The Italian Mission (19 page)

Conti considered whether to give the young man his honest assessment. The South Africans, and whoever was giving them orders, had gotten what they wanted. Conti had remained conscious long enough to hear the message they’d put up on the Internet. They wouldn’t want to risk the Chinese government capturing the Panchen Lama and persuading him to retract it.

Conti dissembled. “Not sure.” He changed the subject. “What were you planning to do once you got out of China?”

The Lama studied his hands. “I told you. Marry Li Huang. Go to New York and become an artist.”

“You don’t want to be involved with Tibet at all?”

“When I was a small boy, the monks decided I was a reincarnated Lama. They brought me to Lhasa. Old men in purple robes, smelling of sweat and sheep dung. I did not want to become one of them and I do not now. The Tibetan people should not be slaves to the monks any more.”

“Is that what the Chinese taught you? That the Tibetans were slaves to the Lamas?”

“I have read many history books. Written by Westerners, not Chinese. I have …”

“Yes?”

“… a deep feeling for the people of Tibet. They have endured centuries of feudalism. I do not want to be responsible for returning them to such a repressive social system.”

“Is the Chinese way better?”

“No. Neither is good. One has economic poverty and the other spiritual poverty. Tibet must find a middle way.”

Conti shifted his weight from one hip to the other. The pain increased as the feeling in his legs returned. The young man had a depth of intellect he hadn’t appreciated before.

“You wouldn’t be much help to the Tibetan people as an artist in New York though, would you?”

Instead of getting angry, the young man looked thoughtful. “Perhaps I would.”

“How’s that?”

“The Buddha taught by example. A life lived with integrity may inspire others.”

Upstairs, a cell phone rang. Skinhead stubbed out his cigarette and picked up the phone. “Yeah?”

Matthis’ harsh voice came from the other end of the line: “Just talked with Yinglong. He saw the message on the Internet.”

“Good. Did the money transfer?”

“Five million euros.”

“You told me we were getting ten.”

“Yeah. The bastard says the job’s not finished yet.”

“Not finished?”

“Wants us to … um, take care of the Lama so he doesn’t cause trouble down the road. Then we’ll get the rest of the money.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“It is now. Says a photo of the two of them — dead — will do.”

Skinhead nodded. “What about the American?”

“No witnesses.”

32.

Langley
, Late Friday Night

“What are you doing here at this ungodly hour?” Mobley surveyed McCullough, whose beige suit still looked perfectly pressed at two a.m.

“The Dubliner closes at 1:30,” the younger man answered simply.

”Gimme me one of those, will ya’?” Mobley reached across his desk towards McCullough, who was knocking an unfiltered Marlboro out of a soft-sided pack.

“You don’t smoke.”

“Last time I had one was when my daughter was in labor. About ten years ago now. Worse than when my wife gave birth. I wanted to kill the guy.”

McCullough took out a second cigarette. “They weren’t married?”

“Yeah, they were — wanted to kill him anyway.”

“So tell me somethin’.” McCullough lit both cigarettes. “Our buddy over at the NSC, General ... what’s his name?

“Ellis.”

“Right, Ellis. Did he know that these South Africans were workin’ for someone else besides him? Must have, right?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But he claims he didn’t. Says they came to him with a proposal. He knew them from Iraq. They worked for Blackstream then. A group of them split off when the contracts started to dry up after Afghanistan. Somehow they hooked up with a nationalist group in Tibet, who claimed that, with financial support, they could make things uncomfortable for the Chinese leadership.

McCullough coughed. “But what was the point of that? Why’d Ellis want to kick the Chinese in the teeth? And why would the President go along with it? He, at least, should have known better.”

“Obviously, they didn’t think it through. Ellis is a West Point guy from the seventies. Cold War mentality. Commies are the enemy. You do what you can to mess with them regardless. Somehow he polished this turd enough that the President bought it. Sold him some story about how ethnic agitation in China would force liberalization.”

“What a crock!”

“Yeah. But the President is no genius when it comes to foreign policy. He’s just an old ward heeler like me. So they started funneling money to the Tibetans about a year ago, with the South Africans taking their cut. Then somebody got the bright idea of raising the stakes — to ‘liberate’ the Panchen Lama.”

“And really start a fuckin’ war,” McCullough added.

Mobley nodded. “All the while, apparently unknown to Ellis, the South Africans found another big client who wanted to do the same thing — destabilize Tibet. They fixed it so they’d get paid by both sides. Brilliant entrepreneurs, in a perverse sort of way. Until I talked some sense into the President and forced Ellis to stand down.”

