27.
Florence, Thursday Evening
Conti stared at the smoldering hulk of what had recently been a $150,000 automobile. Yellow crime scene tape surrounded the wreck, but the local police had left. He dragged his foot through the dust outside the driver’s side door, not sure what he was looking for.
“Shall we go back to headquarters?” the Lieutenant asked. “It’s going to be dark in an hour.”
“I’d like to poke around here a bit more. You’ve got other work to do, Lucca. Go ahead. I’ll get a taxi when I’m finished.”
The younger man gave him a puzzled look, then nodded and walked back to his black and white Alfa. “O.K., but it is not necessary to call a cab. Call me when you’re finished. Taking care of you is my job for the day.”
“Thanks.” Conti walked over to a landing at the top of several flights of stone stairs that climbed the hillside. From this vantage point, he could see the green expanse of the Boboli Gardens, the Pitti Palace, the Arno River, and central Florence beyond that. A strange place for an Asian power struggle to be playing out. He reached into his shirt pocket for the Sigaro Toscano he’d bought at the tobacconist halfway up the hill. The scent of tobacco cleared his head.
Where would he take the hostage if this were his operation? He chewed on the end of the little cigar absentmindedly while watching a white Citroen climb several hairpin turns, finally stopping two streets below. A man wearing a hat and sunglasses got out and banged a metal knocker on a carved wooden door. The hollow sound bounced off the buildings up to where Conti stood. He squinted into the setting sun trying to get a better look as the man disappeared inside. Was his imagination working overtime, or did the man have a Fu Manchu mustache? Only one way to find out.
It took him a few minutes to descend the stairs to the house. He walked past casually, casting sidelong glances at the windows. Dark shades were completely drawn. The house stood third from the end of a row of similar structures, probably built between the wars. Cheap, functional Mussolini-era architecture. He walked around the corner, then up the alley. A small garden behind the house held a scraggly maple tree and a line of untrimmed bushes. He slipped between them and flattened his body against the side of the house. The window next to him was open. He leaned over and peered inside. Large, pitted ceramic sink, coal stove, and an old-fashioned icebox. Conti slid back against the wall as several men entered the room. Skinhead and Tony, and their boss, the mustachioed man from the Quonset hut.
“Any trouble?”
“Nah. These Wops couldn’t find their ass with both hands.”
A phone rang and Mustache answered it. He listened for a moment, then shook his head. “Yeah. We’re all set up here. How about the equipment on that end?”
Silence again for a moment.
“Sure you can get through the Chinese firewalls?”
Mustache lit a cigarette.
“Look, don’t give me the technical crap. Wouldn’t understand it anyway. Tell Skinhead what he needs to know. I’m on my way back to town to make sure the money gets to the right place.” Mustache handed the phone to Skinhead. “You guys work it out.” He reached into his pocket. “This is the message Yinglong wants the kid to read. Make sure he’s convincing. Call me when it’s done. I’m out of here.”
Skinhead nodded. “You taking the car? So how are we supposed to get to the airport, Matthis?”
“How many times have I told you not to use names, idiot.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the tabletop. “Call a fucking cab.”
“What do we do with the kid and the woman afterwards?”
“I’ll check and let you know.”
28.
Conti slid down and sat on a patch of dry grass, his back against the wall. Matthis? He had a vague recollection of a Matthis in Afghanistan back in the day. Probably someone who worked for Blackstream along with Skinhead — Defense Department contractors, no doubt. Now that the war was over, they’d gone on to bigger and better things. Christ, what a monster we’ve created, he thought. Lots of them, in fact.
But who the hell was Yinglong? Obviously someone who wanted chaos in Tibet. Could be a politician in Taiwan. Or a gangster in Hong Kong. Maybe the head of an international construction company that lost out on a big contract. And, of course, there were all the countries downstream that wanted to stop the Chinese from building any more dams on Tibetan rivers. Whoever Yinglong was, he had to be stopped.
