The Italian Mission (35 page)

“I do, assuming certain conditions are met.”

Another voice cut in on Mobley’s end. Jill recognized it as McCullough’s. “Conditions? Who the hell do you think you are, Conti? The people who run the Joint Intelligence Committee want this resolved, and fast. No goddamned conditions!”

“Enough
,
McCullough!” Mobley’s anger burned through the phone lines. “I invited you in here to listen, not talk. Conti, as of right now, you’re no longer on this case. I’ve spoken to the Secretary of State and she agrees. You’ve done the country a great favor — I wouldn’t be surprised if you get the Distinguished Service Award — but now you need to bow out and return to your post in Rome.”

“I will not go to Beijing unless Mr. Conti goes with me,” the Panchen Lama shouted. “I cannot do this alone. I do not know what to ask for. I need someone experienced in these matters to advise me. Will you accompany me, Mr. Conti? You are the only person I trust.”

Mobley cut in. “I understand your concern, but that is not possible. Mr. Conti is needed at the Embassy in Rome — immediately. Important diplomatic business,” the Director added lamely.

“More important than this?” the Lama asked, surprising everyone. “The future of my country is at stake. I refuse to work with the Chinese unless Mr. Conti is there to assist me.”

“Conti, tell him you can’t do it.” Mobley’s voice was a study in barely restrained aggression.

“Sorry, Director. I’d like to help you, but, as I told you once before, there are bigger things at stake here.”

“Arrogant bastard!” McCullough’s high voice filled the room.

“Maybe,” Conti rubbed John Quincy Adams’ old signet ring. “But I come by it honestly.”

55.

Conti was awakened by the heavy turbulence of the airplane hitting a wall of cold air. They’d flown out of Palermo at dusk and landed briefly somewhere along the way. Snow-covered peaks out the window now. Had to be the western Himalayas. Across from him, Cho and the Panchen Lama, both half-asleep, shifted positions, searching for non-existent cushioning on the military-style seats. Behind them sat two guards, quietly reading magazines, then twenty rows of empty benches. The co-pilot came through the cockpit door and handed Cho a radio headset. She pulled it over her straight black hair and spoke into the microphone in Chinese.

“
Wei.
Ah, Comrade Leong. Yes, yes, everything is on time. We refueled in Rawalpindi and should land in Beijing,” she looked at her watch,” about ten p.m.”

She listened for several moments, concentrating, lips pursed. “I see. Yes, I understand. I will call half an hour before we land.”

When she rang off, Conti raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

Cho stared at the bulkhead for a long moment. When she saw Conti’s questioning expression, she removed the headset and spoke softly. “Things seem to be changing.”

“Yes?” Conti waited patiently.

“That was Comrade Leong. He is the member of the Steering Committee who runs the diplomatic service and the civilian intelligence department. Or at least he did. He suggests we reroute the plane to Lhasa.”

“Suggests?”

“He is no longer in my direct line of command.”

Conti could see that she was ambivalent. “Is there someone else you can speak to?”

“No. But I think I will follow his suggestion. He believes that the situation in Lhasa is now so inflammatory that the Panchen Lama can do the most good there rather than in Beijing.” She got up and walked forward to the pilots’ compartment.

Back in his office, Wang sat staring into space, occasionally spinning the barrel of his revolver. His back was against the wall, but he’d been in bad situations before. He needed to do something dramatic — something that would distract the Committee from Leong’s accusations and return their attention to the real danger — the rebels. The rest of them had gone home to their warm beds. Good. By the time they returned in the morning, everything would have changed, and he would have the upper hand again. He punched in the number of General Bo’s headquarters in Lhasa. A sleepy subaltern answered.

“Get me Bo.”

“General Bo has retired for the evening.”

“I don’t care if he’s fucking his lieutenant. This is Wang Guo-Li. I need him now!”

This wrenched the soldier from his pleasant daydream. “Yes sir!”

Wang waited, tapping the butt of his revolver on his desk blotter. Finally, a thick-voiced Bo came on the line.

“Have you been drinking?” Wang asked.

“No … perhaps a beer or two …”

“Never mind. Are the B611 transports in place?”

“Yes, we have two of them within easy range of the palace — one each on the east and west boundaries of the city.”

“How soon can the missiles be fitted with nuclear warheads?”

“Nuclear warheads?”

“You heard me!”

“We did bring several tactical weapons to Lhasa, but …”

“How soon?”

“Nuclear ordinance is stored separately, of course. It will take several hours to install and check them out. Then we must clear the area of all PLA cadres. These are fifteen-kiloton weapons. You understand that they would destroy not only the Potala, but the area surrounding it.”

“I said, how soon?”

“We could be ready by dawn. Five a.m.”

