The Italian Mission

by Alan Champorcher

  “Wei. Ah, Comrade Leong. Yes, yes, everything is on time. We refueled in Rawalpindi and should land in Beijing,” she looked at her watch,” about ten p.m.”

  She listened for several moments, concentrating, lips pursed. “I see. Yes, I understand. I will call half an hour before we land.”

  When she rang off, Conti raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  Cho stared at the bulkhead for a long moment. When she saw Conti’s questioning expression, she removed the headset and spoke softly. “Things seem to be changing.”

  “Yes?” Conti waited patiently.

  “That was Comrade Leong. He is the member of the Steering Committee who runs the diplomatic service and the civilian intelligence department. Or at least he did. He suggests we reroute the plane to Lhasa.”

  “Suggests?”

  “He is no longer in my direct line of command.”

  Conti could see that she was ambivalent. “Is there someone else you can speak to?”

  “No. But I think I will follow his suggestion. He believes that the situation in Lhasa is now so inflammatory that the Panchen Lama can do the most good there rather than in Beijing.” She got up and walked forward to the pilots’ compartment.

  Back in his office, Wang sat staring into space, occasionally spinning the barrel of his revolver. His back was against the wall, but he’d been in bad situations before. He needed to do something dramatic — something that would distract the Committee from Leong’s accusations and return their attention to the real danger — the rebels. The rest of them had gone home to their warm beds. Good. By the time they returned in the morning, everything would have changed, and he would have the upper hand again. He punched in the number of General Bo’s headquarters in Lhasa. A sleepy subaltern answered.

  “Get me Bo.”

  “General Bo has retired for the evening.”

  “I don’t care if he’s fucking his lieutenant. This is Wang Guo-Li. I need him now!”

  This wrenched the soldier from his pleasant daydream. “Yes sir!”

  Wang waited, tapping the butt of his revolver on his desk blotter. Finally, a thick-voiced Bo came on the line.

  “Have you been drinking?” Wang asked.

  “No … perhaps a beer or two …”

  “Never mind. Are the B611 transports in place?”

  “Yes, we have two of them within easy range of the palace — one each on the east and west boundaries of the city.”

  “How soon can the missiles be fitted with nuclear warheads?”

  “Nuclear warheads?”

  “You heard me!”

  “We did bring several tactical weapons to Lhasa, but …”

  “How soon?”

  “Nuclear ordinance is stored separately, of course. It will take several hours to install and check them out. Then we must clear the area of all PLA cadres. These are fifteen-kiloton weapons. You understand that they would destroy not only the Potala, but the area surrounding it.”

  “I said, how soon?”

  “We could be ready by dawn. Five a.m.”

  “Do it. I will poll the members of the Steering Committee and get back to you with final orders before then.” Wang had no intention of polling anyone. They’d still be asleep when the missiles struck.

  “Comrade Wang?”

  “Yes?”

  “I do not wish to second-guess your orders or those of the Steering Committee, but there is no military necessity to use nuclear weapons. The palace holds nothing but monks and a few men with assault rifles. Nothing that would give my men trouble.”

  Wang struggled to hold his temper in check. Better to show Bo that this was a cool-headed decision. “You are missing the point, General. This is not about a few monks. There are more than fifty separate ethnic groups in our country. Each has its own illusory ideas of self-determination. We must demonstrate strength when faced with rebellion. This can only be accomplished by a show of overwhelming force — one that will inspire awe across China and the world. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  56.

  Leong had arranged for a government car — a large, black BMW — to meet them at the Lhasa airport. Speeding through the night, it took only fifteen minutes for them to reach military headquarters on Jingzhoi Road, not far from the Potala Palace. Showing her credentials, Cho talked her way past the sentry and into General Bo’s outer office.

  “You wait here,” she ordered Conti harshly. The force of the command and Conti’s silent acquiescence seemed to satisfy the guard standing outside the door to Bo’s office. Conti took a seat in a corner of the large room. Even though it was three a.m., the place buzzed with activity as soldiers lugged large boxes of files to waiting trucks outside. The room smelled of stale sweat and cigarette smoke.

  A young soldier escorted Cho and the Lama into the inner sanctum, where the General sat bent over his desk. “General Bo, I am Agent Cho Lin, Foreign Intelligence Division, Ministry of State Security.”

  Bo barely looked up from the stack of papers on his desk. “So what? Can’t you see I’m busy? Who sent you and what do you want? I have all the intelligence I need.”

  “I’m not here to provide information. I’ve brought someone I think you will be interested in.” She turned and gestured toward young man. “This is the Panchen Lama, or should I say, the man the Tibetans recognize as the Panchen Lama. Comrade Leong, of the Steering Committee, believes he can help you resolve this crisis.”

  Bo hesitated — the import of her words slowly sank in. “Leong is not in charge of the military. I understand he’s not even in charge of his own Ministry anymore.” He spoke gruffly, in a voice strained by lack of sleep and too many cigarettes. “So, this is the fellow who has caused all the trouble? He has a lot to answer for.” He addressed his adjutant and gestured toward the Lama. “Arrest this man and take him to the new headquarters.”

