Use of Force

by Brad Thor

  “Let’s figure out then,” said Harvath, “how to put La Formícula in the same position.”

  “There is no getting to La Formícula, though, if you and your team cannot agree to abide by the ground rules.”

  “Every operation has to have rules of engagement. I understand that. I also understand that your ass is on the line with this. But so is mine. I am responsible for my team. I can’t put them in a situation where they are unable to protect themselves. That’s just not going to happen.”

  Harvath was at his wit’s end.

  “May I?” Lovett asked, pointing at Argento’s computer.

  The Italian nodded and slid it the rest of the way toward her. Turning to Harvath, he said, “You understand that this is not personal. I have much discretion in the execution of my missions. But this is one area in which I do not.”

  Harvath did understand. If their situation were reversed, he’d probably be taking the exact same position. Unless you were operating completely on your own, absolutely unaccountable, there were going to be restrictions you had to deal with.

  These, though, were a little extreme, if Harvath did say so himself. With these rules of engagement, they were never going to make any headway against the Mafia. They’d always be left behind, trying to catch up.

  Glancing over at Lovett, he saw that she had pulled up a bunch of additional photos from Vottari’s file and had them side by side.

  “What are those?” he asked.

  “Pictures from his Facebook account,” she replied.

  “The Ant is on Facebook?”

  “Yup. Even uses his real name.”

  Harvath shook his head. Everybody was on social media. Why not a mobster in his thirties?

  The pictures showed Vottari partying with friends and pretty women, having a good time.

  Looking closer, he noticed something. “Do the couches in these photos look similar to you?”

  Lovett increased the photo size. “They do actually.”

  The photos had not been full screen captures. Harvath wanted to see them in their original state—the way Vottari had posted them.

  Turning to Argento, he asked, “Do you have Facebook on your computer?”

  “I don’t do Facebook,” the Italian replied.

  “Done,” Lovett replied, handing her cell phone to Harvath. She did do Facebook.

  Via the app on her phone, she had pulled up Vottari’s account. Harvath scrolled through the photos until he found the one he wanted. La Formícula had even been kind enough to tag the location in his post.

  “Ever heard of a place called The Beach Club in Reggio Calabria?” he asked.

  Argento nodded. “It’s a big disco, not far from where we were at the airport.”

  Harvath handed the phone back to Lovett. “That’s where we’re going to nail him.”

  “How do we even know when he’ll be there?” the Italian replied. “There’s nothing in his surveillance that suggests a pattern.”

  “We’re going to bait a shiny hook and put it right in front of him.”

  “How?”

  Harvath smiled. “Don’t worry. I have the perfect guy for it.”

  CHAPTER 70

  * * *

  * * *

  NORTHERN VIRGINIA

  Nicholas had just climbed out of his vehicle when Lydia Ryan pulled into Reed Carlton’s driveway behind him. Following her was a blacked-out van.

  Walking around to the gray Mercedes’s cargo door, he let the dogs out and grabbed his backpack. Even from where he stood, he could tell not only that something was wrong, but that Ryan was very angry.

  “What’s going on?” he asked as she stepped out of her car and began giving orders to the team in the black van.

  “This,” she responded, handing him a tiny surveillance camera. “They were all over my fucking house. My car was wired too. There was even a tracker on it.”

  “Not good,” he exclaimed. “Who do you think is responsible?”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as we do a full sweep inside. Until then, do me a favor and wait out here.”

  Nicholas nodded and Ryan escorted her personnel inside.

  Forty-five minutes later, the team re-emerged. After sweeping Nicholas’s vehicle, as well as those of Carlton’s security detail, they packed up their van and drove off.

  Giving his dogs the command to walk with him, he entered the house and found Ryan and Carlton at the dining room table. Scattered across it were all of the surveillance devices that had been found in the house.

  “Really not good,” Nicholas remarked, setting down his bag. “Are any of those still hot?”

  Ryan shook her head. “All the power sources have been removed. None of them are transmitting.”

  “Even so,” he said. “Wait here.”

  Moments later, he returned with a trash bag. With her help, they cleared the table. He then tied a knot in the top of the bag, tossed it in the garage, and returned to the dining room.

  “FYI,” stated Ryan, “your vehicle was clean.”

  “Thanks for having them check. What about the security team?”

  “Their vehicles had been compromised. Trackers and wired for audio.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “What tipped you off?”

  “As CIA Deputy Director, I get swept on a regular basis. Something didn’t feel right, so I asked them to move up my next appointment. Call it intuition.”

  “How’d they get into your place?”

  “Same way they got in here. They waited for me to go to work or for Reed to go to a doctor’s appointment, and that’s when they acted. They could come back and do any vehicles overnight. Judging by the sophistication of their equipment, they know what they’re doing.”

  Reed Carlton glanced at her. “Somebody is obviously very interested in what we’re up to.”

  “The same somebody,” she replied, “who put the bounty on our email accounts.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Nicholas. “I have an update on that. But I don’t want to say anything if we’re not safe to talk here.”

