The Italian Mission Read online

  But such personality nuances were lost on the Director. “If they’re that spun up about it, we need to find out more. I’d love to have something to hold over their heads. We find this guy first, we can trade him for something. Maybe I can finally get the Coca-Cola people off my ass.” Jill waited for an explanation but none was forthcoming. The Director went on. “But we need to be careful. I’ve got two calls here from our friend the Senator from Ohio, which I haven’t returned yet. I assume their Embassy is leaning on him too.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” Jill asked.

  “I want you to do whatever’s necessary to stay on top of this. But keep it quiet. Don’t engage our Rome people. Use Conti. I still don’t understand why that guy quit. Probably his goddamn moral scruples. Well, I’ve got moral scruples too, but I don’t go around quitting. Anyway, he’s a good undercover man and he won’t tip off the Italians that we’re interested. And …” The Director’s voice trailed off.

  “Yes?”

  “What would you think about taking a little trip to Italy?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. We need to play this very close to the vest. I want someone on the spot I can trust.”

  “You know I don’t have any real experience as a field agent. I haven’t even been out of the country for years except for vacations.”

  “Conti will take care of you — and you can keep an eye on him. And Jill …”

  “Yes?”

  “Stop by and see the equipment boys. Pick up something for …, um, self-defense. And get a couple of those new Fishbowl phones that can’t be hacked – I want to be able to talk to you.”

  9.

  Siena, Italy, Tuesday Morning

  At nine a.m., the tour buses hadn’t yet disgorged their loads of Germans, Japanese, and Americans onto the old city’s cobbled streets. This was the hour when grandmothers shopped, net bags hanging from their arms, while young fathers and mothers walked their children to school. As everywhere in modern Italy, there were too many grandparents and not enough grandchildren. Deliverymen in their three-wheeled Fiat carry-alls darted in and out among the walkers, keeping everyone on their toes, while small groups of old men stood idly by watching and chatting.

  Conti felt comfortable in this quintessentially Italian scene, even as the old ladies stared with disapproval at his torn shirt and strange footwear. He’d borrowed a pair of tattered bedroom slippers from the pensione that he’d talked himself into the night before, promising to pay for his room when the banks opened in the morning. A few blocks down the street, he found a branch of the Bank of Florence and waited outside while a clerk turned his key and opened the large glass doors. Despite his disheveled appearance, he strolled into the lobby as if he owned the place. A long time ago, his mother’s family had. Unfortunately, they didn’t anymore. But what was left of the family fortune still resided there. Conti hated to take money from the trust fund. Decades of keeping up a large rural estate in the face of falling agricultural prices had taken their toll. Now there was just enough to keep his mother in her customary luxury — as long as she didn’t live forever.

  He answered a few security questions for the dapper young bank manager and, fifteen minutes later, was back in the street with an envelope stuffed with euros. He stopped at a clothing shop, then a phone store, emerging with a new nylon knapsack, socks, sneakers, a smart phone and a thinner wad of bills. Then he followed his nose to the nearest alimentari, purchasing just-baked bread, strong cheese and a foot-long salami. He sat in a patch of sun on the rim of a small medieval fountain and chewed on a piece of meat, watching the tourists stream by, maps in hand. He missed the undercover life. Not so much the adventure, but the freedom. Would he ever adjust to sitting in an office from nine to five every day?

  Back at the pensione, he settled his bill, then grabbed a quick espresso and set off north through town. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when his new phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the calling number. Jill.

  “How nice to hear from you. Pretty late there isn’t it?”

  She didn’t answer the question. “You haven’t answered my calls for a day and a half. Why?”

  “Didn’t have a phone. Got mugged somewhere south of Siena. Couldn’t replace the phone until half an hour ago.”

  “Mugged by whom?”

  “Our South African friends. Have you found out who they are yet?”

  “No. But I’ve got somebody working on it back in Langley.”

