Use of Force Page 3

  Tursunov grabbed a stool at the end. He wanted to sit with his back to the wall and watch the doors that were open onto the street.

  The faded interior had seen better days. Decades-old sports and rock band posters were thumbtacked to the walls.

  The bartender didn’t greet him. He seemed angry to already have a customer. Pausing his glass polishing, he cocked an eyebrow in the stranger’s direction.

  “Negroni,” Tursunov stated, as he placed a copy of the Gazzetta di Reggio, open to the classifieds, on the bar.

  The barman looked at him, looked at the paper, and then went back to polishing his glass. After a moment, he set the glass on the shelf behind him and got to work on the cocktail.

  Tursunov would have preferred another coffee, but had been instructed to order the Negroni. That and the newspaper had been passwords.

  Missing an ingredient, the barman yelled back toward the kitchen. Tursunov could make out the Italian word for orange, arancia, but not much else.

  Shortly, the bartender’s wife emerged with a cup of fresh peels. She looked Tursunov over, but didn’t acknowledge him. A cigarette with a half-inch of ash dangled from her mouth.

  Setting the cup on the bar, she withdrew an iPhone from her stained apron and thumbed out a text message as she headed back toward the kitchen.

  Three minutes later, a black Mercedes with dark windows rolled to a halt outside.

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  * * *

  Tursunov had flown into Italy a day early to get his bearings. If everything was in order, he would fly out tonight. It all depended on how long the meeting took.

  The two men who picked him up from the bar were big. Tursunov was just under six feet and weighed one-eighty. These men had to be at least six-foot-three and more than two hundred pounds each. He was being sent a message. Don’t try anything.

  They asked for his phone and when he turned it over, they placed it in a special bag that prevented sending or receiving any signal. He half expected to be blindfolded, but they didn’t bother. After checking him for weapons, they seated him in back of the Mercedes and then navigated their way out of town.

  While the two men up front listened to the radio, Tursunov watched the countryside change as they corkscrewed through the foothills and dense forests of the Aspromonte Mountains.

  There were groves of olive trees, as well as bergamot. Oak trees were everywhere. The higher up in elevation they climbed, pine, beech, and Sicilian fir began to appear. It was a rugged and beautiful landscape. The roads, though, soon became deserted.

  They were headed into one of the most dangerous territories in Italy. Known as the stronghold of the N’drangheta, or Calabrian Mafia, Aspromonte was an area avoided by tourists and Italians alike.

  Most of the southern tip of Italy was poor, but Aspromonte was strikingly so. Earthquakes, rockslides, and the iron fist of the N’drangheta had taken their toll. The Mercedes drove through one abandoned village after another—each in a greater state of disrepair than the one before.

  Tursunov had thought they’d be headed somewhere near the capitol of the N’drangheta, a village on the eastern side of the Aspromonte range called San Luca. Instead, they ended up outside a small hilltop town on the western side named Monterosso.

  Pulling off the main road, they followed a small dirt track that ran along a shallow stream. After crossing a narrow bridge, the path widened.

  Here and there, Tursunov could make out caper bushes and stands of prickly pear cactus. Up ahead was a crumbling stone farmhouse.

  It must have been an amazing structure at some point—solid, with two-foot-thick walls and a soaring roofline clad in ochre terra-cotta tiles. Bougainvillea tumbled from an old arbor. Swaths of jasmine still clung to parts of the old house.

  The driver pulled up in front and turned off the engine. Tursunov didn’t wait to be asked. He was eager to stretch his legs, and climbed out.

  It was warm here, warmer than it had been in Reggio. Tursunov looked up into the blue sky. It was force of habit. He had survived three drone strikes. The last one just barely. His wife, though, hadn’t been so fortunate.

