“The PLA now holds strategic points around the city,” Wang said. “At least one of us has done his job. We must take the Potala Palace, that corrosive symbol of Tibetan nationalism, by force, wiping out any opposition.”
“The number of casualties from such a course of action would be completely unacceptable,” Chen Baojia cried, rising to his feet. “It would create decades of bitterness and fear toward the central government.”
Wang sneered at him. “No. What it would do would is end this ceaseless agitation and lead to decades of socialist progress! Do you fear these … rustics? Without a head, the snake cannot bite. I say we chop off the head once and for all!”
Leong cleared his throat. “Speaking of the serpent’s head, Comrade Wang, what information can you give us about the so-called Panchen Lama? Some of us believe he may represent an alternative solution to this problem. If we can bring him back to Beijing and convince him to call for calm in Tibet, it may not be necessary to assault the monastery.”
“I’m afraid that is no longer possible, Comrade Leong. Your plan to take him into custody is no longer feasible. The Americans have refused to hand over the traitor. I suspect they were always just playing for time. Time to cause us more trouble. I’ve given the Army the necessary orders to eliminate that threat as well.”
The conference room door opened. An aide slipped in and stood waiting for Wang to finish. When he did, the young man handed Wang a message, bowed and left the room. Wang glanced at the paper, then excused himself.
Back in Washington, Miss Lok neatly arranged the papers on Ambassador Zheng’s desk, making sure the edges were parallel to each other and to the leather blotter. She straightened the pens in the Dragon Boat festival commemorative cup, checking that all ballpoints were retracted. She hated disorder in the office, especially in view of the chaos caused by the Ambassador’s detention.
All at once the emotion she’d kept bottled up flooded out. She collapsed onto the Ambassador’s chair and wept softly into her handkerchief for a few moments. But she knew this wouldn’t do. Perhaps things would return to normal tomorrow. As she wiped the moisture from her eyes, she noticed the tray with the silver water pitcher on the credenza by the door. One more thing to clean up, and she could go home. She carried the tray to the office’s wet bar and lifted the pitcher to empty it. A folded piece of paper stuck to the bottom. As she unfolded and read it quickly, the Ambassador’s words came back to her — “Leong will remedy the situation once he has all the facts.” She ran into the outer office and turned on the fax machine.
Wang stalked out of the conference room, through the reception area, down a flight of stairs, and out into the parking lot. He dialed the number on the piece of paper he’d been given.
“Well?” Wang demanded when Matthis answered. “Is it done?”
“Not quite. We’ve run into some difficulties.”
“What difficulties?”
“The Lama is holed up in a house with the Americans and a Chinese agent. They have weapons and they appear to be working together.”
“And?”
“And the only sure way to get them now is to use air-to-ground missiles from the helicopter. They’ll all be killed.”
Wang hesitated for a moment. The stakes were rising too fast for his liking. Killing a few Americans he could explain. But killing a senior Chinese intelligence agent was something else. He’d have to convince the Committee that she’d fallen in a battle with the Americans over the Lama. He could do that as long as no one was left to testify to the contrary. Eventually, he would have to get rid of the South Africans too, but that was a problem for later.
“Are you sure you can get them all?”
“A couple of missiles should do the trick. Then we’ll go in and clean up any survivors.”
“Go ahead!”
53.
Lad leaned against the sink, and peered out the kitchen window using the night vision binoculars he’d found on the unconscious South African. Darkness had fallen quickly, but the nearly full moon provided some visibility. He watched as the men climbed back into the helicopter. “We’ve got to act now,” he spoke urgently to Conti and Jill.
“And do what?” Jill asked.
“Disable that bird before it gets in the air. What do we have left, Pio?”
The Italian had collected the weapons from the Chinese soldiers and the South African. “An Uzi, two assault rifles and a couple of pistols.”
“Forget the pistols,” Conti said. “They’d be useless at this range. Give me one of the rifles. You and Lad take the others. We’ll scatter in the field out front and take whatever cover we can find. Then we’ll aim at …. What’s the most vulnerable part of a helicopter?”
