Lorenzo made stops at three of the barricades, then made his way to the third of three checkpoints delivery trucks had to clear before being allowed to approach the building.
“There is a delivery van requesting permission to approach,” a tall, dark-skinned officer said to Lorenzo.
“From what vendor? Do they have papers and badges?”
The officer said they did.
“Let them pass.”
A few moments later a white Mercedes-Benz panel truck drove slowly to the checkpoint where Lorenzo stood. A logo and name on the side of the truck indicated it was owned by a large flower company near Rome.
“I’ll take this.” Lorenzo waved his hand, and three officers hurried to action. One used a small video camera on a pole to search the undercarriage for explosives; another walked around the vehicle looking for anything out of the ordinary. Lorenzo stepped to the driver’s window. “Papers, please.”
The man handed him a small stack of orders and a page that identified the driver and company. Lorenzo nodded. “Please pull the hood release.”
The driver, a man in his thirties, did. One of the officers checked the engine compartment and pronounced it clear.
“Is the back unlocked?” Lorenzo asked.
“Yes.”
“Please turn the engine off and hand me the keys.” Lorenzo held out his hands.
The man laughed. “If I were going to run over you, I would have done so by now.”
“Please, sir. The keys.”
The driver handed them over, and Lorenzo went to the back of the vehicle and opened the double doors. Inside and mounted to the sides were several metal shelves. The floor was covered in buckets filled with flowers. From the back, Lorenzo could see the back of the driver’s head and that of a female passenger.
He closed the doors and moved to the passenger side of the vehicle. The woman was young, with smooth, dark skin. She glanced at him then turned away. Around her neck hung a badge like the one the driver wore. Lorenzo recognized it. They were assigned to anyone who needed access to the building. Each badge had a bar code and a radio-frequency identification chip embedded in the plastic.
Lorenzo motioned for the chip reader and one of the officers brought a device that looked very much like a large television remote with a tiny LCD screen. Lorenzo passed it over the badge and nodded. He then returned to the other side of the vehicle and passed the scanner over the driver’s badge.
“How long will you be in the building?”
“Until nearly noon,” the driver said. “We have to cut and arrange the flowers to make the centerpieces for the lunch gathering.”
“You must wear these badges at all times. Is that understood?”
“Si, officer.”
Lorenzo looked to the woman. “Do you understand about the badges, signora?”
“Si.”
“Let them pass.” Lorenzo said and stepped away from the vehicle and watched it drive toward the building.
He felt ill.
DELARAM WAS A VICTIM, not a co-conspirator. At least she felt that way until the policeman looked her in the eye, read her badge, and she said nothing. The only image her mind could form was that of her parents being killed in the slowest, most painful manner.
“You behaved like a noble woman.” Abasi glanced at her, his perfect white teeth shining between his lips. Delaram wondered if she were strong enough to knock any of them out.
Abasi drove the flower truck down a drive and into the basement of the hotel. Light from fluorescent fixtures encased in protective wire mesh replaced the first rays of sunshine.
Darkness seemed to follow Delaram. They had left the villa in the dead of night, traveled dark dirt roads, flown in a large helicopter over night-shrouded hills. She’d sat in the helicopter, half afraid they would crash, half afraid they wouldn’t.
The helicopter landed at an abandoned private airport. Delaram had lost her sense of direction minutes after take off. She tried to use the pale glow on the horizon to determine which direction was east, but sunrise had been too far off. She couldn’t tell if she was gazing at the sun’s first rays or the glow of a city. To make matters worse, the pilot changed directions a dozen times. Filled with despair that mounted with every hour, Delaram gave up trying, gave up hoping, and gave up thinking.
By the time the helicopter landed and she and the other women were loaded into four SUVs of different makes, Delaram had fallen into such despair that she moved like a zombie. As far as she was concerned, her life had already ended. An hour, maybe two later, Abasi pulled the SUV onto the back alley of an industrial district. A string of warehouses bracketed the alley. The press of a button on a remote opened one of the wide loading doors. Abasi pulled the car in, stopped, exited, but left the motor running.
“You. Out.” He pointed at Delaram. She slipped from her place in the backseat. The space was nearly empty. A white, flower delivery van was parked to one side. The space smelled of motor oil made slightly pleasant by an ocean breeze. She was close to the ocean.
“Get in the van. Passenger seat.”
Delaram did. Perhaps it would all be over soon. Maybe her death could save her parents. The thought brought no comfort.
Waiting for them had been a round man in a jogging suit. He looked ridiculous and dangerous. He took Abasi’s place behind the steering wheel and backed the SUV out of the work bay. The moment he was clear, the large, metal rolling door began to close.
Delaram caught Abasi staring at her. As the door closed, he raised an eyebrow.
CHAPTER 21
THE ITALIAN MILITARY PILOT landed the AW109 helicopter at the civilian airport. Two men stood a short distance away to avoid the rotor blast. Both wore suits.
Moyer waited for a moment for the pilot to power down the rotor, then slid the door open and led his team onto the tarmac. He wondered what an observer would have thought seeing seven men dressed in black from head to foot and carrying automatic weapons. It didn’t seem to intimidate the two waiting men. Moyer marched to their position standing just a few feet away. No one spoke. The roar and whine of the helicopter’s engine drowned out any possible conversation.
