They loaded into the van. Angelo took the wheel, and they spun away. The Italian gate guards checked the IDs of military personnel entering the base, but they didn’t check the IDs of people leaving. Max’s team rolled through the gates and entered town, where they passed a sign that read: MMP Ristorante & Pizzeria.
He quickly forgot about the Achille Lauro and Cooper. “I want to eat some pizza.”
“You just ate,” Tom reminded him.
“Pizza sounds good,” Chris said.
Angelo accelerated. “Naples is the birthplace of pizza—would you like me to stop?”
Maybe Angelo isn’t so bad, Max thought.
“Maybe later,” Hannah said sweetly.
“We’ll need some Neapolitan ice cream, too,” Max said.
“That’s from Naples, too,” Angelo said. “We call it spumoni.”
Hannah kept her cool. “Later.”
“I’m already looking forward to our next meal,” Chris said.
“Angelo, are you from Naples?” Tom asked.
Angelo turned onto a highway. “No. I’m from Sardinia. But I go where the Agency sends me.” He followed the highway northeast before it curved around south.
“When we arrive at the marina in Naples, we’ll split up,” Hannah said. “Two of us will drive the van to the front of Doctor Kuznetsov’s place and take a video of it. The other two will go by yacht and film the back of the place.”
Max spoke up first: “Tom and I can take the yacht.”
“Works for me,” Chris said.
“We should go in different pairings,” Hannah said. “Max and I in one pair and Chris and Tom in the other.”
“Tom and I are used to working together,” Max said. “Same as you and Chris.”
“I understand,” Hannah said. “But when it comes to your brother, I’m concerned that you might prioritize his safety over the mission. And when it comes to Chris, I don’t want him to prioritize my safety over the mission. I simply want us to put the mission before our personal relations.”
“Okay,” Tom said.
Max wasn’t feeling the same. Even so, Hannah was captivating, and he didn’t mind spending more time with her. “Let’s do it,” he said.
Chris looked as if he’d gulped down a drink of toxic waste, but he didn’t verbalize it.
Angelo drove to the coast and followed it southeast toward Sorrento on the spur of the bay. Mount Vesuvius towered above them at over twelve hundred meters high. The highway branched off and ran beside a canal that guided them to a marina, where there were numerous berths for boats, yachts, and super yachts. The marina opened out to the Port of Naples, shaped like a giant sparkling amphitheater with boats sailing across its stage.
Angelo parked the van and left the keys in the ignition for Chris and Tom, who assumed command of the vehicle. Max, Hannah, and Angelo got out and carried their bags across the pier. Angelo had a shit-eating grin on his face, both arms swinging freely, seeming comfortable walking with his new posse. Max strolled beside him carrying his bags. Max’s sunglasses hid his eyes from outsiders while he scanned for threats, in addition to protecting them from the sun. Hannah smiled serenely, and her bulky bag didn’t slow her down a step.
The trio boarded a Pershing 62, a cross between a muscle-boat and a motoryacht. “I had the engines customized to run quiet,” Angelo said cheerfully.
“Studly,” Max said. He rushed below and stowed his kit in a twin cabin. Hannah stashed hers in a separate cabin. The engine rumbled. It was quieter than any yacht he’d ever heard.
Max climbed up the stairs and hurried out onto the pier, where he untied the lines from the cleats on the dock. Hannah helped. Then they secured the lines and boat fenders, and the yacht pulled away from the dock.
Angelo skillfully maneuvered their vessel through a maze of boats and piers in the marina. When they reached the open bay, they passed between a ship and two yachts, the only other vessels nearby. The salt in the air tasted familiar to Max, and the breeze felt good. He was at home with Mother Ocean. Hannah and Angelo seemed comfortable, too.
“Where’d you learn how to pilot a boat so well?” Max asked.
Angelo smiled. “My father is a fisherman.”
Max shifted from casual curiosity to a more pointed question. “Does he like America?”
“He doesn’t say one way or the other.”
“But you do.”
Angelo pointed his body and feet forward. “I like America, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t do this job for America—I do this for Italy. I hate what the socialists are doing to my country.”