  “Back in Langley? Where are you?”

  “Traveling. Where exactly are you?”

  “You want my coordinates? Are you sending in the cavalry? I could use ‘em. If it matters, I’m the center of Siena, next to the Piazza del Campo — where they have the Palio, the famous horse race, every year.”

  “I know what the Palio is. I’m not a complete barbarian. Take a right turn down the steps.”

  Conti stopped in his tracks. “Why?”

  “Just take a right turn down the steps.”

  He did so, descending a dozen wide stairs through a stone tunnel that opened onto the broad piazza, a semi-circular amphitheater of stone surrounded by ornate Renaissance buildings.

  “Okay, I’m in the piazza. Now what? Are you tracking me by satellite? I always knew you people at headquarters had more money than was good for you.”

  “No, not tracking you by satellite. Take a look at the second café on your left.”

  Conti squinted into the strong rays of the sun just coming over the buildings into the interior of the piazza. “Holy shit!”

  Jill waved to him discreetly from a table just inside the café. At least he thought it was Jill. He could barely make out a face under the broad sun visor pulled low over dark, glacier glasses. He slowly walked toward her, unsure how to react. She wore a long camouflage shirt over black spandex leggings, and mountaineering boots. A massive, internal frame backpack and trekking poles leaned against the table beside her.

  He examined her for a moment in silence. She might have put on a little weight, deskbound all these years. But she was still striking, tall, with flaming red hair and, somewhere behind those dark glasses, startlingly green eyes. “What the hell are you doing here? And what’s with that get-up? You planning to climb Everest?”

  Jill’s smile became a defensive mask. “I’m here to help you find our Tibetan friends. Mobley’s orders. And we’re following them on a hiking trail right? I wanted to be prepared.” She examined his cheap knapsack, dirty jeans and torn shirt. “Unlike you. You look like a college kid living on five dollars a day.”

  “In this end of the business, we try to be inconspicuous.”

  Jill ignored this. “I thought we might need … weapons,” she said, pointing to the backpack, “So I visited special ops before I left D.C. last night.

  “I hope we don’t.” Conti pulled out a penknife. “This is what I usually carry. Good for cutting salami.” He unzipped the top of her backpack and rummaged around for a few moments. “Jesus Christ!” he whispered. “This isn’t America. You can’t just walk around with assault weapons! The Italian police take a very dim view of that. How’d you get this stuff into the country anyway?”

  “Diplomatic pouch. Don’t worry. Our folks assured me it’s all untraceable.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. What’s that on your wrist?”

  “Latest thing from Apple labs. GPS, satellite communication, backup phone, music player, God knows what else. Probably shoots flares too. Should be on the market in a couple of years.”

  “Great.” Conti sighed. “That’ll help us fit in.”

  Jill ignored the sarcasm. “So, what’s the latest on our Tibetan friends? Where are they going — and why do you think they’re walking?

  “They’re somewhere on the trail, going north. They probably think they’re safer from the Chinese on foot than in train stations or airports.”

  Jill leaned forward and slid her phone across the table. “They’re right. Here’s a photo fro
m the Florence train station last night. The Chinese are staking out all the transit centers.”

  Conti studied the picture for a moment and laughed. “Like ostriches, aren’t they? They think sunglasses make them invisible.” He watched a waiter walk by carrying a steaming pizza. Who ate pizza at ten in the morning? Although it certainly smelled great. “But back to your question. Where are the monks headed? I assume they’re looking for a safe place to hide from the Chinese. That’s probably why they wanted my help.”

  “I agree. I had some research done on the assumption that they’re looking for some sort of religious sanctuary where the Chinese can’t follow. You know there are more than two dozen Buddhist temples and retreat centers in Northern Italy alone? And that doesn’t count all the Christian monasteries that would probably take them in.”

  Jill reached into one of the top pockets of her pack, pulled out map and unfolded it to show black X’s sprinkled over Tuscany, Liguria, Piedmonte and Emiglia-Romana.

