The Italian Mission

Alan Champorcher

The Italian Mission

Copyright ©2013 Alan Ciamporcero

All Rights Reserved

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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 /12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21 / 22 / 23 / 24 / 25 / 26 / 27 / 28 / 29 / 30 / 31 / 32 / 33 / 34 / 35 / 36 / 37 / 38 / 39 / 40 / 41 / 42 / 43 / 44 / 45 / 46 / 47 / 48 / 49 / 50 / 51 / 52 / 53 / 54 / 55 / 56 / 57 / Epilogue / Acknowledgments

If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading.

 Gautama Buddha

1.

American Embassy to the Holy See, Rome, Friday evening, August 15

“Planning to join the party? The Ambassador is asking for you, and she looks angry.”

John Adams Conti gazed over the black wrought-iron fence down at the Circus Maximus, the ancient Roman arena where chariot races were once held. He’d been trying to imagine what the scene was like at the height of the Roman Empire. All that came to mind was Charlton Heston cracking a whip over four galloping white horses.

Turning his tall, lanky body, he focused a hawk-like stare on the young woman. She looked like a college kid. But she was a full-fledged diplomat, while he was only a candidate to become one, after twenty years as a CIA case officer. Even though it had been his choice to change horses in mid-stream, it grated. He ran his hand over his thinning hair. Maybe he was too old for this.

His stare dissolved into a kindly smile. “Be there in a minute. Just appreciating the view. A whole lot nicer than where I was this time last year.”

The woman smiled. “I guess so. Not many soirees this fancy in Kabul, huh?”

“Not many soirees of any kind.”

Conti and the young woman walked slowly back toward the twinkling lights and paper lanterns decorating the Embassy lawn. He bent slightly, the better to hear his diminutive companion over the opening bars of the string quartet’s “Polonaise.”

“It’s a beautiful spot,” she said. “See the old buildings on the Palatine Hill above the Circus? Government offices two thousand years ago, but enough time makes almost anything romantic, I guess. My classmates at Foggy Bottom couldn’t believe my first posting was the Embassy to the Holy See. They think this is pretty much a Catholic country club.”

“Not too far from the truth, I guess?”

“Depends. If you’re Jewish and put in seventy hours a week in a windowless office, it’s not so glamorous. But, I’ll admit, the parties are great. Anyway, we’d better get back. The Ambassador wants everyone in the receiving line. She’s very Junior League, you know.”

“I heard. Old Virginia, right? Lees, Custises, and Randolphs in her background, no doubt.”

The young woman smiled. “You can’t very well complain about someone else’s aristocratic roots, can you? Not too many people in the State Department have a founding father in their woodpile.”

“Yeah, but my ancient relative was a revolutionary. Her people were probably Tories.”

The two walked toward the front of the Embassy, half Frank Lloyd Wright knock-off and half fortified bunker. Communications towers and satellite dishes spoiled the line of the flat roof. On the tree-lined suburban street, the guests’ limousines lined up five deep. Cardinals in rich velvet crimson and purple livery stepped out of black limousines. Younger men in the somber habits of workaday priests clucked around these princes of the church.

As Conti joined the end of the receiving line of Embassy officials, a scowl sent a spider web of tiny cracks through the Ambassador’s heavy make-up. He’d gotten off on the wrong foot with her, but couldn’t bring himself to care much. Too many years crawling in the dust of the world’s hellholes had left him a bit blasé about a socialite ambassador’s opinion. Still, he gave it the old college try, bantering with each of the Cardinals in pitch-perfect Italian.

At the end of the line, linen-covered tables awaited the guests, laden with salvers of wild boar salami and foie gras, while tuxedoed waiters circulated with trays of Bellinis in chilled martini glasses. The Ambassador made a short welcoming speech in a rough approximation of Italian. Everyone applauded politely, whether or not they understood what she said.

As twilight faded, the Chinese lanterns seemed to glow more brightly. Conti found himself in a small group listening to the Archbishop of Mexico City drone on about his diocese’s anti-abortion campaign. He snuck a look at his watch. Still at least an hour of this to endure. Suddenly, a hand tapped him urgently on the shoulder. He wheeled to find a short, wizened Asian man wearing a large topcoat over saffron monks’ robes.

“Mr. Conti, a word please.”

He turned back to the Mexican cleric and the Ambassador and excused himself. Taking the monk by the arm, he walked a few paces to a relatively quiet corner of the lawn.

“What can I do for you?”

“There is a young man, a Tibetan, in Rome who needs your help. He is in great danger. We know that your father was a friend of Tibet, and we hope you share his sympathies.”

Conti’s father had died almost forty years earlier, lost somewhere on the Chinese-Tibet border.

At that moment, the Ambassador strode up with a portly cleric on her arm and interrupted. “John, I’d like you to meet Cardinal Wozynski, one of the most important people in the Curia. He’s responsible for the entire Middle East. Cardinal, this is John Conti. New to the Embassy. Bit of a mystery man. Recently involved in intelligence work somewhere in Afghanistan or Pakistan, I’m not exactly sure which. You two should have a lot to talk about.”

Conti made a Herculean effort not to reach out and choke her. Could anyone in the Foreign Service be that oblivious? People died as a result of less flagrant breaches of security. He painted an approximation of a smile over his fury. The Ambassador scuttled away, dragging the old monk with her.

Conti took a deep breath, and then turned his attention to the Polish Cardinal. They’d just begun to discuss oil economics — perhaps he could cover the Ambassador’s breach by posing as a commercial attaché — when he heard a scuffle near the front gate. He swiveled in time to see the small monk being ushered unceremoniously into the street by two large Marines. He excused himself and walked quickly over to the guards.

“Who was that gentleman?”

“Crasher, sir. Apparently snuck in with the party from the Philippine Embassy. Ambassador was pissed. Happens sometimes. Was he bothering you?”

“No, no. Just curious.” Conti returned to the party. A few minutes later, he walked to the bluff behind the Embassy again to see if the old monk had lingered outside the fence. Nothing but the heavy evening traffic coursing through the piazza as Romans returned home from the city center. Beyond that lay the dark valley of the Circus and the ancient ruins looming above. About to return to the party, he noticed movement on the nearer slope. A dark shape hurried down the grassy hill, followed some twenty yards behind by two larger figures. The shadows swallowed them up at the bottom of the Circus, the long flat area where the chariot racetrack had once been. He wanted to follow, but it would have to wait.

An hour later, after easing the last tipsy prelate into the back seat of his Mercedes, Conti slipped out of the Embassy gates, picked his way through the diminishing traffic, and stood at the top of the dark hill where he’d seen the men disappear. He made his way slowly down the grassy slope, following the path they’d taken. Whoever they were, they were large, and by the looks of the disturbed turf, desperate.

At the bottom of the hill, he found the monk’s black overcoat, torn and lying in a heap. Some yards away, a much bigger surprise. A pistol half-buried in the sandy dirt. He picked it up with a handkerchief. Chinese — People’s Liberation Army standard issue — handle covered in blood. He wrapped it up and slid it carefully into his pocket, then went back to the overcoat. Rifling through the pockets, he thought at first they were empty, then felt something round and sharp. In the faint light of the waning moon, it proved to be a seashell of some sort — a scallop, he thought — with two holes punched in its hinge.

2.

Rome, Saturday Afternoon

Conti muscled his yellow 1965 Lamborghini coupe through the heavy weekend traffic around the “wedding cake,” Mussolini’s ponderous white memorial to Italian unification. The car, a prized possession of his youth, had slumbered in storage for years and badly needed a complete restoration. But it could still haul ass when necessary. Jabbing the accelerator, he shot past the Fiats and Vespas and turned west, crossing the Tiber to Vatican City. He parked and covered the half-mile to the Vatican Library as quickly as the milling crowds allowed, flashed his Embassy I.D. to the guard, then headed for a desk in a remote corner of the reading room where he knew he’d find Amos Cadiz.

He’d known the Rabbi for twenty years, since his orientation classes at the CIA. Cadiz, a professor of religious history at Georgetown, had also lectured at Langley. They’d been friends ever since, Conti turning up periodically at the University of Rome, where Cadiz now taught. He used the Rabbi as an unofficial sounding board both for his strategic assessments and his complaints about the Agency. Right up to the point where he decided he had to get out.

“Look who’s here,” the Rabbi said, although Conti could see no evidence that his mouth had moved beneath his full white beard. “How is the diplomatic life, my boy? Salmon puffs and white wine? A big improvement over Al Qaeda bullets, no doubt.”

Conti smiled. “In some ways. I may have underestimated how much I’d miss the action. Now I spend a lot of time polishing my shoes and making sure my suit pants have a sharp crease. They don’t trust me with anything important yet. But I’ll get used to it. I’ve taken up golf and marathon running.”

“Sounds awful.”

“At least I haven’t been ordered to shoot any civilians lately.”

“Have you ever been?”

“Can’t say. I’ve already told you too many secrets over the years.”

The Rabbi chuckled. “You never told me anything I didn’t already know. How is your mother?”

“Fine. Managing the family estate in Milan takes up all of her time. She went from being the princess to the queen when my grandfather died. Busy organizing charity events and ordering the staff around. She’s happy now that I’m stationed in Rome.”

Conti used his mother’s surname. He didn’t think it healthy for an undercover intelligence agent to advertise his descent from two American presidents — even if they’d died more two hundred years ago. His superiors agreed.

“And you’re in good health?” the Rabbi asked. “Last time I saw you, you looked terrible. When was that — over a year ago? Now you could be an underwear model.”

“I’ll try that next if this State Department gig doesn’t work out. It’s not off to a great start. I have to bite my tongue to avoid telling the Ambassador she’s a political hack.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. She thinks the Vatican is on the level.”

“Aha. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? You’re keeping me from very important work. I’m thinking of writing a book about Rome’s kosher pizzerias.”

“Are there any?”

“I’m looking.”

Conti reached into his pocket and pulled out the scallop shell. He set it on the desk beside a stack of what looked like ancient Hebrew texts — clearly not about pizza, kosher or otherwise. “Do you know what this is?”

The Rabbi picked it up and turned it over in his hand.

“Don’t you?”

“No, or I wouldn’t ask.”

“Your education in religious history has been sadly inadequate.”

“Very likely. I was a political science major.”

“The shell is a symbol of the Christian Saint James — or Sant Iago — one of the twelve apostles. He was martyred in Jerusalem. The body, they say, was transported to Spain by boat. The devout believe that his ship sank and the corpse floated miraculously to shore, covered in scallop shells. The shell became the badge of the medieval pilgrims who visited the church of Santiago de Compostela where the body was supposed to have been buried. It’s still worn by pilgrims who make the trip from Spain to Rome on foot, or visa versa. You see these two holes?” The Rabbi pointed to the two small punches in the hinge of the shell.

“Yes.”

“To tie a string through and hang around your neck.”

“People still do this?”

“There is a marked path the length of Italy, then on through France — the Via Francigena. One branch goes to Canterbury in England and the other to Spain. You know, I really would have expected you of all people to know about this.”

“Why me of all people?”

“Your illustrious relative, John Adams. He walked a good portion of the trail after his ship to Paris sprang a leak and had to dock in Spain. Wrote about it in his diary. You come from adventurous stock.”

“There are a lot of things I don’t know about the American side of the family. I was raised in Italy after my father died.”

“I suppose you can be forgiven. But why are you so interested in this shell?”

Conti related the story of the ancient monk who’d approached him at the Embassy party, the nighttime chase, and finding the Chinese pistol.

“The old man told you he was seeking help for another Tibetan monk?”

“Yes, a young Tibetan, but he didn’t say he was a monk.”

“I’ll wager he is. And the Chinese apparently want him back. Must be important. Did you call your old friends at the Agency?”

“Not yet. Some people there would think I’m just looking to get involved again — to fight old battles.”

Conti’s phone vibrated. He pulled it out of the pocket of his blazer and checked the number. “Speak of the devil. Excuse me Rabbi, got to take this.”

He walked farther back into the stacks, stopped at a window, and sat on the cool granite sill.

“Hi. This is an unexpected pleasure. Couldn’t get along without me, huh?”

“Right. The entire free world is heading for disaster and you’re the only one who can save us, Superman.” A moment’s hesitation, then, “How are you, John?”

“Fine. Learning the nuanced arts of diplomacy — starting with the file room.”

“Seeing any of your old contacts?”

“Of course not. You know I’m retired. I don’t do that sort of thing any more. Why would you ask?”

“A Chinese agent was killed in Rome last night. The Italians called to tell us.”

“And?”

“He had a picture on him, apparently taken with a telephoto lens. It shows you at an Embassy party talking with an old man who looks like a Japanese monk.”

“Tibetan, actually.”

“Who is he?”

“Don’t know. Said he knew my father back in the day. Probably part of our Tibet liberation army.” The last three words were loaded with sarcasm. “Where’d they find the agent?”

“An empty field not far from the Embassy. Must have been not long after he took the picture. Killed by a blow to the throat, delivered by someone who knew what he was doing. What’d the monk want?”

Conti hesitated. The body must have been near where he’d found the shell last night. He hadn’t looked hard enough. “Didn’t tell me much. We were interrupted.”

“But he told you something?”

“Only that a young man, also Tibetan, was in Rome and needed my help.”

“And when were you going to tell us?”

There was a silence on the line as Conti took out a cigarette, thought better of it and put it away.

“For all I knew, it was nothing. Some old friend of my dad’s asking a favor. Maybe he wanted me to help get the kid into the university or something.”

“Snuck into an Embassy party to ask for a college recommendation. Makes a lot of sense.”

“How did you know he snuck in?”

“Good guess.” Her tone had become harsher. “Look John, you’re too good an agent to act like this. You know damn well this could be important. And you know that I’ve got to know. Just because you aren’t on the payroll anymore, and just because you dislike the leadership around here …”

“Not all of them.”

“Don’t interrupt. You have an obligation to keep me informed of anything that relates to your past duties at the Company. You don’t have to worry about anything … um … personal happening. As far as I’m concerned, that’s behind us.”

Conti stood up from the window ledge and paced back and forth. “Well, what do you want me to do? I’ll call if the old man tries to contact me again.”

“I’d like you to do a little more than that. Find the old guy and see what he’s up to. I’m not going to involve our Rome office yet. Let the Chinese think we don’t view this as a big deal. It’s their problem, not ours.”

“Do I get extra pay?”

“Like you need it.”

“You’d be surprised.”

3.

Langley, Virginia, CIA Headquarters, Saturday Morning

Jillian Burnham hung up the phone and slumped back into her chair. That was the first time she’d talked to John since he’d formally left the agency three months earlier. She sighed heavily, running over the conversation in her mind. Wondering about her motives. Did it make sense to get him involved in Company affairs again? The Rome office was perfectly capable of tracking people without the Chinese finding out. Probably. But they were green. Conti, on the other hand, knew the ropes, had always known the ropes.

Even when they met in training twenty years ago, he seemed to understand the subtleties of the job without having to make an effort. Some sort of deep memory, she guessed. His family had been shaping America’s foreign policy for two centuries, one way or the other. He was the heir to the tradition. She, on the other hand, had been brand new. Raised on an Iowa farm, scholarship student at Columbia and Johns Hopkins. Yet, she and John had been soul mates from the start. Until they weren’t anymore. He went into the field, and she shot up through the agency bureaucracy, finally running the Near East and Asian office. A stellar professional career and … not much else. She fussed with the papers on her desk, not noticing the tall, well dressed, burly man leaning against her doorjamb munching pumpkin seeds.

“Wanna drive into D.C. with me and grab some lunch? See who’s hangin’ at the Capital Grille?” James Bowie McCulloch III, the CIA’s new head of Congressional Affairs, asked in a B’rer Rabbit accent.

“Can’t. Just because it’s the weekend, doesn’t mean the rest of the world stops making trouble.” Jill tried to look busy.

“All work an’ no play makes Jack a political nonentity. Jill too.”

She frowned. “We try not to socialize with elected officials, or their tipsy staff members. Good fences make good neighbors.”

“That is just what I’ve been brought in to fix. Get you Oompa-Loompas out into the world a little bit. Meet the men — and the occasional woman — who really count in this town. You know politicians don’t trust anyone they can’t drink with, don’t ya?”

“You sure that’s not just Texans?”

“That is exactly the kind of Northeast-centric, crypto liberal attitude that makes it hard for the agency to be influential these days. Good thing I’m around to straighten you guys out.”

“Yeah, good thing.” Jill picked up the afternoon intelligence report and acted like she was concentrating. But when she looked up McCullough was still there, leaning against the doorjamb, popping pumpkin seeds.

“I hear the Chinese are whipped up about somethin’,” he drawled between chews.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Little birdie.”

McCulloch spent his time wandering the halls, chatting up secretaries and low-level officers, charming them into saying things they shouldn’t.

“Something about one of their folks turning up dead in Rome.”

Jill squinted as though she were checking her memory banks. “Oh, yes, now that you mention it, the Italian police found a body not too far from our Vatican Embassy. One of their agents. Nothing to do with us. We’ll keep an eye on it.”

McCulloch straightened and turned toward the hall, then looked back over his shoulder. “Uh huh. Well, anything that happens involvin’ our Asian friends has to do with us. And I need to know about it pronto. That’s all anyone on the Hill wants to talk about: China, China, goddamn China. You’d think they owned a piece of the country.” He laughed, “an’ maybe they do.” His shiny black Ferragamos clicked noisily on the linoleum tile as he strolled down the hall.

4.

The Vatican, Rome, Sunday Morning

Conti picked his way through a large Japanese tourist group clogging the main doorway of St. Peter’s, finally pushed through by the insistent shoving of a stout Latin American nun. As always, he marveled at the splendor of the interior. Leo X had financed the new Basilica in the sixteenth century by selling indulgences. Whatever the virtue of his theology, his taste had been impeccable. Some would say that Martin Luther’s revolt was a small price to pay for such beauty. Conti wrenched his gaze away from the sparkling canopy of the Bernini altarpiece and crossed the nave to the west aisle, where Cadiz had told him he would find the Vatican’s Officium Peregrinationum, the Office of Pilgrimage.

He located the right door and walked down a hallway past the Vatican Treasury until a red velvet rope blocked his progress. A small group of German tourists waited behind it. Slim young people carrying backpacks, dressed in Lycra hiking clothes. One young man, a scallop shell hanging on a cord around his neck, turned toward him. In rudimentary German, Conti asked where the Pilgrimage office was.

The man responded in slightly accented English. “It’s just there,” pointing to a door ten yards down the hallway. “We’ve been told to wait and someone will come to help us. It’s been half an hour now. But that is not so long after walking a thousand miles.” The man smiled and gestured at his worn hiking boots.

“Have you walked the Via Francigena?”

“Yes. Three months to get here.”

“You are religious pilgrims then?”

“We’re from the Bonn gay-lesbian alliance. I suppose you would say we are spiritual pilgrims.”

As Conti digested this, he watched two men in black nylon jackets approach. The taller one issued a brusque greeting to the group in South African-accented English.

“Have you people come from the trail, the Francigena?” He pronounced it “Frankie-Gina.” Without waiting for an answer, he continued in a peremptory tone. “I have a few questions for you.” Conti, who had been about to ask the pilgrims his own questions, turned his face away as if to gaze down the empty hallway beyond the rope, but stayed close enough to hear the exchange.

A tall, willowy young woman with cropped blonde hair and a self-possessed air stepped forward. Frowning, she addressed the inquisitor. “And who are you?”

The jacketed man was briefly taken aback, then growled at her. “Interpol. Investigating a possible crime. You would be wise to cooperate.” After a short pause, he added, “We know how to deal with your type.”

The woman stiffened. “Our type? We are German citizens. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Give me your passports.”

Instead of responding to this demand, the woman turned to her companions, fire in her eyes. “Don’t do it.”

Conti turned his head slightly back toward the woman and whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Ask for identification.” The woman smiled tightly and spun back to confront the black jackets.

“You will show me your identification, please.”

The two men stared angrily at her for a long moment. She met their stares without flinching. Finally, the leader reached inside his jacket, pulled out a leather folder, flashed it open and, just as quickly, snapped it shut again and stuffed it back inside his pocket. “Enough of this nonsense. Answer my question. Did you see an Oriental monk on the trail heading north?”

Conti, who’d been craning his neck around the tall young man, was about to speak again when the woman said what he would have.

“I did not see clearly what was in your folder. If you wish us to cooperate, I must examine it more closely.”

The man flushed with anger. “I am giving you one last chance.”

She spat back, “Authenticate your authority properly or leave.”

Conti watched with admiration. In his experience, few civilians had the cojones to stand up to a bully flashing a badge.

The man turned and whispered something to his comrade who nodded, then spoke. “We must go now to continue our investigation. If we find that you are in any way complicit, you will … be made to pay.” His voice trailed off as his chest deflated.

The men scowled one last time, then wheeled and stalked back toward the interior of St. Peter’s. The woman turned to Conti.

“Thank you. I knew I should challenge them — they did not seem to be real policemen — but I wasn’t sure what to say.”

“You handled it perfectly. If they’re from Interpol, I’m from Mars.” Trying to sound nonchalant, he went on, “That was an odd question he asked, wasn’t it? Oriental monks on the trail. Did you see anything like that?”

“Yes, actually. Three monks, with cowls pulled over their heads, just in the suburbs outside Rome heading north. We greeted them but they just bowed and pushed on. They were going very fast, almost flying over the ground.” She laughed. “But I wouldn’t tell those bastards.”

5.

Roma Termini, Main Railway Station, Sunday Afternoon

The smog from thousands of humming automobile engines combined with a temperature inversion to paint the late afternoon sky above the city incandescent orange. Conti, shouldering his way through the press of people waiting for the Sunday afternoon train to Florence, didn’t notice. He was Italian enough to know that staying at the rear of the crowd was a bad idea. It would mean standing all the way to his destination, if he got aboard at all. The crowd, smelling of wool and garlic, chattered ceaselessly, probably not unlike their ancestors, who’d assembled on this very spot two thousand years before to enter the Baths of Diocletian, the thermae from which the railway station took its name. Only the cell phones and the tobacco smoke were new.

A teenage girl, dancing to a pop tune playing only in her head, trampled on his toes. Fortunately, he’d stopped at his apartment and donned hiking gear, complete with heavy boots. Heads swiveled to the right, and following them, he watched a train chug slowly out of the yard toward the platform. Only two cars. For a crowd large enough to fill twice that capacity. He braced for a struggle. After several minutes of sharp elbows and well-aimed hips, he collapsed sweating into a seat, dropping his backpack onto his lap. He briefly considered giving his place to a babushka’d grandmother standing in the aisle, but convinced himself it would be too awkward from his window seat.

Conti pulled out his phone. Too many people to risk a voice call. He punched in Jill’s secure number and hoped the Italians weren’t randomly monitoring text messages. He tried not to use any words that would trigger an intelligence-based filter.

‘Can u talk?’

‘Yes.’

‘On train to Tuscany. Have info monks headed that way on foot.’

‘On foot? Typo?’

‘On foot. On Via Francigena.’

‘Via what?’

‘Look it up.’

‘I will. Why Tuscany?’

‘No idea. But not only our Chinese friends interested.’

‘Who else?’

‘South Africans, professionals. Saw them at Vatican Pilgrimage Office.’

‘The what?’

‘Look it up.’

Conti enjoyed this. He could have explained things better, but texting gave him an excuse to be enigmatic. Jillian, stuck at headquarters, had always been jealous of his “exciting” undercover life. He was playing with her, and he knew her patience would wear thin.

‘Jerk. What’s really going on?’

‘Don’t know. Honest. Three monks hustling north on foot. Chinese in pursuit. South African somehow involved. Not sure who’s chasing whom, or why. I’m on it.’

‘O.K. I’ll check sources around here. Keep me posted.’

‘Right. Favor?’

‘Almost anything.’

‘Call Ambassador and make excuse. You need me to run an errand maybe?’

‘I’ll think of something. Good luck.’

‘Thx.’

Conti looked up from his phone and, startled, immediately jerked his head back down. Peeking through his fingers, he saw the South Africans standing on the platform between the cars, smoking and scanning the passengers inside. He hadn’t seen them in the crowd. Must have strong-armed their way aboard at the last minute. Their eyes passed over his seat without any change of expression. Good. He hoped he’d blended in with the Germans back at the Vatican and that they hadn’t noticed him.

Lulled by the rocking motion of the train, he slumped back into his seat and closed his eyes. When he opened them again it was six o’clock p.m. and the train was stationary. Immediately alert, he asked his seatmates, a young man listening to an iPod and the old woman who had been standing in the aisle, where they were. The young man took out one ear-bud, shrugged and shouted over the noise of the train, “Orvieto?”

“No, no, no!” the old woman wagged her finger. “Questa e Chiusi.”

Conti grabbed his pack and pushed his way toward the door as the train began to move slowly. Chiusi was where he had to change for the local train to the Tuscan hill towns, the way stations on the pilgrimage route. He tumbled down the steps, crossed the pavement steaming from a recent downpour, and, still only half awake, climbed into an even smaller and more crowded train. Stepping up onto platform between cars, he bumped into one the South Africans, who glared at him without apparent recognition. He turned away quickly and threaded his way into the middle of the car, leaning against a seat to catch his breath.

As the train began to shudder, then roll slowly forward, Conti rummaged through his backpack for the book he’d bought on the Via Francigena. In the tenth century, he read, Sigeric the Serious, Archbishop of Canterbury, had chronicled his trip from England to Rome, the first good description of the pilgrimage route. Conti had to smile. Great name for an Archbishop. He studied the map in the book, reviewing his plans. The German pilgrims had seen the monks leaving Rome on Friday morning. This was Sunday afternoon. Even if they were traveling fast, they couldn’t do much more than twenty-five or thirty miles a day in the hilly terrain. He’d get off at Siena, a hundred and thirty-five miles north of Rome, and take the trail south. If they were still on the trail, he should run into them. He looked down the aisle and through the window at the South Africans on the platform. Apparently, they had something similar in mind.

An hour later, the conductor announced “Attenzione, attenzione, prossima fermata Siena.” Conti squeezed through the still-packed aisle toward the exit. The South Africans were also waiting for the doors to open, carrying what looked like aluminum brief cases. Conti lingered behind a family loaded down with shopping bags, and waited for everyone else to detrain before he descended the narrow steps. The sun had begun to set over the Tuscan hills. He had perhaps an hour of twilight to get to his destination, a ruined abbey three miles south of the city where he’d read that it was possible to camp for the night.

Tourists, slowed by pasta and wine, clogged the center of Siena. He dodged through the narrow streets, finally arriving at the city’s southern gate. Outside the old town wall and down a long hill, he found the first trail sign, a trekking monk with a bindle over his shoulder, and set off down the path, following the narrow cone of his flashlight in the gathering dusk. Once away from the paved streets, he had only the crickets and the gurgling of a small stream for company.

After a few kilometers, he arrived at his destination for the night, a tumbledown compound of red tile buildings, once an Abbey complex, but now a campground for pilgrims. He walked once around the ruin, found a patch of long grass under an ancient chestnut tree and laid out his sleeping bag. Suddenly famished, he wolfed down a couple of granola bars and sat back, drowsing against the trunk. Within a few minutes, the peace and quiet of the old monastery lulled him to sleep.

A sharp kick to the ribs shocked him awake.

6.

United States Capitol, Washington, D.C., Monday Morning

Jill rocked sideways to try and gain a few centimeters of space from the men on each side. She hated this room deep in the basement of the Capitol, where the Joint Committee on Intelligence met. It was so small that the chairs lining the walls around the conference table had to be jammed in tight against each other. She wobbled again and the smarmy Assistant Director for European Affairs gave her a sidelong grin. He smelled of stale tobacco. She suspected he leered at her bottom whenever she stood up.

“Miss Burnham, I need your help here, please.” The CIA Director, Thomas Mobley, who had been a Chicago Alderman, an Illinois Senator, then Chair of this same Committee, glared at her, an impatient stare belying his polite tone. She’d always gotten on well with him. Unlike most politicians in her experience, he understood that the rest of the world didn’t necessarily think America was God’s gift to civilization.

She grabbed her files, rose and stepped forward a few feet, then leaned down to within whispering distance of the Director. “Yes?”

“Did you hear the Senator’s question?”

“Would you repeat it, sir? The acoustics in this room aren’t very good.”

“He asked about the recent student demonstrations in Lhasa. Do we expect them to continue?”

“Unclear. We’re monitoring the situation. We have several people on the ground.”

The Director turned, smoothed his tie, and passed this information along to the Senator from Ohio.

The Senator, a large man with a bad comb-over, grumbled for a moment before it turned into intelligible speech. “We have people on the ground in Lhasa, do we? Are these people undercover students, or what? Are they involved in the demonstrations in any way? I thought we were out of the business of fomenting rebellion in Tibet.”

“You’re right, Senator. They are undercover operatives posing as students.” The Director looked at Jill for confirmation and she nodded. “And they aren’t fomenting anything. Just doing normal intelligence …”

“Because,” the Senator barged in, “if they are doing anything other than observing, you are going to have one hacked off Senator from Ohio to deal with, Mr. Mobley.” He pointed a pudgy finger encircled by a ring embedded with gold nuggets at the Director. “I hope I don’t have to remind you of what we discussed here a couple of weeks ago. There are several big American companies, some of them from my state, that are bidding on contracts in China. Hydroelectric dams, factories, nuclear power plants, big stuff. The Chinese expect us to be a positive influence, not to encourage … dissidents. Otherwise, they can’t build these projects to improve living conditions for everyone, including the national minorities. Civil unrest hurts the Chinese, hurts the Tibetans, hurts us. We want to see economic progress over there. The war’s over.”

“I take your point, Senator.” Jill heard the tension in the Director’s voice. Even after several years in his position, he hated deferring to men he used to intimidate.

“Our national security depends on the health of our economy as much as military strength, right?” The Senator surveyed the faces around the table. His gaze was met by anxious glances from the staff and deeply bored expressions from his colleagues — if they bothered to look up at all from their piles of correspondence.

“So do we have agreement here that there will be no fomenting of anything in Tibet by American undercover agents, whether they work for your agency or any of the other multitude of organizations we always seem to be appropriating money for?”

“We are in complete agreement, Senator.”

“Good. Thank you. Then we’re done with this. Let’s move on.”

Jill’s back was getting sore from bending down in case she had to answer a question or provide information to the Director. Now that the bi-weekly trip to the woodshed was over, she straightened up and smoothed her skirt.

“Excuse me.” This came from the other end of the table. The Senator from California, a spry seventy-five year-old, took off her reading glasses and looked up from a newspaper she’d been skimming. “On this fomenting thing.”

“Yes, Senator.” The Director turned his attention to her.

“With no disrespect to my colleague,” she shot the Senator from Ohio a look she usually reserved for tobacco lobbyists, “I’m not sure we’ve adequately ventilated this matter. While I agree that we cannot afford …” she emphasized the word ‘afford,’ staring at the Senator from Ohio over her glasses, “to start a rebellion in Tibet, I believe it is also true that the Chinese have made a habit of crushing the legitimate human rights aspirations of the Tibetan people. Isn’t that right, Director Mobley?”

“Perhaps, ‘crushing’ is a loaded word, Senator.”

The Senator folded up her newspaper and removed her reading glasses. She put her elbows on the table and focused an intense stare on the Director.

“What word would you use? Suppress, crack down on, stamp out, defeat? The point is that the Chinese are kicking the shit out of the Tibetans and, by the way, taking whatever natural resources they want while we stand around with our thumbs up our butts.”

After another hour of discussion, Jill left of the room with the Director, both of them silent until they were out of earshot of the Committee members and staff.

“Goddamn those sons of bitches,” the Director seemed to be letting off steam rather than expressing any real hostility. “They wouldn’t agree that Robert E. Lee was a white man if you held a gun to their heads. Sorry I didn’t get to talk to you before the meeting. Had to have coffee at the White House. They already have their shorts in a twist about the election. Did you figure out who those Tibetans running around Italy are?”

“Not yet. Whoever they are, though, they must be important. The Chinese radio traffic is getting pretty frantic. All their people in Europe are on high alert.”

“Well, what in hell are Tibetan monks doing hiking around Italy anyway? Do we at least know where they’re going?”

“Not for sure. There are quite a few possibilities — Buddhist monasteries and retreat centers where they could find sanctuary. A good many Tibetan nationalists are holed up in Italy. They raise money in Western Europe and send it back to the government in exile in Dharamsala. If this guy is wanted by the Chinese, he’s safer in Italy than in India. Lots of political support for Tibetan independence in Italy. The newspapers would go crazy if the government tried to deport a Tibetan monk.”

“Are we … involved in any way?”

“No. We’re clean. Except that the monks asked Conti for help, of course. But that’s it.”

“Good. I’d hate to think I just lied to the distinguished asshole from Ohio.”

Jillian excused herself to visit the ladies room, then ducked around the corner looking for a window. She fished her phone out of her purse and tried Conti’s number for the umpteenth time since she’d rolled out of bed that morning.

7.

The Via Francigena, south of Siena, Monday Afternoon

Conti woke up on the floor of a dark, musty cell with dirt walls. He unbuttoned his shirt and examined the large bruise on his ribs in the narrow shaft of light that squeezed through the wooden planks a few feet above his head. Nothing broken, or badly broken, at least. He felt his cheek. They must have hit him there for good measure. Swollen, but all the teeth still in place. His shoes were gone, as was his backpack. The events of the night before seeped back into his consciousness slowly. He’d dozed off, been assaulted in his sleep. South African accents. He looked at his watch. 2:00 p.m. More than twelve hours had disappeared. He felt a small bump on his shoulder. They’d injected something. An opiate, no doubt. That’s what he would have done. They were professionals all right.

He examined the beams supporting the floor above him. Very old, axe hewn. He was probably still near the ruined monastery, drugged and thrown in an empty root cellar of some sort. Hunched over, he explored the room searching for a way out. In the corner of the ceiling he found a small trap door, and pushed on it. Wouldn’t budge. They’d put something heavy on top of the door. He sat back, considering his predicament. What did he have to work with? He searched the floor but all he found was his phone, smashed to pieces. Could he use the metal shell to dig into the dirt walls? As he was considering this, he heard noises outside. Low chanting in Latin. Women’s voices. Coming nearer.

“Hello. Anyone out there?” he yelled. “I need help, please.”

After a few moments of shouting, an eye peered back at him through the planks in the floor above. “What are you doing in that hole?”

Conti thought of a number of smart aleck answers but contented himself with “Trying to get out. Could you help me, please?” He flattened his face against the boards to get a glimpse of the woman above. She drew away a few inches and he made out a black veil surrounding a sweet, pink-cheeked face.

“Yes, I suppose we could,” she replied. There was a bit of commotion behind her, other female voices buzzing. Conti couldn’t hear the discussion but did hear the leader’s response.

“No, Sister Paula, I do not think this is the Devil lying in wait for us. Or one of his minions either. I told you to stop reading that Crusade magazine. Now if we all push at once, we should be able to move this tree stump.”

Conti listened as the women grunted and groaned, accompanied by the occasional exclamation.

“Ouch. Shit!”

“Sister Alexis!”

After a few moments of scraping, the stump tumbled away and the women opened the trap door. Conti gazed up, blinking in the sun, at the flushed faces of six nuns, jostling to get a look at him. They backed away quickly as he crawled out of his hole, as if half expecting some sort of demon after all.

“Thank you very much. I was afraid I might be stuck down there for a long while.” Conti stood up, smacked the dust off his shirt and pants, and sat down on a tuft of grass.

“Here, take a drink. I’m Sister Mary Anne, of the Franciscan Sisters of the Sacred Heart in Baltimore.” She handed him a canteen. He was surprised to taste schnapps instead of water. Between swallows, he surveyed the women. They were dressed in nuns’ habits modified for walking, the robes cut off at mid-calf, revealing thick wool socks and hiking boots. Each had a backpack and the pilgrim’s scallop shell hanging around her neck.

“What were you doing down in that hole?” she asked.

“Long story,” Conti replied. “Let’s just say not everyone likes Americans, especially Americans who work for the government.”

