The Italian Mission (18 page)

“Not real clear, sir.” She brought him up to date on the situation since they last talked. “I’m waiting to hear from John. He went to the neighborhood where the police found the South Africans’ car — stolen, by the way — and I haven’t been able to contact him since. That was a couple of hours ago. The cell reception in the hills around Florence is terrible.”

“You shouldn’t have let him out of your sight. He’s not a team player.”

“I stayed to work with the Italians to see if we could trace the bad guys electronically.”

“And?”

“Nothing yet.”

Mobley heard a sharp knock on the door and looked up to see an agitated James McCullough stride into his office. The Congressional Liaison slapped his hand on the Director’s desk. “The shit has hit the fan!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Mobley barked. “You can’t just come barging in here.”

“Turn on your computer! Here’s the website.” He handed Mobley a ragged sheet of notebook paper.

Mobley threw the paper back at him. “Turn it on yourself. And while you’re at it, tell me what’s going on.”

McCullough stood up straight and took a deep breath. “The Panchen Lama just made a statement. It’s lighting up the Internet. Apparently they managed to get it through the Chinese firewalls. And the BBC and television networks in Asia have picked it up too.”

“What’d he say?”

“See for yourself.” McCullough’s fingers danced over the keyboard and, in a few seconds, they watched as the Panchen Lama, face drawn but voice strong, appeared, staring into a camera. He spoke in English, then translated each sentence into Tibetan: “My fellow citizens of the sovereign nation of Tibet. I am the
eleventh incarnation of the Panchen Lama. The criminal Chinese government kidnapped me in 1987 and has held me incommunicado ever since. One week ago, with the help of Tibetan loyalists, I escaped. I am now outside China. I call on all Tibetan patriots to fight the Chinese occupation with whatever resources are available to you. Although violence is not our way, force must be answered with force. In support of you, my people, we will carry out an offensive against Chinese property in Tibet. Our first attack destroyed a power station on the Yangtze River. The next is taking place as I speak. Such demonstrations will continue until the gangster Chinese regime withdraws its military and police forces from our country. Now is the time of liberation for which we have all waited and prayed.”

The screen went black. Then a message in red letters in Tibetan filled the screen.

“Did you hear that
,
Burnham?” Mobley asked.

There was a slight crackling on the phone line. “Enough to get the picture,” she responded. “That’s sure to cause riots. Or worse.”

Mobley’s assistant slipped into the office and handed him a printout. The Director emitted a low, guttural sound before speaking, “Message from the Situation Room. Explosions in Zangmu. Wherever the hell that is.”

30.

Beijing, Friday Morning

Wang Guo-Li brushed the pork bun crumbs off his suit as the car sped toward his office in the Politburo headquarters near the Forbidden City. He preferred this old
Hongqi
limousine, a slightly modified Lincoln Town Car, to the newer models from the First Automobile Works, which were actually rebadged Audis. The Audis were better mechanically, but they gave the distasteful impression that one was trying to compete with the arrogant rich in their Ferraris, Bentleys and Maybachs. Money. China was all about money now. Even his old comrades sent their children abroad with an extra suitcase. Every time his section searched the luggage of a
dukuan
— a millionaire, or one of his children studying abroad — it was full of
yuan
, not underwear. And his colleagues wouldn’t do anything about it because everyone was a little bit guilty of the same thing.

He lit a cigarette as he exited the elevator into the large reception area outside his office. A porter in a brown jumpsuit had just finished cleaning the Plexiglas cases that stood between the elevator and his assistant’s desk. Like his car, Wang’s displays were different from those of the other party bigwigs. While they showcased mock-ups of new dams, factories, or airports, Wang had borrowed relics from the Museum of the First National Congress — an old Colt pistol carried by Mao on the Long March, Zhou En Lai’s reading glasses, and a set of miniature, hand-painted sketches
—
the finalists from the 1949 competition to select the flag for the new People’s Republic of China.

He sat at his desk, rubbing his chin as his assistant appeared in the doorway. “What is it?”

“General Bo Li-Fan returning your call.”

Wang grunted. Bo was the military commander of the Chengdu district, which included the Tibet Autonomous Region. As Chair of the Central Military Commission, Wang felt free to communicate directly with District Commanders. Some of the Generals on the Commission didn’t like this, but there wasn’t much they could do about it.

Wang barked “Busy now. Will call him back in ten minutes.” He stood up slowly, rubbing his left hip, where shrapnel from the glorious 1978 invasion of Vietnam still pained him, then limped toward the elevator, muttering to his assistant, “Going for a walk. My hip is bothering me.”

Ten minutes later, he was sitting on a bench watching the swans glide through the morning mist on the glassy surface of a lake. It was the most serene spot in all Beijing, even more so than the adjacent Forbidden City itself. The Party had, of course, appropriated the most beautiful part of the city for its own purposes.

He searched his pockets for his mobile, the one he’d bought privately on one of his monthly visits to Shanghai, and dialed General Bo’s number.