Conti slipped back through the bushes into the alley and pulled out his cell. He needed to let Jill know where he was. Time to call in the cavalry. This had gone way beyond anything he could handle alone. His phone battery icon indicated half full, but it couldn’t locate a strong signal. One chunk out of five, then none. The signal bar kept flashing on and off. Not a good enough to make a call. He’d have to send a text and pray it would get through eventually. He began tapping on the screen.
“Have located P.L., #5 Via Batista. Must stop Inet transmissions. Urgent. Bring force.”
He touched the “send” button and hoped for the best. If the message didn’t go through immediately, it might when he got out from behind the house. As he was about to move back toward the street, the sounds of a struggle came from the kitchen. On his hands and knees, he returned to the house, and peeked through the sheer curtains. The stocky South African — what was his name? Tony — marched the Lama into the kitchen. When the Tibetan sat down, Conti saw the automatic pistol in the mercenary’s hand. Skinhead was arranging the computer so that its camera pointed at the young man. A Mac, of course. Conti almost laughed.
“O.K., let’s get on with it. The sooner we get this done, the sooner the money will be waiting for us in Switzerland. I can see those topless models waiting for us on the beach in Rio.” Skinhead cackled. He unfolded a paper and handed it to the Lama.
“Here’s your little speech. Just a paragraph, but I need you to say it like you really mean it. Show us what you think of those Chinese bastards. They held you in jail for what, twenty-five years, right? This is your chance to get back at ‘em.” He turned to his partner and smirked. “Coulda been a goddamn movie director, couldn’t I, Tony? O.K. Lights, camera, action!”
“I won’t do it.”
Skinhead’s smirk turned into a black glare. “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, monkey boy. You’ll do it or we’ll bring your little whore down here and get her … involved.”
“I won’t betray my country.”
“What are you talking about? Which one? The Chinese have been pushing you yak jockeys around for fifty years. You gonna let them keep doing that?”
“They will kill my people if we rebel.”
Skinhead’s voice turned hard. “Fuck all. I’m not gonna argue with you. Tony, get the woman. I’ll find a knife.”
Conti could see where this was going. The Lama would never be able to resist. He chanced another glimpse to get the layout of the kitchen. The Panchen Lama sat alone at the small kitchen table, a wild look in his eyes. Skinhead searched through a drawer of cooking utensils. Tony came back into the room, shoving Li Huang in front of him. She fell to the floor, but immediately stood up, defiant. Skinhead grabbed her arm and held a corroded butcher knife in front of her.
“Don’t do what they want,” she cried.
“Oh, that’s the way we’re going to play it,” Skinhead said. “O.K., then.” With a swift, almost imperceptible, motion, he brought up the blade and swiped it across her face. Blood oozed from a two-inch slash across her porcelain cheek.
“Leave her alone! I’ll do it.” The young man’s voice shook with anger and fear.
“Thought you’d see reason.” The hoodlum threw Li Huang to the ground. “Now, stay there and you won’t get cut again.” The young woman sat on the floor and held her hand over the wound, blood flowing between her fingers.
Skinhead went back to the computer, refocused it, and pushed some keys. “Ready. Now read!”
Conti reached for the Beretta. He’d have only one chance. Tony was
holding the automatic at his side. He took careful aim through the diaphanous curtain and pulled the trigger, the sound of the shot barely penetrating his concentration. The fabric of the South African’s shirt tore, blood spurted from of his arm and his pistol clattered to the ground. His mouth contorted in a scream. Conti was through the window before his target crumpled to the floor.
“Hands out in front of you, where I can see them. Get up, you two,” he shouted to the Lama and Li Huang. “We’re out of here. Now!” He took a step toward the door, then stopped in his tracks. His feet wouldn’t move. Staring down at his paralyzed legs, he saw a dart sticking through his jeans. Skinhead pulled back the sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal an apparatus strapped to his arm — pointed straight at Conti’s chest.
