The Italian Mission Page 13

  Instead of an answer, the door opened another few inches and an arm reached out. Jill jumped back before she realized the South African was handing her something. Something small. The hand opened to reveal a flash drive. “Take it,” Skinhead said from behind the door.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Another message from the Panchen Lama to the people of Tibet. It should interest your Chinese friends.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “Let’s just say it makes his previous one seem tame. Tell them I’ll give them all the copies, plus our computers, phone equipment and files before getting on the plane. We’ll all board naked if you want.”

  “As attractive as that sounds,” Jill began, “it wouldn’t prove anything, would it? You’ve probably already sent the file to your associates. Or I should say, co-conspirators.”

  “Your Chinese and Italian pals can reassure you on that score, with all the radio equipment they have out there. There’s no Internet connection in this house. All we have is wireless. We haven’t made a call for more than an hour. The video is time stamped. Twenty minutes ago. In fact, my knuckles are still bleeding.”

  “How do we know you won’t send the message from the car?”

  Jill could just make out Skinhead’s face through the porthole. She thought he rolled his eyes. “Christ! Give me your phone,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I’ll give it to your boyfriend, and you can be on the line with him the whole time. If he sees us messing about with a computer or a phone, you can have the dagoes blow us up with an antitank missile.”

  “What if the Chinese won’t buy it?” Jill asked.

  “Well, we’ve all got to go sometime, don’t we? But if I’m going, I’ll guarantee you, I’ll take the others with me. I need your answer in ten minutes, otherwise the message goes out.”

  Jill, Tipalongo, and the Chinese agent in charge, huddled together, peering over the shoulder of an Italian technician in the back of the panel truck. The computer screen flickered for a moment. Then the image of the Panchen Lama appeared. The strain was evident on his face, but there were no cuts or bruises that Jill could see. Someone else, probably Li Huang, had paid the price for any resistance.

  “Piu forte, louder,” the Italian said as the Lama began reading from a prepared statement. The technician hit his keyboard several times and the quavering voice filled the cramped space.

  “I, the Panchen Lama, ask all Tibetans to stand with me at this critical time. I have reports from all parts of our country and I know that our people are rising up. This is the moment we have waited for. In support of our independence movement, it is necessary to send a clear message to the Chinese tyrants. For this reason, I have ordered our people to destroy another Chinese installation in Tibet each day, starting tomorrow. The Chinese cannot doubt this. They have seen the destruction of their power stations at Manwan and Zangmu. Next there will be larger facilities. This will be accompanied by demonstrations in every Tibetan city and village. I ask you to put aside considerations of personal safety and join me in this crusade so that Tibet may be free once again. Now is the time for action.”

  The tremulous young man on the screen stopped, apparently waiting for direction from someone behind the camera, then read the statement twice more, in Tibetan and Chinese. Only when he had finished all three versions did anyone in the panel truck speak.

  “What do we do?” Jill asked.

  The Chinese agent, Cho Lin, grimaced and inhaled through clenched teeth, “I must speak with my superiors. Two alternatives. Attack now, or make a deal.” She bowed slightly to Jill and the Italian. “Before I call them, please give me your opinion.”

  Tipalongo spoke first. “I would not like to attack. We have tried to evacuate the street, but there are some people who can’t be easily moved. Also, I have been informed that reporters are demanding access to this area. My ministry will not be able to resist their requests for long.”

  Jill didn’t see how this made much difference to the position. Press or no press, an attack would not work. “An assault would be a disaster. The hostages would likely be used as human shields and caught in the crossfire. And the South Africans would immediately send the new recording to their compatriots, probably out of the country, to preserve their leverage.”

  “Do they have the capability to send this message to someone on the outside?” Tipalongo asked the technician in Italian.

  The man at the console stroked his gray beard. “Probably. We can monitor their signal and try to jam it. But it’s difficult to cover all the possible frequencies and react in time — unless — we shut down all the mobile switches within ten miles. That will take time, and cause a good deal of disruption.”

  Tipalongo translated the answer into English for the others.

  “Thank you,” Cho bowed again. “I must call Beijing.” She climbed down and disappeared around the side of the panel truck.

  The two South Africans sat on either side of the rickety kitchen table. Skinhead drummed the fingers of his left hand, while he smoked with his right. Tony picked at the gauze bandage on his injured arm.

  “Now what do we do?” he asked.

  “We wait. What do you think?” Skinhead threw his cigarette butt down on the worn linoleum floor and mashed it with his foot. “They’ll take the deal. They can’t risk us sending out this message. Then we meet the plane at the Florence airstrip and get the hell out of here. We tell them we’re going to Tripoli where we’ll hand over the monk and his pals.”

  “But if we hand them over, how can we collect the money? Didn’t Matthis say Yinglong wanted to see the Lama dead before he’d pay?”

  Skinhead made a gargling noise of frustration. “The Lama will be leaving the plane somewhere over the Mediterranean, along with the others.”

  “But they’ll be waiting for us in Tripoli.”

  “A few thousand krugerrands and we can land at any airport in North Africa.”

  34.

