The Italian Mission (24 page)

The Chinese Ambassador flinched involuntarily when he stepped through the door into Mobley’s office. The Director stood behind his desk glowering into space. Then he spoke in a low snarl.

“What the hell are you trying to pull, Zheng? I thought we were cooperating on this. You tried to kill one of my guys! It was a goddamn double-cross.”

The Ambassador took two small steps inside the office door. “I am afraid you are mistaken. Those were not our people.”

“They were Chinese! My agent knows a Chinese person when she tackles one!”

“There are many Chinese in the world who do not work for my government!”

Mobley stalked around his desk and planted his great bulk a foot away from the smaller man. “If they don’t work for you, how in hell did they manage to show up at a secret rendezvous with a Red Army rocket launcher?” The Director was bluffing. He had no idea what kind of missile they had used. “We certainly didn’t tell anyone about the plane. I highly doubt it was the Italians — they are so afraid of the newspapers, they don’t even talk to their mothers. The only other people who knew about this were yours.” The Ambassador tried to respond, but Mobley was on a roll. “And whose interest would it be in to knock off the Panchen Lama? You don’t want him to make any more tapes — or to return to China. He’d be a millstone around your neck. And you certainly don’t want him around when the Dalai Lama dies, do you?” Mobley glared down at the Ambassador, nostrils flaring like an angry stallion.

“You are mistaken in your analysis.” The Ambassador managed several deep breaths and regained his composure. “We want the Panchen Lama alive, not dead. Our forensic experts believe strongly that he was forced to speak against his will in both the original broadcast and the latest one. We also have psychologists who know the young man well. They agree. He is not political, not a ‘splittist,’ as we say in China. Therefore we believe he is not making these threats of his own volition. Our people are sure that he can be convinced to retract his statements and call for calm, if we are able to take him into our custody.

“As for the Dalai Lama,” the Ambassador went on, “I understand his ailment is a pulmonary infection — not life threatening. His doctors expect him to recover. We would not base any action on the likelihood that old gentleman will perish soon.” The Ambassador ventured a slight smile. “I expect he will be in a position to offer a prayer at my funeral, should I, through some derangement of the mind, return to my ancestors’ religion on my deathbed.”

Mobley did not appreciate the joke. “Then who shot at the plane? Surely you can understand that, whoever they are, they won’t stop now.”

“We are using our best efforts to find out. I personally believe that they are part of a private effort to destabilize Tibet. I am uncertain as to their precise motives. There are many forces, both commercial and political, which do not want China to consolidate its control over the Tibetan Autonomous Region — or, for that matter, over any of our national ethnic minorities. For a time, we heard rumors that this effort was supported by someone in your National Security Council. May I assume that is no longer true?”

Mobley turned away to cover his discomfiture at this line of inquiry. He gazed out at the endless green canopy of trees outside his immense windows. “Believe me, we do not kill our own agents.”

“I thought as much,” Zheng replied. “Are we in agreement then that we will continue to work together? That we will cooperate to stop these … terrorists?”

The Director turned and fixed his piercing black eyes on the smaller man. “Yes, on one condition. We take them all alive. I want our man back safely, and I want to know who is behind this.”

“As do we.” The Ambassador’s phone rang. “Excuse me, they were told not to disturb me unless it was a matter of great importance.” He listened to his phone for a few moments, nodding, then ended the call. “Let us hope we succeed in finding them soon. Another installation has been attacked in Tibet — this time it was the new dam at Three Gorges. There is serious damage. And gun battles are being reported in the streets of Lhasa. We are even now moving three Red Army divisions into Tibet. If this insurrection isn’t stopped quickly, there will be a bloodbath.”

The Beechcraft sailed between two snow-capped mountains, losing altitude rapidly as the pilot searched for a flat piece of ground.

“How much farther can we go?” Conti asked.

“Our left tank was already empty. You can see the right one yourself.”

Conti glanced out the side window at the aviation fuel streaming off the back of the wing.

The pilot reduced the throttle even further. “The engine could quit at any time. We need to get down below a thousand feet. If we have to, we can glide in from there. That’s if we can find a flat place to land.”

“How much space do you need?”

“How rough do you want it? A couple of kilometers could work, depending on what’s at the other end ….”

The engine began sputtering, interrupting him. “Shit!” he wiped the sweat from his shining black forehead, “That’s it. We’re going down. Look for a field without trees or wires.”

39.

Sicily, Saturday Morning

Conti regained consciousness, more or less, to the fragrance of citrus blossoms — lemons. Two men carried him through an orchard on a rough canvas stretcher. They smelled of sweet tobacco and wool. He gathered his wits and asked in Italian, “Where are we?”

“
Castelprizzi
.” The gravelly voice of the burly older man carrying the front of the litter hissed the name, but said nothing more.

