by Brad Thor
The woman Argento was referring to was Meg Cassidy, a hijacking survivor he had teamed up with to track down a terrorist hell-bent on igniting war in the Middle East. The target had been a peace summit hosted by Italy.
With the help of the Italians, Harvath had prevented an attack on one of the delegations, designed to look as if the Israelis had been behind it.
“You were part of the Rapid Reaction Force,” said Harvath.
Argento nodded. “I was the team leader. We picked you up in Rome and flew with you out to Frascati. With my helmet and balaclava, I don’t blame you for not recognizing me.”
Harvath smiled.
Lovett looked at them both. “Wait. You two know each other?”
Argento nodded. “Unfortunately, bad actors have brought us back together.”
“Speaking of which, what can you tell us about Antonio Vottari?” Harvath asked.
The Italian held up his hand. “First, you’re going to tell me everything you know about Mustapha Marzouk. Then, we’ll have a discussion about La Formícula.”
CHAPTER 64
* * *
* * *
Harvath’s team was given a place to sleep. One of Argento’s men made coffee. It was after midnight when they got down to business.
Harvath shared everything he knew. There was no sense in holding back. The Italians were aware that American Intelligence had been looking for Mustapha Marzouk. They were also aware of chatter about impending terror attacks in Europe. What they didn’t know was how the two were connected.
From how the laptop of doom had been discovered and what it contained, to everything that had gone down at Burning Man and in Libya, he walked Argento through all of it.
The Italian listened intently, interrupting only occasionally to ask a question or probe for more information.
When Harvath had finished, he set his coffee cup down on the table and leaned back on the couch.
Argento had his laptop out. On it was the audio they had recorded from the bartender’s apartment. He listened to it several times, smoking a cigarette and making notes as he did.
There were several things he wanted Ragusa to clarify, and he ran his list of questions by Harvath. As any good investigator would, he wanted all the details, no matter how small. How was the mobster planning to get Marzouk to Rome? Where was the drop-off? Was he supposed to provide him with new identification documents? Was he supposed to provide a phone or a new SIM card? Money? Clothing? The list went on.
Once he had written down everything he could think of, he handed the questions to one of his ROS operatives and sent him to interrogate Ragusa.
Then, he turned the conversation to La Formícula, Antonio Vottari, and the Calabrian Mafia known as the N’drangheta.
Having seen the barbarity of organized crime up close, Argento despised it every bit as much as Harvath did. He made no secret of his contempt. But like any wise, experienced warrior, he also respected his enemy—especially what they were capable of.
Like the Cosa Nostra of Sicily and the Camorra of Campania, the N’drangheta of Calabria were ruthless.
So thoroughly capable was the Mafia of getting to anyone who stood in its way that Carabinieri were required to work outside their home region for eight years before they could be trusted to apply for a transfer to come back.
It was said that 70 percent of the Carabinieri came from the four Italian regions most plagued by organized crime. Faced with a choice between good and evil, they chose good. They chose to side with law and justice. They were noble men and women engaged in a tough, dangerous fight.
And nobody knew that better than Paolo Argento.
“Okay,” he said, opening a folder on his laptop and bringing up a photo. “Let’s talk about Antonio Vottari.”
Harvath and Lovett moved closer to each other so they could see.
“Antonio is the nephew of Franco Vottari. The Vottaris are one of the most powerful families in the Calabrian Mafia. The N’drangheta is considered one of the richest and most powerful organized crime groups in the world.
“They are known for their extreme violence. Of all its families, the Vottaris are considered one of the most brutal. Antonio, like his uncle Franco, is known for his savagery.
“He’s small. That’s how he received his nickname.”
“La Formícula,” said Harvath. “The Ant.”
“Exactly,” replied Argento as he clicked through pictures of Antonio, as well as bloody crime scene photos. “But make no mistake, he’s extremely dangerous. Deadly even.
“The N’drangheta have their hands in everything—they traffic in drugs, weapons, prostitution, fraud, extortion, political corruption, contract killing, even black market artifacts looted out of North Africa and the Middle East. If there’s money to be made in something illegal, you’ll find them there.”
Harvath was trying to connect all the dots. “So ISIS pays Umar Ali Halim to smuggle Marzouk from Libya to Italy. Members of the Black Axe, under Ragusa’s control, are sent out to meet him near the island of Lampedusa and bring him to shore. Once Marzouk’s feet are dry, Ragusa is supposed to smuggle him to Rome, where he has people who will get him to his final destination. All of which, Ragusa is doing as a favor for Antonio Vottari. Why?”
“Good question,” Argento answered. “The different Mafia networks have been known to work together, but there’s always something in it for them. Ragusa wasn’t helping La Formícula out of the kindness of his heart. There had to be some sort of transaction.”
“And what’s the Vottari–ISIS connection?” Lovett asked.
“Also a good question and probably even easier to answer. Obviously, ISIS didn’t have a smuggling relationship in Italy. They did, apparently, have a relationship with Vottari and asked him to arrange a smuggler to get Marzouk into Italy and up to Rome.
