by Brad Thor
He took the stairs two and three at a time, hoping to get to his room and out onto the balcony before anything else happened.
Halfway there, he heard a second explosion, followed by a third, and a fourth.
All of the martyrs were detonating now. It was the protocol. Even if one went early, they were to get to their targets and detonate immediately.
Taking a deep breath at his landing, he opened the stairwell door, stepped out into the hallway, and walked calmly toward his room.
Once inside, he rushed to the balcony, threw open his still-intact French doors, and stepped outside.
As he looked out over the slaughter and destruction below, he excitedly repeated one phrase under his breath.
Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. ALLAHU AKBAR.
CHAPTER 54
* * *
* * *
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
“I got here as quickly as I could,” said Lydia Ryan as she entered the Director’s wood-paneled conference room. She had always been in awe of this space. It had a tremendous amount of history, not the least of which being that this was the room where the bin Laden raid had been run. All of the monitors were tuned to live feeds from Paris.
A group was seated at the end of the long conference table. Several rolling suitcases were lined up against the wall. The Director waved her over.
“We’re sending over a team?” she asked, as she removed a laptop from her briefcase.
“FBI too,” McGee replied. “They’re going to need all the help they can get.” He then turned to a young analyst and said, “Bring Deputy Director Ryan up to speed.”
The young man nodded and, picking up a remote, stated, “We got this video from French Intelligence twenty minutes ago. It was shot by one of their people, just after the bombs went off. I’ve got to warn you, it’s bad.”
All bombing aftermaths were bad, especially when civilians were involved. Either this person was new, or this really was on a different level. Taking a breath, she signaled for him to roll the footage.
As soon as the video started, she realized he had not been exaggerating. Amidst helicopters hovering overhead and the klaxons of emergency vehicles rushing to the scene, all you could hear were people screaming. The sound was horrible—like animals being slaughtered. The images were even worse.
Victims’ limbs had been sheared off. Bodies lay, missing heads. Torsos had been torn open, their internal organs spilling out. There was blood absolutely everywhere.
As the French Intelligence officer walked his camera through the carnage, Ryan noticed people at the conference table turn their eyes away. They had already viewed the video. She tried to steel herself for whatever was coming up.
In addition to ripping through people, the bombs had ripped through the carnival stalls. The destruction was unlike anything she had ever seen. But these weren’t the scenes her colleagues couldn’t bear to watch. As soon as she saw the smoldering carousel, she knew what was coming.
Ryan was reminded of how ISIS had attempted to detonate a suicide bomber inside Kidsville—the children and family camp at Burning Man.
Even though one bomber had detonated in another part of the festival, stopping the Kidsville attack had been considered the greatest win of the operation. But seeing what she now saw, none of that mattered anymore.
The tiny bodies lay everywhere. Their injuries were just as horrific as the adults’, but they were even more heart-wrenching due to their age.
The bomber had struck inside the part of the carnival geared toward the youngest attendees. Mixed with the wreckage of the carousel animals were actual ponies, some barely alive and still tethered to the rigging that allowed children to ride them in circles. Their screams of pain, mixed with those of parents and children, were unbearable.
A police officer could be seen approaching one of the animals and drawing his pistol, only to be stopped by a colleague for fear of creating a panic that a shooter was loose somewhere.
The French Intelligence officer seemed to have ice in his veins as he proceeded calmly through the rest of the carnival, documenting everything he could.
But when he reached the end, when there was nothing more to document, the phone dropped from his hand and the man could be heard throwing up.
The analyst paused the video there.
“Why don’t we take ten minutes,” Director McGee said. “I’d like to speak with the Deputy Director alone.”
As the attendees pushed back from the table and filed out of the room, he picked up the remote and turned off the monitors.
Once the last person had exited and the door had shut behind them, he turned to Ryan and said, “The death toll is going to exceed Spain.”
She shook her head at the grim news. “How many Americans?”
“We’ve got our people at the Embassy working on it. We know of eighteen already, but we expect the number to go higher.”
“Suicide bombers, or were the explosives planted?”
“We’re digging into the surrounding CCTV footage,” said McGee, “but the working hypothesis right now is suicide bombers. At least six. One appears to have gone off prematurely and the rest followed not long after.”
“Why do we think one went off prematurely?”
“Because it happened on the edge of the carnival, not inside, where the explosion would have done much more damage. French police reportedly approached a man in a soccer jersey shortly before the first explosion. We’re trying to run that down.”
“What can I do to help?” she asked.
“Get Harvath to move faster. Whatever it takes. I don’t care.”
“I’ll reach out to him. In the meantime, what about my request?”
McGee leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Access to the Malice program.”
“It’s a big ask. I under—”
“Especially right now.”
“I understand, but the more Reed and I have discussed this, the more concerned I’ve become. Somebody might be trying to smother us in the crib.”
