Cautiously, Argento slid the key inside the lock and, without making a sound, slowly turned it. When it was unlocked, he counted backward from three.
On “one,” he quietly pushed the door open and Harvath slipped inside.
The door opened into a narrow hallway with wood floors. At the end of it, he could see windows, a small kitchen, and part of a dining room. Closing the door, Argento brought up the rear.
Moving forward, Harvath strained his ears for any sound. There was nothing. He wondered if maybe the phone had been left behind, or if the two occupants were out on the rooftop deck.
Creeping forward, Harvath stepped on a board that groaned beneath his foot. Instantly, he froze.
In the quiet apartment, the noise sounded like an air horn. Technically it wasn’t as loud, but it had the same effect of trumpeting their arrival.
Suddenly, a man appeared from around the corner with an AK-47. Harvath depressed the trigger of his suppressed H&K and fired, hitting him in the chest. He followed up with another round to the chest and one to the head.
The man fell over backward, his weapon clattering across the kitchen floor. One down.
Moving forward, Harvath swept into the living area. It was clear, as were the kitchen and dining room. Looking through the windows, he didn’t see anyone on the deck outside
With Argento right behind, he moved into the bedroom. There was another AK-47 propped up in the corner. Argento checked the closet and under the bed. Both were clear. That left only one place to look.
Before he even reached the bathroom door, he could hear someone on the other side. The closer he got, the more he could begin to smell him. Someone was in gastric distress.
Kicking open the door, Harvath found the other terrorist pale and sweaty, sitting on the toilet, sick as a dog. The stench was overwhelming.
Clutching a garbage can, which he had been vomiting into, the man had to undergo an extreme balancing act when Harvath told him in English and Arabic to raise his hands over his head.
After making sure the man didn’t have any weapons, Harvath released Argento to go check outside.
A few minutes later, he came back in, issuing orders over his cell phone. Pausing his call, he offered to watch the prisoner while Harvath went out onto the deck to review the evidence.
Backing out of the bathroom, and grateful for the fresh air, Harvath stepped onto the terrace. There, beneath the tarp Argento had pulled halfway back, was the Russian mortar and a crate with two chemical shells.
One team down, five more to go, thought Harvath.
When the tactical team arrived, there was nothing for them to do but secure the scene. Close on their heels was an explosive ordnance unit, as well as a chemical containment team.
An ambulance had been dispatched as well, the big fear being that the terrorist on the toilet had been exposed to a hazardous chemical, perhaps something currently leaking inside the apartment or from the shells out on the deck.
As it turned out, the man had food poisoning and was severely dehydrated. His partner had turned their cell phone on in hopes of reaching their handler and receiving instructions on how best to deal with the situation. The handler had never replied.
The medical team wanted to start an IV on the man. With Argento’s help, Harvath pushed them and everyone else back out of the bathroom and out of the bedroom. He wanted to see what kind of information he could extract from him.
To a large degree, what he was able to get was useless. The man knew nothing about the other cells, their locations, or the location of the handler. Everything had been compartmentalized. He knew the other mortar teams because he had trained with them in Syria, but they had all entered Italy via different means and he had no idea where they were now. Harvath believed him.
The one thing the terrorist was able to do was confirm the identity of his handler. Holding up the picture of the man in the bar in Reggio Calabria that Argento’s men had uncovered, the terrorist nodded. That was him.
The terrorist only knew him by his nom de guerre. Harvath had yet to meet a true jihadist who hadn’t taken on an assumed name for engaging in combat. It was a time-honored Islamic tradition.
Allowing everyone back in the room, Harvath stepped outside to get more fresh air. Argento was standing off to the side, smoking a cigarette. So much for fresh air.
“Did he give you anything?” he asked.
Harvath shook his head. “Not much. Just confirmed the picture from earlier. No name or location, though.”
“What did he say about the phone?”
“They were only supposed to use it in case of emergency. They have a communication window every eight hours. The man is so sick, his partner was afraid he might not make it. That’s why they activated the phone and sent a message. They were hoping the handler might check in early.”
“When is the next window?” Argento asked.
Harvath checked his watch. “Not for six more hours.”
“That’s a long time.”
Nodding, he leaned against the parapet and looked out over the rooftops of Rome. Where the hell are you?
Finishing his cigarette, Argento flicked the butt off the roof as his cell phone rang.
At almost the same moment, Harvath’s rang as well. Looking at the caller ID, he saw that it was Lovett.
“You need to get back here right away,” she said, as he activated the call.
“What’s going on?”
“That picture Argento gave you? The ISIS middleman who bought the weapons from Vottari? We’ve got him on camera. He just walked through St. Peter’s Square forty-five minutes ago.”
CHAPTER 89
Returning to the operations center back at Vatican City beneath the Monastery of Mater Ecclesiae, Harvath asked Carl to roll the footage for them.
“Coming up,” Carl said, as he scrolled through. “Okay, that’s him entering Vatican City. Blue blazer, tan khakis.”
Freezing the shot, he zoomed in.
Harvath looked at it, and then at the picture on his phone. It was definitely the same guy. “How’d you find him?”
“We ran the photo through facial recognition. The computer did the rest.”
“Unfreeze it,” said Harvath. “Show me where he goes.”
The Vatican intelligence officer did as asked.
Everyone in the room watched as he strolled St. Peter’s Square and then headed through security and over to the bronze doors of the basilica. There, he began speaking with a pair of Swiss Guards.
“What’s he doing now? Have you spoken with those two Swiss Guards?”
“Personally,” said Carl. He was there to pick up a ticket for tomorrow’s papal audience.”
“Did he show any ID?”
“Yes. He had an Austrian passport and the ticket had been reserved ahead of time.”
The Vatican intelligence officer handed Harvath a copy of the reservation.
“Why would he want a ticket?” Argento asked. “He’s not going anywhere near St. Peter’s Square tomorrow.”
Harvath thought about it for a moment. “It could be a scalp. Just a sick souvenir. On the bin Laden raid, the SEALs allegedly found some 9/11 memorabilia in his house in Abbottabad.”
The answer seemed to satisfy Argento, and they watched the rest of the footage. It lasted right up until the man left Vatican City. Stepping out onto the Via della Conciliazione, he eventually disappeared into the throng of morning tourists.
“Rome has a billion CCTV cameras. You can’t follow him through those?” Harvath asked.
“My authority ends at the walls of Vatican City.”
Harvath looked at Argento, who was already dialing a number on his cell phone. “I’m on it,” he said.