“Do it. I will poll the members of the Steering Committee and get back to you with final orders before then.” Wang had no intention of polling anyone. They’d still be asleep when the missiles struck.

“Comrade Wang?”

“Yes?”

“I do not wish to second-guess your orders or those of the Steering Committee, but there is no military necessity to use nuclear weapons. The palace holds nothing but monks and a few men with assault rifles. Nothing that would give my men trouble.”

Wang struggled to hold his temper in check. Better to show Bo that this was a cool-headed decision. “You are missing the point, General. This is not about a few monks. There are more than fifty separate ethnic groups in our country. Each has its own illusory ideas of self-determination. We must demonstrate strength when faced with rebellion. This can only be accomplished by a show of overwhelming force — one that will inspire awe across China and the world. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

56.

Leong had arranged for a government car — a large, black BMW — to meet them at the Lhasa airport. Speeding through the night, it took only fifteen minutes for them to reach military headquarters on Jingzhoi Road, not far from the Potala Palace. Showing her credentials, Cho talked her way past the sentry and into General Bo’s outer office.

“You wait here,” she ordered Conti harshly. The force of the command and Conti’s silent acquiescence seemed to satisfy the guard standing outside the door to Bo’s office. Conti took a seat in a corner of the large room. Even though it was three a.m., the place buzzed with activity as soldiers lugged large boxes of files to waiting trucks outside. The room smelled of stale sweat and cigarette smoke.

A young soldier escorted Cho and the Lama into the inner sanctum, where the General sat bent over his desk. “General Bo, I am Agent Cho Lin, Foreign Intelligence Division, Ministry of State Security.”

Bo barely looked up from the stack of papers on his desk. “So what? Can’t you see I’m busy? Who sent you and what do you want? I have all the intelligence I need.”

“I’m not here to provide information. I’ve brought someone I think you will be interested in.” She turned and gestured toward young man. “This is the Panchen Lama, or should I say, the man the Tibetans recognize as the Panchen Lama. Comrade Leong, of the Steering Committee, believes he can help you resolve this crisis.”

Bo hesitated — the import of her words slowly sank in. “Leong is not in charge of the military. I understand he’s not even in charge of his own Ministry anymore.” He spoke gruffly, in a voice strained by lack of sleep and too many cigarettes. “So, this is the fellow who has caused all the trouble? He has a lot to answer for.” He addressed his adjutant and gestured toward the Lama. “Arrest this man and take him to the new headquarters.”

“But General …” Cho began.

“But nothing. If your department doesn’t have the sense to restrain this rebel, the Army certainly does.”

Cho stood her ground. “He is willing to help you. Surely you realize the power the Panchen Lama has over these people. Even the suggestion that he had escaped from China caused demonstrations and self-immolations. If you let him talk to the monks inside the Potala Palace, you may be able to defuse this situation without violence.”

“Too late.” Bo stood up and glared across the desk at Cho. “The decision has been made, the order given.” He checked his watch. “In two hours, there will be no Potala Palace … or anything else in the vicinity. That’s why we are evacuating this area. We will take the traitor into custody and you can call Comrade Leong, and tell him that the People’s Liberation Army has put down this rebellion without his assistance.”

Bo gathered his papers and stalked out of the room.

“Let’s go!” The adjutant fiddled nervously with the flap on his belt holster and withdrew his service pistol with some difficulty. Obviously not a seasoned veteran, Cho thought. Probably the son of a friend of the General’s, recently out of officer training school. The adjutant motioned, his pistol hand shaking slightly, for the Panchen Lama and Cho to precede him out of the office. In the short time that they’d been with Bo, soldiers had cleared the outer room, leaving empty file cabinets and a floor littered with crushed paper cups and cigarette butts. Conti still sat in the corner, trying his best to look inconspicuous.

“Who’s this?” the adjutant asked Cho in Chinese.

“No idea,” she replied. “Nothing to do with me. Looks American. Maybe a spy searching for sensitive documents your staff left behind.” She realized this didn’t make much sense, but was counting on the hour and the adjutant’s obviously strained nerves to cloud his judgment. “You’d better search him.”

The adjutant looked wide-eyed at Cho, then Conti, then back at Cho. “You’re in intelligence, why don’t you do it?”

“This is an Army installation. It is your responsibility. I think the General would agree with me. You heard him. He doesn’t want me interfering in Army business.”

The young lieutenant dithered for a moment, then slipped his pistol back into its holster. “Stand up and put your hands in the air!” he ordered.

Conti did so and the adjutant began to frisk him. As he patted down Conti’s rib cage, Cho reached behind him and slipped the pistol out of his holster.

“O.K., that’s enough,” she said. The adjutant turned his head in her direction. The blood drained from his face.