“Was this a relationship based on looted artifacts? Drugs? Weapons? All of those are possible. ISIS has been making strong inroads with different Mafia groups in southern Italy.”
“If you had to guess,” asked Harvath, “which would you pick?”
Argento shrugged. “Drugs or stolen artifacts make the most sense. That’s all ISIS really has to offer, unless they’re buying weapons.”
“Which could be paid for with artifacts, drugs, or cash.”
“Correct.”
“They could have also been buying explosives. The attacks in Spain and Paris might end up leading right back to Vottari.”
“Or they could have come from another source entirely,” the Italian responded. “In this case, Vottari may be nothing more than a middleman. ISIS needed a smuggler and he made the introduction to Ragusa.”
Harvath was growing frustrated. There had to be something. Something he was missing. “What if Vottari was lying to Ragusa?” he asked.
“About what?”
“About Mustapha Marzouk having his own people in Rome—people who would get him to his final destination,” said Harvath.
“Why would he lie about that?”
“I can think of two reasons. The one that makes the most sense is for operational security purposes. The less Ragusa knew about Marzouk’s final destination the better.”
Argento nodded. “Agreed. What’s the second reason?”
Harvath was a lot less sure of number two, but he shared it anyway. “What if Rome was Marzouk’s final destination? What if that’s where the attack was supposed to take place?”
Lovett felt a chill run down her spine as a terrible thought took hold of her mind. “Oh my God,” she uttered.
Both men turned to look at her.
“What is it?” asked Harvath.
“What if the attack is still on? What if ISIS has already found a replacement chemist?”
Before anyone could say another word, Argento pulled out his phone and dialed a highly classified number.
CHAPTER 65
* * *
* * *
PARIS
The best time to make a getaway was in the m
idst of chaos—when authorities didn’t know who, or what, they were looking for.
In the wake of the Tuileries bombings, Paris was in a panic. Emergency vehicles fought to get to and from the scene. The streets were in gridlock.
People were terrified about a second round of attacks. No one felt safe.
Joining the wave of guests fleeing the city, Tursunov dropped his room key at the front desk of Le Meurice and exited the hotel.
Out on the street, he had no need to pause. He had taken in the full spectacle from the balcony of his room. Whatever had caused the first bomber to detonate early was not worth worrying about. As far as he was concerned, the attack had been a success.
Cutting across the Pont de la Concorde, he walked to the Boulevard Saint-Germain and took a left.
Emergency vehicles continued to speed past, their klaxons blaring and lights flashing. Pulling his rolling suitcase behind him, he was careful to take detours in order to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Though this was extremely unlikely, it was good tradecraft.
At the Pont de Sully, in the shadow of the Arab World Institute building, he turned onto the Quai Saint Bernard. The walk from Le Meurice to the Gare d’Austerlitz took a little over a half hour.
The station took its name from a town in the Czech Republic where Napoleon had defeated a far superior force. There might have been some irony for him there if Paris wasn’t full of such monuments.
Checking his watch, he saw he had time to stop nearby for a coffee. The train wasn’t leaving until 9:22. The less time he spent inside the station, the better. It would only be filled with nervous police and anxious soldiers, suspicious of everything and everyone.
He kept walking until he found a café with an open terrace where he could also enjoy a cigarette. Taking a seat, he pulled out his Gauloises and called the waiter over.
He ordered un serré, lit his cigarette, then watched the faces of the people who passed by.
Their expressions were the same as he had seen up and down the Boulevard Saint-Germain—shock, sadness, terror. It was all Tursunov could do not to smile.
The French, always so quick to participate in bombing runs of Muslim lands, had been served a stern rebuke.
From his table, he could also see the TVs on inside. It reminded him of how he sat, just days ago, in the tiny café in Reggio di Calabria, watching the aftermath of the bombing in America.
All of the televisions were broadcasting video from the Tuileries. The dead and injured were there in full, high-definition glory for the world to see. The attack had been more than successful; it had been spectacular.
The message from ISIS had been delivered, loud and clear: You may advance upon us in Iraq, Libya, or Syria, but you will never, ever defeat us.
When his coffee came, he savored it. It was made sweet by the pained face of every passerby. ISIS had indeed won a massive victory, but it was nothing compared to what was in store.
Paying his bill, Tursunov struck out in search of a small grocery. He wanted to pick up some edibles for his overnight train ride.
When conducting operations, there was rarely anything the Tajik ever looked forward to. Traveling overnight to Nice was an exception.
While recuperating from plastic surgery in Pakistan, he had had very little to do. There was only local television and a small shelf with a handful of books.
One of those books was about overnight train travel by a British author named Andrew Martin.
Over the course of his life, Tursunov had taken many trains. He had even slept on some of them, but only by sitting upright in an uncomfortable seat. He had never known the luxury of a proper sleeping compartment. The book by Martin had opened his eyes to what he had been missing. So, while planning the operation, he had decided to make his escape from Paris via the overnight train to Nice.
