The Italian Mission (36 page)

“What’s happening?” Conti asked Cho in English.

“The General won’t listen to me. He ordered this guy,” pointing the pistol at the adjutant, “to take the Lama into custody. Said something about having orders to wipe out the rebels.”

“Yeah. I heard some things out here that worried me too.”

“What?”

“The soldiers didn’t realize I understand Chinese. They were talking about something called a B611. What’s that? Apparently two of them are aimed at the Potala.”

Cho put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God!”

“You’d better drive,” Conti told Cho. “If we run into roadblocks, you can say we’ve been ordered to sweep the area around the Palace for stragglers.” They’d dressed the Panchen Lama in the adjutant’s uniform, and Conti wore an old PLA overcoat and winter cap, two sizes too large, that he’d found in General Bo’s office. He hoped no one would notice the Caucasian hidden beneath the red star and large fur flaps.

As the car turned onto Kang’angduo Road toward the Potala, they came upon four soldiers huddled around a rusty oil barrel. One of them left the warmth of the fire and moved to the middle of the road, holding up his rifle. Cho stopped the car and rolled down the window. She showed the soldier her credentials and spoke to him for a few moments in Chinese. The soldier bent and pointed his flashlight briefly at the car’s other occupants. Conti feigned a coughing fit, covering his face with his hand. The tired soldier waved them through. Two long blocks later, they reached the West entrance to the Potala, deserted now that the PLA had pulled back.

“What now?” Cho asked, as much to herself as to the others.

“We’ve got to get him in there.” Conti replied. “Without getting shot.”

Cho frowned. “That’s the hard part, isn’t it?”
“A flag of truce?” Conti suggested.

The young man in the back seat spoke for the first time since they’d left PLA headquarters. “I don’t need a flag to enter the Potala. I am the Panchen Lama.”

Conti glanced at Cho and raised his eyebrows. “Yes, you are. But that doesn’t mean they won’t shoot you. It’s dark.”

“I am not worried. My people will know me.” He shrugged off the military jacket, and pulled a saffron scarf from his pocket.

“Where’d that come from?” Conti asked.

“This?” The Lama held up the scarf. “I always carry it. The Dalai Lama gave it to me when I was five years old. In this very monastery.”

“But they took our clothes when we boarded the plane in Florence,” Conti said, bewildered.

“I concealed it in my palm,” the Lama answered. “I’ve had it for twenty-five years and was not about to give it up easily.” He tied the scarf around his neck, opened the car door, and walked deliberately toward the steps leading to the Potala entrance, hands folded in a prayerful gesture.

Conti opened the passenger side door and swung his leg out. Cho leaned over and put her hand on his shoulder. “No, let him go. He’s accepting his responsibility. We should not interfere.”

Conti sat back, half in and half out of the car. “But we’ve got to help him organize those monks, don’t we?”

“Yes, but not right away.” She checked the time. “Four a.m. Still time before dawn. Let’s give him fifteen minutes.”

57.

Jill sank back into the deep, baby soft leather sofa in Mobley’s office. Although it was mid-afternoon in Washington, she wanted to curl up and sleep. Her body clock was completely out of whack. Mobley walked over and handed her a cardboard cup. “Drink this. Double espresso. They do that in the cafeteria downstairs now. You’re going to need it. This just keeps getting more byzantine.”

She shook herself fully awake and took the cup. “Ouch! That’s hot.” She stretched the sleeve of her blouse over her hand to insulate it. “Feels good though. What’s the latest?”

“Things are coming to a head. The nationalist rebels — mostly monks — have taken over the Potala Palace. They’ve got pretty sophisticated radio equipment …”

“The PLA can’t jam it?”

“They’re trying, but the monks have a network of transmitters and repeaters — they’re using frequency hopping. Some information is getting through.”

“And?”

“To put is simply, the monks are preparing to die. Sort of a latter day Masada. They’re sending farewell messages to their families and friends.”

