The Italian Mission

by Alan Champorcher

  They arrived at the airport through a back gate in a chain link fence. The three vehicles drove onto the airfield. Jill noticed that that a green pick-up truck had driven through the gate behind the motorcade, then veered off among the tow tugs, cargo tractors, and luggage carts of the airport’s maintenance yard. The little procession drove slowly out to the end of what appeared to be an abandoned runway, weeds poking through cracks in the crumbling asphalt. A two-engine Beechcraft with a faded blue and white paint job sat taking on fuel.

  “Good.” Tipalongo said, mostly to himself. Then to Jill he confided, “We relayed the South Africans’ message about the rendezvous, but I was not certain the pilot would show up. They must be a well-disciplined group.”

  The police car pulled to within twenty yards of the plane and stopped, followed by the other three vehicles. Palladino was the first out. He stood alongside his car, covering the Fiat with an automatic pistol as Skinhead and the others climbed out. When all the cars had emptied, Tipalongo strode forward to address the kidnappers and the hostages.

  “The five of you will now board the airplane. The control tower has cleared you for take-off. The arrangement,” he looked squarely at Conti now, “is that the three of you will fly with these men to Tripoli, Libya, where you will be released.”

  He shifted his penetrating gaze to Skinhead. “Italian air traffic control will be monitoring your flight and any communications you make. Italian and Chinese authorities will meet you when you land. If you have made no unauthorized radio transmissions and the hostages are released unharmed, you will be free to go.” His voice dropped a tone. “If anything happens to these people — he nodded in the direction of the Lama and Conti — you will be taken into custody — if you are fortunate. We have cleared this plan with the Libyan authorities and they have pledged not to interfere. Do you understand?”

  Skinhead nodded but said nothing.

  “Do you understand?” Tipalongo spoke louder, in a menacing tone.

  “Yes,” growled Skinhead, still holding the Lama between himself and Palladino’s gun.

  “Good. Now, as we agreed, to ensure that you do not send any information to your … accomplices during the course of the flight, you will hand over your electronic equipment, computers, telephones, and files.”

  Skinhead shrugged off the knapsack and heaved it at Palladino’s feet.

  “That’s the lot.”

  Palladino grabbed the bag, opened it, then nodded at Tipalongo, who said, “Now take off your clothes and shoes. All of you.”

  “What? Are you daft?” Skinhead cried.

  Tipalongo ignored him. “My apologies Ms. Li, but this is necessary to ensure that nothing is hidden on anyone’s person. Please do as I say.”

  Slowly, the South Africans and the hostages peeled off their shirts, pants, and shoes. Tony struggled to undress while holding the large knife next to Conti’s spine. Li Huang turned her back to the others and sought some privacy behind the wing of the airplane.

  “Everything.” Tipalongo demanded.

  Jill turned away as they stripped down to the skin.

  “Throw the clothes over here.”

  They did so and Palladino opened the back door of his car and pulled out five orange jumpsuits. He tossed them to the naked group, who fumbled with the zippers before stepping into them.

  “Please board the aircraft.” Tipalongo’s commanding tone made the request an order.

  As this was going on, Jill surveyed the surrounding area. She heard noises coming from behind the large maintenance hangar nearby. Walking back toward the gate, she looked around the corner of the hangar and saw two men unloading equipment from the pick-up. Oddly, here in the center of Italy, they looked Asian. As the plane began to taxi down the runway, she crept closer to the truck, flattening herself against the wall. When she reached the far corner of the hangar, she had a good view of the men. One was hoisting a gray cylinder onto his shoulder, while the other sat on a small campstool beside some sort of control panel, a joystick in his hands. She didn’t know much about armaments, but this had to be a surface-to-air missile.

