“Let’s see if our CIA friends left us anything useful.” He rummaged through the contents, tossing aside tire chains, dirty blankets, and a radio transmitter emitting a low beeping sound. “Well, if I had any doubt before, I don’t now. The CIA knows exactly where we are. They’ve been tracking us the whole time.”
Under the blankets, he found a nylon daypack containing several aluminum water bottles and energy bars. “This stuff we can use.” He picked up the pack and slung it over his shoulder. Below it was something that looked like an oboe with two short, finned shells clipped to it. “That must be the RPG that Pio used.” He hefted it, mumbling to himself. “Amazing, couldn’t weigh more than five pounds …”
“What?” the Lama walked unsteadily back to where Conti stood, keeping one hand on the car.
“Just marveling at American ingenuity. Let’s get out of here.” Reluctantly, he put the grenade launcher back in the trunk. “It’s going to be unsafe, very soon.”
They started down the line of cypress trees. Within fifty yards, they came to an asphalt drive. A carved wooden sign swung from a wrought iron stanchion surrounded by pink and white bougainvillea blossoms. The sign read, “La Scuola di Cucina Siciliana Marchionessa B. Vogliano, prop.”
46.
Beijing, Saturday Midnight
Wang tried to sit at his desk and focus on the previous day’s intelligence reports, but within seconds he was up again, gazing at the watercolor he’d borrowed from the National Museum — a picture of Yinglong, the fearsome mythical dragon and rain deity, sitting regally atop a waterfall. He lit a cigarette, took two long drags, and crushed the butt into the Ming dynasty bowl that served as his ashtray. The phone on his desk startled him. Wang checked the number, then snatched the handset out of its cradle. “Hsu. What is going on? Is it so difficult to dial the phone?”
“We have been busy tracing the movements of the so-called Panchen Lama, Comrade Wang. But I’m happy to report that we have now pinpointed the precise location. He is in southern Sicily traveling with several American agents. His exact position is eleven miles east of the town of Corleone, at thirty-nine degrees, forty minutes North …”
“I don’t give a damn what his coordinates are. Do you think I’m going to strap on a gun and go after him? The point is, if you know where he is, why haven’t you taken him into custody?”
“We have one of our best operatives, Agent Cho Lin, on this assignment. She is following his car with several well-armed soldiers. She is a highly-decorated…“Why do you insist on telling me things that are completely irrelevant, Hsu? I don’t care if she has the Hero’s Medal …”
“She does.”
“Enough stalling. Patch me through to this Agent Cho.”
“You want to speak to her directly? An agent in the field? But I have seen no formal announcement that you have taken over Comrade Leong’s responsibilities.”
“You’ll see it soon enough, Hsu. Put me through to her — assuming you have sufficient technical expertise to accomplish the task.”
“Certainly, comrade.”
Wang waited, listening to the clicks and tones as the call went through. Finally, a female voice answered.
“Cho?” Wang asked.
“Yes?”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, sir. General Hsu informed me.”
“Alright. Tell me where the target is, and where you are in relation to him.”
“We stopped his vehicle at a roadblock, but when the American in charge was about to hand him over to us, one of your … one of the PLA soldiers caused a subordinate American to become suspicious. He evaded us and drove away with the Lama. We’ve just found his automobile, hidden among the trees several miles down the road, and are about to search the area on foot.”
“What orders has General Hsu given you?”
“Take the Tibetan into custody — avoiding collateral damage, if possible. Once that is accomplished, call the General for further orders.”
Wang ground his teeth and stared out the window for a moment, collecting himself. When he spoke again, it was with an icy calm. “Do you understand that I will be taking over supervision of your Department shortly?”
“General Hsu told me that is a possibility.”
“It’s more than a possibility. The situation in Tibet is deteriorating every minute. As long as this fraudulent monk is alive, there is the possibility he will find a way to communicate with his collaborators in Lhasa, making it all the more difficult to bring these splittists to heel. We must cut off the head of this snake, collateral damage or not. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but ....”
“Do it.” Wang hung up, muttering under his breath, “Fucking Hsu.” He had no confidence in Hsu or his people. The trouble with the younger generation was that they hesitated when they should be taking action. Reluctant to take risks. Part and parcel of the larger problem — people had become too comfortable. They were backing away from complete commitment to revolutionary principles. Leong had a young wife, and two of his children were in graduate school in England; Hsu probably had a condo in Vancouver or Acapulco bought in a relative’s name; and Cho — hadn’t she been vacationing in Italy? A senior intelligence official lounging in the West? Scandalous! No wonder they dithered. He needed to try another approach.
“Get me Ambassador Zheng in Washington,” he growled through the door to his secretary, then fell into a violent coughing fit.
A few minutes later, the call went through. A high-pitched, nasal voice came on the line. “Comrade Wang. Good to hear from you. I understand you are about to receive new responsibilities …”
Wang half-listened as Zheng blathered on. Damned diplomats. They should all be sent to a military training camp for a few weeks. Crawling through the Mongolian mud with a seventy-pound pack would teach them a thing or two. Maybe he would add that to the training program when he took over Leong’s diplomatic corps.
