The Italian Mission (6 page)

“So what do you want me to do?” Jill asked.

“I want you to do whatever’s necessary to stay on top of this. But keep it quiet. Don’t engage our Rome people. Use Conti. I still don’t understand why that guy quit. Probably his goddamn moral scruples. Well, I’ve got moral scruples too, but I don’t go around quitting. Anyway, he’s a good undercover man and he won’t tip off the Italians that we’re interested. And …” The Director’s voice trailed off.

“Yes?”

“What would you think about taking a little trip to Italy?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. We need to play this very close to the vest. I want someone on the spot I can trust.”

“You know I don’t have any real experience as a field agent. I haven’t even been out of the country for years except for vacations.”

“Conti will take care of you — and you can keep an eye on him. And Jill …”

“Yes?”

“Stop by and see the equipment boys. Pick up something for …, um, self-defense. And get a couple of those new Fishbowl phones that can’t be hacked – I want to be able to talk to you.”

9.

Siena, Italy, Tuesday Morning

At nine a.m., the tour buses hadn’t yet disgorged their loads of Germans, Japanese, and Americans onto the old city’s cobbled streets. This was the hour when grandmothers shopped, net bags hanging from their arms, while young fathers and mothers walked their children to school. As everywhere in modern Italy, there were too many grandparents and not enough grandchildren. Deliverymen in their three-wheeled Fiat carry-alls darted in and out among the walkers, keeping everyone on their toes, while small groups of old men stood idly by watching and chatting.

Conti felt comfortable in this quintessentially Italian scene, even as the old ladies stared with disapproval at his torn shirt and strange footwear. He’d borrowed a pair of tattered bedroom slippers from the
pensione
that he’d talked himself into the night before, promising to pay for his room when the banks opened in the morning. A few blocks down the street, he found a branch of the Bank of Florence and waited outside while a clerk turned his key and opened the large glass doors. Despite his disheveled appearance, he strolled into the lobby as if he owned the place. A long time ago, his mother’s family had. Unfortunately, they didn’t anymore. But what was left of the family fortune still resided there. Conti hated to take money from the trust fund. Decades of keeping up a large rural estate in the face of falling agricultural prices had taken their toll. Now there was just enough to keep his mother in her customary luxury — as long as she didn’t live forever.

He answered a few security questions for the dapper young bank manager and, fifteen minutes later, was back in the street with an envelope stuffed with euros. He stopped at a clothing shop, then a phone store, emerging with a new nylon knapsack, socks, sneakers, a smart phone and a thinner wad of bills. Then he followed his nose to the nearest
alimentari
, purchasing just-baked bread, strong cheese and a foot-long salami. He sat in a patch of sun on the rim of a small medieval fountain and chewed on a piece of meat, watching the tourists stream by, maps in hand. He missed the undercover life. Not so much the adventure, but the freedom. Would he ever adjust to sitting in an office from nine to five every day?

Back at the
pensione
, he settled his bill, then grabbed a quick espresso and set off north through town. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when his new phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the calling number. Jill.

“How nice to hear from you. Pretty late there isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer the question. “You haven’t answered my calls for a day and a half. Why?”

“Didn’t have a phone. Got mugged somewhere south of Siena. Couldn’t replace the phone until half an hour ago.”

“Mugged by whom?”

“Our South African friends. Have you found out who they are yet?”

“No. But I’ve got somebody working on it back in Langley.”

“Back in Langley? Where are you?”

“Traveling. Where exactly are you?”

“You want my coordinates? Are you sending in the cavalry? I could use ‘em. If it matters, I’m the center of Siena, next to the
Piazza del Campo
— where they have the
Palio
, the famous horse race, every year.”

“I know what the
Palio
is. I’m not a complete barbarian. Take a right turn down the steps.”

Conti stopped in his tracks. “Why?”

“Just take a right turn down the steps.”

He did so, descending a dozen wide stairs through a stone tunnel that opened onto the broad
piazza
, a semi-circular amphitheater of stone surrounded by ornate Renaissance buildings.

“Okay, I’m in the
piazza
. Now what? Are you tracking me by satellite? I always knew you people at headquarters had more money than was good for you.”

“No, not tracking you by satellite. Take a look at the second café on your left.”

Conti squinted into the strong rays of the sun just coming over the buildings into the interior of the piazza. “Holy shit!”

Jill waved to him discreetly from a table just inside the café. At least he thought it was Jill. He could barely make out a face under the broad sun visor pulled low over dark, glacier glasses. He slowly walked toward her, unsure how to react. She wore a long camouflage shirt over black spandex leggings, and mountaineering boots. A massive, internal frame backpack and trekking poles leaned against the table beside her.