  She scuttled along the back wall to the other corner where she could see the plane on the runway. It had taxied down to the opposite end, turned around, and revved its engines, preparing to take off in the direction from which it had come. Using the engine noise as cover, she moved back around the hangar and crouched behind the pick-up. The two men were deep in concentration, watching the plane as it picked up speed and its wheels lifted off the tarmac. Jill leaned around the truck, then jumped back when a flame shot out the back of the cylinder. She watched in horror as a missile launched out of the muzzle, flew in what seemed to be slow motion for the first fifty feet, then rose on the same trajectory as the plane. After a moment of wild panic, she realized that the man sitting on the ground was controlling it with the joystick.

  She jumped out from behind the truck and threw herself at his back, knocking him over. The joystick tumbled to the ground. Jill kicked it as hard as she could, dislodging the wires connecting it to the computer — then screamed for help at the top of her lungs.

  36.

  Conti sat sideways in the small rear seat of the plane to lessen the pressure on his wrist, handcuffed behind his back to the seat frame. Tony sat next to him, studying the bandage on his left forearm. His right held a black Vektor pistol from the plane’s arsenal. In the two seats facing them, Li Huang and the Panchen Lama, also cuffed to their seats, held hands. Conti felt the thrust of the single engine press his left shoulder against the seat as the plane picked up speed and lifted off. Leaning close to the cool window, he surveyed the ground. Would he ever see the Piazza del Duomo again? He had little faith in the deal that had been struck. Yes, they would fly to North Africa. But then anything could happen. Libya was in a state of near anarchy. The Chinese would feel no constraints there. They might very well come after the Panchen Lama, guns blazing. If necessary, they’d take out the South Africans too, deal or no deal. And they might find it convenient to do away with the whole lot ….

  A flare on the ground interrupted his thoughts. He squinted to see where it had come from. Two men, one holding something on his shoulder. As he watched, a contrail streaked toward the plane. He ducked involuntarily, preparing for impact. At the last second, the missile veered off, plunged toward the ground, and exploded in a cloud of smoke and flame a few hundred feet below. What the hell was going on?

  He glanced around the cabin. No one else had noticed. In the front seat, Skinhead chatted with the pilot. Beside him, Tony was still preoccupied with his wound. The Lama and Li Huang had their eyes closed.

  His mind churned. As far as he could tell, only the Chinese had anything to gain by shooting the plane down. From a Machiavellian point of view, it made sense. Eliminate the Panchen Lama before he caused any more trouble. The Lama would be an embarrassment if they brought him back to China, wouldn’t he? The world human rights community wouldn’t rest until he was released. And the Tibetans would be difficult to pacify as long as he was alive. The cleanest solution was to make him disappear. Eventually things would calm down. Most importantly, a dead Panchen Lama couldn’t interfere in the choice of the next Dalai Lama. If the Chinese had risked taking down the plane at a high profile Italian airfield, what would they do when it landed in Tripoli?

  He kept watch on his captor out of the corner of his eye. The heat in the cabin and the droning engine were taking their toll. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Tony stopped fidgeting. His head lolled forward, eyelids flickering as he struggled to stay awake. Conti folded his left arm behind his back, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his wrist, so he could sit facing forward. He moved his right hand on to his knee and took several deep breaths, as quietly as possible. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he brought has right fist up and back as hard as he could against the bridge of Tony’s nose, pushing the cartilage back into his skull. Droplets of blood spurted out of the South African’s nostrils
and seemed to hang the air. Skinhead responded instantly to Tony’s scream. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he turned and tried to crawl backwards over his seatback. Too late. Conti had the Vektor.

  “Stop! Back in your seat.” he yelled, pointing the pistol at the South African’s forehead.

  “Not likely,” Skinhead responded. He put his left arm around Li Huang’s neck and with his right hand searched through the plane’s center console.

  “Get your hand out of there or I’ll shoot.”

  Skinhead used Li Huang as a shield, and continued to search for a gun.

