by Brad Thor
CHAPTER 72
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ROME
At precisely 6:55 p.m. the high-speed train from Milan pulled into Rome’s Termini station. Tursunov had stood up early and had positioned himself at the door so he could be one of the first people from his carriage to exit. He wanted to make sure he was in the best possible position to observe the chemist.
Stepping down onto the platform, he walked to the far side and removed his cigarettes. The fines for smoking in Italy were outrageous. If you lit up in the wrong place, you could be ticketed for three hundred Euros or more.
He had thought about just holding a cigarette in his mouth until he could get outside to the street and light it up, but that might attract unwanted attention from the police, so he slid the pack back into his pocket.
Pretending to check the messages on his phone, he waited for Younes to disembark. When the young man appeared, he followed him.
As instructed, the chemist had tied a white handkerchief around the handle of his bag. Slowly, he made his way to the station’s main hall.
He stopped in the McDonald’s, chose the longest line, and when he got to the front, ordered a hamburger and fries to go. Once he had his meal in hand, he headed toward the station’s side exit. Tursunov kept his eyes on him the entire time. There was no sign he was under surveillance.
Near the exit, Younes was approached by a gypsy cab driver. The young man had a goatee and wore jeans along with an AC/DC T-shirt. He offered to drive Younes anywhere he wanted to go.
The chemist turned him down by saying he expected Uber Rome to be just as good as Uber Paris.
When the driver professed to be a great tour guide with a cousin who could get him into the Colosseum for free, their coded introduction was complete. Younes handed over his bag and the pair exited the station.
The Tajik trailed behind and watched. The driver led the chemist a block down to his “taxi,” where he placed his bag in the trunk, the chemist got into the backseat, and the car drove away. There was no one behind them.
Relieved, Tursunov gave a short prayer of thanks to Allah and walked to his hotel.
He had chosen a small, unremarkable hotel not far from the station, just as he had upon arriving in Paris. It was the kind of place that saw so many guests in a year that the faces were a blur for the staff.
After checking in, he conducted his ablutions, prayed, and unpacked.
Removing a razor from his shaving kit, he slit the hem of his suit jacket and exposed the edge of the lining.
Folding the jacket over his arm, he left the hotel and headed for the tram. His destination was a suburb on the eastern side of the city called Tor Pignattara.
Tor Pignattara was Rome’s version of Aubervilliers—a predominantly Muslim enclave that had been left to atrophy. Throughout it and the surrounding neighborhoods, Italian authorities, citing building codes and safety concerns, had been shutting down Islamic cultural centers that had turned into mosques.
With no local places to congregate and pray, the faithful had taken to commandeering garages and empty storefronts. Shutting such places down over “safety” concerns had created a lot of ill will with local residents. Violence had broken out more than once and threatened to again.
And while Tursunov didn’t like to see his Muslim brothers and sisters denied places to worship, heightened tensions served his ends. Tor Pignattara had quietly become known among police as a “no-go” area. In other words, if they showed up, they had better bring backup. The place was a powder keg and cops were doing whatever they could to avoid the area.
With this kind of hands-off mentality, ISIS was able to recruit, plan, train, and operate with little fear of discovery.
There were the occasional arrests, usually of idiots communicating with and supporting ISIS elements abroad. The local members were much more careful. Anyone who looked like he could end up being a problem was turned away on the spot. They had too much at stake to allow people in who could bring everything crashing down.
Exiting the tram, Tursunov walked for several blocks. It was a warm, sticky night.
Cars and motorbikes whizzed by. Women wearing the hijab passed, pushing strollers, their husbands or other male family members nearby. Men sat at small tables outside stores playing cards or dominoes. There were more signs in Arabic than in Italian. He felt as if he could have been in Amman, or Cairo, or Najaf.
Up ahead, he finally saw his destination. It was a small tailor’s shop. The lights were still on, but the sign on the door read Chiuso, closed. Underneath was the same word in Arabic. A balding, middle-aged man sat at a table repairing a pair of trousers with a needle and thread.
Tursunov approached the glass door and knocked. When the man at the table looked up, the Tajik held out his jacket so he could see the damage.
Setting down his needle and thread, the man stood and came to unlock the door.
Opening it a crack, he said, “I’m closed.”
“Indeed,” the Tajik replied, quoting the Qur’an, “Allah, peace be upon Him, is with those who are of service to others.”
“As He is with those who are righteous and those who do good.”
Tursunov smiled. “The reward of goodness is nothing but goodness.”
The tailor smiled and opened the door for his guest to enter. “As-sala-mu ‘alaykum,” he offered. Peace be upon you.
“Wa ‘alaykum al-salaam,” the Tajik responded.
The tailor’s name was Hamad Sarsur. He was Syrian by birth, but had fled his nation more than twenty-five years ago. When ISIS had raised the call to jihad, he had answered, but he had done so while remaining in Rome.
Sarsur was an extremely gifted tailor. He had worked for multiple fashion houses in Milan and several high-end boutiques in Rome. All the while, he had never given up his shop in Tor Pignattara.
