The Italian Mission (29 page)

“But how will I convince them to hand the young man over?”

“Use your imagination, Zheng. Persuade them. That’s your job, isn’t it? Are you qualified to do your job?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then do it.”

Zheng leaned back in his chair and whistled softly. He frowned at his deputy who had been listening in on the call. “Eliminate? Does that mean what I think it does?”

“I believe so, sir, and may I say that would be a disaster for our relations not only with America but most of the developed world. Western governments will not sit idly by if we … terminate … a Tibetan High Lama. The human rights advocates will go ballistic — as will the Western press.”

“I agree. I’d better talk with Mobley. Do we know where he is today?”

“He’s at a Congressional briefing, I believe. Shall I call his office and make an appointment?”

“No, I want to meet him informally. Do you have a good relationship with his deputy?”

“On and off. Right now, it’s on.”

“See if Mobley can meet me at the Sheraton Hotel bar later this afternoon. Perhaps five or so.”

“Yes sir.”

Zheng rubbed his smooth chin. “But I should talk with Leong first. Have we heard anything from him?”

“Not since he took ill. I understand he has been moved out of intensive care but is still under doctor’s orders not be disturbed.”

“Damn the doctor’s orders. He’s still in charge as far as we’ve been told. Get him on the phone.”

47.

Washington, Saturday Afternoon

The bar of the Sheraton was nearly deserted at five o’clock in the afternoon. No business travelers on the weekend, and all the locals who could afford to escape the city in August had already done so. Mobley reached into his back pocket for a handkerchief, unfolded it and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He sank back into the upholstery, breathing heavily. In college he’d been a swimmer, trim and fit, but the years of receptions and lengthy committee meetings had taken their toll.

“Director Mobley, fancy meeting you here.”

Mobley looked up. McCullough. “Damn. You again. I thought you hung out downtown at the Willard or the Capitol Grille with the swells. How’d you find me way up here on Connecticut Avenue?”

“I’m new to this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” McCullough smirked, “but it’s not too hard to track you down. Your big black SUV sitting in the front drive. Kinda obvious, even if the red and blue lights weren’t blinkin’.”

McCullough sat down in the chair across from Mobley and put his feet up on the table.

“You know that’s probably an original Stickley end table you’ve got your shoes on?” Mobley collected American antique furniture. “A hundred years old if it’s a day. Not really meant to be a footstool. Beside the fact that it’s rude as hell.”

“I did not know that,” McCullough answered. “That it’s a — what did you call it? — a Stickley. The furniture at our plantation is mostly eighteenth
century. Mother is always buyin’ that Chippendale stuff. Never paid much attention to it myself.” He lit up a cigarette but didn’t move his feet.

Mobley sighed. McCullough made him tired. “I assume you didn’t track me down to chat.”

“It is always nice to shoot the shit with you, suh. But I do have one or two things to discuss. You really should take me to those congressional briefings with you. It would save a lot of trouble.”

“Meaning?”

“The Senators come right out of that room and call me to say everything they didn’t say in the meeting.”

“Oh? I wasn’t aware that those fine gentlemen pulled their punches.”

“They are hacked off. Over this Chinese thing.”

“What would they have us do that we haven’t done already?”

“Make it go away. Before the press finds out that we’re involved. If we’ve got the little pissant Lama, why don’t we just hand him over?”

Mobley noticed that the Chinese Ambassador had entered the room and quietly headed to a booth at the far end of bar. McCullough noticed as well.

“Well, lookie who’s here. What a coincidence. Can I take this as a sign that this mess will be cleaned up in time for me to drive my date down to the Inn at Little Washington tonight? I’ve got the Gamekeeper’s Cottage reserved. She’s got this Lady Chatterley thing. You know, Victorian smock, petticoats and all that …”

“TMI, McCullough.”

The younger man laughed. “Didn’t take ya for a prude, Director.” He knocked cigarette ashes onto the floor. “So, back to our story. Are you and the Ambassador on the same page? Can I tell our friends on the Hill this is being taken care of to the satisfaction of the Chinese?”

Mobley growled. “You can’t tell them a damn thing. Yet. Something fishy is going on here. I intend to find out what it is.”

“This whole thing has been fishy as a farm pond full of bullheads from the start. Panchen Lama gets lifted, or escapes, we don’t know which. NSC is involved. They have a silent partner they never bothered to vet, or even identify. NSC backs out. Chinese go nuts. Riots in Tibet. PLA moves in and starts shooting people in the streets. Somehow, an ex-CIA guy ends up running up and down Italy with the Lama. Yeah, it’s fishy, alright. Have we even found out who’s behind all this yet? The silent partner?”