Without preliminaries, Bo said, “Things are very hot down here. You have heard about the Zangmu bomb?”

“Of course I have,” Wang replied. “We get the news occasionally here in Beijing. What do you plan to do about it?”

“As we discussed …”

Wang cleared his throat and interrupted the General. “I do not remember discussing this situation with you.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Bo said nervously, “No, of course not. My memory is playing tricks. So many things happening at once. Forgive me.”

“No problem. Tell me.”

The General began again. “My plan is to move three battalions to the outskirts of the capital, Lhasa. They will board the train in Sichuan later this morning and should be there by early tomorrow. If the fraudulent Panchen Lama is not caught and does not retract his statement within forty-eight hours, we will move on the city in force, imposing martial law, subject to the appropriate orders from Beijing, of course.”

“And?”

“And we will use whatever force is necessary to put and end to the Tibetan splittist faction.”

“Good. But do it after twenty-four hours, not forty-eight. I will make sure you get the orders.” Wang disconnected, then dialed another number.

“I hope I find you well this morning, General Sun.” Sun was in charge of the General Staff Intelligence Department, which came within Wang’s responsibilities as overseer of the People’s Liberation Army. He was also the son of an old colleague from Cultural Revolution days and one of the few people Wang trusted completely. “What is the latest information on this Panchen Lama imposter?”

“Some progress, Uncle.” General Sun wasn’t actually a blood relative but he was closer than any of Wang’s actual nephews, useless social climbers. “My people have located him in rural Italy north of Rome and are closing in.”

Wang grunted his satisfaction. “Have any of the other members of the Steering Committee communicated with you today?” The Steering Committee was made up of the most powerful members of the Politburo.

“Yes, Comrade Leong called a few moments ago.”

“What did he want?”

Leong was Wang’s biggest rival, a constant irritant. He had charge of the Ministry of State Security, which controlled foreign embassies and the civilian intelligence department.

“He said the Steering Committee would discuss the Panchen Lama situation later today and that he would get back to me. He said he wanted to make sure that his people and our people were working hand-in-hand. I put him off.”

Wang uttered something between a curse and a cough. “He means he wants to make sure he’s in charge. That’s not going to happen. How many agents do you have searching for the fugitive?”

“We had eight from our department on the ground in Italy, but three have been killed. So five now. Leong wants us to team up with one of his officers, an Agent Cho. He says she will run the operation going forward.”

“She?”

“Yes.”

Wang thought for a moment. He didn’t like State Security agents mixing with military intelligence. Leong and his people were always overcautious, but he couldn’t afford to ignore them — yet.

“Send three of your people to work with this Cho character, and keep two in reserve. I want to know everything she does. We’re not going to sit by while Leong screws things up. As I’m sure you appreciate, there is only one way to guarantee that this fake Lama makes no more inflammatory statements.”

“I understand.”

“Also, there is no reason why we should be burdened with the complex diplomatic procedures involved in bringing his accomplices to justice. I believe you indicated they were South African nationals? An immediate resolution of all issues would be preferable.”

“I agree.”

“Good.” Wang disconnected and lit a cigarette.

31.

Florence, Friday Morning

The first thing Conti felt when he came to was cold concrete against his cheek. He tried to move his hand from his side to touch his face, but couldn’t raise it more than a few inches.

“You are awake?” The muffled voice came from a dark corner. With effort, Conti moved his head and surveyed the room. They were in a damp basement that smelled of garlic and wine corks. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the Panchen Lama in the corner, hands and feet bound. Li Huang lay inert beside him.

“Yeah. Can hardly move though. They shot me with some kind of nerve block this time. I’m starting to feel like a pin cushion.” He struggled and sat up partway, able to lean his head and shoulders against the cement block wall. “Is she O.K.?” He nodded in the direction of Li Huang.

“They put a needle in her arm. She has not moved for over an hour. But she is breathing. We must find a doctor.”

“That’s not going to be easy.” Conti dragged himself over to a short flight of wooden stairs. A faint light came through the uneven floorboards above. His legs flopped behind him like dead fish, but his arms had regained some of their strength. He pulled himself up, one step at a time until he reached the trap door at the top of the stairs. He pushed against it, but it wouldn’t budge. In frustration, he banged his fist on the boards.

A muffled, angry voice yelled from above. “Stop that fucking noise!” A gun went off and splinters exploded from a plank near his head. Conti rolled off the side of the stairway and tumbled back to the floor.

“Damn! Touchy bastards.”

“Are you alright?”

“Feel like I’ve gone fifteen rounds with a boxing kangaroo. But that shot of adrenaline did me some good. I can feel my toes again.”

“What do we do now?” the young Lama asked.

“Sit quietly and wait — or pray. I sent a text to Jill before I tried to play the hero. It should have gone through by now. They took my phone, so I don’t know. I’m hoping an Italian SWAT team will bust in here any minute. If not, we’re in trouble.”

“What will these people do to us?”