The Italian Mission Page 9

  “Are we going to try to talk to her?” Jill asked. “What if she’s still working for the Chinese?”

  “If she is, we need to know. Not sure we have anything to lose by entering the lion’s den. What’s the worst the Chinese can do to us — assuming we don’t have the Panchen Lama?”

  “Kill us,” Tenyal said. “Remember the unfortunate incident with their agent back in Rome.”

  “Right,” Conti replied. “Almost forgot about that. O.K., new plan. We’re going to drop off the two monks before we go anywhere near the Art Academy. Where do you want to go, Tenyal?”

  “The Tibetan Student Association offices. Via Mazzini. Not far from here. Turn left at the next corner. We will wait there until you contact us.”

  Cadiz wedged the van between a row of Vespas and a leather goods stall across the street from the Art Academy. Students on bicycles zigzagged in and out of the fashionable shoppers and gaping tourists who crowded the street.

  “You two wait here while I talk to her,” Conti ordered, his no nonsense undercover persona emerging. No one challenged him.

  “You want a gun?” Cadiz reached beneath his seat and pulled out another mini-Uzi. When he saw the surprised look on their faces, he added, “Comes with the car. Standard issue in war zones.”

  “Florence is a war zone?” Jill asked.

  “For Israel, almost everywhere is a war zone.”

  “You keep it,” Conti said, opening the van door. “Call me if you see anyone suspicious enter the building.”

  “What are you going to do?” Jill asked.

  “I’m going to see if she’s here and, if so, whether she knows where the Panchen Lama is. If she does, I’m going to try and persuade her that he’d be far safer with us than on his own.”

  Conti got out of the car, crossed the street and walked in the front door of the old palazzo. A smartly dressed young woman sat at a reception desk filing her nails. She greeted him and he responded in Italian.

  “Excuse me, but I am looking for a woman named Li Huang. I believe she teaches here. I am Dr. DeStephano from the University of Rome. I am also an art teacher. Ms. Li was kind enough to offer to show me around the Academy when I met her at a conference in Milan.” He searched through his pockets. “I’m afraid I don’t have my cards with me, I’ve been on a walking tour of the city.” He gestured at his informal clothes and smiled.

  The young woman lost interest halfway through this monologue and refocused on her nails. “Second floor, room 202.” She pointed with an emery board to the ornate staircase that dominated the entrance hall.

  Conti bowed slightly and made his way up the stairs. He found room 202 and knocked on the door. When no one answered, he peeked inside. Half-finished plaster torsos and heads sat on pedestals, the air heavy with white dust. Then the door suddenly swung open, pulled from the inside, and several students barged out. He walked into the now silent room and saw a petite young woman with short-cropped black hair sitting on a stool working under a magnifying glass.

  “Dawa?” she asked, without looking up. “Did you find some clothes?”

  Conti was momentarily confused. Dawa was a Tibetan name, but not one he associated with the Panchen Lama. But Tibetans had a habit of changing their names to change their luck.

  “Who is Dawa?” he asked. The young woman jumped at the sound of the unfamiliar voice.

  “Who are you?” she shot back, squinting at him.

  “John Conti. A friend of the Panchen Lama. A representative of the American government who wants to ensure his safety.”

  She considered him for a moment, eyes narrowing. “The United States is an ally of China.”

  “Not really an ally. More of a rival, I’d say.”

  She got up, snapped off the high intensity light on her workbench, and walked over to a large window a few feet away. Conti had a chance to study her as she stood gazing out the window, her back to him. Small boned. Attractive. Wearing khakis and a cotton tee under a white smock.

  “I have some experience in these matters, Mr. Conti. I know that trade between the United States and China is expanding. I think that this economic relationship is more important to your country than then life of one young man.”

  “He is not just any young man.”

  She turned back to him, arms folded across her chest. “Assuming I know where he is, what assurances do I have that you aren’t cooperating with the Chinese?”