The Director didn’t respond.
“The whole idea,” Ryan continued, “is for us to assemble a lifeboat for the Agency. If there are people out there attempting to drill holes in it, we have to know.”
He thought about it for a moment more before replying. “If I agreed, how would it play out?”
Ryan had wargamed it as best she could. Her plan wasn’t perfect, but she felt she had come up with a pretty good idea. Remaining as brief as possible, she laid it out for him.
McGee let it all sink in. It was a big ask. And it involved a lot of risk for the CIA. If it went sideways, even the President wouldn’t be able to save them.
Point by point, he went through his concerns. And point by point, she addressed them.
Finally, he only had one question left. “How are you going to get him in without anyone seeing him?”
Looking over at the suitcases along the wall, she replied, “I think I have an idea.”
CHAPTER 55
* * *
* * *
PALERMO
Within minutes of the Paris attack, everyone’s phones started going off in the restaurant. As the notification chimes rang, Harvath called the waiter over and paid their bill. He wanted to get to a television. Their waiter suggested an Irish bar a few blocks away.
Entering the pub, they saw the TV sets were tuned to several English-language stations including CNN and BBC. The team ordered coffee and energy drinks. They had a lot to get done this evening and things had just taken an even more serious turn.
The men were not shy about how they felt. Not even with Lovett in their midst.
“Fucking cocksuckers,” Morrison growled as he watched the bloody footage from the Tuileries.
There were already preliminary reports coming through of how many dead and wounded, as well as the victims’ countries of origin. France, Germany, Japan, the United States, M
exico . . . the crawl on the bottom of the screen seemed to just keep going.
“Religion of peace, my ass,” said Barton, all but convinced he knew who and what was behind the attack.
Staelin and Harvath both watched the footage in silence, studying it for clues.
“Same group as Spain?” the Delta Force operative wondered aloud after several moments.
“And Burning Man,” Harvath replied quietly.
“Were we supposed to stop this?”
Harvath nodded solemnly. It was why they had been put on the trail of the dead ISIS chemist. It had taken them first to Libya, and now Italy. The attacks were connected. He was sure of it.
They went back to watching the TVs in silence.
Everyone in the bar was in a state of shock. No one could speak. There was genuine fear in every single face.
Harvath knew what they were thinking. How long until attacks like this start happening in Italy?
The barman, a redheaded transplant from Dublin named Carey, was pouring complimentary shots of Irish whiskey. He wanted everyone in the pub to raise their glasses out of respect for the dead and wounded.
Harvath politely declined, explaining his team had to compete in the morning. Carey didn’t ask in what. Instead, he retrieved five Red Bulls from the cooler and handed them to him.
When the time came, the team raised their drinks along with everyone else in the pub as the barman led them in a quick farewell to the deceased and a prayer for those who remained.
Harvath didn’t think the attack in Paris would change Carlo Ragusa’s plans, but he raised the subject with Lovett anyway.
“Mount Etna could erupt tonight,” she stated, referencing the volcano on the east coast of the island, “and this horserace would still go in the morning.”
“Then we’d better get started.”
• • •
Lovett’s contact had emailed her a picture of Naya, the Nigerian bartender at the Black Cat, and once more she showed it around.
After going over the plan one last time, Harvath organized the team into waves. As Morrison’s job was to reposition the SUV, he sent him first.
His instructions were simple: Go in, sit at the bar, and send a text as to whether Naya was working.
Because their radios were so bulky, there was no way they could hide them under their street clothes. They were lucky enough simply to conceal their pistols.
If Ragusa was coming to see his mistress this evening, Harvath figured it would happen in one of two ways. Either the Mafioso would spend the bulk of his evening at home with his wife and family before heading out, or he would get to his mistress’s apartment early and expect her to cook for him.
With the little he knew about Sicilians, he doubted Ragusa was going to trade his wife’s cooking for his Nigerian mistress’s. Plus, there was no way he was going to take Naya out to dinner. That wasn’t how men in the Cosa Nostra operated. It was likely a very closely held secret that he was seeing the bartender.
Harvath assumed that Naya would work her shift until Ragusa showed up. Once he arrived, or let her know he was on the way, she’d punch out and head upstairs.
Fifteen minutes later, they had their answer. Harvath read the text aloud. “Naya and another woman tending bar. Club less than half full. Music sucks.”
“Remind him to smile,” Barton said.
“How’s the mood?” asked Staelin. “Any TVs on in there?”
Ignoring Barton, Harvath texted back Staelin’s question.
“No TVs,” came the response. Harvath read it aloud.
“Good,” Staelin replied. “We want everybody having a real good time.”
“Let’s just hope it’s loud,” Harvath remarked.
“Don’t worry,” the Delta Force operative stated. “It’s an Italian nightclub. It’ll be plenty loud.”
