Harvath noticed he also had a beer in front of him. “Having a good time?” he asked.
The Delta Force operative looked up from his book and drew Harvath’s attention to the rest of the restaurant. “When in Palermo.”
Harvath looked around. Everyone had a cocktail or a bottle of wine going.
He didn’t mind drinking. In fact, he enjoyed it. Just not before an operation.
That said, his team didn’t exactly look like teetotalers. They looked every muscled inch the intense ass kickers they were. To not have at least one drink on the table would have raised eyebrows.
More important, his guys were professionals. They had trained with alcohol in their systems and knew its limiting effects. He decided to allow it.
Morrison ordered a beer as well. Barton asked for a glass of Chianti. Harvath and Lovett joined him.
As soon as the waiter had left to go get their drinks, they began discussing what they had noticed while surveilling the nightclub.
They all agreed that getting up to the apartment unseen via the street entrance was a nonstarter. By the time the club opened, there’d be too much going on.
That also meant that getting Ragusa out of the apartment in order to interrogate him at another location was out of the question. The interrogation would have to happen there.
They assumed that the Mafioso would be traveling with bodyguards and could call upon nightclub security for backup if needed.
The Black Cat was equidistant between two of the busiest police stations in the old town. If a call went out to law enforcement, response time was likely to be fast.
The team had done an excellent job of mapping CCTV cameras, potential escape routes, choke points, and alternate rally locations if they were forced to split up.
When it came to breeching the apartment itself, they were in agreement with Harvath. They would have to come in from the roof.
The waiter delivered their drinks and asked if they were ready to order. Lovett asked him in Italian to give them a few more minutes.
“Show me your shoes,” Harvath said after the waiter had left.
“My shoes?” she replied.
He motioned for her to do it and she complied. Turning in her chair, she slid one of her feet from beneath the table and showed it to him.
“You flew in from Rome. Where’s your bag?” he asked.
“In the back of the truck.”
“You have any other shoes in there?”
Lovett nodded. “My running shoes. Why?”
“Because I don’t know if this Ragusa character speaks English. In case he doesn’t, you’re going to be my terp. You’ll go in via the roof with us. Running shoes will do.”
“Full disclosure. I’m not very good with heights.”
“You’ll be fine,” he assured her.
“What about the rest of us?” Morrison asked. “How’s this all going to break down?”
Taking out his phone, Harvath opened up Google Maps and showed the Force Recon Marine a large Baroque church, the Chiesa del Gesù, a block over from the nightclub.
Because it was built on an angle, back from the street, it created an area that opened up extra parking.
“You should be able to park right on the edge,” Harvath explained. “As long as you don’t leave the truck, it won’t get towed.”
“No offense, but why me?” Morrison asked.
“Because Haney’s not here and I trust you. That’s why.”
Morrison didn’t look convinced.
“Listen,” Harvath continued. “If I’m a Palermo cop, and I roll up on you, I’m not going to get a bad vibe. You’re obviously an American and he’s probably going to peg you for military. Just smile and tell him you’re waiting for a legit spot to open up so you can join your friends for drinks.”
“Why not have Barton do it?”
“Because he’s incapable of smiling. Nobody would believe him.”
“That’s true,” the SEAL said from across the table, giving Morrison his death stare.
“Also,” Harvath said, tightening in on the satellite image of the rooftops, “I think he’s about the right size to go into the apartment via the skylight.”
“And him?” Morrison asked, looking at Staelin.
“He’s going to be our eyes and ears on the ground.” Waiting a beat, Harvath added. “We all good then?”
They all nodded, except for Staelin.
“What’s up?” Harvath asked.
The Delta Force operative slid his phone over to him. On it, a weather app was open.
Harvath hadn’t thought to check the forecast. That was a mistake. And it was on him. He knew better.
Not that it would have made a difference. Their options were what they were.
Rain or not, they were going into that apartment and they were going to get Carlo Ragusa.
CHAPTER 53
* * *
* * *
PARIS
The Le Meurice restaurant was the most beautiful restaurant Tursunov had ever seen.
Inspired by the Salon de la Paix at Versailles, it was beyond opulent. Gold coated the moldings, bifurcated the mirrors, and dripped from the crystal chandeliers. Silver coated the chairs, the lamps, and even the serving buffets.
But the pièce de résistance was the massive fresco painted on the ceiling. Floating above the dining room, it beckoned patrons into a lush spring landscape populated with alluring mothers and rosy-cheeked infants.
The restaurant’s most desirable feature, however, was its view of the Tuileries across the street.
He could have watched the events unfold from his balcony, but he preferred to be here. He wanted to bathe in people’s immediate reaction. He wanted to immerse himself in it.
This would be the closest he had been to any of his bombings, ever. His heart was pounding with excitement. He willed himself to be calm. Being seen was not a problem. Being remembered was.
As he was dining alone, the concierge had booked him a small table in the corner. With apologies for not being able to place him closer to the window, he explained that the hotel was quite full. Tursunov had smiled, thanked the man, and given him a generous tip.
A table near the window would have been excellent, but just being in the restaurant served his needs.
Up in his room, he had showered, shaved, and performed his prayers. After a cigarette on the balcony, he had descended to the lobby, where he’d had a ginger ale with lime in the wood-paneled bar, as he kept to himself.
Then, at the appointed time, he paid his bill and stood up. But instead of going right into the restaurant, he decided to step outside.
He wanted to take in the early evening air; to breathe one last breath of Paris before everything changed. His table wasn’t going anywhere.
Pushing through the revolving door, he descended the short flight of stone steps and walked out onto the pavement.
“Taxi, Monsieur?” a doorman asked politely.
Tursunov shook his head.
The doorman nodded and shifted his attention to the guests behind him.
Across the street was the wrought-iron fencing of the Tuileries with its bright gold points. Through it, he could see and hear the outdoor carnival. It was packed and in full swing, just as he had known it would be.