The Italian Mission (9 page)

Jill stood up too, holding her ribcage and wincing. “I think he knows who they are, or at least suspects. There are only so many paramilitary groups in the world capable of fielding this kind of operation. They’re either government intelligence agents or private security consultants. The official intelligence units generally coordinate with us, so I imagine it’s the latter — consultants. As you know, most of them have worked for us at one time or another.”

Conti led the way, following an overgrown path down the hill. “Yeah. The sons of bitches are always getting in the way. We’d be trying to quietly scope out the Taliban buddies of some local warlord only to find out the Blackstream boys or one of the others had scared everyone off. The CIA isn’t in charge of shit in the field. And some of these consultants don’t know
shariah
from Shakira.”

Jill sighed. “Washington’s the same. A million and a half top-secret clearances in D.C. Every time I go to the Starbucks, I wonder if the thirty-year old behind me in line reads my confidential reports. Ridiculous. And what do they add?”

They trudged on down the steep path, holding on to each other when they hit patches of loose gravel. They found themselves still holding hands when the path rejoined the main trail near the bottom of the hill.

“I think I’m O.K. now. Thanks.” Jill pulled her hand back and Conti reluctantly let it go. “Where to?”

He pulled a folded map out of his back pocket. “I left your backpack behind, but I took this.” He unfolded the map on which Jill had marked the monasteries, convents and retreat centers within five miles of the
Via Francigena
. “We go north and check out these places. Looks like we’ll pass near one today.”

Jill reached out and took the map from him. “They’re coded by religious affiliation. After hearing what Mobley said, I think we need to concentrate on the Buddhist places. If the Tibetan nationalists are already sending messages over the Chinese Internet, they must be well organized. Must be some sort of headquarters somewhere around here. So…” She pointed to a black X on the map about ten miles north and a mile or so off the trail. “Mitri Abbey. Might as well try that first.”

14.

“How far have we gone?” Jill gasped as she negotiated a steep, rocky pitch.

“About half way.”

“Really? Seems like it’s been ten miles already. These hills aren’t high but they sure are steep.”

“Altitude isn’t everything. You can get just as exhausted … hang on. What’s that?”

Conti pointed to the underbrush in front of them a few yards off the trail.

Jill stopped and looked in that direction. “It’s a bush. Like all the other bushes. I thought Tuscany would be more interesting.” She began walking again, but Conti didn’t go forward. Instead, he stepped off the path and stood motionless, listening.

“What in the world are you doing?” Jill asked.

He held his finger to his lips and crept in a wide circle around the patch of undergrowth. There was some movement in the bushes. Conti leapt toward the sound and there was a tussle, over in a moment.

“Take it easy, you’re going to break my arm!”

Conti froze when he heard the voice. He took a step back and watched as a small figure, face and beard covered in black make-up, picked himself up off the ground. “You can’t ask before you jump on a person?”

Conti broke out laughing.

“Very funny. You could have put my eye out!” The smaller man straightened out his hiking outfit.

“Who in the world is that?” Jill asked from the safety of the trail.

“The distinguished scholar of comparative religion and my old friend, Rabbi Amos Cadiz. Why he’s lurking in the bushes, I have no idea.”

“I wasn’t lurking. I was conducting surveillance. Big difference. How did you see me?” He gestured at his face and clothes. “Pretty good job of camouflage, no?”

“It would have been, if you’d remembered to black out the gold rims of your glasses. I saw the sun glinting off them.”

“Humph! So much to remember. I don’t do much undercover work anymore.”

“I could have guessed,” Conti replied. “So why are you doing it now?”

“Who’s she?” Cadiz asked.

“You don’t remember Jill Burnham? We were both in your Middle East class at Langley. Or whatever you called it.”

“I called it Prelude to Chaos. Yes, now that I get a look at her, I do remember Miss Burnham. Who could forget that face? And smart too!”

Jill frowned, but it did nothing to hide a blush.

“So, let me ask again,” Conti wanted to move things along. “What are you doing here?”

Cadiz glanced at Jill again before answering. “It turns out Mossad is very interested in your Tibetan gentlemen. It seems that they … we … have some large contracts in Tibet also. Building electronic systems to control dams and mines. Billions at stake. They don’t want anything disrupting these projects. They found out you were searching for the monks, so they sent me to keep an eye on you.”

“Really?” Conti raised his eyebrows. “All these years, you never told me you worked for Mossad.”

“Eh, only part time. Keeps me in
foie gras
and Lafite-Rothschild. Mostly I do analysis.”

Jill sat down and pointed to a pack that Cadiz had left in the bushes. “You wouldn’t happen to have any water, would you? And maybe something to eat? John lost all my provisions a few miles back.”

“While I was saving her life.”

“Nevertheless,” Jill replied.

“Yes, I have food and water and you’re welcome to it. Courtesy of the state of Israel.” Cadiz bent over and undid the straps of his pack. He pulled out a canteen and passed it to Jill, who drank gratefully. Then he began taking out food packets and lining them up on the ground.

“Let’s see, chocolate bars, bread, of course, a small jar of Nutella, Fontina — I like the soft cheeses — and proscuitto.”