He examined her for a moment in silence. She might have put on a little weight, deskbound all these years. But she was still striking, tall, with flaming red hair and, somewhere behind those dark glasses, startlingly green eyes. “What the hell are you doing here? And what’s with that get-up? You planning to climb Everest?”

Jill’s smile became a defensive mask. “I’m here to help you find our Tibetan friends. Mobley’s orders. And we’re following them on a hiking trail right? I wanted to be prepared.” She examined his cheap knapsack, dirty jeans and torn shirt. “Unlike you. You look like a college kid living on five dollars a day.”

“In this end of the business, we try to be inconspicuous.”

Jill ignored this. “I thought we might need … weapons,” she said, pointing to the backpack, “So I visited special ops before I left D.C. last night.

“I hope we don’t.” Conti pulled out a penknife. “This is what I usually carry. Good for cutting salami.” He unzipped the top of her backpack and rummaged around for a few moments. “Jesus Christ!” he whispered. “This isn’t America. You can’t just walk around with assault weapons! The Italian police take a very dim view of that. How’d you get this stuff into the country anyway?”

“Diplomatic pouch. Don’t worry. Our folks assured me it’s all untraceable.”

“Well, that’s a relief. What’s that on your wrist?”

“Latest thing from Apple labs. GPS, satellite communication, backup phone, music player, God knows what else. Probably shoots flares too. Should be on the market in a couple of years.”

“Great.” Conti sighed. “That’ll help us fit in.”

Jill ignored the sarcasm. “So, what’s the latest on our Tibetan friends? Where are they going — and why do you think they’re walking?

“They’re somewhere on the trail, going north. They probably think they’re safer from the Chinese on foot than in train stations or airports.”

Jill leaned forward and slid her phone across the table. “They’re right. Here’s a photo from the Florence train station last night. The Chinese are staking out all the transit centers.”

Conti studied the picture for a moment and laughed. “Like ostriches, aren’t they? They think sunglasses make them invisible.” He watched a waiter walk by carrying a steaming pizza. Who ate pizza at ten in the morning? Although it certainly smelled great. “But back to your question. Where are the monks headed? I assume they’re looking for a safe place to hide from the Chinese. That’s probably why they wanted my help.”

“I agree. I had some research done on the assumption that they’re looking for some sort of religious sanctuary where the Chinese can’t follow. You know there are more than two dozen Buddhist temples and retreat centers in Northern Italy alone? And that doesn’t count all the Christian monasteries that would probably take them in.”

Jill reached into one of the top pockets of her pack, pulled out map and unfolded it to show black X’s sprinkled over Tuscany, Liguria, Piedmonte and Emiglia-Romana.

Conti perched on the edge of a chair next to Jill and examined the map. “They could be heading anywhere.”

“Exactly.”Conti sat back and rubbed his forehead. “So, since you’re here, I assume the Director thinks these monks are pretty damn important. What’s going on? What are we trying to accomplish?”

Jillian shifted uncomfortably on the wrought iron chair. “These damn tights don’t have much padding. What are we trying to accomplish? You should understand that better than anybody. We’re playing chess with the Chinese. Mobley wants to control as many squares on the board as he can.”

“That’s the kind of cynical thinking that pisses me off. We’re planning to use these guys for political leverage even before we know anything about them.”

“Who said anything about political leverage? Look. These monks came to us — to you, actually — right? We’re just trying to find them to see what they want.”
      
Conti sprang up and threw his pack over his shoulder. “Right. O.K., then we’d better head out. They’ve probably got twenty miles on us. Can you walk in those things?” He looked pointedly down at her red plastic expedition boots.

“Of course, I can. They’re the latest thing. Very light. Only two pounds each.” She lifted her backpack onto the table with a grunt, turned around and slipped her arms through the straps. “I’ll be fine. I did a 10K on the tow-path last month.” With that, she snatched her poles and headed out of the café, not looking back.

An hour later, they’d cleared the outskirts of town and were hiking on a dirt road through lush, shoulder-high vineyards.

“So, are you happy … that you quit?” Jill asked, her large boots crunching the gravel. They were climbing a steep little hill and she had to catch her breath mid-sentence.

“Like most things in life, yes and no.”

“I have a pretty good idea what the yes is — you’re convinced that the politicians are calling the shots at the Agency. Right?”

“Partly that. But what’s even more disturbing is that the Company isn’t really in the driver’s seat anymore. You must feel that in Washington. There are private security consultants underfoot everywhere, working for God knows who — NSA, DOD, DCI, NATO — all stumbling over one another. I thought our coordination was supposed to have been improved after 9/11, but things have gotten worse. The Middle East is full of goddamned amateurs, all of them thinking they’re ….”

Before he finished the thought, a series of gun blasts echoed through the valley in front of them. Jill flinched. “What was that?”