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
“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
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