The French Intelligence officer seemed to have ice in his veins as he proceeded calmly through the rest of the carnival, documenting everything he could.
But when he reached the end, when there was nothing more to document, the phone dropped from his hand and the man could be heard throwing up.
The analyst paused the video there.
“Why don’t we take ten minutes,” Director McGee said. “I’d like to speak with the Deputy Director alone.”
As the attendees pushed back from the table and filed out of the room, he picked up the remote and turned off the monitors.
Once the last person had exited and the door had shut behind them, he turned to Ryan and said, “The death toll is going to exceed Spain.”
She shook her head at the grim news. “How many Americans?”
“We’ve got our people at the Embassy working on it. We know of eighteen already, but we expect the number to go higher.”
“Suicide bombers, or were the explosives planted?”
“We’re digging into the surrounding CCTV footage,” said McGee, “but the working hypothesis right now is suicide bombers. At least six. One appears to have gone off prematurely and the rest followed not long after.”
“Why do we think one went off prematurely?”
“Because it happened on the edge of the carnival, not inside, where the explosion would have done much more damage. French police reportedly approached a man in a soccer jersey shortly before the first explosion. We’re trying to run that down.”
“What can I do to help?” she asked.
“Get Harvath to move faster. Whatever it takes. I don’t care.”
“I’ll reach out to him. In the meantime, what about my request?”
McGee leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Access to the Malice program.”
“It’s a big ask. I under—”
“Especially right now.”
“I understand, but the more Reed and I have discussed this, the more concerned I’ve become. Somebody might be trying to smother us in the crib.”
The Director didn’t respond.
“The whole idea,” Ryan continued, “is for us to assemble a lifeboat for the Agency. If there are people out there attempting to drill holes in it, we have to know.”
He thought about it for a moment more before replying. “If I agreed, how would it play out?”
Ryan had wargamed it as best she could. Her plan wasn’t perfect, but she felt she had come up with a pretty good idea. Remaining as brief as possible, she laid it out for him.
McGee let it all sink in. It was a big ask. And it involved a lot of risk for the CIA. If it went sideways, even the President wouldn’t be able to save them.
Point by point, he went through his concerns. And point by point, she addressed them.
Finally, he only had one question left. “How are you going to get him in without anyone seeing him?”
Looking over at the suitcases along the wall, she replied, “I think I have an idea.”
CHAPTER 55
* * *
* * *
PALERMO
Within minutes of the Paris attack, everyone’s phones started going off in the restaurant. As the notification chimes rang, Harvath called the waiter over and paid their bill. He wanted to get to a television. Their waiter suggested an Irish bar a few blocks away.
Entering the pub, they saw the TV sets were tuned to several English-language stations including CNN and BBC. The team ordered coffee and energy drinks. They had a lot to get done this evening and things had just taken an even more serious turn.
The men were not shy about how they felt. Not even with Lovett in their midst.
“Fucking cocksuckers,” Morrison growled as he watched the bloody footage from the Tuileries.
There were already preliminary reports coming through of how many dead and wounded, as well as the victims’ countries of origin. France, Germany, Japan, the United States, Mexico . . . the crawl on the bottom of the screen seemed to just keep going.
“Religion of peace, my ass,” said Barton, all but convinced he knew who and what was behind the attack.
Staelin and Harvath both watched the footage in silence, studying it for clues.
“Same group as Spain?” the Delta Force operative wondered aloud after several moments.
“And Burning Man,” Harvath replied quietly.
“Were we supposed to stop this?”
Harvath nodded solemnly. It was why they had been put on the trail of the dead ISIS chemist. It had taken them first to Libya, and now Italy. The attacks were connected. He was sure of it.
They went back to watching the TVs in silence.
Everyone in the bar was in a state of shock. No one could speak. There was genuine fear in every single face.
Harvath knew what they were thinking. How long until attacks like this start happening in Italy?
The barman, a redheaded transplant from Dublin named Carey, was pouring complimentary shots of Irish whiskey. He wanted everyone in the pub to raise their glasses out of respect for the dead and wounded.
Harvath politely declined, explaining his team had to compete in the morning. Carey didn’t ask in what. Instead, he retrieved five Red Bulls from the cooler and handed them to him.
When the time came, the team raised their drinks along with everyone else in the pub as the barman led them in a quick farewell to the deceased and a prayer for those who remained.
Harvath didn’t think the attack in Paris would change Carlo Ragusa’s plans, but he raised the subject with Lovett anyway.
“Mount Etna could erupt tonight,” she stated, referencing the volcano on the east coast of the island, “and this horserace would still go in the morning.”
“Then we’d better get started.”
? ? ?
Lovett’s contact had emailed her a picture of Naya, the Nigerian bartender at the Black Cat, and once more she showed it around.
After going over the plan one last time, Harvath organized the team into waves. As Morrison’s job was to reposition the SUV, he sent him first.
His instructions were simple: Go in, sit at the bar, and send a text as to whether Naya was working.
Because their radios were so bulky, there was no way they could hide them under their street clothes. They were lucky enough simply to conceal their pistols.
If Ragusa was coming to see his mistress this evening, Harvath figured it would happen in one of two ways. Either the Mafioso would spend the bulk of his evening at home with his wife and family before heading out, or he would get to his mistress’s apartment early and expect her to cook for him.
With the little he knew about Sicilians, he doubted Ragusa was going to trade his wife’s cooking for his Nigerian mistress’s. Plus, there was no way he was going to take Naya out to dinner. That wasn’t how men in the Cosa Nostra operated. It was likely a very closely held secret that he was seeing the bartender.
Harvath assumed that Naya would work her shift until Ragusa showed up. Once he arrived, or let her know he was on the way, she’d punch out and head upstairs.
Fifteen minutes later, they had their answer. Harvath read the text aloud. “Naya and another woman tending bar. Club less than half full. Music sucks.”
“Remind him to smile,” Barton said.