  “If I were working with the Chinese, I wouldn’t have come here. I’d have let them deal with you. Frankly, I’m surprised they didn’t get here first. You used to be on their payroll, right? Maybe you still are.” He paused and watched for some reaction. She maintained her stony expression. “So,” he went on, “have they contacted you?”

  She didn’t answer for a long moment, her intelligent eyes calculating. “No. They are a little slow to react sometimes. Everything must be cleared with the bosses back in Beijing. I’m sure they will be here soon, but I don’t plan to wait around for them.” She pointed to a worn valise in the corner of the room. “Dawa and I are going to take the train to … away from Florence as soon as he arrives.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Buying some new clothes. The ones he had were a mess, torn, bloodstained. He looked like he’d been attacked by wolves.”

  “And where will you go? You can’t outrun the entire Chinese intelligence force in Europe, you know. Not for long, anyway. You’ll need help.”

  Li Huang seemed to let her guard down a little. “I have a friend who has a small villa on the coast. I thought we could go there until things settle down. Then possibly contact the French or American government about political asylum. Everything involving the government in Italy is too complicated and too slow.”

  Conti took out a cigarette. “Do you mind?” he asked. She shook her head. He lit it, took one long drag, then ground it out. “Things aren’t going to settle down. There have been demonstrations — riots — in Tibet and southern China. The Tibetan nationalists know the Panchen Lama has escaped. Word is spreading fast on the Internet. The Chinese can’t control it. They are going to do everything in their power to get him back.”

  Just then his phone vibrated in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he said, and pulled out his phone and answered it.

  “Yes?” he nodded his head as he listened for a moment, then spoke to Li Huang. “The Chinese are here. Downstairs. Is there a back way out?”

  “A door opens into the back street.”

  Conti grabbed her bag, then took her by the arm. “Which way? Hurry!”

  She led him out the back door of the studio to a service elevator. Two workmen were loading it with crated canvases.

  “May we use it?” Conti asked in Italian. “We are in a big hurry.”

  One of the men growled, “Use the steps. We have work to do.”

  They could hear loud dialogue in Chinese coming from the studio they’d just left.

  “You see,” Conti whispered frantically to the workmen. “It’s her husband and his friends. They are after us.” He made the sign of the cuckold with his free hand.

  The workman laughed, slapped Conti on the back, and shoved the two of them into the elevator. He pressed the button for the basement, then pulled the metal inside door shut, still chuckling with his friend as the outer door closed. The old elevator car squealed and shimmied as it slowly descended two floors to the basement. The doors opened onto a dirty hallway that led to a small loading dock. Conti pulled Li Huang out into the busy back street.

  “Look. No time to waste. Take me to the Panchen Lama. We’ll get him to a safe house.”

  “I don’t know where he is. I gave him money to buy clothes. Then he was supposed to go to my place and get cleaned up and meet me back at the Academy. Go to my apartment, 34 Via Guelfa, number 26. Here …” she rummaged through her pockets, finally coming up with a key. “Wait for him there. I will search the stores to see if he is still shopping. I’ll meet you back there.”

  B
efore Conti could react, she turned and strode down the street. Probably for the best, he thought. The Chinese were more likely to spot the two of them if they were together. He pulled up his collar, put on the cheap sunglasses he’d found in the van’s glove compartment, and jogged around the block. At the corner, he called Cadiz, who drove by slowly with the van’s side door open. Jill reached out, caught his arm and helped him into the moving vehicle. He fell into the seat, breathing heavily.

  “Where to?” Cadiz asked.

  “Her apartment. 34 Via Guelfa. That’s north. Take the next right.”

  “Won’t the Chinese have that staked out?” Jill asked.

  “Maybe.” Conti answered. “All the more reason for us to be there when the Lama arrives. You have any more guns, Rabbi?”

  “They do a pretty good job stocking these vans,” Cadiz replied. “Look under the cushions in the third row seats back there.”

  Conti made his way back between the second row captain’s chairs and lifted the cushions from the back bench seat. “God! Between you and Jill, we could equip an army — if we still had her stuff, that is.”