Lad studied the copter closely. “Hate to tell you this, but I think that’s an Apache with a bad paint job. Where the hell would people like that get an Apache?”
“Where?” Conti replied. “We’ve sold hundreds of them around the world. I’ve seen them myself arms bazaars in Pakistan. So what if it is an Apache?”
“Armored — heavily armored,” Lad answered. “Let’s get going.”
“What should I do?” Jill asked.
“Take the pistols,” Conti said. Pio handed the remaining weapons to Jill and Cho. “When we go out the front, you take everyone else out the back. Look for someplace to hide at least a hundred yards from the house. If we don’t come back, it’ll be up to you to protect the Lama.”
The three men ran out the door, fanning out in front of the house. Lad and Conti went to the right, crouching behind an antique farm wagon filled with flowerpots in bloom. Pio went left. Lad gave the signal and they began firing at the helicopter as it rose into the night sky. Conti was surprised to see bright green arcs spitting from the muzzle of his rifle. “What the hell?”
“Chinese tracers,” Lad said. “They use barium, I think.” He kept shooting. The bullets were finding their marks, but causing no visible damage. “Damn it. Even the glass is bulletproof. Aim at the rotor.”
They continued to fire as the helicopter rose ten, fifteen, twenty feet into the air. As soon as it climbed above trees, it rotated slowly until it faced the house. Clouds of smoke shot out backwards from the side pods of the copter. Conti watched, helpless, as two vapor trails headed for the house.
Back in Politburo headquarters, Wang took his seat. “I apologize for the interruption. As I’m sure you all understand, the situation on the ground is very sensitive.”
“Perhaps you would condescend to brief us what the situation is?” Leong asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
“Our agents have successfully terminated the so-called Panchen Lama in a rural area of Sicily. They are still engaged with the Americans. I hope they will be able to extricate themselves without casualties, but, whether they do or not, they have accomplished their mission.”
“So,” Leong rose and paced behind the chairs of his colleagues, “you engineered the escape of the Lama, and have now killed him.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Wang exploded, his face reddening. “That’s an absurd accusation.”
“I have proof!” Leong took the fax from Washington out of his pocket and waved it in front of him. “A summary report of the United States’ National Security Agency on a failed intelligence operation. Let me read you a few pertinent sentences from the conclusion. Quote: ‘The NSC operation to free the authentic Panchen Lama from Chinese house arrest was ill-conceived from the beginning. It was based on a mistaken belief that increased agitation by ethnic nationalists in Tibet would encourage liberalization by the Chinese leadership. Subsequently, in fact, it became evident that a highly-placed Chinese official — most probably Wang Guo-Li, a member of the Central Committee and minister in charge of the Peoples’ Liberation Army — was separately pursuing the same strategy in pursuit of a diametrically opposed outcome.’”
Wang controlled his rage sufficiently to allow him to speak. “You claim to have an internal document from the United States
National Security Agency? And you take it at face value? Ridiculous! This confirms that you are unfit to head our foreign intelligence. So easily deceived! I suppose if the CIA sent you a box of candy, you would feed it to your grandchildren!”
He turned and addressed the other members of the Committee. “We are wasting precious time listening to this nonsense. No doubt, that is exactly what the Americans intended. We must make a decision. The fraudulent Panchen Lama is dead. The leaders of the Tibetan splittists are assembled in the Potala Palace. A forceful strike now will end this travesty. It will send a message to the other ethnic minorities and to the world that China is no longer willing to cringe in the corner while other countries strut like peacocks. May I assume that everyone, with the exception of the gullible Comrade Leong, agrees?”
He surveyed the room. A few members nodded their agreement while the others sat stone-faced.
The missiles punched through the old lava stones of the farmhouse like a stiletto through tissue paper before detonating inside. As Conti watched, the explosions lifted a mass of rubble into the air, then scattered it back on the ground. When the breeze cleared the smoke away, nothing much was left — a pile of stones where the house had been. Although he hadn’t been to church in ten years, he uttered a short prayer, then ran around to the back of the pile.
