The Italian Mission

by Alan Champorcher

  “What’s this?” The Ambassador asked.

  “Other than me violating about ten of our secrecy regulations?” Mobley’s face twisted into a grim smile. “As I think you know, a former official of our National Security Council had some involvement in the initial … planning to help the Panchen Lama escape from house arrest. When I learned about that, I put a stop to it.”

  “Former official?”

  “Yes, this is a summary of an internal investigation by the NSC of that episode. As a result of this report, the officer in question was reassigned — to a base in Diego Garcia where he can’t cause any more trouble.”

  The Ambassador unfolded the paper and quickly scanned the contents. He whistled softly. “May I keep this?”

  Mobley nodded. “Be careful how you use it. I’m not ready to retire yet.”

  The Ambassador puffed out his cheeks and slowly exhaled through pursed lips. “Of course, you understand that this information will have a profound effect on my government?”

  “That’s why I gave it to you.”

  Mobley heard loud voices behind him speaking Chinese, and turned to see two Embassy guards coming toward their booth. The leader addressed the Ambassador, ignoring Mobley. “Mr. Ambassador, you must come with us.”

  “According to whom?” the little man asked.

  “We have received orders from Beijing to take you back to the Embassy immediately.”

  “And if I won’t go?”

  The man grabbed his arm and began to pull him from the booth. The Ambassador slid the sheet of paper into his pocket, shook off the hand, and spoke sharply to the men in Chinese, then to Mobley in English. “Rather than make a scene, I will go with them. Thank you for the … insights into the current situation.”

  Mobley waited a moment, then walked out of the bar, through the lobby door, and signaled to his driver. As he watched, the black Town Car carrying the Ambassador sped down the hotel driveway, and turned onto Connecticut Avenue, racing back to the Chinese Embassy.

  48.

  Mobley’s ride, a black, armored Ford Expedition, swung into the entrance drive and he scrambled into the back seat. He immediately picked up the car phone and dialed Jill’s number.

  “Where to?” his driver asked.

  “The office. Fast.” The call connected. “Burnham?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you anywhere near Conti? Do you have support?”

  “Two of our guys are with me. We’re walking in the direction John drove. Don’t know where he went, so I don’t know how far away we are.”

  “You’re not far. We’ve got him on the satellite. The car stopped a few miles up the road. Get there as fast as you can. He was right about the Chinese planning to kill the Lama. Well one of them anyway.”

  “One of them?”

  “Yeah. Just met with their Ambassador. He says there’s a split in the Chinese leadership. I don’t have time to explain it all but one of the Steering Committee members — Wang is his name …”

  “Wang Guo-Li, old line military. The only Maoist left. Anti-American.”

  Mobley grabbed the armrest with his free hand as the Explorer sped down the ramp onto Rock Creek Parkway. “That’s the guy. He’s making a play for control of the government, and this whole manufactured crisis in Tibet is part of his strategy. Apparently. Wang’s the one who arranged the Lama’s escape so he would have an excuse for a show of military strength in Tibet — now he wants to eliminate the evidence.”

  “Jesus …makes sense though. We’ve been hearing reports for some time that Wang was on the way out. I suppose this was his last ditch effort to stay in power.”

  “Not was, Jill, is. While I was talking with the Ambassador, two Chinese security guys showed up and took him away. Wang is still a player. The Ambassador thinks the Panchen Lama may be the key to who comes out on top in Beijing.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. We’d better get to Conti as we soon as we can. I’m going to hang up and start running.”

  “Good. I’ve sent a helicopter, but it won’t get there for at least an hour.”

  Jill shoved the phone into the pocket of her cargo pants and began jogging up the road. Pio and Lad fell in step next to her without asking questions. After fifty yards, she began speaking between gulps of air. “Looks like Conti was … right. The Chinese soldiers may be … trying to kill the Lama. We need … to get there first. Mobley says their car is only a couple of miles ahead.”

  The three of them settled into a jog, Lad holding back so the other two could keep pace. “Go ahead if you can,” she told him. He shifted into another gear and, within minutes, disappeared up the road, leaving only a trail of dust. As Jill and Pio labored up a small rise, a two-stroke engine sputtered behind them. They turned to see two teenagers on an ancient Vespa. Jill turned and waved her arms frantically until the boys stopped.

  “Hi. We need …” she gasped to catch her breath, “to borrow your scooter. We’ll give you twenty euro and leave it up the road ahead. It is a very big emergency.” She gestured at Pio, who repeated the same thing in Italian.

  The teenagers spoke to each other briefly before answering.

  “What do they say?” Jill asked Pio.

  “They can’t give it to us. It’s their uncle’s.”

  “Tell them forty euro.”

  Pio relayed this and the two consulted each other again, then answered.