Moyer turned in time to see their ride lift off the pad and fly away.
“Sergeant Major Eric Moyer, I presume?” the shorter of the two men said. He was handsome and projected an air of unshakable confidence. He held out his hand. Moyer took it.
“I am. And you are?”
“Captain Aldo Gronchi of the Napoli police. My friend here is closer to your home. May I introduce Agent Mitchell Baker of the United States Secret Service.”
Mitchell shook Moyer’s hand. It was a strong grip, and Moyer could tell the man was very familiar with the gym. “Before we go any further, I need to ask a favor.”
“A favor?”
“Please hold out your hand.” Mitchell removed an electronic device from his inner suit pocket. It was about the size of a cell phone.
Moyer held out his right hand. Mitchell took hold of Moyer’s index finger and placed it on the glass surface of the device. A second later it beeped.
“Sergeant Major Eric Moyer. Verified.” Mitchell moved to Rich and repeated the procedure. “Rich Harbison, Master Sergeant.” Mitchell continued through the team until each man had been verified.
“Does it say what I like on my hot dogs?” Rich asked.
“No, but it says you should call your mother more often.”
The team laughed.
Mitchell turned to Moyer. “You understand my need to verify your identities. You are packing some heavy firepower.”
“I understand. I’d have been worried if you hadn’t.”
“I assume you’ve been brought up to speed.” Moyer spoke more to Mitchell than Aldo.
“We’ve been briefed by your commander. It is your opinion that El-Sayyed is headed here.”
“He’s probably already in the area. Scratch that. His history shows that he disappears shortly before any terrorist activity.”
“And you think that activity is aimed at the G-20.”
“It’s our best guess so far. Captain thinks El-Sayyed might be targeting Christian sites in Rome.”
“That seems to make sense,” Aldo said.
“So does attacking the G-20.”
Aldo smiled. “An impossible task, Sergeant Major. There are twenty security teams, one from each country. My men have gone to great lengths to coordinate and bolster the security that is already present. The Italian Army is involved.”
“The place is locked up like a drum,” Mitchell said. “Captain Gronchi is correct. The G-20 would be the worst possible target. Any attempt at assassination is doomed to failure. The Christian shrines in Rome make more sense. Although covered with security, they are more approachable targets.”
Moyer’s jaw tightened. “Are you suggesting we go home?”
“Of course not, just voicing my view,” Mitchell said. “We have a van. Please follow me.”
“Where are we going?” Rich asked.
“To prove our point.”
THE LARGE FORD VAN moved through the streets of Naples, fighting airport traffic and the early morning rush hour. The sun had cleared the horizon and wasted no time climbing the morning sky. Moyer viewed it through tinted windows.
Aldo drove; Mitchell sat in the front seat, Moyer in the seat behind him. His men were spread out in the fifteen-passenger van. They sat in silence. Others would have missed it, but Moyer knew his team well enough to know that some serious teeth grinding was going on. They were not used to having their leader doubted.
“You have a military bearing, Agent Baker.”
“Navy. Ten years.”
Someone in the back snickered.
“Eight as a SEAL.”
The snickering stopped. A Navy SEAL team had changed the tide in a firefight in Venezuela. Had they not shown at the right time, the team would be buried in a foreign cemetery.
“See any action?”
“Some here and there. You know the drill. Did a tour in the first Gulf War.”
“What did you do there?” J. J. asked, breaking the team’s silence.
“This and that.”
The three words said it all. Agent Baker had been involved in Spec Ops. No details would be forthcoming.
“Why did you leave the Navy?”
“The Treasury Department recruited me. Being able to go home most days and tickle my kids made it an enticing offer.”
“Understood,” Moyer said, less angry with the man.
Twenty minutes later Aldo directed the van down a side street. Out the window Moyer could see men and women in police uniforms manning barricades. He also caught a glimpse of an Army sniper on the roof and a helicopter circling overhead.
“Tell me about the barricades,” Zinsser asked.
Moyer shot him an icy glance.
“That’s Captain Gronchi’s area.”
“There are three lines of barricades, and they stretch from the ocean around several blocks in which the G-20 hotel is located. The first barricade is manned by my officers. The streets and sidewalks are blocked by metal barriers. The next line of barricades has the same barriers with the addition of spike strips to stop any vehicle that runs the blockade. The third barricade line includes steel stanchions.”
“What about foot traffic?” Moyer asked.
“Foot traffic is allowed only in certain areas. We have to allow for some movement since there are several office buildings and apartments in the inner ring.”
“You’re wondering if someone—like a suicide bomber—could walk into the hotel.” Agent Mitchell turned to face Moyer. “We’ve taken that into account. No one can approach the hotel without clearing security and without the possession of a security card—a RFID badge. The system is foolproof.”
“There’s no such thing,” Zinsser said. “There is always a chink in the armor somewhere.”
“We know what we’re doing, soldier,” Mitchell said. “We’ve been at this for a long time.”
