by Brad Thor
And here he was, walking the streets of the enemy, about to help make the Prophet’s revelation come true. The pain he was about to inflict on Rome would be felt around the world. It would demonstrate Islam’s superiority over Christianity and rally even more to their cause.
Allahu Akbar, the Tajik whispered to himself. Allahu Akbar.
• • •
As he walked, he kept his eyes peeled for a tabaccheria. It was still early, though, and many stores were not open yet.
Smoking the last of his French cigarettes, he savored the taste and tried to make it last. When he had smoked it down to the filter, he made sure there were no police within view and tossed the butt into the gutter.
Exhaling his last draw of smoke, he thought about everything he had put in place for tomorrow. It was his most ambitious operation ever.
Shaheed willing to martyr themselves for the cause were easy enough to come by. Intelligent, competent, battle-tested men were something else entirely.
To winnow that pool down to experience with a certain weapons system, and then to hone that experience into expertise, was an undertaking like nothing else he had ever attempted.
He had taken twelve men, divided them into two-man teams, and convinced the leadership of ISIS that, given the right mathematical information, they could hit their target, sight unseen.
The leadership had challenged him to prove it. On a training range in the Syrian desert, with stakes and colored pieces of surveyor’s tape to represent the target, he had done just that.
And he did it not just once, but over and over again. His mortar teams were that good.
The part the leadership loved most about using mortars was that there was no device to defend against them. Once they had been fired, there was no stopping the attack.
They had the added benefit of not needing a martyr to get right up to a target before engaging. At a distance from the target, there was less chance of being discovered and the attack being disrupted. Once the pieces were in place, it was impossible to stop.
The shells had been loaded with their chemicals, and the mortar teams dispatched with their equipment to their designated locations. As instructed, they had activated their new cell phones long enough to confirm they were in place.
Unlike at Santiago de Compostela and Paris, here he would not be observing the attack up close. He would watch it unfold via webcam from the safety of his hotel room.
Before that, though, he wanted to walk where so many infidels would die tomorrow. And while there, he had something very special to retrieve.
CHAPTER 86
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* * *
The Pope’s public schedule was posted on the Internet and known months in advance. When in Rome, he usually put in two public appearances a week.
On Wednesdays, he conducted a general public audience in St. Peter’s Square, which drew tens of thousands of people. Being driven in the famous “Pope Mobile” through St. Peter’s, he was known to stop to bless various people and kiss babies before presiding over a service given in multiple languages.
On Sundays, he gave an address and a blessing from a window of the papal apartments known as the Angelus. Though not as widely attended as the general audience, the Angelus still drew thousands of tourists and the faithful.
This Sunday, though, was the last Sunday of the summer season. Because travel would take him away for many Wednesdays throughout the fall, he had decided to change things up and conduct a general public appearance.
As soon as Argento had confirmed the event via the Vatican’s website, they not only knew what the ISIS target was, but when the attack would take place.
When their helicopter landed at the heliport in the Vatican gardens, it was met by the Carabinieri’s liaison to the Holy See, as well as a man in a dark suit and tie who identified himself only as Josef.
As they were being led to a waiting Mercedes limousine, Harvath whispered, “Who’s the guy in the suit?”
“L’entità,” said Argento.
Lovett translated. “The Entity. Vatican Intelligence.”
Sliding into the vehicle, Harvath didn’t ask any further questions. It was obvious they were taking the threat very seriously.
A short drive through the immaculate gardens brought them to a large wrought-iron gate that automatically opened. Driving through, they soon came to a dramatic fountain and waterfall. Behind was a long building of cream-colored brick, its rooftop studded with satellite dishes and an enormous antenna that belonged to Vatican Radio.
“Monastery of Mater Ecclesiae,” said Argento as they approached. “It used to belong to the Vatican police. Now it houses cloistered nuns.”
The way Argento said it, it sounded as if he didn’t believe it. And based upon the arrays of satellite dishes on the roof, Harvath didn’t know if he should believe it either. It looked like a lot more was going on here than just a monastery coupled with a radio tower.
The Mercedes came to a stop moments later beneath an arched portico. Josef opened the rear door and instructed everyone to follow him. Inside, to their left, an elevator was waiting, its door open. There were no buttons, only a slot.
Once they were all in, Josef removed a keycard and inserted it. The doors closed and the elevator began to descend.
When the doors opened again, they were below ground. How many stories was anyone’s guess.
If it weren’t for the mosaic floor with the white dove of peace, a large crucifix suspended upon the far wall, and a portrait of the Pope, they could have been in any number of highly classified facilities run by the NSA, the CIA, or the FBI.
“Follow me,” Josef ordered.
They walked down a long hallway and were interrupted at one point by a group of nuns who came out a door, carrying stacks of files. Harvath managed to get a peek inside the room they had just exited and saw rows of cubicles staffed by even more nuns.
Josef kept moving.
They ended up at another, similar door, and Josef waved his keycard in front of its handle to unlock it. When the lock released, he pushed the door open and held it so that everyone could enter.