He was far more wealthy than appearances would suggest. And wealthy Muslims tended to know other wealthy Muslims. There was no one better at raising money in Italy than Sarsur.
But more important, he was a deeply pious Muslim. His knowledge of the Qur’an and the Hadith was without equal. He could have been one of the most revered Imams in all of Europe, but that was not the purpose Allah had chosen for him. Allah had selected Sarsur to help coordinate the efforts of ISIS in Italy and ultimately to strike right at the heart of the infidel.
Closing the door behind his guest, he said, “I am honored to have you in my shop, brother.”
“The honor is mine,” Tursunov replied. “Where may we speak?”
The tailor locked the front door and then led the Tajik into a back room that functioned as his office. On a hotplate was a kettle. “Tea?” he asked.
“Do you have coffee?”
Sarsur nodded, removed a jar of instant coffee from a cabinet, and selected a cup. Spooning in the granules, he drowned them with hot water and then stirred.
Handing the cup to his guest, he apologized, “I’m sorry, it’s all I have.”
“That’s quite all right,” the Tajik replied, taking the cup. He hated instant coffee.
Sarsur made himself a tea and then the two men took chairs at his desk.
“Everything is in place,” said the tailor.
Tursunov took a sip of the coffee and immediately set it down. “The weapons were delivered?”
Sarsur nodded.
“Any problems with changing the location?”
The man shook his head.
“Did your men examine the crates as I instructed?”
The tailor nodded again, and, this time, he smiled.
Reaching into his desk, he retrieved his phone, opened the photo app, and showed the Tajik what his people had found.
“What did they do with those once they found them?” the Tajik asked.
Sarsur took a sip of his tea and responded, “We sent them out to sea.”
Tursunov was pleased with his colleague’s answer. “Well done,” he replied. “Is everything else ready?�
��
“The chemist has arrived, the weapons are in place, and now, like the Italians say, the meal will cook itself.”
He smiled in reply. “Where I am from, we also have a saying. The cook who doesn’t watch his stove loses his house.”
Sarsur looked confused. “I don’t understand.”
“We are going to go over all of it,” he said. “All night if we have to. I want to cover every single step, every single millimeter. Until I am convinced that everything is absolutely perfect, we will do nothing else. Is that clear?”
The tailor nodded.
“Good,” said Tursunov, as he picked up his cup and poured the contents into the pail next to the desk. “You can start by finding me some decent coffee.”
CHAPTER 73
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CALABRIA
FRIDAY
Despite being told to get a “good night’s sleep,” almost everyone was up early at the safe house in Villa San Giovanni.
Barton and Morrison joined several of Argento’s men for a run. Lovett left to pick up some things she needed in town. Staelin was up on the roof drinking coffee and reading his book. Harvath was the last person to stumble into the kitchen.
“Buon giorno,” said Argento. He was standing at a press, wearing only a pair of workout shorts, juicing oranges. “Ready for breakfast? Let Roberto know how you like your eggs.”
Standing at the stove, similarly dressed, was Roberto. Stopping what he was doing, he turned to look at Harvath.
Harvath, who was wearing a pair of Under Armour boxer briefs and a Parliament-Funkadelic T-shirt, replied, “Scrambled.”
“Strapazzate,” Argento translated, as he continued to squeeze oranges.
“Is there any coffee?”
The Italian nodded toward the dining table. Grabbing a cup from the counter, Harvath walked over and poured himself some.
“How are you doing on my list?” he asked as he walked back into the kitchen.
“Essere pane per i propri denti.”
“What does that mean?”
Argento shrugged. “There’s a degree of difficulty involved. Some things I can get. Some things are illegal.”
Harvath laughed out loud. “Paolo, you’re a cop—and a serious one at that. You can get anything you want.”
“Ecco,” he relented, “but—”
“But nothing,” Harvath said, cutting him off. Pointing to his laptop, he said, “May I?”
The Italian nodded.
On their drive from the airport to the safe house, Harvath was looking to build rapport and they had talked movies. Like any red-blooded Italian male, Argento loved American movies, especially the movies of Robert De Niro.
“You saw The Untouchables, right?” Harvath asked, as he pulled up YouTube.
“Robert De Niro and Kevin Costner. Of course. Directed by Brian De Palma; another Italian.”
“Do you remember the scene when Kevin Costner and Sean Connery are in the church together?”
Argento stopped juicing and looked at him to see if he was being serious. “It’s one of the best scenes in the movie. That’s,” he said, mimicking Connery’s Irish accent, “the Chicago way.”
“That’s the first time I have ever heard an Italian speak English with an Irish accent,” said Harvath.
“And?”
“You shouldn’t do it again.”
The Italian threw his hands in the air. “Levati dai coglioni!” he exclaimed, laughing. Get off of my balls.
“I’m serious. It was really bad. But that’s not the point. Come here,” he ordered. “Watch this.”
Argento wiped his hands on a dishtowel and walked over. Harvath hit the Play button. Together, the two of them watched the scene.
When it was over, Harvath pointed at the computer and asked, “Who’s me and who’s you in the movie?”
