The Italian Mission (31 page)

49.

Lad jogged alongside the Vespa as it chugged up the gravel drive to the front of the farmhouse. Pio switched off the ignition but the old engine continued to clatter loudly for a few moments. As the three of them recovered their hearing, a yelp of pain shot from the kitchen door. Lad leaped onto the porch and through the door, holding a pistol in front of him. Pio followed immediately, sweeping the room with the stubby shotgun. Jill brought up the rear, squeezing into the kitchen vestibule. Across the room, one of the Chinese soldiers lay on the floor, the back of his head bleeding. A second soldier knelt beside him and Cho stared down at both of them. The other guests cowered in the corner.

“Drop your weapons,” Lad ordered in English. The kneeling Chinese agent turned slowly and drew a bead on the American with his rifle.

Cho pulled a small pistol from inside her sleeve and glared at the Americans. “I believe it is you who must surrender. We each have a pistol, but our automatic rifle would seem to trump that misshapen thing.” She gestured toward the sawed-off shotgun. “The QBZ-95 is not our newest model, but, if I recall correctly, it fires six hundred and fifty rounds per minute — quite capable of shredding this room and everything in it in seconds.”

Lad and Pio glanced at Jill who nodded. They lowered their gun muzzles toward the floor.

“Good. Now we will continue with our search. Place your weapons on the floor and step back.”

As she said this, a sharp buzzing sound issued from her pocket. She extracted a compact walkie-talkie, took a few steps backward, and spoke into it for several minutes, nodding. Then, to the Americans’ surprise, she walked quietly up to the soldier with the assault rifle and stuck her pistol in his back, speaking harshly in Chinese. The man froze in shock. Cho shoved the gun further into his ribs and repeated what she’d said, much louder this time. The soldier slowly placed his rifle on the butcher block table in the middle of the room.

“Please pick up the rifle and your own guns,” Cho told the Americans.

She looked straight at Jill. “I owe you an apology. There has been a mix-up. My superiors have now clarified that we will work together to transport the Lama to your offices, and await further orders. I understand that you will receive a confirming message from your Director shortly.”

Within seconds, Jill received a text from Mobley’s private number: “Original plan back on. Work with Chinese. Call when you have PL.”

Jill pursed her lips as she answered the text, then spoke to Cho. “O.K., I think things are clear now. Let’s find the young man and get moving.”

Cho bowed slightly. “Agreed. Will your associate cooperate this time?”

Jill hesitated a moment, then answered softly, “I hope so.”

The two women, followed by Lad, walked together into the large, dark room just off the kitchen. Pio stayed behind guarding the Chinese soldiers. Jill snapped on the lights, revealing a long refectory table surrounded by a dozen chairs of different vintages. No sign of Conti or the Panchen Lama. A gust of wind blew through an open window, rustling the white lace curtains.

Lad leaned out the window. “The dirt is disturbed down here. Footprints headed toward that chicken coop.” He pointed to a small, rickety structure about fifty feet away.

“I’d better go talk with him alone,” Jill said. Cho nodded her agreement.

She walked slowly across the courtyard. When she got within ten feet, she called, “John, it’s me.”

No answer.

“John!” More emphatic this time.

“Where are the Chinese?” A low voice came through the cracks between the weathered boards.

“They’re here. But we’re working together now.”

“You can’t trust them, Jill. I’m telling you they want to murder the Panchen Lama. Mobley confirmed it.”

“I know he did. But I just talked to him. The situation has changed again. It’s too complicated to explain. You were right, but now we’re going to take the Lama to Palermo together. Can you see out of that building?”

“Yes.”

She pointed to Agent Cho. “Look. She doesn’t have a weapon. And look behind her. Pio and Lad have the guns, John.”

Conti walked out into the afternoon sunlight, blinking, pistol in hand. “Damn,” he said. “Good job. How’d you manage to take their weapons away?”

“Didn’t have to. She gave them to us. So, let’s get out of here. Where’s the Lama?”

“I’ll get him — one condition.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What’s that?”

“I’m staying with him until I understand what the deal is.”

“The deal?”

“Yes — what’s going to happen to him when he gets back to China.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I trust you. It’s your employer I don’t trust. Too much experience.”

“Alright. Fine. Just hurry up and get him.” She checked her watch. “The Navy copter should be here soon.”

