Use of Force

CHAPTER 51

Mafioso Carlo Ragusa lived with his wife and five children in a well-fortified home on the outskirts of Palermo. The grounds were patrolled by dogs and plenty of men with guns.

Could Harvath, with Gage and Haney out of the fight, have breached the Sicilian compound and gotten to Ragusa? With enough surveillance and planning, he was confident that he could pull anything off. But in their race against the clock, Libya had stolen much more time than it should have.

Anxiety was running high back home. In the wake of two deadly terrorist attacks, Americans wanted answers and Washington wanted results. Both of those wants fell on Harvath’s shoulders. There had to be another way to get to Ragusa, and he pressed Lovett, the one with all the Italian connections, to find it.

To her credit, she did. A counterterrorism contact of hers in the Carabinieri’s elite Special Operations Unit known as the Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale, or ROS for short, owed her a favor — a big one. She had allowed him to see intelligence the CIA was building on a suspect who had made multiple trips back and forth between Italy and Tunisia. While he couldn’t cite it directly to his bosses, it had been the final piece in the puzzle he needed, and had helped roll up a burgeoning terrorist network outside Turin. The information he shared in return would prove just as useful.

Street racing of horses was a brutal and highly illegal sport in Sicily. It brought in over half a billion dollars annually, and Carlo Ragusa was right in the middle of it.

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.