  “What’s there?” Cadiz asked.

  “A frigging armory. A couple of automatic pistols. A full size Uzi. Flares. Grenades. And what is this?” He picked up a thin steel case the size of a computer. “Looks like a laptop.”

  Cadiz looked back over his shoulder as he drove. “With a difference. Secure communications to Jerusalem. And we can monitor or jam radio transmissions with that too. Keep it out. We may need it.”

  “We may need all of this,” Conti replied. He slid a clip into one of the Berettas and handed it to Jill. “Here. I think there’s a fifty-fifty chance the Chinese will be waiting at the apartment.”

  “And you want me to shoot them?” Jill asked.

  “I want you to be able to defend yourself.”

  He checked the other pistol and stuck it into his belt. And you Rabbi, are you O.K. with that little Uzi?”

  “Twelve hundred rounds a minute, remember? They won’t mess with me. Not for long, anyway.”

  “O.K., turn left. It’s up here a couple of blocks on the left.”

  22.

  Florence, Italy, Wednesday Evening

  They parked the van a half block away from 34 Via Guelfa, a four story building with a faux Renaissance façade, and studied the other vehicles on the street. Fiats, Smart Cars, streamlined motorcycles. Nothing that screamed Chinese intelligence, but you never knew.

  “You guys wait here and keep an eye on the street,” Conti said, opening the van door.

  “I’m coming with you,” Jill replied. “It only takes one person to watch the street. You might need help up there.”

  “O.K., but we’ve got to hurry. The Chinese may be slow but they’re methodical. They’ll show up sooner or later.”

  The two of them jumped out of the van and walked quickly down the street to Li Huang’s building. A young black man in dreadlocks sat on the stoop, sketching the other side of the street.

  “Excuse me.”

  The young man looked up. “Yeah?”

  “We’re to meet some friends at this address. Chinese. Have you seen them?”

  “The Chinese guys, man? Yeah. Totally patzo. Came running in here an hour ago. Pushed me right off this step, didn’t they? Sat back down again. Five minutes later, they’re coming back down the steps. Push me right off again. Don’t apologize or nothing. Hop in a truck and drive away a hundred kilometers an hour. Crazy bastards.”

  “How many were there? How many went up and how many came back down?”

  The young man looked at Conti as if he were crazy too. “Three going up and three going down. What do you expect? They would multiply like bunnies?” He flashed a big smile at his own wit.

  “Thanks.” Conti said, grabbing Jill by the hand and rushing past him through the front door and up the stairs.

  “Tell your friends they should be more careful, man. They gonna hurt somebody,” the young man shouted after them, then shook his head and returned to his drawing.

  Conti took the steps three at a time and got to the apartment first. When Jill arrived a moment later, he was standing in front of a door that had been pried open with a crow bar. The knob hung at an angle and the strike plate sat on the floor in a pile of wood splinters. He motioned for Jill to wait and pushed into the apartment.

  “Come on.” He waved her in. “They may have only been here for a few minutes, but they were pretty thorough.” Nothing in the studio apartment had been left undisturbed. The drawers of a plastic dresser lay on the floor, shirts, stockings and underwear scattered around the room. They had also ransacked the galley kitchen and ripped the stuffing out of a futon now draped forlornly on its wooden frame.

  “So I guess they didn’t find him, huh?” Jill asked.

  “I assume not. If they had, there would have been no reason to make such a mess. No, they were searching for clues as to where to find him. Let’s pray he’s with Li …”

  “What happened?” Li Huang came running breathlessly through the door. “Did they get Dawa?”

  Conti and Jill glanced at each other before replying. Finally, Conti spoke. “We hoped he was with you. No, the Chinese don’t have him as far as we know. They were here,” he gestured at the shambles that had been her apartment, “but it seems that they left without finding him. Did you go to the stores? Had he been there?”

  “Yes,” the young woman answered, her voice trembling. “I checked the places where I sent him. He bought a few things, and left more than an hour ago. By now, he should have come back here, then gone to meet me at the Academy. Something went wrong. He wouldn’t wander around Florence alone. He doesn’t know anyone, or have anywhere safe to go.”

