The Tajik awoke and raised his window shade as the train was passing through the coastal village of Cassis. It was just as the British author had described—cascading with red bougainvillea.
After saying his prayers and doing a light round of exercises, he dressed and made a small meal of what remained of his palatable food. Then, he spent the next two hours watching the turquoise water and pastel-colored buildings of France’s decadent Riviera pass by his window.
At 8:37 a.m. the train came to a stop at the Gare de Nice-Ville. As Tursunov stepped off the train, he listened for the good-bye from the conductor. He remembered from reading the book in Lahore that it would be different here.
And indeed it was.
Instead of wishing departing passengers the typical Parisian “bonne journée,” have a good day, he wished them a beautiful “belle journée.”
The Tajik tipped his head politely as he passed the conductor and headed out in search of coffee and breakfast. He had exactly an hour and a half until his next train and he needed to make the most of it.
As he pulled his suitcase behind him, he noticed a heavy security presence here as well. Nice was no stranger to being attacked. After what had happened in Paris, he was not surprised to see the increase in vigilance.
Near the station, he found a small café. It was a warm, sunny morning and he sat on the terrace outside where he could have a cigarette while he waited for his food.
Removing one of the “burner” cell phones he had purchased for the operation, he powered it up and waited for it to get a signal.
Once it had, the message tone chimed. Tursunov checked his texts. There was just one.
Opening it, he saw a poor camera phone photo of a strip of grass. It was a code. The chemist had made it to the Nice train station. The Tajik powered off the phone.
Taking a drag on his cigarette, he watched the people as they passed. The mood in the South of France was better than it had been in Paris, but not much.
That was to be expected, he supposed. While the inhabitants along the Riviera despised the Parisians, they still shared a national identity as Frenchmen. As far as Tursunov was concerned, they could all go to hell.
After finishing his breakfast, he took his time smoking another cigarette. That was one of the few things he liked about the French. Even if you consumed only one coffee, the price entitled you to sit at the table all day if you chose.
When the allotted time had come, he paid his bill and rolled his suitcase back to the station.
The chemist had not been told that they would both be on the same train. The Tajik didn’t want him to know. He wanted to watch him from afar. He wanted to make sure he didn’t have any surveillance following him.
When he entered the station, it was even more crowded than it had been before. Seeing the lines at the ticket windows, he was glad he had purchased everything in advance in Paris. That was one of the other things he liked about the French. There was at least some semblance of organization in their rail system.
Because he had purchased the tickets himself and had delivered one set to Abdel, to be given to his nephew, he knew which train car the chemist would be in and exactly where he would be sitting.
Finding the platform for the train to Milan, he lingered where he knew the young man would board.
Ten minutes before departure, Younes El Fassi—the nephew of Abdel and son of Aziz the lion—arrived.
Tursunov watched and waited.
The only person to enter the car besides Younes was a woman with two children.
When the conductor gave the final call, the Tajik climbed aboard.
Stowing his suitcase, he made his way toward his seat. He was two rows back and on the other side of the aisle from Younes. He could see the young chemist, but the young chemist couldn’t see him.
As the train pulled out, he made himself comfortable and settled in for the almost five-hour ride to Milan.
? ? ?
The trip was uneventful, though plenty of people had been stealing furtive glances at Younes. It was the curse of being a young Arab male in the wake of an Islamic terror attack. Tursunov was confident that ISIS would have already claimed credit for what had happened in Paris.
During the hour between trains in Milan, he kept a distant eye on the young chemist. Once again, he didn’t detect any surveillance.
He wasn’t surprised. Not only did the French authorities not have the resources to follow him all the way to Nice and then on to the border with Italy, the Italians had no actionable reason to take interest in him.
Boarding the new train, they found their seats. The Tajik hadn’t seen anyone that gave him any cause for concern. Nevertheless, he continued to scan for any hint of trouble.
At precisely four o’clock, the high-speed Alta Velocità train exited the central Milan station. The trip to Rome’s Termini station would take just under three hours. Then, provided Antonio Vottari had delivered his merchandise, the final step of the operation would begin.
Allah willing, it would be the biggest attack the world had ever seen.
CHAPTER 67
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CALABRIA
An Augusta AW109 transported Harvath and his team from Palermo back to Sigonella Air Base.
They stayed only long enough to pick up their gear and for Harvath to stop in the hospital to wish Haney and Gage a safe trip back to the United States. As soon as that was done, they climbed back on board and took off.
Argento and one of his lieutenants were with them. The rest of his men had been divided. Half had stayed at the safe house to watch over Ragusa, Naya, and the two bodyguards. The other half had flown on ahead to a different safe house in Calabria.
“We can make one, maybe two passes of La Formícula’s house, depending on our altitude,” Argento said over his headset. “Anything more than that and he’s going to know something is wrong.”
Harvath flashed him the thumbs-up. “If we can get it in one, let’s do it that way.”
The Italian nodded and said something to his lieutenant, who was seated next to the window with a large digital SLR camera. On the opposite side, Morrison also had a camera. Lovett sat next to Harvath with a map, Barton had his eyes closed, and Staelin was reading a new book.
Harvath looked at the title—The Obstacle Is the Way by an author named Holiday. Tapping it, he asked, “What’s this one about?”
“It’s about two hundred pages,” the Delta Force operative replied.
Harvath just shook his head.
Staelin looked up and smiled. “Stoicism,” he explained. “Turning obstacles into opportunities.”
“Any good?”
“I don’t know. My biggest obstacle right now is that my boss keeps asking me questions and won’t let me read it.”
Argento translated for his lieutenant and they both laughed.
Harvath shook his head once more and turned to look out the window.