The Italian Mission Read online

  “You’re right, Senator. They are undercover operatives posing as students.” The Director looked at Jill for confirmation and she nodded. “And they aren’t fomenting anything. Just doing normal intelligence …”

  “Because,” the Senator barged in, “if they are doing anything other than observing, you are going to have one hacked off Senator from Ohio to deal with, Mr. Mobley.” He pointed a pudgy finger encircled by a ring embedded with gold nuggets at the Director. “I hope I don’t have to remind you of what we discussed here a couple of weeks ago. There are several big American companies, some of them from my state, that are bidding on contracts in China. Hydroelectric dams, factories, nuclear power plants, big stuff. The Chinese expect us to be a positive influence, not to encourage … dissidents. Otherwise, they can’t build these projects to improve living conditions for everyone, including the national minorities. Civil unrest hurts the Chinese, hurts the Tibetans, hurts us. We want to see economic progress over there. The war’s over.”

  “I take your point, Senator.” Jill heard the tension in the Director’s voice. Even after several years in his position, he hated deferring to men he used to intimidate.

  “Our national security depends on the health of our economy as much as military strength, right?” The Senator surveyed the faces around the table. His gaze was met by anxious glances from the staff and deeply bored expressions from his colleagues — if they bothered to look up at all from their piles of correspondence.

  “So do we have agreement here that there will be no fomenting of anything in Tibet by American undercover agents, whether they work for your agency or any of the other multitude of organizations we always seem to be appropriating money for?”

  “We are in complete agreement, Senator.”

  “Good. Thank you. Then we’re done with this. Let’s move on.”

  Jill’s back was getting sore from bending down in case she had to answer a question or provide information to the Director. Now that the bi-weekly trip to the woodshed was over, she straightened up and smoothed her skirt.

  “Excuse me.” This came from the other end of the table. The Senator from California, a spry seventy-five year-old, took off her reading glasses and looked up from a newspaper she’d been skimming. “On this fomenting thing.”

  “Yes, Senator.” The Director turned his attention to her.

  “With no disrespect to my colleague,” she shot the Senator from Ohio a look she usually reserved for tobacco lobbyists, “I’m not sure we’ve adequately ventilated this matter. While I agree that we cannot afford …” she emphasized the word ‘afford,’ staring at the Senator from Ohio over her glasses, “to start a rebellion in Tibet, I believe it is also true that the Chinese have made a habit of crushing the legitimate human rights aspirations of the Tibetan people. Isn’t that right, Director Mobley?”

  “Perhaps, ‘crushing’ is a loaded word, Senator.”

  The Senator folded up her newspaper and removed her reading glasses. She put her elbows on the table and focused an intense stare on the Director.

  “What word would you use? Suppress, crack down on, stamp out, defeat? The point is that the Chinese are kicking the shit out of the Tibetans and, by the way, taking whatever natural resources they want while we stand around with our thumbs up our butts.”

  After another hour of discussion, Jill left of the room with the Director, both of them silent until they were out of earshot of the Committee members and staff.

  “Goddamn those sons of bitches,” the Director seemed to be letting off steam rather than expressing any real hostility. “They wouldn’t agree that Robert E. Lee was a white man if you held a gun to their heads. Sorry I didn’t get to talk to you before the meeting. Had to have coffee at the White House. They already have their shorts in a twist about the election. Did you figure out who those Tibetans running around Italy are?”

  “Not yet. Whoever they are, though, they must be important. The Chinese radio traffic is getting pretty frantic. All their people in Europe are on high alert.”

  “Well, what in hell are Tibetan monks doing hiking around Italy anyway? Do we at least know where they’re going?”

  “Not for sure. There are quite a few possibilities — Buddhist monasteries and retreat centers where they could find sanctuary. A good many Tibetan nationalists are holed up in Italy. They raise money in Western Europe and send it back to the government in exile in Dharamsala. If this guy is wanted by the Chinese, he’s safer in Italy than in India. Lots of political support for Tibetan independence in Italy. The newspapers would go crazy if the government tried to deport a Tibetan monk.”