“Oh, my,” one of the other nuns replied before the leader could speak. “Are you in the CIA?” She addressed her companions, “I’ll bet he is, hiding in a hole like that.” Then turning back to Conti, she added. “Our mother house is in Washington, D.C. We could help, you know.”

Conti stifled a grin. The CIA was the most public secret organization in the history of the world. “I’m fine, now. Thanks.” He glanced down at his torn, dirty clothes and bare feet. Obviously, he wasn’t fine, but he had no time to waste on explanations. “If you could let me have a bit of food and water, and answer a question or two, it would be a great help.”

“Of course,” the leader said.

“Have you seen any Buddhist monks on the trail recently?”

The nuns began whispering excitedly among themselves.

“Shhh,” Sister Mary Anne said over her shoulder. “Yes, we have. Three of them. This morning at about ten o’clock. We tried to say hello — since they were clergy like us, you know — but they just pulled their hoods over their eyes and rushed by. They almost knocked Sister Evangeline over, didn’t they sister? Then the others came by about half an hour later.”

“The others?”

“Several men, Chinese, we think. They asked us about the monks. They were very rude. So we refused to say anything at all to them. We just ignored them and kept walking. Did we do the right thing?”

“Absolutely. Have you seen anyone else today?”

“Just pilgrims, like we usually do. We’ve been walking for two weeks now. It took us three years to convince the bishop to allow us to make this pilgrimage.”

A voice piped up from the back of the group. A very short nun, who appeared to be at least a decade older than the others, spoke for the first time. “Don’t forget the hunters.”

“Oh yes,” Sister Mary Anne went on. “There were two hunters sitting beside the trail having lunch. We knew they were hunters because they had rifles and no backpacks or pilgrim’s badges.” She held up her scallop shell.

“Were they wearing black nylon jackets by any chance?” Conti asked.

“Yes. Black jackets and black hats, too. Don’t hunters usually wear orange?”

Several hours later, Conti had jogged what he guessed must have been four or five miles back up the trail toward Siena. Fortunately, he’d been training for the Rome Marathon in bare feet, the result of a book he read on proper running mechanics. Still, parts of the trail were rocky and, even though he tried to pick his way along the dirt edges of the path, his feet were getting sore. In any case, dusk was falling, forcing him to slow down. He could just make out the Siena skyline a couple hilltops farther to the north. He’d have to find a place there to spend the night. They’d stolen his backpack — it was probably buried in a hole in the woods somewhere — and smashed his phone. He’d have to do some fast talking.

8.

Washington, D.C., Monday Noon

The rain stained the granite facade of the Chinese Embassy a dark gray. Against the green background of Rock Creek Park, it looked more like a monument to socialist progress than an office building. A security vehicle blocked the drive under the portico, so Jill had to jump out of the black sedan and trot the last few yards to the front entrance. Her right foot twisted on the wet marble steps, bending a four-inch heel out of shape. Now she not only smelled of wet fabric, but she was hobbling as well.

She gave the guard at the door her name and entered a large foyer with Ming Dynasty pottery displayed in glass cases. A young woman, dressed in a blue suit and meticulously groomed, showed her to a ladies’ room where she repaired the worst damage to her hair and make-up. The heel was harder to fix. She bent it back into place. If she balanced on the balls of her feet, it might survive the morning. She’d be mincing around like a Chinese courtesan of the last century. Appropriate for today’s task perhaps.

A few minutes later, she was shown into a conference room on the second floor. More antique pottery in glass cabinets. Picture window views of the rain falling on the massive oaks in the park. Two men entered from a door on the other side of the room. They wore identical brown suits, the tailoring a curious combination of Brooks Brothers and Mao; quality fabrics cut like normal business suits, but buttoned up the front without lapels. She knew of no store in Washington that sold anything like these garments.

“Good morning, Miss Burnham.” The first Chinese man bowed slightly. “I am Mr. Wu, and I believe that you know Ambassador Zheng.” The second man nodded almost imperceptibly and frowned. She considered whether to offer her hand, but bowed instead. Apparently, this was not to be an excessively cordial meeting.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wu, and always nice to see you, Mr. Ambassador.” Jill focused her attention on Zheng.

He nodded, but it was the subordinate who spoke. “I am sorry that our first meeting must be in these unfortunate circumstances. We understand that one of your agents has an interest in a Chinese citizen who has been kidnapped and is now in Rome.”

Kidnapped? Jill hadn’t expected this. She reached into her purse for a handkerchief to buy a few moments. After dabbing at her nose, she answered.

“One of our State Department officials was approached by a monk at our Embassy to the Holy See. The monk apparently wanted to ask for some sort of help, but left before telling our man anything more. I know nothing about any kidnapping. Perhaps if you fill me in I can be more helpful.”

At this point, the Ambassador stepped forward and spoke for the first time. “Really, Miss Burnham, there is no need to be coy. We know that Mr. Conti, formerly an employee of the CIA, is searching through Rome for the abducted Chinese citizen. Our people observed him questioning tourists at the Vatican’s Office of Pilgrimage. We assume that he is continuing his … investigations.” Zheng’s English was precise, with almost no trace of an accent. “The question is why you are interested in this gentleman and if you plan to continue to be involved in the case.”

Jill hesitated again, this time stuffing the handkerchief back into her purse. It was a good question. The answer wasn’t easy to articulate, yet both of them knew the score. If either country detected a gap in the other’s defenses — some weakness that might provide diplomatic leverage — they would pursue that opportunity. She tried to dance around this axiom of realpolitik.

“A man came to our Embassy asking for help. It was someone who’d once had a … relationship with America. He was dressed as a Tibetan Buddhist monk. We know little more than that. Surely you understand that we would look further into this. There are politically active Tibetan communities all over the world, in countries like India, England, and the United States, as well as China. We cannot ignore the effect these communities might have on our relationships with other countries.”

Jill stopped to catch her breath. She was talking too fast. Hoping that the words would start making sense. She wasn’t sure that they had yet.

“I assure you,” Zheng said, “that this … episode … has nothing to do with the security of the United States. It is purely an internal Chinese matter. A citizen has been kidnapped from our country. We intend to recover him and punish those responsible. It is as simple as that. We are asking you, in the spirit of the cooperation that has been building between our countries, to allow us to handle this in our own way. I can assure you that the United States will suffer no negative consequences of any sort.”

“Perhaps if you told me a bit more about the individual in question, I could assure my superiors that my country has no real interest in this situation. For example, we would like to know the identity of the person whom you are seeking and who you think abducted him.”

Zheng smiled without humor. “Of course, people in our business would always like to know more, wouldn’t they? But I am not authorized to give you any specifics at this point. Again, I ask you to pass my assurances on to your Director.”

The phone rang the moment Jill stepped inside the waiting Town Car. She slid into the seat, slipped the shoes off her aching feet, and answered.

“What the hell’s going on?” Director Mobley didn’t waste time on social graces. “I’m late for a lunch date with that damn woman Post reporter. What’d that little Maoist have to say?”

“He wants us to back off.”

“Back off from what? We don’t even know what’s going on.”

“I told him that. Said you’d be more likely to leave this alone if you knew the facts. Who is this guy they’re looking for and why?”

“Right. What’d he say?”

“Says he isn’t authorized to tell us anything more.”

“Bullshit. So what do you think is really going on?”

Jill shrugged off her raincoat and used it to cover her wet, shivering legs. She covered the mouthpiece and spoke to the driver. “Turn off the air conditioner please, Pete. It’s freezing in here.”

She slumped back into the leather seat. “I don’t know yet. But I do know the Chinese are running scared. I haven’t heard Zheng talk so much in the five years he’s been here. He all but asked us for a favor. Never happened before. The boys back in Beijing are squeezing his nuts.” Talking to the crusty Mobley brought out the tough farm kid beneath her Ivy League veneer.

But such personality nuances were lost on the Director. “If they’re that spun up about it, we need to find out more. I’d love to have something to hold over their heads. We find this guy first, we can trade him for something. Maybe I can finally get the Coca-Cola people off my ass.” Jill waited for an explanation but none was forthcoming. The Director went on. “But we need to be careful. I’ve got two calls here from our friend the Senator from Ohio, which I haven’t returned yet. I assume their Embassy is leaning on him too.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Jill asked.

“I want you to do whatever’s necessary to stay on top of this. But keep it quiet. Don’t engage our Rome people. Use Conti. I still don’t understand why that guy quit. Probably his goddamn moral scruples. Well, I’ve got moral scruples too, but I don’t go around quitting. Anyway, he’s a good undercover man and he won’t tip off the Italians that we’re interested. And …” The Director’s voice trailed off.

“Yes?”

“What would you think about taking a little trip to Italy?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. We need to play this very close to the vest. I want someone on the spot I can trust.”

“You know I don’t have any real experience as a field agent. I haven’t even been out of the country for years except for vacations.”

“Conti will take care of you — and you can keep an eye on him. And Jill …”

“Yes?”

“Stop by and see the equipment boys. Pick up something for …, um, self-defense. And get a couple of those new Fishbowl phones that can’t be hacked – I want to be able to talk to you.”

9.

Siena, Italy, Tuesday Morning

At nine a.m., the tour buses hadn’t yet disgorged their loads of Germans, Japanese, and Americans onto the old city’s cobbled streets. This was the hour when grandmothers shopped, net bags hanging from their arms, while young fathers and mothers walked their children to school. As everywhere in modern Italy, there were too many grandparents and not enough grandchildren. Deliverymen in their three-wheeled Fiat carry-alls darted in and out among the walkers, keeping everyone on their toes, while small groups of old men stood idly by watching and chatting.

Conti felt comfortable in this quintessentially Italian scene, even as the old ladies stared with disapproval at his torn shirt and strange footwear. He’d borrowed a pair of tattered bedroom slippers from the pensione that he’d talked himself into the night before, promising to pay for his room when the banks opened in the morning. A few blocks down the street, he found a branch of the Bank of Florence and waited outside while a clerk turned his key and opened the large glass doors. Despite his disheveled appearance, he strolled into the lobby as if he owned the place. A long time ago, his mother’s family had. Unfortunately, they didn’t anymore. But what was left of the family fortune still resided there. Conti hated to take money from the trust fund. Decades of keeping up a large rural estate in the face of falling agricultural prices had taken their toll. Now there was just enough to keep his mother in her customary luxury — as long as she didn’t live forever.

He answered a few security questions for the dapper young bank manager and, fifteen minutes later, was back in the street with an envelope stuffed with euros. He stopped at a clothing shop, then a phone store, emerging with a new nylon knapsack, socks, sneakers, a smart phone and a thinner wad of bills. Then he followed his nose to the nearest alimentari, purchasing just-baked bread, strong cheese and a foot-long salami. He sat in a patch of sun on the rim of a small medieval fountain and chewed on a piece of meat, watching the tourists stream by, maps in hand. He missed the undercover life. Not so much the adventure, but the freedom. Would he ever adjust to sitting in an office from nine to five every day?

Back at the pensione, he settled his bill, then grabbed a quick espresso and set off north through town. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when his new phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the calling number. Jill.

“How nice to hear from you. Pretty late there isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer the question. “You haven’t answered my calls for a day and a half. Why?”

“Didn’t have a phone. Got mugged somewhere south of Siena. Couldn’t replace the phone until half an hour ago.”

“Mugged by whom?”

“Our South African friends. Have you found out who they are yet?”

“No. But I’ve got somebody working on it back in Langley.”

“Back in Langley? Where are you?”

“Traveling. Where exactly are you?”

“You want my coordinates? Are you sending in the cavalry? I could use ‘em. If it matters, I’m the center of Siena, next to the Piazza del Campo — where they have the Palio, the famous horse race, every year.”

“I know what the Palio is. I’m not a complete barbarian. Take a right turn down the steps.”

Conti stopped in his tracks. “Why?”

“Just take a right turn down the steps.”

He did so, descending a dozen wide stairs through a stone tunnel that opened onto the broad piazza, a semi-circular amphitheater of stone surrounded by ornate Renaissance buildings.

“Okay, I’m in the piazza. Now what? Are you tracking me by satellite? I always knew you people at headquarters had more money than was good for you.”

“No, not tracking you by satellite. Take a look at the second café on your left.”

Conti squinted into the strong rays of the sun just coming over the buildings into the interior of the piazza. “Holy shit!”

Jill waved to him discreetly from a table just inside the café. At least he thought it was Jill. He could barely make out a face under the broad sun visor pulled low over dark, glacier glasses. He slowly walked toward her, unsure how to react. She wore a long camouflage shirt over black spandex leggings, and mountaineering boots. A massive, internal frame backpack and trekking poles leaned against the table beside her.

He examined her for a moment in silence. She might have put on a little weight, deskbound all these years. But she was still striking, tall, with flaming red hair and, somewhere behind those dark glasses, startlingly green eyes. “What the hell are you doing here? And what’s with that get-up? You planning to climb Everest?”

Jill’s smile became a defensive mask. “I’m here to help you find our Tibetan friends. Mobley’s orders. And we’re following them on a hiking trail right? I wanted to be prepared.” She examined his cheap knapsack, dirty jeans and torn shirt. “Unlike you. You look like a college kid living on five dollars a day.”

“In this end of the business, we try to be inconspicuous.”

Jill ignored this. “I thought we might need … weapons,” she said, pointing to the backpack, “So I visited special ops before I left D.C. last night.

“I hope we don’t.” Conti pulled out a penknife. “This is what I usually carry. Good for cutting salami.” He unzipped the top of her backpack and rummaged around for a few moments. “Jesus Christ!” he whispered. “This isn’t America. You can’t just walk around with assault weapons! The Italian police take a very dim view of that. How’d you get this stuff into the country anyway?”

“Diplomatic pouch. Don’t worry. Our folks assured me it’s all untraceable.”

“Well, that’s a relief. What’s that on your wrist?”

“Latest thing from Apple labs. GPS, satellite communication, backup phone, music player, God knows what else. Probably shoots flares too. Should be on the market in a couple of years.”

“Great.” Conti sighed. “That’ll help us fit in.”

Jill ignored the sarcasm. “So, what’s the latest on our Tibetan friends? Where are they going — and why do you think they’re walking?

“They’re somewhere on the trail, going north. They probably think they’re safer from the Chinese on foot than in train stations or airports.”

Jill leaned forward and slid her phone across the table. “They’re right. Here’s a photo from the Florence train station last night. The Chinese are staking out all the transit centers.”

Conti studied the picture for a moment and laughed. “Like ostriches, aren’t they? They think sunglasses make them invisible.” He watched a waiter walk by carrying a steaming pizza. Who ate pizza at ten in the morning? Although it certainly smelled great. “But back to your question. Where are the monks headed? I assume they’re looking for a safe place to hide from the Chinese. That’s probably why they wanted my help.”

“I agree. I had some research done on the assumption that they’re looking for some sort of religious sanctuary where the Chinese can’t follow. You know there are more than two dozen Buddhist temples and retreat centers in Northern Italy alone? And that doesn’t count all the Christian monasteries that would probably take them in.”

Jill reached into one of the top pockets of her pack, pulled out map and unfolded it to show black X’s sprinkled over Tuscany, Liguria, Piedmonte and Emiglia-Romana.

Conti perched on the edge of a chair next to Jill and examined the map. “They could be heading anywhere.”

“Exactly.”Conti sat back and rubbed his forehead. “So, since you’re here, I assume the Director thinks these monks are pretty damn important. What’s going on? What are we trying to accomplish?”

Jillian shifted uncomfortably on the wrought iron chair. “These damn tights don’t have much padding. What are we trying to accomplish? You should understand that better than anybody. We’re playing chess with the Chinese. Mobley wants to control as many squares on the board as he can.”

“That’s the kind of cynical thinking that pisses me off. We’re planning to use these guys for political leverage even before we know anything about them.”

“Who said anything about political leverage? Look. These monks came to us — to you, actually — right? We’re just trying to find them to see what they want.”
Conti sprang up and threw his pack over his shoulder. “Right. O.K., then we’d better head out. They’ve probably got twenty miles on us. Can you walk in those things?” He looked pointedly down at her red plastic expedition boots.

“Of course, I can. They’re the latest thing. Very light. Only two pounds each.” She lifted her backpack onto the table with a grunt, turned around and slipped her arms through the straps. “I’ll be fine. I did a 10K on the tow-path last month.” With that, she snatched her poles and headed out of the café, not looking back.

An hour later, they’d cleared the outskirts of town and were hiking on a dirt road through lush, shoulder-high vineyards.

“So, are you happy … that you quit?” Jill asked, her large boots crunching the gravel. They were climbing a steep little hill and she had to catch her breath mid-sentence.

“Like most things in life, yes and no.”

“I have a pretty good idea what the yes is — you’re convinced that the politicians are calling the shots at the Agency. Right?”

“Partly that. But what’s even more disturbing is that the Company isn’t really in the driver’s seat anymore. You must feel that in Washington. There are private security consultants underfoot everywhere, working for God knows who — NSA, DOD, DCI, NATO — all stumbling over one another. I thought our coordination was supposed to have been improved after 9/11, but things have gotten worse. The Middle East is full of goddamned amateurs, all of them thinking they’re ….”

Before he finished the thought, a series of gun blasts echoed through the valley in front of them. Jill flinched. “What was that?”

“Not sure. Shotgun maybe. The Tuscans are crazy for hunting, but the season doesn’t start until next month. Probably target practice. You notice you don’t hear many birds? They shoot anything in the woods that moves.”

“That’s comforting.”

They walked for a while in silence before Conti spoke again, almost to himself. “America does not go abroad in search of monsters to destroy.”

“Who said that?”

“My ancient relative.”

“President Adams?”

“The second one. John Quincy. When he was my age, he’d already authored the Monroe Doctrine. What have I done? Crept around Afghanistan and Iraq spying on radical Imams. In service of a failed policy. Not much to be proud of.”

“You compare yourself to those two? Bound to be a bit disappointing.”

“It’s not that I compare myself to them. But I do want to live up to their memory.” Conti rubbed an ancient signet ring on his right hand, the worn initials JQA barely discernable. “They held to their principles in a flawed world, and the country was better for it. I don’t see how I can expect any less of myself.”

At the end of the vineyard the road petered out into a single track through an oak thicket.

“Thank God,” Jill said. “Not that this conversation isn’t fascinating, but I’ve really got to pee. Wait here. I’m going to find some bushes. Let me know if anyone comes by.”

“O.K., but there are snakes in these hills — vipers.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Not kidding. Did special ops throw in a handgun when they were equipping you for battle?”

“Yeah.” Jill rummaged in her pack and pulled out a Glock 19, a pistol not much bigger than her hand. “They even showed me how to load it.” She reached in deeper, pulled out the loader and began pushing rounds into the magazine.

“Impressive,” Conti said.

“Unfortunately, they didn’t have time to teach me to shoot it.”

“Well, even if you don’t hit the snake, the noise will drive him away.”

“Great.”

As Jill walked away from the path looking for cover, Conti sat on a rock and opened his guide to the Via Francigena. Suddenly, a piercing scream echoed through the trees behind him, followed by several gunshots.

10.

The Via Francigena, Siena, Italy, Tuesday Afternoon

Conti crashed through the underbrush in the general direction Jill had gone, dodging around small stands of oaks, then stopped abruptly. A dead body lay on its stomach in a clearing. Not wearing spandex and camouflage. Not Jill. He almost collapsed in relief.

He knelt down and turned the body over. Chinese. Still grasping a pistol in his dead hand. He barely had time to register these facts before he heard another shot. Conti propped the corpse on its side and hunched down behind it. A second bullet thumped into the body. He lay there for a moment, then leapt up and took cover behind a nearby tree. Two men were running fifty yards down the hill. As they crossed an open field, he got a better view. One of them carried an inert mass over his shoulder. Jill’s red hair hanging straight down, her body limp. Every few steps, the last man turned and took a wild shot back in his direction. Conti watched for a moment, then ran back to the trail. He needed to retrieve whatever other weapons special ops had given her. He found and shouldered her backpack, then rushed back to the clearing.

Although he hadn’t gotten a clear view of their faces, he was reasonably sure they were the same South Africans he’d seen at the Vatican and again on the train. Jill must have stumbled on the aftermath of a confrontation between them and the Chinese. Now that Conti had a few moments to examine the dead man’s pockets, he found a map, binoculars, and a walkie-talkie. The clearing where he’d found the body commanded a good view of the trail as it wound its way north through the hills. The Chinese agent must have been monitoring the trail, on the lookout for the monks. Somehow the South Africans had caught him unawares. But why did they kill him? Who were they working for? He took off down the hill, moving as fast as he could through the brush with the bulky pack slung over his shoulder.

After a hundred yards, he broke out onto a sunlit hillside. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he scanned the valley in front of him. Golden fields — wheat, he guessed — sloped down on both sides of a dirt road. The trampled path the South Africans had taken led straight to the road, then disappeared. It took only a few minutes for Conti to stumble down the slope where he again picked up their trail, footprints in the dusty track. He loosened the straps of the backpack enough to get both his arms through, pulled them tight again, and set off running in the same direction.

The heat of the midday sun and the heavy pack slowed him to a gasping jog. As he rounded a bend, he saw a panel truck parked a quarter mile ahead. Stepping into the tall wheat stalks, he watched the two men open the back. They rolled Jill’s body in, latched the door, then moved around either side of the truck. The front doors opened and slammed shut again.

He shrugged off the pack and dumped the contents on the ground, quickly finding what he wanted — the miniature sniper’s rifle that special ops had been foresighted enough to include. It came in three pieces. He quickly attached the stock, screwed on the barrel, slid the scope into the groove and shoved a clip into the magazine. Taking careful aim at the rear tire, he held his breath and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. Dabbing the sweat from his eyes, he examined the magazine. Jammed. As he struggled to pull the clip out, the truck spun its wheels and sped away.

11.

Conti slumped against the backpack, exhausted, sweaty and still sucking wind. A faint noise came from somewhere inside the pack. A metallic beeping. He dug through the contents. Several more clips for the rifle, a waterproof parka, two flares, what looked like a burglar’s tool kit, and half a dozen military ration packs. Below that were packages of spare socks and underwear. No wonder she’d labored climbing the steep Tuscan hills. The thing must have weighed fifty pounds. Finally, he got to the bottom and the source of the noise — a small, brushed steel box. Opening the latch, he found a computer screen inside that showed a map of the area. As he watched, a small icon moved across the map. The truck. Thank God for the tech nerds at headquarters. And thank God Jill had brought all this with her. He’d never mock her again.

He stood up, stuffed everything back into the pack and began jogging again down the dirt road. Checking the tracker, he saw that the truck was moving on the outskirts of Siena toward what looked like a small rural settlement, perhaps a farm with several outbuildings. The read-out at the bottom of the screen said that it was 2.8 kilometers away. He could get there in half an hour if he hurried. The South Africans had killed a Chinese agent in cold blood. God knows what they might do to Jill, especially if they found out she was CIA. Hopefully, someone back in Langley had warned her not to carry her government I.D. Still, the South Africans would have ways of finding out her true identity. All they needed was a little time. He picked up the pace, kicking up dust clouds on the deeply rutted road.

Five minutes of this and a sharp pain in his side stopped him cold. Bending over, he waited for the knife to stop twisting in his ribs. Running on a rubber track in nylon shorts was one thing; running through two inches of dust in hiking boots with a fifty-pound pack another. As his panting slowed, he heard the staccato coughing of an engine coming near. A small, three-wheeled truck chugged up the rise behind him. Without Conti having to so much as wave, the old farmer stopped, swung the door open and gestured for him to climb in. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he began to speak in Italian.

“Gratie, gratie, I am in a big hurry.”

The old man looked at him and laughed. “Who isn’t these days? I will take you as fast this old machine will go.” He patted the dash affectionately. “My uncle bought it in 1958. Still runs like a top.” Conti saw the vehicle’s insignia on the dash, a Poggia Ape. “Yes, the farmer continued, “this will keep going when I am in the ground. I will give it my grandson. My son is a lawyer — useless — but my grandson, he works. Only eighteen and his trees produced four truckloads of peaches this year.”

Conti was half listening as he opened the tracker and checked the position of the South Africans’ truck. It hadn’t moved in the last ten minutes.

“Can you take me to” — he squinted at the small screen — “Via Santa Caterina? If it’s out of your way, I can pay. A friend of mine is in trouble, and I need to get there right away.”

The man reached into his breast pocket, took out a half-smoked cigar and, steering with one elbow, lit it. “You are American? Only Americans speak such fancy Italian. Of course I’ll help you. I was in the resistance in World War II, only a young boy but I carried a radio all over the mountains. Sixty kilos. The Americans came just as the Germans were about to pick us up. Otherwise, I’d be dead now.” He laughed, then puffed on the cigar and jammed his foot down on the accelerator. The small engine whined at a higher pitch, but Conti could detect no significant increase in speed.

The farmer dropped him off a quarter mile from where the icon hovered on the GPS display. He walked quickly over a little rise, keeping in the shadows cast by the tall trees lining the road, until he came to a drive that climbed through lush vineyards. The computer screen indicated the truck was less than a hundred yards up the hill, but he couldn’t see it or the farm buildings from where he stood. He avoided the drive, ducking instead under several rows of vines and clambering over the ploughed soil between them, staying low.

The buildings sat among tall plane trees at the top of the hill. The largest building was an ancient farmhouse, its various layers of brick, wooden beams and broken plaster fused together into a unified whole by centuries of sun and wind. Ten yards from the house a Quonset hut squatted, surrounded by a muddy field where half a dozen goats calmly munched on stacks of hay. The panel truck was parked on the other side of the hut. Muffled voices came from inside.

Conti took the sniper’s rifle out of the pack, removed the clip and reinserted it properly. He propped the pack against the backside of a tree and crawled on his belly through the broken slats of a picket fence and behind the row of hay bales toward the hut. The goats watched his progress, chewing their dinner contentedly. When he reached the hut, he pulled himself up on its concrete block foundation until he found a narrow gap between the corrugated steel panels that allowed him to see the interior of the room.

Jill sat strapped in a battered metal chair, eyes closed, head lolling to the side. Her ripped shirt hung around her waist, revealing a sports bra and several ugly red welts on her chest and shoulders. They’d wasted no time in trying to break her. The two South Africans stood nearby, one a short, heavily muscled man and the other thin and gangly with a shaved head. The stocky man flexed his massive arms and approached Jill.

“You better tell us right now who you are and what you were doing in that clearing. Otherwise …,” he grabbed her hair and jerked her head upright. Jill opened her eyes but said nothing. He unleashed a backhanded slap, as vicious as it was unexpected. She still didn’t make a sound, just glared at him, hatred burning in her eyes, crimson blood oozing from her lip.

As Conti searched the wall of the hut for an opening large enough to squeeze through, a car pulled up on the other side of the building. A minute later, a third man with an overgrown Fu Manchu mustache barged through the door. He surveyed the room, then strode over to the two men standing near Jill.

“This is our little captive, is it?” He grabbed Jill’s face with a calloused hand and jerked it towards his.

“Leave me alone or you’ll regret it!” Jill shouted.

“Oh, American, eh? Why don’t you tell me who you’re working for, then? I doubt that you just happened to walk in on my guys in the middle of the woods as they were trying to, um … restrain a Chinese criminal.”

“I don’t know anything about any Chinese. I had to pee.”

“With a drawn pistol?”

“I’m afraid of snakes.”

“You know, I might believe you if you weren’t carrying this gadget. He picked up Jill’s watch from the table. “Not like anything you can buy in a store, is it? Very James Bond. I’ll be interested to see what it can do once you give us the code.”

“I won’t give you anything.”

“Oh, yes you will. I’ll ask again. Who are you working for?”

“I’m on pilgrimage. Hiking the Via Francigena to the Vatican.”

Mustache laughed. “In that case, you were going the wrong way. My boys saw you and your friend coming north on the trail this morning. O.K., enough messing about, we can’t stay here all day. Get out your tools, Tony.”

The stocky man opened a toolbox and pulled out a metal file and a small bottle of liquid.

“You wouldn’t think to look at him but my friend here is an expert manicurist. With a difference. He doesn’t stop when he reaches the finger — what’s that called, Tony? The sensitive part under the nail?”

“The quick.”

“Right. The quick. Just keeps going. Of course, he pours a little turpentine on it for lubrication. So, let me ask you one more time. Who are you working for?”

Jill spat in his face.

The man forced a thin smile. “Right, then. Proceed, Tony. You’d best tie her arms down a little tighter. One loop won’t be enough once the fun begins.”

Tony took off his belt and wrapped it around Jill’s right forearm, fastening it more tightly to the chair. Then he twisted her index finger back roughly and began to file away at her nail. After only a few passes, the nail was flush with the tip of her finger. Then the file began to gnaw at the skin. Tony stopped for a moment, opened the bottle of turpentine and poured a little on the raw tip of the finger. Jill’s muscles went rigid as if she’d had an electric shock. She screamed.

“Just getting started, aren’t we?” the leader lit a cigarette and blew smoke in her face. “Unless, you’ve changed your mind.”

Jill gritted her teeth and said nothing.

Conti watched in horror — it took everything he had to keep silent. Desperately, he searched for a way into the hut. A few feet away, he spied a steel panel with several bolts missing and carefully moved in that direction. He reached out and tested it. With a little leverage he could force it open enough to wedge his body through. He turned so that his back was against the hut, then pried open the loose panel. Squeezing through, he leapt onto the dirt floor, and pointed the rifle at the South Africans. “Drop your weapons. Now! Or you’ll all be dead in five seconds.”

The man with the shaved head slipped a pistol from his belt, bent over and placed it on the ground.

Conti took a few steps closer to the men. “Untie her.”

Mustache nodded and the stocky South African untied Jill’s arms and legs from the chair. She rubbed her wrists, then stood up twisting her neck from side to side.

“Pick up the pistol and come on over here,” Conti told her.

She bent over and picked it up, but instead of crossing the room toward him, she turned to her persecutor, her face only six inches from his. Before he could react, she brought the butt of the pistol up and under his chin, knocking him savagely backward to the ground.

“Jill. No. That’s not necess ….” Before Conti could get this out, she’d kicked the fallen man hard, first in the ribs then, when he tried to roll away from her, in the kidneys.

Finally, breathing heavily, she snatched her watch from the table, turned, and stalked across the room to Conti. As they all stood there in stunned silence, a thumping began to vibrate the metal roof of the hut. The mustachioed man’s grimace slowly morphed into a smile. Conti gripped and regripped the rifle in his suddenly sweaty hands, realizing a helicopter was about to land in the field next to the hut.

12.

“Let’s get out of here!” Conti grabbed Jill’s arm. “Nobody move! I wouldn’t mind shooting you all!” He kept the rifle pointed in the direction of the three men, pushing Jill toward the hut’s door. They slipped outside in time to see a black helicopter bounce to the earth in a fenced pasture behind the Quonset hut, then ran up a small hill next to the farmhouse, which led into a dense stand of woods. As they entered the trees, Conti turned and fired a few rounds into the side of the hut. The door, which had been cautiously opening, slammed shut again.

Jill was running on the path in front of him when Conti stopped, skidding on the gravel. “Wait. Forgot the pack. Got to go back.”

“No, don’t.” She clamped down on his arm. “They’ll kill you.”

Conti hesitated for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

Ten minutes later, they stopped and listened for pursuers. “I can’t hear anything except my heart pounding,” Conti gasped. “I think we’re O.K. for the moment.” They both collapsed to the ground. Just then, the helicopter flew low over the trees, circled, and headed off to the north. “I think they’re after bigger game.”

He leaned over, gently pushed back the torn shirt that Jill held tightly wrapped around her shoulders and examined her wounds. “Not too terrible. Nothing that requires stitches anyway. Does this hurt?” He pressed gently on her ribs.

“Ouch!” She flinched. Then she started to sob quietly.

Conti rubbed her shoulders. “That was quite a performance back there. I’ll never accuse you of being a Langley wimp again.”

She looked at him. “He was horrible, hurting me and laughing about it. I couldn’t control myself. I wanted to kill him with my bare hands.”

“You almost did. Impressive uppercut. Where’d you learn that?”

“Curves — the women’s gym in McLean. Better than the three-hour self-defense class we all had to take at the Agency. But I never thought it would feel like that.”

“Like what?”

Her jaws tightened. “So good.”

“What do you want to do now?” Conti asked. “We can get someone up here to get you out. Maybe they can get a copter. You’d be back in Rome in an hour or two. I’m going to make my way back to the trail and head north. Those monks are going to need help.”

“I’m going with you,” Jill replied. “I finally feel like a real CIA agent after twenty years. All I’d do back in Rome is worry about you anyway. But we’d better call Mobley and see what he thinks.”

She put a code into the watch/phone/GPS, then dialed a number and waited for the call to go through. “Even has a speaker function.”

“Well, well, well.” The speaker projected the world-weary voice of Mobley with surprising clarity. “Did you get kidnapped by the Chinese? Or were you just too busy to call?”

“Your first guess is closer,” Jill responded. “And, by the way, you’re on speaker. Conti is here. I was kidnapped — but not by the Chinese. He saved my ass, so watch what you say.”

“Kidnapped? No shit. By whom?”

“South Africans.”

“Aha. South Africans. I thought they might be involved in this.”

Conti and Jill glanced at each other in surprise. “You did?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Mobley said. “There’s a lot going on back here. Is there a chance anyone else can hear this conversation? Other than Conti, that is?”

“No. We’re out in the middle of the woods. What’s up?”

“I found out who you’re chasing. Brace yourself.”

“Who is it?”

“The Panchen Lama.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

“No. The authentic Panchen Lama. Second most important religious leader in Tibet. Been under house arrest in China for the past twenty-five years.”

Jill and Conti stared at the phone, dumbfounded. Conti spoke for the first time. “That’s crazy. We don’t know even know what he looks like — or if he’s still alive. Nobody’s seen him since he was five years old.”

“The Chinese Ambassador himself visited me half an hour ago. First time he’s ever come to Langley. Apoplectic. Somehow the Lama escaped from his compound in Sichuan. They moved him there a few years ago because they thought he was becoming friendlier to their point of view. They’d planned to introduce him to the Tibetan public next year — as a modern leader who sees things their way. Everything was going according to plan. Until he disappeared last week.”

Conti rubbed his temples. “And now he’s running around the hills of Italy in the company of some radical monks? If it’s true, the Chinese must be petrified there’ll be trouble back home.”

“It’s already started. The Ambassador told me that the ‘splittists’ — that’s what they call the Tibetan nationalists — are hacking into the Chinese Internet spreading the rumor — well, the news — that the Panchen Lama had escaped from China and is about to lead them in an uprising for independence.”

Conti whistled under his breath. “Jesus!”

Mobley went on. “A monk incinerated himself today in Lhasa. And there have been some small demonstrations. A few Chinese-owned stores looted. They aren’t exactly acting like Buddhists. And the political fallout is starting here in Washington too. I’ve gotten calls from half the Foreign Relations and Intelligence Committees.”

After a moment of silence while they processed this new information, Jill spoke up. “Why in the world are the South Africans involved?”

There was no answer for a moment. Then Mobley said, in what seemed like a chastened tone. “Yeah, the South Africans. I’m working on that. Just stay out of their way for the time being. Gotta run. White House is on the line. Stay on top of this and don’t talk to anyone but me.”

13.

Jill disconnected. “That was strange, wasn’t it?”

“What?”

“Mobley’s not telling us everything he knows. Not by a long shot.”

“But what he did tell us is incredible. The Panchen Lama on the loose. Imagine if they can’t get him back.”

Jill fussed with her now buttonless camo shirt, finally tying the tails together in a sort of Caribbean look. “I had an in-depth assessment of Chinese strategy done last month. They’re staking a lot on Tibet. It’s key to their development plans for the next century. Minerals of all sorts — and water, that’s the big thing.”

“Water?”

“The rivers that supply most of Asia rise in the Himalayan plateau. It’s a giant freezer storing fresh water for the entire continent. And, of course, the population isn’t getting any smaller. Whatever the shortages are now, they’re going to be much worse in fifty years. The Chinese realize it, even if no one else does. Water will be more valuable than oil in the future. Whoever controls it will control Asia. The one thing that could screw up their plans would be a resurgence of the Buddhist theocracy in Tibet. Led by the real Panchen Lama.”

