The Italian Mission (32 page)

He had to do something fast. In another twenty-four hours, Wang could cover his tracks, eliminating the Panchen Lama and using the Tibet crisis to consolidate his power. Pounding on the door, he cried, “Is anyone there? I need my medication.”

As he expected, one of the security men had been posted outside. Zheng repeated his plea three times, each louder than the previous one, before the guard cracked the door a few inches. “What medication?”

“I am diabetic,” Zheng said. This was true. “I need an insulin injection. If not, by morning, you may have a corpse on your hands.” This was not true, but he guessed the guard wouldn’t know any better.

“I can’t leave my post,” the guard complained.

“You don’t have to. My assistant will still be in the office. Call and ask her to bring my insulin supplies — she knows where they are — and some water, while she’s at it. Your superiors can’t possibly object to keeping me alive. What sort of a show trial will they have if I’m not there?”

“Show trial?” The guards didn’t appreciate the irony. “What is the number?” he asked.

“Extension 572. Her name is Miss Lok.”

The door shut, and Zheng heard the guard make two calls, one to his superior, then a second to his assistant. He sat back on the chair and began chewing his fingernails, thinking. Ten minutes later, the door opened again. The guard walked in followed by Miss Lok, carrying a silver tray with a pitcher of water, a glass, and an insulin pen.

“Thank you,” Zheng said, with a slight inclination of his head. Miss Lok scanned the room with alarm. “Don’t worry,” he continued. “This is a temporary arrangement. I’m sure Comrade Leong will remedy the situation once he has all the facts.” Zheng emphasized the last few words of the sentence, looking straight into her eyes. The guard frowned and Zheng said no more, but unbuttoned his shirt and pressed the insulin pen against his stomach. When the guard looked away, Zheng slipped the folded paper Mobley had given him under the edge of the silver water pitcher. As he watched his assistant and the guard leave the room, Zheng sat back and sighed, hoping that he had turned his Miss Lok’s unbounded curiosity to his advantage.

51.

The black helicopter sat in the middle of the pasture, its spinning rotor swirling up dust. Conti and Jill hadn’t seen any markings on it because there weren’t any — except for the white tail numbers. The three masked gunmen aimed their weapons at the Americans, but didn’t advance. A few seconds later, the South African’s boss, Matthis, strode out of the helicopter carrying a swagger stick. He wore the same gray jumpsuit as the others but his mustached face was uncovered.

“Who are they?” Cho asked Jill.

“South Africans. Mercenaries. The people who helped the Lama escape. Now they seem to want him back.”

“To kill him,” Cho said.

“Probably,” Jill muttered, stepping forward to meet the man with the swagger stick. She spoke slowly, lowering her voice half a tone, trying to sound tough. “What do you want?”

Matthis smoothed his moustache before answering, “What the fuck do you think we want? The Lama. By the way, you never told us who you were working for. Although by now I think I know. CIA, right?”

“Yes. And unless you want to get into even more trouble than you’re already in, tell your thugs put their weapons down. A squad of Navy Seals will be here any minute.”

“I’m shaking.” He surveyed the area and spat on the ground. “No time to waste, then. Where’s the Tibetan?”

Jill bristled and took a deep breath before answering. The longer they talked, the farther Conti could get. “The Panchen Lama, you mean. The man you kidnapped? No idea where he is. I thought maybe you could tell me. Who’s paying you anyway?”

Matthis took a step closer to her. “I don’t have time for this bullshit. If you and your pals don’t want to end up as vulture shit, you’ll tell me where he is. Now!” He motioned to his confederates. They walked forward and took up positions ten yards behind him, weapons raised. Jill surveyed the situation. On their side, three men with Uzis. On hers, Lad with a sawed-off shotgun. Pio was still back in the house watching the Chinese soldiers. Hopelessly outgunned, yet again.

“Don’t want to cooperate, huh?” Matthis pointed at Lad. “Take his weapon away.” One of the men approached Lad while the other two stood a few yards away, drawing a bead on his chest. Lad struggled briefly, but after some pushing and shoving, he gave up the shotgun. “Search the women.” The masked man frisked Jill and Cho, taking a pistol from Cho’s shoulder holster. Jill had nothing.

“Good. Now we can make some progress. For every minute that you don’t tell me where the Tibetan is, I will shoot one of you. The tough guy goes first.” He pointed at Lad. “I don’t like his looks.” He slid his cuff up over a military-style watch. “Sixty seconds. Starting now.”

Matthis drew a pistol from a shoulder holster. He walked over to the American and held his arm straight out, the gun a few inches from Lad’s temple. “Thirty seconds.”

A rustling noise came from the bushes behind the outbuilding. A figure stepped out of the forest and stopped. “That won’t be necessary.”

Matthis spun and searched the lengthening shadows. When he located Conti, he aimed the pistol at him. “You again?”