  “Are we … involved in any way?”

  “No. We’re clean. Except that the monks asked Conti for help, of course. But that’s it.”

  “Good. I’d hate to think I just lied to the distinguished asshole from Ohio.”

  Jillian excused herself to visit the ladies room, then ducked around the corner looking for a window. She fished her phone out of her purse and tried Conti’s number for the umpteenth time since she’d rolled out of bed that morning.

  7.

  The Via Francigena, south of Siena, Monday Afternoon

  Conti woke up on the floor of a dark, musty cell with dirt walls. He unbuttoned his shirt and examined the large bruise on his ribs in the narrow shaft of light that squeezed through the wooden planks a few feet above his head. Nothing broken, or badly broken, at least. He felt his cheek. They must have hit him there for good measure. Swollen, but all the teeth still in place. His shoes were gone, as was his backpack. The events of the night before seeped back into his consciousness slowly. He’d dozed off, been assaulted in his sleep. South African accents. He looked at his watch. 2:00 p.m. More than twelve hours had disappeared. He felt a small bump on his shoulder. They’d injected something. An opiate, no doubt. That’s what he would have done. They were professionals all right.

  He examined the beams supporting the floor above him. Very old, axe hewn. He was probably still near the ruined monastery, drugged and thrown in an empty root cellar of some sort. Hunched over, he explored the room searching for a way out. In the corner of the ceiling he found a small trap door, and pushed on it. Wouldn’t budge. They’d put something heavy on top of the door. He sat back, considering his predicament. What did he have to work with? He searched the floor but all he found was his phone, smashed to pieces. Could he use the metal shell to dig into the dirt walls? As he was considering this, he heard noises outside. Low chanting in Latin. Women’s voices. Coming nearer.

  “Hello. Anyone out there?” he yelled. “I need help, please.”

  After a few moments of shouting, an eye peered back at him through the planks in the floor above. “What are you doing in that hole?”

  Conti thought of a number of smart aleck answers but contented himself with “Trying to get out. Could you help me, please?” He flattened his face against the boards to get a glimpse of the woman above. She drew away a few inches and he made out a black veil surrounding a sweet, pink-cheeked face.

  “Yes, I suppose we could,” she replied. There was a bit of commotion behind her, other female voices buzzing. Conti couldn’t hear the discussion but did hear the leader’s response.

  “No, Sister Paula, I do not think this is the Devil lying in wait for us. Or one of his minions either. I told you to stop reading that Crusade magazine. Now if we all push at once, we should be able to move this tree stump.”

  Conti listened as the women grunted and groaned, accompanied by the occasional exclamation.

  “Ouch. Shit!”

  “Sister Alexis!”

  After a few moments of scraping, the stump tumbled away and the women opened the trap door. Conti gazed up, blinking in the sun, at the flushed faces of six nuns, jostling to get a look at him. They backed away quickly as he crawled out of his hole, as if half expecting some sort of demon after all.

  “Thank you very much. I was afraid I might be stuck down there for a long while.” Conti sto
od up, smacked the dust off his shirt and pants, and sat down on a tuft of grass.

  “Here, take a drink. I’m Sister Mary Anne, of the Franciscan Sisters of the Sacred Heart in Baltimore.” She handed him a canteen. He was surprised to taste schnapps instead of water. Between swallows, he surveyed the women. They were dressed in nuns’ habits modified for walking, the robes cut off at mid-calf, revealing thick wool socks and hiking boots. Each had a backpack and the pilgrim’s scallop shell hanging around her neck.

  “What were you doing down in that hole?” she asked.

  “Long story,” Conti replied. “Let’s just say not everyone likes Americans, especially Americans who work for the government.”

  “Oh, my,” one of the other nuns replied before the leader could speak. “Are you in the CIA?” She addressed her companions, “I’ll bet he is, hiding in a hole like that.” Then turning back to Conti, she added. “Our mother house is in Washington, D.C. We could help, you know.”