Conti nodded. “They appointed their own Panchen Lama, didn’t they? When they put the guy we’re chasing under house arrest?”

“Yes, but no one in Tibet thinks their man is legit. The people will follow the real Lama if he suddenly appears on the scene.”

Conti stood up and brushed the dust off his pants. “We’d better get moving. I’d like to put some distance between us and this place. What was Mobley implying about the South Africans? He said he thought they might be involved.”

Jill stood up too, holding her ribcage and wincing. “I think he knows who they are, or at least suspects. There are only so many paramilitary groups in the world capable of fielding this kind of operation. They’re either government intelligence agents or private security consultants. The official intelligence units generally coordinate with us, so I imagine it’s the latter — consultants. As you know, most of them have worked for us at one time or another.”

Conti led the way, following an overgrown path down the hill. “Yeah. The sons of bitches are always getting in the way. We’d be trying to quietly scope out the Taliban buddies of some local warlord only to find out the Blackstream boys or one of the others had scared everyone off. The CIA isn’t in charge of shit in the field. And some of these consultants don’t know shariah from Shakira.”

Jill sighed. “Washington’s the same. A million and a half top-secret clearances in D.C. Every time I go to the Starbucks, I wonder if the thirty-year old behind me in line reads my confidential reports. Ridiculous. And what do they add?”

They trudged on down the steep path, holding on to each other when they hit patches of loose gravel. They found themselves still holding hands when the path rejoined the main trail near the bottom of the hill.

“I think I’m O.K. now. Thanks.” Jill pulled her hand back and Conti reluctantly let it go. “Where to?”

He pulled a folded map out of his back pocket. “I left your backpack behind, but I took this.” He unfolded the map on which Jill had marked the monasteries, convents and retreat centers within five miles of the Via Francigena. “We go north and check out these places. Looks like we’ll pass near one today.”

Jill reached out and took the map from him. “They’re coded by religious affiliation. After hearing what Mobley said, I think we need to concentrate on the Buddhist places. If the Tibetan nationalists are already sending messages over the Chinese Internet, they must be well organized. Must be some sort of headquarters somewhere around here. So…” She pointed to a black X on the map about ten miles north and a mile or so off the trail. “Mitri Abbey. Might as well try that first.”

14.

“How far have we gone?” Jill gasped as she negotiated a steep, rocky pitch.

“About half way.”

“Really? Seems like it’s been ten miles already. These hills aren’t high but they sure are steep.”

“Altitude isn’t everything. You can get just as exhausted … hang on. What’s that?”

Conti pointed to the underbrush in front of them a few yards off the trail.

Jill stopped and looked in that direction. “It’s a bush. Like all the other bushes. I thought Tuscany would be more interesting.” She began walking again, but Conti didn’t go forward. Instead, he stepped off the path and stood motionless, listening.

“What in the world are you doing?” Jill asked.

He held his finger to his lips and crept in a wide circle around the patch of undergrowth. There was some movement in the bushes. Conti leapt toward the sound and there was a tussle, over in a moment.

“Take it easy, you’re going to break my arm!”

Conti froze when he heard the voice. He took a step back and watched as a small figure, face and beard covered in black make-up, picked himself up off the ground. “You can’t ask before you jump on a person?”

Conti broke out laughing.

“Very funny. You could have put my eye out!” The smaller man straightened out his hiking outfit.

“Who in the world is that?” Jill asked from the safety of the trail.

“The distinguished scholar of comparative religion and my old friend, Rabbi Amos Cadiz. Why he’s lurking in the bushes, I have no idea.”

“I wasn’t lurking. I was conducting surveillance. Big difference. How did you see me?” He gestured at his face and clothes. “Pretty good job of camouflage, no?”

“It would have been, if you’d remembered to black out the gold rims of your glasses. I saw the sun glinting off them.”

“Humph! So much to remember. I don’t do much undercover work anymore.”

“I could have guessed,” Conti replied. “So why are you doing it now?”

“Who’s she?” Cadiz asked.

“You don’t remember Jill Burnham? We were both in your Middle East class at Langley. Or whatever you called it.”

“I called it Prelude to Chaos. Yes, now that I get a look at her, I do remember Miss Burnham. Who could forget that face? And smart too!”

Jill frowned, but it did nothing to hide a blush.

“So, let me ask again,” Conti wanted to move things along. “What are you doing here?”

Cadiz glanced at Jill again before answering. “It turns out Mossad is very interested in your Tibetan gentlemen. It seems that they … we … have some large contracts in Tibet also. Building electronic systems to control dams and mines. Billions at stake. They don’t want anything disrupting these projects. They found out you were searching for the monks, so they sent me to keep an eye on you.”

“Really?” Conti raised his eyebrows. “All these years, you never told me you worked for Mossad.”

“Eh, only part time. Keeps me in foie gras and Lafite-Rothschild. Mostly I do analysis.”

Jill sat down and pointed to a pack that Cadiz had left in the bushes. “You wouldn’t happen to have any water, would you? And maybe something to eat? John lost all my provisions a few miles back.”

“While I was saving her life.”

“Nevertheless,” Jill replied.

“Yes, I have food and water and you’re welcome to it. Courtesy of the state of Israel.” Cadiz bent over and undid the straps of his pack. He pulled out a canteen and passed it to Jill, who drank gratefully. Then he began taking out food packets and lining them up on the ground.

“Let’s see, chocolate bars, bread, of course, a small jar of Nutella, Fontina — I like the soft cheeses — and proscuitto.”

“Proscuitto?” Conti asked. “I thought you kept kosher.”

“At home. In the field, you have to be flexible. Anyway, it came from a Jewish butcher.” He unwrapped the cured ham and offered it to Jill.

The three of them sat chewing in silence for a few minutes before Cadiz broke the spell. “So, what now?”

“There’s a Buddhist monastery a few miles from here we want to check out,” Conti said.

“Mitri Abbey. Know it well.”

“You do?”

“I’ve lectured there. They bring in people from all over the world. Run by Tibetan monks. They hold retreats — that sort of thing. I think it’s a front for raising money for the independence movement.”

“Really?” Jill asked. “Our Rome office never mentioned that.”

“They’d have to have had their eyes open. No offense, but your bunch of college kids is too busy following rich Saudis around Rome to know what’s going on in the rest of the country.”

“How would you know that?” Jill asked, hostility creeping into her voice.

“Half those women in burkas are Israeli agents.”

“If you know so damn much,” Jill’s voice rose, “who are these South Africans, who are following the Chinese, who are following the Tibetans, working for?”

“Ah …” Cadiz examined the back of his hands.

Conti stopped wrapping the leftover food and stared at the Rabbi. “Ah what? You know something, don’t you?”

The Rabbi raised both his palms to the sky and contorted his mouth. “Funny thing about that.”

“So you do know they’re working for?” Jill asked. “Don’t tell me they are really just Israelis with funny accents.”

“No, they aren’t ours,” the Rabbi answered.

“Then whose?” Conti asked.

“This is a bit awkward. We think they’re yours.”

15.

Via Francigena, Tuscany, Tuesday Evening

Dusk was falling on the Tuscan countryside as the three of them reached what looked like a rough path leading from the trail toward Mitri Abbey. They could see the Abbey, a converted fifteenth century castle surrounded by a wall with tall towers at its corners, on a ridge a mile away. A deep ravine stretched between the two hills.

“Think we can make it before dark?” Jill asked.

“Maybe,” Conti answered. “As long as you don’t mind a few more cuts and scrapes. Looks like the trail goes straight down this side of the canyon, then vertically up the other side. It’ll be an adventure.”

“And we don’t know who else is out there,” Cadiz added.

Conti led the way down the steep, gullied track. By scrambling from rock to rock and, in a few places, sitting down and sliding on the gravel, they reached a rocky streambed at the bottom of the hill. A trickle of water ran from puddle to puddle in the otherwise dry gulch.

“I think I heard something,” Jill said quietly as they picked their way across the stones.

Cadiz swung off his pack and pulled a flashlight out of one of the side pockets.

“Why didn’t you tell us you had that?” Conti asked. “We could have killed ourselves coming down that hill in the dark.”

“I was saving the batteries for when we really needed them. Like now.” Cadiz switched on the powerful military LED device and pointed it in the direction that Jill indicated. A ghostly shape floated across the creek bed and into the underbrush about twenty yards upstream. Without a word, Conti snatched the flashlight from the surprised Cadiz and dashed after the apparition. After fifteen minutes, he returned, speaking in low tones to a robed figure walking beside him.

“This is Tenyal Rinpoche. He’s the monk who approached me at the Embassy on Friday night.”

Conti shined the light at the monk’s shoulder, allowing them a somewhat better view. He was no more than five feet tall, and his face, partially hidden by a large hood, was deeply lined with age. He could have been anywhere from sixty to a hundred. He bowed slightly. Conti took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped a smear of blood off his swollen lip. “We had a bit of an altercation before I could explain who I was.”

“My apologies,” the monk said. “We have been followed for several days. I could not tell you from the Chinese in the dark. You are all very tall.”

“And you are very quick for your age.”

“We were instructed in hand-to-hand combat by one of the best — your father.”

“My father?” Conti asked.

“Yes. More than forty years ago. We trained for months, first in Texas — Fort Hood, it was called — then in Dharamsala. Almost one hundred monks and three CIA agents, led by John Adams. A great young man. We crossed the border, hoping to arouse the Tibetan people to rebel. For some reason, the promised support did not come. Your father was furious. He was killed covering our rear as we fought our way back to India. It seems like yesterday. We have continued to train ever since, hoping for another opportunity. And soon it may come.”

Conti hung his head in silence for a moment, remembering the tall, handsome young man in a Harvard crew sweater — the father he’d never really known. Recovering himself, he said, “That’s a bit of a long shot, don’t you think? The Chinese are even more powerful now than they were back then. But first things first. May we meet the young man? We’ve been told he is the Panchen Lama. I’m skeptical. For him to turn up in Italy after twenty-five years of complete silence is hard to believe.”

The old monk smiled. “Yes, it seemed that way to us as well. We were contacted in Dharamsala by a mysterious person who told us that we would find the Panchen Lama at the airport in Rome. Of course, we were suspicious that someone was attempting to deceive us for political reasons. But two of us were sent to check on the story. I am the only one left who actually met the young boy before the Chinese carried him off. He was five years old then. Of course, one cannot be sure that a man of thirty is the same person as the boy of five, but I have come to believe that he is.”

Jill spoke up. “I think it’s very strange that the Chinese let him to escape after so many years.”

The old monk bowed toward Jill. “I agree. The entire story is improbable. Yet he is here.”

“Can we meet him?” Conti asked.

“He is nervous about strangers,” the monk replied. “It is understandable. Unfortunately, there has been some violence. Up until now, he has led a very sheltered life, almost like a royal prince, and knows little of the world. I do not want to upset him further. Perhaps if only one of you came it would be better. Mr. Conti, I have told him about your father. I think he would be willing to talk to you.”

Conti looked at the others who nodded their assent.

“Go ahead,” Jill said. “We’ll be O.K. here.”

As if to confirm this statement, Rabbi Cadiz reached into his pack and pulled out what appeared to be an overfed pistol.

“What’s that?” Conti asked.

“A micro Uzi.” The Rabbi unfolded the stock and locked it into place. “Small but effective. Twelve hundred rounds per minute. I think we’ll be safe on our own for a while.”

“You’re full of surprises.” Conti turned to the old monk, “Which way?”

“We have a camp a few hundred yards up the hill. We were going to wait for first light to try and get into the Abbey. The Chinese are also around here, and I don’t want to run into them in the dark. They have even more dangerous weapons than that.” He nodded toward the ugly little submachine gun.

It took only a few minutes to scramble up a rocky, moonlit path to where another old monk sat with a third, younger man dressed in khakis and a gray wool sweater. They were eating canned sardines and crackers. The young man stood up and backed away as Conti approached.

Tenyal spoke to him in Chinese, and he appeared to relax a little, but remained standing.

“This is the American I told you about. His father was a great friend of the Tibetan people. I believe he will help us reach safety.”

The young man said nothing, but bowed slightly.

Conti returned the bow and sat down on a flat stone. He began speaking in Chinese. “I’m sorry I was not able to help you in Rome.”

“I understand English,” the young man said, his accent surprisingly good.

“Good. My Chinese is very rusty.” Conti continued, “I did try to find you Friday night, but I was too late. I have been told that you are the Panchen Lama. Is that true?”

“I am not a religious person.” The young man stared, unblinking, at his questioner.

Conti hoped the dark covered his surprise.

The old monk intervened. “We have been having this discussion for three days now. He does not deny that he is the person we recognize as the Panchen Lama. But he has no wish to take on such a position of responsibility.”

“I do not shirk responsibility.” The young man’s voice quavered. “But neither do I believe in ancient superstitions.”

Tenyal’s temper flared for the first time. “You are a tulku, the incarnation of Lobsang Gyaltsen, the tenth Panchen Lama — whether you believe it or not!”

“Ridiculous!”

Conti held up both hands and stage whispered, “Keep it down! The Chinese might be carrying parabolic microphones. I would be in their place.”

“So,” he went on, his voice just above a whisper. “You aren’t particularly religious. Why’d you decide to leave China? You realize the nationalist movement in Tibet will see you as a champion, don’t you?”

“That isn’t my problem — a bunch of superstitious old monks in India who want to go back to their monasteries in Lhasa. It will never happen. I am not interested in helping them. I am a modern person.”

Conti tried to sound sympathetic. “Yes, I understand. But that doesn’t answer my question. Why did you leave China if not to support the nationalists?”

“I didn’t answer you because it is a stupid question.” The young man spat out the words. “Why would anyone want to escape arrest in China? Freedom, of course. I want to reunite with my friend, Li Huang. I am going to be an artist.”

16.

Jill and Cadiz sat on the flattest rocks they could find. The Rabbi shined the flashlight into his pack and pulled out a couple of energy bars. He tossed one to Jill, then unwrapped the other and took a small bite. He chewed for a moment, swallowing with difficulty.

“Terrible. Must have been sitting on the shelf for a year. What I’d give for a pepperoni pizza. So, what do you make of all this?”

“Don’t know for sure,” Jill responded. “Pretty bizarre. So bizarre as to make me suspicious.”

“Oh?”

“It doesn’t add up, does it? The kid’s been under house arrest in China for twenty-five years. Even the CIA didn’t know exactly where, or if he was still alive. Then, after holding him incommunicado all that time, one of the most powerful, secretive governments on the planet lets him escape to Italy. Not sure I buy it. And why are those South African thugs in the picture? You say they’re working for us but, if so, no one told me.” She rubbed her sore shoulder. “And they certainly didn’t act very friendly.”

“I didn’t say they worked for the CIA.” The Rabbi stood up and twisted his torso back and forth to loosen his back muscles. “God, that pack is heavy.”

“What have you got in it?”

“The usual. Ammo, water bottle, crappy energy bars, plastic explosive. It’s the ammunition that’s heavy. This thing uses bullets like there’s no tomorrow.” He picked up the mini machine gun and checked the magazine.

“Have you used it before?”

“I had one around the time of the Seven Day War. Mostly shot Coke cans in the desert. But they insist I carry it on jobs like this. This and a cyanide pill. If one doesn’t do the job … you know.”

“I’m not a field agent. We learned a few things about undercover work in training, but that was a long time ago. I don’t know if I could shoot anyone.”

“It’s not so bad,” the Rabbi said. “Until afterwards.”

Jill jumped with a start, almost falling off the rock, as her phone vibrated. She looked at the number, took a deep breath to regain her composure, and answered. “Burnham.”

Mosley’s gravelly voice boomed in her ear. “Where the hell are you?”

She moved the phone a few inches away.” In the woods north of Siena. Closing in on Mitri Abbey. That’s where our target is headed.”

“How do you know that?”

“We met up with the monks. Conti is talking to them now.”

“Well, the shit has hit the fan back here. The Chinese are calling everyone they know in the government. They want this guy back bad. They’re expecting riots in Lhasa and Sichuan in the morning. They don’t want the Panchen Lama to get anywhere near computer equipment. They are afraid if he gets on the Internet, they won’t be able to block it.”

“Makes sense.” Jill waited, expecting and, for some reason, dreading the order to turn the Panchen Lama over to the Chinese. But it didn’t come.

Mobley’s voice calmed down, the pitch descending half a tone. “The White House wants us to back off.”

“The White House?”

“Ellis, the dipshit three-star who runs the National Security Council staff — guy thinks he’s Rambo.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know. Something’s going on they’re not telling me about.”

“What should we do?”

“Good question. Can’t give him to the Chinese without the White House going ballistic. But I’m not backing off no matter what that NSC gorilla says. Stay there and monitor the situation until I find out who’s playing who.”

“We can try. But there are spooks with guns running around these woods.”

“Try to get him into that monastery, or whatever it is. But don’t let him near any computers.”

Conti came sliding back down the gravel trail fifteen minutes later. “I think he’s the Panchen Lama alright. But he’s not what I expected.”

“Let me guess,” Cadiz offered. “He’s not political. Not interested in starting a revolution in Tibet. Doesn’t want to be a monk. Doesn’t know who arranged his escape. Wants to be an actor in L.A. or something.”

“Not bad. Four out of five. He wants to be an artist in New York. How’d you know?”

“Elementary. The Chinese have had him for twenty-five years. If they have any sense, they’ve treated him well and educated him to believe that religion, and Tibetan Buddhism in particular, is an oppressive feudal system designed to keep the peasants in thrall to the monks. Ergo, he would think that being the Panchen Lama is absurd at best and villainous at worst.”

“Then why bother to escape from China?” Jill asked.

“Freedom,” Cadiz answered simply.

“That’s what he said.” Conti took the half energy bar that Jill offered and struggled to bite into it. “God! What is this stuff?”

“I spoke to Mobley,” Jill said. “He wants us to play for time. Doesn’t want us to hand the Lama over to the Chinese or take him into custody ourselves. Seems he’s arguing with some national security folks at the White House over what to do next.”

“Right,” Conti answered. “We’ll sit here in the woods, getting eaten by mosquitoes,” he slapped at his forearm, “and maybe getting our asses shot off while we wait for Washington to get its act together. Typical. What do you think, Rabbi?”

“Me? What should I think? If I were making the decisions here, I’d probably arrange a meeting with the Chinese and talk it through with them. We Israelis are always looking for stability. We don’t upset things unnecessarily. Too much to lose. But I’m not making the decisions. You are. My orders are to stick with you and help you out.”

“And keep an eye on us.”

The Rabbi shrugged. “If you aren’t in a position to negotiate with the Chinese, then we need to get out of these woods as soon as possible. Before morning. Jill is right. There are men with guns out there. When the sun comes up, they’ll be beating the bushes. So I’d suggest we get ourselves and the young Lama into that monastery before first light. And, I agree with your boss. Keep him away from computers. Even his picture on the Internet could cause riots.”

The three of them made their way up the dry creek bed until they came upon the two old monks and the young man leaning against an embankment, wide eyes scanning the dim woods. They’d packed their few possessions, having come to the same conclusion about the folly of staying still, and were ready to move. The six of them began climbing the steep hill toward the Abbey, accompanied only by the sounds of labored breathing and sandals scraping on loose pebbles. Within half an hour they emerged into a moonlit vineyard, the sweet tang of ripening grapes permeating the night air. Rows of vines six feet tall ran uphill, providing cover as they crept the last quarter mile toward the rough-hewn stone walls of the old castle.

“Stop!”

Two men stepped out of the shadows of the vines and into the moonlight. They pointed rifles menacingly at the small party.

“Take off your packs and drop them!” one of them ordered, first in English, then more angrily, in Chinese. The other man pointed a powerful flashlight at each of them in turn, muttering in low tones as he did so. After surveying each face, he aimed the beam at the Panchen Lama. The second Chinese agent collared the young man and dragged him back to his partner.

Conti eyed the pack that Cadiz had dropped at his feet. Was the Uzi at the top? Was it loaded? If he dove for it would he be able to shoot before they did? He began inching toward the Rabbi, who had been walking a few steps in front of him. One more step …

“Back! Get back!” the first Chinese ran forward, shoved Conti roughly and picked up the Rabbi’s pack. He opened it and, with a look of triumph, pulled out the Uzi. “Stay there!” He waved his rifle at the hikers, and holding the Uzi in his other hand, backed up toward his partner.

“Now, sit!” the first Chinese man commanded. They did so. “You will stay here. We have two comrades stationed where you cannot see them. If you move, they will kill you. Stay here until the sun rises. Or you will all die.” The two Chinese agents ducked into the vines and disappeared, pushing the Panchen Lama in front of them.

“Do you believe them?” Jill was the first to speak.

“No,” Conti answered. “They’re bluffing. I’m going to follow them. You all stay here.” He got up and started in the direction the Chinese had taken, keeping his head low.

“I’ll go with you,” the Rabbi said, following Conti into the vines before anyone could object.

The three who remained sat staring at each other, wondering what to do next.

“I’d guess we’d better wait …” Jill began.

She was interrupted by a burst of gunshots from the hill to the right, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the castle, and dying into the silence of the valley below them.

17.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Tuesday Evening

Mobley sat at a corner table in the cafeteria chewing morosely on a piece of overcooked halibut. He hated fish, but his doctor limited him to red meat twice a week, and he didn’t intend to waste it on a steam table hamburger. Pushing the cold peas around with his fork, he considered taking another bite, then decided it wasn’t worth it. He sighed as he watched his Congressional Liaison McCullough saunter toward him, stopping every few tables to bestow a pat on the back to someone trying to choke down a late dinner.

“Well, if it isn’t the Director himself eatin’ with the plebs. What’s goin’ on, Your Honor? The Post here to do another profile?”

Mobley grimaced. “Just looking for a bit of peace and quiet.” He crumpled up his paper napkin and wedged it under the edge of his plate. “But I can see that’s not in the cards.”

“Don’t mind if I take a load off, do ya’?” McCullough had scrunched his large body into a chrome and plastic chair before he’d finished the sentence. “My friends on the Hill have been trying to reach you all day. Your assistant won’t give them the time of day. They’re upset.”

“Christ. I talked to everyone on the Intel committee last night. What do they want? Hourly updates?”

“Sometimes.” McCullough pulled out a pack of Camels, knocked out a cigarette, and lit it, violating the “No Smoking” sign on the wall directly behind Mobley. He took a deep drag and blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, sometimes they do. Especially when they’re getting calls from their top money men complainin’ about how they’re going to lose Chinese business if we don’t cooperate. You know, the Chinks are almost as good at manipulating our fine democratic system as the defense industry is.” He leaned forward and knocked the ashes from the end of his cigarette onto Mobley’s tray.

“I am aware of that.” Mobley sat back in his chair and folded his arms on his chest. “I used to be in that game myself, you may recall.”

“I do indeed. I was just a young press guy in your day, but I remember you had an unerring sense of the needs of your state. You never ignored the pleas of your better-heeled constituents.”

McCullough leaned back himself and crossed a tasseled loafer over his sharply creased slacks. In this pose, his southern accent somehow became even more pronounced. “So … what ya’ plannin’ to do here? Inquirin’ minds wanta know.”

“Can you keep a secret?” Mobley said this with a straight face, conveying the sarcasm without changing his tone. He didn’t wait for a reply. “I’m not ‘plannin’ anything right now, because the national security bastards at the White House are interfering. If I had a plan, it would be to catch this monk — we’ve verified that he’s the Panchen Lama — and make a deal with the Chinese to give him back. My own preference would be to trade him for permission to build a big Coca-Cola plant somewhere near Beijing, but I’m open to other ideas. Maybe we could get something for one of your pals on the Hill. But I can’t get anything for anybody as long as General Rambo over at the White House has the President’s ear.”

“What’s his game?”

“Evidently, he wants to tweak China’s nose for some reason.”

“If he does, he’s playin’ with fire.”

“No shit.”

“What’s his background?”

“You don’t know? If you’re going to be any good at this game, you’re going to have to do your homework a lot better, son. Special Forces. Killed terrorists in Iraq and Afghanistan. With his bare hands, they say. Made his whole career chasing down the Taliban. No experience in the Far East. Doesn’t know Tibet from Nepal. Very ambitious though.”

McCullough untangled his legs and leaned forward, brushing ash from the lapel of his linen blazer. His accent shifted back from Dallas to Princeton. “How can I help?”

“Tell those Senator buddies of yours to stop wasting time calling me and start calling the President.”

Mobley hadn’t been back in his office for an hour when his assistant buzzed him on the old-fashioned intercom he insisted on using. “White House on the phone. President’s Chief of Staff.”

“Put him through.”

“You son of a bitch, Mobley. Why’d you sic those Senators on me?”

Mobley was unmoved. “Why won’t you let the CIA do its job?”

The voice on the other end of the line became defensive. “Nobody’s stopping you from doing your fucking job. You sit on the National Security Council, right? You’ve got a vote like anyone else.”

“A vote?” Mobley didn’t try to hide his frustration. “On what? A committee of soldiers and satellite jockeys. Not one of them knows a damn thing about politics. And all I get is a vote?”

“I didn’t set the system up.”

“I’m not waiting for the next NSC meeting to find out what’s going on. What’s General Ellis up to?”

“He says he needs time.”

“Look, he’s messing with the Chinese. Did anyone bother to tell him that they own more than a trillion dollars of American debt? Or that a dozen American companies are bidding on huge Chinese contracts? Does he understand that we need them more than they need us?”

“All he wants is a couple of days.”

“To do what?”

After a long hesitation, the answer came in almost a whisper. “I’m not entirely sure. He talked to the President. I wasn’t in the meeting myself. You’re the Director of the CIA. Ask the boss yourself.”

“He won’t take my fucking calls.”

18.

Via Francigena, Outside Mitri Abbey, Early Wednesday Morning

Jill crashed through the wall of leaves in the direction Conti and Cadiz had gone, barely missing the horizontal wires supporting the vines. She stumbled on the clumps of earth hidden in the moon shadows on the other side, but Tenyal, the old monk, caught her as she fell. He turned her toward him and held his face close, forcing her to focus on his eyes.

“Now is the time for calm. Not for rushing into unknown situation. Whatever has happened, we can only make it worse if we panic.”

“Yes. Right,” she said, distracted, looking back over her shoulder.

“Let us go carefully. Tashi will lead us. He has excellent vision.”

Slowing down, they moved perpendicularly across the rows of vines, staying low. Jill followed close behind Tashi, the other monk, who held back branches allowing her to pass unscathed. They continued their wary progress through several rows, pausing to listen after each. Nothing. Finally, after half a dozen rows, a shock — three lifeless shapes on the ground. Jill stood back, her heart pounding in her temples. The two monks looked at each other, then Tashi moved toward the first bundle of clothing. He touched it first with his foot, then kneeled down and turned the body over.

“Chinese.”

He stood up and walked the few steps over to the next body. Again, he knelt beside it and turned it over.

“Also Chinese.”

The third body was lying face up. Tashi shined a flashlight on its face.

“Caucasian.”

Jill felt her knees buckle.

“But not your friend.”

She exhaled a chest full of stale carbon dioxide, then moved near the body and bent over it. Caucasian, alright. Crew cut, black nylon jacket over a Kevlar vest. She checked his pockets. A piano wire garrote and a heavy duty Motorola phone. She tried to turn it on. No dice. It needed a code. Tashi pointed to something a few feet from the body. A gun. She picked it up. “Vektor” stamped on the barrel. She didn’t know much about guns, but she was a whiz at languages. Afrikaans. So now South African blood had been spilled, too. She rolled the body over and examined the face — not one of her tormentors from the Quonset hut.

It didn’t take long to find out which way the survivors of the battle had gone. Someone had ripped or cut a hole through the trellis of vines on the downhill side, away from the Abbey. They followed the trail pressed by several pairs of boots in the soft, pillowed earth between the rows. In a few minutes, they found what they were looking for. Cadiz sat on a mound of dirt with his pant leg rolled up; Conti was applying a tourniquet just below the knee.

“What happened?” Jill asked.

Conti glanced up at her, then continued his first aid. “Not exactly sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were getting close to the Chinese. We could hear them bullying the boy forward. Apparently he was making it difficult, refusing to go along. There were gunshots. We ran in that direction until we stumbled on the bodies on the ground.”

“What about you, Rabbi? You O.K.?”

“It’s nothing. I’ve had mosquito bites worse than this. Bullet just grazed my calf. I told John to keep going, but he wouldn’t leave me.”

“Didn’t want to get into trouble with God.” Conti finished tying off the bandage and stood up.

“I would have spoken to Him on your behalf.”

Tenyal brought them back to reality. “But where is the Panchen Lama?”

“He’s not with the Chinese,” Conti said. “There were only two of them and they’re dead.”

“So he’s with the South Africans?” Jill asked.

“Don’t think so,” Conti replied. “Before the Rabbi was hit, we were closing in on the second South African.”

“And?”

“We got close enough to see that he was alone.”

19.

Via Francigena, Wednesday Dawn

A faint pink glow suffused the eastern hills as the bedraggled party limped up the gravel drive leading to the main gate of Mitri Abbey.

“The castle was built in the fourteenth century,” Rabbi Cadiz instructed. “But the site is much older. You see the bottom courses of the wall? How they look more worn? This was originally an Etruscan village wall. Probably four thousand years old.”

Everyone looked, but was too tired to comment. They’d spent the last hour bushwhacking through the dense forest and climbing up the steep trail. Exhausted and hungry, they knocked on the monastery’s heavy wooden door.

“Christ, it’s cold.” Jill said.

“Yeah, the wind hits you when you come out of the trees. Maybe fall is coming early. I hope the monks are up.”

“They have been up since three a.m.,” Tenyal said. “They’ve already meditated for two hours and should be finishing breakfast now.”

“I hope there’s something left,” the Rabbi said, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. “I’m starving.”

As he spoke, the great door swung open. Tenyal stepped forward, bowed to the monk who’d opened the door and spoke briefly in Tibetan.

“He says we may come in, but that the abbot is busy and cannot see us for a half-hour or so. In the meantime, we can wait in the refectory.”

“Refectory sounds great,” the Rabbi said.

Five minutes later, they sat drinking tea at an ancient, scarred oak table in front of roaring fire. A monk brought a tray of stuffed dumplings and the conversation paused as they dug in.

“I’m never leaving,” Jill said between bites. “I think we’ve found heaven.”

“Buddhists do not believe in heaven. Like the Jews,” the Rabbi said. “Or, more properly, it is to be found inside you. Am I right, Rinpoche?” he addressed Tenyal using the Tibetan honorific for teacher.

“Heaven, enlightenment, inner peace. It’s much the same isn’t it?” the old monk said. He gestured toward the food and the fire. “Still, this must be close to the experience, I think.”

“Wherever we are, I hope the Panchen Lama is here too,” Jill offered. “I’m not particularly interested in chasing around these hills again.”

“I am confident he’s here,” Tenyal said. “Where else would he go? I asked the gatekeeper about it, but he said talk to the abbot. That is the way Buddhist monasteries function. Only the abbot communicates with the outside world on matters of importance.”

A short time later, they were shown into the abbot’s office. A relatively young man, no more than thirty-five, sat behind a large, western style desk. His head was shaved but he wore a yellow hoodie with “UCLA” emblazoned across the chest in large purple letters.

“Welcome to Mitri.” He looked Tibetan but spoke with an American accent. “I understand you are searching for the Panchen Lama.”

Conti glanced at Jill and, when she nodded, he spoke. “That’s right. Tenyal Rinpoche here approached me in Rome for help, and we’ve been following the Lama ever since, trying to … well, put ourselves in a position to offer aid if it was needed.”

“And were you able to meet the young man, to offer him aid?”

“We met him briefly, but before we could do anything for him, the Chinese intervened.”

“Do the Chinese have him now?”

Conti’s face fell. “You don’t?”

The abbot seemed equally surprised. “No, he’s not here. We’ve been waiting for him. Ever since Tenyal telephoned us from Siena yesterday telling us they were headed our way. We had monks stationed outside the monastery walls all evening, but I brought them in when night fell when we heard gunshots. We saw no one. Can you tell me what happened?”

Conti briefly recounted the night’s events. The abbot listened carefully and didn’t speak again until Conti was done.

“This is a mystery,” he said finally. “Tell me. Do you think the young man is the real Panchen Lama?”

“Don’t you know?” Conti asked.

“No, we don’t. We were frankly surprised — amazed might be a better word — that the Chinese would let the Panchen Lama out of their sight for even a moment given the delicate state of affairs in Tibet. So we were not … are not … sure that this gentleman is who he says he is. What do you think, Rinpoche?” he asked Tenyal.

“I believe he is the true Panchen Lama … but he does not.”

The abbot’s brow wrinkled and he frowned. “What?”

“He has not been raised as a Buddhist. His Chinese indoctrinators did their work well. He does not believe that he is the incarnation — the tulku — of the last Panchen Lama.”

“Tell me,” Conti cut in, addressing the abbot. “What would you have done if he had come here? I understand that this monastery is a center of the Tibetan nationalist movement. Did you intend to use the Panchen Lama for those purposes … assuming he would cooperate?”

“These are difficult questions,” the abbot answered. He picked up a string of prayer beads from the desk and began rolling them in his hand making soft clicking sounds. “It is true that we support the cause of Tibetan nationalism and independence. But in a nonviolent manner, as the holy Dalai Lama taught us. Would we use the Panchen Lama toward this end? Yes, of course, if he wished to help. But …” he stood up and paced behind his desk, “this is a very … sensitive time in our history. We do not want to make things worse for the Tibetan people. The Chinese are very powerful.”

A monk entered the office without knocking, handed a piece of paper to the abbot, bowed to the group and left as quietly as he’d arrived. The abbot opened the paper and took in its contents in a glance.

“The situation in Tibet is deteriorating. Soldiers fired on a group of protestors and several were killed. Perhaps the Panchen Lama could calm the situation if he could communicate with his people.”

“How would you accomplish that?” Conti asked.

“Come with me,” the abbot said, striding through the office door toward a vaulted stone stairway. He led the group down several flights. “Take care. The depressions in the stones are centuries deep.”

At the bottom they came to a dark hallway with a bright light at the end. The abbot opened a glass door and ushered them into a white-tiled computer room. Several monks sat at terminals monitoring banks of screens. It looked something like an American television newsroom.

“This is our nerve center,” the abbot said, unnecessarily. “We monitor all the news channels, of course, but we also are connected to the Internet and Chinese government television. They keep anything controversial off the air, so it is from private individuals on the Internet that we learn what’s really going on. Until they are shut down, that is, which happens with alarming regularity.”

“Where’d you get all this equipment?” Conti asked.

“We have our sources,” the abbot replied. “Your government provides generous aid. We appreciate it.”

Jill and Conti exchanged a surprised look. She spoke for the first time. “I have some familiarity with our Tibetan policy. I think you must be mistaken as to the source of the aid.”

“We understand that you, Miss Burnham, and you, Mr. Conti, are with the CIA.”

Jill tried to keep her mouth from dropping open. “What makes you think that?”

The abbot smiled. “Just as we have sources for financial assistance, we have sources of information. And they believe …” He stopped, apparently deciding he had said enough.

“They believe what?” Jill said, agitation evident in her tone.

The abbot shrugged. “They tell us your agency is hamstrung by political and legal requirements, and that you would be more helpful if you could be. They do what they think you would do if you were able.”

Jill’s face reddened. Conti put his hand on her arm. As she struggled to control her anger, Conti spoke. “We are aware that you have other connections in our government and we don’t want to interfere with those relationships. We know who the people back in Washington are, of course, but we don’t know who does their liaison work over here. It would help a great deal if you could tell us the name of your contact.”

A subtle but unmistakable look of fear clouded the abbot’s eyes. “I’m afraid I’m not authorized to give you that information.”

20.

The White House, Wednesday Morning

Mobley sat in the backseat of his black Ford Expedition reading the afternoon intelligence assessment as the driver showed his badge to the guard at the entrance to the Old Executive Office Building parking garage. This is where people went when they said they were going to the White House. It was as close as most of them ever got to the real thing — unless they joined the long line of out-of-towners waiting on the sidewalk for the thirty-minute tour.

