The Italian Mission Read online

  “Welcome to Mitri.” He looked Tibetan but spoke with an American accent. “I understand you are searching for the Panchen Lama.”

  Conti glanced at Jill and, when she nodded, he spoke. “That’s right. Tenyal Rinpoche here approached me in Rome for help, and we’ve been following the Lama ever since, trying to … well, put ourselves in a position to offer aid if it was needed.”

  “And were you able to meet the young man, to offer him aid?”

  “We met him briefly, but before we could do anything for him, the Chinese intervened.”

  “Do the Chinese have him now?”

  Conti’s face fell. “You don’t?”

  The abbot seemed equally surprised. “No, he’s not here. We’ve been waiting for him. Ever since Tenyal telephoned us from Siena yesterday telling us they were headed our way. We had monks stationed outside the monastery walls all evening, but I brought them in when night fell when we heard gunshots. We saw no one. Can you tell me what happened?”

  Conti briefly recounted the night’s events. The abbot listened carefully and didn’t speak again until Conti was done.

  “This is a mystery,” he said finally. “Tell me. Do you think the young man is the real Panchen Lama?”

  “Don’t you know?” Conti asked.

  “No, we don’t. We were frankly surprised — amazed might be a better word — that the Chinese would let the Panchen Lama out of their sight for even a moment given the delicate state of affairs in Tibet. So we were not … are not … sure that this gentleman is who he says he is. What do you think, Rinpoche?” he asked Tenyal.

  “I believe he is the true Panchen Lama … but he does not.”

  The abbot’s brow wrinkled and he frowned. “What?”

  “He has not been raised as a Buddhist. His Chinese indoctrinators did their work well. He does not believe that he is the incarnation — the tulku — of the last Panchen Lama.”

  “Tell me,” Conti cut in, addressing the abbot. “What would you have done if he had come here? I understand that this monastery is a center of the Tibetan nationalist movement. Did you intend to use the Panchen Lama for those purposes … assuming he would cooperate?”

  “These are difficult questions,” the abbot answered. He picked up a string of prayer beads from the desk and began rolling them in his hand making soft clicking sounds. “It is true that we support the cause of Tibetan nationalism and independence. But in a nonviolent manner, as the holy Dalai Lama taught us. Would we use the Panchen Lama toward this end? Yes, of course, if he wished to help. But …” he stood up and paced behind his desk, “this is a very … sensitive time in our history. We do not want to make things worse for the Tibetan people. The Chinese are very powerful.”

  A monk entered the office without knocking, handed a piece of paper to the abbot, bowed to the group and left as quietly as he’d arrived. The abbot opened the paper and took in its contents in a glance.

  “The situation in Tibet is deteriorating. Soldiers fired on a group of protestors and several were killed. Perhaps the Panchen Lama could calm the situation if he could communicate with his people.”

  “How would you accomplish that?” Conti asked.

  “Come with me,” the abbot said, striding through the office door toward a vaulted stone stairway. He led the group down several flights. “Take care. The depressions in the stones are centuries deep.”

  At the bottom they came to a dark hallway with a bright light at the end. The abbot opened a glass door and ushered them into a white-tiled computer room. Several monks sat at terminals monitoring banks of screens. It looked something like an American television newsroom.

  “This is our nerve center,” the abbot said, unnecessarily. “We monitor all the news channels, of course, but we also are connected to the Internet and Chinese government television. They keep anything controversial off the air, so it is from private individuals on the Internet that we learn what’s really going on. Until they are shut down, that is, which happens with alarming regularity.”

  “Where’d you get all this equipment?” Conti asked.

  “We have our sources,” the abbot replied. “Your government provides generous aid. We appreciate it.”

  Jill and Conti exchanged a surprised look. She spoke for the first time. “I have some familiarity with our Tibetan policy. I think you must be mistaken as to the source of the aid.”

  “We understand that you, Miss Burnham, and you, Mr. Conti, are with the CIA.”

  Jill tried to keep her mouth from dropping open. “What makes you think that?”

  The abbot smiled. “Just as we have sources for financial assistance, we have sources of information. And they believe …” He stopped, apparently deciding he had said enough.

  “They believe what?” Jill said, agitation evident in her tone.

  The abbot shrugged. “They tell us your agency is hamstrung by political and legal requirements, and that you would be more helpful if you could be. They do what they think you would do if you were able.”

  Jill’s face reddened. Conti put his hand on her arm. As she struggled to control her anger, Conti spoke. “We are aware that you have other connections in our government and we don’t want to interfere with those relationships. We know who the people back in Washington are, of course, but we don’t know who does their liaison work over here. It would help a great deal if you could tell us the name of your contact.”

  A subtle but unmistakable look of fear clouded the abbot’s eyes. “I’m afraid I’m not authorized to give you that information.”

  20.

  The White House, Wednesday Morning

  Mobley sat in the backseat of his black Ford Expedition reading the afternoon intelligence assessment as the driver showed his badge to the guard at the entrance to the Old Executive Office Building parking garage. This is where people went when they said they were going to the White House. It was as close as most of them ever got to the real thing — unless they joined the long line of out-of-towners waiting on the sidewalk for the thirty-minute tour.

