Read Online The Italian Mission by Alan Champorcher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alan Champorcher
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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
“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
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