Getting him to his feet, they marched him into the kitchen where they duct-taped him to a chair.
Harvath had already unloaded the man’s Beretta pistol and had placed it on top of the refrigerator. Emptying his pockets, he placed his keys, wallet, cash, and cell phone on the counter.
Pulling up a chair, he swung a leg over and sat on it backward. He rested his arms on the back of the chair as he studied Ragusa. Anger simmered all over the Sicilian’s face.
As soon as Harvath asked him if he spoke English, the Mafioso began cursing at him in Italian.
Spittle collected in the corners of his mouth. He went on and on, no doubt unpacking everything he was going to do to his captors once this was all over. Harvath let him get it out of his system.
Then, giving him one last chance to admit whether he spoke English, he called in Lovett.
CHAPTER 60
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Even though Harvath was addressing Lovett, he looked directly at Ragusa as he spoke. “Who is this?” he asked, holding up his phone with a picture of Mustapha Marzouk, the deceased chemistry student.
“He says he doesn’t know,” she replied.
“Tell him to look harder.”
“Same answer. He claims he doesn’t recognize the man.”
“Ask him about Festus Aghaku, the water taxi driver for the Black Axe.”
Lovett did and waited for his reply. It came back the same. Ragusa claimed he had no idea who they were talking about.
Harvath was losing his patience.
Holding the picture back up, he said, “Six weeks ago, you sent Festus Aghaku and his crew out into a storm to meet a boat from Libya. On it was the man in the picture. Who is he and who told you to pick him up?”
He burned holes into the man’s eyes with his own as Lovett spoke. When the man responded, Harvath didn’t need a translation. It was the same answer he had been giving since the beginning.
“Tell him I know everything about him. I know about his wife. I know about his five children. I know where he lives. And tell him that I know all about the men and the dogs he uses to protect his house and his family. None of which will stop me from getting to them.”
As Lovett translated, Harvath watched as the anger and rage returned to the man’s face. She hadn’t even finished speaking before he went off on another tirade of curses and threats.
When Lovett began to translate, Harvath shook his head. He had gotten the gist of it.
“Let me be perfectly clear,” he stated, once the man had finished. “You will tell me everything I want to know. The only question is how much pain you want to experience in the process.”
This time when the man started cursing at him, Harvath didn’t let it go. Cupping his hand, he hit Ragusa on the left side of his head.
It was the same technique he had used on the satellite phone salesman in Libya. It forced a painful stream of pressurized air into the ear canal, which could cause dizziness and even nausea.
Harvath had learned it as a SEAL, and he liked it for two reasons. One, it didn’t risk breaking any bones in the hand the way a punch could. And two, it didn’t leave any marks—unless you struck the subject so hard that you ruptured the eardrum. Out of respect for Lovett, he was trying to be as measured as possible.
He waited for the man to shake the stars from his head before continuing.
Once he felt the Mafioso had recovered enough, he spoke very slowly and explained, “As a Sicilian, I know honor is important to you. So, if you do not cooperate with me, I’m going to make sure that your body is found right here with your Nigerian girlfriend. But that’s not all.
“I’m going to make it look like you both overdosed on drugs. And I will stage a scene that leaves no doubt that in your relationship, Naya was the man and you, Carlo Ragusa, were the woman. Understand?”
He understood all right. When Lovett finished translating, the mobster exploded. It was his angriest reaction yet. Harvath had found his button.
“I will make sure that your wife and children know exactly how and where your body was discovered, and I’ll make sure all of your enemies know. And when word spreads, I’ll make sure that there are plenty of pictures, which will live forever, on the Internet. In fact, when people in Sicily hear the name Ragusa, I promise you that’s the only thing they’ll think of.”
Yet again, the Sicilian went ballistic. But when Harvath raised his hand to slap him, he stopped.
For a second, he wondered if they were making progress. Holding his phone back up and showing the mobster the photo of Mustapha Marzouk, he asked, “Where was he going? Where were you supposed to take him?”
Shaking his head, Ragusa smiled and repeated his same stale line in Italian, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Harvath smiled back. “Do you like being in the smuggling business, Carlo? Do you like smuggling terrorists and being responsible for helping to drown countless people?”
Lovett listened to him and then said to Harvath, “He says he’s not a smuggler. He owns a few nightclubs, but his real business is in growing lemons and tangerines.”
Harvath looked at her and replied, “Tell him we’re done talking.”
He then nodded at Barton, who stepped into the kitchen from behind and pulled a pillowcase over the Mafioso’s head. Tying it tight at the base of his skull, he tipped the man’s chair back onto its rear legs and dragged him into the bathroom.
There, he set him down with his back to the half-filled tub. When Harvath nodded, Barton tipped the chair backward, so that it rested against the edge of the tub and Ragusa’s head was suspended over the water.
Anticipating what was about to happen, the mobster began to struggle. Barton held the chair firm.
“Drowning is a terrible way to die,” said Harvath. From the doorway, Lovett translated.
Now, Harvath was really done talking and he signaled for Lovett that she could go. She shook her head. No. She intended to stay. That was fine by him.
Grabbing the plastic pitcher sitting on the side of the tub, Harvath filled it with water and without any warning, began to slowly pour it over Ragusa’s nose and mouth.
CHAPTER 61
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The mobster sputtered and coughed as he thrashed back and forth in his chair trying to escape the water. But there was no escape. Harvath kept slowly pouring. It took forty seconds, but it must have felt like a lifetime to Ragusa. When the pitcher was empty, Harvath refilled it.
He paused to let the Mafioso just begin to catch his breath and then, as soon as he began to inhale, began the process all over again.
It had been his experience that if he stopped right after the first round, subjects tried to hold out longer. But immediately going into a second round scrambled their brains. They became panicked.
So Harvath poured from the pitcher once more. Halfway through, Ragusa began to vomit.
Harvath untied the pillowcase and had Barton lean the chair forward, back onto all four legs.