  Pio translated. “No. They’re late for soccer practice.”

  Jill took off a ring, a small diamond that she’d bought as consolation when she found herself alone on her thirty-fifth birthday. “How about this? It’s worth five thousand dollars at least. I promise we’ll leave the scooter up the road when we’re finished with it, and you can keep the ring. Sell it, or ask your girlfriend to marry you!”

  The two boys didn’t wait for a translation. They jumped off, snatched the ring, and rolled the Vespa toward Pio, who held the handlebars as Jill climbed onto the back of the seat. Pio pushed the Vespa until the engine caught, then climbed on and gunned the little motor. The scooter labored to the top of the rise, then picked up speed as the weight of the two riders carried it downhill. In five minutes, they caught up with Lad, bent double beside the wrecked Alfa catching his breath.

  At the top of the hill overlooking the road, Conti staggered up to the door of the cooking school, the Panchen Lama’s arm draped over his shoulder. He sat his limp companion against the doorframe and knocked. A tall, thin man in his thirties answered the door. “May I help you?” he asked in English.

  Momentarily taken aback by the American accent, Conti answered, “Yes, please. My friend here is not well. We’ve been in an automobile accident. We need water and a place to rest until we can be … evacuated.” Aware of how strange this sounded, Conti rephrased it, “until our friends can pick us up.”

  “Senora Vogliano has gone into town to pick up some ingredients. I’m not sure...” The man looked down at the Lama, head drooping onto his bloodstained shirt. “But we can’t leave him outside in this condition, can we?”

  The two men lifted the little Tibetan by his arms and helped him into an old farm kitchen, updated with a massive stainless steel range and polished brass pans hanging from hooks on the walls. They sat him on a stool next to the empty hearth.

  “Well!” the young man said. “I’m Matt, and this…” pointing to a younger man in a heather-toned cashmere sweater standing in front of the stove, “is my partner, Drew. We’re from New York. And these good people …” he pointed to a middle aged couple busily cutting vegetables on a sideboard, “are the Maldonados. They’re from Buenos Aires.” The two of them looked up and smiled. “They don’t speak much English.”

  Conti went to the sink and drew a glass of water, then held it while the Panchen Lama drank. “Thanks very much for taking us in.” He decided to be more forthcoming in case they needed more help later. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m with the U.S. government — here on a matter of considerable importance t
o our country. We may be being … well, pursued, by agents of another government.”

  Matt put his hand over his mouth and gasped, “I interned at the CIA. Is that who you’re with?”

  Conti couldn’t help but smile. “No. State Department. But that doesn’t really matter. It’s critical that I get this fellow,” he pointed to the Lama nodding in the chair, “safely to Palermo. A Navy helicopter should be here in to pick us up within the hour.”

  “Wow!” Drew looked up from his sauté pan and spoke for the first time.

  They were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. A few seconds later a woman’s voice cried in Chinese-accented English, “Open up!”

  Matt looked at Conti, who held one finger up to his lips. The pounding resumed, this time accompanied by a man’s deep, more heavily accented voice. “Open or we will break it down!”

  Conti lifted the Panchen Lama out of the chair and walked him into the adjoining room, pointing at the door and whispering, “Go ahead. Answer it. You haven’t seen us.”

  Matt went to the door and opened it. “May I help you?”

  Agent Cho, poised on tiptoes on the stoop, craned her neck to look over his shoulder. “We are looking for two men. One of them needs medical treatment urgently. We are here to pick him up and take him to a doctor. Have you seen them?”

  “No we haven’t. This is a cooking class. We’re making lasagna with béchamel sauce.” Matt held up a soup spoon. Want to taste?”

  “Do you object if we look into the other rooms?” Cho asked.

  “I’m afraid I do,” he replied. “You see. This isn’t my house. It’s a cooking school and the proprietor is not here. I can’t let you in without her permission.”

  Cho turned and spoke to the two men behind her, then stepped aside. The largest one walked toward Matt, holding a rifle across his chest. When the American refused to yield, the soldier gave him a shove and entered the kitchen, followed by Cho. A scrambling noise came from the adjoining room. Cho looked suspiciously at the others. “I’m going to ask you again, and I expect the truth. Did two men come here, one an American and the other Asian?”

  Matt narrowed his eyes and scowled at her, but said nothing. He took several steps backward and planted himself, feet apart, in the doorway to the adjoining room, arms crossed on his chest. Cho turned to the soldier and said something in Chinese. He strode across the room and slammed his rifle into the American’s chest, knocking him sprawling to the ground. As the soldier stepped over the fallen man, Drew picked up his heavy iron skillet, took two long strides, and brought it down on the back of the Chinese soldier’s head. Sautéed mushrooms, onions, and droplets of blood flew into the air.

  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 the 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.”