It was a war room.
There was a long conference table and several workstations. The flag of Vatican City stood in a brass stand next to a map of the world highlighting all of the Church’s holdings and interests. A blue, digital clock with six time zones ran above it. Opposite, was a large video wall surrounded by independent monitors.
Standing in the center of it all was a man dressed exactly like Josef, but a good twenty years older.
He was a tall, handsome man in his midsixties, with gray hair and green eyes. Stepping forward, he extended his hand and introduced himself simply as Carl. Whoever these guys were, they were not big on last names, or formalities.
Notepads and bottles of water had been set up at each place. There were pots of hot coffee in the center of the conference table and an espresso machine off to the side. Carl invited everyone to help themselves.
When everyone was seated, the man asked, “So. What do we have?”
Harvath let Argento do the talking, and he was kind enough to do it in English. On the rare occasion he had trouble with a word, he said it in Italian and either Lovett or Carl helped him out.
Once the ROS operative was done, Carl looked at Harvath. “I understand you protected the President of the United States at one point,” he said.
“I did,” Harvath replied.
“If you were me, what would you do with this information?”
“That depends. I don’t know exactly know who you are.”
Carl smiled. “I am in charge of protecting His Holiness and Vatican City. If I am involved, it is because a threat has been deemed substantial and very real.”
“If you’re asking what I would do, as a Secret Service officer, to protect the American President, I would cancel his public schedule. I would probably even go so far as to concoct a cover story. I’d have an ambulance arrive this evening to take him to the hospital.
I’d leak to the press something about an illness or a fall.”
Harvath’s voice trailed off and the Vatican intelligence officer noticed. “But?”
“But that only postpones the attack. The weapons are here in Rome and so are the terrorists. If they are well funded, which we should believe they are, they might be able to stick it out—to wait until the Pope returns. Or . . .”
“Or what?”
“They pick another target and people still die.”
“To protect the Pope and our visitors to St. Peter’s Square, though, I would need to call everything off,” said Carl.
Harvath nodded. “But to catch the terrorists and eliminate this threat altogether, you would need to act as if everything was still on.”
The Vatican intelligence officer looked at the digital clock above the map. “I can give you eight hours. After that, we’re going to cancel His Holiness’s public schedule.”
CHAPTER 87
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* * *
For the same reason Harvath wouldn’t use the Wi-Fi at the ROS safe house in Villa San Giovanni, he didn’t want to use the Vatican intelligence service Wi-Fi either. Allies spied on each other. It was just the nature of the game.
Securing a temporary keycard from Josef, Harvath slung his backpack over his shoulder, walked back out to the elevator, and headed upstairs to use his phone.
Argento, who was dying for a smoke, joined him.
Reaching ground level, they exited the elevator and stepped outside onto the cobbled driveway.
The Vatican gardens covered fifty-seven acres, seven and a half of which were forest. From where they stood, Harvath thought he smelled gardenias, but as it was so late in the season, it had to be something else.
He took another breath, trying to place the scent, but it was interrupted by Argento, who lit up, and then promptly exhaled a cloud of steel-gray smoke.
He was about to make a joke about his smoking in the cleanest place in all of Rome when the Italian’s cell phone rang.
Harvath listened as an animated conversation took place. When it was finished and Argento had disconnected the call, he turned to Harvath and said, “The ISIS man. The one who bought the mortars from La Formícula? We have his picture.”
“From where?”
The Italian smiled. “Your man Vella has been hard at work. He had Vottari tell him everything, every single step from the beginning. Apparently, La Formícula set up a meeting. There is a bar in a rough neighborhood of Reggio Calabria. He told the ISIS man to go there and wait to be picked up. When he was there, he had to do something specific with a newspaper and order a Negroni so that they knew it was him. Once he did that, the bar owners reached out to Vottari.”
“And there was a camera inside the bar?”
Argento nodded. “Outside too. Like I said, it is in a rough neighborhood.”
“Has Vottari confirmed the picture?”
“Yes. Vella just showed it to him.”
This was a huge break. “Send it to me,” said Harvath as he reached for his phone and dialed Vella to confirm.
“He says it’s him,” the doctor stated from the ROS safe house.
“But he doesn’t have any identifying information we can use to track him down?”
“All of their conversations were through an encrypted chat room.”
“Okay,” Harvath relented. “Keep working on him.”
Turning back to Argento, he asked, “Did you send the still frame?”
The Italian nodded and moments later, he had it. Right away, he sent the photo along to Nicholas. Within a few seconds, the phone rang.
“This is the guy?” the little man asked.
“According to La Formícula, yes.”
“Okay, I’m on it. No idea how long this will take.”
“See if you can place him in Rome. If he’s the guy who arranged the weapons, he may be connected to those six brand-new cell phones we’re tracking.”
“Roger that. Keep your ringer on,” Nicholas replied.
And before Harvath could tell him where he was, and that he couldn’t get a signal underground, the little man had hung up.