  Every day, he regretted having suggested that she come to Syria with him. It shouldn’t have mattered that other fighters had brought their wives. It shouldn’t have mattered that because of his stature, ISIS was providing him with a house. It shouldn’t have mattered that they were childless and it was just the two of them. It shouldn’t have mattered that she wanted to escape Tajikistan as much as he did. He should have left her behind. If he had, she might still be alive.

  He closed his eyes. The sun was almost directly overhead. He felt the warmth on his face, heard birds off in the tree line. A breeze stirred and brought with it the scent of rosemary. For a moment, he tried not to think—to just be still. But as soon as the moment began, it ended.

  Out on the road, he heard two vehicles approaching. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes. Back to reality.

  Removing a cigarette from the pack, he placed it in his mouth and leaned against the Mercedes. As he struck a match, he watched two navy blue Range Rovers come into view, trailing a cloud of dust behind them.

  They were flashy cars, especially in this part of Italy. That was probably on purpose.

  Near the top of the driveway, one Range Rover peeled off toward a large outbuilding. The other rolled up next to the Mercedes and parked.

  A beefy bodyguard climbed out of the front seat and opened the rear passenger door.

  A petite, Gucci-clad foot was the first thing Tursunov noticed. It was followed by a small, manicured hand, above which rested a very large gold watch. Antonio Vottari had arrived.

  At five-foot-five-inches tall, he was known throughout Calabria as La Formícula, or “the ant.” He was the nephew of one of the N’drangheta’s most powerful crime families. His brutality was legendary.

  The man allegedly lived for revenge. It was said to be the only thing that got him out of bed in the morning.

  Tursunov looked him over. He was in his early thirties, thin, with pale skin. His eyes were black, like a crow’s. His steep nose resembled a beak.

  He wore an expensive suit, likely custom made. His cufflinks matched the gold of his watch. His hair was combed with so much oil that it looked wet, as if he had just climbed out of a pool. Even through the cigarette smoke, Tursunov could already smell his cologne.

  When Vottari moved, he did so like something out of the jungle. His dark eyes never left Tursunov’s. He seemed aware of everything around him—every person, every stone, every blade of grass. Each step he took was deliberate, confident. This was his territory. He was the alpha. You lived or died at his pleasure.

  Within a fraction of a second of the Calabrese getting out of his car, Tursunov knew how he was going to kill him. Business, though, would have to come first. Smiling, he extended his right hand. “It’s good to see you, Signori. Thank you for meeting with me.”

  “Let’s get started,” Vottari replied, returning his grasp.

  “As you wish. Do you have everything?”

  “We have enough.”

  Tursunov looked at him. “Excuse me?”

  The Italian jerked his head toward the outbuilding. “Come. This way.”

  Tursunov didn’t know what he meant by having enough, but he fell into step alongside him anyway. Two bodyguards took up the rear, while the rest stayed with the vehicles.

  The path was overgrown with weeds. As they walked, Tursunov looked up into the sky again. This is Italy, he reminded himself. There are no drone strikes here.

  But if there were, a voice in his head countered, waiting until everyone was inside the building would be the perfect moment.

  Tursunov felt a twinge of paranoia building at the edge of his mind and shut it down. He needed to remain in control.

  At the door to the outbuilding, Vottari motioned at his cigarette. “No smoking inside.”

  The Italian was being overly cautious. Nevert
heless, Tursunov complied. Taking a final drag, he dropped the cigarette to the ground, and crushed it out with his heel.

  Exhaling the smoke from his lungs, he stole one more glance skyward, and then followed the man inside.

  The walls were built of concrete block and the building appeared to have been used to house livestock.

  “Don’t worry,” Vottari said, suddenly reading his mind. “Sheep. No pigs.”

  In Islam, contact with pigs was forbidden, as was contact with alcohol. It was obvious the Italian knew it. Vottari was fucking with him. It was why he’d sent him to a bar and told him to order a Negroni. And it was also why Tursunov was positive that they were at a pig farm.

  He’d have to rethink the little Mafioso’s death. He’d have to come up with something much more painful and drawn out.