“Are you aware that there is a rebellion going in Tibet, Zheng?”
“I understand there are demonstrations in Lhasa.”
“More than demonstrations —rebellion — and more than just Lhasa. There are problems in other Tibetan cities. And this will soon spread to other ethnic minorities in China if we are not steadfast in our response. So let’s skip the formalities and get down to business. The Americans now have custody of the escaped Tibetan rebel.”
“Is that so, sir? They have so-called Panchen Lama?”
“Yes. The traitorous monk. You are the contact between Leong and the CIA Director, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you have negotiated the repatriation of the traitor in return for a guarantee of his safety and that of the Americans.”
“Yes, sir. And the permission for the Americans to build a Coca-Cola plant near Beijing.”
“Don’t make me laugh, Zheng. Whatever idiotic deal you and Leong cooked up, the situation has changed. We need to deal with the traitor immediately — before he communicates with anyone, either his followers or the Western press. They must hand him over now so we can eliminate this threat.”
“Eliminate.”
“Eliminate. Once and for all.”
“The Americans will not accept that.”
“Are you stupid, Zheng? Or perhaps you think I’m stupid? We’re not going to tell them our plans beforehand. Your job is to convince them to hand him over. Once we’ve taken the necessary measures, you will smooth things over with the Americans. Do you understand?”
“But how will I convince them to hand the young man over?”
“Use your imagination, Zheng. Persuade them. That’s your job, isn’t it? Are you qualified to do your job?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then do it.”
Zheng leaned back in his chair and whistled softly. He frowned at his deputy who had been listening in on the call. “Eliminate? Does that mean what I think it does?”
“I believe so, sir, and may I say that would be a disas
ter for our relations not only with America but most of the developed world. Western governments will not sit idly by if we … terminate … a Tibetan High Lama. The human rights advocates will go ballistic — as will the Western press.”
“I agree. I’d better talk with Mobley. Do we know where he is today?”
“He’s at a Congressional briefing, I believe. Shall I call his office and make an appointment?”
“No, I want to meet him informally. Do you have a good relationship with his deputy?”
“On and off. Right now, it’s on.”
“See if Mobley can meet me at the Sheraton Hotel bar later this afternoon. Perhaps five or so.”
“Yes sir.”
Zheng rubbed his smooth chin. “But I should talk with Leong first. Have we heard anything from him?”
“Not since he took ill. I understand he has been moved out of intensive care but is still under doctor’s orders not be disturbed.”
“Damn the doctor’s orders. He’s still in charge as far as we’ve been told. Get him on the phone.”
47.
Washington, Saturday Afternoon
The bar of the Sheraton was nearly deserted at five o’clock in the afternoon. No business travelers on the weekend, and all the locals who could afford to escape the city in August had already done so. Mobley reached into his back pocket for a handkerchief, unfolded it and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He sank back into the upholstery, breathing heavily. In college he’d been a swimmer, trim and fit, but the years of receptions and lengthy committee meetings had taken their toll.
“Director Mobley, fancy meeting you here.”
Mobley looked up. McCullough. “Damn. You again. I thought you hung out downtown at the Willard or the Capitol Grille with the swells. How’d you find me way up here on Connecticut Avenue?”
“I’m new to this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” McCullough smirked, “but it’s not too hard to track you down. Your big black SUV sitting in the front drive. Kinda obvious, even if the red and blue lights weren’t blinkin’.”
McCullough sat down in the chair across from Mobley and put his feet up on the table.
“You know that’s probably an original Stickley end table you’ve got your shoes on?” Mobley collected American antique furniture. “A hundred years old if it’s a day. Not really meant to be a footstool. Beside the fact that it’s rude as hell.”
“I did not know that,” McCullough answered. “That it’s a — what did you call it? — a Stickley. The furniture at our plantation is mostly eighteenth century. Mother is always buyin’ that Chippendale stuff. Never paid much attention to it myself.” He lit up a cigarette but didn’t move his feet.
Mobley sighed. McCullough made him tired. “I assume you didn’t track me down to chat.”
“It is always nice to shoot the shit with you, suh. But I do have one or two things to discuss. You really should take me to those congressional briefings with you. It would save a lot of trouble.”
“Meaning?”
“The Senators come right out of that room and call me to say everything they didn’t say in the meeting.”
“Oh? I wasn’t aware that those fine gentlemen pulled their punches.”
“They are hacked off. Over this Chinese thing.”
“What would they have us do that we haven’t done already?”
“Make it go away. Before the press finds out that we’re involved. If we’ve got the little pissant Lama, why don’t we just hand him over?”
Mobley noticed that the Chinese Ambassador had entered the room and quietly headed to a booth at the far end of bar. McCullough noticed as well.
“Well, lookie who’s here. What a coincidence. Can I take this as a sign that this mess will be cleaned up in time for me to drive my date down to the Inn at Little Washington tonight? I’ve got the Gamekeeper’s Cottage reserved. She’s got this Lady Chatterley thing. You know, Victorian smock, petticoats and all that …”
“TMI, McCullough.”