  Conti stifled a grin. The CIA was the most public secret organization in the history of the world. “I’m fine, now. Thanks.” He glanced down at his torn, dirty clothes and bare feet. Obviously, he wasn’t fine, but he had no time to waste on explanations. “If you could let me have a bit of food and water, and answer a question or two, it would be a great help.”

  “Of course,” the leader said.

  “Have you seen any Buddhist monks on the trail recently?”

  The nuns began whispering excitedly among themselves.

  “Shhh,” Sister Mary Anne said over her shoulder. “Yes, we have. Three of them. This morning at about ten o’clock. We tried to say hello — since they were clergy like us, you know — but they just pulled their hoods over their eyes and rushed by. They almost knocked Sister Evangeline over, didn’t they sister? Then the others came by about half an hour later.”

  “The others?”

  “Several men, Chinese, we think. They asked us about the monks. They were very rude. So we refused to say anything at all to them. We just ignored them and kept walking. Did we do the right thing?”

  “Absolutely. Have you seen anyone else today?”

  “Just pilgrims, like we usually do. We’ve been walking for two weeks now. It took us three years to convince the bishop to allow us to make this pilgrimage.”

  A voice piped up from the back of the group. A very short nun, who appeared to be at least a decade older than the others, spoke for the first time. “Don’t forget the hunters.”

  “Oh yes,” Sister Mary Anne went on. “There were two hunters sitting beside the trail having lunch. We knew they were hunters because they had rifles and no backpacks or pilgrim’s badges.” She held up her scallop shell.

  “Were they wearing black nylon jackets by any chance?” Conti asked.

  “Yes. Black jackets and black hats, too. Don’t hunters usually wear orange?”

  Several hours later, Conti had jogged what he guessed must have been four or five miles back up the trail toward Siena. Fortunately, he’d been training for the Rome Marathon in bare feet, the result of a book he read on proper running mechanics. Still, parts of the trail were rocky and, even though he tried to pick his way along the dirt edges of the path, his feet were getting sore. In any case, dusk was falling, forcing him to slow down. He could just make out the Siena skyline a couple hilltops farther to the north. He’d have to find a place there to spend the night. They’d stolen his backpack — it was probably buried in a hole in the woods somewhere — and smashed his phone. He’d have to do some fast talking.

  8.

  Washington, D.C., Monday Noon

  The rain stained the granite facade of the Chinese Embassy a dark gray. Against the green background of Rock Creek Park, it looked more like a monument to socialist progress than an office building. A security vehicle blocked the drive under the portico, so Jill had to jump out of the black sedan and trot the last few yards to the front entrance. Her right foot twisted on the wet marble steps, bending a four-inch heel out of shape. Now she not only smelled of wet fabric, but she was hobbling as well.

  She gave the guard at the door her name and entered a large foyer with Ming Dynasty pottery displayed in glass cases. A young woman, dressed in a blue suit and meticulously groomed, showed her to a ladies’ room where she repaired the worst damage to her hair and make-up. The heel was harder to fix. She bent it back into place. If she balanced on the balls of her feet, it might survive the morning. She’d be mincing around like a Chinese courtesan of the last century. Appropriate for today’s task perhaps.

  A few minutes later, she was shown into a conference room on the second floor. More antique pottery in glass cabinets. Picture window views of the rain falling on the massive oaks in the park. Two men entered from a door on the other side of the room. They wore identical brown suits, the tailoring a curious combination of Brooks Brothers and Mao; quality fabrics cut like normal business suits, but buttoned up the front without lapels. She knew of no store in Washington that sold anything like these garments.

  “Good morning, Miss Burnham.” The first Chinese man bowed slightly. “I am Mr. Wu, and I believe that you know Ambassador Zheng.” The second man nodded almost imperceptibly and frowned. She considered whether to offer her hand, but bowed instead. Apparently, this was not to be an excessively cordial meeting.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wu, and always nice to see you, Mr. Ambassador.” Jill focused her attention on Zheng.