  He took the elevator up to a secure floor, which housed the staff of the National Security Council. Walking down the long hallway he read the door plaques, shaking his head and sighing. Special Assistants to the President — for terrorism, for the Middle East, for Europe, southern Africa, nuclear proliferation. The titles went on and on, replicating his departments at Langley, not to mention the State Department. Politicians constantly complained about the federal budget and then voted for appropriations for all this redundant bureaucracy. Hell, he’d done it himself.

  He reached his destination at the end of the hall — the corner office overlooking Lafayette Square, belonging to General Jefferson D. Ellis. Unlike the other doors, its plaque contained no job descriptor, just the name. Mobley brushed past the Lieutenant in the outer office and found Ellis sitting on a leather couch in his running clothes, wiping his forehead with a damp towel. He looked up calmly as Mobley entered.

  “God, it’s hot in this city. There’s a little breeze over at East Potomac Park, but the Mall is a swamp, even at seven in the morning. What can I do you for, Mr. Mobley?”

  Mobley was momentarily disarmed by Ellis’ amiable demeanor. He wanted to be angry at the son-of-a-bitch, but the charming, little boy smile made it difficult.

  “I want to know why you aren’t returning my calls. I can’t run the goddamn CIA if everyone and his brother is conducting his own secret operation.” This sounded too much like pleading. He needed to be forceful. “I’m the one in charge of human intelligence, not the NSC staff.” Still lame. Ellis continued smiling at him.

  “Yes, sir, you are,” the General bent over and untied his shoes, then kicked them off, shed his socks and began rubbing his feet. “I’ve been using these new, ultra thin Nikes. They aren’t so good on the gravel. I guess my soles will toughen up eventually.”

  “O.K.,” Mobley said. “We agree on who’s in charge then. Tell me what you’re up to with this Panchen Lama fellow.”


  “Did you see the new plaque on my door?” Ellis asked.

  Mobley rolled his eyes. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “No title. Used to be a title there. National Security Staff Coordinator. Now it doesn’t say anything. Know why that is?”

  Mobley folded his arms on his chest. “No, but I imagine you’ll tell me.”

  “’Cause my job has changed.” Ellis stood up and walked around his desk to a small refrigerator. He took out two water bottles and offered one to Mobley. Mobley stared at it as though he were being offered urine. Ellis shrugged and set it down on the desk.

  “So what’s your new job?”

  “Special projects. Reporting directly to the President. I don’t show up on the current NSC org chart at all. Just me, by my lonesome, working on some … ideas … the President has. Not exactly intelligence work like you do.”

  “I also have responsibility for covert activities,” Mobley said.

  Ellis took a long swig of water. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “That’s closer to what I do, but not quite the same thing. It’s more like diplomacy. Sort of like what the State Department does, but not exactly their mission either. I would call it personal Presidential diplomacy. I help him do things that are too sensitive or fast moving to assign to a bureaucratic organization. No offense.”

  Mobley slammed his fist down on the corner of the desk. “Offense taken! That’s a pile of horseshit. I want to know what you’re trying to do with these monks in Italy and who you’re working with. The Chinese Ambassador is furious, not to mention half a dozen Senators. The Ambassador is dropping hints about selling off some of the trillion dollars in US debt they hold. Do you have any idea what that would do to our economy?”

  “Sure do,” Ellis answered, leaning back in his leather swivel chair and putting his bare feet up on his desk. “It would be bad news.”

  “Very bad news,” Mobley repeated.

  “Sorry, but I can’t talk about this. To anybody. President’s orders. I can tell you that I believe we’re working toward the same goal though. A better … situation, vis-à-vis the Chinese. The boss wants to go about it a little differently is all. Sort of an experiment.”

  Mobley felt steam rising off his face. But anger wasn’t getting him anywhere. He did what he used to do on the floor of the Senate when someone attacked the Voting Rights Act, or affirmative action, or one his earmarks. He smiled. A big, broad smile. Calmed him down.

  “Well, I’ll have to talk to the President myself, then, won’t I? Maybe I’ll take a little walk over there right now.” He knew this was an empty threat. He didn’t have an appointment and it would take hours to get through all the receptionists, secretaries, and assistants.

  “You go right ahead and do that,” the General replied. “Or I can acquaint him with your views myself. We’re meeting in twenty minutes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to shower.”

  Mobley’s momentary cool evaporated, and his eyes popped wide open. “You bastard!” He spun on his heel and headed for the door.

  “One more thing.” Ellis raised his index finger in the air. Mobley stopped and turned his head.

  “Don’t mess with the South Africans. They’re on our side.”

  As the SUV crossed the Key Bridge back to Virginia, Mobley stared out the window at a collegiate scull gliding up the Potomac, considering his next move. He yearned for the days when he was Chair of a Senate Committee. Things were simpler then. You either had power or you didn’t. He did. If he wanted to get something done, he twisted someone’s arm until they yelled uncle. Easy, compared to this business. The problem was all the damn secrecy. Couldn’t use political allies, or big money men, or the press. Couldn’t sabotage a highway project or threaten to build a jet engine in a different state. He had to work through back channels, everything on the q.t., when all he wanted to do was to slam someone’s head against the wall.