“Jill! Where are you?”
He listened for a response but heard nothing except the whop-whop-whop of the copter blades heading toward the house. It hovered above the wreckage, searching for survivors. Conti sprinted behind the chicken coop, and saw a pair of wide-open eyes staring at him through a space between the boards. “John! Are you Okay?”
“Yeah. But our friends are still here.”
“Come inside! Quickly.”
“I’m going to try to draw them away.”
“Please, come inside! We’ll all get out of this together or …” the sentence trailed off into an uneasy silence.
“Sorry. I’m expendable. You’re not. You need to protect the guy who holds the future of Tibet in his hands — not to mention the Chinese government. If I don’t see you again … I never appreciated you enough when I had the chance.”
Before Jill could respond, he was gone, running across the field where the South Africans couldn’t help but see him. He dived into a small grove of trees and hid behind the trunk of a large oak as bullets shredded the leaves around him. In a minute, they’d fire a missile in his direction. What had Lad said? — rotors were the most vulnerable part of a helicopter. He jumped from behind the tree, aimed at the rotor and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. Empty. In the moonlight, he could make out Matthis leaning out the open door of the Apache, a predatory smile on his thin lips.
But the smile quickly vanished. Matthis’ head turned, searching the sky for the source of a loud noise somewhere behind him. A second later, Conti heard it too. The thumping of another copter — this one, larger and louder. The Apache slowly rotated to face the newcomer. But it was too late. A Seahawk, twice its size, hovered a quarter mile off, like a peregrine studying a sparrow — then the telltale puffs of smoke, two sidewinder missiles seemed to hang in the air for a fraction of a second. A whoosh, and a fireball lit up the night sky as the Apache disintegrated.
54.
While the other Steering Committee members debated whether to approve Wang’s attack, Leong sat back exhausted, half dozing. He’d left the hospital before he was ready and the caffeine in the tea wasn’t working. Not much more he could say anyway. Let the Committee consider the evidence and draw its own conclusions. If he pressed too hard, they would suspect his motives. Suddenly, his mobile buzzed. As his neighbor frowned at him, he took out the phone and read a text from Agent Cho. He rose and walked to the end of the table where Li sat. The Chairman raised his lined face with a questioning look. Leong handed him the phone and waited. Li studied the text for a moment, then raised his hand to silence the debaters.
“Comrades, we have new information that bears on the matter we have been discussing. We have just learned that the so-called Panchen Lama is still alive after all.”
Wang blanched but said nothing.
“Our field agent, her name is Cho — I understand she is a decorated veteran of the intelligence service, Comrade Leong?”
Leong nodded. Li continued, “She is on the ground in Sicily, and tells us that the young man, the alleged Lama, is now at a CIA office in Palermo. The Americans have agreed to transfer him into our custody. If all goes smoothly, he should be in Beijing by late tomorrow. I propose that we suspend this meeting until then, when the Committee will have the opportunity to question both the Lama and Agent Cho about recent events.”
“This is no time to delay,” Wang objected. “We could lose the opportunity to wipe out the Tibetan rebels if we wait. Now is the time to strike — before they have a chance to organize a defense.”
Chairman Li bowed in Wang’s direction. “There is something in what you say, Comrade. But your concerns are not sufficient. The rebels aren’t going anywhere with our army controlling the streets. Another day will not weaken our position.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. The Committee members rose and began to file out of the room. “My assistant will notify you when the witnesses are available.”
Wang remained in his seat and reached into his briefcase, searching for his old service revolver, a Type 51, nine-millimeter. It had seen him through the Indian border war as a young lieutenant, and the subsequent chaos of the Cultural Revolution. The feel of the battered plastic grip comforted him.
Conti, Jill, and the Panchen Lama sat in a back room of the CIA office in Palermo, sipping Diet Coke.
“This is very good,” the young man said. “We don’t have it in Beijing. There is a Chinese version, but I do not think they have the correct formula.”
He glanced at Conti, then Jill, both of whom looked exhausted. “Are you not happy? We escaped.”