“No contest,” the Italian replied. “I’m older and much better looking, so I’m Sean Connery.”
Harvath chuckled. “Wrong. You’re Kevin Costner. You’re Eliot Ness. You’re the guy who wants to do everything by the book, no matter how dirty your opponent plays. I’m Sean Connery. I’m the guy trying to talk some sense into you. I’m the guy asking, what are you prepared to do in order to get Capone?”
Argento was about to respond when Roberto announced from the stove, “Colazione!” Breakfast.
Turning back to his oranges, Argento handed Harvath the pitcher and directed him to put it on the table.
With the shout of “Colazione,” everyone else who was in the house materialized in the kitchen for food. Somehow, even up on the roof, Staelin had heard the call and had come down too.
Scooping eggs, potatoes, and sausages onto their plates, the men shuffled into the dining room and sat down at the table. Those who couldn’t find a seat carried their plates into the living room.
Staelin had grabbed the chair next to Harvath’s. “So,” he asked. “Are we going to be good for tonight?”
“Fingers crossed,” Harvath replied as he reached for the orange juice.
“What are the odds we’re going to get Vottari there?”
“If anybody can do it, Nicholas can.”
“How?”
Harvath filled his glass, set the pitcher down, and took a bite of scrambled eggs before responding. “He hacked Facebook’s algorithm.”
“He what?”
“He had already stolen a couple of big ones from Google and someone bet him he couldn’t hack Facebook, so he did. Can you pass the salt, please?”
Staelin handed him the shaker. “So how does that play into getting Vottari to The Beach Club?”
“All the photos and video I shot there last night go into a program. With it, Nicholas can access any social media post that has ever been done based on that club.
“He compares those against what Vottari reacts to on social media. Then, knowing what Vottari likes, he creates a bunch of fake accounts and starts drumming up a groundswell of posts about how tonight is a not-to-miss night at The Beach Club.
“Nicholas is smart, though. He doesn’t push it directly at Vottari. He pushes it through other people Vottari knows and trusts on SnapChat, Instagram, et cetera. They repost it and it keeps showing up in his feeds. That’s it.”
Staelin shook his head. “That’s pretty fucking manipulative.”
Harvath shrugged as his phone chimed. “That’s social media for you. There’s a reason the intelligence community loves it so much.”
Looking down, he read the text message. Addressing Argento, he said, “That’s my VIP. He’s got a plane on standby. He wants to know if we’re a go for tonight.”
A silence settled over the table. Everyone waited for Argento’s response. Slowly, he nodded.
Harvath, though, wanted to make absolutely sure. “We’re all good to go?”
Once more, Argento nodded. “Let’s get Capone.”
CHAPTER 74
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Dressed in her pantsuit, meeting their plane on the tarmac at Sigonella, Lovett had been stunning. But now, totally dressed to the nines, she was unbelievably gorgeous.
“What do you think?” she asked as she turned in a circle for Harvath.
“I don’t like your hair.”
For a moment, she couldn’t tell if he was joking. Then, realizing that he was, she shot him a look.
Laughing, he admitted, “You look fantastic.”
“There were a lot of pretty, twenty-something Italians running around in that club last night. We’ll see how it goes.”
“Don’t worry,” he replied. “You’re going to be a huge hit.”
Lovett smiled. “Thank you.”
“Do you want to go over it again?”
“Only if you want to. I’ve got it nailed down.”
“I’m good too,” he stated, glancing at his watch. “At this point, it’s up to Argento.”
At that moment, the front door opened and the Italian and two of his men w
alked in.
“Sei bellissima,” he exclaimed as he took in Lovett all made up, ready to hit the club. You’re beautiful.
Her hair and makeup were perfect, but it was the very short black dress she had purchased that was the real showstopper.
“Grazie,” she said with another smile.
“Have you got something for me?” Harvath asked.
“Let’s go in the back,” Argento replied.
They walked down the hall to Harvath’s room and closed the door. The Italian didn’t want the rest of his team to see what he was giving him. Two of his guys had just gone out with him to get it, and everyone else knew what the plan entailed, but Argento was a good cop and hated drugs.
“Here,” he said, handing an envelope filled with pills to Harvath.
“Jesus, Paolo,” he responded, laughing as he felt how many were inside. “We’re not taking out a soccer team.”
The Italian wasn’t laughing. “Whatever you don’t use, just flush down the toilet.”
Harvath opened the envelope and studied the tablets. “Did you have one of your guys pop one to make sure they work?”
“Of course not,” Argento replied.
Harvath smiled. “I’m just kidding.”
The Italian didn’t find it funny. “The dealer knows what will happen if these don’t work. That’s all the certification I need.”
“You have a history with this guy?”
“He’s an informant. He lets us know when the Cosa Nostra moves drugs on the car ferry from Messina. The only reason he’s still in business is that we allow him to be.”
Folding the envelope and putting it in his pocket, Harvath replied, “That’s the kind of informant I like.”
Argento was nervous. “Have you ever used Rohypnol on a subject before?”
“Never needed it. I usually rely on debutante heroin.”
“Debutante heroin?” the Italian asked.