“Proscuitto?” Conti asked. “I thought you kept kosher.”

“At home. In the field, you have to be flexible. Anyway, it came from a Jewish butcher.” He unwrapped the cured ham and offered it to Jill.

The three of them sat chewing in silence for a few minutes before Cadiz broke the spell. “So, what now?”

“There’s a Buddhist monastery a few miles from here we want to check out,” Conti said.

“Mitri Abbey. Know it well.”

“You do?”

“I’ve lectured there. They bring in people from all over the world. Run by Tibetan monks. They hold retreats — that sort of thing. I think it’s a front for raising money for the independence movement.”

“Really?” Jill asked. “Our Rome office never mentioned that.”

“They’d have to have had their eyes open. No offense, but your bunch of college kids is too busy following rich Saudis around Rome to know what’s going on in the rest of the country.”

“How would you know that?” Jill asked, hostility creeping into her voice.

“Half those women in
burkas
are Israeli agents.”

“If you know so damn much,” Jill’s voice rose, “who are these South Africans, who are following the Chinese, who are following the Tibetans, working for?”

“Ah …” Cadiz examined the back of his hands.

Conti stopped wrapping the leftover food and stared at the Rabbi. “Ah what? You know something, don’t you?”

The Rabbi raised both his palms to the sky and contorted his mouth. “Funny thing about that.”

“So you do know they’re working for?” Jill asked. “Don’t tell me they are really just Israelis with funny accents.”

“No, they aren’t ours,” the Rabbi answered.

“Then whose?” Conti asked.

“This is a bit awkward. We think they’re yours.”

15.

Via Francigena, Tuscany, Tuesday Evening

Dusk was falling on the Tuscan countryside as the three of them reached what looked like a rough path leading from the trail toward Mitri Abbey. They could see the Abbey, a converted fifteenth century castle surrounded by a wall with tall towers at its corners, on a ridge a mile away. A deep ravine stretched between the two hills.

“Think we can make it before dark?” Jill asked.

“Maybe,” Conti answered. “As long as you don’t mind a few more cuts and scrapes. Looks like the trail goes straight down this side of the canyon, then vertically up the other side. It’ll be an adventure.”

“And we don’t know who else is out there,” Cadiz added.

Conti led the way down the steep, gullied track. By scrambling from rock to rock and, in a few places, sitting down and sliding on the gravel, they reached a rocky streambed at the bottom of the hill. A trickle of water ran from puddle to puddle in the otherwise dry gulch.

“I think I heard something,” Jill said quietly as they picked their way across the stones.

Cadiz swung off his pack and pulled a flashlight out of one of the side pockets.

“Why didn’t you tell us you had that?” Conti asked. “We could have killed ourselves coming down that hill in the dark.”

“I was saving the batteries for when we really needed them. Like now.” Cadiz switched on the powerful military LED device and pointed it in the direction that Jill indicated. A ghostly shape floated across the creek bed and into the underbrush about twenty yards upstream. Without a word, Conti snatched the flashlight from the surprised Cadiz and dashed after the apparition. After fifteen minutes, he returned, speaking in low tones to a robed figure walking beside him.

“This is Tenyal Rinpoche. He’s the monk who approached me at the Embassy on Friday night.”

Conti shined the light at the monk
’
s shoulder, allowing them a somewhat better view. He was no more than five feet tall, and his face, partially hidden by a large hood, was deeply lined with age. He could have been anywhere from sixty to a hundred. He bowed slightly. Conti took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped a smear of blood off his swollen lip. “We had a bit of an altercation before I could explain who I was.”

“My apologies,” the monk said. “We have been followed for several days. I could not tell you from the Chinese in the dark. You are all very tall.”

“And you are very quick for your age.”

“We were instructed in hand-to-hand combat by one of the best — your father.”

“My father?” Conti asked.

“Yes. More than forty years ago. We trained for months, first in Texas — Fort Hood, it was called — then in Dharamsala. Almost one hundred monks and three CIA agents, led by John Adams. A great young man. We crossed the border, hoping to arouse the Tibetan people to rebel. For some reason, the promised support did not come. Your father was furious. He was killed covering our rear as we fought our way back to India. It seems like yesterday. We have continued to train ever since, hoping for another opportunity. And soon it may come.”

Conti hung his head in silence for a moment, remembering the tall, handsome young man in a Harvard crew sweater — the father he’d never really known. Recovering himself, he said, “That’s a bit of a long shot, don’t you think? The Chinese are even more powerful now than they were back then. But first things first. May we meet the young man? We’ve been told he is the Panchen Lama. I’m skeptical. For him to turn up in Italy after twenty-five years of complete silence is hard to believe.”

The old monk smiled. “Yes, it seemed that way to us as well. We were contacted in Dharamsala by a mysterious person who told us that we would find the Panchen Lama at the airport in Rome. Of course, we were suspicious that someone was attempting to deceive us for political reasons. But two of us were sent to check on the story. I am the only one left who actually met the young boy before the Chinese carried him off. He was five years old then. Of course, one cannot be sure that a man of thirty is the same person as the boy of five, but I have come to believe that he is.”