  “Come. Come,” Vottari said, waving him forward. Three wooden crates, all painted olive green, were displayed on a long table. Their tops had been pried off and some of the packing straw removed.

  Tursunov studied the markings on the first crate before removing its contents and assembling the pieces.

  “Not your first time,” the Italian remarked.

  Before joining ISIS, Tursunov had served in both the Tajik military and an elite police unit—facts that were none of Vottari’s business. So he ignored him.

  Moving to the second and third crates, he examined their markings and assembled the contents.

  “Where are the rest of them?”

  The Italian grinned, “You don’t trust me?”

  Tursunov looked at the clumps of what he was certain was dried pig shit covering the floor, and smiled back. “Where are the rest of them?” he repeated.

  “You’ll get them when I get my money. Half now, half on delivery.”

  Tursunov shook his head. “We agreed that I would be allowed to inspect all the merchandise. Before delivery.”

  Vottari snapped his fingers and one of his men handed Tursunov a tablet.

  “What’s this?”

  “Pictures of the rest of your merchandise.”

  Tursunov angrily swiped through them.

  “You can clearly see all the markings and serial numbers,” the Italian stated.

  “This is not what we agreed to.”

  “It is within the spirit of our agreement.”

  Tursunov thought for a moment and stated, “Thirty percent.”

  “My friend, this isn’t a negotiation.”

  “This isn’t a business relationship either,” he replied, handing the tablet back. “We’ll take our money elsewhere. Good luck selling those.”

  “Pazzo,” he chuckled to his men. Crazy. But Vottari liked crazy. You had to have balls to be this crazy.

  He let Tursunov walk all the way back to the farmhouse before sending one of his men to return him to the outbuilding.

  When Tursunov came back in, Vottari said, “The merchandise you requested was very difficult to get. Only a fool would bring all of it together in one place. If something were to happen to it before I received my money, that would be very bad.”

  Tursunov didn’t respond. The Italian hadn’t asked a question. He had made a statement. People weakened their hands by feeling they had to fill uncomfortable silences.

  “Forty percent,” the Italian offered. “And you allow me to change the delivery location.”

  “Change it? Why? Where to?”

  “Someplace safer. Not far from where we agreed.”

  Safer? Tursunov didn’t like it. Vottari was changing all the parameters of the deal. “Twenty-five percent.”

  “Molto pazzo!” the Italian exclaimed, smiling. “Thirty percent and I’ll throw in two cases of these. No charge.”

  He nodded to one of his men, who retrieved a smaller crate from the back of the Range Rover and brought it over for inspection.

  Tursunov lifted the lid. Fragmentation grenades. His plan didn’t call for them, but better to have something and not need it than need it and not have it. “Deal.”

  Vottari shook hands with Tursunov, but didn’t let go. “Remember,” he cautioned, “all of the merchandise leaves Italy. Take it to France. Take it to Germany. Take it to the moon. I don’t care. But if I find out you didn’t, you and your people are dead. All of you.”

  Tursunov smiled right back and replied, “The last thing I and my people want is any trouble, especially with you and your people.”

  CHAPTER 7

  * * *

  * * *

  SATURDAY

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The small lockkeeper’s house, only a short drive from D.C., sat along the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. It was a squat, two-story structure, built of local stone painted white.

  Its shutters and door were painted robin’s-egg blue—the genesis of its nickname.

  Unlike other lockhouses in the C&O National Historic Park, which could be rented for overnight stays, the “blue lockhouse” was closed to the public. And for good reason. It was owned and maintained by the Central Intelligence Agency.

  One of the Agency’s numerous safe houses, it had been used extensively during the Cold War for debriefing high-value Soviet defectors. Today, it was being used for a very important, very quiet meeting.

  When Harvath rolled up, he saw three heavily armored black Suburbans parked in front. Even in casual clothes, the detail agents posted outside gave off a serious don’t-fuck-with-us vibe. Intensity was an important prerequisite for the job.