“So what you’re sayin’,” McCullough leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “is that we can’t stop what we started because some big money guy behind the curtain is still paying the South Africans to fuck with the Chinese.”

“That’s about it.”

“Does the Joint Intel Committee know all this?” McCullough asked.

“I haven’t discussed it with the full committee yet.”

“Why you tellin’ me now?”

“Why do you think? We’ve got to keep it quiet. No one can know that we were involved. So you can’t be jawing with your Senator friends about it. And if you already have, well, just make sure they keep their mouths shut.”

McCullough looked abashed. After a moment’s uncomfortable silence, he changed the subject. “So we still don’t know who the guy behind the curtain is?”

“I’m narrowing the possibilities. Not the Israelis, I’ve talked to them. The Europeans have no reason to agitate in Tibet — they’ve got contracts there just like we have. I doubt the Taiwanese are capable of pulling off this sort of thing — the mainlanders watch them like a hawk. It’s not the Indians — I had a full and frank discussion with their head of intelligence this morning. Could be someone with a commercial interest in Tibet, or maybe some Taliban-related group pushing up from the south. Or …”

“Or what?”

“Well, I can’t prove it, but this smells like an inside job.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that the Chinese government would have kept a pretty close watch on the Panchen Lama. He was under house arrest, after all, and the fact that the Dalai Lama isn’t getting any younger would mean they would be more vigilant, not less.”

McCullough tapped his foot as he caught up with Mobley’s line of reasoning. “Yeah. I see what you mean. The closer it comes to picking a new Dalai Lama, the more nervous they’ll be about Tibet. So you suspect that someone in the Chinese government let him escape the country, then paid the South Africans to keep him out? But why?”

“That’s the million dollar question.”

McCullough’s phone rang. “If you’ll excuse me?”

Mobley nodded and McCullough stood and walked into the outer office, answering his phone as he went. Five minutes later he was back in front of Mobley’s desk. “That was Senator Krug. He just got a call from the Chinese Ambassador.”

“In the middle of the night?”

McCullough raised his palms and shrugged. “The Ambassador asked the Senator to ask you to call him.”

“Why didn’t the Ambassador call me himself?”

“Face. He doesn’t want it to look like he’s askin’ you for a favor.” McCullough slid his phone across the desk to Mobley. “Here’s the number. The Senator said he’s waiting for your call.”

“Does no one sleep in this town?” Mobley filled his cheeks with air and blew it out through pursed lips. “O.K. What the hell.” He picked up McCullough’s phone and hit send.

“Good evening, Mr. Ambassador. Or should I say good morning. How can I help you?” He flashed a sardonic smile at McCullough.

Mobley listened, nodding as he did so. “Well, I take that as a very kind offer, Mr. Ambassador. But our people don’t have the Panchen Lama. So we can’t hand him over, can we, whether you give them safe passage or not?”

Mobley pushed back from his desk and stood up, grimacing as he listened to the answer. “Oh, I see. You’re sure they’re both in the house in Florence? And you’ve got it surrounded?” Mobley nodded again, a pained look on his face. “Yes, we know about the South Africans. And no, we do not know who they’re working for.”

The director listened again, this time for several minutes, before he spoke again. “I understand. We’re as interested in avoiding any further incidents as you are. I’m perfectly aware that China holds a good deal of our sovereign debt. Absolutely no need to bring that up. We’ll work with you to resolve this in as expeditious a manner as possible. If you’ll give me the name and contact number of your chief agent in Florence, I’ll put my people in contact with him right away. I have no doubt we can work this out to our mutual satisfaction.”

Mobley rang off, sat back down, and slumped in his chair. His double chin rested on his chest. He stared vacantly at the painting on the opposite wall of a squad of Green Berets assaulting a compound somewhere in the desert.

McCullough waited impatiently for a full minute before asking, “So what’s the deal?”

“The deal is, they’ve pinpointed the house in Florence where the South Africans have the Lama and our man Conti. Do you know Conti?”

“Never had the pleasure.”

“Used to be a good agent — great agent, in fact. Three or four citations for exceptional bravery. Brilliant analyst. Remarkable pedigree: direct line from the Presidents Adams, grandfather helped organize the OSS in World War II, father in the Company, killed in action. The only trouble is he doesn’t take orders so well. Thinks he knows better. Like everyone else in this goddamn city.”

33.

Florence, Friday Morning