Crushing out his cigarette, Argento asked, “Back downstairs?”
“I have to wait for a call,” Harvath replied, holding up his phone.
The Italian looked at him. “The Pope has Wi-Fi, you know.”
“It’s not the Pope I’m concerned about.”
“Understood,” said Argento. “It’s too beautiful a day to spend in a dungeon. We should be outside. I’m going to get an espresso. What can I bring you?”
“Espresso sounds good,” he responded, handing over his keycard so he could access the elevator.
As the Italian went back inside, Harvath leaned against the side of the building and turned his face up toward the sun.
It felt warm against his skin and it was good to close his eyes. He had only been able to snatch small slices of sleep here and there.
A lot of his body was still sore from Libya. That sore part wanted him to reach down and fish the bottle of Motrin out of his pack so he didn’t forget to take some. The rest of his body didn’t want him to move. It not only felt good just the way he was, but ever since Argento had put out his cigarette, it also smelled good. When was he ever going to get another chance to close his eyes and just relax in the Vatican gardens?
He stood there like that for several moments until a sound broke his reverie. It was off in the distance, but coming closer.
He opened his eyes and focused. He could distinctly make out a car, traveling at a high rate of speed.
Moments later, he could see it—a black, unmarked Fiat sedan, speeding up the driveway toward him. He didn’t know what to make of it until Argento burst back outside, slinging his pack over his shoulder.
As the car came skidding to a halt atop the cobblestones, he could see a young Carabinieri officer inside behind the wheel.
“One of the phones just went active,” Argento shouted. “We’ve got a fix on its location.”
“Where is Lovett?” Harvath asked as the Italian opened the passenger door and hopped in.
“Downstairs,” he replied. “She can’t go tactical here. Now that she’s brought the Ambassador up to speed, he wants her to stay put.”
All Harvath could do was shake his head. He hated bureaucracy. Opening the rear door, he tossed his pack on the seat and jumped in.
Before he had even closed the door, the driver activated his lights and klaxon and took off.
CHAPTER 88
* * *
* * *
The terrorist’s cell phone had been traced to a rooftop apartment overlooking the Campo de’ Fiori, just south of the Piazza Navona. From the apartment’s outdoor terrace, a mortar would have a straight line of travel over the Tiber River and into St. Peter’s Square.
The Carabinieri officer turned off his lights and klaxon two blocks away from the building. Half a block from the entrance, he pulled over and stopped so Argento and Harvath could get out.
A tactical team was en route, but it would be another five minutes before they arrived. “Come watch the door,” Argento told the young officer in Italian. “Don’t let anyone in or out. Understand?”
The young man nodded and as he did, Harvath and Argento took off down the street.
Stepping inside the vestibule of the centuries-old apartment building, the ROS operator rang for the concierge. She appeared seconds later, a tough-looking woman in her seventies. Argento showed her his credentials and spoke with her in rapid-fire Italian. When they finished, the woman disappeared back inside.
Argento explained to Harvath what was going on. “She says the rooftop apartment is owned by a couple from Florence. She doesn’t see them much. They rent the place out online to tourists.”
“Who’s in it now?”
“Two men.”
“What do they look like?” asked Harvath.
“According to the concierge, Arabs. More than that,
she doesn’t know. They’ve been here for a week and have kept to themselves.”
“Where’d she go?”
Argento was about to reply when the concierge returned and handed him a key. Holding open the main door, she stood back and allowed the men to step inside.
A wide staircase wound its way all the way up to the fifth floor. In the center was an ancient, cage-style elevator. Neither man needed to discuss which they were going to take. They both headed for the stairs.
Halfway up, they stopped and removed their weapons from their bags, then they climbed the rest of the way. Just shy of the final landing, they stopped to catch their breath.
When they were good to go, they nodded at each other and crept up the last handful of stairs.
Moving quietly down the hall, they found the door they were looking for and Argento stopped to listen. He pressed his ear against it for several moments. He looked at Harvath and shook his head. There was no sound from inside. Harvath got himself ready and then motioned to the Italian to open the door.
Cautiously, Argento slid the key inside the lock and, without making a sound, slowly turned it. When it was unlocked, he counted backward from three.
On “one,” he quietly pushed the door open and Harvath slipped inside.
The door opened into a narrow hallway with wood floors. At the end of it, he could see windows, a small kitchen, and part of a dining room. Closing the door, Argento brought up the rear.
Moving forward, Harvath strained his ears for any sound. There was nothing. He wondered if maybe the phone had been left behind, or if the two occupants were out on the rooftop deck.
Creeping forward, Harvath stepped on a board that groaned beneath his foot. Instantly, he froze.
In the quiet apartment, the noise sounded like an air horn. Technically it wasn’t as loud, but it had the same effect of trumpeting their arrival.
Suddenly, a man appeared from around the corner with an AK-47. Harvath depressed the trigger of his suppressed H&K and fired, hitting him in the chest. He followed up with another round to the chest and one to the head.
