The Italian Mission (2 page)

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?”