  Beijing, Friday Evening

  Perched on the edge of the brushed leather swivel chair, Wang watched his colleagues on the Steering Committee enter and take their places around the rosewood conference table. They spoke quietly to one another as a young woman circled the room pushing a teacart, pouring tea into each comrade’s delicate blue and white bone china cup. Wedgwood. Wang grunted. Another sign of the decadence and corruption that had befallen the party. Why would the Politburo members even consider drinking from Western china? It was called “china” for a reason. Of course, it was Leong’s doing. A way of bragging about his son at the Ministry of Commerce, who had negotiated a joint venture with the English company — and probably become rich in the bargain.

  Leong smiled broadly as the cups were filled. But when his gaze reached Wang, it became a subtle but unmistakable scowl. Wang knew that Leong hated him and had been seeking to discredit him for years. Just as the civilian and military intelligence departments they oversaw competed, so did the two men. They’d always been rivals, neither one able to get the upper hand. That was about to end, Wang thought. The arrogant Leong, the hunter, was about to become the hunted.

  After the usual polite preliminaries, the Steering Committee’s Chairman, old Li asked Leong to report on the situation regarding the Panchen Lama. Wang leaned back in his chair, folded his hands on his lap, and listened to the braying fool.

  “As you know,” Leong began, “the so-called Panchen Lama is now in the custody of South African mercenaries in the Italian city of Florence. These men previously worked for the international consulting company Blackstream but now, apparently, are operating independently. They have a relatively small operation, no more than a dozen people, but are highly experienced in covert activities. They are also violent. We do not yet know who is paying them to carry out this operation, but they obviously have allies in this country who outsmarted the Lama’s security detail — which was provided by the People’s Liberation Army,” he looked pointedly at Wang.


  A thin, forced smile crossed Wang’s face and he interrupted. “I’m sure Comrade Leong understands that the PLA cannot possibly do its job properly if our external intelligence cadres do not keep them informed of possible threats from outside the country.”

  “That is the key question, isn’t it?” Leong asked, speaking before Wang had quite finished. “Is the threat principally foreign or domestic in nature? Comrade Wang has not been able to determine who is responsible for this kidnapping. I suppose that leaves it to me.”

  Wang felt the anger rising in his chest. He slapped his open palm on the table. “Absurd! You would blame this confusion on me? It is clear that forces outside the country planned and carried out this operation. You have admitted yourself that these people are South Africans. If there is a failure, it is in your people!”

  “Comrades.” Old Li interrupted with surprising volume. “This is not the time to be assigning blame.” He stared at each of them in turn. “That day will come. Now we must decide how to stop this very serious threat.”

  The other Committee members nodded and murmured their agreement. Li bowed to the table and continued. “So, Comrade Leong, what are our options?”

  Leong’s nostrils flared but he mastered his anger, taking several deep breaths. “The kidnappers have offered an arrangement. They propose that our agents in Italy allow them to fly to Tripoli in North Africa, out of Italian jurisdiction. If we permit this, they will turn over the Panchen Lama to us when they arrive. They are also holding an American agent and a former Chinese agent, Li Huang, who had been the Lama’s tutor in Beijing. These others will be released in Tripoli as well.”

  “A terrible deal!” cried Fang Bai, the youngest and most aggressive member of the Committee, rising to his feet as he spoke. “Why should we trust these people? It is completely unacceptable. I am surprised you would even consider it, Comrade Leong.”

  Leong waited for the younger man to finish. “Ah, but there is more to it, unfortunately. Another aspect that we must consider.” He spoke to a young officer who had been standing quietly in the shadows behind him. “Please play the message.”

  As the Committee members waited, some whispering to their neighbors, two wooden doors retracted on the far wall uncovering a large white screen. After a moment, the strained, rigid face of the Panchen Lama appeared, reciting his threatening message. Gasps and stifled exclamations cut through the silence. When the image dissolved into static, Leong spoke again. “It is our understanding that this message is solely in the possession of the South Africans, ourselves, and the Italians at this point. We believe it has not been transmitted to anyone else.”

  Wang patted the small flash drive in his pocket under the table, pleased that he had the foresight to obtain his own copy before the meeting began.

  Leong went on. “I believe that our best strategy to keep this incendiary information from being distributed to our internal and external enemies is to go along with the kidnappers for a while longer. If we initiate an attack now, they will transmit the file immediately to their confederates, which could be disastrous to our interests.”

  “So what is your plan?” Wang spat out the question.

  “Allow the criminals to travel to the airport. But first, our agents will take possession of their computer files, equipment, phones and anything that allows electronic transmission.”

  “And then?” Wang asked.

  “And then, the airplane flies to Tripoli, where it will be met by our forces. As you can verify, Comrade Wang, we have several army platoons in Angola at this moment posing as construction crews.” Wang only stared back at him. “I believe they can be moved to Tripoli in a matter of hours.”

  Fang Bai was unconvinced. “Once their plane is in the air, what assurance do we have that the South Africans will actually go to Tripoli? They could easily change course and land in some other country, perhaps at some hidden airfield.”

