He let him get it all out of his system, and then nodded for Barton to lean him back against the tub.
Right away, the mobster began to protest. Harvath refilled the pitcher and started again from full.
Ragusa thrashed even more violently this time. Harvath decided to stretch his pour a few extra seconds. By the time he was done, the mobster had been broken.
Harvath motioned Lovett all the way into the bathroom so that she could hear what Ragusa was saying. The CIA operative tried to step around the mess. The floor was disgusting and the smell was growing unbearable.
She had Ragusa repeat what he had been mumbling and then translated for Harvath. “He says he knows the man in your picture.”
“What’s his name?” Harvath replied.
Lovett presented the question to him in Italian, and then said, “He doesn’t remember the name. Something Muslim. But he does remember the man’s face.”
“Tell him he’s going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that.”
She did, and then waited while Ragusa spoke. Finally, she replied, “He was important. A VIP.”
“VIP to whom?”
“He doesn’t know.”
Harvath looked at her. “What does he mean he doesn’t know? Who paid him?”
Lovett repeated the question to the Mafioso and waited for him to answer. As he spoke, she translated. “This wasn’t a usual job. He did it as a favor.”
“For whom?”
“He says he can’t reveal the name. If he does, it will start a war.”
Harvath rolled his eyes and, looking at Barton, said, “He obviously wants more. Tip him back over.”
“No! No! No!” the man implored. The word was the same in English as it was in Italian.
While he screamed, Harvath filled a new pitcher of water. Just as he began to pour, the man yelled out another detail.
“Roma!”
“Who the hell’s Roma?” Harvath asked, but Lovett held up her hand for him to be quiet.
After a quick back-and-forth with Ragusa, she said, “It’s not a person. It’s the city. Rome. That’s where they were taking the chemist.”
“What were they supposed to do once they got him there?”
The CIA operative asked the mobster and then replied, “Apparently, he had his own people there who would get him the rest of the way into Europe.”
“Bullshit,” said Harvath as he began pouring the water over Ragusa’s face.
Again, the man cried out, pleading with him to stop. Harvath didn’t until his pitcher was empty. Then he filled it back up.
“Per favore. No,” he begged.
“Tell him I want to know who he did the favor for. Who asked him to smuggle Mustapha to Rome?”
“Marzouk!” the Sicilian interjected, screaming the man’s name. “Mustapha Marzouk.”
If he was hoping that was going to get him off the hook, he was sorely mistaken. Lovett explained as much to him.
They went back and forth until Harvath once more lost his patience. Filling the pitcher, he told Lovett to stand back.
Ragusa began to beg.
“Give me a name.”
“No. Per favore. Basta,” he insisted.
Harvath let the water flow.
“La Formícula!” the mobster cried as he choked. “La Formícula! Per favore, basta!”
Harvath stopped and looked at Lovett, who began questioning Ragusa. Soon enough, he gave up a name.”
“Antonio Vottari,” she said. “Also known as La Formícula or the Ant.”
“Who is he?”
“Mafia from Calabria. They’re called the N’drangheta.”
Harvath knew Calabria. If Italy was a boot, it was the part that made up the toe and looked like it was kicking the island of Sicily.
He was about to ask her another question when his phone vibrated. Pulling it from his pocket, he read the message. It was a text from Staelin.
“What is it?” Lovett asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied, signaling Barton to keep an eye on Ragusa. “A whole bunch of cars just pulled up outside.”
Walking to the front of the darkened apartment, Harvath moved the curtain only a matter of millimeters so he could look out.
Down on the street, he saw a string of three black sedans, a black SUV, and a black, windowless van.
As he watched, someone opened the front passenger door of the lead vehicle and stepped out. Were these Ragusa’s people?
The man standing in the street took out a cell phone, pressed a button, and raised it to his ear.
Seconds later, Harvath heard a ring coming from the kitchen where they had left the mobster’s cell phone.
Instantly, Harvath’s mind began to turn, figuring out how they were going to get the hell out of there without getting in a gunfight.
But then he heard Lovett answer the call, in English. Turning around, he saw her holding her own cell phone.
“It’s the Carabinieri,” she stated. “They say they have men on the roof and the building is surrounded.”
CHAPTER 62
* * *
* * *
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
In the aftermath of the Paris attack, it had been all hands on deck. People had been in and out of the Central Intelligence Agency all afternoon. Director McGee hadn’t been able to reach out to Lydia Ryan until after five o’clock. He had asked his assistant to summon her back and tell her to come “ready to travel.”
When she arrived in the Director’s Conference Room, McGee was waiting for her. “Any problems?” he asked.
“None,” she replied, as she set her rolling suitcase upright and unzipped it. “I appreciate you sending your team down to meet me at the car.”
Extending her hand, she helped Nicholas climb out.
He thanked her and then turned and shook hands with the Director.
“I apologize for the subterfuge,” said McGee.
“That’s the business you’re in,” Nicholas responded. “Besides, how many people can say they were smuggled into the CIA in a piece of luggage.”
McGee smiled. “Hopefully, you’re the only one.”
“And as we agreed,” Ryan reminded him, “this isn’t a story you’re ever going to tell.”
“Agreed,” the little man conceded. “That is our arrangement.”
Getting down to business, the Director asked, “How much time do you think you’re going to need?”
“It depends on how the Malice source code is structured. I only need a piece of it, but we’ll have to test it and make sure it works.”
“Is Jake good with all of this?” Ryan asked.
McGee nodded. Jake Fleischer was a brilliant hacker and IT specialist. In the CIA’s Directorate of Digital Innovation, his expertise in cyber threats and cyber security were second to none.
Fleischer could have been running the Agency’s Center for Cyber Intelligence. He was eminently qualified. But he didn’t want the headache. Fleischer wanted to be on the cutting edge, pushing the boundaries of what the CIA could do when it came to cyber espionage.
“Jake’s on board,” said the Director.
“How much did you have to tell him?”
“I told him this was important, that he needed to trust me, and that he’d be the only person in this room with a computer.”
Nicholas looked from Ryan to McGee. “I don’t understand. How am I supposed to get what I need?”
“You’re going to work with Jake,” the Director replied. “Every string of code you need, he’s going to get it for you.”