The Italian Mission (12 page)

Conti glanced up at her, then continued his first aid. “Not exactly sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were getting close to the Chinese. We could hear them bullying the boy forward. Apparently he was making it difficult, refusing to go along. There were gunshots. We ran in that direction until we stumbled on the bodies on the ground.”

“What about you, Rabbi? You O.K.?”

“It’s nothing. I’ve had mosquito bites worse than this. Bullet just grazed my calf. I told John to keep going, but he wouldn’t leave me.”

“Didn’t want to get into trouble with God.” Conti finished tying off the bandage and stood up.

“I would have spoken to Him on your behalf.”

Tenyal brought them back to reality. “But where is the Panchen Lama?”

“He’s not with the Chinese,” Conti said. “There were only two of them and they’re dead.”

“So he’s with the South Africans?” Jill asked.

“Don’t think so,” Conti replied. “Before the Rabbi was hit, we were closing in on the second South African.”

“And?”

“We got close enough to see that he was alone.”

19.

Via Francigena, Wednesday Dawn

A faint pink glow suffused the eastern hills as the bedraggled party limped up the gravel drive leading to the main gate of Mitri Abbey.

“The castle was built in the fourteenth century,” Rabbi Cadiz instructed. “But the site is much older. You see the bottom courses of the wall? How they look more worn? This was originally an Etruscan village wall. Probably four thousand years old.”

Everyone looked, but was too tired to comment. They’d spent the last hour bushwhacking through the dense forest and climbing up the steep trail. Exhausted and hungry, they knocked on the monastery’s heavy wooden door.

“Christ, it’s cold.” Jill said.

“Yeah, the wind hits you when you come out of the trees. Maybe fall is coming early. I hope the monks are up.”

“They have been up since three a.m.,” Tenyal said. “They’ve already meditated for two hours and should be finishing breakfast now.”

“I hope there’s something left,” the Rabbi said, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. “I’m starving.”

As he spoke, the great door swung open. Tenyal stepped forward, bowed to the monk who’d opened the door and spoke briefly in Tibetan.

“He says we may come in, but that the abbot is busy and cannot see us for a half-hour or so. In the meantime, we can wait in the refectory.”

“Refectory sounds great,” the Rabbi said.

Five minutes later, they sat drinking tea at an ancient, scarred oak table in front of roaring fire. A monk brought a tray of stuffed dumplings and the conversation paused as they dug in.

“I’m never leaving,” Jill said between bites. “I think we’ve found heaven.”

“Buddhists do not believe in heaven. Like the Jews,” the Rabbi said. “Or, more properly, it is to be found inside you. Am I right, Rinpoche?” he addressed Tenyal using the Tibetan honorific for teacher.

“Heaven, enlightenment, inner peace. It’s much the same isn’t it?” the old monk said. He gestured toward the food and the fire. “Still, this must be close to the experience, I think.”

“Wherever we are, I hope the Panchen Lama is here too,” Jill offered. “I’m not particularly interested in chasing around these hills again.”

“I am confident he’s here,” Tenyal said. “Where else would he go? I asked the gatekeeper about it, but he said talk to the abbot. That is the way Buddhist monasteries function. Only the abbot communicates with the outside world on matters of importance.”

A short time later, they were shown into the abbot’s office. A relatively young man, no more than thirty-five, sat behind a large, western style desk. His head was shaved but he wore a yellow hoodie with “UCLA” emblazoned across the chest in large purple letters.

“Welcome to Mitri.” He looked Tibetan but spoke with an American accent. “I understand you are searching for the Panchen Lama.”

Conti glanced at Jill and, when she nodded, he spoke. “That’s right. Tenyal Rinpoche here approached me in Rome for help, and we’ve been following the Lama ever since, trying to … well, put ourselves in a position to offer aid if it was needed.”

“And were you able to meet the young man, to offer him aid?”

“We met him briefly, but before we could do anything for him, the Chinese intervened.”

“Do the Chinese have him now?”

Conti’s face fell. “You don’t?”

The abbot seemed equally surprised. “No, he’s not here. We’ve been waiting for him. Ever since Tenyal telephoned us from Siena yesterday telling us they were headed our way. We had monks stationed outside the monastery walls all evening, but I brought them in when night fell when we heard gunshots. We saw no one. Can you tell me what happened?”

Conti briefly recounted the night’s events. The abbot listened carefully and didn’t speak again until Conti was done.

“This is a mystery,” he said finally. “Tell me. Do you think the young man is the real Panchen Lama?”

“Don’t you know?” Conti asked.

“No, we don’t. We were frankly surprised — amazed might be a better word — that the Chinese would let the Panchen Lama out of their sight for even a moment given the delicate state of affairs in Tibet. So we were not … are not … sure that this gentleman is who he says he is. What do you think, Rinpoche?” he asked Tenyal.

“I believe he is the true Panchen Lama … but he does not.”

The abbot’s brow wrinkled and he frowned. “What?”

“He has not been raised as a Buddhist. His Chinese indoctrinators did their work well. He does not believe that he is the incarnation — the
tulku
— of the last Panchen Lama.”