“Drop the gun. Next one’s aimed at your heart.”
Conti had no choice. He couldn’t lift his hand anyway. His limbs no longer responded to his brain.
29.
Langley, Thursday Noon
Mobley looked down at the carpet as he paced back and forth behind his desk. The nap was crushed in a narrow six-foot long furrow. Had he been in this job long enough to wear a path in the rug? Must be damned cheap material. The phone rang and he leaned over and hit the speaker button.
“Yeah.”
“Burnham is on the line, sir.”
“Put her through.”
“It’s Jill … Burnham.”
“I know who it is, goddamn it! I’ve been grinding my heels down waiting for you to call. What’s going on?”
“Not real clear, sir.” She brought him up to date on the situation since they last talked. “I’m waiting to hear from John. He went to the neighborhood where the police found the South Africans’ car — stolen, by the way — and I haven’t been able to contact him since. That was a couple of hours ago. The cell reception in the hills around Florence is terrible.”
“You shouldn’t have let him out of your sight. He’s not a team player.”
“I stayed to work with the Italians to see if we could trace the bad guys electronically.”
“And?”
“Nothing yet.”
Mobley heard a sharp knock on the door and looked up to see an agitated James McCullough stride into his office. The Congressional Liaison slapped his hand on the Director’s desk. “The shit has hit the fan!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Mobley barked. “You can’t just come barging in here.”
“Turn on your computer! Here’s the website.” He handed Mobley a ragged sheet of notebook paper.
Mobley threw the paper back at him. “Turn it on yourself. And while you’re at it, tell me what’s going on.”
McCullough stood up straight and took a deep breath. “The Panchen Lama just made a statement. It’s lighting up the Internet. Apparently they managed to get it through the Chinese firewalls. And the BBC and television networks in Asia have picked it up too.”
“What’d he say?”
“See for yourself.” McCullough’s fingers danced over the keyboard and, in a few seconds, they watched as the Panchen Lama, face drawn but voice strong, appeared, staring into a camera. He spoke in English, then translated each sentence into Tibetan: “My fellow citizens of the sovereign nation of Tibet. I am the eleventh incarnation of the Panchen Lama. The criminal Chinese government kidnapped me in 1987 and has held me incommunicado ever since. One week ago, with the help of Tibetan loyalists, I escaped. I am now outside China. I call on all Tibetan patriots to fight the Chinese occupation with whatever resources are available to you. Although violence is not our way, force must be answered with force. In support of you, my people, we will carry out an offensive against Chinese property in Tibet. Our first attack destroyed a power station on the Yangtze River. The next is taking place as I speak. Such demonstrations will continue until the gangster Chinese regime withdraws its military and police forces from our country. Now is the time of liberation for which we have all waited and prayed.”
The screen went black. Then a message in red letters in Tibetan filled the screen.
“Did you hear that, Burnham?” Mobley asked.
There was a slight crackling on the phone line. “Enough to get the picture,” she responded. “That’s sure to cause riots. Or worse.”
Mobley’s assistant slipped into the office and handed him a printout. The Director emitted a low, guttural sound before speaking, “Message from the Situation Room. Explosions in Zangmu. Wherever the hell that is.”
30.
Beijing, Friday Morning
Wang Guo-Li brushed the pork bun crumbs off his suit as the car sped toward his office in the Politburo headquarters near the Forbidden City. He preferred this old Hongqi limousine, a slightly modified Lincoln Town Car, to the newer models from the First Automobile Works, which were actually rebadged Audis. The Audis were better mechanically, but they gave the distasteful impression that one was trying to compete with the arrogant rich in their Ferraris, Bentleys and Maybachs. Money. China was all about money now. Even his old comrades sent their children abroad with an extra suitcase. Every time his section searched the luggage of a dukuan — a millionaire, or one of his children studying abroad — it was full of yuan, not underwear. And his colleagues wouldn’t do anything about it because everyone was a little bit guilty of the same thing.