  Even more important were experience and ability. Terrorists the world over would have loved nothing more than to get their hands on the two people inside.

  Parking his Tahoe in the grass, Harvath shook hands with the lead agent—a man named Haggerty—and chatted with him for a few seconds.

  Haggerty had gone to Notre Dame, which Harvath, as a University of Southern California grad, always explained wasn’t the man’s fault. It was obvious that his parents hadn’t cared much for him.

  It was good-natured ribbing born from a storied college rivalry. Haggerty was confident about the football team Notre Dame was fielding this year. So confident, in fact, that he wanted to place a wager on the game against USC.

  After reminding him of the Code of Federal Regulations banning gambling in the federal workplace, Harvath smiled and agreed to a hundred dollars.

  “Cash,” Haggerty clarified. “None of that Bitcoin crap.”

  Harvath laughed and they shook hands. Turning, he climbed the three slate steps to the lockhouse and knocked.

  “Come in,” a voice replied. “It’s open.”

  Harvath entered to find the CIA Director, Bob McGee, and the Deputy Director, Lydia Ryan, at a weathered wooden table in the living room.

  McGee was in his early sixties. He had dark wavy hair, which was rapidly going all gray. His most distinctive feature, though, was his thick mustache. You didn’t see a lot of those in Washington, and even fewer in government.

  Ryan was a gorgeous woman. She was the five-foot-ten product of an Irish father and a Greek mother. She had long black hair and deep green eyes.

  Both McGee and Ryan had come from the clandestine service side of the CIA. They were smart, seasoned, no-bullshit people. The President had chosen them specifically to clean out the dead wood at Langley and bring the Agency back to its former glory.

  “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Ryan said as Harvath stepped inside.

  Walking back to the kitchen, he grabbed an enamel mug from one of the cupboards and poured himself a cup.

  Returning to the living room, he joined McGee and Ryan at the table. It was covered with files.

  They had been meeting like this a lot—outside CIA headquarters, on nights and weekends. The less people knew about what they were up to, the better.

  Like a ruptured appendix, terrorism had exploded, gushing its poison in all directions. Attacks were on the rise everywhere, especially in Europe, and now in the United States as well.

  Losing territory and suffering defeat after defeat,
ISIS had become like a cornered, wounded animal. In desperation, it had lashed out, calling for attacks on Americans whenever and wherever they could be found. They were sending a very clear message—nowhere was safe.

  In return, the American President had sent a very clear message of his own—there wasn’t a rock big enough for ISIS to crawl under or a hole deep enough to slither down. Wherever its members tried to hide, the United States would find them. All of them. America would hunt its enemies to the very ends of the earth. And it would be relentless in doing so.

  The problem, though, was that not everyone in the U.S. agreed with the President. Some saw his approach as too antagonistic. They worried that he was giving the terrorists exactly what they wanted, that he was playing right into their hands. They wanted less cowboy and more samurai—wise, patient, striking only when absolutely necessary and then slipping back into the night.

  Then there were those who didn’t want any strikes at all. They claimed that hitting back only perpetuated a cycle of violence. They cautioned that if we didn’t stop, neither would ISIS. The already bad situation would only grow worse.

  Many felt that the President didn’t appreciate their opinions and hadn’t even bothered to take them into consideration. But those who knew him—that small circle with whom he kept counsel—knew that wasn’t the case at all.

  The President didn’t like waging this battle, but it was a just war. The use of force was not something he took lightly. His greatest desire was peace. He wanted nothing more than the security of the American people. He saw the safety of Americans at home and abroad as his number-one responsibility as commander in chief. It was the duty he placed above all others.

  He also was privy to something his fellow citizens were not. Every morning, he received an intelligence briefing, which laid out how truly dangerous organizations like ISIS and Al Qaeda were.