by Brad Thor
The horses were forced to race on asphalt or cobbles. To minimize accidents, roads that sloped uphill were chosen. To minimize the pain of running on such hard surfaces, the nerves in the horses’ hooves were surgically severed.
Wagers could range from hundreds to thousands of dollars. In the past, angry mobs had stoned losing horses to death.
Spectators on scooters and motorbikes, yelling and honking, rode behind the terrified animals, frightening them into running faster.
The horses involved in the Palermo races were kept in deplorable conditions in dilapidated garages and storage units throughout the city’s old town.
The races were normally held at dawn, just as the police shifts were changing. The location was kept secret until the very last moment. When the race was run, the road was closed down and residents were threatened with violence if they didn’t stay indoors.
Harvath had no desire to try to snatch Ragusa from such an event. Lovett, though, told him she didn’t think it would be necessary anyway.
The night before a race, men were known to stay out the entire evening. According to her source, Ragusa used the races as an excuse to see his mistress.
She was a tall, beautiful, twenty-two-year-old Nigerian named Naya. The Mafioso had put her to work as a bartender in one of his clubs in the old town. There, he could keep his eye on her. She lived in an apartment above.
The club was called Il Gatto Nero and no doubt a cretin like Ragusa enjoyed keeping his black mistress at an establishment called the Black Cat.
“Do they have the apartment under surveillance?” Harvath asked.
“My guy says no.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I do,” she replied.
Harvath nodded and Lovett continued the briefing.
Once it was complete, they returned to her vehicle and went to talk to the team.
The men listened and when Harvath was finished, Staelin asked, “So what’s the plan?”
“I’m still working on it. I’ll know more when we get there.”
“That’s my favorite kind of plan,” the Delta Force operative responded. “Count me in.”
Harvath looked at Barton, the short, red-bearded SEAL.
“I was in as soon as I heard hot bartender,” the man replied.
Morrison laughed. “Harvath said hot, tall bartender. Maybe we should bring phone books so you can put them on one of the stools.”
Barton feigned that he was about to laugh, then shot the Marine his death stare.
Turning to Lovett, Harvath said, “Looks like we’re going clubbing.”
• • •
Leaving the base at Sigonella, there were multiple signs that warned not to transport any weapons off-post.
“Oops!” Staelin said from the back of the SUV. “There’s another one I didn’t see.”
Because of who they were and what their assignment was, all of their security checks had been waived. The weapons they had brought out of Libya had accompanied them to Sicily.
They were violating multiple local laws, as well as international agreements with Italy. The Italians didn’t care for covert operations being conducted on their soil.
If Harvath and his team were caught, there was no doubt that the Italians would vigorously prosecute them. That was an inherent risk in any assignment they conducted abroad. Don’t get caught was the unspoken, number-one rule. The key word in black ops was black for a reason.
The drive from Sigonella to Palermo took a little over two hours. The medieval old town area was a labyrinth of narrow streets and alleyways.
It became apparent rather quickly that they were driving the worst kind of vehicle possible.
Finding a parking space as close as they could, they then walked the rest of the way in on foot. Their first order of business was to get a look at Il Gatto Nero.
But not knowing how they were going to handle things later at the club, Harvath didn’t want them seen together in the area in one big group. He instructed them to split up and surveil the club separately.
Lovett suggested a local restaurant where they could meet up, eat, and compare notes afterward. They all agreed to rendezvous there in an hour.
Harvath moved through the colorful, awning-covered, open-air market on the Via Ballarò. Blood oranges, lemons, tomatoes, garlic, lamb, beef, octopus, clams, cuttlefish, capers, olives, and chicory were all artfully displayed on tables, in crates, bowls, barrels, as well as atop mountains of ice. And all of it hawked by loud shopkeepers in a cacophony Sicilians called abbanniate.
The architecture of the old town was a reflection of Sicily’s having been ruled over by many different cultures. Traces of Greek, Roman, Arab, French, and Spanish influences could be seen throughout.
Right before the end of the Via Ballarò, he came to the Via Rua Formaggi, took a right, and slowly walked down past the Black Cat.
It was housed in a four-story building, the first floor of which was painted a burnt tangerine. It had a black awning, with potted palms in the street, blocking any parking out front. A brown metal gate covered the door. Brown wooden shutters covered what looked to be an expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows that opened up onto the sidewalk.
The main entrance to the apartments above appeared to be adjacent to the entrance of the club. If there was a bouncer, which any club worth its salt would have, that was going to be a problem. There was no way they’d get through that door without being seen. Not without creating a major distraction. He’d have to come up with another way in.
Walking down to the next corner, he turned left and pulled out his phone. He had no problem at all looking like a tourist. It would only help his cover as he continued his surveillance.
Opening up Google Maps, he pinpointed his location. Then, he clicked the satellite view and zoomed in on the neighborhood from overhead.
For as many narrow passageways as the old town had, he’d pulled the short straw in this section. Buildings were built side by side and back to back. There were no alleys, no rear exits. There was, however, something interesting.
