Use of Force

CHAPTER 61

The mobster sputtered and coughed as he thrashed back and forth in his chair trying to escape the water. But there was no escape. Harvath kept slowly pouring. It took forty seconds, but it must have felt like a lifetime to Ragusa. When the pitcher was empty, Harvath refilled it.

He paused to let the Mafioso just begin to catch his breath and then, as soon as he began to inhale, began the process all over again.

It had been his experience that if he stopped right after the first round, subjects tried to hold out longer. But immediately going into a second round scrambled their brains. They became panicked.

So Harvath poured from the pitcher once more. Halfway through, Ragusa began to vomit.

Harvath untied the pillowcase and had Barton lean the chair forward, back onto all four legs.

He let him get it all out of his system, and then nodded for Barton to lean him back against the tub.

Right away, the mobster began to protest. Harvath refilled the pitcher and started again from full.

Ragusa thrashed even more violently this time. Harvath decided to stretch his pour a few extra seconds. By the time he was done, the mobster had been broken.

Harvath motioned Lovett all the way into the bathroom so that she could hear what Ragusa was saying. The CIA operative tried to step around the mess. The floor was disgusting and the smell was growing unbearable.

She had Ragusa repeat what he had been mumbling and then translated for Harvath. “He says he knows the man in your picture.”

“What’s his name?” Harvath replied.

Lovett presented the question to him in Italian, and then said, “He doesn’t remember the name. Something Muslim. But he does remember the man’s face.”

“Tell him he’s going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that.”

She did, and then waited while Ragusa spoke. Finally, she replied, “He was important. A VIP.”

“VIP to whom?”

“He doesn’t know.”

Harvath looked at her. “What does he mean he doesn’t know? Who paid him?”

Lovett repeated the question to the Mafioso and waited for him to answer. As he spoke, she translated. “This wasn’t a usual job. He did it as a favor.”

“For whom?”

“He says he can’t reveal the name. If he does, it will start a war.”

Harvath rolled his eyes and, looking at Barton, said, “He obviously wants more. Tip him back over.”

“No! No! No!” the man implored. The word was the same in English as it was in Italian.

While he screamed, Harvath filled a new pitcher of water. Just as he began to pour, the man yelled out another detail.

“Roma!”

“Who the hell’s Roma?” Harvath asked, but Lovett held up her hand for him to be quiet.

After a quick back-and-forth with Ragusa, she said, “It’s not a person. It’s the city. Rome. That’s where they were taking the chemist.”

“What were they supposed to do once they got him there?”

The CIA operative asked the mobster and then replied, “Apparently, he had his own people there who would get him the rest of the way into Europe.”

“Bullshit,” said Harvath as he began pouring the water over Ragusa’s face.

Again, the man cried out, pleading with him to stop. Harvath didn’t until his pitcher was empty. Then he filled it back up.

“Per favore. No,” he begged.

“Tell him I want to know who he did the favor for. Who asked him to smuggle Mustapha to Rome?”

“Marzouk!” the Sicilian interjected, screaming the man’s name. “Mustapha Marzouk.”

If he was hoping that was going to get him off the hook, he was sorely mistaken. Lovett explained as much to him.

They went back and forth until Harvath once more lost his patience. Filling the pitcher, he told Lovett to stand back.

Ragusa began to beg.

“Give me a name.”

“No. Per favore. Basta,” he insisted.

Harvath let the water flow.

“La Formícula!” the mobster cried as he choked. “La Formícula! Per favore, basta!”

Harvath stopped and looked at Lovett, who began questioning Ragusa. Soon enough, he gave up a name.”

“Antonio Vottari,” she said. “Also known as La Formícula or the Ant.”

“Who is he?”

“Mafia from Calabria. They’re called the N’drangheta.”

Harvath knew Calabria. If Italy was a boot, it was the part that made up the toe and looked like it was kicking the island of Sicily.

He was about to ask her another question when his phone vibrated. Pulling it from his pocket, he read the message. It was a text from Staelin.

“What is it?” Lovett asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied, signaling Barton to keep an eye on Ragusa. “A whole bunch of cars just pulled up outside.”

Walking to the front of the darkened apartment, Harvath moved the curtain only a matter of millimeters so he could look out.

Down on the street, he saw a string of three black sedans, a black SUV, and a black, windowless van.

As he watched, someone opened the front passenger door of the lead vehicle and stepped out. Were these Ragusa’s people?

The man standing in the street took out a cell phone, pressed a button, and raised it to his ear.

Seconds later, Harvath heard a ring coming from the kitchen where they had left the mobster’s cell phone.

Instantly, Harvath’s mind began to turn, figuring out how they were going to get the hell out of there without getting in a gunfight.

But then he heard Lovett answer the call, in English. Turning around, he saw her holding her own cell phone.

“It’s the Carabinieri,” she stated. “They say they have men on the roof and the building is surrounded.”