“And?”
“I would like to know what transpired at that meeting. But I understand that your military security people are holding him incommunicado. Zheng reports to me, not you.”
Wang’s expression remained impassive. “Zheng initiated an unauthorized contact with the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. The Embassy security people have suspected for some time that he has had a clandestine relationship with the Americans. We took him into custody to question him about this — he’ll be held until our investigation of his activities is complete, at which time you will receive a full report.”
“That is convenient for you, is it not, Comrade Wang?”
“Convenient?”
“You are trying to ensure that he will not pass on to me or to the Steering Committee any information he may have learned from the American.” Leong stepped forward and leaned over Wang’s desk, pointing his finger at the older man’s chest. “What are you afraid of?”
“Certainly not you,” Wang growled.
Leong spun on his heel and stalked out of the office.
At the Chinese Embassy in Washington, the security guards showed Zheng into a windowless room. Now back at the Embassy, they were diffident, as if suddenly realizing the magnitude of what they’d done. They politely searched his person, putting wallet, phone, appointment book, and cigarettes onto the metal table in the center of the room.
“My cigarettes? Surely you aren’t going to take them. Do you think I will burn my way out of here?”
“My apologies Mr. Ambassador, but we have orders to take custody of all personal items.”
“There is nothing personal about those cigarettes,” Zheng replied. “Except that they are unfiltered. Unless you want me to climb the walls, I’d suggest you leave them here.”
The two men exchanged glances, and the older one handed the soft Gitanes pack back to Zheng. They placed the rest of the articles in a cloth bag and left the room, locking the door behind them.
Zheng collapsed onto the room’s only chair. Were they going to interrogate him? He doubted it. There was no one at the Embassy who had the nerve to take him on directly. Wang would have to send someone specifically for the task from Beijing. That would take at least a day. He shook a cigarette out of the pack, lit it, and examined the room. It was a storeroom, empty except for a few boxes of computer paper and office supplies. No cameras as far as he knew, but he stood up and walked around the perimeter examining the walls, just in case. When he’d satisfied himself that the room wasn’t bugged, he took the cigarette pack out of his pocket and checked it. The memo that Mobley had given him was still there, tucked into the back of the pack between the cellophane and paper layers. Fortunately, they’d allowed him to smoke on the short trip back to the Embassy.
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.”
“Good. The bastard.” The Chinese woman grimaced. She picked up the Uzi.
“We’d better get inside. The others may be here any second.” He called the Lama, and the three of them went inside the house. They found Jill tied to a kitchen chair.
“Where are the rest?” Conti asked.
“In the cooler.”
Conti removed the chair wedged against the handle of a walk-in refrigerator and opened the door. Pio, Lad, the two Chinese soldiers and the cooking school students came out, rubbing their hands together and blowing on them. “Damn!” Lad exclaimed, “Cold in there. What’s going on?”
“Cho saved my skin,” Conti told them as he untied Jill. “How’d you get loose?” he asked Cho, noticing the rope coiled on the floor next to another chair.
The Chinese woman’s lips curled in a slight smile. “We Asians are very clever with our hands. I read that in the Wall Street Journal.”
“Where are the other South Africans?” Jill asked.
“Don’t know,” Conti replied. “For some reason, they didn’t chase us. But I don’t think they’ve given up. We have to get out of here. Where the hell’s the Navy?”
“Give me your phone and I’ll find out.” Jill took the mobile and dialed Mobley’s number. After she briefly described the situation, she asked about the helicopter, frowning as he gave her a lengthy answer.
“Well?” Conti asked when she hung up.
“Mechanical problems. Had to return to the base to get another bird. Mobley says they’re close now. No more than fifteen minutes away.”
“Let’s hope he’s right.” Lad had drifted over to the window and was looking out. “The South Africans are climbing back into their copter. We’re in deep shit.”
“What do you mean?” Jill asked.
“Those metal cans hanging off the side of the copter aren’t for trash. They’re missile pods. A couple of Hellfires would blow this house into a parallel universe.”
52.
Beijing, Sun
day Morning
The Steering Committee members slowly filtered into the conference room, mumbling greetings to each other. Leong headed for Chairman Li, who, standing at the window stroking his wispy gray beard, resembled a washed out watercolor of Confucius.
“The sunrise over the lake is one of my favorite views in Beijing,” Li said.
“And are you here to see it every morning?” asked Leong.
“Of course. I always arrive around this time, after my morning Tai Chi practice. You young men sleep too much. It saps your energy.”
“Perhaps,” Leong responded, not wanting to argue with the old man.
Li turned and addressed the room. “Everyone seems to be here — in body if not in spirit. Please take your seats. I apologize for calling a meeting on Sunday morning, but developments in Tibet require it.”
When everyone was seated, he continued. “As some of you may not yet know, late last night the Tibetan rebels occupied the Potala Palace. That is where the leaders of the movement have gathered. They have also taken over several other monasteries, but the Potala is the most significant. As long as they control it, the rebels will gain strength and resolve. Comrade Wang tells us these people are not just harmless monks. Some have modern weapons. He believes the time has come to take decisive action.” He nodded at Wang, “Please favor us with your recommendation.”
Wang stood up and looked around the room, anger flashing in his eyes. “The local authorities in Tibet have failed yet again.” He glared at Chen Baojia, head of the People’s Armed Police, a department of the Ministry of State Security. “It is a colossal failure of crisis management, which will require a formal inquiry in the near future. But for now, we must take immediate and resolute steps to restore order in Lhasa. If we do not, all of Tibet, and perhaps other areas of our country where the cancer of ethnic nationalism has spread, will be in full revolt against this government.”
“What do you propose?” Li asked, his voice mild by contrast.
The Italian Mission Page 20