  “Ah,” Leong appeared to be enjoying this game. “Perhaps you have not kept up with military developments, Comrade. With mid-air refueling, our J-15 fighters easily have the range to operate in the Mediterranean. We will escort the South Africans to North Africa once they have cleared Sicily, where we will take both the so-called Lama and the kidnappers into custody.”

  Li wagged his finger at Leong. “But will the Americans and Europeans allow our aircraft to operate in that theater?”

  “They have little choice,” Leong answered. “But, to make our certain, Ambassador Zheng in Washington is arranging the details. Given the current international economic situation, the Americans are not in a position to dictate to us in this matter.”

  Li bowed in acquiescence and Leong smirked in Wang’s direction. “Of course, we have taken other precautions, if the Committee wishes to hear them. The American agent will be in the car with the kidnappers. He will have the only phone. If they attempt any electronic communications, he will inform our people, and they will take the necessary action to prevent it. Their vehicle will be immediately behind the South African car. For insurance, we also have monitoring and jamming equipment in the escort vehicle, and the Italians have promised to shut down all nearby mobile switches as soon as possible. I believe we have taken all prudent measures to ensure a satisfactory ...”

  Leong suddenly went pale and seemed to lose his concentration. He slumped back in his chair, a panicked look in his eyes.

  Li hit a button on the conference phone in front of him. “Get a doctor! Immediately!”

  Wang left the meeting in an upbeat mood. With luck, Leong would die. Even if he were only temporarily disabled, it should allow time for Wang to carry out his plans. But first he had to dispose of the Panchen Lama and any tracks that could lead back to Beijing. He walked out to the middle of the soccer field and punched in a number on the cheap mobile phone he’d bought in Shanghai.

  “Sun?”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “Where are your men?”

  “Three with Leong’s agent, Cho, and two waiting some miles away.”

  “Do they have to surface-to-air capability?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. The South Africans and their hostages must not reach their destination.”

  35.

  Florence, Late Friday Morning

  Jill joined the Italians, who were gathered around their vehicles — the shiny black and white Alfa of the carbinieri, the electronics truck, and Tipalongo’s unmarked car. Lucca Palladino, the handsome young AISI lieutenant offered her a cigarette.

  “No thanks. Where do things stand?” She’d been on the phone briefing Washington for the last half hour.

  “Everything is arranged,” Palladino answered. “We have a car for them. See the red Fiat over there. A Cinquecento, not too powerful. They will be cramped, but they won’t be able to speed away from us. The Cinese are nervous. I think they have been told they will be shot if anything goes wrong.” He chuckled softly and knocked the ashes off the tip of his cigarette with his forefinger.

  As they spoke, the door to the house opened a crack. A moment later, the crack widened. First out was Li Huang, eyes half open, stumbling over her own feet. Purple bruises covered her neck and the right side of her face. Conti followed, reaching forward to grasp Li Huang’s elbow and steady her. Then Tony, scanning the street nervously, one hand crudely bandaged and the other holding a large kitchen knife a few inches from Conti’s back. Finally, Skinhead emerged holding the Panchen Lama as a shield with his left arm. He carried a pistol in his right hand, and a red nylon knapsack on his back. Tipalongo walked toward them, hands held out in front of his chest, palms forward. He spoke first.

  “We have provided the car you requested. The keys are in the ignition.” Tipalongo modulated his voice as though he were telling a story to a small child. “This car,” he pointed to the black and white, “will lead you to the airport. This vehicle,” he gestured to the panel truck, “will follow you. It has the capability to detect any electronic transmission, so do not try it. Then the
Chinese van and, infine, my car. We will move at a moderate speed. The Florence airport is about fifteen minutes from here. We have done as you asked and arranged for your … associates to bring in a private plane. Is this agreeable?”

  Skinhead said simply, “Yes.”

  “Good,” Tipalongo continued. “We also agreed that Mr. Conti would be in phone contact with his colleague, Ms. Burnham. However, we have decided that this is not necessary given the proximity of our vehicles.”

  Jill took a deep breath. She’d agreed with Tipalongo that it would be better to power down the mobile switches than to have Conti on the phone, since they couldn’t do both.

  “Alright, then,” Tipalongo spoke louder now. “Everyone in the vehicles. “We will leave now. Lucca, have one of your men sweep the house for any electronic equipment they might have left.”

  Jill watched as the South Africans roughly pushed the three hostages into the tiny back seat of the Fiat, then got into the front seats themselves. She got into Tipalongo’s car and the caravan set out, led by Palladino in his Alfa, red and blue strobe lights flashing. Jill gazed out at the passing vineyards. She rolled the window halfway down to dilute the stale atmosphere inside the car. Did all Italian policemen smoke? Then she pulled out her phone and checked the signal strength. No bars. Not even a busy network message. Good. Tipalongo glanced over at her.

  “What? You did not think we could shut down the switches? I think we have greater powers than law enforcement in your country. I visited Washington once on an official exchange program and could not believe all the different agencies you have — local police, state police, FBI, CIA, God knows what else. How do you ever get anything done? Here, the federal police are in charge.”