  He punched in Jill’s number. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Jill was sitting in the back of a Honda van provided by Israeli intelligence, sandwiched between two Buddhist monks. “Not the best time to talk,” she answered.

  “O.K., just answer my questions then. I got your texts. The Chinese took the Lama, then the South Africans ambushed them, then he got away, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And you think the abbot of that monastery is telling the truth. That the Lama never showed up. Still right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you, Conti, the monks, and Cadiz are heading to Florence to try to find the Lama because Conti has a hunch that’s where he went?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “So here are your orders. Forget what I said before about lying low and keeping an eye on the Lama. Find him, take him into custody, and get him to a safe house in Rome. Let me know when you’ve done that. I’m sick and tired of being kept in the goddamned dark. We’re going to find this guy, wrap him up tight, and hold on to him until we find out what’s really going on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jill.”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t laugh, but they tell me that the South Africans are on our side. I don’t think that’s the whole story, but that’s what the White House says.”

  “They certainly aren’t on my side. They almost killed me. And you want us to work with them?”

  “No. Just the opposite. Cut them out. When we get the Lama, we’ll hold the cards. Then they — and whoever the hell they’re working for — will have to come to us.”

  “O.K.”

  “One more thing. I’ve talked to my opposite at Mossad. They’re on the same page as we are. You can trust Cadiz.”

  “Good, because he’s driving.” She hung up and smiled at the Rabbi, who had turned to give her a questioning look.

  “Carry on, James,” she said.

  21.

  Tuscany, Wednesday Afternoon

  The van dodged through a chaotic traffic circle in the small town of Poggibonsi, tires squealing as Cadiz narrowly missed a tour bus and swerved onto the road heading north toward Florence.

  “Jesus Christ! I felt safer riding through Kabul in the back of a Toyota pick-up.” Conti clung to the grab handle above the passenger window

  “You were safer,” the Rabbi retorted. “The Taliban have nothing on Italians trying to get home for lunch. They’ll run you off the road as soon as look at you.”

  “I think he was talking about your driving,” Jill shouted from the back seat. She tried to push herself away from one monk only to be thrown against the other as Cadiz dodged around a farm truck piled with hay bales.

  Cadiz turned his head and looked back at her. “My driving? I’ll have you know I’m a trained professional. Mossad sent me for three days to the Ferrari test track at Modena.” He removed one hand from the wheel and pantomimed shifting a racecar, still facing the back seat. “I was fastest in my age group. Of course, there were only …”

  “Shit! Watch out!” Conti reached over and yanked the wheel in his direction. The van shuddered, leaned precariously toward an oncoming motorcycle, then moved back to the right side of the road. The motorcyclist hugged the opposite shoulder and blew his horn furiously. Cadiz stuck his arm out his open window and flipped him off.

  “Rabbi!” Jill exclaimed. “I don’t believe you did that.”

  “Nothing personal,” he replied. “Just habit from driving in this crazy country. You got to defend yourself.” He glanced over at Conti. “So tell me why you think the Lama is in Florence.”

  Conti didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to Tenyal in the back seat. “Did he ever mention a woman named Li Huang to you?”

  “Yes,” the old monk replied. “His former tutor, I believe. In China. She’s a few years older. He spoke very fondly of her. He told me he had always wanted to visit Italy because his favorite teacher lived there. I thought she might be a nun, but then I realized the Chinese would never allow that. In any case, she seemed to be someone he wa
s quite close to.”

  “That squares with what he told me.” Conti said, “Jill, when do you expect to hear back from Langley on her?”

  “Anytime now. What makes you think she’s in Florence rather than Rome or Milan?”

  “He told me he hoped to meet his tutor again. He also said he wanted to become an artist. A few minutes later he asked me how far it was to Florence. I had the sense he really wanted to go there rather than to a Buddhist Abbey in the middle of nowhere. But he was afraid of striking out on his own with the Chinese on his tail. It’s a guess, but we know he didn’t stay around the Abbey.”

  They had spent all morning searching the main trail for several miles in each direction and had found no sign of him.

  “Well, no other leads,” commented Jill. “So your theory is the best we’ve got. One thing though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Stop the car, Rabbi. John and I are going to change seats. I’m tired of being bounced around like a beach ball.”

  Forty-five minutes later, the van crossed the Arno River into the center of Florence.

  “Message from headquarters about Li Huang,” Jill said reading an e-mail on her phone. “We didn’t have a dossier on her but the Taiwanese sent a file. Thirty-three, former art teacher in Beijing, believed to have connections to Chinese intelligence until she emigrated to the West two years ago and — you were right — entered the Art Academy of Florence as a graduate student and teaching assistant. Does not appear to be engaged in intelligence activities currently. Either a sleeper agent or possibly has cut her ties to Chinese government. Residing in Italy under a student visa.”

  She handed the phone to Conti who reread the message, then pressed a few keys on his own device. “Art Academy of Florence. Accademia delle Arti del Designo. Via Orsanmichele.”