The Italian Mission (17 page)

“So, I think what we have to do is clear,” Jill said. “Find this guy and get him back to the Chinese before the situation gets worse. I’ll check with Mobley but I imagine he’s come to the same conclusion by now.”

“But the Chinese might kill the Lama if they get their hands on him,” Conti objected.
“
Fastest way to shut him up.”

“I don’t think so,” Jill replied.
“
Wouldn’t they be better off getting him to call publicly for calm?”

“Yeah. And then kill him.” Conti picked up the coffee again in a shaky hand.

Jill looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You want out? There are other agents I can use if you’re having ...” her voice hardened almost imperceptibly, “…
moral qualms.”

Conti was silent for a moment, staring off into the distance. “No, he’ll have a better chance if we find him first. Then maybe we can bargain for his safety.”

The Italian lieutenant knocked softly and came into the room, cutting the tension. “We have found the car.”

“Where is it?” Jill asked.

“In a vacant lot near the
Viale Machiavelli
, on the hill behind the Boboli Gardens. It’s parked under some trees. One of our officers spotted it. She was investigating a complaint. I hope your man was not in the car.”

“Why?”

“It was fire-bombed. Nothing left but a burned-out shell.”

“Christ! Do we know who owned it?”

“A doctor in Rome. Stolen two days ago.”

“Can you take me there?” Conti asked.

“Of course,” the young man smiled and bowed. “At your service.”

“Should we all go?” Jill asked.

“No,” Conti answered. “You have access to secure communications here. While I’m checking the car, see if you can track the location of the computers the South Africans are using to tie into the Internet. The CIA and Mossad can work with the Italians to find the source of the signals. Has to be wireless, since they’re moving around so much.”

27.

Florence, Thursday Evening

Conti stared at the smoldering hulk of what had recently been a $150,000 automobile. Yellow crime scene tape surrounded the wreck, but the local police had left. He dragged his foot through the dust outside the driver’s side door, not sure what he was looking for.

“Shall we go back to headquarters?” the Lieutenant asked. “It’s going to be dark in an hour.”

“I’d like to poke around here a bit more. You’ve got other work to do, Lucca. Go ahead. I’ll get a taxi when I’m finished.”

The younger man gave him a puzzled look, then nodded and walked back to his black and white Alfa. “O.K., but it is not necessary to call a cab. Call me when you’re finished. Taking care of you is my job for the day.”

“Thanks.” Conti walked over to a landing at the top of several flights of stone stairs that climbed the hillside. From this vantage point, he could see the green expanse of the Boboli Gardens, the Pitti Palace, the Arno River, and central Florence beyond that. A strange place for an Asian power struggle to be playing out. He reached into his shirt pocket for the
Sigaro Toscano
he’d bought at the tobacconist halfway up the hill. The scent of tobacco cleared his head.

Where would he take the hostage if this were his operation? He chewed on the end of the little cigar absentmindedly while watching a white Citroen climb several hairpin turns, finally stopping two streets below. A man wearing a hat and sunglasses got out and banged a metal knocker on a carved wooden door. The hollow sound bounced off the buildings up to where Conti stood. He squinted into the setting sun trying to get a better look as the man disappeared inside. Was his imagination working overtime, or did the man have a Fu Manchu mustache? Only one way to find out.

It took him a few minutes to descend the stairs to the house. He walked past casually, casting sidelong glances at the windows. Dark shades were completely drawn. The house stood third from the end of a row of similar structures, probably built between the wars. Cheap, functional Mussolini-era architecture. He walked around the corner, then up the alley. A small garden behind the house held a scraggly maple tree and a line of untrimmed bushes. He slipped between them and flattened his body against the side of the house. The window next to him was open. He leaned over and peered inside. Large, pitted ceramic sink, coal stove, and an old-fashioned icebox. Conti slid back against the wall as several men entered the room. Skinhead and Tony, and their boss, the mustachioed man from the Quonset hut.

“Any trouble?”

“Nah. These Wops couldn’t find their ass with both hands.”

A phone rang and Mustache answered it. He listened for a moment, then shook his head. “Yeah. We’re all set up here. How about the equipment on that end?”

Silence again for a moment.

“Sure you can get through the Chinese firewalls?”

Mustache lit a cigarette.

“Look, don’t give me the technical crap. Wouldn’t understand it anyway. Tell Skinhead what he needs to know. I’m on my way back to town to make sure the money gets to the right place.” Mustache handed the phone to Skinhead. “You guys work it out.” He reached into his pocket. “This is the message Yinglong wants the kid to read. Make sure he’s convincing. Call me when it’s done. I’m out of here.”

Skinhead nodded. “You taking the car? So how are we supposed to get to the airport, Matthis?”

“How many times have I told you not to use names, idiot.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the tabletop. “Call a fucking cab.”

“What do we do with the kid and the woman afterwards?”

“I’ll check and let you know.”

28.

Conti slid down and sat on a patch of dry grass, his back against the wall. Matthis? He had a vague recollection of a Matthis in Afghanistan back in the day. Probably someone who worked for Blackstream along with Skinhead — Defense Department contractors, no doubt. Now that the war was over, they’d gone on to bigger and better things. Christ, what a monster we’ve created, he thought. Lots of them, in fact.