He took the elevator up to a secure floor, which housed the staff of the National Security Council. Walking down the long hallway he read the door plaques, shaking his head and sighing. Special Assistants to the President — for terrorism, for the Middle East, for Europe, southern Africa, nuclear proliferation. The titles went on and on, replicating his departments at Langley, not to mention the State Department. Politicians constantly complained about the federal budget and then voted for appropriations for all this redundant bureaucracy. Hell, he’d done it himself.

He reached his destination at the end of the hall — the corner office overlooking Lafayette Square, belonging to General Jefferson D. Ellis. Unlike the other doors, its plaque contained no job descriptor, just the name. Mobley brushed past the Lieutenant in the outer office and found Ellis sitting on a leather couch in his running clothes, wiping his forehead with a damp towel. He looked up calmly as Mobley entered.

“God, it’s hot in this city. There’s a little breeze over at East Potomac Park, but the Mall is a swamp, even at seven in the morning. What can I do you for, Mr. Mobley?”

Mobley was momentarily disarmed by Ellis’ amiable demeanor. He wanted to be angry at the son-of-a-bitch, but the charming, little boy smile made it difficult.

“I want to know why you aren’t returning my calls. I can’t run the goddamn CIA if everyone and his brother is conducting his own secret operation.” This sounded too much like pleading. He needed to be forceful. “I’m the one in charge of human intelligence, not the NSC staff.” Still lame. Ellis continued smiling at him.

“Yes, sir, you are,” the General bent over and untied his shoes, then kicked them off, shed his socks and began rubbing his feet. “I’ve been using these new, ultra thin Nikes. They aren’t so good on the gravel. I guess my soles will toughen up eventually.”

“O.K.,” Mobley said. “We agree on who’s in charge then. Tell me what you’re up to with this Panchen Lama fellow.”

“Did you see the new plaque on my door?” Ellis asked.

Mobley rolled his eyes. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“No title. Used to be a title there. National Security Staff Coordinator. Now it doesn’t say anything. Know why that is?”

Mobley folded his arms on his chest. “No, but I imagine you’ll tell me.”

“’Cause my job has changed.” Ellis stood up and walked around his desk to a small refrigerator. He took out two water bottles and offered one to Mobley. Mobley stared at it as though he were being offered urine. Ellis shrugged and set it down on the desk.

“So what’s your new job?”

“Special projects. Reporting directly to the President. I don’t show up on the current NSC org chart at all. Just me, by my lonesome, working on some … ideas … the President has. Not exactly intelligence work like you do.”

“I also have responsibility for covert activities,” Mobley said.

Ellis took a long swig of water. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “That’s closer to what I do, but not quite the same thing. It’s more like diplomacy. Sort of like what the State Department does, but not exactly their mission either. I would call it personal Presidential diplomacy. I help him do things that are too sensitive or fast moving to assign to a bureaucratic organization. No offense.”

Mobley slammed his fist down on the corner of the desk. “Offense taken! That’s a pile of horseshit. I want to know what you’re trying to do with these monks in Italy and who you’re working with. The Chinese Ambassador is furious, not to mention half a dozen Senators. The Ambassador is dropping hints about selling off some of the trillion dollars in US debt they hold. Do you have any idea what that would do to our economy?”

“Sure do,” Ellis answered, leaning back in his leather swivel chair and putting his bare feet up on his desk. “It would be bad news.”

“Very bad news,” Mobley repeated.

“Sorry, but I can’t talk about this. To anybody. President’s orders. I can tell you that I believe we’re working toward the same goal though. A better … situation, vis-à-vis the Chinese. The boss wants to go about it a little differently is all. Sort of an experiment.”

Mobley felt steam rising off his face. But anger wasn’t getting him anywhere. He did what he used to do on the floor of the Senate when someone attacked the Voting Rights Act, or affirmative action, or one his earmarks. He smiled. A big, broad smile. Calmed him down.

“Well, I’ll have to talk to the President myself, then, won’t I? Maybe I’ll take a little walk over there right now.” He knew this was an empty threat. He didn’t have an appointment and it would take hours to get through all the receptionists, secretaries, and assistants.

“You go right ahead and do that,” the General replied. “Or I can acquaint him with your views myself. We’re meeting in twenty minutes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to shower.”

Mobley’s momentary cool evaporated, and his eyes popped wide open. “You bastard!” He spun on his heel and headed for the door.

“One more thing.” Ellis raised his index finger in the air. Mobley stopped and turned his head.

“Don’t mess with the South Africans. They’re on our side.”

As the SUV crossed the Key Bridge back to Virginia, Mobley stared out the window at a collegiate scull gliding up the Potomac, considering his next move. He yearned for the days when he was Chair of a Senate Committee. Things were simpler then. You either had power or you didn’t. He did. If he wanted to get something done, he twisted someone’s arm until they yelled uncle. Easy, compared to this business. The problem was all the damn secrecy. Couldn’t use political allies, or big money men, or the press. Couldn’t sabotage a highway project or threaten to build a jet engine in a different state. He had to work through back channels, everything on the q.t., when all he wanted to do was to slam someone’s head against the wall.

He punched in Jill’s number. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Jill was sitting in the back of a Honda van provided by Israeli intelligence, sandwiched between two Buddhist monks. “Not the best time to talk,” she answered.

“O.K., just answer my questions then. I got your texts. The Chinese took the Lama, then the South Africans ambushed them, then he got away, right?”

“Right.”

“And you think the abbot of that monastery is telling the truth. That the Lama never showed up. Still right?”

“Yes.”

“And now you, Conti, the monks, and Cadiz are heading to Florence to try to find the Lama because Conti has a hunch that’s where he went?”

“Uh huh.”

“So here are your orders. Forget what I said before about lying low and keeping an eye on the Lama. Find him, take him into custody, and get him to a safe house in Rome. Let me know when you’ve done that. I’m sick and tired of being kept in the goddamned dark. We’re going to find this guy, wrap him up tight, and hold on to him until we find out what’s really going on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jill.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t laugh, but they tell me that the South Africans are on our side. I don’t think that’s the whole story, but that’s what the White House says.”

“They certainly aren’t on my side. They almost killed me. And you want us to work with them?”

“No. Just the opposite. Cut them out. When we get the Lama, we’ll hold the cards. Then they — and whoever the hell they’re working for — will have to come to us.”

“O.K.”

“One more thing. I’ve talked to my opposite at Mossad. They’re on the same page as we are. You can trust Cadiz.”

“Good, because he’s driving.” She hung up and smiled at the Rabbi, who had turned to give her a questioning look.

“Carry on, James,” she said.

21.

Tuscany, Wednesday Afternoon

The van dodged through a chaotic traffic circle in the small town of Poggibonsi, tires squealing as Cadiz narrowly missed a tour bus and swerved onto the road heading north toward Florence.

“Jesus Christ! I felt safer riding through Kabul in the back of a Toyota pick-up.” Conti clung to the grab handle above the passenger window

“You were safer,” the Rabbi retorted. “The Taliban have nothing on Italians trying to get home for lunch. They’ll run you off the road as soon as look at you.”

“I think he was talking about your driving,” Jill shouted from the back seat. She tried to push herself away from one monk only to be thrown against the other as Cadiz dodged around a farm truck piled with hay bales.

Cadiz turned his head and looked back at her. “My driving? I’ll have you know I’m a trained professional. Mossad sent me for three days to the Ferrari test track at Modena.” He removed one hand from the wheel and pantomimed shifting a racecar, still facing the back seat. “I was fastest in my age group. Of course, there were only …”

“Shit! Watch out!” Conti reached over and yanked the wheel in his direction. The van shuddered, leaned precariously toward an oncoming motorcycle, then moved back to the right side of the road. The motorcyclist hugged the opposite shoulder and blew his horn furiously. Cadiz stuck his arm out his open window and flipped him off.

“Rabbi!” Jill exclaimed. “I don’t believe you did that.”

“Nothing personal,” he replied. “Just habit from driving in this crazy country. You got to defend yourself.” He glanced over at Conti. “So tell me why you think the Lama is in Florence.”

Conti didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to Tenyal in the back seat. “Did he ever mention a woman named Li Huang to you?”

“Yes,” the old monk replied. “His former tutor, I believe. In China. She’s a few years older. He spoke very fondly of her. He told me he had always wanted to visit Italy because his favorite teacher lived there. I thought she might be a nun, but then I realized the Chinese would never allow that. In any case, she seemed to be someone he was quite close to.”

“That squares with what he told me.” Conti said, “Jill, when do you expect to hear back from Langley on her?”

“Anytime now. What makes you think she’s in Florence rather than Rome or Milan?”

“He told me he hoped to meet his tutor again. He also said he wanted to become an artist. A few minutes later he asked me how far it was to Florence. I had the sense he really wanted to go there rather than to a Buddhist Abbey in the middle of nowhere. But he was afraid of striking out on his own with the Chinese on his tail. It’s a guess, but we know he didn’t stay around the Abbey.”

They had spent all morning searching the main trail for several miles in each direction and had found no sign of him.

“Well, no other leads,” commented Jill. “So your theory is the best we’ve got. One thing though.”

“What’s that?”

“Stop the car, Rabbi. John and I are going to change seats. I’m tired of being bounced around like a beach ball.”

Forty-five minutes later, the van crossed the Arno River into the center of Florence.

“Message from headquarters about Li Huang,” Jill said reading an e-mail on her phone. “We didn’t have a dossier on her but the Taiwanese sent a file. Thirty-three, former art teacher in Beijing, believed to have connections to Chinese intelligence until she emigrated to the West two years ago and — you were right — entered the Art Academy of Florence as a graduate student and teaching assistant. Does not appear to be engaged in intelligence activities currently. Either a sleeper agent or possibly has cut her ties to Chinese government. Residing in Italy under a student visa.”

She handed the phone to Conti who reread the message, then pressed a few keys on his own device. “Art Academy of Florence. Accademia delle Arti del Designo. Via Orsanmichele.”

“Are we going to try to talk to her?” Jill asked. “What if she’s still working for the Chinese?”

“If she is, we need to know. Not sure we have anything to lose by entering the lion’s den. What’s the worst the Chinese can do to us — assuming we don’t have the Panchen Lama?”

“Kill us,” Tenyal said. “Remember the unfortunate incident with their agent back in Rome.”

“Right,” Conti replied. “Almost forgot about that. O.K., new plan. We’re going to drop off the two monks before we go anywhere near the Art Academy. Where do you want to go, Tenyal?”

“The Tibetan Student Association offices. Via Mazzini. Not far from here. Turn left at the next corner. We will wait there until you contact us.”

Cadiz wedged the van between a row of Vespas and a leather goods stall across the street from the Art Academy. Students on bicycles zigzagged in and out of the fashionable shoppers and gaping tourists who crowded the street.

“You two wait here while I talk to her,” Conti ordered, his no nonsense undercover persona emerging. No one challenged him.

“You want a gun?” Cadiz reached beneath his seat and pulled out another mini-Uzi. When he saw the surprised look on their faces, he added, “Comes with the car. Standard issue in war zones.”

“Florence is a war zone?” Jill asked.

“For Israel, almost everywhere is a war zone.”

“You keep it,” Conti said, opening the van door. “Call me if you see anyone suspicious enter the building.”

“What are you going to do?” Jill asked.

“I’m going to see if she’s here and, if so, whether she knows where the Panchen Lama is. If she does, I’m going to try and persuade her that he’d be far safer with us than on his own.”

Conti got out of the car, crossed the street and walked in the front door of the old palazzo. A smartly dressed young woman sat at a reception desk filing her nails. She greeted him and he responded in Italian.

“Excuse me, but I am looking for a woman named Li Huang. I believe she teaches here. I am Dr. DeStephano from the University of Rome. I am also an art teacher. Ms. Li was kind enough to offer to show me around the Academy when I met her at a conference in Milan.” He searched through his pockets. “I’m afraid I don’t have my cards with me, I’ve been on a walking tour of the city.” He gestured at his informal clothes and smiled.

The young woman lost interest halfway through this monologue and refocused on her nails. “Second floor, room 202.” She pointed with an emery board to the ornate staircase that dominated the entrance hall.

Conti bowed slightly and made his way up the stairs. He found room 202 and knocked on the door. When no one answered, he peeked inside. Half-finished plaster torsos and heads sat on pedestals, the air heavy with white dust. Then the door suddenly swung open, pulled from the inside, and several students barged out. He walked into the now silent room and saw a petite young woman with short-cropped black hair sitting on a stool working under a magnifying glass.

“Dawa?” she asked, without looking up. “Did you find some clothes?”

Conti was momentarily confused. Dawa was a Tibetan name, but not one he associated with the Panchen Lama. But Tibetans had a habit of changing their names to change their luck.

“Who is Dawa?” he asked. The young woman jumped at the sound of the unfamiliar voice.

“Who are you?” she shot back, squinting at him.

“John Conti. A friend of the Panchen Lama. A representative of the American government who wants to ensure his safety.”

She considered him for a moment, eyes narrowing. “The United States is an ally of China.”

“Not really an ally. More of a rival, I’d say.”

She got up, snapped off the high intensity light on her workbench, and walked over to a large window a few feet away. Conti had a chance to study her as she stood gazing out the window, her back to him. Small boned. Attractive. Wearing khakis and a cotton tee under a white smock.

“I have some experience in these matters, Mr. Conti. I know that trade between the United States and China is expanding. I think that this economic relationship is more important to your country than then life of one young man.”

“He is not just any young man.”

She turned back to him, arms folded across her chest. “Assuming I know where he is, what assurances do I have that you aren’t cooperating with the Chinese?”

“If I were working with the Chinese, I wouldn’t have come here. I’d have let them deal with you. Frankly, I’m surprised they didn’t get here first. You used to be on their payroll, right? Maybe you still are.” He paused and watched for some reaction. She maintained her stony expression. “So,” he went on, “have they contacted you?”

She didn’t answer for a long moment, her intelligent eyes calculating. “No. They are a little slow to react sometimes. Everything must be cleared with the bosses back in Beijing. I’m sure they will be here soon, but I don’t plan to wait around for them.” She pointed to a worn valise in the corner of the room. “Dawa and I are going to take the train to … away from Florence as soon as he arrives.”

“Where is he?”

“Buying some new clothes. The ones he had were a mess, torn, bloodstained. He looked like he’d been attacked by wolves.”

“And where will you go? You can’t outrun the entire Chinese intelligence force in Europe, you know. Not for long, anyway. You’ll need help.”

Li Huang seemed to let her guard down a little. “I have a friend who has a small villa on the coast. I thought we could go there until things settle down. Then possibly contact the French or American government about political asylum. Everything involving the government in Italy is too complicated and too slow.”

Conti took out a cigarette. “Do you mind?” he asked. She shook her head. He lit it, took one long drag, then ground it out. “Things aren’t going to settle down. There have been demonstrations — riots — in Tibet and southern China. The Tibetan nationalists know the Panchen Lama has escaped. Word is spreading fast on the Internet. The Chinese can’t control it. They are going to do everything in their power to get him back.”

Just then his phone vibrated in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he said, and pulled out his phone and answered it.

“Yes?” he nodded his head as he listened for a moment, then spoke to Li Huang. “The Chinese are here. Downstairs. Is there a back way out?”

“A door opens into the back street.”

Conti grabbed her bag, then took her by the arm. “Which way? Hurry!”

She led him out the back door of the studio to a service elevator. Two workmen were loading it with crated canvases.

“May we use it?” Conti asked in Italian. “We are in a big hurry.”

One of the men growled, “Use the steps. We have work to do.”

They could hear loud dialogue in Chinese coming from the studio they’d just left.

“You see,” Conti whispered frantically to the workmen. “It’s her husband and his friends. They are after us.” He made the sign of the cuckold with his free hand.

The workman laughed, slapped Conti on the back, and shoved the two of them into the elevator. He pressed the button for the basement, then pulled the metal inside door shut, still chuckling with his friend as the outer door closed. The old elevator car squealed and shimmied as it slowly descended two floors to the basement. The doors opened onto a dirty hallway that led to a small loading dock. Conti pulled Li Huang out into the busy back street.

“Look. No time to waste. Take me to the Panchen Lama. We’ll get him to a safe house.”

“I don’t know where he is. I gave him money to buy clothes. Then he was supposed to go to my place and get cleaned up and meet me back at the Academy. Go to my apartment, 34 Via Guelfa, number 26. Here …” she rummaged through her pockets, finally coming up with a key. “Wait for him there. I will search the stores to see if he is still shopping. I’ll meet you back there.”

Before Conti could react, she turned and strode down the street. Probably for the best, he thought. The Chinese were more likely to spot the two of them if they were together. He pulled up his collar, put on the cheap sunglasses he’d found in the van’s glove compartment, and jogged around the block. At the corner, he called Cadiz, who drove by slowly with the van’s side door open. Jill reached out, caught his arm and helped him into the moving vehicle. He fell into the seat, breathing heavily.

“Where to?” Cadiz asked.

“Her apartment. 34 Via Guelfa. That’s north. Take the next right.”

“Won’t the Chinese have that staked out?” Jill asked.

“Maybe.” Conti answered. “All the more reason for us to be there when the Lama arrives. You have any more guns, Rabbi?”

“They do a pretty good job stocking these vans,” Cadiz replied. “Look under the cushions in the third row seats back there.”

Conti made his way back between the second row captain’s chairs and lifted the cushions from the back bench seat. “God! Between you and Jill, we could equip an army — if we still had her stuff, that is.”

“What’s there?” Cadiz asked.

“A frigging armory. A couple of automatic pistols. A full size Uzi. Flares. Grenades. And what is this?” He picked up a thin steel case the size of a computer. “Looks like a laptop.”

Cadiz looked back over his shoulder as he drove. “With a difference. Secure communications to Jerusalem. And we can monitor or jam radio transmissions with that too. Keep it out. We may need it.”

“We may need all of this,” Conti replied. He slid a clip into one of the Berettas and handed it to Jill. “Here. I think there’s a fifty-fifty chance the Chinese will be waiting at the apartment.”

“And you want me to shoot them?” Jill asked.

“I want you to be able to defend yourself.”

He checked the other pistol and stuck it into his belt. And you Rabbi, are you O.K. with that little Uzi?”

“Twelve hundred rounds a minute, remember? They won’t mess with me. Not for long, anyway.”

“O.K., turn left. It’s up here a couple of blocks on the left.”

22.

Florence, Italy, Wednesday Evening

They parked the van a half block away from 34 Via Guelfa, a four story building with a faux Renaissance façade, and studied the other vehicles on the street. Fiats, Smart Cars, streamlined motorcycles. Nothing that screamed Chinese intelligence, but you never knew.

“You guys wait here and keep an eye on the street,” Conti said, opening the van door.

“I’m coming with you,” Jill replied. “It only takes one person to watch the street. You might need help up there.”

“O.K., but we’ve got to hurry. The Chinese may be slow but they’re methodical. They’ll show up sooner or later.”

The two of them jumped out of the van and walked quickly down the street to Li Huang’s building. A young black man in dreadlocks sat on the stoop, sketching the other side of the street.

“Excuse me.”

The young man looked up. “Yeah?”

“We’re to meet some friends at this address. Chinese. Have you seen them?”

“The Chinese guys, man? Yeah. Totally patzo. Came running in here an hour ago. Pushed me right off this step, didn’t they? Sat back down again. Five minutes later, they’re coming back down the steps. Push me right off again. Don’t apologize or nothing. Hop in a truck and drive away a hundred kilometers an hour. Crazy bastards.”

“How many were there? How many went up and how many came back down?”

The young man looked at Conti as if he were crazy too. “Three going up and three going down. What do you expect? They would multiply like bunnies?” He flashed a big smile at his own wit.

“Thanks.” Conti said, grabbing Jill by the hand and rushing past him through the front door and up the stairs.

“Tell your friends they should be more careful, man. They gonna hurt somebody,” the young man shouted after them, then shook his head and returned to his drawing.

Conti took the steps three at a time and got to the apartment first. When Jill arrived a moment later, he was standing in front of a door that had been pried open with a crow bar. The knob hung at an angle and the strike plate sat on the floor in a pile of wood splinters. He motioned for Jill to wait and pushed into the apartment.

“Come on.” He waved her in. “They may have only been here for a few minutes, but they were pretty thorough.” Nothing in the studio apartment had been left undisturbed. The drawers of a plastic dresser lay on the floor, shirts, stockings and underwear scattered around the room. They had also ransacked the galley kitchen and ripped the stuffing out of a futon now draped forlornly on its wooden frame.

“So I guess they didn’t find him, huh?” Jill asked.

“I assume not. If they had, there would have been no reason to make such a mess. No, they were searching for clues as to where to find him. Let’s pray he’s with Li …”

“What happened?” Li Huang came running breathlessly through the door. “Did they get Dawa?”

Conti and Jill glanced at each other before replying. Finally, Conti spoke. “We hoped he was with you. No, the Chinese don’t have him as far as we know. They were here,” he gestured at the shambles that had been her apartment, “but it seems that they left without finding him. Did you go to the stores? Had he been there?”

“Yes,” the young woman answered, her voice trembling. “I checked the places where I sent him. He bought a few things, and left more than an hour ago. By now, he should have come back here, then gone to meet me at the Academy. Something went wrong. He wouldn’t wander around Florence alone. He doesn’t know anyone, or have anywhere safe to go.”

Jill’s phone rang and she walked into the hall to answer. After a couple of minutes, she returned, her face two shades paler. “Mobley wants to talk to the two of us and Cadiz together.”

“What’s up?” Conti asked.

“The South Africans have the Lama, and they’re plastering his face all over the Internet.”

23.

Florence, Wednesday Midnight

“Do you take cream or sugar?” A young Italian officer with wavy black hair, piercing blue eyes and a lilting accent asked Jill as he poured steaming coffee from a silver pitcher. They sat around a large mahogany conference table in a basement room of the central police station. It had taken only an hour to get full cooperation from the internal Italian security agency, AISI.

“Black is fine, thank you,” she smiled warmly, unaware of Conti’s frowning, sidelong glances.

“Now,” the lieutenant went on, “you may use the room as long as you have need. And call me when you have finished, no? I will escort you out the back through the loading dock the same way you came in. It is unfortunate but reporters sometimes, how would you say, ‘stake out’ our front entrance. Some of the more radical political factions and their newspapers have not yet gotten over the events of the past decade. They believe we conspired with your Mr. Bush to attack Iraq without reason. Ridiculous, of course. We had every reason. Now, I believe your connection to Washington is available. I will be right down the hall if you need anything.”

Jill watched him leave while Conti and Cadiz bent over the control panel. Mobley’s impatient face appeared on the large screen at the end of the table.

“We see you, can you see us?” Conti asked.

“Yes, except for Burnham. Where is she?”

“She’s been hypnotized by an Italian in uniform. Jill, would you mind turning your chair back toward the camera. He’s too young for you anyway.”

Jill swiveled around, shielded her hands from the camera with her shoulder and gave Conti the finger, then flashed a tight smile at Mobley.

“Good evening, sir. Do our communications people think this is a secure link?”

“Probably isn’t,” the Director responded in a gruff voice. “Doesn’t matter. We may need the Italians’ help soon. They might as well know what’s going on now as later.”

“What is going on?” she asked.

“Quite a bit.” Mobley sounded tired.

There was silence around the conference table. They waited while Mobley asked his assistant for a cup of coffee.

“I’ve finally spoken to the President about this. I hope we’re now on the same page. I acquainted him with the Agency’s strong view that having the Panchen Lama run around encouraging rebellion against the Chinese government is not in the best interests of the United States or our allies. Rabbi Cadiz, good to see you again. It’s been years since we worked on that … other project. Do you agree with our assessment of the situation?”

Cadiz nodded. “Good to see you as well, Senator. Yes, my orders are to help you accomplish whatever you decide to do with respect to the Lama. But my superiors do, in fact, agree that nothing good can come of civil unrest in Tibet at this time. They believe the Chinese military is far too powerful for any nationalist minority, and an uprising will result in violent suppression and strengthening of the anti-Western factions in Beijing.”

“Exactly,” Mobley replied. “Unfortunately, there was a small group in our government that had convinced the President to take a different tack. They felt that if Tibetan nationalism were encouraged, it would force liberalization of the Chinese regime.”

“What world are they living in?” Conti asked.

“One where every agency runs its own foreign policy,” Mobley replied. “And to that end, they hired a private security force to keep the Chinese from recapturing the Lama.”

“So it’s true,” Jill groaned. “The South Africans are working for …”

“The White House.” Mobley sighed. “Well, to be precise, the National Security Council’s Special Projects Director. But I’ve put a stop to that. So, here’s what I want you to do. I’m texting you a phone number, Burnham. Call the South Africans and find out where they’re holding him. Get over there and tell them the game is up — they’ll want to contact Major Ellis in Washington to confirm — and bring the Lama back to AISI headquarters. You’ll all be safe there. When that’s done, let me know and I’ll call the Chinese Ambassador and get down to brass tacks.”

“What are you going to say to him?” Jill asked.

“I’m going to find out just how badly they want the young Lama back. Oh, and one more thing. And it’s even more troubling than the rest of this mess.”

The three of them exchanged puzzled glances.

“Yes?” Jill asked.

“The Dalai Lama and the Panchen Lama head up the, um, committees … that pick each other’s successor, right?”

“Close enough.” Jill said. “When either one dies, a group of High Lamas from the Gelugpa lineage searches for his tulku, his reincarnation. The Panchen Lama is the second highest ranking after the Dalai Lama, so he is expected to play a leadership role in choosing …”

Mobley cut her off. “O.K., O.K., I get it. The point is that the Chinese want their own guy, the counterfeit Panchen Lama, to be the one who picks the next Dalai Lama — so they have someone in the job they can control. They want the real Panchen Lama, the one you’re chasing, back under wraps when the Dalai Lama …”

“So what’s the big deal?” Conti broke in, leaning forward and drumming his fingers on the table.

“The big deal, pal,” Mobley didn’t try to hide his irritation at the interruption, “is that the Dalai Lama’s seriously ill. He’s been flown to Cedars-Sinai in L.A. — the intensive care unit.”

24.

Florence, Thursday Afternoon

Conti and Jill sat in a small, out-of-the way trattoria on a back street a few blocks off the Piazza del Duomo as the last of the lunch crowd filtered out. An elderly waiter dressed in a frayed white coat brought a tray of several kinds of salami, paper-thin slices of proscuitto, peppers, and cheese. Conti picked up a piece of hard salami, rolled it up and munched as he eyed the front door.

“You should eat something,” he said.

“How you can eat at a time like this?” Jill asked.

“Gotta keep your strength up in this business. Never know when you’ll be able to eat again.” He popped a hot pepper into his mouth. “Can’t get this stuff in Washington, much less Langley.”

“I eat yogurt for lunch.” Jill tapped her foot on the floor and looked at her watch. “Maybe we’ve got the wrong place.”

“Nope, there’s only one Giampietro’s in Florence. Been here forever. Best unknown place in town. Been unknown since the twenties.” Conti chuckled at his own joke.

Jill gave him a bemused look. “Why are you in such a good mood?”

“Guess I like the cloak and dagger life more than I realized. It’s good to be back in the game. Don’t mind the company either. You’d make a good undercover agent. Kind of a Jackie O vibe you’ve got going there.”

Jill had tied a scarf around her head and wore sunglasses. She scoffed. “I was going for Audrey Hepburn.”

“Yeah, I can see that too. Maybe a few years ago.”

“You sure know how to make a girl feel good.”

“There they are.” Conti pointed to two men coming through the front door. He gestured to them and they walked over warily, pulled out chairs and sat down.

“So nice to see you again,” Conti greeted them. “The back of my head is almost healed from the last time we met.”

The tall, pinch-faced South African ran his hand over his buzz cut. “Sorry about that. All in the line of duty, right?”

As he spoke, the shorter, stocky man scowled at Jill, fingering an angry red welt on his chin. She met his glare without flinching. The first man noticed the staring contest and laughed harshly. “Now, now, Tony, bygones are bygones and all that. You two had a go at each other. I’d call it a draw and say we forget the whole thing. Like I said, just business.”

They continued to glower at each other.

“I’m John Conti and this is Jill Burnham.”

“We know who you are — now. I’m called Skinhead and this is my partner Tony. You and I crossed paths once before, but you probably don’t remember. In Kabul. We were doing a little job for Blackstream at the time. Looking for a weapons cache in the back of a mosque in Jada Maiwand.”

“Ah, yes,” Conti speared a cube of provolone with a toothpick and pointed it at the South African. “Now that you mention it, I do remember. Didn’t recognize you without the black hood. As I recall, your brilliant plan was to blow the whole place up.”

“And you stopped us. You Yanks were never going to win that war playing nice. You realize that now, don’t you?”

“Maybe it wasn’t really a war at all,” Conti responded.

“Can we save the debate for another time?” Jill cut in. “The Chinese could be anywhere. Let’s get this done. You have the Panchen Lama. We want him. I understand that you … gentlemen … are working for General Ellis. And he’s told you to cooperate with us. So you’re going to hand the young man over to us. Do I have all that right?”

Skinhead raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “Well … yes.” He shook a cigarette out of a Marlboro box, and held it in his teeth without lighting it. “And no.”

A long silence descended on the table. Jill narrowed her eyes and spoke. “What the hell does that mean?”

“We’re not lawyers,” Skinhead responded, pulling out a book of matches and lighting up.

“And?”

“So we don’t have what you might call … conflict of interest…rules.”

“Stop talking in riddles,” Conti spat. “What are you trying to say?”

“We’re not in this for altruistic reasons. We’re in it to make a buck, aren’t we Tony?” The other man didn’t acknowledge the question. He was still staring daggers at Jill. “And if we can get two, um, clients to pay us for the same job, we’d be stupid to pass up an opportunity like that, wouldn’t we?”

“Who else is paying you?”

“That’s something I can’t divulge without permission of the other client.”

“Why you insolent …” Jill began, but Conti put his hand on her forearm.

“How much for the Lama?” he asked.

“Ten million. Euro.” Skinhead answered.

“You’re crazy.”

“My other client is a very powerful gentleman. We’d be risking our lives if we handed the Lama over to you against his wishes. If you knew him, you’d understand that’s a bargain price.”

Conti stood up stalked around the table toward the two South Africans. Before he got there, Skinhead whipped a pistol out of a shoulder holster under his jacket and pointed it at his antagonist’s chest.

“Hold on, mate. Wouldn’t want to make a scene, would you? Now be a good fella and walk over there.” He motioned with the pistol toward a wall with a drainpipe running from the floor to the ceiling. “You too.” He waved the pistol in Jill’s face. She glanced at Conti, who nodded. She rose slowly and followed him. The old waiter trundled out of the swinging doors. Seeing the gun, he spun on his heel and retreated back into the kitchen.

“Lock them up,” Skinhead ordered. Tony shoved Jill toward the wall, took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and fastened one manacle to each of the Americans after passing the chain between the wall and the pipe.

“Now,” the South African said, “I’d prefer not to hurt either of you. We really should be on the same side, even if your government is too meek to do anything about it.”

“We are most definitely not on the same side.” Conti said. “You’re going to cause a disaster in Tibet if you go on with this. Can’t you see that?”

“I do what my client says. Well, one of my clients. Unless, like I said, you’d like to change your mind and buy out his interest. Tell you what, special rate today. This afternoon only. Nine million euro. A cool million discount. Can’t say fairer than that.”

Conti looked at Jill who shook her head. “No. We’re not doing that. But if you take these cuffs off right now and lead us to the Panchen Lama, we’ll go easy on you when we report to your government.”

Skinhead laughed. “We’re long past that, dearie. We won’t be going back to Joburg anymore. Citizens of the world, we are. With enough money, plenty of places will take us in. If you don’t want to do business, we’ve got to run.” He looked around the empty restaurant. “Kind of a dump isn’t it? The Dagoes would be better off with the insurance money. What do you think, Tony?” The other man grinned and took a lighter out of his pocket. He walked across the room to a battered oak sideboard, picked up a bottle of olive oil, drained it onto a few tablecloths and lit the corners.

“If you’d had the balls to do this kind of thing in Kabul, you might have won,” Skinhead sneered as he headed out the front door.

25.

Flames licked the sides of the tablecloths, and dark smoke from the burning oil began to fill the room. Conti looked up at the tin ceiling, searching in vain for sprinkler heads.

“No fire suppression in these old buildings,” he said, as much to himself as to Jill. “We’ve got to get out.” He grabbed the cuff on her wrist, then pulled the chain as hard as he could against the pipe with both hands, but the chain wouldn’t break and the pipe didn’t budge.

“What now?” she asked, coughing.

“Yell!” Conti began shouting. “Emergenza! Incendio!” At the same, he started kicking the base of the pipe as hard as he could. Jill watched for a moment, then joined in screaming and the kicking.

Black billows drifted from the burning tables toward their side of the room. Conti thought he saw the door to the kitchen open and close again, but couldn’t see clearly through the gathering clouds. Jill coughed and used her sleeve to wipe the tears forming in her eyes. Conti resumed pounding on the drainpipe, first with his fist, then with his shoulder.

“Get down!” Conti yelled above the increasing crackling of the fire. “Less smoke near the floor.” He gave the pipe one more savage kick and filthy water began to leak out of a small hole at the bottom. The flames started to devour the dry oak of the tables, and waves of heat blasted across the room. They sat on the floor facing each other, sweat pouring down their faces, taking turns kicking the bottom of the pipe. The hole got slightly bigger, but the pipe refused to budge.

Suddenly, a loud whooshing noise came from the area near the front door. A plume of white powder shot through the smoke clouds toward the burning tables, and the flames began to diminish. Out of the gloom, an apparition in a gas mask carrying a fire extinguisher materialized. In a matter of minutes, the fire was out. The spectral form hurried over, produced wire cutters and tried to cut the chain between the handcuffs. He was saying something, but the words were muffled by the mask.

“Here, let me.” Conti took the tool and squeezed with all his strength. The chain snapped and the three of them ran out of the restaurant and collapsed against the front of the building. The third man pulled off his mask and all three sat doubled over, coughing violently. When he recovered his breath, Conti took the gas mask from Cadiz and examined it.

“Thanks, friend. I thought maybe we’d had it. Where’d you get this?”

“Another compartment in the back of the van,” the Rabbi said. “Mossad knows what they’re doing — usually. But this gas mask must have been around since Adam and Eve. Doesn’t work worth a damn.” He coughed again and spat into the gutter.

“What took you so long?” Jill asked.

“So long?” The Rabbi snorted. “Nice. When the South Africans came out of the restaurant without you two, I started to follow them. Luckily, I looked back and saw a wisp of smoke coming from below the restaurant door. It took me a couple of minutes to find the extinguisher and the mask.”

“Which way did the bastards go?”

“This is a one-way street,” Cadiz answered. “Only one way to go. Can I assume from the handcuffs and the fire that the meeting did not go well?”

“They refused to hand over the Lama. Said they have another client paying them for the same job.”

The three of them stood, slowly regaining their equilibrium, and crossed the street to the van. Cadiz opened the back hatch and took three bottles of water out of a built-in refrigerator.

“Some vehicle,” Jill remarked.

“Yes,” the Rabbi responded. “It would be fast too — but it’s armor plated. Anyway, there’s no need for speed when we don’t know where we’re going.”

“Back to the AISI headquarters.” Conti opened the passenger side door for Jill. Then he slid in. “I expect Italians can track the car.”

“How would they do that?” Jill asked.

“What make was it?” Conti asked Cadiz.

“Big black Mercedes. AMG. Took off like a race car.”

“Florence is different from American cities,” Conti turned to Jill. “Although it looks like it’s jammed with traffic, there aren’t really that many cars driving in the center. Not enough room. The police usually know what’s going on. A car like that would stand out.”

“O.K., I’d better let Mobley know what happened.” With some effort, Jill extracted her mobile from her pocket, punched in a speed dial code and held it up to her right ear while she covered her left with her hand. She spoke too quietly for the others to hear, her frown becoming more pronounced with each passing moment. Finally, she disconnected, pursed her lips and stared out the window.

