The Italian Mission (28 page)

“I didn’t almost run you over. There was plenty of room. And don’t worry about the Chinese. They need you more than you need them.” Conti put the phone on speaker, downshifted and threw the car into a four-wheel drift around a downhill bend, before shouting above the whine of the hard-pressed engine.

“Well, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jill shouted.

“When I got back to the car, Pio had nabbed one of the Chinese soldiers — found him hiding in the bushes with a sniper’s rifle. I think he was planning to nail the Lama.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“No, but it certainly looked that way. You said yourself the military are gunning down demonstrators in Lhasa. Whoever ordered that isn’t interested in compromise with the Tibetans. The hard-liners have wanted to eliminate the independence movement for years. Getting rid of the Panchen Lama is part of it. No indigenous leaders left standing once the Dalai Lama dies.”

“What about what Mobley said? That he had a deal.”

“They’d lie to Mobley in a heartbeat.”

“John, you can’t ignore the CIA Director, not to mention me.” Her tone altered from hurt to harsh and commanding. “Turn that car around and come back here now! Hang on, Cho Lin is coming over to tell me something.”

The car swerved and Conti had to slow down. The steering must have been damaged when he hit the Chinese truck. He’d glanced over his shoulder. The Panchen Lama still seemed to be in a semi-conscious state, moaning softly as he slumped in the back seat.

Jill came back on.

“O.K., she says she has orders to take the Lama by force if necessary. They’ve got the wheel changed and they’re coming after you unless you bring him back.”

“Sorry, can’t do that.” Conti hit the “end” button with more force than necessary.

“What can’t you do?” A weak voice from the back seat.

“You’re awake? Good. I can’t give you to the Chinese just now.”

“Where are we?”

Conti started to answer but a loud thump came from the right front wheel well and something began scraping on the road surface. “Shit!” He slowed the car to a crawl.

“What do you remember of the last few hours?” Conti asked.

“Not much. Guns and explosions going off. What happened?”

“Remember a plane crash?”

“I remember getting in a plane. I don’t remember a crash. Where is Li Huang?”

Conti chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “There was a bad crash. Not everyone survived.” He glanced back at the Lama. He’d gone white and he was panting heavily.

“Li Huang?”

“I’m sorry.”

The Lama sobbed quietly, holding his head in his hands. “She was all I cared about in the world.”

Conti said nothing, letting this sink in. It was the Lama who first spoke again. “Where are we going now?”

“Not sure. We need to get off this road. The Chinese are chasing us — and maybe the Italian thugs too. A lot of people would like to see you dead.”

The Lama took this calmly. “I don’t care. It would be better.”

“No it wouldn’t.” Conti pounded his fist on the dash. “Your people, the Tibetans, are demanding freedom in the streets of Lhasa right now. Chinese soldiers are shooting at them. They hope you’ll come back and lead them. Don’t give up. Li Huang was a friend of Tibet, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Would she want you to disappear when your people need you most? Look, this isn’t just about you. People — fathers, mothers, sons, daughters — are fighting for independence. You owe it to them to stay alive.”

The Alfa wouldn’t go any farther. Steam belched from the radiator and the right front tire was flat. Conti drove as far off the road as he could and parked behind a line of cypress trees.

“We’re going to have to walk. Can’t stay here. The Chinese will be coming along soon.” Conti got out of the car, opened the back door, and gave the Lama a hand getting out. He leaned the young man, still unsteady on his feet, against the side of the car while he walked back and opened the trunk.

“Let’s see if our CIA friends left us anything useful.” He rummaged through the contents, tossing aside tire chains, dirty blankets, and a radio transmitter emitting a low beeping sound. “Well, if I had any doubt before, I don’t now. The CIA knows exactly where we are. They’ve been tracking us the whole time.”

Under the blankets, he found a nylon daypack containing several aluminum water bottles and energy bars. “This stuff we can use.” He picked up the pack and slung it over his shoulder. Below it was something that looked like an oboe with two short, finned shells clipped to it. “That must be the RPG that Pio used.” He hefted it, mumbling to himself. “Amazing, couldn’t weigh more than five pounds …”

“What?” the Lama walked unsteadily back to where Conti stood, keeping one hand on the car.

“Just marveling at American ingenuity. Let’s get out of here.” Reluctantly, he put the grenade launcher back in the trunk. “It’s going to be unsafe, very soon.”

They started down the line of cypress trees. Within fifty yards, they came to an asphalt drive. A carved wooden sign swung from a wrought iron stanchion surrounded by pink and white bougainvillea blossoms. The sign read, “
La Scuola di Cucina Siciliana Marchionessa B. Vogliano, prop.
”

46.

Beijing, Saturday
Midnight

Wang tried to sit at his desk and focus on the previous day’s intelligence reports, but within seconds he was up again, gazing at the watercolor he’d borrowed from the National Museum — a picture of Yinglong, the fearsome mythical dragon and rain deity, sitting regally atop a waterfall. He lit a cigarette, took two long drags, and crushed the butt into the Ming dynasty bowl that served as his ashtray. The phone on his desk startled him. Wang checked the number, then snatched the handset out of its cradle. “Hsu. What is going on? Is it so difficult to dial the phone?”