Conti had never heard of the place.

“
Vicino de Agrigento
?” The plane had flown over the coast near Palermo. If they’d come down in the mountain country, they would be somewhere in the central region, north of Agrigento.

“
Si.”

And where were the others? “The other people from the plane — are they alright?”

This time, the younger man, who carried the rear of the makeshift stretcher spoke, in accented English. “The pilot is dead. The Asian man is up ahead.”

“And the woman?”

“Dead. Four bodies. Two shot.”

The man in front turned and growled at his younger associate in Italian, “
Basta!
The boss will speak to them. It isn’t our place.”

Conti lay back on the canvas and tried to come to grips with the situation. So the landing had gone badly. Very badly. He didn’t remember anything beyond the plane hitting the ground hard in the middle of a flock of scattering sheep. He tried to turn and look ahead for the Panchen Lama, but dizziness forced him to lie back. He touched his forehead and felt dried blood. Li Huang and the pilot hadn’t survived. Only the two of them were left. Very sad, but it did simplify things. If they could get to the CIA office in Palermo, they’d be safe.

“How far are we from Palermo?” he asked. The younger man began to answer but the leader glowered back at him and he fell silent.

They continued past the orchard, through a field of dairy cows, and into a barn. There, the Panchen Lama sat slumped on a scarred wooden bench, apparently semi-conscious, head hanging down on his chest. Two men stood beside him: one whose face was a latticework of deep wrinkles; the other, middle-aged with a patch over his left eye. The stretcher-bearers put Conti down on the rough concrete floor near the wall. He tried to sit up, but again had to lie back to recover his equilibrium. He listened as his rescuers explained in Italian what they’d seen at the crash site. The oldest man listened carefully, nodding his head occasionally but saying nothing.

“So … who are you?” he finally asked in English, his tone flat, neither challenging nor friendly.

Conti gathered his thoughts. He didn’t trust himself to answer until he’d had a moment to clear his head. Flashbacks to a dirt hovel in the desert — choking under a burlap bag as men shouted questions in Arabic.

“Are you American?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want us to call the
carabinieri
?”

“No. Please don’t.”

The old man laughed. After a pause, the others joined in. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to. Just trying to figure out whose side you’re on.”

“Whose side?” Conti thought he’d been following the conversation but now he feared that the concussion had affected his comprehension.

“The people or the government.” The old man seemed to think it was a straightforward choice.

“I’m an American being hunted by trained killers, contract killers. I need help. We must get to Palermo before these people find us.”

“Contract killers?” The old man raised his eyebrows, showing the full intensity of his glacial blue stare. “Who are these contract killers? Are they from around here?”

“They were Chinese and South Africans back in Florence. I don’t know who our enemies would use in Sicily.”

“I see. And who are your enemies?”

“I don’t really know that either. But they are determined to kill the two of us. They tried to shoot down our airplane when we took off.”

The old man pursed his lips and raised his hands, palms facing up. “O.K., you don’t have to tell me who you are, or who is hunting for you, or why. I will help you anyway. For two reasons. In return, you must give me your word as a man of honor. The first reason is that you are American. When I was a small, the American soldiers saved my family. The Germans shot my father for giving food to the partisans. Then they took everything we had — January, 1943. Left us to starve. We ate our shoes that winter. In the summer, the Seventh Army came here. Food. Cigarettes. Chocolate. Chased the Panzers away.”

“The second reason is that I am in the security field myself. I make sure people’s businesses, their homes, and their families are safe. It would be bad for my business if these … assassins did something in my territory. People would think I was not in control.”

Conti listened carefully, but said nothing. In spite of a pounding headache, he was beginning to understand. The Sicilian
cosa nostra
divided itself into regional organizations, each responsible for a specific territory. Their principle source of revenue was the protection racket.

He nodded respectfully, then asked, “What promise do you want from me?”

“That you never tell anyone who helped you, or why. I don’t want government investigators coming here and asking me questions.”

“I promise you that. But, surely, the
carabinieri
will come to investigate the crash.”

“We can take care of that. The crash site will be moved. Only a short distance, perhaps twenty kilometers. Far enough to place it in the territory of those
stronzi
, the Torrentinos.” He drew his flat hand across his throat, then his dark look dissolved into a loud cackle. The others watched him closely and, when it became clear he was laughing, pounded each other on the back, their own hoarse guffaws eventually dissolving into coughs and gasps.

A short time later, Conti propped up the Panchen Lama outside the barn, as an old Mercedes sedan drove up. The younger of the stretcher-bearers drove, while the man with the eyepatch sat in the passenger seat. He opened the window and gestured to them to get in. The car rumbled down a long, steep gravel drive as the old Don watched them from just inside the barn door.