“What would you like to do now?” Conti asked.
The young Lama thought for a moment before speaking. “I do not know. I suppose I will go to New York as Li Huang and I planned. She would want me to carry on.”
“What about your people? What about Tibet?” Jill asked.
“Of course, I will record a message calling for peace,” the Lama said.
“I’m afraid that won’t be enough at this juncture. It would be better if you went back to Lhasa and helped sort out this mess.”
“No.”
Conti sighed and said nothing. Jill spoke again, more firmly. “It’s already been decided by our governments. You are scheduled to fly to Beijing this afternoon. Agent Cho is arranging transport now. Don’t worry. The Chinese government has assured us that you will be safe.”
The young man turned to Conti, his eyes pleading. “Must I do this, Mr. Conti?”
“Yes, but there is a positive side. You may ask for certain … concessions from the Chinese in return for your cooperation.”
Jill shot a warning glance at Conti. Before either of them could speak, a young woman opened the door and leaned in, “Call for Ms. Burnham from Director Mobley. You can take it on that phone. Line three.”
Jill picked up the handset, turned her back on the two others, and spoke quietly for a moment. They she turned back and hit the speaker button, saying, “The Director would like to congratulate you two.”
“Conti, Mr. … I’m sorry, I afraid I don’t know the Lama’s given name.”
Jill spoke up. “Tibetan Lamas are normally addressed as Rinpoche, a term of respect … whether they deserve it or not.”
The Panchen Lama stared down at his hands, and Mobley continued. “As I was saying, the two you have pulled off a remarkable feat — with Burnham’s help, of course. Because of your efforts, it may be possible to avoid a disaster in Tibet. Many lives will be saved. Rinpoche, I’m sure once you appreciate that, you’ll want to give your fullest cooperation to the Chinese authorities. Don’t you agree, Mr. Conti?”
“I do, assuming certain con
ditions are met.”
Another voice cut in on Mobley’s end. Jill recognized it as McCullough’s. “Conditions? Who the hell do you think you are, Conti? The people who run the Joint Intelligence Committee want this resolved, and fast. No goddamned conditions!”
“Enough, McCullough!” Mobley’s anger burned through the phone lines. “I invited you in here to listen, not talk. Conti, as of right now, you’re no longer on this case. I’ve spoken to the Secretary of State and she agrees. You’ve done the country a great favor — I wouldn’t be surprised if you get the Distinguished Service Award — but now you need to bow out and return to your post in Rome.”
“I will not go to Beijing unless Mr. Conti goes with me,” the Panchen Lama shouted. “I cannot do this alone. I do not know what to ask for. I need someone experienced in these matters to advise me. Will you accompany me, Mr. Conti? You are the only person I trust.”
Mobley cut in. “I understand your concern, but that is not possible. Mr. Conti is needed at the Embassy in Rome — immediately. Important diplomatic business,” the Director added lamely.
“More important than this?” the Lama asked, surprising everyone. “The future of my country is at stake. I refuse to work with the Chinese unless Mr. Conti is there to assist me.”
“Conti, tell him you can’t do it.” Mobley’s voice was a study in barely restrained aggression.
“Sorry, Director. I’d like to help you, but, as I told you once before, there are bigger things at stake here.”
“Arrogant bastard!” McCullough’s high voice filled the room.
“Maybe,” Conti rubbed John Quincy Adams’ old signet ring. “But I come by it honestly.”
55.
Conti was awakened by the heavy turbulence of the airplane hitting a wall of cold air. They’d flown out of Palermo at dusk and landed briefly somewhere along the way. Snow-covered peaks out the window now. Had to be the western Himalayas. Across from him, Cho and the Panchen Lama, both half-asleep, shifted positions, searching for non-existent cushioning on the military-style seats. Behind them sat two guards, quietly reading magazines, then twenty rows of empty benches. The co-pilot came through the cockpit door and handed Cho a radio headset. She pulled it over her straight black hair and spoke into the microphone in Chinese.
The Italian Mission Page 21