  Ryan nodded. “I had my team install some active countermeasures. We’re safe, but your cell phone isn’t going to work inside.”

  “I don’t bring mine to these kinds of meetings anyway.”

  “Good. Then let’s get started,” Carlton ordered. “What do you have?”

  The little man pulled some papers out of his backpack and spread them across the table. “Whoever is behind all this is smart. Really smart. In fact, I’m more than a little upset that I didn’t think of this myself.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Ryan.

  “Per the agreement,” he continued, “I was instructed where to upload all of your emails, once I had accessed them. The site is a dark web version of DropBox. Anyway yesterday, once I had the strings of Malice code I needed, I got right to—”

  “What’s Malice?” Carlton broke in.

  Nicholas’s heart sank. The man’s ability to hold on to new pieces of information was getting worse. “It’s a computer program I needed,” he said politely, as if they had never before discussed it. “I was able to get the CIA to part with a piece of it.”

  “Excellent job. Sorry I interrupted. Keep going.”

  “No apology necessary,” he replied. “Bottom line is that once I had it, I was able to embed it in the email data. I uploaded it all last night.”

  “And?” Ryan asked.

  “And early this morning, someone downloaded it.”

  “Someone who?”

  “I don’t know the who,” said Nicholas, “but I’ve got the where. As soon as those files were accessed, Malice activated its silent beacon.”

  “So where was it accessed from?”

  “Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles.”

  Ryan was now just as confused as Carlton. “Cedars-Sinai?” she replied. “I don’t get it.”

  “Do you know what HIPAA is?” the little man asked.

  “Vaguely.�
�

  “It stands for Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act. Basically, it’s a law regulating data privacy and security provisions for medical information. The government takes it very seriously.”

  “So what,” she answered.

  “So Cedars-Sinai is one of the busiest, most technologically advanced hospitals in the world. Because of HIPAA, they have some of the most secure computer systems available. If you could get on the inside of their system, not only would your data be secure, but if you were a bad actor, you’d have the added benefit of being in one of the last places the government would ever think of, or dare to look for you. It’s brilliant.”

  “Can you hack it?”

  “With enough time and resources, I can hack anything. Here’s the problem,” he stated, as he pushed one of his pieces of paper across to her. On it was what looked like a flowchart of some sort. “Based on what I got back from Malice, I don’t think the people we’re looking for are keeping their data on the actual Cedars-Sinai system.”

  “What are they doing then?”

  “They’re using the system for cover and then offloading the data to a different system.”

  “Do you have any idea where that other system is?” Ryan asked.

  Nicholas nodded. “I think it’s right there in the hospital.”

  “What would you need to be absolutely sure?”

  “I’d need to go there and see it for myself in person.”

  Ryan looked at Carlton. Any expression of confusion he might have had moments ago was gone. In its place was a focused look of determination.

  “Put a team together,” he ordered, “get the plane ready, and get him out to LA, ASAP.”

  • • •

  After wrapping up all the details, Nicholas picked up his backpack and with the dogs by his side, exited the house.

  Back in his van, he put on his seatbelt and grabbed his phone. One text had come while he was inside. It was from Scot Harvath.

  URGENT: Need big favor. Fast.

  CHAPTER 71

  * * *

  * * *

  REGGIO, CALABRIA

  The last thing Harvath wanted to do was head out to a dance club, but it was Thursday night, the place was going to have a decent crowd, and they might get lucky. At the very least, they’d get a feel for how it was laid out and could begin to get their arms around how they were going to snatch La Formícula.

  Harvath’s plan had been pretty straightforward. He kept within Argento’s “ground rules” as best he could, but there were certain things he simply couldn’t promise. Life, especially in their line of work, was full of surprises—many of them extremely dangerous.

  As they ate dinner, Harvath sent two texts, stepped outside to field several phone calls, and compiled a list of things he needed Argento and his team to track down for him.

  When they arrived back at the safe house, he headed to his room to grab a shower and close his eyes for an hour.

  At the appointed time, both teams met in the living room and Harvath went over the plan, with Argento translating to make sure everyone was on the same page.

  To a person, they all agreed that the biggest wild card was going to be Vottari’s protection detail. They weren’t professionals by any stretch. And because they weren’t professionals, their behavior was unpredictable. Anything could happen. That was where the greatest danger lay.

  In essence, the men “protecting” Vottari were thugs. They came from his village, or another close by. They would be fiercely loyal to him. When it came time to throw down, these boys wouldn’t think twice.

  That part didn’t bother Harvath. He had them outmanned. In fact, even without Argento and his team, Harvath’s men could handle La Formícula’s crew. They just needed to bring the right tools for the job.

  Someone raised the issue of security at The Beach Club and what should happen if they decided to jump in. Harvath had already discussed that possibility with Argento, and he let him inform his men. If they had to play the Carabinieri card, that was going to be the moment to do it.

  With all of their questions answered, they piled into their vehicles and headed out.

  It had been decided that the teams would go in separately and not acknowledge each other inside the club. The Americans were first.