  He nodded, but it was the subordinate who spoke. “I am sorry that our first meeting must be in these unfortunate circumstances. We understand that one of your agents has an interest in a Chinese citizen who has been kidnapped and is now in Rome.”

  Kidnapped? Jill hadn’t expected this. She reached into her purse for a handkerchief to buy a few moments. After dabbing at her nose, she answered.

  “One of our State Department officials was approached by a monk at our Embassy to the Holy See. The monk apparently wanted to ask for some sort of help, but left before telling our man anything more. I know nothing about any kidnapping. Perhaps if you fill me in I can be more helpful.”

  At this point, the Ambassador stepped forward and spoke for the first time. “Really, Miss Burnham, there is no need to be coy. We know that Mr. Conti, formerly an employee of the CIA, is searching through Rome for the abducted Chinese citizen. Our people observed him questioning tourists at the Vatican’s Office of Pilgrimage. We assume that he is continuing his … investigations.” Zheng’s English was precise, with almost no trace of an accent. “The question is why you are interested in this gentleman and if you plan to continue to be involved in the case.”

  Jill hesitated again, this time stuffing the handkerchief back into her purse. It was a good question. The answer wasn’t easy to articulate, yet both of them knew the score. If either country detected a gap in the other’s defenses — some weakness that might provide diplomatic leverage — they would pursue that opportunity. She tried to dance around this axiom of realpolitik.

  “A man came to our Embassy asking for help. It was someone who’d once had a … relationship with America. He was dressed as a Tibetan Buddhist monk. We know little more than that. Surely you understand that we would look further into this. There are politically active Tibetan communities all over the world, in countries like India, England, and the United States, as well as China. We cannot ignore the effect these communities might have on our relationships with other countries.”

  Jill stopped to catch her breath. She was talking too fast. Hoping that the words would start making sense. She wasn’t sure that they had yet.

  “I assure you,” Zheng said, “that this … episode … has nothing to do with the security of the United States. It is purely an internal Chinese matter. A citizen has been kidnapped from our country. We intend to recover him and punish those responsible. It is as simple as that. We are asking you, in the spirit of the cooperation that has been building between our countries, to allow us to handle this in our own way. I can
assure you that the United States will suffer no negative consequences of any sort.”

  “Perhaps if you told me a bit more about the individual in question, I could assure my superiors that my country has no real interest in this situation. For example, we would like to know the identity of the person whom you are seeking and who you think abducted him.”

  Zheng smiled without humor. “Of course, people in our business would always like to know more, wouldn’t they? But I am not authorized to give you any specifics at this point. Again, I ask you to pass my assurances on to your Director.”

  The phone rang the moment Jill stepped inside the waiting Town Car. She slid into the seat, slipped the shoes off her aching feet, and answered.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Director Mobley didn’t waste time on social graces. “I’m late for a lunch date with that damn woman Post reporter. What’d that little Maoist have to say?”

  “He wants us to back off.”

  “Back off from what? We don’t even know what’s going on.”

  “I told him that. Said you’d be more likely to leave this alone if you knew the facts. Who is this guy they’re looking for and why?”

  “Right. What’d he say?”

  “Says he isn’t authorized to tell us anything more.”

  “Bullshit. So what do you think is really going on?”

  Jill shrugged off her raincoat and used it to cover her wet, shivering legs. She covered the mouthpiece and spoke to the driver. “Turn off the air conditioner please, Pete. It’s freezing in here.”

  She slumped back into the leather seat. “I don’t know yet. But I do know the Chinese are running scared. I haven’t heard Zheng talk so much in the five years he’s been here. He all but asked us for a favor. Never happened before. The boys back in Beijing are squeezing his nuts.” Talking to the crusty Mobley brought out the tough farm kid beneath her Ivy League veneer.