“Remember me, Matthis? It took me a while to place you. That squirrel draped over your upper lip threw me off. Then it hit me. Baghdad, 2002, right? You and your Blackstream buddies worked for me back then, looking for hidden Taliban weapons caches. Had to fire you though. You liked to blow things up from a distance rather than get too close. Of course, that meant you were wrong half the time. So I see you’ve taken your dubious skills in another direction. Who are you working for now?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have time to reminisce. But you’re right that I don’t work for the CIA anymore. Pussy organization. Now I can do what I like.” He raised his pistol, aiming at Conti’s head. “Where’s the fucking Lama?”

Conti pointed to the forest behind him. “Where I left him. Comfy spot about a quarter of a mile from here. Quite well hidden.”

“Take me there … or I’ll kill you and find him myself.”

Conti laughed. “Not smart, Matthis. You never were the sharpest knife. That would take quite a while — plenty of time for the Seals to show up. A few morons with masks and popguns aren’t going to scare them.”

“What do you want?”

“Let my friends go, and I’ll take you to him.”

“You’ll just lead us on a wild goose chase.”

“If we don’t find him in ten minutes, you’re welcome to shoot me.” He looked up at the sky. “You’re running out of time.”

“You lot,” Matthis gestured to the Americans and Cho, “Back to the house. Simon, keep an eye on them in case this greaseball is fucking with us. O.K., let’s go.”

Conti led them toward the trees that lined the perimeter of the pasture surrounding the house. They walked on a narrow footpath past a pig enclosure and into the low brush, where the path fell over the crest of the hill and down a steep, rocky track. Boots sliding on the pebbled surface, they made their way down the slope.

“Where the hell are we going?” Matthis asked.

“Not much farther,” Conti answered, speeding up.

“Wait!”

But Conti was jogging down the hill now. “Around the next bend,” he yelled back. The path curved around an outcropping of granite taller than a man, with twisted evergreens poking through its cracks. Ten yards ahead, Conti dodged behind the rock and scrambled up a small rise, where the Panchen Lama lay, curled up on the ground.

“The gun! Quick!”

The Lama sat up, rubbed his eyes and picked up the Beretta that Conti had left with him. He tossed it to Conti, who climbed up on the rock and trained the pistol on the path below. Matthis, sensing that something was wrong, stopped and sent one of his men ahead around the outcropping. Conti hesitated for a moment. The man looked up, saw the glint of Conti’s pistol, and opened fire. A spray of bullets hit the ledge in front of Conti, showering him with rock dust. He waited a few seconds, then leaned out and fired back, bringing the South African down with a single shot to the neck. He scrambled back to where the Panchen Lama sat.

“Can you run?”

“I think so.”

“Okay, when I say ‘Go’, make your way around this rock back to the path. I’ll stay behind to make sure they don’t follow.”

“What if they shoot you?”

“Then my mother will get a good pension
.
” Conti smiled grimly.

The Lama started climbing around the escarpment on all fours in the opposite direction from the South Africans. Conti waited a moment, watching the path. Matthis and his remaining comrade had pulled the wounded, groaning man back from the outcropping. Good. He’s not dead, Conti thought. That will slow them down. He fired two more shots, then clambered after the Lama. It didn’t take long to circle around and reach the path above the rock.

“Run up the hill as fast as you can but don’t go out into the open. Wait for me at the top. Go!” He gave the Lama a shove. After losing his footing on the loose gravel, the younger man stood and jogged up the path. Conti stayed behind, watching the rocks below. The muzzle of an Uzi poked around the corner. Conti took careful aim and shot twice. One of the shots pinged off the metal housing of the machine gun. A man yelped, and the weapon dropped to the ground. A hand reached out from behind the rock to retrieve the Uzi and Conti fired another burst, hitting the gun several times. He hoped he’d put it out of action, but he knew from experience that an Uzi was tough to kill. He tried to remember how many rounds the Beretta held — a dozen, maybe a few more. Whatever, he didn’t have many bullets left. Time to go. He turned and ran up the path.

When he reached the top of the hill, he stumbled on the Lama lying in the long grass.

“You O.K.?”

“Yes. What now?”

“Now we need to get back into the house, but one of the goons is in there with a machine gun.

“Goons?”

“South Africans.” Conti looked back down the hill. He couldn’t see much in the falling dusk, but as far as he could tell, Matthis wasn’t close. Maybe he’d been lucky and wounded the second gunman. Still, no time to waste. “Alright. Ready?” he asked the Lama. “We’re going to run around the edge of the field to the back of the house. Stay low and in the shadow of the trees.”

The two men crouched and circled the field at a dogtrot. At the back of the house, Conti motioned for the Lama to stay behind as he crept to the back door. As he turned the handle, something hard stabbed him in the lower back.

“Who the fuck are you?” The South African guarding the house stood behind him, holding an Uzi against Conti’s spine.

“Turn around so I can see your face.” Conti stifled a cry of pain as the man jabbed the muzzle hard into his kidney. But he didn’t turn around. That would be a quick death.

“I said, turn …”

The South African never finished his sentence. A rolling pin came down hard on his head, and he crumpled to the ground in a heap. Cho stood over him, arm raised, ready to strike again. “No need,” Conti said. “He’s out cold.”