  “But General …” Cho began.

  “But nothing. If your department doesn’t have the sense to restrain this rebel, the Army certainly does.”

  Cho stood her ground. “He is willing to help you. Surely you realize the power the Panchen Lama has over these people. Even the suggestion that he had escaped from China caused demonstrations and self-immolations. If you let him talk to the monks inside the Potala Palace, you may be able to defuse this situation without violence.”

  “Too late.” Bo stood up and glared across the desk at Cho. “The decision has been made, the order given.” He checked his watch. “In two hours, there will be no Potala Palace … or anything else in the vicinity. That’s why we are evacuating this area. We will take the traitor into custody and you can call Comrade Leong, and tell him that the People’s Liberation Army has put down this rebellion without his assistance.”

  Bo gathered his papers and stalked out of the room.

  “Let’s go!” The adjutant fiddled nervously with the flap on his belt holster and withdrew his service pistol with some difficulty. Obviously not a seasoned veteran, Cho thought. Probably the son of a friend of the General’s, recently out of officer training school. The adjutant motioned, his pistol hand shaking slightly, for the Panchen Lama and Cho to precede him out of the office. In the short time that they’d been with Bo, soldiers had cleared the outer room, leaving empty file cabinets and a floor littered with crushed paper cups and cigarette butts. Conti still sat in the corner, trying his best to look inconspicuous.

  “Who’s this?” the adjutant asked Cho in Chinese.

  “No idea,” she replied. “Nothing to do with me. Looks American. Maybe a spy searching for sensitive documents your staff left behind.” She realized this didn’t make much sense, but was counting on the hour and the adjutant’s obviously strained nerves to cloud his judgment. “You’d better search him.”

  The adjutant looked wide-eyed at Cho, then Conti, then back at Cho. “You’re in intelligence, why don’t you do it?”

  “This is an Army installation. It is your responsibility. I think the General w
ould agree with me. You heard him. He doesn’t want me interfering in Army business.”

  The young lieutenant dithered for a moment, then slipped his pistol back into its holster. “Stand up and put your hands in the air!” he ordered.

  Conti did so and the adjutant began to frisk him. As he patted down Conti’s rib cage, Cho reached behind him and slipped the pistol out of his holster.

  “O.K., that’s enough,” she said. The adjutant turned his head in her direction. The blood drained from his face.

  “What’s happening?” Conti asked Cho in English.

  “The General won’t listen to me. He ordered this guy,” pointing the pistol at the adjutant, “to take the Lama into custody. Said something about having orders to wipe out the rebels.”

  “Yeah. I heard some things out here that worried me too.”

  “What?”

  “The soldiers didn’t realize I understand Chinese. They were talking about something called a B611. What’s that? Apparently two of them are aimed at the Potala.”

  Cho put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God!”

  “You’d better drive,” Conti told Cho. “If we run into roadblocks, you can say we’ve been ordered to sweep the area around the Palace for stragglers.” They’d dressed the Panchen Lama in the adjutant’s uniform, and Conti wore an old PLA overcoat and winter cap, two sizes too large, that he’d found in General Bo’s office. He hoped no one would notice the Caucasian hidden beneath the red star and large fur flaps.

  As the car turned onto Kang’angduo Road toward the Potala, they came upon four soldiers huddled around a rusty oil barrel. One of them left the warmth of the fire and moved to the middle of the road, holding up his rifle. Cho stopped the car and rolled down the window. She showed the soldier her credentials and spoke to him for a few moments in Chinese. The soldier bent and pointed his flashlight briefly at the car’s other occupants. Conti feigned a coughing fit, covering his face with his hand. The tired soldier waved them through. Two long blocks later, they reached the West entrance to the Potala, deserted now that the PLA had pulled back.

  “What now?” Cho asked, as much to herself as to the others.

  “We’ve got to get him in there.” Conti replied. “Without getting shot.”

  Cho frowned. “That’s the hard part, isn’t it?”

  “A flag of truce?” Conti suggested.

  The young man in the back seat spoke for the first time since they’d left PLA headquarters. “I don’t need a flag to enter the Potala. I am the Panchen Lama.”

  Conti glanced at Cho and raised his eyebrows. “Yes, you are. But that doesn’t mean they won’t shoot you. It’s dark.”

  “I am not worried. My people will know me.” He shrugged off the military jacket, and pulled a saffron scarf from his pocket.

  “Where’d that come from?” Conti asked.

  “This?” The Lama held up the scarf. “I always carry it. The Dalai Lama gave it to me when I was five years old. In this very monastery.”

  “But they took our clothes when we boarded the plane in Florence,” Conti said, bewildered.

  “I concealed it in my palm,” the Lama answered. “I’ve had it for twenty-five years and was not about to give it up easily.” He tied the scarf around his neck, opened the car door, and walked deliberately toward the steps leading to the Potala entrance, hands folded in a prayerful gesture.

  Conti opened the passenger side door and swung his leg out. Cho leaned over and put her hand on his shoulder. “No, let him go. He’s accepting his responsibility. We should not interfere.”