He lit a cigarette as he exited the elevator into the large reception area outside his office. A porter in a brown jumpsuit had just finished cleaning the Plexiglas cases that stood between the elevator and his assistant’s desk. Like his car, Wang’s displays were different from those of the other party bigwigs. While they showcased mock-ups of new dams, factories, or airports, Wang had borrowed relics from the Museum of the First National Congress — an old Colt pistol carried by Mao on the Long March, Zhou En Lai’s reading glasses, and a set of miniature, hand-painted sketches — the finalists from the 1949 competition to select the flag for the new People’s Republic of China.
He sat at his desk, rubbing his chin as his assistant appeared in the doorway. “What is it?”
“General Bo Li-Fan returning your call.”
Wang grunted. Bo was the military commander of the Chengdu district, which included the Tibet Autonomous Region. As Chair of the Central Military Commission, Wang felt free to communicate directly with District Commanders. Some of the Generals on the Commission didn’t like this, but there wasn’t much they could do about it.
Wang barked “Busy now. Will call him back in ten minutes.” He stood up slowly, rubbing his left hip, where shrapnel from the glorious 1978 invasion of Vietnam still pained him, then limped toward the elevator, muttering to his assistant, “Going for a walk. My hip is bothering me.”
Ten minutes later, he was sitting on a bench watching the swans glide through the morning mist on the glassy surface of a lake. It was the most serene spot in all Beijing, even more so than the adjacent Forbidden City itself. The Party had, of course, appropriated the most beautiful part of the city for its own purposes.
He searched his pockets for his mobile, the one he’d bought privately on one of his monthly visits to Shanghai, and dialed General Bo’s number.
Without preliminaries, Bo said, “Things are very hot down here. You have heard about the Zangmu bomb?”
“Of course I have,” Wang replied. “We get the news occasionally here in Beijing. What do you plan to do about it?”
“As we discussed …”
Wang cleared his throat and interrupted the General. “I do not remember discussing this situation with you.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Bo said nervously, “No, of course not. My memory is playing tricks. So many things happening at once. Forgive me.”
“No problem. Tell me.”
The General began again. “My plan is to move three battalions to the outskirts of the capital, Lhasa. They will board the train in Sichuan later this morning and should be there by early tomorrow. If the fraudulent Panchen Lama is not caught and does not retract his
statement within forty-eight hours, we will move on the city in force, imposing martial law, subject to the appropriate orders from Beijing, of course.”
“And?”
“And we will use whatever force is necessary to put and end to the Tibetan splittist faction.”
“Good. But do it after twenty-four hours, not forty-eight. I will make sure you get the orders.” Wang disconnected, then dialed another number.
“I hope I find you well this morning, General Sun.” Sun was in charge of the General Staff Intelligence Department, which came within Wang’s responsibilities as overseer of the People’s Liberation Army. He was also the son of an old colleague from Cultural Revolution days and one of the few people Wang trusted completely. “What is the latest information on this Panchen Lama imposter?”
“Some progress, Uncle.” General Sun wasn’t actually a blood relative but he was closer than any of Wang’s actual nephews, useless social climbers. “My people have located him in rural Italy north of Rome and are closing in.”
Wang grunted his satisfaction. “Have any of the other members of the Steering Committee communicated with you today?” The Steering Committee was made up of the most powerful members of the Politburo.
“Yes, Comrade Leong called a few moments ago.”
“What did he want?”
Leong was Wang’s biggest rival, a constant irritant. He had charge of the Ministry of State Security, which controlled foreign embassies and the civilian intelligence department.
“He said the Steering Committee would discuss the Panchen Lama situation later today and that he would get back to me. He said he wanted to make sure that his people and our people were working hand-in-hand. I put him off.”
The Italian Mission Page 11