Zinsser started to say something, but Moyer cut him off with an upraised hand. “No one doubts your professionalism, Agent. We’re just curious.”
Mitchell turned forward again and opened the glove compartment. When he turned again he was holding a handful of badges with neck strings. “These badges carry your necessary ID on a RFID chip. You must keep them on at all times in and around the G-20 hotel. We have monitors on every floor, in the elevators, and even the bathrooms. Lose your badge and pass one of the monitors and agents from my team will be on you like ugly on an ape.”
“I assume the monitors keep a log of who passes by,” Zinsser said.
“You must be the tech guy for the team,” Mitchell said.
“Me and Pete.”
“That’s the big change in the military. Everything is digital.”
“Except bullets,” J. J. said.
“And you must be the weapons guy.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“You guys scare me.”
J. J. smiled. “That’s the point.”
Mitchell handed the badges to Moyer, who passed them around.
Aldo pulled the van to a stop at a barricade. A peach-faced officer approached the driver’s side window. “Good morning, Capitano. How are you?”
“I am fine. Everything fine here?”
“Boring, sir.”
Aldo nodded. “As it should be.”
The officer scanned Aldo’s card with a handheld device. “How are your roses, sir?”
“Yellow as usual.”
The man nodded and stepped away.
“Roses?” J. J. said. “You grow roses?”
Aldo chuckled. “I can’t grow mold. The question was code. If I said anything other than yellow, we all would be looking down the boreholes of several weapons.”
“Ah.”
At the second barricade, the procedure was repeated. The police officers not only had to move the barricade but the spike strip in front of it.
“There it is,” Mitchell said, pointing at a multistory hotel.
“Glamorous digs,” Jose said.
“I wouldn’t mind living here,” Mitchell said.
Aldo pulled to the final barricade, standing twenty meters in front of the opening to the basement parking. This time several men approached the van. One carried a device on a pole that Moyer identified as a video camera used to check the undercarriage of the vehicle. Two other men circled the vehicle.
“How was the drive, Capitano?”
“Usual traffic, Lorenzo.”
“May I scan your badge, sir?”
Aldo held it out.
“How was your meal last night, sir?”
“Not enough garlic.”
More code.
“Please turn off your engine, sir, and unlock your doors.”
Aldo did and the man he called Lorenzo walked to the passenger side. He opened the passenger side door and scanned Mitchell’s badge. Moyer noticed the other officers stood back, one on each side of the vehicle, with their hands on their sidearms. A bad guy might be able to take down Lorenzo, but a second later the van would look like Bonnie and Clyde’s car.
Moyer decided to be helpful: he slid open the side doors. A half second later, Lorenzo and his men had their weapons drawn and pointed into the passenger compartment. Moyer noticed that each weapon was held in steady hands.
“Don’t move!” Lorenzo commanded.
“Um, Captain?” Moyer said to Aldo.
“I don’t interfere with my men’s work. I suggest you do as he says.”
Moyer thought he heard Mitchell snicker.
Lorenzo approached, handgun extended. “Hands on your head.”
“His English is good,” Rich said.
Moyer and the others put their hands on their heads. Lorenzo shouted something in Italian. Officers, one with a Beretta AR-70, rounded the van and brought the sights to bear on Moyer and the others. Lorenzo holstered his weapon and approached. Wit
hout a word he snatched Moyer’s badge and scanned it. He faced Rich, who sat next to Moyer. “Slowly remove your badge and hand it to me.” Rich did and Lorenzo held it to the scanner. He repeated the procedure with each member of the team, then stepped away.
“My apologies, gentlemen,” he said. The other officers lowered their weapons.
“For a moment we thought you might be up to no good. Next time, please wait for instruction.”
“No apology necessary. At least not from you.” Moyer turned his attention to Mitchell, who was doing his best to hold back laughter.
Lorenzo walked back to the driver’s side window. “You are free to pass, sir.”
“Thank you, Lorenzo.”
The barricades were removed. Aldo started the van and crept forward.
“Was all that necessary?” Rich asked. “It’s not like he didn’t know you.”
“If he had not acted as he did, I would have fired him.”
A moment of silence passed, then Mitchell guffawed. His laughter filled the van.
“Something funny?” Moyer asked.
“The whole thing.” Mitchell continued to laugh. “Wait until the president hears about this.”
“Swell,” Moyer said. “Just swell.”
TONY NASSER PULLED THE sixty-five-foot super-yacht from a private dock in Salemo thirty miles south of Naples and directed the multimillion dollar craft toward open ocean. The Sea Witch cruised easily through the water and gentle swells, its sleek form parting the water at its bow as easily as a jet aircraft knifed through high-altitude air. Off her stern flew a Danish flag.
The yacht had once belonged to an oil executive with Denmark’s leading oil company. Several bad deals, the dropping of oil prices, and an affair with the CEO’s wife led to a change in his income. To pay legal fees and to counter allegations of insider trading, the man decided to liquidate some of his property, including the Sea Witch. El-Sayyed was happy to buy it—not directly of course, but through one of his dummy corporations. He bought it sight unseen and had never set foot on the vessel.
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