The Italian Mission (23 page)

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 a
t
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.”