The pilots raced up the Sicilian coastline, past the dramatic edifice of Mount Etna—the tallest active volcano in Europe—and crossed over the Strait of Messina to Calabria at the toe of Italy.
It was little moments like these that Harvath tried to savor. He hadn’t gotten much sleep and probably should have had his eyes closed like Barton, but it wasn’t every day you got a ride like this.
He could only imagine what it would have cost to privately hire a helicopter for this kind of tour. For the first time in a while, he thought of Lara. She would have loved it. He also thought about Reed Carlton. He would have loved it too.
In fact, the flight reminded Harvath of a story he used to tell. It was about Sicily and the CIA’s precursor, the OSS, and drew a stark contrast between the two.
The story centered on Max Corvo, an Italian immigrant to the United States who joined the Army in 1942. Corvo had excellent ideas on how to defeat the Axis Powers in Italy, but it looked as if he was going to end up being a Quartermaster and not see any action. Instead of being quiet, Corvo wrote up his plan for intelligence gathering and covert operations in Italy.
The young private quickly came to the attention of the OSS, who gave him a command position in its Italian section. He was dispatched to North Africa to prepare for the invasion of Sicily. But when Corvo arrived, he found next to no resources. Undeterred, he begged, borrowed, or stole whatever he could get his hands on that would make the invasion a success.
Within a month of arriving in North Africa, he had recruited his own boat squadron and had planned, trained, staffed, equipped, and executed the first covert OSS operation to the highly dangerous, Gestapo-infested island of Sardinia.
There, the OSS linked up with partisan and pro-Allied forces and began to lay the groundwork for an organized resistance that would be critical in the taking of Italy.
What the Old Man loved about the story was not only the risk-taking, but the win-at-all-cost mentality. The OSS fostered creativity and bravery. To them, no mission was impossible. The organization stood behind you, it didn’t get in your way. What they cared about most were results.
They had one mantra, and it came straight from the founder of the OSS, Wild Bill Donovan. If you fall, fall forward.
If the CIA bureaucracy were to have a mantra today, it could very well be, Don’t fall. Or better yet, Don’t do anything that might result in a fall.
That wasn’t the Old Man’s style. And it certainly wasn’t Harvath’s. For both of them, success was the only option.
As a SEAL, Harvath had had it drilled into him that the only easy day was yesterday. He had been trained to expect things to get worse and when they did, to persevere. No matter what happened, you were never out of the fight. No matter what happened, you never quit. You always found a way to successfully complete the mission.
It was a philosophy that called for quick and sometimes unorthodox thinking. It required dedication and a willingness to do whatever it took.
In air-conditioned offices across Washington, it was a mindset and steadfast determination most politicians and bureaucrats couldn’t understand. It was one of the biggest reasons the country was in the position it was.
Fortunately, there were just enough people in D.C. who did understand. The question, though, was whether there was enough time to still pull things together.
As the helicopter banked and headed north, the pilot radioed that they were five minutes out from Vottari’s.
Argento told his lieutenant and Morrison to get their cameras ready. They were going to want to take as many pictures as they could during the flyby. He wasn’t feeling very comfortable about the possibility of a second pass. The clouds were going to require them to fly lower than he would have liked.
Harvath watched as the landscape sped by beneath the helicopter. Vottari lived outside a small rural town in the foothills of the Aspromonte mountain range called Oppido Mamertina.
According to Lovett, the older members of N’drangheta tried to stay under the radar. They didn’t flash their massive wealth. They tried to blend in. The newer generation, Mafiosi like Vottari, were the opposite. They drove flashy cars, wore expensive clothes, and lived in big houses.
The older members blamed the change on television and social media. Everybody wanted to be a celebrity. Everyone wanted to flaunt what he had. They swore it would be the younger generation’s undoing. They warned them to tone it down, but very few listened.
The one area in which the younger generation respected tradition was in where they lived. They didn’t run off and move to big cities. They stayed local, often residing in the same towns or villages where they had grown up. The result was that the flashy ones stood out like sore thumbs.
As they neared Vottari’s house, Harvath didn’t need to be shown which one it was. He could spot it from the air. It was enormous.
Forrest surrounded it on three sides. There was a long, straight drive that came up the front. On either side of the drive were cultivated fields with rows and rows of olive trees. There were a multitude of outbuildings.
Argento’s lieutenant and Morrison snapped photo after photo as they flew by. People on the property stopped what they were doing and looked up.
Harvath had seen all that he needed to see. There was no reason to make a second pass.
What mattered now was coming up with a plan—something Argento and his team would go along with. But that would be a lot easier said than done.
Harvath had a bad feeling that the Carabinieri weren’t going to like any of the ideas he was considering.
CHAPTER 68
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The helicopter dropped them off on the private aviation side of the airport at Reggio Calabria. Two unmarked SUVs were waiting for them.
The ROS safe house was about twenty minutes up the coast in a town called Villa San Giovanni. It marked the closest point between mainland Italy and Sicily and was the main embarkation point for the ferries that went back and forth to the island.
With so much oceanfront, Harvath had hoped the safe house would be near the water. It wasn’t.
The safe house was in a residential neighborhood, several blocks up from the docks and the main train station.
It was built on a hill and its rooftop deck provided a view of the town and the ocean. The outer courtyard was walled, could fit four vehicles, and had a heavy, reinforced gate to deter any would-be thieves.
There were citronella candles everywhere and netting over the beds. Apparently, mosquitoes were a problem.
Unloading the gear from the vehicles, Argento showed everyone to their rooms. The rest of his team was already there and had opened the doors and windows to get air moving through.
Harvath dropped his gear on his bed and then walked back to the living room. Argento was uploading the pictures from both cameras onto his laptop.
“Hungry?” he asked, as Harvath walked in.