Use of Force

CHAPTER 63

“You lied to me, Paolo,” Lovett stated.

They were in a safe house in Albergheria, the oldest of the four mandamenti, or historical districts, that made up the old city of Palermo.

Paolo Argento stood in front of a table where his men had arrayed the weapons taken from the Americans. “You lied to me as well.”

Argento was a handsome, fit man in his early fifties. He was tan, with spiked gray hair and a neatly trimmed gray beard. He wore black jeans, black boots, and an untucked, black button-down shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. On his left wrist was a black Panerai diver’s watch.

The Carabinieri operated under the Italian Ministry of Defense and the Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale was the Carabinieri’s main investigative unit. The number-one goal of the ROS was taking down organized crime and terrorist networks.

They conducted a tremendous amount of undercover work, as well as high-risk assault operations. They reported directly to the Carabinieri General Command.

Of all the elite special units in Italy, theirs was given the most operational freedom. As a highly successful and highly respected commander, Argento was able to call most of his own shots. And this was one of those times.

“You should have told me you had the bartender’s apartment wired,” Lovett insisted.

Argento smiled. “If I had, you would have chosen someplace else to snatch Ragusa. This was the safest way. It was a contained environment. He didn’t have his bodyguards. No one got hurt.”

They were standing in the safe house’s large living room. Peeling frescoes, hundreds of years old, covered the walls.

Standing near one of the windows, Harvath asked, “So, now what?”

Morrison, Barton, and Staelin were one floor below, being watched over by Argento’s men. They weren’t officially under arrest, but no one was free to leave.

Ragusa, Naya, and Ragusa’s two bodyguards had been placed in restraints and were being held in a different part of the building. Under Italian law, Argento could hold them for seventy-two hours without charging them. Harvath had a feeling he could probably hold them a lot longer than that if he wanted to. Ragusa might not like it, but he knew the ROS had the upper hand and there was nothing he could do about it.

Argento turned his attention to Harvath. He had a slow, confident voice, and spoke excellent English. “What would you do,” he asked, “if an Italian intelligence officer, along with four paramilitary operatives, entered the United States, held two people hostage, and tortured one of them?”

“If they’d come to interrogate an organized crime figure connected to terrorism? I’d probably hand them each a medal and ask what else I could do for them,” Harvath replied.

“Your bosses might not like that.”

“My bosses might not ever need to know.”

“Ecco,” the Italian said with a grin. Fair enough.

“I want you to understand,” Harvath explained, pointing to Lovett, “that she was acting on my instructions.”

“So you are in charge then?”

Harvath nodded.

“None of you are carrying passports, credit cards, or any sort of identification. I assume you left everything at Sigonella?”

Neither Harvath nor Lovett responded.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Argento said, as he winked at Lovett. “I ran a trace on your cell phone. I know what towers it was pinging off of.”

“Piove sul bagnato,” Lovett replied. When it rains, it pours.

Argento’s grin spread into a smile. “Tanto va la gatta al lardo che ci lascia lo zampino,” he said. When the cat goes to steal the lard, it always leaves a footprint.

Harvath didn’t speak Italian and had no idea what they were talking about.

Argento noticed the look on his face. “The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry. No?”

Harvath nodded. “If it can go wrong, it often does.”

The Italian shifted gears and walked toward him. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

It was so abrupt that Harvath’s defenses immediately shot up. His mind went into overdrive trying to place how the two knew each other.

“Relax,” the Italian said, aware that he had put him on guard. Raising his hands, he framed his eyes, blocking out the rest of his face. “It was a decade ago. But you were with another beautiful blonde American. My team and I picked you up in—”

“A helicopter,” Harvath replied, as it all came back to him. “A fast one. An Augusta.”

The woman Argento was referring to was Meg Cassidy, a hijacking survivor he had teamed up with to track down a terrorist hell-bent on igniting war in the Middle East. The target had been a peace summit hosted by Italy.

With the help of the Italians, Harvath had prevented an attack on one of the delegations, designed to look as if the Israelis had been behind it.

“You were part of the Rapid Reaction Force,” said Harvath.

Argento nodded. “I was the team leader. We picked you up in Rome and flew with you out to Frascati. With my helmet and balaclava, I don’t blame you for not recognizing me.”

Harvath smiled.

Lovett looked at them both. “Wait. You two know each other?”

Argento nodded. “Unfortunately, bad actors have brought us back together.”

“Speaking of which, what can you tell us about Antonio Vottari?” Harvath asked.

The Italian held up his hand. “First, you’re going to tell me everything you know about Mustapha Marzouk. Then, we’ll have a discussion about La Formícula.”