“Well?” Conti asked. “You don’t look happy.”

“I’m not. Things are even more … urgent. Mobley just had another visit from the Chinese Ambassador.”

“Is he the guy who’s in charge of their intel contingent in Washington?”

“He’s head man for the Ministry of State Security for the entire Western Hemisphere. Low key — but a pretty big deal. He communicates directly with the Politburo’s Steering Committee.”

“The nine men who actually run China,” Cadiz contributed.

“Yes. So when he says something, it’s coming straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“And?” Conti asked impatiently.

“And the troubles in Tibet are escalating. The nationalists have threatened to start blowing up dams.”

“Those facilities are heavily guarded,” Cadiz said. “Who could pull off something that big?”

“The same person …”

“Or corporation, or government,” Conti interrupted.

Jill finished her thought. “… who is paying the South Africans to hold on to our young Lama.”

“Still, it seems like a stretch,” Cadiz said.

“Yeah, except that a power station on the Upper Yangtze was blasted to smithereens a few hours ago.”

26.

Back at AISI headquarters, the three of them sat around the conference table tending to their wounds. Conti had split his toenail kicking the pipe and was applying first aid to his bare foot. Jill daubed Neosporin on the wrist that had been rubbed raw by the handcuff. And Cadiz combed the soot out of his beard.

“Let’s review,” Jill said as she wound a length of gauze bandage over her abrasions. “The South Africans have the Lama. And we think he’s still somewhere in the city.”

“Yeah,” Conti answered. “The police are on alert but haven’t spotted the AMG leaving town. They’ve got a helicopter monitoring the main routes.”

“And the South Africans have communications capability,” Cadiz added. “They’re putting photographs of the Panchen Lama up on the Net.”

Jill went on. “An underground group in Tibet has gotten hold of high explosives and someone’s teaching them how to use them. The Chinese leadership is becoming increasingly frantic. My analysts believe the hardliners in the Politburo and the military want a full-scale crackdown in Tibet.”

Conti stood up and paced around the table. “That would set the monks off. Then, who knows what? We could be looking at widespread genocide.” He poured a cup of coffee from a silver pot, then promptly set it down and forgot about it.

Jill took up the narrative. “Construction projects in Tibet would stop — a serious blow to the American economy. The politicians will go crazy — understandably.”

“Not just in America,” Cadiz added.

“So, I think what we have to do is clear,” Jill said. “Find this guy and get him back to the Chinese before the situation gets worse. I’ll check with Mobley but I imagine he’s come to the same conclusion by now.”

“But the Chinese might kill the Lama if they get their hands on him,” Conti objected. “Fastest way to shut him up.”

“I don’t think so,” Jill replied. “Wouldn’t they be better off getting him to call publicly for calm?”

“Yeah. And then kill him.” Conti picked up the coffee again in a shaky hand.

Jill looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You want out? There are other agents I can use if you’re having ...” her voice hardened almost imperceptibly, “… moral qualms.”

Conti was silent for a moment, staring off into the distance. “No, he’ll have a better chance if we find him first. Then maybe we can bargain for his safety.”

The Italian lieutenant knocked softly and came into the room, cutting the tension. “We have found the car.”

“Where is it?” Jill asked.

“In a vacant lot near the Viale Machiavelli, on the hill behind the Boboli Gardens. It’s parked under some trees. One of our officers spotted it. She was investigating a complaint. I hope your man was not in the car.”

“Why?”

“It was fire-bombed. Nothing left but a burned-out shell.”

“Christ! Do we know who owned it?”

“A doctor in Rome. Stolen two days ago.”

“Can you take me there?” Conti asked.

“Of course,” the young man smiled and bowed. “At your service.”

“Should we all go?” Jill asked.

“No,” Conti answered. “You have access to secure communications here. While I’m checking the car, see if you can track the location of the computers the South Africans are using to tie into the Internet. The CIA and Mossad can work with the Italians to find the source of the signals. Has to be wireless, since they’re moving around so much.”

27.

Florence, Thursday Evening

Conti stared at the smoldering hulk of what had recently been a $150,000 automobile. Yellow crime scene tape surrounded the wreck, but the local police had left. He dragged his foot through the dust outside the driver’s side door, not sure what he was looking for.

“Shall we go back to headquarters?” the Lieutenant asked. “It’s going to be dark in an hour.”

“I’d like to poke around here a bit more. You’ve got other work to do, Lucca. Go ahead. I’ll get a taxi when I’m finished.”

The younger man gave him a puzzled look, then nodded and walked back to his black and white Alfa. “O.K., but it is not necessary to call a cab. Call me when you’re finished. Taking care of you is my job for the day.”

“Thanks.” Conti walked over to a landing at the top of several flights of stone stairs that climbed the hillside. From this vantage point, he could see the green expanse of the Boboli Gardens, the Pitti Palace, the Arno River, and central Florence beyond that. A strange place for an Asian power struggle to be playing out. He reached into his shirt pocket for the Sigaro Toscano he’d bought at the tobacconist halfway up the hill. The scent of tobacco cleared his head.

Where would he take the hostage if this were his operation? He chewed on the end of the little cigar absentmindedly while watching a white Citroen climb several hairpin turns, finally stopping two streets below. A man wearing a hat and sunglasses got out and banged a metal knocker on a carved wooden door. The hollow sound bounced off the buildings up to where Conti stood. He squinted into the setting sun trying to get a better look as the man disappeared inside. Was his imagination working overtime, or did the man have a Fu Manchu mustache? Only one way to find out.

It took him a few minutes to descend the stairs to the house. He walked past casually, casting sidelong glances at the windows. Dark shades were completely drawn. The house stood third from the end of a row of similar structures, probably built between the wars. Cheap, functional Mussolini-era architecture. He walked around the corner, then up the alley. A small garden behind the house held a scraggly maple tree and a line of untrimmed bushes. He slipped between them and flattened his body against the side of the house. The window next to him was open. He leaned over and peered inside. Large, pitted ceramic sink, coal stove, and an old-fashioned icebox. Conti slid back against the wall as several men entered the room. Skinhead and Tony, and their boss, the mustachioed man from the Quonset hut.

“Any trouble?”

“Nah. These Wops couldn’t find their ass with both hands.”

A phone rang and Mustache answered it. He listened for a moment, then shook his head. “Yeah. We’re all set up here. How about the equipment on that end?”

Silence again for a moment.

“Sure you can get through the Chinese firewalls?”

Mustache lit a cigarette.

“Look, don’t give me the technical crap. Wouldn’t understand it anyway. Tell Skinhead what he needs to know. I’m on my way back to town to make sure the money gets to the right place.” Mustache handed the phone to Skinhead. “You guys work it out.” He reached into his pocket. “This is the message Yinglong wants the kid to read. Make sure he’s convincing. Call me when it’s done. I’m out of here.”

Skinhead nodded. “You taking the car? So how are we supposed to get to the airport, Matthis?”

“How many times have I told you not to use names, idiot.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the tabletop. “Call a fucking cab.”

“What do we do with the kid and the woman afterwards?”

“I’ll check and let you know.”

28.

Conti slid down and sat on a patch of dry grass, his back against the wall. Matthis? He had a vague recollection of a Matthis in Afghanistan back in the day. Probably someone who worked for Blackstream along with Skinhead — Defense Department contractors, no doubt. Now that the war was over, they’d gone on to bigger and better things. Christ, what a monster we’ve created, he thought. Lots of them, in fact.

But who the hell was Yinglong? Obviously someone who wanted chaos in Tibet. Could be a politician in Taiwan. Or a gangster in Hong Kong. Maybe the head of an international construction company that lost out on a big contract. And, of course, there were all the countries downstream that wanted to stop the Chinese from building any more dams on Tibetan rivers. Whoever Yinglong was, he had to be stopped.

Conti slipped back through the bushes into the alley and pulled out his cell. He needed to let Jill know where he was. Time to call in the cavalry. This had gone way beyond anything he could handle alone. His phone battery icon indicated half full, but it couldn’t locate a strong signal. One chunk out of five, then none. The signal bar kept flashing on and off. Not a good enough to make a call. He’d have to send a text and pray it would get through eventually. He began tapping on the screen.

“Have located P.L., #5 Via Batista. Must stop Inet transmissions. Urgent. Bring force.”

He touched the “send” button and hoped for the best. If the message didn’t go through immediately, it might when he got out from behind the house. As he was about to move back toward the street, the sounds of a struggle came from the kitchen. On his hands and knees, he returned to the house, and peeked through the sheer curtains. The stocky South African — what was his name? Tony — marched the Lama into the kitchen. When the Tibetan sat down, Conti saw the automatic pistol in the mercenary’s hand. Skinhead was arranging the computer so that its camera pointed at the young man. A Mac, of course. Conti almost laughed.

“O.K., let’s get on with it. The sooner we get this done, the sooner the money will be waiting for us in Switzerland. I can see those topless models waiting for us on the beach in Rio.” Skinhead cackled. He unfolded a paper and handed it to the Lama.

“Here’s your little speech. Just a paragraph, but I need you to say it like you really mean it. Show us what you think of those Chinese bastards. They held you in jail for what, twenty-five years, right? This is your chance to get back at ‘em.” He turned to his partner and smirked. “Coulda been a goddamn movie director, couldn’t I, Tony? O.K. Lights, camera, action!”

“I won’t do it.”

Skinhead’s smirk turned into a black glare. “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, monkey boy. You’ll do it or we’ll bring your little whore down here and get her … involved.”

“I won’t betray my country.”

“What are you talking about? Which one? The Chinese have been pushing you yak jockeys around for fifty years. You gonna let them keep doing that?”

“They will kill my people if we rebel.”

Skinhead’s voice turned hard. “Fuck all. I’m not gonna argue with you. Tony, get the woman. I’ll find a knife.”

Conti could see where this was going. The Lama would never be able to resist. He chanced another glimpse to get the layout of the kitchen. The Panchen Lama sat alone at the small kitchen table, a wild look in his eyes. Skinhead searched through a drawer of cooking utensils. Tony came back into the room, shoving Li Huang in front of him. She fell to the floor, but immediately stood up, defiant. Skinhead grabbed her arm and held a corroded butcher knife in front of her.

“Don’t do what they want,” she cried.

“Oh, that’s the way we’re going to play it,” Skinhead said. “O.K., then.” With a swift, almost imperceptible, motion, he brought up the blade and swiped it across her face. Blood oozed from a two-inch slash across her porcelain cheek.

“Leave her alone! I’ll do it.” The young man’s voice shook with anger and fear.

“Thought you’d see reason.” The hoodlum threw Li Huang to the ground. “Now, stay there and you won’t get cut again.” The young woman sat on the floor and held her hand over the wound, blood flowing between her fingers.

Skinhead went back to the computer, refocused it, and pushed some keys. “Ready. Now read!”

Conti reached for the Beretta. He’d have only one chance. Tony was holding the automatic at his side. He took careful aim through the diaphanous curtain and pulled the trigger, the sound of the shot barely penetrating his concentration. The fabric of the South African’s shirt tore, blood spurted from of his arm and his pistol clattered to the ground. His mouth contorted in a scream. Conti was through the window before his target crumpled to the floor.

“Hands out in front of you, where I can see them. Get up, you two,” he shouted to the Lama and Li Huang. “We’re out of here. Now!” He took a step toward the door, then stopped in his tracks. His feet wouldn’t move. Staring down at his paralyzed legs, he saw a dart sticking through his jeans. Skinhead pulled back the sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal an apparatus strapped to his arm — pointed straight at Conti’s chest.

“Drop the gun. Next one’s aimed at your heart.”

Conti had no choice. He couldn’t lift his hand anyway. His limbs no longer responded to his brain.

29.

Langley, Thursday Noon

Mobley looked down at the carpet as he paced back and forth behind his desk. The nap was crushed in a narrow six-foot long furrow. Had he been in this job long enough to wear a path in the rug? Must be damned cheap material. The phone rang and he leaned over and hit the speaker button.

“Yeah.”

“Burnham is on the line, sir.”

“Put her through.”

“It’s Jill … Burnham.”

“I know who it is, goddamn it! I’ve been grinding my heels down waiting for you to call. What’s going on?”

“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?”

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

Jill surveyed the situation from the stone staircase that wound up the spine of the serpentine street. The Chinese agents were deployed closest to the brick row house where Conti and the Panchen Lama were being held. Twenty yards behind them, an Italian SWAT team laid out their paraphernalia on the deck of an armored vehicle. Next to that, two Italian technicians wearing headphones sat in the back of a panel truck that sprouted multiple antennas. Beside her, also reviewing the scene, Commandante Pascal Tipalongo from AISI, the Italian internal security agency, stood ramrod straight. He spoke softly, in barely accented English, as he gazed through powerful binoculars.

“We will try to accomplish this peacefully. I’m going to give the Chinese one chance to talk the South Africans into releasing the hostages. If they can’t, my people will move in. Agreed?”

Jill didn’t answer immediately. She hated to cede authority to either the Chinese or the Italians. But Stalin’s comment came to mind: How many divisions has the Pope? Like the Pope, she had none. And no chance of getting any soon. She was about to agree to the Italian plan when something white emerged from one of the windows of the house. “What’s that?”

“A flag of truce, I think,” Tipalongo answered. “It looks like they want to talk. I expected this.”

Jill shot him a sidelong glance. If he had expected it, he certainly hadn’t let on. She saw a chance to regain some semblance of control. “It might be best for me to talk to them first. If you go in and this blows up, the press will blame the Italian government.”

Tipalongo considered this, but said nothing. She went on. “And it would be dangerous for the Chinese to approach the house. They’re heavily armed, and they aren’t fluent in English. Too much chance of a misunderstanding.” The Commandante nodded.

She knew he’d been waiting for clear direction from the Minister in charge of his department, who’d become conveniently unreachable on a sailboat in the Mediterranean. She’d guessed that Tipalongo wouldn’t mind shifting the responsibility to the Americans. He reached into his breast pocket and took out a handkerchief. Jill expected him to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Instead, he unfolded the white silk square and handed it her. “Give me five minutes to get my snipers in place, put on a vest, then walk slowly carrying this above your head.”

It took ten minutes before everything was in place. Jill made her way down the concave slate steps toward the street. At the bottom, she turned left toward the house, waving the handkerchief. Although her pulse pounded in her temples and her legs wobbled, she kept going. The South Africans remained out of sight, but had tied their own white cloth on the handle of the open window. When she reached the front door and raised her fist to knock, a small porthole opened and a rough voice snapped, “Drop any weapons on the ground.”

“I have no weapons,” she replied in a shaky voice. She held both hands up in the air.

Murmuring inside the door, followed by a harsh, “Alright, then, keep your hands up in front of you and come inside.” The heavy door opened no more than a foot, hinges groaning.

“No way. If you have something to say to me, say it through the door.”

More grumbling, then Skinhead’s anger-tinged voice, “Have it your way. We want to make a deal.”

“What sort of a deal?”

“Free passage out of the country in return for the lives of your three friends.”

Jill folded her arms, then asked a question to give herself a moment to think. “How would that work?”

“Simple. The Florence airport’s only five miles from here. We drive there. The Italian authorities allow one of our mates to land a small plane. We fly to Tripoli. You have someone meet us there, and we turn over the Lama, his girlfriend, and your boyfriend.”

For an instant, Jill wondered what made him think Conti was her boyfriend, but her mind quickly turned to the problem at hand. While she’d never worked in the field, she had managed more than one hostile negotiation from Washington. She was good at it.

“Not going to happen,” she said. “The Chinese won’t buy it — they’ve no reason to believe you’d keep your end of the deal. Not to mention the Italians. They’d look like fools letting you off scot-free. They hate bad press. Nope, I’m afraid you don’t have the leverage to pull that off. On the other hand, if you turn over the hostages unharmed right now, I’ll make sure you get out of this house alive and get a fair trial.”

Instead of an answer, the door opened another few inches and an arm reached out. Jill jumped back before she realized the South African was handing her something. Something small. The hand opened to reveal a flash drive. “Take it,” Skinhead said from behind the door.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Another message from the Panchen Lama to the people of Tibet. It should interest your Chinese friends.”

“What’s it say?”

“Let’s just say it makes his previous one seem tame. Tell them I’ll give them all the copies, plus our computers, phone equipment and files before getting on the plane. We’ll all board naked if you want.”

“As attractive as that sounds,” Jill began, “it wouldn’t prove anything, would it? You’ve probably already sent the file to your associates. Or I should say, co-conspirators.”

“Your Chinese and Italian pals can reassure you on that score, with all the radio equipment they have out there. There’s no Internet connection in this house. All we have is wireless. We haven’t made a call for more than an hour. The video is time stamped. Twenty minutes ago. In fact, my knuckles are still bleeding.”

“How do we know you won’t send the message from the car?”

Jill could just make out Skinhead’s face through the porthole. She thought he rolled his eyes. “Christ! Give me your phone,” he said.

“Why?”

“I’ll give it to your boyfriend, and you can be on the line with him the whole time. If he sees us messing about with a computer or a phone, you can have the dagoes blow us up with an antitank missile.”

“What if the Chinese won’t buy it?” Jill asked.

“Well, we’ve all got to go sometime, don’t we? But if I’m going, I’ll guarantee you, I’ll take the others with me. I need your answer in ten minutes, otherwise the message goes out.”

Jill, Tipalongo, and the Chinese agent in charge, huddled together, peering over the shoulder of an Italian technician in the back of the panel truck. The computer screen flickered for a moment. Then the image of the Panchen Lama appeared. The strain was evident on his face, but there were no cuts or bruises that Jill could see. Someone else, probably Li Huang, had paid the price for any resistance.

“Piu forte, louder,” the Italian said as the Lama began reading from a prepared statement. The technician hit his keyboard several times and the quavering voice filled the cramped space.

“I, the Panchen Lama, ask all Tibetans to stand with me at this critical time. I have reports from all parts of our country and I know that our people are rising up. This is the moment we have waited for. In support of our independence movement, it is necessary to send a clear message to the Chinese tyrants. For this reason, I have ordered our people to destroy another Chinese installation in Tibet each day, starting tomorrow. The Chinese cannot doubt this. They have seen the destruction of their power stations at Manwan and Zangmu. Next there will be larger facilities. This will be accompanied by demonstrations in every Tibetan city and village. I ask you to put aside considerations of personal safety and join me in this crusade so that Tibet may be free once again. Now is the time for action.”

The tremulous young man on the screen stopped, apparently waiting for direction from someone behind the camera, then read the statement twice more, in Tibetan and Chinese. Only when he had finished all three versions did anyone in the panel truck speak.

“What do we do?” Jill asked.

The Chinese agent, Cho Lin, grimaced and inhaled through clenched teeth, “I must speak with my superiors. Two alternatives. Attack now, or make a deal.” She bowed slightly to Jill and the Italian. “Before I call them, please give me your opinion.”

Tipalongo spoke first. “I would not like to attack. We have tried to evacuate the street, but there are some people who can’t be easily moved. Also, I have been informed that reporters are demanding access to this area. My ministry will not be able to resist their requests for long.”

Jill didn’t see how this made much difference to the position. Press or no press, an attack would not work. “An assault would be a disaster. The hostages would likely be used as human shields and caught in the crossfire. And the South Africans would immediately send the new recording to their compatriots, probably out of the country, to preserve their leverage.”

“Do they have the capability to send this message to someone on the outside?” Tipalongo asked the technician in Italian.

The man at the console stroked his gray beard. “Probably. We can monitor their signal and try to jam it. But it’s difficult to cover all the possible frequencies and react in time — unless — we shut down all the mobile switches within ten miles. That will take time, and cause a good deal of disruption.”

Tipalongo translated the answer into English for the others.

“Thank you,” Cho bowed again. “I must call Beijing.” She climbed down and disappeared around the side of the panel truck.

The two South Africans sat on either side of the rickety kitchen table. Skinhead drummed the fingers of his left hand, while he smoked with his right. Tony picked at the gauze bandage on his injured arm.

“Now what do we do?” he asked.

“We wait. What do you think?” Skinhead threw his cigarette butt down on the worn linoleum floor and mashed it with his foot. “They’ll take the deal. They can’t risk us sending out this message. Then we meet the plane at the Florence airstrip and get the hell out of here. We tell them we’re going to Tripoli where we’ll hand over the monk and his pals.”

“But if we hand them over, how can we collect the money? Didn’t Matthis say Yinglong wanted to see the Lama dead before he’d pay?”

Skinhead made a gargling noise of frustration. “The Lama will be leaving the plane somewhere over the Mediterranean, along with the others.”

“But they’ll be waiting for us in Tripoli.”

“A few thousand krugerrands and we can land at any airport in North Africa.”

34.

Beijing, Friday Evening

Perched on the edge of the brushed leather swivel chair, Wang watched his colleagues on the Steering Committee enter and take their places around the rosewood conference table. They spoke quietly to one another as a young woman circled the room pushing a teacart, pouring tea into each comrade’s delicate blue and white bone china cup. Wedgwood. Wang grunted. Another sign of the decadence and corruption that had befallen the party. Why would the Politburo members even consider drinking from Western china? It was called “china” for a reason. Of course, it was Leong’s doing. A way of bragging about his son at the Ministry of Commerce, who had negotiated a joint venture with the English company — and probably become rich in the bargain.

Leong smiled broadly as the cups were filled. But when his gaze reached Wang, it became a subtle but unmistakable scowl. Wang knew that Leong hated him and had been seeking to discredit him for years. Just as the civilian and military intelligence departments they oversaw competed, so did the two men. They’d always been rivals, neither one able to get the upper hand. That was about to end, Wang thought. The arrogant Leong, the hunter, was about to become the hunted.

After the usual polite preliminaries, the Steering Committee’s Chairman, old Li asked Leong to report on the situation regarding the Panchen Lama. Wang leaned back in his chair, folded his hands on his lap, and listened to the braying fool.

“As you know,” Leong began, “the so-called Panchen Lama is now in the custody of South African mercenaries in the Italian city of Florence. These men previously worked for the international consulting company Blackstream but now, apparently, are operating independently. They have a relatively small operation, no more than a dozen people, but are highly experienced in covert activities. They are also violent. We do not yet know who is paying them to carry out this operation, but they obviously have allies in this country who outsmarted the Lama’s security detail — which was provided by the People’s Liberation Army,” he looked pointedly at Wang.

A thin, forced smile crossed Wang’s face and he interrupted. “I’m sure Comrade Leong understands that the PLA cannot possibly do its job properly if our external intelligence cadres do not keep them informed of possible threats from outside the country.”

“That is the key question, isn’t it?” Leong asked, speaking before Wang had quite finished. “Is the threat principally foreign or domestic in nature? Comrade Wang has not been able to determine who is responsible for this kidnapping. I suppose that leaves it to me.”

Wang felt the anger rising in his chest. He slapped his open palm on the table. “Absurd! You would blame this confusion on me? It is clear that forces outside the country planned and carried out this operation. You have admitted yourself that these people are South Africans. If there is a failure, it is in your people!”

“Comrades.” Old Li interrupted with surprising volume. “This is not the time to be assigning blame.” He stared at each of them in turn. “That day will come. Now we must decide how to stop this very serious threat.”

The other Committee members nodded and murmured their agreement. Li bowed to the table and continued. “So, Comrade Leong, what are our options?”

Leong’s nostrils flared but he mastered his anger, taking several deep breaths. “The kidnappers have offered an arrangement. They propose that our agents in Italy allow them to fly to Tripoli in North Africa, out of Italian jurisdiction. If we permit this, they will turn over the Panchen Lama to us when they arrive. They are also holding an American agent and a former Chinese agent, Li Huang, who had been the Lama’s tutor in Beijing. These others will be released in Tripoli as well.”

“A terrible deal!” cried Fang Bai, the youngest and most aggressive member of the Committee, rising to his feet as he spoke. “Why should we trust these people? It is completely unacceptable. I am surprised you would even consider it, Comrade Leong.”

Leong waited for the younger man to finish. “Ah, but there is more to it, unfortunately. Another aspect that we must consider.” He spoke to a young officer who had been standing quietly in the shadows behind him. “Please play the message.”

As the Committee members waited, some whispering to their neighbors, two wooden doors retracted on the far wall uncovering a large white screen. After a moment, the strained, rigid face of the Panchen Lama appeared, reciting his threatening message. Gasps and stifled exclamations cut through the silence. When the image dissolved into static, Leong spoke again. “It is our understanding that this message is solely in the possession of the South Africans, ourselves, and the Italians at this point. We believe it has not been transmitted to anyone else.”

Wang patted the small flash drive in his pocket under the table, pleased that he had the foresight to obtain his own copy before the meeting began.

Leong went on. “I believe that our best strategy to keep this incendiary information from being distributed to our internal and external enemies is to go along with the kidnappers for a while longer. If we initiate an attack now, they will transmit the file immediately to their confederates, which could be disastrous to our interests.”

“So what is your plan?” Wang spat out the question.

“Allow the criminals to travel to the airport. But first, our agents will take possession of their computer files, equipment, phones and anything that allows electronic transmission.”

“And then?” Wang asked.

“And then, the airplane flies to Tripoli, where it will be met by our forces. As you can verify, Comrade Wang, we have several army platoons in Angola at this moment posing as construction crews.” Wang only stared back at him. “I believe they can be moved to Tripoli in a matter of hours.”

Fang Bai was unconvinced. “Once their plane is in the air, what assurance do we have that the South Africans will actually go to Tripoli? They could easily change course and land in some other country, perhaps at some hidden airfield.”

“Ah,” Leong appeared to be enjoying this game. “Perhaps you have not kept up with military developments, Comrade. With mid-air refueling, our J-15 fighters easily have the range to operate in the Mediterranean. We will escort the South Africans to North Africa once they have cleared Sicily, where we will take both the so-called Lama and the kidnappers into custody.”

Li wagged his finger at Leong. “But will the Americans and Europeans allow our aircraft to operate in that theater?”

“They have little choice,” Leong answered. “But, to make our certain, Ambassador Zheng in Washington is arranging the details. Given the current international economic situation, the Americans are not in a position to dictate to us in this matter.”

Li bowed in acquiescence and Leong smirked in Wang’s direction. “Of course, we have taken other precautions, if the Committee wishes to hear them. The American agent will be in the car with the kidnappers. He will have the only phone. If they attempt any electronic communications, he will inform our people, and they will take the necessary action to prevent it. Their vehicle will be immediately behind the South African car. For insurance, we also have monitoring and jamming equipment in the escort vehicle, and the Italians have promised to shut down all nearby mobile switches as soon as possible. I believe we have taken all prudent measures to ensure a satisfactory ...”

Leong suddenly went pale and seemed to lose his concentration. He slumped back in his chair, a panicked look in his eyes.

Li hit a button on the conference phone in front of him. “Get a doctor! Immediately!”

Wang left the meeting in an upbeat mood. With luck, Leong would die. Even if he were only temporarily disabled, it should allow time for Wang to carry out his plans. But first he had to dispose of the Panchen Lama and any tracks that could lead back to Beijing. He walked out to the middle of the soccer field and punched in a number on the cheap mobile phone he’d bought in Shanghai.

“Sun?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Where are your men?”

“Three with Leong’s agent, Cho, and two waiting some miles away.”

“Do they have to surface-to-air capability?”

“Yes.”

“Good. The South Africans and their hostages must not reach their destination.”

35.

Florence, Late Friday Morning

Jill joined the Italians, who were gathered around their vehicles — the shiny black and white Alfa of the carbinieri, the electronics truck, and Tipalongo’s unmarked car. Lucca Palladino, the handsome young AISI lieutenant offered her a cigarette.

“No thanks. Where do things stand?” She’d been on the phone briefing Washington for the last half hour.

“Everything is arranged,” Palladino answered. “We have a car for them. See the red Fiat over there. A Cinquecento, not too powerful. They will be cramped, but they won’t be able to speed away from us. The Cinese are nervous. I think they have been told they will be shot if anything goes wrong.” He chuckled softly and knocked the ashes off the tip of his cigarette with his forefinger.

As they spoke, the door to the house opened a crack. A moment later, the crack widened. First out was Li Huang, eyes half open, stumbling over her own feet. Purple bruises covered her neck and the right side of her face. Conti followed, reaching forward to grasp Li Huang’s elbow and steady her. Then Tony, scanning the street nervously, one hand crudely bandaged and the other holding a large kitchen knife a few inches from Conti’s back. Finally, Skinhead emerged holding the Panchen Lama as a shield with his left arm. He carried a pistol in his right hand, and a red nylon knapsack on his back. Tipalongo walked toward them, hands held out in front of his chest, palms forward. He spoke first.

“We have provided the car you requested. The keys are in the ignition.” Tipalongo modulated his voice as though he were telling a story to a small child. “This car,” he pointed to the black and white, “will lead you to the airport. This vehicle,” he gestured to the panel truck, “will follow you. It has the capability to detect any electronic transmission, so do not try it. Then the Chinese van and, infine, my car. We will move at a moderate speed. The Florence airport is about fifteen minutes from here. We have done as you asked and arranged for your … associates to bring in a private plane. Is this agreeable?”

Skinhead said simply, “Yes.”

“Good,” Tipalongo continued. “We also agreed that Mr. Conti would be in phone contact with his colleague, Ms. Burnham. However, we have decided that this is not necessary given the proximity of our vehicles.”

Jill took a deep breath. She’d agreed with Tipalongo that it would be better to power down the mobile switches than to have Conti on the phone, since they couldn’t do both.

“Alright, then,” Tipalongo spoke louder now. “Everyone in the vehicles. “We will leave now. Lucca, have one of your men sweep the house for any electronic equipment they might have left.”

Jill watched as the South Africans roughly pushed the three hostages into the tiny back seat of the Fiat, then got into the front seats themselves. She got into Tipalongo’s car and the caravan set out, led by Palladino in his Alfa, red and blue strobe lights flashing. Jill gazed out at the passing vineyards. She rolled the window halfway down to dilute the stale atmosphere inside the car. Did all Italian policemen smoke? Then she pulled out her phone and checked the signal strength. No bars. Not even a busy network message. Good. Tipalongo glanced over at her.

“What? You did not think we could shut down the switches? I think we have greater powers than law enforcement in your country. I visited Washington once on an official exchange program and could not believe all the different agencies you have — local police, state police, FBI, CIA, God knows what else. How do you ever get anything done? Here, the federal police are in charge.”

They arrived at the airport through a back gate in a chain link fence. The three vehicles drove onto the airfield. Jill noticed that that a green pick-up truck had driven through the gate behind the motorcade, then veered off among the tow tugs, cargo tractors, and luggage carts of the airport’s maintenance yard. The little procession drove slowly out to the end of what appeared to be an abandoned runway, weeds poking through cracks in the crumbling asphalt. A two-engine Beechcraft with a faded blue and white paint job sat taking on fuel.

“Good.” Tipalongo said, mostly to himself. Then to Jill he confided, “We relayed the South Africans’ message about the rendezvous, but I was not certain the pilot would show up. They must be a well-disciplined group.”

The police car pulled to within twenty yards of the plane and stopped, followed by the other three vehicles. Palladino was the first out. He stood alongside his car, covering the Fiat with an automatic pistol as Skinhead and the others climbed out. When all the cars had emptied, Tipalongo strode forward to address the kidnappers and the hostages.

“The five of you will now board the airplane. The control tower has cleared you for take-off. The arrangement,” he looked squarely at Conti now, “is that the three of you will fly with these men to Tripoli, Libya, where you will be released.”

He shifted his penetrating gaze to Skinhead. “Italian air traffic control will be monitoring your flight and any communications you make. Italian and Chinese authorities will meet you when you land. If you have made no unauthorized radio transmissions and the hostages are released unharmed, you will be free to go.” His voice dropped a tone. “If anything happens to these people — he nodded in the direction of the Lama and Conti — you will be taken into custody — if you are fortunate. We have cleared this plan with the Libyan authorities and they have pledged not to interfere. Do you understand?”

Skinhead nodded but said nothing.

“Do you understand?” Tipalongo spoke louder, in a menacing tone.

“Yes,” growled Skinhead, still holding the Lama between himself and Palladino’s gun.

“Good. Now, as we agreed, to ensure that you do not send any information to your … accomplices during the course of the flight, you will hand over your electronic equipment, computers, telephones, and files.”

Skinhead shrugged off the knapsack and heaved it at Palladino’s feet.

“That’s the lot.”

Palladino grabbed the bag, opened it, then nodded at Tipalongo, who said, “Now take off your clothes and shoes. All of you.”

“What? Are you daft?” Skinhead cried.

Tipalongo ignored him. “My apologies Ms. Li, but this is necessary to ensure that nothing is hidden on anyone’s person. Please do as I say.”

Slowly, the South Africans and the hostages peeled off their shirts, pants, and shoes. Tony struggled to undress while holding the large knife next to Conti’s spine. Li Huang turned her back to the others and sought some privacy behind the wing of the airplane.

“Everything.” Tipalongo demanded.

Jill turned away as they stripped down to the skin.

“Throw the clothes over here.”

They did so and Palladino opened the back door of his car and pulled out five orange jumpsuits. He tossed them to the naked group, who fumbled with the zippers before stepping into them.

“Please board the aircraft.” Tipalongo’s commanding tone made the request an order.

As this was going on, Jill surveyed the surrounding area. She heard noises coming from behind the large maintenance hangar nearby. Walking back toward the gate, she looked around the corner of the hangar and saw two men unloading equipment from the pick-up. Oddly, here in the center of Italy, they looked Asian. As the plane began to taxi down the runway, she crept closer to the truck, flattening herself against the wall. When she reached the far corner of the hangar, she had a good view of the men. One was hoisting a gray cylinder onto his shoulder, while the other sat on a small campstool beside some sort of control panel, a joystick in his hands. She didn’t know much about armaments, but this had to be a surface-to-air missile.

She scuttled along the back wall to the other corner where she could see the plane on the runway. It had taxied down to the opposite end, turned around, and revved its engines, preparing to take off in the direction from which it had come. Using the engine noise as cover, she moved back around the hangar and crouched behind the pick-up. The two men were deep in concentration, watching the plane as it picked up speed and its wheels lifted off the tarmac. Jill leaned around the truck, then jumped back when a flame shot out the back of the cylinder. She watched in horror as a missile launched out of the muzzle, flew in what seemed to be slow motion for the first fifty feet, then rose on the same trajectory as the plane. After a moment of wild panic, she realized that the man sitting on the ground was controlling it with the joystick.

She jumped out from behind the truck and threw herself at his back, knocking him over. The joystick tumbled to the ground. Jill kicked it as hard as she could, dislodging the wires connecting it to the computer — then screamed for help at the top of her lungs.

36.

Conti sat sideways in the small rear seat of the plane to lessen the pressure on his wrist, handcuffed behind his back to the seat frame. Tony sat next to him, studying the bandage on his left forearm. His right held a black Vektor pistol from the plane’s arsenal. In the two seats facing them, Li Huang and the Panchen Lama, also cuffed to their seats, held hands. Conti felt the thrust of the single engine press his left shoulder against the seat as the plane picked up speed and lifted off. Leaning close to the cool window, he surveyed the ground. Would he ever see the Piazza del Duomo again? He had little faith in the deal that had been struck. Yes, they would fly to North Africa. But then anything could happen. Libya was in a state of near anarchy. The Chinese would feel no constraints there. They might very well come after the Panchen Lama, guns blazing. If necessary, they’d take out the South Africans too, deal or no deal. And they might find it convenient to do away with the whole lot ….

A flare on the ground interrupted his thoughts. He squinted to see where it had come from. Two men, one holding something on his shoulder. As he watched, a contrail streaked toward the plane. He ducked involuntarily, preparing for impact. At the last second, the missile veered off, plunged toward the ground, and exploded in a cloud of smoke and flame a few hundred feet below. What the hell was going on?

He glanced around the cabin. No one else had noticed. In the front seat, Skinhead chatted with the pilot. Beside him, Tony was still preoccupied with his wound. The Lama and Li Huang had their eyes closed.