“Are the Chinese going to attack? They said they wanted the Panchen Lama back so they could work out some sort of compromise.”

“As to the first question, the PLA has two rocket launchers parked within a mile of the Palace. Our satellites showed them loading warheads on the rockets as night fell. They look like tactical nukes — probably fifteen or twenty kilotons.”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah. As to what the Chinese will do, no one is quite sure, even the Chinese apparently. Our diplomatic contacts continue to say they intend to use the Panchen Lama to calm the situation. But we’ve picked up radio transmissions to the General in charge in Lhasa to the contrary.”

“What are the orders?”

“Launch the rockets. Five a.m. Lhasa time. Half an hour from now.”

“What happened to Conti and the Lama?”

“That’s the interesting part. Their plane rerouted and landed in Lhasa a few hours ago.”

“What can we do?”

“Pray. And hope Conti is as smart as you think.”

Wang put his revolver back in the desk drawer and watched the clock on the opposite wall. 4:50 a.m. The issue would be determined one way or the other in ten minutes. He picked up the phone and called General Bo one more time.

“Is everything ready?”

“Yes. Do we have the go-ahead from the Steering Committee?”

“The order should be on your machine.” Wang had taken an old Committee directive and changed the necessary words. Odd. It was possible to circumvent modern technologies and security systems with whiteout and a fax machine — if one only had the nerve.

“I have it.” Bo’s voice trembled.

“Don’t worry, General. You will receive the Hero’s Medal for this.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wang hung up the phone.

“Wang!” Leong walked into the room. “Who will get the Hero’s Medal for what?”

“Military business. None of yours.”

Leong picked up the paper that Wang had left lying on the fax machine. “What the hell is this? We never voted on this! You can’t possibly …”

Wang opened his desk drawer, pulled out his revolver, and pointed it at Leong’s chest. “Don’t move! In ten minutes, the rebellion will be finished. And so will you.”

“Ha! And how do you propose to explain that to the Steering Committee?”

“I won’t have to. After I’ve ended the rebellion in Tibet and done what the rest of you don’t have the nerve to do, no one will challenge me. Anyone who does will get the same treatment.”

“You’re talking about a
coup d’etat
, Wang. You’re insane!”

“I was Chairman Mao’s personal assistant for three years, Leong. This is what he would have done. For the good of China.”

General Bo hung up the phone with an unsteady hand. Seven minutes to go. He’d given the orders; now he had only to wait. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his hands although it couldn’t have been more than fifty degrees inside the warehouse where they’d set up headquarters.

“You’d better see this, sir.” A major on his staff pointed to a screen, one in a line of computers sitting on a folding table amid a tangle of wires. “It’s CNN.”

“I’m not interested in the news right now, Major. Nor should you be. We have to focus on the task at hand.”

“This is about the task at hand, General. CNN has a camera feed a few hundred yards from the Palace.”

“That can’t be. We haven’t allowed news trucks anywhere in the city except for
Xinhua
, and we shut them down hours ago, right?”

“Yes, but look here. They are broadcasting live pictures of the Potala Palace.”

“How could they do that?

“Well, sir. It isn’t that difficult. They have satellite transmitters that can be carried in backpacks …”

“Goddamn it! Find their location and shut them down!” Bo walked across the room and stared at the screen for a minute. “No, there isn’t time. If they’re that close, the picture will just go blank when the shells hit. They won’t be able to broadcast the … aftermath.”

“Wait,” the Major leaned closer to the computer screen. “There are people coming out of the Palace gate.”

General Bo reached into his tunic pocket and fished out his reading glasses. Setting them on the bridge of his nose, he studied the screen. Two lines of monks were exiting the monastery’s west gate, heads down and hands folded, as if in prayer — hundreds of them. The rebels were surrendering! Should he fire the rockets in spite of this?

“Major, contact the officer in charge of the launch vehicles and tell him to hold pending further orders. And get Wang on the phone immediately!”