The Italian Mission (34 page)

Back in Politburo headquarters, Wang took his seat. “I apologize for the interruption. As I’m sure you all understand, the situation on the ground is very sensitive.”

“Perhaps you would condescend to brief us what the situation is?” Leong asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Our agents have successfully terminated the so-called Panchen Lama in a rural area of Sicily. They are still engaged with the Americans. I hope they will be able to extricate themselves without casualties, but, whether they do or not, they have accomplished their mission.”

“So,” Leong rose and paced behind the chairs of his colleagues, “you engineered the escape of the Lama, and have now killed him.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Wang exploded, his face reddening. “That’s an absurd accusation.”

“I have proof!” Leong took the fax from Washington out of his pocket and waved it in front of him. “A summary report of the United States’ National Security Agency on a failed intelligence operation. Let me read you a few pertinent sentences from the conclusion. Quote: ‘The NSC operation to free the authentic Panchen Lama from Chinese house arrest was ill-conceived from the beginning. It was based on a mistaken belief that increased agitation by ethnic nationalists in Tibet would encourage liberalization by the Chinese leadership. Subsequently, in fact, it became evident that a highly-placed Chinese official — most probably Wang Guo-Li, a member of the Central Committee and minister in charge of the Peoples’ Liberation Army — was separately pursuing the same strategy in pursuit of a diametrically opposed outcome.’”

Wang controlled his rage sufficiently to allow him to speak. “You claim to have an internal document from the United States National Security Agency? And you take it at face value? Ridiculous! This confirms that you are unfit to head our foreign intelligence. So easily deceived! I suppose if the CIA sent you a box of candy, you would feed it to your grandchildren!”

He turned and addressed the other members of the Committee. “We are wasting precious time listening to this nonsense. No doubt, that is exactly what the Americans intended. We must make a decision. The fraudulent Panchen Lama is dead. The leaders of the Tibetan splittists are assembled in the Potala Palace. A forceful strike now will end this travesty. It will send a message to the other ethnic minorities and to the world that China is no longer willing to cringe in the corner while other countries strut like peacocks. May I assume that everyone, with the exception of the gullible Comrade Leong, agrees?”

He surveyed the room. A few members nodded their agreement while the others sat stone-faced.

The missiles punched through the old lava stones of the farmhouse like a stiletto through tissue paper before detonating inside. As Conti watched, the explosions lifted a mass of rubble into the air, then scattered it back on the ground. When the breeze cleared the smoke away, nothing much was left — a pile of stones where the house had been. Although he hadn’t been to church in ten years, he uttered a short prayer, then ran around to the back of the pile.

“Jill! Where are you?”

He listened for a response but heard nothing except the whop-whop-whop of the copter blades heading toward the house. It hovered above the wreckage, searching for survivors. Conti sprinted behind the chicken coop, and saw a pair of wide-open eyes staring at him through a space between the boards. “John! Are you Okay?”

“Yeah. But our friends are still here.”

“Come inside! Quickly.”

“I’m going to try to draw them away.”

“Please, come inside! We’ll all get out of this together or …” the sentence trailed off into an uneasy silence.

“Sorry. I’m expendable. You’re not. You need to protect the guy who holds the future of Tibet in his hands — not to mention the Chinese government. If I don’t see you again … I never appreciated you enough when I had the chance.”

Before Jill could respond, he was gone, running across the field where the South Africans couldn’t help but see him. He dived into a small grove of trees and hid behind the trunk of a large oak as bullets shredded the leaves around him. In a minute, they’d fire a missile in his direction. What had Lad said? — rotors were the most vulnerable part of a helicopter. He jumped from behind the tree, aimed at the rotor and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. Empty. In the moonlight, he could make out Matthis leaning out the open door of the Apache, a predatory smile on his thin lips.

But the smile quickly vanished. Matthis’ head turned, searching the sky for the source of a loud noise somewhere behind him. A second later, Conti heard it too. The thumping of another copter — this one, larger and louder. The Apache slowly rotated to face the newcomer. But it was too late. A Seahawk, twice its size, hovered a quarter mile off, like a peregrine studying a sparrow — then the telltale puffs of smoke, two sidewinder missiles seemed to hang in the air for a fraction of a second. A whoosh, and a fireball lit up the night sky as the Apache disintegrated.