His mind churned. As far as he could tell, only the Chinese had anything to gain by shooting the plane down. From a Machiavellian point of view, it made sense. Eliminate the Panchen Lama before he caused any more trouble. The Lama would be an embarrassment if they brought him back to China, wouldn’t he? The world human rights community wouldn’t rest until he was released. And the Tibetans would be difficult to pacify as long as he was alive. The cleanest solution was to make him disappear. Eventually things would calm down. Most importantly, a dead Panchen Lama couldn’t interfere in the choice of the next Dalai Lama. If the Chinese had risked taking down the plane at a high profile Italian airfield, what would they do when it landed in Tripoli?

He kept watch on his captor out of the corner of his eye. The heat in the cabin and the droning engine were taking their toll. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Tony stopped fidgeting. His head lolled forward, eyelids flickering as he struggled to stay awake. Conti folded his left arm behind his back, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his wrist, so he could sit facing forward. He moved his right hand on to his knee and took several deep breaths, as quietly as possible. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he brought has right fist up and back as hard as he could against the bridge of Tony’s nose, pushing the cartilage back into his skull. Droplets of blood spurted out of the South African’s nostrils and seemed to hang the air. Skinhead responded instantly to Tony’s scream. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he turned and tried to crawl backwards over his seatback. Too late. Conti had the Vektor.

“Stop! Back in your seat.” he yelled, pointing the pistol at the South African’s forehead.

“Not likely,” Skinhead responded. He put his left arm around Li Huang’s neck and with his right hand searched through the plane’s center console.

“Get your hand out of there or I’ll shoot.”

Skinhead used Li Huang as a shield, and continued to search for a gun.

“Last warning.” Conti’s tone was calm. He raised the pistol to eye level and took careful aim. Li Huang was too small to protect the South African. Skinhead’s right arm, shoulder, and half of his face were still in the line of fire. When the hand emerged from the console gripping something metallic, a sharp report echoed through the small cabin. A look of dismay crossed Skinhead’s face as a small hole appeared in his shoulder. His arm went limp and he dropped the pistol back into the console.

“You son of a bitch!”

“Sit down and face the front! Next one’s in the head. Can’t miss from this distance.”

The pilot stole a glance over his shoulder. Conti barked out orders. “Keep your eyes forward. Hands on the yoke. I’ll shoot you, too. I can fly this plane — doesn’t matter to me if you’re alive or dead.” The pilot said nothing, and turned back toward the front.

Conti considered the situation. He had to get the handcuffs off his people and onto the South Africans. Then he’d figure out what to do next, although he already knew that the plane must never cross the Mediterranean. On the other side, they’d find only anarchy, and anarchy wasn’t their friend.

Skinhead turned back onto his seat, holding his hand up to the wound in his shoulder and cursing. Tony leaned against the window, blood streaming from his nose, unconscious.

Conti addressed Li Huang and the Lama, who’d slumped down in their seats when the shooting started, holding on to each other with their free hands. “O.K., we need to find the keys to these cuffs. Tony has them. I’ve only got one hand and it’s holding the gun, so one of you has to reach across and go through his pockets.”

“I’ll do it,” the Panchen Lama stretched out his free arm toward the South African, catty-corner from him, but couldn’t quite reach.

“Let me try,” Li Huang shouted over the engine noise. From her seat directly across from Tony, she knelt down and reached across to him. As she touched the top of his pocket, he jerked awake and grabbed her wrist. She twisted her arm violently, freed it, and chopped expertly at his Adam’s apple with the edge of her hand. Tony gurgled and slumped back into the seat. Li Huang searched first one pocket, then the other, producing a key ring. She found the right key and released her arm, then freed the other two. Conti dragged Skinhead, now barely conscious from blood loss, into the back compartment, handcuffed his right arm to the rear seat post, then crawled into the front seat and pointed the pistol at the pilot.

“O.K. now we need to find a place to land.”

“Tripoli is only about an hour away.” The pilot responded, glancing at the pistol.

“Not going there. In fact, we’re not going to Africa at all. We’re going to bring this thing down before we cross the Med. Where are we now?”

“Just coming over Sicily,” the pilot responded.

“What are our choices?”

“Lots of airfields down there. He took one hand off the yoke and made to reach into a compartment in the door, but held his hand still, looking at Conti. “Just getting a map, mate. Don’t get trigger-happy.”

“O.K.”

He reached into the compartment, retrieved a folded map, and handed it to Conti. “Take your pick.”

As Conti unfolded the map, he heard a shout from the back of the plane. Li Huang was pointing to Skinhead, who was sitting up. He’d managed somehow to extract a miniature revolver from somewhere in his clothing and was twisting in his seat to draw a bead on Conti. Two shots fired simultaneously, the ear-splitting noise reverberating through the cabin.

Conti didn’t have the luxury of aiming for a non-lethal target. His shot thumped point blank into the South African’s chest. He looked around to see where the other bullet had gone, then sighed with relief. None of the other passengers had been hit.

“Shit!” the pilot exclaimed.

“What?” Conti asked.

He pointed out the window. Amber liquid was spurting through a jagged tear in the wing.

37.

Jill rolled away from the men with the missile launcher, scrambled to her feet, and sprinted back toward the Italians. As she weaved through the airport maintenance vehicles, she heard an explosion some distance away. Heart pounding, she stole a quick glance upward. The plane still hung in the air, engine buzzing like a large mosquito. Thank God. She peeked backwards. The men weren’t chasing her. Instead, they were tossing their equipment into the back of the pick-up. By the time she got to Tipalongo and Palladino, the green pick-up had peeled out, tires squealing and gravel flying. She fell into Paladino’s arms, panting.

“What happened?”

“Didn’t you see it? Those men. They were Asian.” She gulped for air. “Shot a missile at the plane. I think I messed up their aim.”

Tipalongo’s eyes widened. “That was the explosion we heard! We didn’t see anything. Thank God you did.”

Jill realized that she was still clinging to Lucca. “Oh, sorry,” she apologized, backing away. Her hands were shaking and she felt faint.

“It’s O.K. You had a shock. Take some deep breaths and do not try to talk for a moment.” He reached out and held her forearms, steadying her.

Tipalongo watched the pick-up speed out of the airport gate. “Lucca, have someone follow that truck.” Then he stalked over to the Agent Cho, still sitting in the white van, Jill following on his heels.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked. “Who are those people?”

“I have no idea. Why are you asking me?”

Jill had regained her composure. “They were Asians, probably Chinese.”

Cho looked at her in dismay. “I swear they weren’t my people. I have no idea who they are.”

On their way back into town in Tipalongo’s car, Jill asked, “Are the mobile switches back on? I’ve got to call headquarters.”

“I’ve given the order,” Tipalongo replied, “but it will take some time to get everything back on line.”

“Yes? What’s going on?” Mobley answered his phone sometime later.

“They tried to shoot down the plane! The Chinese launched a missile and barely missed!” Jill almost screamed into the phone. “Tell me you didn’t know that was going to happen.”

There was a momentary silence as Mobley shot a questioning glance at the two men sitting across the table in his private conference room: Plaice, his Deputy Director, along with his Congressional Liaison, who sat placidly chewing on a plastic toothpick.              “McCullough, you know anything about this?”

The tall southerner flicked the toothpick toward the wastebasket. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said. Any analyst worth his salt,” he cast a quick sidelong glance at Plaice, “would have predicted it. They don’t want this Lama guy running around the world causing trouble. Would you in their place?”

“I didn’t ask you that.” Mobley hissed. “I asked if you knew anything about it.”

“’Course not,” McCullough answered, adding, under his breath, “I figured they’d wait and shoot him in Tripoli.”

A disgusted look on his face, Mobley spoke into the futuristic conference phone. “No, we didn’t know. The Chinese aren’t in the habit of telling us their plans. But … thank God they fouled it up.” He surveyed the room. “The question is, what do we do next?”

“What resources do we have in Libya?” Jill asked.

Mobley looked at Plaice, who spoke hesitantly. “As soon as I heard about this, I contacted our guy in Tripoli. But …”

“But what?”

“He’s on leave in Bahrain. Can’t get back until tomorrow. Our other assets in Libya are local contractors. These constant budget cuts …. There’s no one capable of stopping the Chinese if they’re determined to take definitive action at the airport.”

“Did you hear that?” Mobley addressed the speaker phone in the middle of the table. He could hear Jill having a side conversation with the Italians.

“I did,” she replied after a moment, “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got bigger problems.”

“What?”

“Italian air traffic control just called. They lost the plane somewhere over Sicily. They think it went down.”

“Jesus,” the Director muttered. “What the hell else can happen? We’ve got people in Sicily, right?” he asked his Deputy.

“Yeah, in Palermo.”

“O.K., Burnham. Get to Palermo. Charter a plane if you have to. We’ll send you the name of your contact. He’ll meet you at the airport. Then we’ll talk.”

After he hung up, Mobley addressed the others. “Any recommendations?”

McCullough spoke first. “Get the hell out of the middle of this, as I’ve been telling y’all for days. It is now officially a no-win situation. If the press finds out that an American agent is involved, they’ll be after us like a bluetick hound on a ‘coon. The human rights lobby will murder us if the Chinese snatch the Lama. The China lobby will kill us if they don’t. We need to get our people out and deny any involvement. I can keep a lid on the Hill as long as the press doesn’t have anything solid to go on.”

“So we just pull Conti out and let the Chinese have their way?”

“Afraid so,” McCullough nodded. Mobley looked at his Deputy.

Plaice looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then said, “No alternative at this point. Get Conti out, alive or dead, before the photographers get there. But maybe Burnham isn’t the best person for the job.”

“Why?” Mobley asked.

“You didn’t know? She and Conti used to be engaged.”

38.

Beijing, Saturday Morning

The squash ball smashed against the tin with a loud report.

“Eleven to eight. I’m afraid I’ve won again, Guo-Ji.” The older man chuckled and leaned his racquet against the wall. “You now owe me four bottles of Laphroaig, if I am not mistaken.”

“You will have them tomorrow.”

“We agreed on the twenty-five year-old, did we not?”

“Yes, the twenty-five year-old it is. You are costing me a fortune.” Wang dropped his own racquet in mock frustration. He’d been trying to hit the tin for the last three shots and had finally done it. It wasn’t easy to lose to old Li and make it look good. “You’ve bested me again. I don’t know how you do it at your venerable age.”

“It is having a young wife, I tell you. Keeps me very flexible.”

They both looked up as they heard a knock on the court door.

“Yes. Come in.” Wang bawled.

“A message for Mr. Wang.” A young man in a gray suit ducked through the small door, straightened up, then bowed to the two party leaders. He handed Wang an envelope. Wang opened it, read the message and handed it to Li.

“Bad news, I’m afraid.”

Li scanned the note quickly. “The Panchen Lama’s second inflammatory message has become public, then. This is very bad. It seems you were right about Comrade Leong’s plan.”

“I take no pleasure in being right,” Wang replied, looking down at his feet. “I simply could not believe that the kidnappers would not find some way to transmit the message to their fellows. Leong is not suited for intelligence work. Even before he became incapacitated, he lacked the necessary decisiveness. We must act for him.”

“I’m afraid you are right. Remember the old proverb, ‘Be resolved and the thing is done.’ I will canvas the other Committee members this afternoon, but I do not think there will be any objection to you adding the intelligence functions of the Ministry of State Security to your portfolio, given the current crisis. We can make the change as early as tomorrow’s meeting. We will leave something for Leong to do so he can save face. Perhaps he can continue in charge of the embassies for some reasonable period — if his health permits.”

Wang frowned, but quickly adjusted his expression to a thin smile. He wanted Leong entirely out of the way. Unfortunately, the heart attack had not killed him. But half a bowl of rice was better than none. “Yes, I suppose that would work for a transitional period. As long as it is clear that I will be in charge of our clandestine operations.”

“Of course.” Li smiled, bowing slightly. “For now, you will move forward in Tibet as we discussed?”

“The troop train left Sichuan early this morning. They are currently holding at the border of the Autonomous Region. I will give them the go-ahead.”

After his shower, Wang dressed, considering his next move. Once Leong was out of the way, he would be able to pack the Steering Committee with true old Red Guards like himself. Together they would bring China back to its revolutionary principles. They would put the millionaires in their place. Wang felt a familiar excitement coursing through his body. He remembered the ecstasy of the Cultural Revolution. Time to do it again. Past time. As Mao said, “One must strike while the iron is hot, one revolution following another.”

His mobile, lying on the metal shelf of the locker, rang. “Yes? Hold on.” Wang walked out the locker room emergency exit, and onto the adjacent field. “What do you mean, they were unsuccessful? He listened for a few moments. “Get those bunglers out of the country immediately. If you cannot, you must take measures to silence them. That shouldn’t be difficult in Italy. Do you have people waiting on the ground in Tripoli?” He paced back and forth on the midfield line, listening. “What? Then they are either flying under the radar or they have landed somewhere else. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Follow the American woman and you will find them. Then you know what to do.”

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.

“How far to Palermo?” Conti asked.

The young man glanced over to Eyepatch, who nodded, before answering. “A little more than a hundred kilometers — twenty-five on the back roads, the rest on the highway. Two hours if we don’t have traffic.”

“Shit!” Eyepatch exploded as the road wove through a dense grove of trees alongside a stream. The car screeched to a halt. A large laurel tree stretched across the road. “You’ll have to move it.”

“Me? That thing weighs a ton and I don’t have a saw. I have a small hatchet in the trunk, but you’ll have to help me.”

Conti shook himself alert. A subconscious alarm, honed by years of negotiating sketchy roadblocks, echoed inside his skull. He sat up and scrutinized the tree lying across the road, one branch at a time. Something moved in the shadows. The glint of a rifle barrel.

He dived across the back seat, pulled the sleeping Lama down and lay on top of him. He yelled at the top of his lungs, “Down! Everybody down!”

The words had barely left his lips when a shock wave of automatic weapons fire hit the car, blasting the windshield and back window into flying shards.

40.

Jill sat in the lounge of Palermo Airport sipping a cappuccino and tapping her foot nervously on the tile floor. She’d already wasted ten minutes waiting for her CIA contact to show up. Finally, she called Mobley.

“Yes?” Whenever possible, he answered his secure number immediately — the rare politician who appreciated the importance of time in intelligence operations.

“Nobody’s here yet. Where’s my support? Conti could be lying in a field bleeding somewhere.”

“Calm down. They’re on the way. Should be there in five.”

“Good. Any news?”

“Things aren’t getting any better in Tibet. Chinese troop train within fifty miles of the capital. Crowds massing in the streets. Someone’s handing out guns to the locals. WWII Red Army rifles from a storage depot they broke into. The Ambassador tells me they’re more likely to blow up the shooter than anyone else.”

“More and more bizarre,” Jill said. “And the Chinese still don’t have a clue who’s behind it all?”

“Nope. They know the NSC had its fingerprints on it at one time, but I’ve convinced them we’ve shut that down. As to who is running the operation now, they’re as much in the dark as we are.”

“Well, only one way to find out, isn’t there? When I find Conti and the Lama, I’m bound to run into the bad guys again. If I can ever get the hell out of this airport.”

“I told you they’d be there in a minute,” Mobley said. “And they should have a good line on the location of the crash. The Italians tracked the plane until it dropped down between the mountains. The Chinese are also sending a team.”

“You want me to hook up with them?”

“No. The Ambassador swears they want to take the Lama alive, but I don’t completely trust them. They won’t want to risk another escape. You need get there first, find Conti and the Lama, bring them back to our office in Palermo ASAP and call me. Hopefully, they’re O.K.”

“God willing,” Jill muttered under her breath, as she watched an American in khakis and a polo shirt weave through the growing crowd in the lounge toward her.

“Ms. Burnham?” A good-looking, dusky young man — no more than thirty, Jill thought — sporting a purple Izod shirt and a buzz cut reached out a large hand at the end of a heavily muscled arm. “Lad Rodriguez. Sorry I’m late. We’ve been going over the data with the air traffic control people.”

Jill took his hand, bracing herself for a possibly crushing grip. It never came. Lad held her hand as though it were a baby bird. “Are you alone?”

“No, one other guy — an Italian contractor. Special ops expert. He’s got the car out front so we can get a fast start. The crash, um, landing site is about an hour and a half from here. If we don’t mind drawing attention to ourselves, we can get an escort and do it in an hour.”

“No, no escort, no attention. Let’s get going. We can talk while we walk. We’re not the only ones searching for these folks. Lad Rodriguez? I’ve seen you around Langley, but the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

As they hurried through the airport lounge, he said, “Real name’s LaDarius Washington. Can’t use it overseas though. Even in Italy, apparently, there are fans of Northwestern football. The management didn’t want me in the field because I was too well known. I made such a nuisance of myself they finally gave in, but they insisted on the name change. Couldn’t bear sitting behind a desk.” Lad caught himself. “Sorry, didn’t mean to …”

“No need to apologize. Not everyone can be licensed to kill. I’ll be happy to get back to my office in one piece. Which one’s our car?”

An hour later, they bounced around in the back seat of an Alpha Giulietta as it sped along the twisting mountain roads of central Sicily.

“Corleone,” Jill said, reading a road sign. “Is that …?”

“The one and only. Francis Ford Coppola was the best thing that ever happened to the place. Now it’s a vacation destination for Americans. You can get some tacky stuff there — Marlon Brando t-shirts, pistol-shaped pasta. Unfortunately, the mafia is still around — but they’ve mostly gone underground. Just a few years ago, the carbs caught Bernardo Provenzano there. Il capo di tutti capi. Tourism is one of the best weapons the locals have. The hoods hate the publicity. Kind of like us.”

Jill was only half listening. Are we almost there?”

“Soon,” the driver said from the front seat. “Getting close. What’s the plan?”

“Pretty simple, I hope.” Jill grabbed the handle above the window and held on as the car took a particularly fast corner. “Get there first — before the Chinese or … anyone else. Pick up our guy, Conti, the Panchen Lama, and anyone else who was in the plane, and take them to a safe place as soon as we can. Assuming no one is badly injured, that’s probably our office in Palermo.”

“O.K. If we need someplace closer, we have a safe house on the coast about twenty-five or thirty klicks from here. Used to be a base to monitor drug traffic from Africa. Now most of that comes through Eastern Europe. Unintended consequence of bringing down Soviet Communism. Anyway, the place hasn’t been used for years, but we can hunker down there and bring in a doctor if we have to.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to. The Director is expecting us to call him tonight with Conti and the Panchen Lama in tow.”

Lad raised his eyebrows, “the Director, huh?” He spoke to the Italian sitting in the front seat, a map spread across his lap. “How we doing, Pio?”

“They lost track of the plane about ten miles east of here. Just the other side of Castelprizzi. Quiet little town. Nothing but sheep.”

Jill gazed out the window at the white dots on the emerald hills trying to distract herself. “Do they weave that beautiful Italian wool around here?”

The Italian turned toward her and grimaced. “Not here. We send the wool up north. They make it into Armani suits and get rich.” He rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “They know how to make money. We only know how to make spaghetti …”

His words were cut short by a volley of gunfire carried in on the wind through the open car windows.

“Automatic rifle shots,” Lad said, sitting on the edge of the seat and scanning the horizon. “Pretty close.”

“Damn it!” Jill shouted. “I hope we’re not too late.”

Another couple of shots rang out.

“Turn left there,” Lad yelled, pointing to a gravel road a quarter of a mile ahead. Pio mashed the gas pedal to the floor, and the tires screeched on the macadam.

41.

Sicily, Saturday Afternoon

“Let’s get moving!” Conti yelled. “We’re sitting ducks in here.”

The two Italians bent low under the dash, popping up to fire back at the ambush. From under the front seat, they’d dug a sawed-off shotgun and a pistol with a silencer screwed onto its barrel.

Conti opened the side door part way. A snare drum burst of bullets hit the metal door. He yanked it shut and dived back down into the well. “Jesus Christ! What the hell kind of weapons do these people have?” he yelled. “That sounded like a heavy machine gun.”

“Breda 8 millimeter. German. World War II,” said Eyepatch. “The Torrentinos have two of them. The government offered a hundred thousand lire each to get them back in the sixties but those bastards hid theirs. We should have done the same thing. They’ve been threatening us with them for fifty years. Don’t try to hide behind the door. Those bullets go right through.”

“Does this happen often around here?” Conti asked.

“No. They don’t have enough ammunition. No one makes it any more. Every year they fire a few rounds into the side of our barn to show off. But they wouldn’t waste bullets unless someone was paying them.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. What can we do?”

Eyepatch said something incomprehensible to his younger colleague, who reached farther under the front seat and pulled out what looked like a billy club with a metal canister at the end. He held it up so Conti could see it.

The American did a double take. “Where’d you get that?”

“Those facce di culo aren’t the only ones who kept some stuff from the war. We have a box of these that the Germans left behind when they ran away. The Americans called them stick grenades.”

“Do they still work?” Conti asked.

“Made by the Krauts,” Eyepatch answered simply. “Okay,” he said to Conti. “When the grenade goes off, get out of the car and run down the hill toward the river. We can hold them off from there until our soldati show up.” As he spoke he punched a text message into his phone.

“Now!” he yelled, straightening up and firing a double blast from the shotgun. At the same time, the driver leapt out of the car and threw the grenade. Conti watched, transfixed for a moment by its slow, spinning arc, then grabbed the still-disoriented Panchen Lama and pulled him across the back seat. As the grenade exploded, sending tree branches, leaves, and bits of bark high into the air, Conti dragged the Lama to the bluff at the edge of the road and rolled him over it, then dived after him. The two Italians came staggering down the hill, cackling. “Got the sons of bitches that time,” Eyepatch spoke too loudly, his hearing dimmed by the grenade.

“No shit!” his younger colleague howled. He crawled back up to the ledge, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Fuck all you Torrentinos!” Then he slid down the hillside, laughing. When the Italians caught their breath, the younger one suddenly looked worried, “Christ. Do you think I killed any of them?”

“Their tough luck if you did,” answered the older man. “They shouldn’t have shot at us. Don’t worry. They won’t call the carbinieri. The barbarians will just throw the body over a cliff. Go back up there and tell me what you see.”

“What if they shoot me?”

“Hold up your shirt on a stick first.”

“No way. It’s Dolce & Gabbana.”

“O.K., idiot, take this.” The older man pulled a white silk kerchief out of his back pocket.

“Why didn’t you give me that in the first place?”

“It was from my sister’s daughter first communion. Don’t get it dirty.”

The young man scrambled up the low hillside, found a branch, and held the handkerchief up in the air. A blast of automatic weapons fire shredded it to ribbons.

Jill leaned between the two front seats spurring the driver on. “Hurry. That explosion wasn’t far up the road. What would make a noise like that?”

Pio, the Italian contractor, rubbed his stubbly chin, “Sounded like military ordnance. Mortar, grenade launcher, mine, could be anything.”

“Nothing you can buy in a store though,” Lad added.

“No,” the Italian agreed. “This is a civilized country.”

Pio threw the Alfa into a four-wheel drift around a gravelly corner. Fifty yards ahead they saw the downed tree and the gutted Mercedes, doors wide open, in the middle of the road. He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop, enveloped in a cloud of dust.

42.

Beijing, Saturday Evening

“May I get you some tea, Mr. Wang?” The petite young woman poked her head around the half-open door, keeping her eyes fixed on the carpet a few feet in front of her.

“No! Shut the door!” Wang perched on the edge of his massive leather chair and cracked his knuckles, one at a time. Things were going well, but many things still could go wrong. He was expecting a call from General Hsu who ran the foreign intelligence department of the Ministry of State Security. Unfortunately, Hsu was Leong’s nephew, but there was nothing he could do about that. After he had consolidated his power, this sort of nepotism would stop. Now all he needed was for Hsu to acknowledge that Wang would be adding the foreign intelligence portfolio to his PLA responsibilities. He didn’t care what Hsu’s feelings in the matter might be. But the damn phone remained silent.

He couldn’t wait. He reached into his coat pocket for his private mobile and dialed a familiar number. Matthis answered. “Yeah?”

Wang shook off his irritation at the man’s familiarity. “Do you have him yet?”

“We’re close. Our friends in Sicily have the quarry cornered. I’m on my way there myself as soon as the copter arrives. We’ll finish the job when the final payment shows up in the Zurich account.”

“I told you I need to see proof before I send the money,” Wang almost shouted into the phone, then, with difficulty, calmed himself.

“I never agreed to that. Nothing on credit in this business. Transfer the money and you’ll get your picture.”

Wang gritted his teeth. If these people were Chinese, he would crush them for such insolence. But they weren’t. “Where is he?”

“The location doesn’t matter. In the mountains. Leave that to me.”

The intercom light on Wang’s desk lit up. He held the mobile to his chest and barked at this assistant. “Who is it?”

“General Hsu.”

“Tell him I’ll be right with him.” Wang spoke into the mobile, “I’ll call you back.” He terminated the call without waiting for a response from Matthis, then picked up the receiver of his desk phone and hit the blinking light.

“Hsu. It has been some time since we met. At the last party Congress, wasn’t it? How is your beautiful wife?”

“She is fine, Comrade Wang. I understand you will soon be in charge some Ministry functions. I look forward to working with you, although, of course, we will miss Uncle Leong’s steady guidance. When would it be convenient to brief you on the status of departmental matters? I am at your disposal.”

“As to that, check with my assistant. She knows my schedule. But there is an urgent matter I need to speak to you about now. It concerns the so-called Panchen Lama. I understand that you still do not have him in custody.”

“It has proved to be a challenge. There are forces in play that we do not fully understand. At first, it was the Americans. But we believe that they are no longer protecting the young man. Someone else is responsible for kidnapping him and evading our agents. We are making progress. We are using satellite surveillance to trace the vehicle that we believe is carrying him. Our personnel in the area should intercept it very soon. They will then escort the vehicle to the American Embassy in Palermo where we have arranged for the young man to be returned to us.”

Wang’s tone switched from polite to hostile. “We have no more time to waste. Do you realize how serious the internal situation has become? Three Chinese soldiers were shot in Lhasa this morning.”

“Yes, of course I understand, comrade. As I said, we have been …”

“Whatever you have been doing, it isn’t working. Unlike your uncle, I am not a patient man. Surely, you’ve seen the phony Lama’s latest counter-revolutionary message. It is a provocation not only to the Tibetan revolutionaries, but to ethnic agitators in all parts of the country. He must be silenced!”

“But, comrade, our orders from the Steering Committee are to pick up the Lama at Palermo and return him to China on the assumption that, once in custody, he will be persuaded to retract his inflammatory statements and calm the situation.”

Wang growled, “The situation has become too explosive for half measures. His followers must be made to understand that their uprising has no leader.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked General Hsu, his voice lowered almost to a whisper.

“What do you think? Take some initiative. Resolve this issue now.”

“With all respect, Comrade Wang, written orders from the Ministry can only be superceded by new written orders. I believe you will find that directive in our departmental regulations. It is my understanding that Comrade Leong is still the Minister, despite his illness.”

Wang controlled his anger with great effort and said calmly with only a slight undertone of malice, “You will have new orders soon enough. In the meantime, you might want to start looking for a new job.”

43.

Conti leaned the Panchen Lama up against a large oak tree and caught his breath. He took the young man’s pulse, then raised one of his eyelids and peered inside. In the excitement, the concussion he’d suffered in the crash must have been aggravated. Conti let the eyelid slide shut, but it immediately popped open again. A groggy voice rumbled from deep in the Lama’s throat, “Where are we?”

“Good question,” Conti answered as he unbuttoned the top of the young man’s shirt. “In a ravine somewhere in the mountains of Sicily. Just north of a town called Agrigento. I think. But where we’re heading is more to the point — to the CIA office in Palermo where you’ll be safe.”

“So why are we sitting here …” he let his arm fall onto the ground, “… in the dirt?”

“We’ve run into an obstacle, so we’ve got to stay here until our friends have dealt with the people who blocked the road.”

“Do these people still want to kill me?”

Conti sat back against a rock and wiped the dirt from his forehead with his sleeve. “Well, it’s not a social call. But we’re not going to let them get to you. That’s why I’m here. To make sure you’re O.K.”

“Who are they?”

“Local mafia — hired by the people who sprung you from China in the first place.”

“Mafia?”

“Yes.” Conti smiled in spite of himself. “Don’t worry. We have our own Mafioso protecting us.” As he spoke another burst of automatic weapons fire came from the road above them.

“I do not understand.” With some effort, the young Lama raised his hand and rubbed his temple. “If these people helped me escape from China, why do they want to kill me now?”

“A very good question. Apparently, someone, somewhere, changed his mind. But it doesn’t really matter. Our job is to get you to Palermo where, I hope, we’ll get some answers. Do you think you can walk on your own? We should put some distance between us and these maniacs.”

“Yes. But, Mr. Conti?”

“Yes.”

“If these people want to kill me, they must fear that … that the Tibetan people would follow me.”

“That’s exactly …” Conti began, but was interrupted by a rustling in the bushes across the stream at the bottom of the hill. “Shit! They’ve circled around below us. Lie flat and be quiet.”

Two Italians bounded out of the bushes, waded through the stream, and started scrambling up the slope. They carried assault rifles. Every few steps, they stopped and fired randomly up the hill. Conti moved in front of the Lama and tried to keep the broad trunk of the oak between himself and the attackers. Scanning the hillside above them, he saw no way to reach better cover without giving the Torrentino soldiers a clear shot. Still, he had to try. If they stayed put, they’d be sitting ducks. He stood up, draped the slight young man over his shoulders like a sheep, and began to scramble up the loose rocks toward the road, murmuring a prayer to St. Francis as he went.

A spray of bullets hit the ground behind him throwing up dust and pebbles. One chance. If he could climb a few more feet, he could dive over the shoulder of the hill and up onto the road surface, out of the line of fire. He sucked in as much air as his lungs would hold and sprang forward, aiming for a flat rock that would give him purchase to reach the road. But he hadn’t figured on the Lama’s extra weight. His boot fell short of the rock by inches. He fell flat, the dead weight of the Lama grinding his face into the scree. Bullets whizzed over their heads.

He shrugged off the Lama and rolled over. It seemed that the bullets were coming from both directions — a gunfight was raging over his head. Had Eyepatch come to their rescue? Whoever was up on the road had some serious hardware. As he watched, the attackers below retreated back down into the brush at the bottom of the ravine. A whooshing sound cut through the air above him as a projectile shot forward out of a small cloud of smoke. Memories of Afghanistan flooded his brain and the corners of his lips twitched upward. Before the smile could form, a grenade ploughed into the trees where the Torrentinos had hidden and exploded, throwing up dirt, leaves, and pieces of clothing.

As he struggled to process this, Jill came sliding down the hill on her backside. “Are you alive? Are you two O.K.?”

“Yes to the first question. As to the second, not particularly. Someone has been holding my face against a power sander.”

“God! What a mess” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a packet of Kleenex and began dabbing at the blood beading up through his scraped face.”

“You, on the other hand, look great. Never saw a more welcome sight.”

“Flatterer.” She pried her eyes from his face and looked over at the Panchen Lama, lying curled up beside them. “How’s he doing?”

“Groggy. Still concussed from the crash. He’s slowly coming around, I think. We need to get him to a doctor.”

“There’ll be one at our office in Palermo. Should be there in about an hour.” She yelled up the hill. “Lad! Let’s get these guys into the car.”

The CIA agent scrambled down the hill, picked up the Panchen Lama with one arm, and took two long steps up to the road.

“Jesus!” Conti watched, eyes wide. “When did we start hiring weightlifters?”

“Not a weightlifter, a linebacker.” Jill helped Conti to his feet, and together they made their way up to the road, where Lad was stowing the Panchen Lama in the back seat of the car. Random shots came from the direction of the roadblock.

“Who’s still shooting?” Jill asked.

“Long story,” Conti answered. “The Fortunato and the Torrentino crime families have been feuding for a hundred years. Our presence provided them an opportunity to have a go at each other again. Remind me to send a few cases of Proseco to the Fortunatos.”

Pio, who was sitting the driver’s seat listening to their conversation, offered, “They’d rather have Nero d’Avola. Good strong Sicilian wine, not that sissy bubbly stuff.”

Conti nodded. “Whatever they want. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They all piled into the car with exception of Lad, who rummaged in the trunk, putting weapons and ammo into a backpack. He slammed the lid down and said, “O.K., got what I need. You guys take off.”

“What?” Jill asked. “I’m not leaving you here. Too dangerous. Those hoods are still firing at each other.”

Lad grinned. “Yeah! That’s why I’m staying. I never get any action. I’ll cover your rear in case the bad guys get through the … well, the other bad guys. Sounds like they’ve got enough ordnance to blow us all sky high.”

“He’s right,” Pio said. “If someone is paying the local mafia to get you, popping a couple of their soldiers won’t stop them. Failure is bad for their reputation.”

Jill thought for a moment, then looked at Conti, who nodded. “O.K., she said. “But be careful. Don’t get involved unless you absolutely have to.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Lad saluted, smirking. “No involvement unless absolutely necessary.”

“Christ! Like talking to a brick wall. Alright, let’s go.”

Pio hit the gas and the Alfa fishtailed down the gravel road away from the roadblock, circling back toward Palermo.

Jill let the acceleration push her back in the seat and blew out a slow stream of air between pursed lips. She glanced at Conti, who had leaned against the headrest and closed his eyes. Before she had a chance to inhale, the mobile in her pocket vibrated. She dug it out and answered. Not bothering to identify himself, Mobley spoke. “You got him? Them?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Call it intuition. And good satellite imagery.”

“On our way to Palermo. Should be there within the hour.” The car hit a pothole and she almost bounced out of the seat and onto the floor. “At this speed, make it forty-five minutes.”

“Good. I’ve alerted the Italian police. And a platoon of Navy Seals is on the way to help you. No one will mess with them. I’ve talked with the Chinese Ambassador again, and they’re on board. They’ve promised to take good care of the Lama if we hand him over. He’ll be free to go back to Tibet as long as he makes a public statement calling for an end to the violence. You can tell him that.”

“Great. I’ll tell them both.” Jill nodded at Conti, sitting in front of her, who was listening to the conversation.

“Take good care of that young man,” Mobley went on. “He’s going to get me my Coca-Cola plant in Beijing and get that bastard Senator from Georgia off my back. Look, I’ve got to go into a Joint Intel Committee meeting right now. Work with the Chinese, got it?”

“Yes, I’ve got it. Anything else?” Jill listened for ten seconds before realizing that Mobley had rung off. She pocketed the phone.

“Not the politest guy,” she said to Conti. “But I don’t suppose he has time for it.”

“What was that about a Coke plant?” he asked.

“A joke … mostly. He’s been trying to persuade the Chinese to let Coca-Cola build a bottling plant there for years. Something he promised at his confirmation hearing.

“And?”

“And he told me once he was going it make part of this deal — in return for giving this one back,” she pointed her thumb at the dozing Panchen Lama.

“I hope it’s a joke,” Conti replied, turning away from Jill to hide the grimace that had spread across his swollen face.

“Fuck! Not again!” Pio cried as the car barreled around a sharp curve and went into a four-wheel slide just in time to avoid crashing into a panel truck parked sideways across the middle of the road.

44.

Before the car had come fully to rest, Pio threw the transmission into reverse. Spinning the wheels, he backed up fifty yards around the curve before stopping.

“Is that the Seals?” Conti asked.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Pio responded. “No markings.”

“I’d better go see who it is,” Jill said, opening the door. “We can’t go back the other way.”

Conti put his hand on her shoulder. “Let Pio go first. He sounds like a local.”

“I am a local.” Pio reached under the seat and pulled out a sawed off shotgun. “Now I look like one too. Wish me luck.”

They watched him affect a nonchalant stroll toward the parked truck. “Damn!” Jill fiddled with the buttons on her shirt. Just when I thought we were home free. Who do you think they are?”

“I didn’t get a good look, but if we rule out the South African mercenaries, or anyone they hired in Sicily — like the Torrentinos back there — that pretty much leaves the Chinese, doesn’t it?”

“Well, if it is the Chinese, we’re supposed to be working together now. Hopefully, someone’s told them.”

After a couple of minutes, Pio came striding back to the car. He leaned in the open window. “Chinese. They acted friendly — except, of course, for the fact that they’re blocking the road. A woman in civilian clothes named Cho Lin seems to be in charge. With three, stone-faced military guys carrying bullpup automatics. They want to talk to whoever is in charge. What’ll I tell them?”

