The Italian Mission by Alan Champorcher

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