“We have been busy tracing the movements of the so-called Panchen Lama, Comrade Wang. But I’m happy to report that we have now pinpointed the precise location. He is in southern Sicily traveling with several American agents. His exact position is eleven miles east of the town of Corleone, at thirty-nine degrees, forty minutes North …”

“I don’t give a damn what his coordinates are. Do you think I’m going to strap on a gun and go after him? The point is, if you know where he is, why haven’t you taken him into custody?”

“We have one of our best operatives, Agent Cho Lin, on this assignment. She is following his car with several well-armed soldiers. She is a highly-decorated…“Why do you insist on telling me things that are completely irrelevant, Hsu? I don’t care if she has the Hero’s Medal …”

“She does.”

“Enough stalling. Patch me through to this Agent Cho.”

“You want to speak to her directly? An agent in the field? But I have seen no formal announcement that you have taken over Comrade Leong’s responsibilities.”

“You’ll see it soon enough, Hsu. Put me through to her — assuming you have sufficient technical expertise to accomplish the task.”

“Certainly, comrade.”

Wang waited, listening to the clicks and tones as the call went through. Finally, a female voice answered.

“Cho?” Wang asked.

“Yes?”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, sir. General Hsu informed me.”

“Alright. Tell me where the target is, and where you are in relation to him.”

“We stopped his vehicle at a roadblock, but when the American in charge was about to hand him over to us, one of your … one of the PLA soldiers caused a subordinate American to become suspicious. He evaded us and drove away with the Lama. We’ve just found his automobile, hidden among the trees several miles down the road, and are about to search the area on foot.”

“What orders has General Hsu given you?”

“Take the Tibetan into custody — avoiding collateral damage, if possible. Once that is accomplished, call the General for further orders.”

Wang ground his teeth and stared out the window for a moment, collecting himself. When he spoke again, it was with an icy calm. “Do you understand that I will be taking over supervision of your Department shortly?”

“General Hsu told me that is a possibility.”

“It’s more than a possibility. The situation in Tibet is deteriorating every minute. As long as this fraudulent monk is alive, there is the possibility he will find a way to communicate with his collaborators in Lhasa, making it all the more difficult to bring these splittists to heel. We must cut off the head of this snake, collateral damage or not. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but ....”

“Do it.” Wang hung up, muttering under his breath, “Fucking Hsu.” He had no confidence in Hsu or his people. The trouble with the younger generation was that they hesitated when they should be taking action. Reluctant to take risks. Part and parcel of the larger problem — people had become too comfortable. They were backing away from complete commitment to revolutionary principles. Leong had a young wife, and two of his children were in graduate school in England; Hsu probably had a condo in Vancouver or Acapulco bought in a relative’s name; and Cho — hadn’t she been vacationing in Italy? A senior intelligence official lounging in the West? Scandalous! No wonder they dithered. He needed to try another approach.

“Get me Ambassador Zheng in Washington,” he growled through the door to his secretary, then fell into a violent coughing fit.

A few minutes later, the call went through. A high-pitched, nasal voice came on the line. “Comrade Wang. Good to hear from you. I understand you are about to receive new responsibilities …”

Wang half-listened as Zheng blathered on. Damned diplomats. They should all be sent to a military training camp for a few weeks. Crawling through the Mongolian mud with a seventy-pound pack would teach them a thing or two. Maybe he would add that to the training program when he took over Leong’s diplomatic corps.

“Are you aware that there is a rebellion going in Tibet, Zheng?”

“I understand there are demonstrations in Lhasa.”

“More than demonstrations —rebellion — and more than just Lhasa. There are problems in other Tibetan cities. And this will soon spread to other ethnic minorities in China if we are not steadfast in our response. So let’s skip the formalities and get down to business. The Americans now have custody of the escaped Tibetan rebel.”

“Is that so
,
sir? They have so-called Panchen Lama?”

“Yes. The traitorous monk. You are the contact between Leong and the CIA Director, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you have negotiated the repatriation of the traitor in return for a guarantee of his safety and that of the Americans.”

“Yes, sir. And the permission for the Americans to build a Coca-Cola plant near Beijing.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Zheng. Whatever idiotic deal you and Leong cooked up, the situation has changed. We need to deal with the traitor immediately — before he communicates with anyone, either his followers or the Western press. They must hand him over now so we can eliminate this threat.”

“Eliminate.”

“Eliminate. Once and for all.”

“The Americans will not accept that.”

“Are you stupid, Zheng? Or perhaps you think I’m stupid? We’re not going to tell them our plans beforehand. Your job is to convince them to hand him over. Once we’ve taken the necessary measures, you will smooth things over with the Americans. Do you understand?”