"Yes." Ghalib looked troubled. "There is news of our brothers in Mali and Mauritania. They were discovered and martyred."
"Ah. The Americans?"
"We think so. It is possible someone radioed from the plane we destroyed. The cave is destroyed. The house in Mauritania."
"There are other caves, other houses. They can never find them all. Allah surely opened the Gates of Paradise for them. As He will for us, Ghalib."
Bausari placed his hand on Ghalib’s shoulder. The two men looked into each other’s eyes.
"We will be remembered, Teacher," Ghalib said.
"Yes, Ghalib, we will."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Lucas Monroe had been an agent for twelve years. In that same twelve years many new stars had appeared on the memorial wall at Langley, one for each agent killed in the line of duty. Monroe wasn't as young as he used to be. He had no intention of becoming the next star.
After this mission, he was slated for a desk in the Counter-Terrorism Center on the sixth floor. Not bad for a black kid who'd clawed his way out of the ghetto and into the Ivy League school where he'd been recruited. Monroe was street tough, highly intelligent and ambitious. It hadn't been easy.
The mission was simple on the face of it. Grab the man living in the luxurious, fortified villa below. Yuri Azhrakov sold everything from assault rifles to jet fighters to anyone who could pay. You wanted a few Russian T-54s, a French Mirage, the latest in ground to air missiles or ten thousand AKs, you went to Yuri.
It would be easy to kill him. Monroe would have liked to kill him, but Langley wanted him alive. They wanted to ask him a few questions, someplace where they wouldn't be disturbed. They wanted to talk to him right away. It was a challenge. Monroe liked challenges.
The glorious blue of Lake Como stretched away beyond the red roof tiles and high stone walls of the villa. The scenery hadn't changed much since Pliny the Elder had built a vacation home here in the days of Caesar's Empire. A soft breeze off the lake made it pleasant in the shady olive grove where Monroe lay watching the villa. A sleek yacht cruised under sail in the distance. Monroe didn't notice the postcard picture of casual wealth. He focused on the walled compound below.
The heavy ornamental iron gates to the villa were closed. It would take a tank to break through them. A guard house by the gate was always manned. The guards inside the compound patrolled in pairs. They carried Czech Skorpion SA 391 submachine guns that fired eight hundred and fifty 9mm rounds per minute. Other guards covered the estate grounds.
Over the last two days Monroe had counted at least thirty security personnel. They all looked Serbian or Russian and moved with the alert tension of experienced military men. Monroe figured them for former Spetznaz, Russian Special Forces. As good as any in the world.
The walls surrounding the villa were topped with looping spirals of gleaming razor wire that would make you bleed if you looked hard at them. Monroe could see at least four cameras. There were sure to be more out of sight. The gate was the only entrance to the front. In back, a terraced patio and broad lawn landscaped with rows of tall Italian cypress and beds of flowers sloped down to the lake and a dock extending into the water. It was shielded by another high wall with observation posts that looked like Tuscan church towers on the ends.
There were powerful searchlights within the Italianesque architecture. There would be sentries with automatic weapons in the towers. The towers had an unobstructed field of fire. Graceful pieces of classical statuary were tastefully placed along graveled paths among the flowerbeds. There were certainly ground sensors and trip wires in the wide expanse of jewel-like green lawn. It was all very pretty. It would be suicide to come up from the lake.
Without a full bore military assault, the mansion was impregnable.
A broad, paved courtyard stretched in front of the house. A cobbled drive circled under a portico over the entrance and around a large, Neo-Renaissance fountain throwing rainbows into the bright afternoon sunlight. A five car garage sat to the left of the main entrance to the villa. Monroe watched a man walk out of the garage, cross the courtyard and go into the house.
Parked under the portico was a shiny black Mercedes limousine. A muscular man with close-cropped blond hair leaned against one of the fenders smoking a cigarette. He was dressed in a gray chauffeur's uniform. He held the cigarette upright between his thumb and middle finger, European style. He looked bored.
Monroe knew the car was armored. Run flat tires with steel sidewalls. One inch thick bulletproof glass. Twelve cylinder, turbocharged engine that made over five hundred horsepower. Armored side panels, trunk and gas tank. Armored engine compartment. Only heavy weapons would do more than scratch a car like that. It would be armored underneath as well. But it was a car. It was still vulnerable.
Monroe thought about Azhrakov. These bastards were all the same, whether they were merchandising weapons, drugs or any other form of death. They relied on walls and surveillance and tough guys with lots of firepower to protect them. They relied on armored vehicles to travel in. Predictable. Predictability meant they were vulnerable.
Two men came out of the house, followed by Azhrakov. He carried a briefcase. He was a heavy man, built like a bear. He wore a goatee. Even from here, Monroe could see a flash of gold against his hairy wrist and the smooth ripple of fabric on his Italian suit. For a man responsible for the deaths of many thousands of people, he looked remarkably at ease with himself. He got in the back seat of the Mercedes. Sometimes the arms dealer liked to sit in front. In the back made things easier for Monroe.
Monroe had seen enough. He slipped from his lookout and walked down to where three men waited for him.
Enzio was from Brooklyn. He spoke fluent Italian. Louis was the driver. He could navigate the narrow roads of Lake Como and the nearby Alps at speeds that would frighten a Grand Prix professional. Eddie was the communications, ordnance and explosives expert. He was good at all of them.
Azhrakov's villa was located on the southern tip of the inverted Y that formed the lake, near the town of Como. It was about thirty minutes north of Milan, where Azhrakov's private jet waited. There was only one way out of Como, but after that there were three ways he could go to reach the city.
Monroe wasn't sure which one Azhrakov would take. All three routes led to Milan, but two were inferior roads, twisting and scenic. Azhrakov always chose routes at random. Sometimes he took the improved highway that headed south, then turned southeast to the city. It was the fastest route. Sometimes he chose one of the others. Monroe had teams positioned on all three and spotters to relay which way the Mercedes headed.
The fast route was busy with traffic and exposed. That made things much more difficult and required precision timing. There was a high risk of collateral damage. There were too many uncontrollable factors. Monroe had already prepared for that eventuality. It was certain Azhrakov would choose a secondary route. In Milan the crowds and Azhrakov's security cordon would prevent success. On the road was the best spot for Monroe to take his quarry.
Monroe spoke into his headset.
"Alpha One to all units. Subject is moving."
His teams acknowledged.
Monroe and the others climbed into a Land Rover Defender painted military green. The plates began with EI, identifying it as a unit of the Carabinieri. No longer just a police force, the Carabinieri were professional, well armed and now a full fledged unit of Italy's armed forces. They also had an attitude. Everyone in Italy knew you didn't piss off the Carabinieri.