Conti ducked into the shed and came back leading the disoriented young man by the arm. As if on cue, the thrumming sound of a helicopter rose from the valley below. As they watched, spinning blades rose slowly above
t
he treetops. Then the silhouette of the copter appeared against the setting sun, its markings obscure in the gathering gloom.

“Jill!” Conti shook her arm.

“What?”

“That doesn’t look like a Navy copter.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think it’s ours. It’s painted flat black — like the one the South Africans had back in Tuscany. Remember?”

“But Mobley said the Seals should be here about now. Maybe they don’t use conventional equipment on assignments like this.”

The copter hovered over the clearing, then set down a hundred yards away on a bare patch of pasture. Three men in gray jumpsuits, faces covered with stocking masks, leaped out, Uzis ready. Jill hesitated, then spoke out the side of her mouth to Conti, “You’re right. Get out of here. I’ll try to hold them off.” But she was speaking to thin air. Conti and the Panchen Lama had already disappeared into the trees.

50.

Politburo Headquarters, Beijing, Early Sunday Morning

Wang’s assistant carried a tray into his office and set it on the corner of his desk. “There is no one in the kitchen yet. But I found some pork buns left over from yesterday’s lunch. Have you been here all night?”

Wang sat facing the window behind his desk. He said nothing, but raised one hand in a dismissive gesture. “Go. Dim the lights on the way out.” He took a few sips of the steaming tea, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

“Wang, you’re here very early.” He opened one eye to the unwelcome sight of the tall, thin Leong striding through his office door.

“Comrade Leong, I thought you were in the hospital? Intensive care?”

Leong stared down at Wang, arms crossed. “They thought it was a stroke initially. It turned out to be only something called a TIA — a transient ischemic attack. Not so serious. I’m sure you are relieved.” Wang didn’t bother to feign concern.

“I’m not here to socialize, Wang. I had a call from Ambassador Zheng in Washington. He was on his way to a meeting with the Director of the CIA. To discuss the Panchen Lama situation.”

“And?”

“I would like to know what transpired at that meeting. But I understand that your military security people are holding him incommunicado. Zheng reports to me, not you.”

Wang’s expression remained impassive. “Zheng initiated an unauthorized contact with the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. The Embassy security people have suspected for some time that he has had a clandestine relationship with the Americans. We took him into custody to question him about this — he’ll be held until our investigation of his activities is complete, at which time you will receive a full report.”

“That is convenient for you, is it not, Comrade Wang?”

“Convenient?”

“You are trying to ensure that he will not pass on to me or to the Steering Committee any information he may have learned from the American.” Leong stepped forward and leaned over Wang’s desk, pointing his finger at the older man’s chest. “What are you afraid of?”

“Certainly not you,” Wang growled.

Leong spun on his heel and stalked out of the office.

At the Chinese Embassy in Washington, the security guards showed Zheng into a windowless room. Now back at the Embassy, they were diffident, as if suddenly realizing the magnitude of what they’d done. They politely searched his person, putting wallet, phone, appointment book, and cigarettes onto the metal table in the center of the room.

“My cigarettes? Surely you aren’t going to take them. Do you think I will burn my way out of here?”

“My apologies Mr. Ambassador, but we have orders to take custody of all personal items.”

“There is nothing personal about those cigarettes,” Zheng replied. “Except that they are unfiltered. Unless you want me to climb the walls, I’d suggest you leave them here.”

The two men exchanged glances, and the older one handed the soft Gitanes pack back to Zheng. They placed the rest of the articles in a cloth bag and left the room, locking the door behind them.

Zheng collapsed onto the room’s only chair. Were they going to interrogate him? He doubted it. There was no one at the Embassy who had the nerve to take him on directly. Wang would have to send someone specifically for the task from Beijing. That would take at least a day. He shook a cigarette out of the pack, lit it, and examined the room. It was a storeroom, empty except for a few boxes of computer paper and office supplies. No cameras as far as he knew, but he stood up and walked around the perimeter examining the walls, just in case. When he’d satisfied himself that the room wasn’t bugged, he took the cigarette pack out of his pocket and checked it. The memo that Mobley had given him was still there, tucked into the back of the pack between the cellophane and paper layers. Fortunately, they’d allowed him to smoke on the short trip back to the Embassy.