  “Last warning.” Conti’s tone was calm. He raised the pistol to eye level and took careful aim. Li Huang was too small to protect the South African. Skinhead’s right arm, shoulder, and half of his face were still in the line of fire. When the hand emerged from the console gripping something metallic, a sharp report echoed through the small cabin. A look of dismay crossed Skinhead’s face as a small hole appeared in his shoulder. His arm went limp and he dropped the pistol back into the console.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “Sit down and face the front! Next one’s in the head. Can’t miss from this distance.”

  The pilot stole a glance over his shoulder. Conti barked out orders. “Keep your eyes forward. Hands on the yoke. I’ll shoot you, too. I can fly this plane — doesn’t matter to me if you’re alive or dead.” The pilot said nothing, and turned back toward the front.

  Conti considered the situation. He had to get the handcuffs off his people and onto the South Africans. Then he’d figure out what to do next, although he already knew that the plane must never cross the Mediterranean. On the other side, they’d find only anarchy, and anarchy wasn’t their friend.

  Skinhead turned back onto his seat, holding his hand up to the wound in his shoulder and cursing. Tony leaned against the window, blood streaming from his nose, unconscious.

  Conti addressed Li Huang and the Lama, who’d slumped down in their seats when the shooting started, holding on to each other with their free hands. “O.K., we need to find the keys to these cuffs. Tony has them. I’ve only got one hand and it’s holding the gun, so one of you has to reach across and go through his pockets.”

  “I’ll do it,” the Panchen Lama stretched out his free arm toward the South African, catty-corner from him, but couldn’t quite reach.

  “Let me try,” Li Huang shouted over the engine noise. From her seat directly across from Tony, she knelt down and reached across to him. As she touched the top of his pocket, he jerked awake and grabbed her wrist. She twisted her arm violently, freed it, and chopped expertly at his Adam’s apple with the edge of her hand. Tony gurgled and slumped back into the seat. Li Huang searched first one pocket, then the other, producing a key ring. She found the right key and released her arm, then freed the other two. Conti dragged Skinhead, now barely conscious from blood loss, into the back compartment, handcuffed his right arm to the rear seat post, then crawled into the front seat and pointed the pistol at the pilot.

  “O.K. now we need to find a place to land.”

  “Tripoli is only about an hour away.” The pilot responded, glancing at the pistol.

  “Not going there. In fact, we’re not going to Africa at all. We’re going to bring this thing down before we cross the Med. Where are we now?”

  “Just coming over Sicily,” the pilot responded.

  “What are our choices?”

  “Lots of airfields down there. He took one hand off the yoke and made to reach into a compartment in the door, but held his hand still, looking at Conti. “Just getting a map, mate. Don’t get trigger-happy.”

  “O.K.”

  He reached into the compartment, retrieved a folded map, and handed it to Conti. “Take your pick.”

  As Conti unfolded the map, he heard a shout from the back of the plane. Li Huang was pointing to Skinhead, who was sitting up. He’d managed somehow to extract a miniature revolver from somewhere in his clothing and was twisting in his seat to draw a bead on Conti. Two shots fired simultaneously, the ear-splitting noise reverberating through the cabin.

  Conti didn’t have the luxury of aiming for a non-lethal target. His shot thumped point blank into the South African’s chest. He looked around to see where the other bullet had gone, then sighed with relief. None of the other passengers had been hit.

  “Shit!” the pilot exclaimed.

  “What?” Conti asked.

  He pointed out the window. Amber liquid was spurting through a jagged tear in the wing.

  37.

  Jill rolled away from the men with the missile launcher, scrambled to her feet, and sprinted back toward the Italians. As she weaved through the airport maintenance vehicles, she heard an explosion some distance away. Heart pounding, she stole a quick glance upward. The plane still hung in the air, engine buzzing like a large mosquito. Thank God. She peeked backwards. The men weren’t chasing her. Instead, they were tossing their equipment into the back of the pick-up. By the time she got to Tipalongo and Palladino, the green pick-up had peeled out, tires squealing and gravel flying. She fell into Paladino’s arms, panting.

  “What happened?”