Harvath then looked at Barton. “You’re up.”
“Don’t forget to smile,” Staelin added as the SEAL headed out.
Walking away, Barton gave him the finger over his shoulder.
“He’s sweet,” the Delta Force operative said as he took a sip of his Red Bull.
Harvath texted Morrison to let him know Barton was inbound. Then, turning to Lovett, he said, “Time to go.”
Standing up, he looked at Staelin, who was eyeing two attractive young women who had just entered the pub. “See you there?” he asked.
“Yeah,” the man replied, taking a beat longer than Harvath would have liked. “See you there.”
Shaking his head, he gestured for Lovett to go first, and then followed her out the door.
As soon as they stepped outside, he caught the look on her face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’ll be there.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she answered.
He was about to respond when he felt the first drops of rain begin to fall.
CHAPTER 56
* * *
* * *
The rain wasn’t bad at first, but then it started to come down hard. Harvath and Lovett took refuge in a nearby doorway.
Based on what they had seen on the radar, it didn’t look as if it would hang around for long.
Lovett got back to what had been bugging her when they were on their way out of the pub. “Have you figured out what you’re going to do with Ragusa if he doesn’t want to talk?”
“Don’t worry,” Harvath replied. “He’ll talk.”
“But what if he doesn’t?”
“We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”
Was that supposed to be a joke? she wondered. This was serious. “If anything happens to him,” she stated, “I’m the one who’s going to get a call from the Carabinieri.”
Harvath appreciated the spot she was in, but he didn’t really care. They had a job to do. They were going to get the information out of Ragusa no matter what.
“How long have you been in Italy?” he asked.
“Almost two years. And before you say anything, I’d actually like to finish out my time here. I’d also like to be able to continue my career and have a nice long retirement without a Red Notice from Interpol hanging over my head.”
This was exactly what was wrong with the CIA, and it pissed him off. “There were probably a lot of people at Burning Man, and in Spain and Paris, also hoping for long retirements with plenty of travel.”
“Ouch,” she replied.
Harvath didn’t respond.
“Listen,” she continued. “I didn’t mean it to sound—”
“The rain’s letting up,” he said, stepping out of the doorway. “Let’s move.”
• • •
They walked in silence back to the repositioned SUV. As Lovett pulled her running shoes from her bag and put them on, Harvath texted Barton and Staelin. Naya was still behind the bar and Staelin was en route to take Barton’s place.
Once she had changed her shoes, they headed off for the street behind the Black Cat, Via Giuseppe Mario Puglia.
Lovett had wanted to clear the air. When they stopped at the corner and Harvath pretended he was checking his messages while he checked out the street, she spoke.
“I want you to know that I’m committed to this assignment. I understand what’s at stake.”
“Good,” he replied, scanning for anything out of the ordinary.
“I also want you to know that I’ve worked very hard to get where I am. I don’t want it blown needlessly.”
That got his attention. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve got a reputation. You’re known for being a cowboy. A lot of china gets broken when you’re around.”
“And?”
“I like my job,” she said. “I’m good at it. I’d like to keep it.”
“That makes two of us,” he responded, as he tucked his phone back in his pocket and turned to walk down the street. “Just do what I say and you’ll be fine.”
• • •
They did two passes of the building wit
h the scaffolding in front. A very long time ago, it had been a school. Now, it was being renovated into apartments.
There were bars over the lower windows and heavy wooden doors on the ground floor.
“Why can’t we go in through one of these?” she asked, nodding at one.
“Lever locks,” Harvath replied, pointing at the hardware. “I don’t have the right tools. Even if I did, they take too long to pick.”
Lovett looked up at the scaffolding and resigned herself to the fact that she was going to have to climb.
“It’s wet, so be careful,” said Harvath.
She nodded.
The scaffolding was wrapped in gray plastic netting to make it less of an eyesore. Combined with the dimly lit street, it would help hide their ascent.
Orange plastic webbing had been wrapped around the base, ostensibly to keep people from doing exactly what they were about to do.
When Harvath was sure no one was watching, he untied a portion of it and climbed inside. Filled with trepidation, Lovett followed.
There were no ladders and no stairs. They had to scale the scaffolding itself.
As soon as she started, her heart began to pound and she began to perspire. She reminded herself not to look down.
A few narrow boards pushed up against the facade marked each floor. They bowed under their combined weight as Harvath tried to wrench open the metal shutters, all of which had been locked from the inside of the building. The only windows without shutters were on the very top floor.
The farther up they climbed, the more her muscles felt like hardening cement. It was getting tougher to get handholds as her fingers froze in midclench. She was dizzy and her legs felt as if they were made of lead.
“Almost there,” Harvath reassured her. “You got this.”
Lovett wasn’t so sure. Her pace slowed even more. She hated being a slave to her fear, but she couldn’t help it.