“I’ve got my suspicions. That’s why I’m going to talk with the Ambassador over there as soon as you clear your sorry ass out.”

“You gonna hurt my feelings, Director. You can’t trust me with a secret? You know I’ve got the highest security clearance.”

“Doesn’t mean you can keep your mouth shut. Now, move. I’ll talk to you later. And, hopefully, you’ll be able to play Oliver tonight.”

“Oliver?”

“Not much of a D.H. Lawrence scholar after all, are you?” Mobley got up and walked toward the back of the bar.

“Hello, Mr. Ambassador. Sorry to keep you waiting. Please don’t get up.” Mobley wedged himself into the opposite side of the booth with effort. “Who do they design these seats for anyway? Fashion models?”

“Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice, Director. We have something urgent to discuss.”

Mobley couldn’t stop sweating. He wriggled out of his suit jacket. “No trouble at all. I’d like to clear up this little problem as much as you would.”

The Ambassador’s mobile rang. He glanced down at the number. “Please excuse me. This call is from my superior, Minister Leong. I must take it. It may help us to straighten out this situation.” He stood up and walked out of the bar into the lobby, holding the telephone to his ear.

Mobley checked his watch. If all was going according to plan, Jill and Conti should be arriving in Palermo about now. They’d hand the Lama over to the Chinese as soon as he confirmed the elements of the deal with the Ambassador. His phone vibrated on the table in front of him. His office.

“Director. Jill Burnham is on the line. She’d needs to talk to you. Says it’s urgent.”

“Why didn’t she call me directly?”

“She says you didn’t answer.”

Mobley snorted. He hadn’t turned his phone ringer back on after the briefing. And he hadn’t felt the vibration in his pocket. Too damn fat. “O.K., put her through.”

“Director?”

“Jill? Are you in Palermo yet?”

“No, sir. We’ve run into a problem.”

“What kind of a problem?”

Mobley listened to Jill with rising anger.

“You’re fucking kidding me. I’ll string Conti up by his nuts. Give me his number.”

“You’re going to call him?”

“Damn right.” He hung up, dialed Conti’s number, and was surprised when he answered.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Who is this?”

“Mobley.”

“Mobley?”

“You heard me. Now tell me what the hell is going on.”

“I believe the Chinese intended to kill the Panchen Lama.”

“That doesn’t mean you can ignore your superiors.”

“I don’t work for the Company any more.”

“You still work for the United States government.”

“For the time being.”

“Look, you arrogant bastard, you’re lucky. You may have done the right thing by accident, which means I probably won’t have to have you cashiered. If you do what I say. We need to get the Lama to Palermo as soon as possible. Stay where you are, and I’ll send a Navy helicopter to pull you out.”

“You know where I am?”

“Of course I do. So don’t try anything stupid.”

“What if the Chinese get here first?”

“I’m about to handle that.” Mobley hoped he wasn’t blowing smoke. “Just keep your head down.” After calling Langley to make the necessary arrangements, he ordered a whiskey. In a few minutes, the Ambassador returned.

“Mr. Mobley. I must talk to you about a delicate matter involving my government.”

Mobley nodded but said nothing.

“Will you promise to keep the information I’m going to give you confidential?”

“I can’t promise that, Mr. Ambassador. I work for the President. But short of him asking me a direct question, I’ll do my best to keep anything you tell me close to the vest.”

“It is the press we are most worried about.” The Ambassador took out a pack of Gitanes and offered Mobley one.

“No, thanks. I imagine my feelings about the press are similar to yours.”

“Alright.” The Ambassador took a long drag, composing his thoughts.

The waitress came by and delivered Mobley’s whiskey. “No smoking in the bar, sir.”

Mobley handed her a twenty, and she left smiling.

“You see,” the Ambassador took another deep drag then stubbed out the cigarette in an empty bread dish, “some in our government suspect that this Tibetan crisis may have been purposely engineered by … well, someone else in our government — specifically the Politburo member who oversees the People’s Liberation Army.”

Mobley listened closely as Zheng detailed his suspicions. When Zheng finished, Mobley simply nodded.

“You aren’t surprised?”

“No.” Mobley drained the whiskey glass in one long swallow. He picked up his suit coat from the banquette beside him, dug a folded sheet of paper out of the breast pocket and slid it across the table to Zheng.