“Tell me,” Conti cut in, addressing the abbot. “What would you have done if he had come here? I understand that this monastery is a center of the Tibetan nationalist movement. Did you intend to use the Panchen Lama for those purposes … assuming he would cooperate?”

“These are difficult questions,” the abbot answered. He picked up a string of prayer beads from the desk and began rolling them in his hand making soft clicking sounds. “It is true that we support the cause of Tibetan nationalism and independence. But in a nonviolent manner, as the holy Dalai Lama taught us. Would we use the Panchen Lama toward this end? Yes, of course, if he wished to help. But …” he stood up and paced behind his desk, “this is a very … sensitive time in our history. We do not want to make things worse for the Tibetan people. The Chinese are very powerful.”

A monk entered the office without knocking, handed a piece of paper to the abbot, bowed to the group and left as quietly as he’d arrived. The abbot opened the paper and took in its contents in a glance.

“The situation in Tibet is deteriorating. Soldiers fired on a group of protestors and several were killed. Perhaps the Panchen Lama could calm the situation if he could communicate with his people.”

“How would you accomplish that?” Conti asked.

“Come with me,” the abbot said, striding through the office door toward a vaulted stone stairway. He led the group down several flights. “Take care. The depressions in the stones are centuries deep.”

At the bottom they came to a dark hallway with a bright light at the end. The abbot opened a glass door and ushered them into a white-tiled computer room. Several monks sat at terminals monitoring banks of screens. It looked something like an American television newsroom.

“This is our nerve center,” the abbot said, unnecessarily. “We monitor all the news channels, of course, but we also are connected to the Internet and Chinese government television. They keep anything controversial off the air, so it is from private individuals on the Internet that we learn what’s really going on. Until they are shut down, that is, which happens with alarming regularity.”

“Where’d you get all this equipment?” Conti asked.

“We have our sources,” the abbot replied. “Your government provides generous aid. We appreciate it.”

Jill and Conti exchanged a surprised look. She spoke for the first time. “I have some familiarity with our Tibetan policy. I think you must be mistaken as to the source of the aid.”

“We understand that you, Miss Burnham, and you, Mr. Conti
,
are with the CIA.”

Jill tried to keep her mouth from dropping open. “What makes you think that?”

The abbot smiled. “Just as we have sources for financial assistance, we have sources of information. And they believe …” He stopped, apparently deciding he had said enough.

“They believe what?” Jill said, agitation evident in her tone.

The abbot shrugged. “They tell us your agency is hamstrung by political and legal requirements, and that you would be more helpful if you could be. They do what they think you would do if you were able.”

Jill’s face reddened. Conti put his hand on her arm. As she struggled to control her anger, Conti spoke. “We are aware that you have other connections in our government and we don’t want to interfere with those relationships. We know who the people back in Washington are, of course, but we don’t know who does their liaison work over here. It would help a great deal if you could tell us the name of your contact.”

A subtle but unmistakable look of fear clouded the abbot’s eyes. “I’m afraid I’m not authorized to give you that information.”

20.

The White House, Wednesday Morning

Mobley sat in the backseat of his black Ford Expedition reading the afternoon intelligence assessment as the driver showed his badge to the guard at the entrance to the Old Executive Office Building parking garage. This is where people went when they said they were going to the White House. It was as close as most of them ever got to the real thing — unless they joined the long line of out-of-towners waiting on the sidewalk for the thirty-minute tour.

He took the elevator up to a secure floor, which housed the staff of the National Security Council. Walking down the long hallway he read the door plaques, shaking his head and sighing. Special Assistants to the President — for terrorism, for the Middle East, for Europe, southern Africa, nuclear proliferation. The titles went on and on, replicating his departments at Langley, not to mention the State Department. Politicians constantly complained about the federal budget and then voted for appropriations for all this redundant bureaucracy. Hell, he’d done it himself.

He reached his destination at the end of the hall — the corner office overlooking Lafayette Square, belonging to General Jefferson D. Ellis. Unlike the other doors, its plaque contained no job descriptor, just the name. Mobley brushed past the Lieutenant in the outer office and found Ellis sitting on a leather couch in his running clothes, wiping his forehead with a damp towel. He looked up calmly as Mobley entered.

“God, it’s hot in this city. There’s a little breeze over at East Potomac Park, but the Mall is a swamp, even at seven in the morning. What can I do you for, Mr. Mobley?”

Mobley was momentarily disarmed by Ellis’ amiable demeanor. He wanted to be angry at the son-of-a-bitch, but the charming, little boy smile made it difficult.

“I want to know why you aren’t returning my calls. I can’t run the goddamn CIA if everyone and his brother is conducting his own secret operation.” This sounded too much like pleading. He needed to be forceful. “I’m the one in charge of human intelligence, not the NSC staff.” Still lame. Ellis continued smiling at him.

“Yes, sir, you are,” the General bent over and untied his shoes, then kicked them off, shed his socks and began rubbing his feet. “I’ve been using these new, ultra thin Nikes. They aren’t so good on the gravel. I guess my soles will toughen up eventually.”