  Conti sat back, half in and half out of the car. “But we’ve got to help him organize those monks, don’t we?”

  “Yes, but not right away.” She checked the time. “Four a.m. Still time before dawn. Let’s give him fifteen minutes.”

  57.

  Jill sank back into the deep, baby soft leather sofa in Mobley’s office. Although it was mid-afternoon in Washington, she wanted to curl up and sleep. Her body clock was completely out of whack. Mobley walked over and handed her a cardboard cup. “Drink this. Double espresso. They do that in the cafeteria downstairs now. You’re going to need it. This just keeps getting more byzantine.”

  She shook herself fully awake and took the cup. “Ouch! That’s hot.” She stretched the sleeve of her blouse over her hand to insulate it. “Feels good though. What’s the latest?”

  “Things are coming to a head. The nationalist rebels — mostly monks — have taken over the Potala Palace. They’ve got pretty sophisticated radio equipment …”

  “The PLA can’t jam it?”

  “They’re trying, but the monks have a network of transmitters and repeaters — they’re using frequency hopping. Some information is getting through.”

  “And?”

  “To put is simply, the monks are preparing to die. Sort of a latter day Masada. They’re sending farewell messages to their families and friends.”

  “Are the Chinese going to attack? They said they wanted the Panchen Lama back so they could work out some sort of compromise.”

  “As to the first question, the PLA has two rocket launchers parked within a mile of the Palace. Our satellites showed them loading warheads on the rockets as night fell. They look like tactical nukes — probably fifteen or twenty kilotons.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Yeah. As to what the Chinese will do, no one is quite sure, even the Chinese apparently. Our diplomatic contacts continue to say they intend to use the Panchen Lama to calm the situation. But we’ve picked up radio transmissions to the General in charge in Lhasa to the contrary.”

  “What are the orders?”

  “Launch the rockets. Five a.m. Lhasa time. Half an hour from now.”

  “What happened to Conti and the Lama?”

  “That’s the interesting part. Their plane rerouted and landed in Lhasa a few hours ago.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Pray. And hope Conti is as smart as you think.”

  Wang put his revolver back in the desk drawer and watched the clock on the opposite wall. 4:50 a.m. The issue would be determined one way or the other in ten minutes. He picked up the phone and called General Bo one more time.

  “Is everything ready?”

  “Yes. Do we have the go-ahead from the Steering Committee?”

  “The order should be on your machine.” Wang had taken an old Committee directive and changed the necessary words. Odd. It was possible to circumvent modern technologies and security systems with whiteout and a fax machine — if one only had the nerve.

  “I have it.” Bo’s voice trembled.

  “Don’t worry, General. You will receive the Hero’s Medal for this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wang hung up the phone.

  “Wang!” Leong walked into the room. “Who will get the Hero’s Medal for what?”

  “Military business. None of yours.”

  Leong picked up the paper that Wang had left lying on the fax machine. “What the hell is this? We never voted on this! You can’t possibly …”

  Wang opened his desk drawer, pulled out his revolver, and pointed it at Leong’s chest. “Don’t move! In ten minutes, the rebellion will be finished. And so will you.”

  “Ha! And how do you propose to explain that to the Steering Committee?”

  “I won’t have to. After I’ve ended the rebellion in Tibet and done what the rest of you don’t have the nerve to do, no one will challenge me. Anyone who does will get the same treatment.”

  “You’re talking about a coup d’etat, Wang. You’re insane!”

  “I was Chairman Mao’s personal assistant for three years, Leong. This is what he would have done. For the good of China.”

  General Bo hung up the phone with an unsteady hand. Seven minutes to go. He’d given the orders; now he had only to wait. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his hands although it couldn’t have been more than fifty degrees inside the warehouse where they’d set up headquarters. />
  “You’d better see this, sir.” A major on his staff pointed to a screen, one in a line of computers sitting on a folding table amid a tangle of wires. “It’s CNN.”

  “I’m not interested in the news right now, Major. Nor should you be. We have to focus on the task at hand.”

  “This is about the task at hand, General. CNN has a camera feed a few hundred yards from the Palace.”

  “That can’t be. We haven’t allowed news trucks anywhere in the city except for Xinhua, and we shut them down hours ago, right?”

  “Yes, but look here. They are broadcasting live pictures of the Potala Palace.”

  “How could they do that?

  “Well, sir. It isn’t that difficult. They have satellite transmitters that can be carried in backpacks …”

  “Goddamn it! Find their location and shut them down!” Bo walked across the room and stared at the screen for a minute. “No, there isn’t time. If they’re that close, the picture will just go blank when the shells hit. They won’t be able to broadcast the … aftermath.”

  “Wait,” the Major leaned closer to the computer screen. “There are people coming out of the Palace gate.”

  General Bo reached into his tunic pocket and fished out his reading glasses. Setting them on the bridge of his nose, he studied the screen. Two lines of monks were exiting the monastery’s west gate, heads down and hands folded, as if in prayer — hundreds of them. The rebels were surrendering! Should he fire the rockets in spite of this?