Jill opened her door, but stayed seated and took a deep breath. “Cho Lin. The Chinese agent we met in Florence. I’ll go talk to her.” She swung her legs out of the back seat.

“Not without me,” Conti said. “Got any other weapons, Pio?”

“This,” he held up the shotgun, “and the grenade launcher.”

“That might seem a wee bit aggressive,” Conti frowned. “Nothing smaller?”

Pio reached down, pulled up his right pant leg, and produced a .45 caliber Glock. “You can take this, but it won’t be much good against assault rifles.”

Conti took the pistol, examined it briefly and stuck it in his belt. “That’ll be fine. It’s more for effect, anyway.” He got out of the car and came around the other side to join Jill. “Let’s go. Pio can stay here and keep an eye on the Lama.”

Together they walked toward the truck and came face to face with the Chinese. Cho Lin, who looked to be in her forties, wore a sweatshirt bearing the legend ‘Stanford ‘92’. Small in stature, she had an air of authority. She offered her hand to Jill. “Good to see you again. I’m afraid I didn’t have the chance to introduce myself formally back in Florence. Agent Cho Lin, Intelligence Directorate, Ministry of State Security. Forgive my outfit, but I was on vacation in Italy when I got the call.”

Jill introduced herself and Conti. “We would appreciate it if you would move your vehicle out of the roadway. As you know, we have an important passenger that we must get to Palermo. You are welcome to follow us there -- where we will hand over the young man.”

“Thank you for your consideration,” Cho Lin responded. “But we have an alternative proposal that we hope you will be able to accommodate.”

“Yes?” Jill asked.

“We have an aircraft waiting at a nearby private field. Given the increasing urgency of the situation in Tibet, it is imperative that the Lama be returned to China immediately. We also have a doctor there who can administer medical treatment. So, if you will give him to us now, I will take full responsibility for his further transport.”

Jill glanced at Conti who shook his head back and forth almost imperceptibly. “As I said, my orders are to hand the Lama over to you at our offices in Palermo. I understood from my superiors that your people had agreed on that course of action.”

Cho Lin tried to smile again, but the result was a failure. “Yes, that was the former plan, but things are deteriorating quickly in Tibet. Perhaps you haven’t heard, but the rebels blew up a military barracks in southern China a few hours ago, causing many casualties. Our troops are entering Lhasa in force as we speak — confronted by thousands of Tibetans in the streets. If something isn’t done very quickly, many will die. The Tibetans cannot hope to survive a battle with the People’s Liberation Army.”

Jill was silent for a few moments. “I’ll have to speak with my superiors and confer with my colleague. Would you give me a moment?” Without waiting for an answer she turned and walked back ten yards, took out her mobile, and dialed Mobley’s number. No answer. “Damn,” she said to Conti, who had joined her. “I forgot. He’s in a Congressional Committee meeting. Those things last hours, and he can’t be disturbed.”

“Anyone else you can ask?” Conti said.

“Not really. Mobley was playing this very close to the vest. I think I’m the only one he’s taken completely into his confidence.”

“I guess it’s up to you to make a decision then.”

“Right. What would you do?”

“I would insist on following the plan as agreed,” Conti responded. “I don’t trust them.”

Jill’s phone vibrated. “Message from my office: ‘widespread gunfire in the streets of Lhasa. Civilian casualties reported. Unrest increasing.’ I think Cho’s right. There will be a bloodbath if we don’t do something. I’m going to hand him over. Mobley told me there was a deal in place to protect him. He also told me to cooperate with the Chinese. You agree?”

“No. But it’s your decision.”

“Thanks for your support.”

Conti shrugged.

“O.K.,” Jill said. “Go back and get the Lama. I’ll tell Cho they can have him.”

Conti turned and walked back around the curve toward the car. As he approached, he was surprised to find Pio standing guard over a Chinese soldier. He held a rifle in one hand and his sawed off shotgun in the other.

“What’s going on?” Conti asked.

This cazzo was hiding in the bushes with this. He held up a sophisticated sniper rifle, equipped with a suppressor. Must have circled around through the woods. Luckily, our boy was lying down in the back seat so he couldn’t get a clear shot. He was crawling up behind the car when I found him.”

“Really?” Conti asked. “Then there’s more going on than Agent Cho let on.”

“What should we do with him?” Pio asked.

“Keep an eye on him. I’ll go back and talk with Jill. Gimme the car keys.”

Pio retrieved the keys and tossed them to Conti, who got in the car, started the motor and drove around the turn toward the roadblock. As the car approached Jill and Cho, he slowed down momentarily, then goosed the throttle, heading straight for the rear of the truck. The Alfa’s wide tires smoked as they dug into the gravel, finally finding enough traction to pick up speed. The right front fender rammed into the truck wheel, exploding the tire and pushing the back of the truck far enough around to allow the Alfa to squeeze through. Minus a quarter panel, Conti sped down the road as automatic weapons fire faded into the background.

45.

As he sped away, Conti placed the mobile Jill had given him on the dash and waited for her call. It didn’t take long. The phone jumped around as it vibrated. He picked it up with his right hand as he negotiated a tight turn with his left, almost skidding into a ditch. Dropping the phone, he righted the car with both hands, then reached down to pick it up again, all the while flogging the Alfa along at far too high a speed. “Who is it?”

“Who the hell do you think it is?” Jill answered. “The woman you almost ran over when you left her stranded with three angry, heavily armed Chinese.”

“I didn’t almost run you over. There was plenty of room. And don’t worry about the Chinese. They need you more than you need them.” Conti put the phone on speaker, downshifted and threw the car into a four-wheel drift around a downhill bend, before shouting above the whine of the hard-pressed engine.

“Well, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jill shouted.

“When I got back to the car, Pio had nabbed one of the Chinese soldiers — found him hiding in the bushes with a sniper’s rifle. I think he was planning to nail the Lama.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“No, but it certainly looked that way. You said yourself the military are gunning down demonstrators in Lhasa. Whoever ordered that isn’t interested in compromise with the Tibetans. The hard-liners have wanted to eliminate the independence movement for years. Getting rid of the Panchen Lama is part of it. No indigenous leaders left standing once the Dalai Lama dies.”

“What about what Mobley said? That he had a deal.”

“They’d lie to Mobley in a heartbeat.”

“John, you can’t ignore the CIA Director, not to mention me.” Her tone altered from hurt to harsh and commanding. “Turn that car around and come back here now! Hang on, Cho Lin is coming over to tell me something.”

The car swerved and Conti had to slow down. The steering must have been damaged when he hit the Chinese truck. He’d glanced over his shoulder. The Panchen Lama still seemed to be in a semi-conscious state, moaning softly as he slumped in the back seat.

Jill came back on.

“O.K., she says she has orders to take the Lama by force if necessary. They’ve got the wheel changed and they’re coming after you unless you bring him back.”

“Sorry, can’t do that.” Conti hit the “end” button with more force than necessary.

“What can’t you do?” A weak voice from the back seat.

“You’re awake? Good. I can’t give you to the Chinese just now.”

“Where are we?”

Conti started to answer but a loud thump came from the right front wheel well and something began scraping on the road surface. “Shit!” He slowed the car to a crawl.

“What do you remember of the last few hours?” Conti asked.

“Not much. Guns and explosions going off. What happened?”

“Remember a plane crash?”

“I remember getting in a plane. I don’t remember a crash. Where is Li Huang?”

Conti chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “There was a bad crash. Not everyone survived.” He glanced back at the Lama. He’d gone white and he was panting heavily.

“Li Huang?”

“I’m sorry.”

The Lama sobbed quietly, holding his head in his hands. “She was all I cared about in the world.”

Conti said nothing, letting this sink in. It was the Lama who first spoke again. “Where are we going now?”

“Not sure. We need to get off this road. The Chinese are chasing us — and maybe the Italian thugs too. A lot of people would like to see you dead.”

The Lama took this calmly. “I don’t care. It would be better.”

“No it wouldn’t.” Conti pounded his fist on the dash. “Your people, the Tibetans, are demanding freedom in the streets of Lhasa right now. Chinese soldiers are shooting at them. They hope you’ll come back and lead them. Don’t give up. Li Huang was a friend of Tibet, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Would she want you to disappear when your people need you most? Look, this isn’t just about you. People — fathers, mothers, sons, daughters — are fighting for independence. You owe it to them to stay alive.”

The Alfa wouldn’t go any farther. Steam belched from the radiator and the right front tire was flat. Conti drove as far off the road as he could and parked behind a line of cypress trees.

“We’re going to have to walk. Can’t stay here. The Chinese will be coming along soon.” Conti got out of the car, opened the back door, and gave the Lama a hand getting out. He leaned the young man, still unsteady on his feet, against the side of the car while he walked back and opened the trunk.

“Let’s see if our CIA friends left us anything useful.” He rummaged through the contents, tossing aside tire chains, dirty blankets, and a radio transmitter emitting a low beeping sound. “Well, if I had any doubt before, I don’t now. The CIA knows exactly where we are. They’ve been tracking us the whole time.”

Under the blankets, he found a nylon daypack containing several aluminum water bottles and energy bars. “This stuff we can use.” He picked up the pack and slung it over his shoulder. Below it was something that looked like an oboe with two short, finned shells clipped to it. “That must be the RPG that Pio used.” He hefted it, mumbling to himself. “Amazing, couldn’t weigh more than five pounds …”

“What?” the Lama walked unsteadily back to where Conti stood, keeping one hand on the car.

“Just marveling at American ingenuity. Let’s get out of here.” Reluctantly, he put the grenade launcher back in the trunk. “It’s going to be unsafe, very soon.”

They started down the line of cypress trees. Within fifty yards, they came to an asphalt drive. A carved wooden sign swung from a wrought iron stanchion surrounded by pink and white bougainvillea blossoms. The sign read, “La Scuola di Cucina Siciliana Marchionessa B. Vogliano, prop.”

46.

Beijing, Saturday Midnight

Wang tried to sit at his desk and focus on the previous day’s intelligence reports, but within seconds he was up again, gazing at the watercolor he’d borrowed from the National Museum — a picture of Yinglong, the fearsome mythical dragon and rain deity, sitting regally atop a waterfall. He lit a cigarette, took two long drags, and crushed the butt into the Ming dynasty bowl that served as his ashtray. The phone on his desk startled him. Wang checked the number, then snatched the handset out of its cradle. “Hsu. What is going on? Is it so difficult to dial the phone?”

“We have been busy tracing the movements of the so-called Panchen Lama, Comrade Wang. But I’m happy to report that we have now pinpointed the precise location. He is in southern Sicily traveling with several American agents. His exact position is eleven miles east of the town of Corleone, at thirty-nine degrees, forty minutes North …”

“I don’t give a damn what his coordinates are. Do you think I’m going to strap on a gun and go after him? The point is, if you know where he is, why haven’t you taken him into custody?”

“We have one of our best operatives, Agent Cho Lin, on this assignment. She is following his car with several well-armed soldiers. She is a highly-decorated…“Why do you insist on telling me things that are completely irrelevant, Hsu? I don’t care if she has the Hero’s Medal …”

“She does.”

“Enough stalling. Patch me through to this Agent Cho.”

“You want to speak to her directly? An agent in the field? But I have seen no formal announcement that you have taken over Comrade Leong’s responsibilities.”

“You’ll see it soon enough, Hsu. Put me through to her — assuming you have sufficient technical expertise to accomplish the task.”

“Certainly, comrade.”

Wang waited, listening to the clicks and tones as the call went through. Finally, a female voice answered.

“Cho?” Wang asked.

“Yes?”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, sir. General Hsu informed me.”

“Alright. Tell me where the target is, and where you are in relation to him.”

“We stopped his vehicle at a roadblock, but when the American in charge was about to hand him over to us, one of your … one of the PLA soldiers caused a subordinate American to become suspicious. He evaded us and drove away with the Lama. We’ve just found his automobile, hidden among the trees several miles down the road, and are about to search the area on foot.”

“What orders has General Hsu given you?”

“Take the Tibetan into custody — avoiding collateral damage, if possible. Once that is accomplished, call the General for further orders.”

Wang ground his teeth and stared out the window for a moment, collecting himself. When he spoke again, it was with an icy calm. “Do you understand that I will be taking over supervision of your Department shortly?”

“General Hsu told me that is a possibility.”

“It’s more than a possibility. The situation in Tibet is deteriorating every minute. As long as this fraudulent monk is alive, there is the possibility he will find a way to communicate with his collaborators in Lhasa, making it all the more difficult to bring these splittists to heel. We must cut off the head of this snake, collateral damage or not. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but ....”

“Do it.” Wang hung up, muttering under his breath, “Fucking Hsu.” He had no confidence in Hsu or his people. The trouble with the younger generation was that they hesitated when they should be taking action. Reluctant to take risks. Part and parcel of the larger problem — people had become too comfortable. They were backing away from complete commitment to revolutionary principles. Leong had a young wife, and two of his children were in graduate school in England; Hsu probably had a condo in Vancouver or Acapulco bought in a relative’s name; and Cho — hadn’t she been vacationing in Italy? A senior intelligence official lounging in the West? Scandalous! No wonder they dithered. He needed to try another approach.

“Get me Ambassador Zheng in Washington,” he growled through the door to his secretary, then fell into a violent coughing fit.

A few minutes later, the call went through. A high-pitched, nasal voice came on the line. “Comrade Wang. Good to hear from you. I understand you are about to receive new responsibilities …”

Wang half-listened as Zheng blathered on. Damned diplomats. They should all be sent to a military training camp for a few weeks. Crawling through the Mongolian mud with a seventy-pound pack would teach them a thing or two. Maybe he would add that to the training program when he took over Leong’s diplomatic corps.

“Are you aware that there is a rebellion going in Tibet, Zheng?”

“I understand there are demonstrations in Lhasa.”

“More than demonstrations —rebellion — and more than just Lhasa. There are problems in other Tibetan cities. And this will soon spread to other ethnic minorities in China if we are not steadfast in our response. So let’s skip the formalities and get down to business. The Americans now have custody of the escaped Tibetan rebel.”

“Is that so, sir? They have so-called Panchen Lama?”

“Yes. The traitorous monk. You are the contact between Leong and the CIA Director, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you have negotiated the repatriation of the traitor in return for a guarantee of his safety and that of the Americans.”

“Yes, sir. And the permission for the Americans to build a Coca-Cola plant near Beijing.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Zheng. Whatever idiotic deal you and Leong cooked up, the situation has changed. We need to deal with the traitor immediately — before he communicates with anyone, either his followers or the Western press. They must hand him over now so we can eliminate this threat.”

“Eliminate.”

“Eliminate. Once and for all.”

“The Americans will not accept that.”

“Are you stupid, Zheng? Or perhaps you think I’m stupid? We’re not going to tell them our plans beforehand. Your job is to convince them to hand him over. Once we’ve taken the necessary measures, you will smooth things over with the Americans. Do you understand?”

“But how will I convince them to hand the young man over?”

“Use your imagination, Zheng. Persuade them. That’s your job, isn’t it? Are you qualified to do your job?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then do it.”

Zheng leaned back in his chair and whistled softly. He frowned at his deputy who had been listening in on the call. “Eliminate? Does that mean what I think it does?”

“I believe so, sir, and may I say that would be a disaster for our relations not only with America but most of the developed world. Western governments will not sit idly by if we … terminate … a Tibetan High Lama. The human rights advocates will go ballistic — as will the Western press.”

“I agree. I’d better talk with Mobley. Do we know where he is today?”

“He’s at a Congressional briefing, I believe. Shall I call his office and make an appointment?”

“No, I want to meet him informally. Do you have a good relationship with his deputy?”

“On and off. Right now, it’s on.”

“See if Mobley can meet me at the Sheraton Hotel bar later this afternoon. Perhaps five or so.”

“Yes sir.”

Zheng rubbed his smooth chin. “But I should talk with Leong first. Have we heard anything from him?”

“Not since he took ill. I understand he has been moved out of intensive care but is still under doctor’s orders not be disturbed.”

“Damn the doctor’s orders. He’s still in charge as far as we’ve been told. Get him on the phone.”

47.

Washington, Saturday Afternoon

The bar of the Sheraton was nearly deserted at five o’clock in the afternoon. No business travelers on the weekend, and all the locals who could afford to escape the city in August had already done so. Mobley reached into his back pocket for a handkerchief, unfolded it and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He sank back into the upholstery, breathing heavily. In college he’d been a swimmer, trim and fit, but the years of receptions and lengthy committee meetings had taken their toll.

“Director Mobley, fancy meeting you here.”

Mobley looked up. McCullough. “Damn. You again. I thought you hung out downtown at the Willard or the Capitol Grille with the swells. How’d you find me way up here on Connecticut Avenue?”

“I’m new to this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” McCullough smirked, “but it’s not too hard to track you down. Your big black SUV sitting in the front drive. Kinda obvious, even if the red and blue lights weren’t blinkin’.”

McCullough sat down in the chair across from Mobley and put his feet up on the table.

“You know that’s probably an original Stickley end table you’ve got your shoes on?” Mobley collected American antique furniture. “A hundred years old if it’s a day. Not really meant to be a footstool. Beside the fact that it’s rude as hell.”

“I did not know that,” McCullough answered. “That it’s a — what did you call it? — a Stickley. The furniture at our plantation is mostly eighteenth century. Mother is always buyin’ that Chippendale stuff. Never paid much attention to it myself.” He lit up a cigarette but didn’t move his feet.

Mobley sighed. McCullough made him tired. “I assume you didn’t track me down to chat.”

“It is always nice to shoot the shit with you, suh. But I do have one or two things to discuss. You really should take me to those congressional briefings with you. It would save a lot of trouble.”

“Meaning?”

“The Senators come right out of that room and call me to say everything they didn’t say in the meeting.”

“Oh? I wasn’t aware that those fine gentlemen pulled their punches.”

“They are hacked off. Over this Chinese thing.”

“What would they have us do that we haven’t done already?”

“Make it go away. Before the press finds out that we’re involved. If we’ve got the little pissant Lama, why don’t we just hand him over?”

Mobley noticed that the Chinese Ambassador had entered the room and quietly headed to a booth at the far end of bar. McCullough noticed as well.

“Well, lookie who’s here. What a coincidence. Can I take this as a sign that this mess will be cleaned up in time for me to drive my date down to the Inn at Little Washington tonight? I’ve got the Gamekeeper’s Cottage reserved. She’s got this Lady Chatterley thing. You know, Victorian smock, petticoats and all that …”

“TMI, McCullough.”

The younger man laughed. “Didn’t take ya for a prude, Director.” He knocked cigarette ashes onto the floor. “So, back to our story. Are you and the Ambassador on the same page? Can I tell our friends on the Hill this is being taken care of to the satisfaction of the Chinese?”

Mobley growled. “You can’t tell them a damn thing. Yet. Something fishy is going on here. I intend to find out what it is.”

“This whole thing has been fishy as a farm pond full of bullheads from the start. Panchen Lama gets lifted, or escapes, we don’t know which. NSC is involved. They have a silent partner they never bothered to vet, or even identify. NSC backs out. Chinese go nuts. Riots in Tibet. PLA moves in and starts shooting people in the streets. Somehow, an ex-CIA guy ends up running up and down Italy with the Lama. Yeah, it’s fishy, alright. Have we even found out who’s behind all this yet? The silent partner?”

“I’ve got my suspicions. That’s why I’m going to talk with the Ambassador over there as soon as you clear your sorry ass out.”

“You gonna hurt my feelings, Director. You can’t trust me with a secret? You know I’ve got the highest security clearance.”

“Doesn’t mean you can keep your mouth shut. Now, move. I’ll talk to you later. And, hopefully, you’ll be able to play Oliver tonight.”

“Oliver?”

“Not much of a D.H. Lawrence scholar after all, are you?” Mobley got up and walked toward the back of the bar.

“Hello, Mr. Ambassador. Sorry to keep you waiting. Please don’t get up.” Mobley wedged himself into the opposite side of the booth with effort. “Who do they design these seats for anyway? Fashion models?”

“Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice, Director. We have something urgent to discuss.”

Mobley couldn’t stop sweating. He wriggled out of his suit jacket. “No trouble at all. I’d like to clear up this little problem as much as you would.”

The Ambassador’s mobile rang. He glanced down at the number. “Please excuse me. This call is from my superior, Minister Leong. I must take it. It may help us to straighten out this situation.” He stood up and walked out of the bar into the lobby, holding the telephone to his ear.

Mobley checked his watch. If all was going according to plan, Jill and Conti should be arriving in Palermo about now. They’d hand the Lama over to the Chinese as soon as he confirmed the elements of the deal with the Ambassador. His phone vibrated on the table in front of him. His office.

“Director. Jill Burnham is on the line. She’d needs to talk to you. Says it’s urgent.”

“Why didn’t she call me directly?”

“She says you didn’t answer.”

Mobley snorted. He hadn’t turned his phone ringer back on after the briefing. And he hadn’t felt the vibration in his pocket. Too damn fat. “O.K., put her through.”

“Director?”

“Jill? Are you in Palermo yet?”

“No, sir. We’ve run into a problem.”

“What kind of a problem?”

Mobley listened to Jill with rising anger.

“You’re fucking kidding me. I’ll string Conti up by his nuts. Give me his number.”

“You’re going to call him?”

“Damn right.” He hung up, dialed Conti’s number, and was surprised when he answered.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Who is this?”

“Mobley.”

“Mobley?”

“You heard me. Now tell me what the hell is going on.”

“I believe the Chinese intended to kill the Panchen Lama.”

“That doesn’t mean you can ignore your superiors.”

“I don’t work for the Company any more.”

“You still work for the United States government.”

“For the time being.”

“Look, you arrogant bastard, you’re lucky. You may have done the right thing by accident, which means I probably won’t have to have you cashiered. If you do what I say. We need to get the Lama to Palermo as soon as possible. Stay where you are, and I’ll send a Navy helicopter to pull you out.”

“You know where I am?”

“Of course I do. So don’t try anything stupid.”

“What if the Chinese get here first?”

“I’m about to handle that.” Mobley hoped he wasn’t blowing smoke. “Just keep your head down.” After calling Langley to make the necessary arrangements, he ordered a whiskey. In a few minutes, the Ambassador returned.

“Mr. Mobley. I must talk to you about a delicate matter involving my government.”

Mobley nodded but said nothing.

“Will you promise to keep the information I’m going to give you confidential?”

“I can’t promise that, Mr. Ambassador. I work for the President. But short of him asking me a direct question, I’ll do my best to keep anything you tell me close to the vest.”

“It is the press we are most worried about.” The Ambassador took out a pack of Gitanes and offered Mobley one.

“No, thanks. I imagine my feelings about the press are similar to yours.”

“Alright.” The Ambassador took a long drag, composing his thoughts.

The waitress came by and delivered Mobley’s whiskey. “No smoking in the bar, sir.”

Mobley handed her a twenty, and she left smiling.

“You see,” the Ambassador took another deep drag then stubbed out the cigarette in an empty bread dish, “some in our government suspect that this Tibetan crisis may have been purposely engineered by … well, someone else in our government — specifically the Politburo member who oversees the People’s Liberation Army.”

Mobley listened closely as Zheng detailed his suspicions. When Zheng finished, Mobley simply nodded.

“You aren’t surprised?”

“No.” Mobley drained the whiskey glass in one long swallow. He picked up his suit coat from the banquette beside him, dug a folded sheet of paper out of the breast pocket and slid it across the table to Zheng.

“What’s this?” The Ambassador asked.

“Other than me violating about ten of our secrecy regulations?” Mobley’s face twisted into a grim smile. “As I think you know, a former official of our National Security Council had some involvement in the initial … planning to help the Panchen Lama escape from house arrest. When I learned about that, I put a stop to it.”

“Former official?”

“Yes, this is a summary of an internal investigation by the NSC of that episode. As a result of this report, the officer in question was reassigned — to a base in Diego Garcia where he can’t cause any more trouble.”

The Ambassador unfolded the paper and quickly scanned the contents. He whistled softly. “May I keep this?”

Mobley nodded. “Be careful how you use it. I’m not ready to retire yet.”

The Ambassador puffed out his cheeks and slowly exhaled through pursed lips. “Of course, you understand that this information will have a profound effect on my government?”

“That’s why I gave it to you.”

Mobley heard loud voices behind him speaking Chinese, and turned to see two Embassy guards coming toward their booth. The leader addressed the Ambassador, ignoring Mobley. “Mr. Ambassador, you must come with us.”

“According to whom?” the little man asked.

“We have received orders from Beijing to take you back to the Embassy immediately.”

“And if I won’t go?”

The man grabbed his arm and began to pull him from the booth. The Ambassador slid the sheet of paper into his pocket, shook off the hand, and spoke sharply to the men in Chinese, then to Mobley in English. “Rather than make a scene, I will go with them. Thank you for the … insights into the current situation.”

Mobley waited a moment, then walked out of the bar, through the lobby door, and signaled to his driver. As he watched, the black Town Car carrying the Ambassador sped down the hotel driveway, and turned onto Connecticut Avenue, racing back to the Chinese Embassy.

48.

Mobley’s ride, a black, armored Ford Expedition, swung into the entrance drive and he scrambled into the back seat. He immediately picked up the car phone and dialed Jill’s number.

“Where to?” his driver asked.

“The office. Fast.” The call connected. “Burnham?”

“Yes?”

“Are you anywhere near Conti? Do you have support?”

“Two of our guys are with me. We’re walking in the direction John drove. Don’t know where he went, so I don’t know how far away we are.”

“You’re not far. We’ve got him on the satellite. The car stopped a few miles up the road. Get there as fast as you can. He was right about the Chinese planning to kill the Lama. Well one of them anyway.”

“One of them?”

“Yeah. Just met with their Ambassador. He says there’s a split in the Chinese leadership. I don’t have time to explain it all but one of the Steering Committee members — Wang is his name …”

“Wang Guo-Li, old line military. The only Maoist left. Anti-American.”

Mobley grabbed the armrest with his free hand as the Explorer sped down the ramp onto Rock Creek Parkway. “That’s the guy. He’s making a play for control of the government, and this whole manufactured crisis in Tibet is part of his strategy. Apparently. Wang’s the one who arranged the Lama’s escape so he would have an excuse for a show of military strength in Tibet — now he wants to eliminate the evidence.”

“Jesus …makes sense though. We’ve been hearing reports for some time that Wang was on the way out. I suppose this was his last ditch effort to stay in power.”

“Not was, Jill, is. While I was talking with the Ambassador, two Chinese security guys showed up and took him away. Wang is still a player. The Ambassador thinks the Panchen Lama may be the key to who comes out on top in Beijing.”

“Yeah, I can see that. We’d better get to Conti as we soon as we can. I’m going to hang up and start running.”

“Good. I’ve sent a helicopter, but it won’t get there for at least an hour.”

Jill shoved the phone into the pocket of her cargo pants and began jogging up the road. Pio and Lad fell in step next to her without asking questions. After fifty yards, she began speaking between gulps of air. “Looks like Conti was … right. The Chinese soldiers may be … trying to kill the Lama. We need … to get there first. Mobley says their car is only a couple of miles ahead.”

The three of them settled into a jog, Lad holding back so the other two could keep pace. “Go ahead if you can,” she told him. He shifted into another gear and, within minutes, disappeared up the road, leaving only a trail of dust. As Jill and Pio labored up a small rise, a two-stroke engine sputtered behind them. They turned to see two teenagers on an ancient Vespa. Jill turned and waved her arms frantically until the boys stopped.

“Hi. We need …” she gasped to catch her breath, “to borrow your scooter. We’ll give you twenty euro and leave it up the road ahead. It is a very big emergency.” She gestured at Pio, who repeated the same thing in Italian.

The teenagers spoke to each other briefly before answering.

“What do they say?” Jill asked Pio.

“They can’t give it to us. It’s their uncle’s.”

“Tell them forty euro.”

Pio relayed this and the two consulted each other again, then answered.

Pio translated. “No. They’re late for soccer practice.”

Jill took off a ring, a small diamond that she’d bought as consolation when she found herself alone on her thirty-fifth birthday. “How about this? It’s worth five thousand dollars at least. I promise we’ll leave the scooter up the road when we’re finished with it, and you can keep the ring. Sell it, or ask your girlfriend to marry you!”

The two boys didn’t wait for a translation. They jumped off, snatched the ring, and rolled the Vespa toward Pio, who held the handlebars as Jill climbed onto the back of the seat. Pio pushed the Vespa until the engine caught, then climbed on and gunned the little motor. The scooter labored to the top of the rise, then picked up speed as the weight of the two riders carried it downhill. In five minutes, they caught up with Lad, bent double beside the wrecked Alfa catching his breath.

At the top of the hill overlooking the road, Conti staggered up to the door of the cooking school, the Panchen Lama’s arm draped over his shoulder. He sat his limp companion against the doorframe and knocked. A tall, thin man in his thirties answered the door. “May I help you?” he asked in English.

Momentarily taken aback by the American accent, Conti answered, “Yes, please. My friend here is not well. We’ve been in an automobile accident. We need water and a place to rest until we can be … evacuated.” Aware of how strange this sounded, Conti rephrased it, “until our friends can pick us up.”

“Senora Vogliano has gone into town to pick up some ingredients. I’m not sure...” The man looked down at the Lama, head drooping onto his bloodstained shirt. “But we can’t leave him outside in this condition, can we?”

The two men lifted the little Tibetan by his arms and helped him into an old farm kitchen, updated with a massive stainless steel range and polished brass pans hanging from hooks on the walls. They sat him on a stool next to the empty hearth.

“Well!” the young man said. “I’m Matt, and this…” pointing to a younger man in a heather-toned cashmere sweater standing in front of the stove, “is my partner, Drew. We’re from New York. And these good people …” he pointed to a middle aged couple busily cutting vegetables on a sideboard, “are the Maldonados. They’re from Buenos Aires.” The two of them looked up and smiled. “They don’t speak much English.”

Conti went to the sink and drew a glass of water, then held it while the Panchen Lama drank. “Thanks very much for taking us in.” He decided to be more forthcoming in case they needed more help later. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m with the U.S. government — here on a matter of considerable importance to our country. We may be being … well, pursued, by agents of another government.”

Matt put his hand over his mouth and gasped, “I interned at the CIA. Is that who you’re with?”

Conti couldn’t help but smile. “No. State Department. But that doesn’t really matter. It’s critical that I get this fellow,” he pointed to the Lama nodding in the chair, “safely to Palermo. A Navy helicopter should be here in to pick us up within the hour.”

“Wow!” Drew looked up from his sauté pan and spoke for the first time.

They were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. A few seconds later a woman’s voice cried in Chinese-accented English, “Open up!”

Matt looked at Conti, who held one finger up to his lips. The pounding resumed, this time accompanied by a man’s deep, more heavily accented voice. “Open or we will break it down!”

Conti lifted the Panchen Lama out of the chair and walked him into the adjoining room, pointing at the door and whispering, “Go ahead. Answer it. You haven’t seen us.”

Matt went to the door and opened it. “May I help you?”

Agent Cho, poised on tiptoes on the stoop, craned her neck to look over his shoulder. “We are looking for two men. One of them needs medical treatment urgently. We are here to pick him up and take him to a doctor. Have you seen them?”

“No we haven’t. This is a cooking class. We’re making lasagna with béchamel sauce.” Matt held up a soup spoon. Want to taste?”

“Do you object if we look into the other rooms?” Cho asked.

“I’m afraid I do,” he replied. “You see. This isn’t my house. It’s a cooking school and the proprietor is not here. I can’t let you in without her permission.”

Cho turned and spoke to the two men behind her, then stepped aside. The largest one walked toward Matt, holding a rifle across his chest. When the American refused to yield, the soldier gave him a shove and entered the kitchen, followed by Cho. A scrambling noise came from the adjoining room. Cho looked suspiciously at the others. “I’m going to ask you again, and I expect the truth. Did two men come here, one an American and the other Asian?”

Matt narrowed his eyes and scowled at her, but said nothing. He took several steps backward and planted himself, feet apart, in the doorway to the adjoining room, arms crossed on his chest. Cho turned to the soldier and said something in Chinese. He strode across the room and slammed his rifle into the American’s chest, knocking him sprawling to the ground. As the soldier stepped over the fallen man, Drew picked up his heavy iron skillet, took two long strides, and brought it down on the back of the Chinese soldier’s head. Sautéed mushrooms, onions, and droplets of blood flew into the air.

49.

Lad jogged alongside the Vespa as it chugged up the gravel drive to the front of the farmhouse. Pio switched off the ignition but the old engine continued to clatter loudly for a few moments. As the three of them recovered their hearing, a yelp of pain shot from the kitchen door. Lad leaped onto the porch and through the door, holding a pistol in front of him. Pio followed immediately, sweeping the room with the stubby shotgun. Jill brought up the rear, squeezing into the kitchen vestibule. Across the room, one of the Chinese soldiers lay on the floor, the back of his head bleeding. A second soldier knelt beside him and Cho stared down at both of them. The other guests cowered in the corner.

“Drop your weapons,” Lad ordered in English. The kneeling Chinese agent turned slowly and drew a bead on the American with his rifle.

Cho pulled a small pistol from inside her sleeve and glared at the Americans. “I believe it is you who must surrender. We each have a pistol, but our automatic rifle would seem to trump that misshapen thing.” She gestured toward the sawed-off shotgun. “The QBZ-95 is not our newest model, but, if I recall correctly, it fires six hundred and fifty rounds per minute — quite capable of shredding this room and everything in it in seconds.”

Lad and Pio glanced at Jill who nodded. They lowered their gun muzzles toward the floor.

“Good. Now we will continue with our search. Place your weapons on the floor and step back.”

As she said this, a sharp buzzing sound issued from her pocket. She extracted a compact walkie-talkie, took a few steps backward, and spoke into it for several minutes, nodding. Then, to the Americans’ surprise, she walked quietly up to the soldier with the assault rifle and stuck her pistol in his back, speaking harshly in Chinese. The man froze in shock. Cho shoved the gun further into his ribs and repeated what she’d said, much louder this time. The soldier slowly placed his rifle on the butcher block table in the middle of the room.

“Please pick up the rifle and your own guns,” Cho told the Americans.

She looked straight at Jill. “I owe you an apology. There has been a mix-up. My superiors have now clarified that we will work together to transport the Lama to your offices, and await further orders. I understand that you will receive a confirming message from your Director shortly.”

Within seconds, Jill received a text from Mobley’s private number: “Original plan back on. Work with Chinese. Call when you have PL.”

Jill pursed her lips as she answered the text, then spoke to Cho. “O.K., I think things are clear now. Let’s find the young man and get moving.”

Cho bowed slightly. “Agreed. Will your associate cooperate this time?”

Jill hesitated a moment, then answered softly, “I hope so.”

The two women, followed by Lad, walked together into the large, dark room just off the kitchen. Pio stayed behind guarding the Chinese soldiers. Jill snapped on the lights, revealing a long refectory table surrounded by a dozen chairs of different vintages. No sign of Conti or the Panchen Lama. A gust of wind blew through an open window, rustling the white lace curtains.

Lad leaned out the window. “The dirt is disturbed down here. Footprints headed toward that chicken coop.” He pointed to a small, rickety structure about fifty feet away.

“I’d better go talk with him alone,” Jill said. Cho nodded her agreement.

She walked slowly across the courtyard. When she got within ten feet, she called, “John, it’s me.”

No answer.

“John!” More emphatic this time.

“Where are the Chinese?” A low voice came through the cracks between the weathered boards.

“They’re here. But we’re working together now.”

“You can’t trust them, Jill. I’m telling you they want to murder the Panchen Lama. Mobley confirmed it.”

“I know he did. But I just talked to him. The situation has changed again. It’s too complicated to explain. You were right, but now we’re going to take the Lama to Palermo together. Can you see out of that building?”

“Yes.”

She pointed to Agent Cho. “Look. She doesn’t have a weapon. And look behind her. Pio and Lad have the guns, John.”