“You get paid for this, don’t you?”
“A man has to do something for a living. And I get to serve my country, too. In Italy, we say, Prendere due piccioni con una fava. It means, ‘catch two pigeons with one fava bean.’ Similar to your ‘kill two birds with one stone.’”
“Ah, you feed the birds instead of eating them,” Max said.
Angelo shrugged his shoulders. “You get paid for this, don’t you?”
Max smiled. “I do. A man’s got to do something for a living. Prendere due piccioni con una fava.”
Angelo grinned. As he motored south, Max and Hannah examined the photos on their phones of Dr. Kuznetsov, FSB godfather Nestor Orlav, and the other mafia members.
They sailed ten klicks south to tree-topped cliffs that rose high above the ocean. Angelo cut off the engine and dropped anchor. He pointed to shore. “There, that little house near sea level in the gap between the cliffs—that’s the back of it, where Doctor Kuznetsov lives.”
Max went aft and sat on the white leather cushioned benches on the sun deck. Hannah joined him. Max pulled out a video camera from his bag, powered it up, and took a look at maximum telephoto range. On the back of the house was a pair of solid wooden doors. The patio extended out onto the beach, where three men stood talking. They had bulging muscles, tattoos, and hard faces. They weren’t armed with rifles, but it seemed likely they’d carry concealed pistols. Nine beach chairs sat empty around them.
A tiled corridor bordered with potted plants lined the right side of the house, where a fourth man appeared. Max recognized him from the photos that Willy sent—a brigadier, Yuri Romashkov, who reported to the godfather. He walked across the patio before going inside. A fifth man roved back and forth on the beach as if on patrol. The three men on the patio continued to chat.
“How many enemies total, you think?” Hannah asked.
“Fifteen or twenty.”
“We haven’t seen the doctor,” Hannah said.
“Or Godfather Orlav,” Max said. He looked at the photos on his iPhone again.
Max and Hannah watched and waited for fifteen minutes, but nothing seemed to change. Max’s thoughts drifted to Hannah. He wondered if her pairing with him on the yacht was a convenient excuse so she could be alone with him. Hoping his hunch was true, he asked her, “What is it you see in Chris?”
Hannah seemed to ponder the question. “Could you get me something to drink?” she asked. “I’ll watch the target area.”
“Sure.” Max went below and opened the refrigerator. Inside were plastic bottles of water. He took out two, went above deck, and handed one to Hannah. Max didn’t know if she was truly thirsty or if she was giving herself time to think. “Well?” he asked patiently.
Hannah screwed off the cap and took a sip of water. “Chris is my most loyal friend and one of the best operators in the business.”
“You look at him like he’s more than a friend, and he looks at you that way, too.”
“I admire him, but our relationship is professional—there’s no way it could be personal.”
“Why not?” Max took a drink, and the liquid cooled the back of his throat.
“I’m not interested in men,” Hannah said matter-of-factly.
“I don’t understand.”
“Birds of a feather flock together.”
Max tried to breathe and swallow his drink at the same time, and he spu
ttered. He wiped the water off his mouth. His shirt was wet, but it would dry soon. What a waste, he thought. “Have you ever kissed a guy?”
“Never.”
Max took another drink. This time, he didn’t choke on it. “Aren’t you curious what it’d be like?”
“Are you curious what it’d be like to kiss a guy?” she asked kindly.
Max wanted to spit out his water again, but he held it in without choking on it. “Not curious. Not at all.”
“It’s like that,” she said. “I’m not interested. Not at all.”
After his intimate exchange with Hannah, he went mute. Max returned his eyes to the camera monitor and tried to focus on it, as if everything was okay. But he was still in shock at Hannah’s revelation. As he tried to focus on his work, a man resembling the doctor stepped out onto the patio.
“That’s him in the T-shirt and shorts,” Max said. “Isn’t it?”
Hannah studied the monitor intently. “Sure does look like him.”
After a brief conversation with one of the hard-faced men, the doctor returned inside. Max and Hannah watched for several more minutes, but he didn’t reappear.