The author had talked about duplicating a railway “dinner basket” for the ride, as a character in Agatha Christie’s The Mystery of the Blue Train had done for the journey. Having managed only one bite of his main course before the explosions had begun, Tursunov thought it a good idea.
At the grocery, he bought pasta salad, cheese, bread, smoked fish, some fruit, and bottled water. And while he would have enjoyed the old-fashioned romance of a picnic hamper, he satisfied himself with the plastic grocery bag provided by the shop.
It was a short walk to the station, and it proved to be everything the author had described. There were sparrows in the rafters and a complimentary piano in the large hall, which anyone could sit down and play.
A young man of university age began playing “La Marseillaise.” A day, or maybe even a few hours later, he might have roused some of his fellow countrymen to sing in a defiant show of patriotism. But as it stood, no one joined him. People were still in shock.
With a newspaper tucked under his arm, and wearing a business suit, the Tajik kept his head down as he walked to his platform. Neither the police nor the soldiers paid him much attention. They were looking for Muslim terrorists and knew one when they saw one. He didn’t fit the profile.
Climbing aboard the train, Tursunov found his compartment. It wasn’t much bigger than a walk-in closet. He had paid extra in order to have it all to himself. The lower two bunks had been folded down and turned into beds.
White pillows in plastic wrappers sat atop thin, gray duvets that resembled sleeping bags. The walls were scuffed and the floor was dirty. A bathroom was at the end of the carriage, just after the vending machines. It was a far cry from the famed Orient Express.
After removing a few things, he put his suitcase on the luggage rack, sat down on one of the beds, and opened the paper.
At exactly 9:22, he felt a shudder beneath him as the enormous engine at the head of the platform came to life and the train began moving.
He watched through the window as the train left the station and made its way through the city.
Once the conductor had come by to check his ticket, he locked the door, unpacked his impromptu dinner basket, and assembled his meal.
The fish, unfortunately, was too salty, the pasta salad too oily, and the cheese entirely too strong. Had it not been for the fruit and bread, he would have been at the mercy of the vending machine.
After cleaning up his meal, he undressed, got into bed, and extinguished the light. The ride was smooth and quiet. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep.
CHAPTER 66
* * *
* * *
THURSDAY
The Tajik awoke and raised his window shade as the train was passing through the coastal village of Cassis. It was just as the British author had described—cascading with red bougainvillea.
After saying his prayers and doing a light round of exercises, he dressed and made a small meal of what remained of his palatable food. Then, he spent the next two hours watching the turquoise water and pastel-colored buildings of France’s decadent Riviera pass by his window.
At 8:37 a.m. the train came to a stop at the Gare de Nice-Ville. As Tursunov stepped off the train, he listened for the good-bye from the conductor. He remembered from reading the book in Lahore that it would be different here.
And indeed it was.
Instead of wishing departing passengers the typical Parisian “bonne journée,” have a good day, he wished them a beautiful “belle journée.”
The Tajik tipped his head politely as he passed the conductor and headed out in search of coffee and breakfast. He had exactly an hour and a half until his next train and he needed to make the most of it.
As he pulled his suitcase behind him, he noticed a heavy security presence here as well. Nice was no stranger to being attacked. After what had happened in Paris, he was not surprised to see the increase in vigilance.
Near the station, he found a small café. It was a warm, sunny morning and he sat on the terrace outside where he could have a cigarette while he waited for his food.
Removing one of the “burner” cell phones he had purchased for the ope
ration, he powered it up and waited for it to get a signal.
Once it had, the message tone chimed. Tursunov checked his texts. There was just one.
Opening it, he saw a poor camera phone photo of a strip of grass. It was a code. The chemist had made it to the Nice train station. The Tajik powered off the phone.
Taking a drag on his cigarette, he watched the people as they passed. The mood in the South of France was better than it had been in Paris, but not much.
That was to be expected, he supposed. While the inhabitants along the Riviera despised the Parisians, they still shared a national identity as Frenchmen. As far as Tursunov was concerned, they could all go to hell.
After finishing his breakfast, he took his time smoking another cigarette. That was one of the few things he liked about the French. Even if you consumed only one coffee, the price entitled you to sit at the table all day if you chose.
When the allotted time had come, he paid his bill and rolled his suitcase back to the station.
The chemist had not been told that they would both be on the same train. The Tajik didn’t want him to know. He wanted to watch him from afar. He wanted to make sure he didn’t have any surveillance following him.
When he entered the station, it was even more crowded than it had been before. Seeing the lines at the ticket windows, he was glad he had purchased everything in advance in Paris. That was one of the other things he liked about the French. There was at least some semblance of organization in their rail system.
Because he had purchased the tickets himself and had delivered one set to Abdel, to be given to his nephew, he knew which train car the chemist would be in and exactly where he would be sitting.
Finding the platform for the train to Milan, he lingered where he knew the young man would board.
Ten minutes before departure, Younes El Fassi—the nephew of Abdel and son of Aziz the lion—arrived.
Tursunov watched and waited.