54.

While the other Steering Committee members debated whether to approve Wang’s attack, Leong sat back exhausted, half dozing. He’d left the hospital before he was ready and the caffeine in the tea wasn’t working. Not much more he could say anyway. Let the Committee consider the evidence and draw its own conclusions. If he pressed too hard, they would suspect his motives. Suddenly, his mobile buzzed. As his neighbor frowned at him, he took out the phone and read a text from Agent Cho. He rose and walked to the end of the table where Li sat. The Chairman raised his lined face with a questioning look. Leong handed him the phone and waited. Li studied the text for a moment, then raised his hand to silence the debaters.

“Comrades, we have new information that bears on the matter we have been discussing. We have just learned that the so-called Panchen Lama is still alive after all.”

Wang blanched but said nothing.

“Our field agent, her name is Cho — I understand she is a decorated veteran of the intelligence service, Comrade Leong?”

Leong nodded. Li continued, “She is on the ground in Sicily, and tells us that the young man, the alleged Lama, is now at a CIA office in Palermo. The Americans have agreed to transfer him into our custody. If all goes smoothly, he should be in Beijing by late tomorrow. I propose that we suspend this meeting until then, when the Committee will have the opportunity to question both the Lama and Agent Cho about recent events.”

“This is no time to delay,” Wang objected. “We could lose the opportunity to wipe out the Tibetan rebels if we wait. Now is the time to strike — before they have a chance to organize a defense.”

Chairman Li bowed in Wang’s direction. “There is something in what you say, Comrade. But your concerns are not sufficient. The rebels aren’t going anywhere with our army controlling the streets. Another day will not weaken our position.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. The Committee members rose and began to file out of the room. “My assistant will notify you when the witnesses are available.”

Wang remained in his seat and reached into his briefcase, searching for his old service revolver, a Type 51, nine-millimeter. It had seen him through the Indian border war as a young lieutenant, and the subsequent chaos of the Cultural Revolution. The feel of the battered plastic grip comforted him.

Conti, Jill, and the Panchen Lama sat in a back room of the CIA office in Palermo, sipping Diet Coke.

“This is very good,” the young man said. “We don’t have it in Beijing. There is a Chinese version, but I do not think they have the correct formula.”

He glanced at Conti, then Jill, both of whom looked exhausted. “Are you not happy? We escaped.”

“What would you like to do now?” Conti asked.

The young Lama thought for a moment before speaking. “I do not know. I suppose I will go to New York as Li Huang and I planned. She would want me to carry on.”

“What about your people? What about Tibet?” Jill asked.

“Of course, I will record a message calling for peace,” the Lama said.

“I’m afraid that won’t be enough at this juncture. It would be better if you went back to Lhasa and helped sort out this mess.”

“No.”

Conti sighed and said nothing. Jill spoke again, more firmly. “It’s already been decided by our governments. You are scheduled to fly to Beijing this afternoon. Agent Cho is arranging transport now. Don’t worry. The Chinese government has assured us that you will be safe.”

The young man turned to Conti, his eyes pleading. “Must I do this, Mr. Conti?”

“Yes, but there is a positive side. You may ask for certain … concessions from the Chinese in return for your cooperation.”

Jill shot a warning glance at Conti. Before either of them could speak, a young woman opened the door and leaned in, “Call for Ms. Burnham from Director Mobley. You can take it on that phone. Line three.”

Jill picked up the handset, turned her back on the two others, and spoke quietly for a moment. They she turned back and hit the speaker button, saying, “The Director would like to congratulate you two.”

“Conti, Mr. … I’m sorry, I afraid I don’t know the Lama’s given name.”

Jill spoke up. “Tibetan Lamas are normally addressed as Rinpoche, a term of respect … whether they deserve it or not.”

The Panchen Lama stared down at his hands, and Mobley continued. “As I was saying, the two you have pulled off a remarkable feat — with Burnham’s help, of course. Because of your efforts, it may be possible to avoid a disaster in Tibet. Many lives will be saved. Rinpoche, I’m sure once you appreciate that, you’ll want to give your fullest cooperation to the Chinese authorities. Don’t you agree, Mr. Conti?”