“I think we have enough video,” Max said.
Hannah’s words flowed like honey: “Angelo, can you take us back to the marina?”
CIA officers were habitual liars, and it occurred to Max that Hannah was using the lesbian story as an excuse to avoid becoming personally involved with him, but he didn’t know her well, and for now he assumed it to be true. What a waste, he couldn’t help thinking again.
Angelo fired up the engine and pushed the throttle ahead one-third. The water behind churned. He steered to the north, and the yacht picked up speed, rumbling beneath Max’s feet. After they put more distance between themselves and Doctor Kuznetsov’s house, Angelo pushed the throttle to two-thirds, and then full speed ahead. A rooster tail of water rose behind them.
“We should try to snatch this doc tonight,” Max said.
Chapter Seventeen
Max couldn’t wait for the hunt to begin. Or for dinner. Angelo had sailed the yacht back to the marina in Naples, but they had to wait for Chris and Tom to return. At last they sauntered down the dock, and he hungrily eyed the pizza Tom carried aboard while Chris went below to put the spumoni in the freezer. Finally Chris joined everyone on a couch that wrapped around a table on the main deck. They dug into the pizza like a pack of wolves—even Tom. The pizza crust tasted softer and chewier, the tomato fresher, and the basil stronger than the American pizza Max was used to.
Angelo activated a pop-up monitor on a cabinet and played Max and Hannah’s surveillance video. Because Max had already seen it and nothing much happened, it was like watching paint dry, so he focused more on his pizza.
Angelo turned to him and said, “This is called Pizza Margherita, cooked on a wood-burning stove. The tomatoes are grown in the volcanic soil of Mount Vesuvius. And the mozzarella comes from the milk of water buffalos.”
Max grunted his approval.
“It’s really good,” Chris said.
Hannah swallowed a bite. “I love Italian pizza.”
Tom nodded politely. He wasn’t as enthusiastic as the others about the food.
A fly hovered over Max’s plate. Angelo had a newspaper on his pilot chair, so Max reached over, grabbed the paper, and with one swing, he batted the insect out of the air. The fly landed on the deck motionless.
Max was pleased with himself and his masterful kill. “It was a quick death.”
The fly buzzed: Bzz. Silence. Bzz. Bzz. Then the fly crawled around on the deck. Bzz-bzz, bzz-bzz. Max hit it—hard—and once again for good measure. It lay there squashed, and there was no more buzzing.
Tom chuckled. “Not so quick.”
Max gave him the stink eye.
They finished the first video and then watched Chris and Tom’s, but it was simply two cars parked in front of the curb and two parked in the driveway. “If four people came in each car,” Chris said, “We’re dealing with sixteen people.”
“Unless some came by taxi,” Max said.
“Or less came in each car,” Hannah said.
After Chris and Tom’s video ended, Angelo displayed a Google map on the monitor. There was an area behind the front wall of the house with five lawn chairs and some potted plants.
Tom finished his last bite of pizza. “Doesn’t appear to be any video surveillance at the house.”
Chris went below and retrieved the carton of spumoni and some spoons and bowls. He scooped the spumoni into the bowls and served them. Unlike American pink, white, and brown Neapolitan ice cream, this was green, white, and red, like the Italian flag.
Hannah was looking down at her phone and hadn’t started to eat dessert yet. “I just received a text that Sonny might join us tomorrow or the following day.”
“Boo-yah,” Max said.
“That’s great,” Chris said.
“We could use the help,” Tom added.
Max ate a spoonful of each color of his spumoni. The green part was pistachio, white was vanilla, and the red was cherry. Whip cream was mixed in, and between the layers were pistachio nuts and bits of cherry. “I was telling Hannah that I’d like to wrap up the doctor tonight,” he said.
“That place might be different at night,” Chris said. “A night surveillance might give us more intel.”
Tom often played devil’s advocate, but he quietly ate the green pistachio section of his spumoni.
Angelo mixed a spoonful of red and white and ate without a word.