  Conti perched on the edge of a chair next to Jill and examined the map. “They could be heading anywhere.”

  “Exactly.”Conti sat back and rubbed his forehead. “So, since you’re here, I assume the Director thinks these monks are pretty damn important. What’s going on? What are we trying to accomplish?”

  Jillian shifted uncomfortably on the wrought iron chair. “These damn tights don’t have much padding. What are we trying to accomplish? You should understand that better than anybody. We’re playing chess with the Chinese. Mobley wants to control as many squares on the board as he can.”

  “That’s the kind of cynical thinking that pisses me off. We’re planning to use these guys for political leverage even before we know anything about them.”

  “Who said anything about political leverage? Look. These monks came to us — to you, actually — right? We’re just trying to find them to see what they want.”

  Conti sprang up and threw his pack over his shoulder. “Right. O.K., then we’d better head out. They’ve probably got twenty miles on us. Can you walk in those things?” He looked pointedly down at her red plastic expedition boots.

  “Of course, I can. They’re the latest thing. Very light. Only two pounds each.” She lifted her backpack onto the table with a grunt, turned around and slipped her arms through the straps. “I’ll be fine. I did a 10K on the tow-path last month.” With that, she snatched her poles and headed out of the café, not looking back.

  An hour later, they’d cleared the outskirts of town and were hiking on a dirt road through lush, shoulder-high vineyards.

  “So, are you happy … that you quit?” Jill asked, her large boots crunching the gravel. They were climbing a steep little hill and she had to catch her breath mid-sentence.

  “Like most things in life, yes and no.”

  “I have a pretty good idea what the yes is — you’re convinced that the politicians are calling the shots at the Agency. Right?”

  “Partly that. But what’s even more disturbing is that the Company isn’t really in the driver’s seat anymore. You must feel that in Washington. There are private security consultants underfoot everywhere, working for God knows who — NSA, DOD, DCI, NATO — all stumbling over one another. I thought our coordination was supposed to have been improved after 9/11, but things have gotten worse. The Middle East is full of goddamned amateurs, all of them thinking they’re ….”

  Before he finished the thought, a series of gun blasts echoed through the valley in front of them. Jill flinched. “What was that?”

  “Not sure. Shotgun maybe. The Tuscans are crazy for hunting, but the season doesn’t start until next month. Probably target practice. You notice you don’t hear many birds? They shoot anything in the woods that moves.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  They walked for a while in silence before Conti spoke again, almost to himself. “America does not go abroad in search of monsters to destroy.”

  “Who said that?”

  “My ancient relative.”

  “President Adams?”

  “The second one. John Quincy. When he was my age, he’d already authored the Monroe Doctrine. What have I done? Crept around Afghanistan and Iraq spying on radical Imams. In service of a failed policy. Not much to be proud of.”

  “You compare yourself to those two? Bound to be a bit disappointing.”

  “It’s not that I compare myself to them. But I do want to live up to their memory.” Conti rubbed an ancient signet ring on his right hand, the worn initials JQA barely discernable. “They held to their principles in a flawed world, and the country was better for it. I don’t see how I can expect any less of myself.”

  At the end of the vineyard the road petered out into a single track through an oak thicket.

  “Thank God,” Jill said. “Not that this conversation isn’t fascinating, but I’ve really got to pee. Wait here. I’m going to find some bushes. Let me know if anyone comes by.”

  “O.K., but there are snakes in these hills — vipers.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Not kidding. Did special ops throw in a handgun when they were equipping you for battle?”

  “Yeah.” Jill rummaged in her pack and pulled out a Glock 19, a pistol not much bigger than her hand. “They even showed me how to load it.” She reached in deeper, pulled out the loader and began pushing rounds into the magazine.

  “Impressive,” Conti said.

  “Unfortunately, they didn’t have time to teach me to shoot it.”