  Having pulled a stack of cash from his messenger bag, Harvath was ready to play the big-spending American. If The Beach Club had a VIP section, which it very likely did, that was where Vottari would be and Harvath wanted to be in it.

  Unlike the restaurant where they’d eaten dinner, The Beach Club was actually built on a part of the coast with a long sandy beach. From its website, it looked like something you might have seen in Miami in the 1950s—lots of outdoor tables, chaise lounges, cabanas, and even a pool.

  The building itself had a retractable roof and a full glass wall that opened up onto the outside. There were three bars, a huge dance floor, and some nights there were even fireworks. It was one of the hottest clubs in Calabria.

  When they walked up to the entrance, Harvath wasted no time. He greased both bouncers, each with a hundred-dollar bill. As soon as that happened, word spread like wildfire that there was a big spender in the house.

  The Beach Club did indeed have a VIP section, and Harvath and his team were shown right to it.

  After being handed a hundred-dollar bill, the man at the velvet rope leaned in and told Harvath that it was five hundred to get in, but that included a bottle of champagne. Harvath discreetly peeled off four more notes and placed them in the man’s hand.

  With a smile, the man then undid the rope and allowed the team to enter. An attractive young waitress showed them to their own seating area with bright white couches like the ones in Vottari’s Facebook photos.

  “Well done,” said Lovett as they all took a seat.

  It was just after ten and the club had barely come alive, but you wouldn’t have known it from the music. It was loud and thumping—as if the place was at max capacity on a Friday night.

  Harvath took out his phone and texted Argento to let him know that they had made it inside. He then took a quick video of what he could see from the VIP section and sent it to Nicholas. The more he knew about the place, the better he’d be at pulling off his assignment.

  A few minutes later, their waitress returned with a tray full of glasses. Right behind her was a busboy carrying an ice bucket. In it was their VIP bottle of champagne that came with their five-hundred-dollar entrance fee.

  She showed the label to Harvath. It was a brand he’d never heard of before. It probably wasn’t worth more than twenty dollars. With a big smile, he thanked her and tried to make small talk over the music as she opened it.

  Her English was terrible, but that was a good thing. The less she knew about him and the people with him, the better. All he wanted was for her to remember that he was a great tipper, and to hope that he came back.

  As soon as she had poured champagne for everyone, he handed her a hundred-dollar bill.

  “Grazie,” she replied. Thank you. Then, holding up the bottle she had emptied by filling five glasses, she asked, “More?”

  Harvath smiled. “Later.”

  She smiled back, and then left to take care of another group of customers.

  “To pretty women,” Barton said, raising his glass.

  Raising his glass, Morrison added, “Present company included.”

  “I guess I’ll have to drink to that,” Lovett replied, and raised her glass as well.

  Harvath and Staelin picked up theirs and everyone clinked glasses. About fifteen minutes later, the Italian team arrived.

  Sticking to the plan, Harvath ignored them. Staelin, though, subtly raised his champagne glass and, from the comfort of the VIP section, tilted it in their direction.

  Argento’s lieutenant, with equal subtlety, placed his hand under his chin and flicked it at the American as he walked past. Harvath tried not to smile.

  • • •

  Ov
er the next two hours, they roamed the club getting to know its ins and outs. They ordered drinks, took photos, and continued to tip heavily.

  They checked out exits, got to know other members of the security team, and developed backup plans for their backup plans. When he felt they had seen enough, Harvath called it a night.

  As they left, every staff person they had come in contact with encouraged them to come back again the following night. The head of the VIP room offered to reserve the same seating area for them and the bouncers out front told them not to even worry about the line, but to come directly up to the door and see them.

  A little money had gone a long way.

  With the skids greased, they returned to the safe house in Villa San Giovanni.

  Harvath was ready to turn in, but he still had a couple of items to check off his to-do list.

  Once he had written up a brief for McGee, returned several important emails, and uploaded the rest of the photos and video for Nicholas, he was ready to call it a night.

  Getting undressed, he slid into bed and turned out the light.

  Normally, even when he was on operations, he fell asleep pretty fast. Tonight wasn’t one of those nights. His brain kept jumping from one topic to another. What if the entire reason the CIA had sent him to investigate Mustapha Marzouk had been a waste? What if ISIS had already found a chemist to replace him? Would Rome be their target? And if it was, what kind of attack would they need a chemist for? What if they couldn’t get Vottari to The Beach Club? What if Vottari didn’t know anything?

  When Harvath started questioning whether he should have moved to Boston to be with Lara, and whether now he should move back to D.C. to run a Special Operations Group for the Old Man, he knew he was overtired.

  Slowing his breathing, he picked one thing to focus his mind on. He tried to make it the view from the house he was renting overlooking the Charles River in Boston. That image slowly morphed into one he knew much better and felt much more comfortable with—the dock at his old house and its view over the Potomac.

  With that image in his mind, and memories of how many times he’d sat there with a six-pack, decompressing after coming home from assignments just like this, he finally fell asleep.