  “Didn’t you see it? Those men. They were Asian.” She gulped for air. “Shot a missile at the plane. I think I messed up their aim.”

  Tipalongo’s eyes widened. “That was the explosion we heard! We didn’t see anything. Thank God you did.”

  Jill realized that she was still clinging to Lucca. “Oh, sorry,” she apologized, backing away. Her hands were shaking and she felt faint.

  “It’s O.K. You had a shock. Take some deep breaths and do not try to talk for a moment.” He reached out and held her forearms, steadying her.

  Tipalongo watched the pick-up speed out of the airport gate. “Lucca, have someone follow that truck.” Then he stalked over to the Agent Cho, still sitting in the white van, Jill following on his heels.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asked. “Who are those people?”

  “I have no idea. Why are you asking me?”

  Jill had regained her composure. “They were Asians, probably Chinese.”

  Cho looked at her in dismay. “I swear they weren’t my people. I have no idea who they are.”

  On their way back into town in Tipalongo’s car, Jill asked, “Are the mobile switches back on? I’ve got to call headquarters.”

  “I’ve given the order,” Tipalongo replied, “but it will take some time to get everything back on line.”

  “Yes? What’s going on?” Mobley answered his phone sometime later.

  “They tried to shoot down the plane! The Chinese launched a missile and barely missed!” Jill almost screamed into the phone. “Tell me you didn’t know that was going to happen.”

  There was a momentary silence as Mobley shot a questioning glance at the two men sitting across the table in his private conference room: Plaice, his Deputy Director, along with his Congressional Liaison, who sat placidly chewing on a plastic toothpick. “McCullough, you know anything about this?”

  The tall southerner flicked the toothpick toward the wastebasket. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just what I said. Any analyst worth his salt,” he cast a quick sidelong glance at Plaice, “would have predicted it. They don’t want this Lama guy running around the world causing trouble. Would you in their place?”

  “I didn’t ask you that.” Mobley hissed. “I asked if you knew anything about it.”

  “’Course not,” McCullough answered, adding, under his breath, “I figured they’d wait and shoot him in Tripoli.”

  A disgusted look on his face, Mobley spoke into the futuristic conference phone. “No, we didn’t know. The Chinese aren’t in the habit of telling us their plans. But … thank God they fouled it up.” He surveyed the room. “The question is, what do we do next?”

  “What resources do we have in Libya?” Jill asked.

  Mobley looked at Plaice, who spo
ke hesitantly. “As soon as I heard about this, I contacted our guy in Tripoli. But …”

  “But what?”

  “He’s on leave in Bahrain. Can’t get back until tomorrow. Our other assets in Libya are local contractors. These constant budget cuts …. There’s no one capable of stopping the Chinese if they’re determined to take definitive action at the airport.”

  “Did you hear that?” Mobley addressed the speaker phone in the middle of the table. He could hear Jill having a side conversation with the Italians.

  “I did,” she replied after a moment, “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got bigger problems.”

  “What?”

  “Italian air traffic control just called. They lost the plane somewhere over Sicily. They think it went down.”

  “Jesus,” the Director muttered. “What the hell else can happen? We’ve got people in Sicily, right?” he asked his Deputy.

  “Yeah, in Palermo.”

  “O.K., Burnham. Get to Palermo. Charter a plane if you have to. We’ll send you the name of your contact. He’ll meet you at the airport. Then we’ll talk.”

  After he hung up, Mobley addressed the others. “Any recommendations?”

  McCullough spoke first. “Get the hell out of the middle of this, as I’ve been telling y’all for days. It is now officially a no-win situation. If the press finds out that an American agent is involved, they’ll be after us like a bluetick hound on a ‘coon. The human rights lobby will murder us if the Chinese snatch the Lama. The China lobby will kill us if they don’t. We need to get our people out and deny any involvement. I can keep a lid on the Hill as long as the press doesn’t have anything solid to go on.”

  “So we just pull Conti out and let the Chinese have their way?”