Behind the Black Cat was a group of adjoining buildings surrounding an enormous inner courtyard.
Palermo was famous for its palazzos. Harvath figured that’s probably what the adjoining buildings originally were. That, or a convent. But now, with the concrete of the courtyard painted like a soccer field, he figured it was probably a school of some sort.
Along the north side of the complex, the roof was flat and lined with solar panels and hot water tanks. From there, it was a short scramble to get up onto the roof of the Black Cat building. Harvath decided to take a closer look.
Walking up to the Via Giuseppe Mario Puglia, he hung a left. Half a block down, he saw something that made him smile. Scaffolding.
The old town was just that, old. And during his short walk through the neighborhood, he had seen a ton of renovation projects. He made a mental note to look into investing in a Sicilian scaffolding company. But as quickly as the thought entered his mind, he got rid of it. If the Mafia here was anything like it was back in the U.S., the construction industry was the last place he’d want to put his money.
Crossing the street, he held his phone up and pretended to be trying to get a signal. As he did, he took a video of everything he saw.
The narrow cobbled street was quiet. As best he could tell, it was residential—no shops, no cafés. There was very little traffic.
It was perfect. He had found his way in.
Checking his watch, he saw that he had enough time to search for potential places to reposition their vehicle before he’d have to head back and meet the rest of the team at the restaurant.
CHAPTER 52
* * *
* * *
Staelin was the first to arrive at Osteria Ballarò. It was a Sicilian restaurant built in the stables of an old grand palazzo. He had taken a table in back, had his book out, and was reading when everyone else arrived.
Harvath noticed he also had a
beer in front of him. “Having a good time?” he asked.
The Delta Force operative looked up from his book and drew Harvath’s attention to the rest of the restaurant. “When in Palermo.”
Harvath looked around. Everyone had a cocktail or a bottle of wine going.
He didn’t mind drinking. In fact, he enjoyed it. Just not before an operation.
That said, his team didn’t exactly look like teetotalers. They looked every muscled inch the intense ass kickers they were. To not have at least one drink on the table would have raised eyebrows.
More important, his guys were professionals. They had trained with alcohol in their systems and knew its limiting effects. He decided to allow it.
Morrison ordered a beer as well. Barton asked for a glass of Chianti. Harvath and Lovett joined him.
As soon as the waiter had left to go get their drinks, they began discussing what they had noticed while surveilling the nightclub.
They all agreed that getting up to the apartment unseen via the street entrance was a nonstarter. By the time the club opened, there’d be too much going on.
That also meant that getting Ragusa out of the apartment in order to interrogate him at another location was out of the question. The interrogation would have to happen there.
They assumed that the Mafioso would be traveling with bodyguards and could call upon nightclub security for backup if needed.
The Black Cat was equidistant between two of the busiest police stations in the old town. If a call went out to law enforcement, response time was likely to be fast.
The team had done an excellent job of mapping CCTV cameras, potential escape routes, choke points, and alternate rally locations if they were forced to split up.
When it came to breeching the apartment itself, they were in agreement with Harvath. They would have to come in from the roof.
The waiter delivered their drinks and asked if they were ready to order. Lovett asked him in Italian to give them a few more minutes.
“Show me your shoes,” Harvath said after the waiter had left.
“My shoes?” she replied.
He motioned for her to do it and she complied. Turning in her chair, she slid one of her feet from beneath the table and showed it to him.
“You flew in from Rome. Where’s your bag?” he asked.
“In the back of the truck.”
“You have any other shoes in there?”
Lovett nodded. “My running shoes. Why?”
“Because I don’t know if this Ragusa character speaks English. In case he doesn’t, you’re going to be my terp. You’ll go in via the roof with us. Running shoes will do.”
“Full disclosure. I’m not very good with heights.”
“You’ll be fine,” he assured her.
“What about the rest of us?” Morrison asked. “How’s this all going to break down?”
Taking out his phone, Harvath opened up Google Maps and showed the Force Recon Marine a large Baroque church, the Chiesa del Gesù, a block over from the nightclub.
Because it was built on an angle, back from the street, it created an area that opened up extra parking.
“You should be able to park right on the edge,” Harvath explained. “As long as you don’t leave the truck, it won’t get towed.”
“No offense, but why me?” Morrison asked.
“Because Haney’s not here and I trust you. That’s why.”
Morrison didn’t look convinced.
“Listen,” Harvath continued. “If I’m a Palermo cop, and I roll up on you, I’m not going to get a bad vibe. You’re obviously an American and he’s probably going to peg you for military. Just smile and tell him you’re waiting for a legit spot to open up so you can join your friends for drinks.”
“Why not have Barton do it?”
“Because he’s incapable of smiling. Nobody would believe him.”
“That’s true,” the SEAL said from across the table, giving Morrison his death stare.
“Also,” Harvath said, tightening in on the satellite image of the rooftops, “I think he’s about the right size to go into the apartment via the skylight.”