  Jill’s phone rang and she walked into the hall to answer. After a couple of minutes, she returned, her face two shades paler. “Mobley wants to talk to the two of us and Cadiz together.”

  “What’s up?” Conti asked.

  “The South Africans have the Lama, and they’re plastering his face all over the Internet.”

  23.

  Florence, Wednesday Midnight

  “Do you take cream or sugar?” A young Italian officer with wavy black hair, piercing blue eyes and a lilting accent asked Jill as he poured steaming coffee from a silver pitcher. They sat around a large mahogany conference table in a basement room of the central police station. It had taken only an hour to get full cooperation from the internal Italian security agency, AISI.

  “Black is fine, thank you,” she smiled warmly, unaware of Conti’s frowning, sidelong glances.

  “Now,” the lieutenant went on, “you may use the room as long as you have need. And call me when you have finished, no? I will escort you out the back through the loading dock the same way you came in. It is unfortunate but reporters sometimes, how would you say, ‘stake out’ our front entrance. Some of the more radical political factions and their newspapers have not yet gotten over the events of the past decade. They believe we conspired with your Mr. Bush to attack Iraq without reason. Ridiculous, of course. We had every reason. Now, I believe your connection to Washington is available. I will be right down the hall if you need anything.”

  Jill watched him leave while Conti and Cadiz bent over the control panel. Mobley’s impatient face appeared on the large screen at the end of the table.

  “We see you, can you see us?” Conti asked.

  “Yes, except for Burnham. Where is she?”

  “She’s been hypnotized by an Italian in uniform. Jill, would you mind turning your chair back toward the camera. He’s too young for you anyway.”

  Jill swiveled around, shielded her hands from the camera with her shoulder and gave Conti the finger, then flashed a tight smile at Mobley.

  “Good evening, sir. Do our communications people think this is a secure link?”

  “Probably isn’t,” the Director responded in a gruff voice. “Doesn’t matter. We may need the Italians’ help soon. They
might as well know what’s going on now as later.”

  “What is going on?” she asked.

  “Quite a bit.” Mobley sounded tired.

  There was silence around the conference table. They waited while Mobley asked his assistant for a cup of coffee.

  “I’ve finally spoken to the President about this. I hope we’re now on the same page. I acquainted him with the Agency’s strong view that having the Panchen Lama run around encouraging rebellion against the Chinese government is not in the best interests of the United States or our allies. Rabbi Cadiz, good to see you again. It’s been years since we worked on that … other project. Do you agree with our assessment of the situation?”

  Cadiz nodded. “Good to see you as well, Senator. Yes, my orders are to help you accomplish whatever you decide to do with respect to the Lama. But my superiors do, in fact, agree that nothing good can come of civil unrest in Tibet at this time. They believe the Chinese military is far too powerful for any nationalist minority, and an uprising will result in violent suppression and strengthening of the anti-Western factions in Beijing.”

  “Exactly,” Mobley replied. “Unfortunately, there was a small group in our government that had convinced the President to take a different tack. They felt that if Tibetan nationalism were encouraged, it would force liberalization of the Chinese regime.”

  “What world are they living in?” Conti asked.

  “One where every agency runs its own foreign policy,” Mobley replied. “And to that end, they hired a private security force to keep the Chinese from recapturing the Lama.”

  “So it’s true,” Jill groaned. “The South Africans are working for …”

  “The White House.” Mobley sighed. “Well, to be precise, the National Security Council’s Special Projects Director. But I’ve put a stop to that. So, here’s what I want you to do. I’m texting you a phone number, Burnham. Call the South Africans and find out where they’re holding him. Get over there and tell them the game is up — they’ll want to contact Major Ellis in Washington to confirm — and bring the Lama back to AISI headquarters. You’ll all be safe there. When that’s done, let me know and I’ll call the Chinese Ambassador and get down to brass tacks.”