Max put his spoon down. “It’d be great to do a night of surveillance before we go in. And wait ’til Sonny arrives. But that target could harden while we wait. Or the doctor could disappear. Or Tom and I could die from this virus. Or any slew of other things could happen. I’d rather snatch the doctor sooner than later.”
“Tonight’s fine with me,” Chris said. “If we go in quiet, we’ll have a better chance of surviving—maybe FN P90s.” The FN P90 was smaller than an assault rifle yet bigger than a pistol—a submachine gun.
“P90s sound good,” Max said. He carried the Belgian sound-suppressed weapon in his gear. They were purchased through a European cutout, and their serial numbers were filed off—making them difficult to trace to the US.
“My call sign is still Reverend,” Chris said, “and Hannah is still Infidel.”
“I’m Yukon,” Max said, “and Tom is Tomahawk.”
Angelo smiled. “Bradley.”
“Same plan as this morning?” Hannah asked. “Chris and Tom enter from the street, and Max and I hit from the beach.”
Chris ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck—he appeared agitated.
Max didn’t like the pairings either. “Like I mentioned earlier, I think Tom and I work better together, and you and Chris know each other’s moves better. This morning was clear skies and sunshine, but tonight there’s a strong chance of thunder and lightning. Surveillance is one thing, but assault is another.”
“I’m with Max on this one,” Chris said. “Hannah and I can assault from the water, and Max and Tom assault from the street.”
“Works for me,” Max said. He looked to his brother for support.
“Sure,” Tom said.
Angelo remained immersed in his spumoni and avoided the discussion.
Hannah ate a bite of spumoni and swallowed. Then she drank from her bottled water. The expression on her face was neutral. “Okay.”
“I’d like to keep the van here at the marina,” Chris said. “If Hannah or I get injured, we’ll need a vehicle to get to the base hospital.”
“Can we get a different car for the assault?” Max asked.
Angelo had eaten the last of his spumoni and set down his spoon. “I can get another car for tonight. Should I go now?”
“Yes, that’d be great,” Tom said.
Angelo nodded before hustling off, and Max and the others spent the next two hours planning: weather, visibility
, surf conditions, communication, and so on.
The sky darkened, and when Angelo returned with an extra car, Chris and Hannah discussed the yacht insertion and extraction with him. Then everyone kitted up.
Max wore civilian clothes—a dark brown shirt and light gray trousers. His clothing, weapons, and kit were sterile, nothing with tags or serial numbers that could be connected to the US. He concealed a compact Glock 19 pistol in an abdomen holster inside his waistband, which he covered with his untucked shirt. In a cargo pocket he carried an Italian inflatable life vest. If he was escaping and evading, he could ditch other items to lighten his load and hasten his flight, but these items he’d keep on him until the death.
He dropped an ear bud the size of a pencil eraser into his ear canal, a magnetized receiver that he could fish out after the mission with a paperclip. Max attached his throat mic and strapped on his FN P90 submachine gun loaded with fifty rounds of ammo. He carried two extra magazines on the support side of his shoulder harness. In a small backpack, he placed flex cuffs, a black hood, gag, and noise-cancelling earphones—all to control the prisoner—and a pair of night vision goggles (NVGs).
For protection, bullet-resistant vests weren’t perfect, and even the best ones weakened after taking several hits. Max didn’t like one slowing him down, and this time was no different—he counted on speed, surprise, and violence of action to keep him and his teammates alive.
Chapter Eighteen
Max became nervous—terribly nervous. He’d done this sort of op more times than he could remember, and he’d never had such jitters, so he didn’t understand why this was happening now. If he let it get the best of him, it’d be a problem, but he wielded it as a weapon. The anxiety intensified his focus and raised his energy level, and come heaven or hell, he’d see this to the end.
Knowing that his brother was infected with a deadly virus bothered him. Acquaintances and friends came and went, but family was always there, and Tom was the only family Max had left. His adrenaline spread like wildfire through his veins. Max would kill the FSB godfather, his brigadier, and any other two-bit-piss-drinking-knuckle-dragging-no-nuts-Russian-mafia-monkey who stood between him and snatching Dr. Kuznetsov.
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