The younger man laughed. “Didn’t take ya for a prude, Director.” He knocked cigarette ashes onto the floor. “So, back to our story. Are you and the Ambassador on the same page? Can I tell our friends on the Hill this is being taken care of to the satisfaction of the Chinese?”
Mobley growled. “You can’t tell them a damn thing. Yet. Something fishy is going on here. I intend to find out what it is.”
“This whole thing has been fishy as a farm pond full of bullheads from the start. Panchen Lama gets lifted, or escapes, we don’t know which. NSC is involved. They have a silent partner they never bothered to vet, or even identify. NSC backs out. Chinese go nuts. Riots in Tibet. PLA moves in and starts shooting people in the streets. Somehow, an ex-CIA guy ends up running up and down Italy with the Lama. Yeah, it’s fishy, alright. Have we even found out who’s behind all this yet? The silent partner?”
“I’ve got my suspicions. That’s why I’m going to talk with the Ambassador over there as soon as you clear your sorry ass out.”
“You gonna hurt my feelings, Director. You can’t trust me with a secret? You know I’ve got the highest security clearance.”
“Doesn’t mean you can keep your mouth shut. Now, move. I’ll talk to you later. And, hopefully, you’ll be able to play Oliver tonight.”
“Oliver?”
“Not much of a D.H. Lawrence scholar after all, are you?” Mobley got up and walked toward the back of the bar.
“Hello, Mr. Ambassador. Sorry to keep you waiting. Please don’t get up.” Mobley wedged himself into the opposite side of the booth with effort. “Who do they design these seats for anyway? Fashion models?”
“Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice, Director. We have something urgent to discuss.”
Mobley couldn’t stop sweating. He wriggled out of his suit jacket. “No trouble at all. I’d like to clear up this little problem as much as you would.”
The Ambassador’s mobile rang. He glanced down at the number. “Please excuse me. This call is from my superior, Minister Leong. I must take it. It may help us to straighten out this situation.” He stood up and walked out of the bar into the lobby, holding the telephone to his ear.
Mobley checked his watch. If all was going according to plan, Jill and Conti should be arriving in Palermo about now. They’d hand the Lama over to the Chinese as soon as he confirmed the elements of the deal with the Ambassador. His phone vibrated on the table in front of him. His office.
“Director. Jill Burnham is on the line. She’d needs to talk to you. Says it’s urgent.”
“Why didn’t she call me directly?”
“She says you didn’t answer.”
Mobley snorted. He hadn’t turned his phone ringer back on after the briefing. And he hadn’t felt the vibration in his pocket. Too damn fat. “O.K., put her through.”
“Director?”
“Jill? Are you in Palermo yet?”
“No, sir. We’ve run into a problem.”
“What kind of a problem?”
Mobley listened to Jill with rising anger.
“You’re fucking kidding me. I’ll string Conti up by his nuts. Give me his number.”
“You’re going to call him?”
“Damn right.” He hung up, dialed Conti’s number, and was surprised when he answered.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Who is this?”
“Mobley.”
“Mobley?”
“You heard me. Now tell me what the hell is going on.”
“I believe the Chinese intended to kill the Panchen Lama.”
“That doesn’t mean you can ignore your superiors.”
“I don’t work for the Company any more.”
“You still work for the United States government.”
“For the time being.”
“Look, you arrogant bastard, you’re lucky. You may have done the right thing by accident, which means I probably won’t have to have you cashiered. If y
ou do what I say. We need to get the Lama to Palermo as soon as possible. Stay where you are, and I’ll send a Navy helicopter to pull you out.”
“You know where I am?”
“Of course I do. So don’t try anything stupid.”
“What if the Chinese get here first?”
“I’m about to handle that.” Mobley hoped he wasn’t blowing smoke. “Just keep your head down.” After calling Langley to make the necessary arrangements, he ordered a whiskey. In a few minutes, the Ambassador returned.
“Mr. Mobley. I must talk to you about a delicate matter involving my government.”
Mobley nodded but said nothing.
“Will you promise to keep the information I’m going to give you confidential?”
“I can’t promise that, Mr. Ambassador. I work for the President. But short of him asking me a direct question, I’ll do my best to keep anything you tell me close to the vest.”
“It is the press we are most worried about.” The Ambassador took out a pack of Gitanes and offered Mobley one.
“No, thanks. I imagine my feelings about the press are similar to yours.”
“Alright.” The Ambassador took a long drag, composing his thoughts.
The waitress came by and delivered Mobley’s whiskey. “No smoking in the bar, sir.”
Mobley handed her a twenty, and she left smiling.
“You see,” the Ambassador took another deep drag then stubbed out the cigarette in an empty bread dish, “some in our government suspect that this Tibetan crisis may have been purposely engineered by … well, someone else in our government — specifically the Politburo member who oversees the People’s Liberation Army.”
Mobley listened closely as Zheng detailed his suspicions. When Zheng finished, Mobley simply nodded.
“You aren’t surprised?”
“No.” Mobley drained the whiskey glass in one long swallow. He picked up his suit coat from the banquette beside him, dug a folded sheet of paper out of the breast pocket and slid it across the table to Zheng.
The Italian Mission Page 18