  “Well, even if you don’t hit the snake, the noise will drive him away.”

  “Great.”

  As Jill walked away from the path looking for cover, Conti sat on a rock and opened his guide to the Via Francigena. Suddenly, a piercing scream echoed through the trees behind him, followed by several gunshots.

  10.

  The Via Francigena, Siena, Italy, Tuesday Afternoon

  Conti crashed through the underbrush in the general direction Jill had gone, dodging around small stands of oaks, then stopped abruptly. A dead body lay on its stomach in a clearing. Not wearing spandex and camouflage. Not Jill. He almost collapsed in relief.

  He knelt down and turned the body over. Chinese. Still grasping a pistol in his dead hand. He barely had time to register these facts before he heard another shot. Conti propped the corpse on its side and hunched down behind it. A second bullet thumped into the body. He lay there for a moment, then leapt up and took cover behind a nearby tree. Two men were running fifty yards down the hill. As they crossed an open field, he got a better view. One of them carried an inert mass over his shoulder. Jill’s red hair hanging straight down, her body limp. Every few steps, the last man turned and took a wild shot back in his direction. Conti watched for a moment, then ran back to the trail. He needed to retrieve whatever other weapons special ops had given her. He found and shouldered her backpack, then rushed back to the clearing.

  Although he hadn’t gotten a clear view of their faces, he was reasonably sure they were the same South Africans he’d seen at the Vatican and again on the train. Jill must have stumbled on the aftermath of a confrontation between them and the Chinese. Now that Conti had a few moments to examine the dead man’s pockets, he found a map, binoculars, and a walkie-talkie. The clearing where he’d found the body commanded a good view of the trail as it wound its way north through the hills. The Chinese agent must have been monitoring the trail, on the lookout for the monks. Somehow the South Africans had caught him unawares. But why did they kill him? Who were they working for? He took off down the hill, moving as fast as he could through the brush with the bulky pack slung over his shoulder.

  After a hundred yards, he broke out onto a sunlit hillside. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he scanned the valley in front of him. Golden fields — wheat, he guessed — sloped down on both sides of a dirt road. The trampled path the South Africans had taken led straight to the road, then disappeared. It took only a few minutes for Conti to stumble down the slope where he again
picked up their trail, footprints in the dusty track. He loosened the straps of the backpack enough to get both his arms through, pulled them tight again, and set off running in the same direction.

  The heat of the midday sun and the heavy pack slowed him to a gasping jog. As he rounded a bend, he saw a panel truck parked a quarter mile ahead. Stepping into the tall wheat stalks, he watched the two men open the back. They rolled Jill’s body in, latched the door, then moved around either side of the truck. The front doors opened and slammed shut again.

  He shrugged off the pack and dumped the contents on the ground, quickly finding what he wanted — the miniature sniper’s rifle that special ops had been foresighted enough to include. It came in three pieces. He quickly attached the stock, screwed on the barrel, slid the scope into the groove and shoved a clip into the magazine. Taking careful aim at the rear tire, he held his breath and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. Dabbing the sweat from his eyes, he examined the magazine. Jammed. As he struggled to pull the clip out, the truck spun its wheels and sped away.

  11.

  Conti slumped against the backpack, exhausted, sweaty and still sucking wind. A faint noise came from somewhere inside the pack. A metallic beeping. He dug through the contents. Several more clips for the rifle, a waterproof parka, two flares, what looked like a burglar’s tool kit, and half a dozen military ration packs. Below that were packages of spare socks and underwear. No wonder she’d labored climbing the steep Tuscan hills. The thing must have weighed fifty pounds. Finally, he got to the bottom and the source of the noise — a small, brushed steel box. Opening the latch, he found a computer screen inside that showed a map of the area. As he watched, a small icon moved across the map. The truck. Thank God for the tech nerds at headquarters. And thank God Jill had brought all this with her. He’d never mock her again.