“And him?” Morrison asked, looking at Staelin.
“He’s going to be our eyes and ears on the ground.” Waiting a beat, Harvath added. “We all good then?”
They all nodded, except for Staelin.
“What’s up?” Harvath asked.
The Delta Force operative slid his phone over to him. On it, a weather app was open.
Harvath hadn’t thought to check the forecast. That was a mistake. And it was on him. He knew better.
Not that it would have made a difference. Their options were what they were.
Rain or not, they were going into that apartment and they were going to get Carlo Ragusa.
CHAPTER 53
* * *
* * *
PARIS
The Le Meurice restaurant was the most beautiful restaurant Tursunov had ever seen.
Inspired by the Salon de la Paix at Versailles, it was beyond opulent. Gold coated the moldings, bifurcated the mirrors, and dripped from the crystal chandeliers. Silver coated the chairs, the lamps, and even the serving buffets.
But the pièce de résistance was the massive fresco painted on the ceiling. Floating above the dining room, it beckoned patrons into a lush spring landscape populated with alluring mothers and rosy-cheeked infants.
The restaurant’s most desirable feature, however, was its view of the Tuileries across the street.
He could have watched the events unfold from his balcony, but he preferred to be here. He wanted to bathe in people’s immediate reaction. He wanted to immerse himself in it.
This would be the closest he had been to any of his bombings, ever. His heart was pounding with excitement. He willed himself to be calm. Being seen was not a problem. Being remembered was.
As he was dining alone, the concierge had booked him a small table in the corner. With apologies for not being able to place him closer to the window, he explained that the hotel was quite full. Tursunov had smiled, thanked the man, and given him a generous tip.
A table near the window would have been excellent, but just being in the restaurant served his needs.
Up in his room, he had showered, shaved, and performed his prayers. After a cigarette on the balcony, he had descended to the lobby, where he’d had a ginger ale with lime in the wood-paneled bar, as he kept to himself.
Then, at the appointed time, he paid his bill and stood up. But instead of going right into the restaurant, he decided to step outside.
He wanted to take in the early evening air; to breathe one last breath of Paris before everything changed. His table wasn’t going anywhere.
Pushing through the revolving door, he descended the short flight of stone steps and walked out onto the pavement.
“Taxi, Monsieur?” a doorman asked politely.
Tursunov shook his head.
The doorman nodded and shifted his attention to the guests behind him.
Across the street was the wrought-iron fencing of the Tuileries with its bright gold points. Through it, he could see and hear the outdoor carnival. It was packed and in full swing, just as he had known it would be.
Savoring the air, he took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. The calm before the storm, he thought to himself.
Exhaling, he stepped away from the front of the hotel, lit a cigarette, and had a quick smoke.
When he was done, he returned inside.
As he was shown to his table, the dining room looked like a sea of ornate ships under crisp, white linen sails.
The maître d’hôtel asked if he cared for a cocktail. Blaming jet lag, Tursunov ordered an espresso. With an understanding smile, the man disappeared to place his order.
For dinner, Tursunov began with scallops from Normandy and chose silk grain veal with smoked eel and olives for his main course. He had his eyes on the iced chestnut delight for dessert.
&n
bsp; In his mind’s eye, he envisioned the men preparing to martyr themselves. He envisioned how they had spent their last day, ritually cleansing and preparing themselves to enter Paradise. They would have read from the Qur’an, finding courage, comfort, and strength within its passages.
They would approach from different directions, their large soccer jerseys concealing the vests they wore beneath. Each man would carry a soccer ball. Cleated shoes would be worn over a shoulder or around the neck.
As they entered the garden, they would make their way to their appointed areas—guaranteeing that the force of their explosions and the tsunamis of shrapnel would be spread as widely and as efficiently as possible.
Turning his mind back to his food, he decided that the scallops had been quite good, but they were nothing compared to his first bite of veal. It was like an exquisitely flavored butter that melted in his mouth. He had never eaten like this before. Never. For a moment, he forgot where he was.
Trimming another piece of the delicately cooked meat, he raised the fork and opened his mouth. But the second bite of veal never made it to his lips.
Outside, there was an intense explosion. Its blast wave shattered the restaurant windows and covered many diners in glass.
Tursunov was spared only by virtue of having been seated away from them, farther back in the restaurant.
Some patrons had been knocked to the floor. Those who were not, were now up and running for the door. Many of them were screaming.
None of them could have known for sure what had happened, but instinct had taken over. Get away from the danger.
Tursunov himself didn’t know what had happened. It was too early and the blast too close. Either Abdel had changed the attack, or one of the martyrs had chosen to go early. Perhaps he had been confronted by police, or by French security services.
The one thing he did know was that he couldn’t sit at his table pretending nothing had happened. Calmly, he stood and followed the other patrons out of the dining room.
In the lobby, curious guests were pressing up against the windows and pushing through the doors to get outside, in order to figure out what had happened. Tursunov headed for the stairwell.