But who the hell was Yinglong? Obviously someone who wanted chaos in Tibet. Could be a politician in Taiwan. Or a gangster in Hong Kong. Maybe the head of an international construction company that lost out on a big contract. And, of course, there were all the countries downstream that wanted to stop the Chinese from building any more dams on Tibetan rivers. Whoever Yinglong was, he had to be stopped.

Conti slipped back through the bushes into the alley and pulled out his cell. He needed to let Jill know where he was. Time to call in the cavalry. This had gone way beyond anything he could handle alone. His phone battery icon indicated half full, but it couldn’t locate a strong signal. One chunk out of five, then none. The signal bar kept flashing on and off. Not a good enough to make a call. He’d have to send a text and pray it would get through eventually. He began tapping on the screen.

“
Have located P.L., #5 Via Batista. Must stop Inet transmissions. Urgent. Bring force
.”

He touched the “send” button and hoped for the best. If the message didn’t go through immediately, it might when he got out from behind the house. As he was about to move back toward the street, the sounds of a struggle came from the kitchen. On his hands and knees, he returned to the house, and peeked through the sheer curtains. The stocky South African — what was his name? Tony — marched the Lama into the kitchen. When the Tibetan sat down, Conti saw the automatic pistol in the mercenary’s hand. Skinhead was arranging the computer so that its camera pointed at the young man. A Mac, of course. Conti almost laughed.

“O.K., let’s get on with it. The sooner we get this done, the sooner the money will be waiting for us in Switzerland. I can see those topless models waiting for us on the beach in Rio.” Skinhead cackled. He unfolded a paper and handed it to the Lama.

“Here’s your little speech. Just a paragraph, but I need you to say it like you really mean it. Show us what you think of those Chinese bastards. They held you in jail for what, twenty-five years, right? This is your chance to get back at ‘em.” He turned to his partner and smirked. “Coulda been a goddamn movie director, couldn’t I, Tony? O.K. Lights, camera, action!”

“I won’t do it.”

Skinhead’s smirk turned into a black glare. “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, monkey boy. You’ll do it or we’ll bring your little whore down here and get her … involved.”

“I won’t betray my country.”

“What are you talking about? Which one? The Chinese have been pushing you yak jockeys around for fifty years. You gonna let them keep doing that?”

“They will kill my people if we rebel.”

Skinhead’s voice turned hard. “Fuck all. I’m not gonna argue with you. Tony, get the woman. I’ll find a knife.”

Conti could see where this was going. The Lama would never be able to resist. He chanced another glimpse to get the layout of the kitchen. The Panchen Lama sat alone at the small kitchen table, a wild look in his eyes. Skinhead searched through a drawer of cooking utensils. Tony came back into the room, shoving Li Huang in front of him. She fell to the floor, but immediately stood up, defiant. Skinhead grabbed her arm and held a corroded butcher knife in front of her.

“Don’t do what they want,” she cried.

“Oh, that’s the way we’re going to play it,” Skinhead said. “O.K., then.” With a swift, almost imperceptible, motion, he brought up the blade and swiped it across her face. Blood oozed from a two-inch slash across her porcelain cheek.

“Leave her alone! I’ll do it.” The young man’s voice shook with anger and fear.

“Thought you’d see reason.” The hoodlum threw Li Huang to the ground. “Now, stay there and you won’t get cut again.” The young woman sat on the floor and held her hand over the wound, blood flowing between her fingers.

Skinhead went back to the computer, refocused it, and pushed some keys. “Ready. Now read!”

Conti reached for the Beretta. He’d have only one chance. Tony was holding the automatic at his side. He took careful aim through the diaphanous curtain and pulled the trigger, the sound of the shot barely penetrating his concentration. The fabric of the South African’s shirt tore, blood spurted from of his arm and his pistol clattered to the ground. His mouth contorted in a scream. Conti was through the window before his target crumpled to the floor.

“Hands out in front of you, where I can see them. Get up, you two,” he shouted to the Lama and Li Huang. “We’re out of here. Now!” He took a step toward the door, then stopped in his tracks. His feet wouldn’t move. Staring down at his paralyzed legs, he saw a dart sticking through his jeans. Skinhead pulled back the sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal an apparatus strapped to his arm — pointed straight at Conti’s chest.

“Drop the gun. Next one’s aimed at your heart.”

Conti had no choice. He couldn’t lift his hand anyway. His limbs no longer responded to his brain.

29.

Langley, Thursday Noon

Mobley looked down at the carpet as he paced back and forth behind his desk. The nap was crushed in a narrow six-foot long furrow. Had he been in this job long enough to wear a path in the rug? Must be damned cheap material. The phone rang and he leaned over and hit the speaker button.

“Yeah.”

“Burnham is on the line
,
sir.”

“Put her through.”

“It’s Jill … Burnham.”

“I know who it is, goddamn it! I’ve been grinding my heels down waiting for you to call. What’s going on?”