slumped in his chair. His double chin rested on his chest. He stared vacantly at the painting on the opposite wall of a squad of Green Berets assaulting a compound somewhere in the desert.

  McCullough waited impatiently for a full minute before asking, “So what’s the deal?”

  “The deal is, they’ve pinpointed the house in Florence where the South Africans have the Lama and our man Conti. Do you know Conti?”

  “Never had the pleasure.”

  “Used to be a good agent — great agent, in fact. Three or four citations for exceptional bravery. Brilliant analyst. Remarkable pedigree: direct line from the Presidents Adams, grandfather helped organize the OSS in World War II, father in the Company, killed in action. The only trouble is he doesn’t take orders so well. Thinks he knows better. Like everyone else in this goddamn city.”

  33.

  Florence, Friday Morning

  Jill surveyed the situation from the stone staircase that wound up the spine of the serpentine street. The Chinese agents were deployed closest to the brick row house where Conti and the Panchen Lama were being held. Twenty yards behind them, an Italian SWAT team laid out their paraphernalia on the deck of an armored vehicle. Next to that, two Italian technicians wearing headphones sat in the back of a panel truck that sprouted multiple antennas. Beside her, also reviewing the scene, Commandante Pascal Tipalongo from AISI, the Italian internal security agency, stood ramrod straight. He spoke softly, in barely accented English, as he gazed through powerful binoculars.

  “We will try to accomplish this peacefully. I’m going to give the Chinese one chance to talk the South Africans into releasing the hostages. If they can’t, my people will move in. Agreed?”

  Jill didn’t answer immediately. She hated to cede authority to either the Chinese or the Italians. But Stalin’s comment came to mind: How many divisions has the Pope? Like the Pope, she had none. And no chance of getting any soon. She was about to agree to the Italian plan when something white emerged from one of the windows of the house. “What’s that?”

  “A flag of truce, I think,” Tipalongo answered. “It looks like they want to talk. I expected this.”

  Jill shot him a sidelong glance. If he had expected it, he certainly hadn’t let on. She saw a chance to regain some semblance of control. “It might be best for me to talk to them first. If you go in and this blows up, the press will blame the Italian government.”

  Tipalongo considered this, but said nothing. She went on. “And it would be dangerous for the Chinese to approach the house. They’re heavily armed, and they aren’t fluent in English. Too much chance of a misunderstanding.” The Commandante nodded.

  She knew he’d been waiting for clear direction from the Minister in charge of his department, who’d become conveniently unreachable on a sailboat in the Mediterranean. She’d guessed that Tipalongo wouldn’t mind shifting the responsibility to the Americans. He reached in
to his breast pocket and took out a handkerchief. Jill expected him to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Instead, he unfolded the white silk square and handed it her. “Give me five minutes to get my snipers in place, put on a vest, then walk slowly carrying this above your head.”

  It took ten minutes before everything was in place. Jill made her way down the concave slate steps toward the street. At the bottom, she turned left toward the house, waving the handkerchief. Although her pulse pounded in her temples and her legs wobbled, she kept going. The South Africans remained out of sight, but had tied their own white cloth on the handle of the open window. When she reached the front door and raised her fist to knock, a small porthole opened and a rough voice snapped, “Drop any weapons on the ground.”

  “I have no weapons,” she replied in a shaky voice. She held both hands up in the air.

  Murmuring inside the door, followed by a harsh, “Alright, then, keep your hands up in front of you and come inside.” The heavy door opened no more than a foot, hinges groaning.

  “No way. If you have something to say to me, say it through the door.”

  More grumbling, then Skinhead’s anger-tinged voice, “Have it your way. We want to make a deal.”

  “What sort of a deal?”

  “Free passage out of the country in return for the lives of your three friends.”

  Jill folded her arms, then asked a question to give herself a moment to think. “How would that work?”

  “Simple. The Florence airport’s only five miles from here. We drive there. The Italian authorities allow one of our mates to land a small plane. We fly to Tripoli. You have someone meet us there, and we turn over the Lama, his girlfriend, and your boyfriend.”

  For an instant, Jill wondered what made him think Conti was her boyfriend, but her mind quickly turned to the problem at hand. While she’d never worked in the field, she had managed more than one hostile negotiation from Washington. She was good at it.

  “Not going to happen,” she said. “The Chinese won’t buy it — they’ve no reason to believe you’d keep your end of the deal. Not to mention the Italians. They’d look like fools letting you off scot-free. They hate bad press. Nope, I’m afraid you don’t have the leverage to pull that off. On the other hand, if you turn over the hostages unharmed right now, I’ll make sure you get out of this house alive and get a fair trial.”