Conti walked out into the afternoon sunlight, blinking, pistol in hand. “Damn,” he said. “Good job. How’d you manage to take their weapons away?”

“Didn’t have to. She gave them to us. So, let’s get out of here. Where’s the Lama?”

“I’ll get him — one condition.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What’s that?”

“I’m staying with him until I understand what the deal is.”

“The deal?”

“Yes — what’s going to happen to him when he gets back to China.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I trust you. It’s your employer I don’t trust. Too much experience.”

“Alright. Fine. Just hurry up and get him.” She checked her watch. “The Navy copter should be here soon.”

Conti ducked into the shed and came back leading the disoriented young man by the arm. As if on cue, the thrumming sound of a helicopter rose from the valley below. As they watched, spinning blades rose slowly above the treetops. Then the silhouette of the copter appeared against the setting sun, its markings obscure in the gathering gloom.

“Jill!” Conti shook her arm.

“What?”

“That doesn’t look like a Navy copter.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think it’s ours. It’s painted flat black — like the one the South Africans had back in Tuscany. Remember?”

“But Mobley said the Seals should be here about now. Maybe they don’t use conventional equipment on assignments like this.”

The copter hovered over the clearing, then set down a hundred yards away on a bare patch of pasture. Three men in gray jumpsuits, faces covered with stocking masks, leaped out, Uzis ready. Jill hesitated, then spoke out the side of her mouth to Conti, “You’re right. Get out of here. I’ll try to hold them off.” But she was speaking to thin air. Conti and the Panchen Lama had already disappeared into the trees.

50.

Politburo Headquarters, Beijing, Early Sunday Morning

Wang’s assistant carried a tray into his office and set it on the corner of his desk. “There is no one in the kitchen yet. But I found some pork buns left over from yesterday’s lunch. Have you been here all night?”

Wang sat facing the window behind his desk. He said nothing, but raised one hand in a dismissive gesture. “Go. Dim the lights on the way out.” He took a few sips of the steaming tea, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

“Wang, you’re here very early.” He opened one eye to the unwelcome sight of the tall, thin Leong striding through his office door.

“Comrade Leong, I thought you were in the hospital? Intensive care?”

Leong stared down at Wang, arms crossed. “They thought it was a stroke initially. It turned out to be only something called a TIA — a transient ischemic attack. Not so serious. I’m sure you are relieved.” Wang didn’t bother to feign concern.

“I’m not here to socialize, Wang. I had a call from Ambassador Zheng in Washington. He was on his way to a meeting with the Director of the CIA. To discuss the Panchen Lama situation.”

“And?”

“I would like to know what transpired at that meeting. But I understand that your military security people are holding him incommunicado. Zheng reports to me, not you.”

Wang’s expression remained impassive. “Zheng initiated an unauthorized contact with the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. The Embassy security people have suspected for some time that he has had a clandestine relationship with the Americans. We took him into custody to question him about this — he’ll be held until our investigation of his activities is complete, at which time you will receive a full report.”

“That is convenient for you, is it not, Comrade Wang?”

“Convenient?”

“You are trying to ensure that he will not pass on to me or to the Steering Committee any information he may have learned from the American.” Leong stepped forward and leaned over Wang’s desk, pointing his finger at the older man’s chest. “What are you afraid of?”

“Certainly not you,” Wang growled.

Leong spun on his heel and stalked out of the office.

At the Chinese Embassy in Washington, the security guards showed Zheng into a windowless room. Now back at the Embassy, they were diffident, as if suddenly realizing the magnitude of what they’d done. They politely searched his person, putting wallet, phone, appointment book, and cigarettes onto the metal table in the center of the room.

“My cigarettes? Surely you aren’t going to take them. Do you think I will burn my way out of here?”

“My apologies Mr. Ambassador, but we have orders to take custody of all personal items.”

“There is nothing personal about those cigarettes,” Zheng replied. “Except that they are unfiltered. Unless you want me to climb the walls, I’d suggest you leave them here.”

The two men exchanged glances, and the older one handed the soft Gitanes pack back to Zheng. They placed the rest of the articles in a cloth bag and left the room, locking the door behind them.

Zheng collapsed onto the room’s only chair. Were they going to interrogate him? He doubted it. There was no one at the Embassy who had the nerve to take him on directly. Wang would have to send someone specifically for the task from Beijing. That would take at least a day. He shook a cigarette out of the pack, lit it, and examined the room. It was a storeroom, empty except for a few boxes of computer paper and office supplies. No cameras as far as he knew, but he stood up and walked around the perimeter examining the walls, just in case. When he’d satisfied himself that the room wasn’t bugged, he took the cigarette pack out of his pocket and checked it. The memo that Mobley had given him was still there, tucked into the back of the pack between the cellophane and paper layers. Fortunately, they’d allowed him to smoke on the short trip back to the Embassy.

He had to do something fast. In another twenty-four hours, Wang could cover his tracks, eliminating the Panchen Lama and using the Tibet crisis to consolidate his power. Pounding on the door, he cried, “Is anyone there? I need my medication.”

As he expected, one of the security men had been posted outside. Zheng repeated his plea three times, each louder than the previous one, before the guard cracked the door a few inches. “What medication?”

“I am diabetic,” Zheng said. This was true. “I need an insulin injection. If not, by morning, you may have a corpse on your hands.” This was not true, but he guessed the guard wouldn’t know any better.

“I can’t leave my post,” the guard complained.

“You don’t have to. My assistant will still be in the office. Call and ask her to bring my insulin supplies — she knows where they are — and some water, while she’s at it. Your superiors can’t possibly object to keeping me alive. What sort of a show trial will they have if I’m not there?”

“Show trial?” The guards didn’t appreciate the irony. “What is the number?” he asked.

“Extension 572. Her name is Miss Lok.”

The door shut, and Zheng heard the guard make two calls, one to his superior, then a second to his assistant. He sat back on the chair and began chewing his fingernails, thinking. Ten minutes later, the door opened again. The guard walked in followed by Miss Lok, carrying a silver tray with a pitcher of water, a glass, and an insulin pen.

“Thank you,” Zheng said, with a slight inclination of his head. Miss Lok scanned the room with alarm. “Don’t worry,” he continued. “This is a temporary arrangement. I’m sure Comrade Leong will remedy the situation once he has all the facts.” Zheng emphasized the last few words of the sentence, looking straight into her eyes. The guard frowned and Zheng said no more, but unbuttoned his shirt and pressed the insulin pen against his stomach. When the guard looked away, Zheng slipped the folded paper Mobley had given him under the edge of the silver water pitcher. As he watched his assistant and the guard leave the room, Zheng sat back and sighed, hoping that he had turned his Miss Lok’s unbounded curiosity to his advantage.

51.

The black helicopter sat in the middle of the pasture, its spinning rotor swirling up dust. Conti and Jill hadn’t seen any markings on it because there weren’t any — except for the white tail numbers. The three masked gunmen aimed their weapons at the Americans, but didn’t advance. A few seconds later, the South African’s boss, Matthis, strode out of the helicopter carrying a swagger stick. He wore the same gray jumpsuit as the others but his mustached face was uncovered.

“Who are they?” Cho asked Jill.

“South Africans. Mercenaries. The people who helped the Lama escape. Now they seem to want him back.”

“To kill him,” Cho said.

“Probably,” Jill muttered, stepping forward to meet the man with the swagger stick. She spoke slowly, lowering her voice half a tone, trying to sound tough. “What do you want?”

Matthis smoothed his moustache before answering, “What the fuck do you think we want? The Lama. By the way, you never told us who you were working for. Although by now I think I know. CIA, right?”

“Yes. And unless you want to get into even more trouble than you’re already in, tell your thugs put their weapons down. A squad of Navy Seals will be here any minute.”

“I’m shaking.” He surveyed the area and spat on the ground. “No time to waste, then. Where’s the Tibetan?”

Jill bristled and took a deep breath before answering. The longer they talked, the farther Conti could get. “The Panchen Lama, you mean. The man you kidnapped? No idea where he is. I thought maybe you could tell me. Who’s paying you anyway?”

Matthis took a step closer to her. “I don’t have time for this bullshit. If you and your pals don’t want to end up as vulture shit, you’ll tell me where he is. Now!” He motioned to his confederates. They walked forward and took up positions ten yards behind him, weapons raised. Jill surveyed the situation. On their side, three men with Uzis. On hers, Lad with a sawed-off shotgun. Pio was still back in the house watching the Chinese soldiers. Hopelessly outgunned, yet again.

“Don’t want to cooperate, huh?” Matthis pointed at Lad. “Take his weapon away.” One of the men approached Lad while the other two stood a few yards away, drawing a bead on his chest. Lad struggled briefly, but after some pushing and shoving, he gave up the shotgun. “Search the women.” The masked man frisked Jill and Cho, taking a pistol from Cho’s shoulder holster. Jill had nothing.

“Good. Now we can make some progress. For every minute that you don’t tell me where the Tibetan is, I will shoot one of you. The tough guy goes first.” He pointed at Lad. “I don’t like his looks.” He slid his cuff up over a military-style watch. “Sixty seconds. Starting now.”

Matthis drew a pistol from a shoulder holster. He walked over to the American and held his arm straight out, the gun a few inches from Lad’s temple. “Thirty seconds.”

A rustling noise came from the bushes behind the outbuilding. A figure stepped out of the forest and stopped. “That won’t be necessary.”

Matthis spun and searched the lengthening shadows. When he located Conti, he aimed the pistol at him. “You again?”

“Remember me, Matthis? It took me a while to place you. That squirrel draped over your upper lip threw me off. Then it hit me. Baghdad, 2002, right? You and your Blackstream buddies worked for me back then, looking for hidden Taliban weapons caches. Had to fire you though. You liked to blow things up from a distance rather than get too close. Of course, that meant you were wrong half the time. So I see you’ve taken your dubious skills in another direction. Who are you working for now?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have time to reminisce. But you’re right that I don’t work for the CIA anymore. Pussy organization. Now I can do what I like.” He raised his pistol, aiming at Conti’s head. “Where’s the fucking Lama?”

Conti pointed to the forest behind him. “Where I left him. Comfy spot about a quarter of a mile from here. Quite well hidden.”

“Take me there … or I’ll kill you and find him myself.”

Conti laughed. “Not smart, Matthis. You never were the sharpest knife. That would take quite a while — plenty of time for the Seals to show up. A few morons with masks and popguns aren’t going to scare them.”

“What do you want?”

“Let my friends go, and I’ll take you to him.”

“You’ll just lead us on a wild goose chase.”

“If we don’t find him in ten minutes, you’re welcome to shoot me.” He looked up at the sky. “You’re running out of time.”

“You lot,” Matthis gestured to the Americans and Cho, “Back to the house. Simon, keep an eye on them in case this greaseball is fucking with us. O.K., let’s go.”

Conti led them toward the trees that lined the perimeter of the pasture surrounding the house. They walked on a narrow footpath past a pig enclosure and into the low brush, where the path fell over the crest of the hill and down a steep, rocky track. Boots sliding on the pebbled surface, they made their way down the slope.

“Where the hell are we going?” Matthis asked.

“Not much farther,” Conti answered, speeding up.

“Wait!”

But Conti was jogging down the hill now. “Around the next bend,” he yelled back. The path curved around an outcropping of granite taller than a man, with twisted evergreens poking through its cracks. Ten yards ahead, Conti dodged behind the rock and scrambled up a small rise, where the Panchen Lama lay, curled up on the ground.

“The gun! Quick!”

The Lama sat up, rubbed his eyes and picked up the Beretta that Conti had left with him. He tossed it to Conti, who climbed up on the rock and trained the pistol on the path below. Matthis, sensing that something was wrong, stopped and sent one of his men ahead around the outcropping. Conti hesitated for a moment. The man looked up, saw the glint of Conti’s pistol, and opened fire. A spray of bullets hit the ledge in front of Conti, showering him with rock dust. He waited a few seconds, then leaned out and fired back, bringing the South African down with a single shot to the neck. He scrambled back to where the Panchen Lama sat.

“Can you run?”

“I think so.”

“Okay, when I say ‘Go’, make your way around this rock back to the path. I’ll stay behind to make sure they don’t follow.”

“What if they shoot you?”

“Then my mother will get a good pension.” Conti smiled grimly.

The Lama started climbing around the escarpment on all fours in the opposite direction from the South Africans. Conti waited a moment, watching the path. Matthis and his remaining comrade had pulled the wounded, groaning man back from the outcropping. Good. He’s not dead, Conti thought. That will slow them down. He fired two more shots, then clambered after the Lama. It didn’t take long to circle around and reach the path above the rock.

“Run up the hill as fast as you can but don’t go out into the open. Wait for me at the top. Go!” He gave the Lama a shove. After losing his footing on the loose gravel, the younger man stood and jogged up the path. Conti stayed behind, watching the rocks below. The muzzle of an Uzi poked around the corner. Conti took careful aim and shot twice. One of the shots pinged off the metal housing of the machine gun. A man yelped, and the weapon dropped to the ground. A hand reached out from behind the rock to retrieve the Uzi and Conti fired another burst, hitting the gun several times. He hoped he’d put it out of action, but he knew from experience that an Uzi was tough to kill. He tried to remember how many rounds the Beretta held — a dozen, maybe a few more. Whatever, he didn’t have many bullets left. Time to go. He turned and ran up the path.

When he reached the top of the hill, he stumbled on the Lama lying in the long grass.

“You O.K.?”

“Yes. What now?”

“Now we need to get back into the house, but one of the goons is in there with a machine gun.

“Goons?”

“South Africans.” Conti looked back down the hill. He couldn’t see much in the falling dusk, but as far as he could tell, Matthis wasn’t close. Maybe he’d been lucky and wounded the second gunman. Still, no time to waste. “Alright. Ready?” he asked the Lama. “We’re going to run around the edge of the field to the back of the house. Stay low and in the shadow of the trees.”

The two men crouched and circled the field at a dogtrot. At the back of the house, Conti motioned for the Lama to stay behind as he crept to the back door. As he turned the handle, something hard stabbed him in the lower back.

“Who the fuck are you?” The South African guarding the house stood behind him, holding an Uzi against Conti’s spine.

“Turn around so I can see your face.” Conti stifled a cry of pain as the man jabbed the muzzle hard into his kidney. But he didn’t turn around. That would be a quick death.

“I said, turn …”

The South African never finished his sentence. A rolling pin came down hard on his head, and he crumpled to the ground in a heap. Cho stood over him, arm raised, ready to strike again. “No need,” Conti said. “He’s out cold.”

“Good. The bastard.” The Chinese woman grimaced. She picked up the Uzi.

“We’d better get inside. The others may be here any second.” He called the Lama, and the three of them went inside the house. They found Jill tied to a kitchen chair.

“Where are the rest?” Conti asked.

“In the cooler.”

Conti removed the chair wedged against the handle of a walk-in refrigerator and opened the door. Pio, Lad, the two Chinese soldiers and the cooking school students came out, rubbing their hands together and blowing on them. “Damn!” Lad exclaimed, “Cold in there. What’s going on?”

“Cho saved my skin,” Conti told them as he untied Jill. “How’d you get loose?” he asked Cho, noticing the rope coiled on the floor next to another chair.

The Chinese woman’s lips curled in a slight smile. “We Asians are very clever with our hands. I read that in the Wall Street Journal.”

“Where are the other South Africans?” Jill asked.

“Don’t know,” Conti replied. “For some reason, they didn’t chase us. But I don’t think they’ve given up. We have to get out of here. Where the hell’s the Navy?”

“Give me your phone and I’ll find out.” Jill took the mobile and dialed Mobley’s number. After she briefly described the situation, she asked about the helicopter, frowning as he gave her a lengthy answer.

“Well?” Conti asked when she hung up.

“Mechanical problems. Had to return to the base to get another bird. Mobley says they’re close now. No more than fifteen minutes away.”

“Let’s hope he’s right.” Lad had drifted over to the window and was looking out. “The South Africans are climbing back into their copter. We’re in deep shit.”

“What do you mean?” Jill asked.

“Those metal cans hanging off the side of the copter aren’t for trash. They’re missile pods. A couple of Hellfires would blow this house into a parallel universe.”

52.

Beijing, Sunday Morning

The Steering Committee members slowly filtered into the conference room, mumbling greetings to each other. Leong headed for Chairman Li, who, standing at the window stroking his wispy gray beard, resembled a washed out watercolor of Confucius.

“The sunrise over the lake is one of my favorite views in Beijing,” Li said.

“And are you here to see it every morning?” asked Leong.

“Of course. I always arrive around this time, after my morning Tai Chi practice. You young men sleep too much. It saps your energy.”

“Perhaps,” Leong responded, not wanting to argue with the old man.

Li turned and addressed the room. “Everyone seems to be here — in body if not in spirit. Please take your seats. I apologize for calling a meeting on Sunday morning, but developments in Tibet require it.”

When everyone was seated, he continued. “As some of you may not yet know, late last night the Tibetan rebels occupied the Potala Palace. That is where the leaders of the movement have gathered. They have also taken over several other monasteries, but the Potala is the most significant. As long as they control it, the rebels will gain strength and resolve. Comrade Wang tells us these people are not just harmless monks. Some have modern weapons. He believes the time has come to take decisive action.” He nodded at Wang, “Please favor us with your recommendation.”

Wang stood up and looked around the room, anger flashing in his eyes. “The local authorities in Tibet have failed yet again.” He glared at Chen Baojia, head of the People’s Armed Police, a department of the Ministry of State Security. “It is a colossal failure of crisis management, which will require a formal inquiry in the near future. But for now, we must take immediate and resolute steps to restore order in Lhasa. If we do not, all of Tibet, and perhaps other areas of our country where the cancer of ethnic nationalism has spread, will be in full revolt against this government.”

“What do you propose?” Li asked, his voice mild by contrast.

“The PLA now holds strategic points around the city,” Wang said. “At least one of us has done his job. We must take the Potala Palace, that corrosive symbol of Tibetan nationalism, by force, wiping out any opposition.”

“The number of casualties from such a course of action would be completely unacceptable,” Chen Baojia cried, rising to his feet. “It would create decades of bitterness and fear toward the central government.”

Wang sneered at him. “No. What it would do would is end this ceaseless agitation and lead to decades of socialist progress! Do you fear these … rustics? Without a head, the snake cannot bite. I say we chop off the head once and for all!”

Leong cleared his throat. “Speaking of the serpent’s head, Comrade Wang, what information can you give us about the so-called Panchen Lama? Some of us believe he may represent an alternative solution to this problem. If we can bring him back to Beijing and convince him to call for calm in Tibet, it may not be necessary to assault the monastery.”

“I’m afraid that is no longer possible, Comrade Leong. Your plan to take him into custody is no longer feasible. The Americans have refused to hand over the traitor. I suspect they were always just playing for time. Time to cause us more trouble. I’ve given the Army the necessary orders to eliminate that threat as well.”

The conference room door opened. An aide slipped in and stood waiting for Wang to finish. When he did, the young man handed Wang a message, bowed and left the room. Wang glanced at the paper, then excused himself.

Back in Washington, Miss Lok neatly arranged the papers on Ambassador Zheng’s desk, making sure the edges were parallel to each other and to the leather blotter. She straightened the pens in the Dragon Boat festival commemorative cup, checking that all ballpoints were retracted. She hated disorder in the office, especially in view of the chaos caused by the Ambassador’s detention.

All at once the emotion she’d kept bottled up flooded out. She collapsed onto the Ambassador’s chair and wept softly into her handkerchief for a few moments. But she knew this wouldn’t do. Perhaps things would return to normal tomorrow. As she wiped the moisture from her eyes, she noticed the tray with the silver water pitcher on the credenza by the door. One more thing to clean up, and she could go home. She carried the tray to the office’s wet bar and lifted the pitcher to empty it. A folded piece of paper stuck to the bottom. As she unfolded and read it quickly, the Ambassador’s words came back to her — “Leong will remedy the situation once he has all the facts.” She ran into the outer office and turned on the fax machine.

Wang stalked out of the conference room, through the reception area, down a flight of stairs, and out into the parking lot. He dialed the number on the piece of paper he’d been given.

“Well?” Wang demanded when Matthis answered. “Is it done?”

“Not quite. We’ve run into some difficulties.”

“What difficulties?”

“The Lama is holed up in a house with the Americans and a Chinese agent. They have weapons and they appear to be working together.”

“And?”

“And the only sure way to get them now is to use air-to-ground missiles from the helicopter. They’ll all be killed.”

Wang hesitated for a moment. The stakes were rising too fast for his liking. Killing a few Americans he could explain. But killing a senior Chinese intelligence agent was something else. He’d have to convince the Committee that she’d fallen in a battle with the Americans over the Lama. He could do that as long as no one was left to testify to the contrary. Eventually, he would have to get rid of the South Africans too, but that was a problem for later.

“Are you sure you can get them all?”

“A couple of missiles should do the trick. Then we’ll go in and clean up any survivors.”

“Go ahead!”

53.

Lad leaned against the sink, and peered out the kitchen window using the night vision binoculars he’d found on the unconscious South African. Darkness had fallen quickly, but the nearly full moon provided some visibility. He watched as the men climbed back into the helicopter. “We’ve got to act now,” he spoke urgently to Conti and Jill.

“And do what?” Jill asked.

“Disable that bird before it gets in the air. What do we have left, Pio?”

The Italian had collected the weapons from the Chinese soldiers and the South African. “An Uzi, two assault rifles and a couple of pistols.”

“Forget the pistols,” Conti said. “They’d be useless at this range. Give me one of the rifles. You and Lad take the others. We’ll scatter in the field out front and take whatever cover we can find. Then we’ll aim at …. What’s the most vulnerable part of a helicopter?”

Lad studied the copter closely. “Hate to tell you this, but I think that’s an Apache with a bad paint job. Where the hell would people like that get an Apache?”

“Where?” Conti replied. “We’ve sold hundreds of them around the world. I’ve seen them myself arms bazaars in Pakistan. So what if it is an Apache?”

“Armored — heavily armored,” Lad answered. “Let’s get going.”

“What should I do?” Jill asked.

“Take the pistols,” Conti said. Pio handed the remaining weapons to Jill and Cho. “When we go out the front, you take everyone else out the back. Look for someplace to hide at least a hundred yards from the house. If we don’t come back, it’ll be up to you to protect the Lama.”

The three men ran out the door, fanning out in front of the house. Lad and Conti went to the right, crouching behind an antique farm wagon filled with flowerpots in bloom. Pio went left. Lad gave the signal and they began firing at the helicopter as it rose into the night sky. Conti was surprised to see bright green arcs spitting from the muzzle of his rifle. “What the hell?”

“Chinese tracers,” Lad said. “They use barium, I think.” He kept shooting. The bullets were finding their marks, but causing no visible damage. “Damn it. Even the glass is bulletproof. Aim at the rotor.”

They continued to fire as the helicopter rose ten, fifteen, twenty feet into the air. As soon as it climbed above trees, it rotated slowly until it faced the house. Clouds of smoke shot out backwards from the side pods of the copter. Conti watched, helpless, as two vapor trails headed for the house.

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?”

“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.

“What’s happening?” Conti asked Cho in English.

“The General won’t listen to me. He ordered this guy,” pointing the pistol at the adjutant, “to take the Lama into custody. Said something about having orders to wipe out the rebels.”

“Yeah. I heard some things out here that worried me too.”

“What?”

“The soldiers didn’t realize I understand Chinese. They were talking about something called a B611. What’s that? Apparently two of them are aimed at the Potala.”

Cho put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God!”

“You’d better drive,” Conti told Cho. “If we run into roadblocks, you can say we’ve been ordered to sweep the area around the Palace for stragglers.” They’d dressed the Panchen Lama in the adjutant’s uniform, and Conti wore an old PLA overcoat and winter cap, two sizes too large, that he’d found in General Bo’s office. He hoped no one would notice the Caucasian hidden beneath the red star and large fur flaps.

As the car turned onto Kang’angduo Road toward the Potala, they came upon four soldiers huddled around a rusty oil barrel. One of them left the warmth of the fire and moved to the middle of the road, holding up his rifle. Cho stopped the car and rolled down the window. She showed the soldier her credentials and spoke to him for a few moments in Chinese. The soldier bent and pointed his flashlight briefly at the car’s other occupants. Conti feigned a coughing fit, covering his face with his hand. The tired soldier waved them through. Two long blocks later, they reached the West entrance to the Potala, deserted now that the PLA had pulled back.

“What now?” Cho asked, as much to herself as to the others.

“We’ve got to get him in there.” Conti replied. “Without getting shot.”

Cho frowned. “That’s the hard part, isn’t it?”
“A flag of truce?” Conti suggested.

The young man in the back seat spoke for the first time since they’d left PLA headquarters. “I don’t need a flag to enter the Potala. I am the Panchen Lama.”

Conti glanced at Cho and raised his eyebrows. “Yes, you are. But that doesn’t mean they won’t shoot you. It’s dark.”

“I am not worried. My people will know me.” He shrugged off the military jacket, and pulled a saffron scarf from his pocket.

“Where’d that come from?” Conti asked.

“This?” The Lama held up the scarf. “I always carry it. The Dalai Lama gave it to me when I was five years old. In this very monastery.”

“But they took our clothes when we boarded the plane in Florence,” Conti said, bewildered.

“I concealed it in my palm,” the Lama answered. “I’ve had it for twenty-five years and was not about to give it up easily.” He tied the scarf around his neck, opened the car door, and walked deliberately toward the steps leading to the Potala entrance, hands folded in a prayerful gesture.

Conti opened the passenger side door and swung his leg out. Cho leaned over and put her hand on his shoulder. “No, let him go. He’s accepting his responsibility. We should not interfere.”

Conti sat back, half in and half out of the car. “But we’ve got to help him organize those monks, don’t we?”

“Yes, but not right away.” She checked the time. “Four a.m. Still time before dawn. Let’s give him fifteen minutes.”

57.

Jill sank back into the deep, baby soft leather sofa in Mobley’s office. Although it was mid-afternoon in Washington, she wanted to curl up and sleep. Her body clock was completely out of whack. Mobley walked over and handed her a cardboard cup. “Drink this. Double espresso. They do that in the cafeteria downstairs now. You’re going to need it. This just keeps getting more byzantine.”

She shook herself fully awake and took the cup. “Ouch! That’s hot.” She stretched the sleeve of her blouse over her hand to insulate it. “Feels good though. What’s the latest?”

“Things are coming to a head. The nationalist rebels — mostly monks — have taken over the Potala Palace. They’ve got pretty sophisticated radio equipment …”

“The PLA can’t jam it?”

“They’re trying, but the monks have a network of transmitters and repeaters — they’re using frequency hopping. Some information is getting through.”

“And?”

“To put is simply, the monks are preparing to die. Sort of a latter day Masada. They’re sending farewell messages to their families and friends.”

“Are the Chinese going to attack? They said they wanted the Panchen Lama back so they could work out some sort of compromise.”

“As to the first question, the PLA has two rocket launchers parked within a mile of the Palace. Our satellites showed them loading warheads on the rockets as night fell. They look like tactical nukes — probably fifteen or twenty kilotons.”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah. As to what the Chinese will do, no one is quite sure, even the Chinese apparently. Our diplomatic contacts continue to say they intend to use the Panchen Lama to calm the situation. But we’ve picked up radio transmissions to the General in charge in Lhasa to the contrary.”

“What are the orders?”

“Launch the rockets. Five a.m. Lhasa time. Half an hour from now.”

“What happened to Conti and the Lama?”

“That’s the interesting part. Their plane rerouted and landed in Lhasa a few hours ago.”

“What can we do?”

“Pray. And hope Conti is as smart as you think.”

Wang put his revolver back in the desk drawer and watched the clock on the opposite wall. 4:50 a.m. The issue would be determined one way or the other in ten minutes. He picked up the phone and called General Bo one more time.

“Is everything ready?”

“Yes. Do we have the go-ahead from the Steering Committee?”

“The order should be on your machine.” Wang had taken an old Committee directive and changed the necessary words. Odd. It was possible to circumvent modern technologies and security systems with whiteout and a fax machine — if one only had the nerve.

“I have it.” Bo’s voice trembled.

“Don’t worry, General. You will receive the Hero’s Medal for this.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wang hung up the phone.

“Wang!” Leong walked into the room. “Who will get the Hero’s Medal for what?”

“Military business. None of yours.”

Leong picked up the paper that Wang had left lying on the fax machine. “What the hell is this? We never voted on this! You can’t possibly …”

Wang opened his desk drawer, pulled out his revolver, and pointed it at Leong’s chest. “Don’t move! In ten minutes, the rebellion will be finished. And so will you.”

“Ha! And how do you propose to explain that to the Steering Committee?”

“I won’t have to. After I’ve ended the rebellion in Tibet and done what the rest of you don’t have the nerve to do, no one will challenge me. Anyone who does will get the same treatment.”

“You’re talking about a coup d’etat, Wang. You’re insane!”

“I was Chairman Mao’s personal assistant for three years, Leong. This is what he would have done. For the good of China.”

General Bo hung up the phone with an unsteady hand. Seven minutes to go. He’d given the orders; now he had only to wait. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his hands although it couldn’t have been more than fifty degrees inside the warehouse where they’d set up headquarters.

“You’d better see this, sir.” A major on his staff pointed to a screen, one in a line of computers sitting on a folding table amid a tangle of wires. “It’s CNN.”

“I’m not interested in the news right now, Major. Nor should you be. We have to focus on the task at hand.”

“This is about the task at hand, General. CNN has a camera feed a few hundred yards from the Palace.”

“That can’t be. We haven’t allowed news trucks anywhere in the city except for Xinhua, and we shut them down hours ago, right?”

“Yes, but look here. They are broadcasting live pictures of the Potala Palace.”

“How could they do that?

“Well, sir. It isn’t that difficult. They have satellite transmitters that can be carried in backpacks …”

“Goddamn it! Find their location and shut them down!” Bo walked across the room and stared at the screen for a minute. “No, there isn’t time. If they’re that close, the picture will just go blank when the shells hit. They won’t be able to broadcast the … aftermath.”

“Wait,” the Major leaned closer to the computer screen. “There are people coming out of the Palace gate.”

General Bo reached into his tunic pocket and fished out his reading glasses. Setting them on the bridge of his nose, he studied the screen. Two lines of monks were exiting the monastery’s west gate, heads down and hands folded, as if in prayer — hundreds of them. The rebels were surrendering! Should he fire the rockets in spite of this?

“Major, contact the officer in charge of the launch vehicles and tell him to hold pending further orders. And get Wang on the phone immediately!”

Mobley and Jill sat in front of the flat-screen television transfixed by the pictures from Tibet.

“What the hell is going on?” McCullough barged into the office, but Mobley was too engrossed to be ticked off.

“Potala Palace,” Jill said. “The rebels are marching out. Can’t be sure, but I think that’s the Panchen Lama in the lead, the one with the yellow scarf.”

“No shit?” McCullough said under his breath as he sat down on the arm of the massive sofa. “So your boy Conti pulled it off, huh?”

“Looks like maybe he did,” Jill answered in a soft voice.

“Not necessarily,” Mobley said. He’d gone back to his desk and was focused on a computer screen. “Our guys are monitoring the command frequencies in Lhasa. The launch has been delayed, but not countermanded.”

The phone rang in Wang’s office at 4:57 a.m.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Leong asked.

“No need. The order has been given. Three minutes and there will be no more Potala Palace, and no more Tibetan independence movement.” Wang allowed himself a wan, half smile.

“If you won’t answer it, I will.” Leong took a step toward the phone.

“Stop!” Wang raised his revolver again.

“Go ahead, answer it, Comrade Leong.” The voice came from behind Wang, and he spun around to see Old Li standing in the doorway. Behind him were two guards, guns trained on Wang.

Leong answered the phone. “Comrade Wang is currently incapacitated. This is Minister Leong Shi-Fa. On behalf of the Steering Committee, I order you to stop any offensive actions against the Tibetan rebels or the Potala Palace at once. Do not launch the rockets. Repeat. Do not launch the rockets.”

Three shots rang out, deafening everyone in the office. Two bullets hit Wang in the chest, but one from his own revolver had already penetrated his temple.

Epilogue

“I didn’t know there was a St. Regis hotel in Lhasa,” Jill said. “Who do you think you are? James Bond? Holed up in the fancy hotel with a young blonde and a dry martini?”

“No blonde, no martini, but they do make a damn good Bloody Mary. As to the fancy hotel, I think I’ve earned twenty-four hours of uninterrupted sleep in a king-size bed.”

“I suppose so. Where’s the young Lama?”

“In the room next door — on the phone with the Dalai Lama. Apparently, the old man has recovered from his pneumonia, and is lounging in a recovery room at Cedars Sinai.”

“What are they talking about?”

“Strategy. The Dalai Lama is explaining the ‘Middle Way,’ a plan he’s been advocating for decades — limited autonomy for Tibet, an elected legislature, constitutional protection for religion and language. All of it under the Chinese umbrella. Sort of like Scotland or Quebec.”

“Do you think he has a chance of getting any of it?”

Conti took a long swallow of the bloody Mary, and munched on a room service French fry. “Maybe. Hard to tell. He should be able to get something significant. The monks are feeling their oats. They believe the Panchen Lama was freed because of their demonstrations. Hopefully, the leadership in Beijing also learned a lesson about the strength of will of the Tibetan people. What’s the betting back in Langley?

“Similar. The changes in the Central Committee should help. Wang not only took himself out, but several of his hard line allies are in trouble too. There will be a major realignment at the next Party Congress. The economic development faction will come out on top. They’re more interested in natural resources and water development than ideology. For that, they need peace. So, maybe there will be progress. That is, if the Tibetans have a good negotiator. Speaking of which, what are your plans?

“The Panchen Lama has asked me to stay and help him. I told him I would. Of course, I’ll need to resign from State, but I didn’t love that job anyway.”

“Will the Tibetans pay you?”

“Doesn’t really matter. I spoke with my mother this morning. Fiat has decided that the family estate outside Milan is the perfect place to build their new electric vehicles. So …”

“So, you’ll be rich again.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, before Jill went on in a subdued tone. “Then I guess you won’t be moving back to the States anytime soon?”

“No. There’ll be too much for me to do here and in Italy for the next few years. That’s probably a relief to the Agency, huh? They won’t have Conti to kick around anymore.”

“Not true. Your stock is pretty high in Langley. Mobley may be an old curmudgeon, but he knows ability when he sees it. He’d hire you back in a minute. And he’s in tight with the Administration because the Chinese are happy. So he has carte blanche, at least for the next few months.”

“How about you, Jill?”

“Oh, the era of good feelings extends to me too. Promotion, bigger office, more staff, all that. And I’m leading a new policy initiative.”

“What?”

“Figure out what all these security consultants are doing, which ones are worthwhile, and prune away the rest. Mobley realizes you were right. Too often we pay them to get in the way. And when we lay them off, the mercenary life tempts them — all dressed up in fatigues with no place to go.”

“Everything seems to be working out perfectly.”

Jill hesitated a moment. “Everything?”

“Maybe not everything. But I have an idea how we could make it better.”

“Yes?”

“What’s halfway between Washington and Lhasa?”

“The middle of the Mediterranean. Fish, mostly.”

“What if you go the other way around the world?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere in the South Pacific?”

“And you call yourself Director of East Asian affairs?”

Jill laughed. “O.K., smart ass. What is halfway?”

“Well, it’s not exactly halfway, but I’ve always wanted a place in Maui. You know, grow coffee, wear a Panama hat, sit on the veranda drinking some sickeningly sweet rum drink. Now that I’m in the chips, I’m thinking about taking the plunge. If …?”

“Yes?”

“If you’d promise to visit on a regular basis.”

“That could be arranged.”

“Good. We’ll call it our Middle Way.”

The End

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank Diane Capri for all the ways she’s helped me learn to be a writer. Marcia Ferraiolo, Amy Veroff, and Howard and Gayle Mayson for previewing the book. Retired Ambassador David Litt and Beatrice for their thoughtful comments. Susan Edwards and Danielle Blanchard for their invaluable assistance. Don for his name. My wife, Carolyn, for her careful editing and loving support. Of course, any mistakes of fact or judgment are my own.