It was just after ten and the club had barely come alive, but you wouldn’t have known it from the music. It was loud and thumping—as if the place was at max capacity on a Friday night.
Harvath took out his phone and texted Argento to let him know that they had made it inside. He then took a quick video of what he could see from the VIP section and sent it to Nicholas. The more he knew about the place, the better he’d be at pulling off his assignment.
A few minutes later, their waitress returned with a tray full of glasses. Right behind her was a busboy carrying an ice bucket. In it was their VIP bottle of champagne that came with their five-hundred-dollar entrance fee.
She showed the label to Harvath. It was a brand he’d never heard of before. It probably wasn’t worth more than twenty dollars. With a big smile, he thanked her and tried to make small talk over the music as she opened it.
Her English was terrible, but that was a good thing. The less she knew about him and the people with him, the better. All he wanted was for her to remember that he was a great tipper, and to hope that he came back.
As soon as she had poured champagne for everyone, he handed her a hundred-dollar bill.
“Grazie,” she replied. Thank you. Then, holding up the bottle she had emptied by filling five glasses, she asked, “More?”
Harvath smiled. “Later.”
She smiled back, and then left to take care of another group of customers.
“To pretty women,” Barton said, raising his glass.
Raising his glass, Morrison added, “Present company included.”
“I guess I’ll have to drink to that,” Lovett replied, and raised her glass as well.
Harvath and Staelin picked up theirs and everyone clinked glasses. About fifteen minutes later, the Italian team arrived.
Sticking to the plan, Harvath ignored them. Staelin, though, subtly raised his champagne glass and, from the comfort of the VIP section, tilted it in their direction.
Argento’s lieutenant, with equal subtlety, placed his hand under his chin and flicked it at the American as he walked past. Harvath tried not to smile.
? ? ?
Over the next two hours, they roamed the club getting to know its ins and outs. They ordered drinks, took photos, and continued to tip heavily.
They checked out exits, got to know other members of the security team, and developed backup plans for their backup plans. When he felt they had seen enough, Harvath called it a night.
As they left, every staff person they had come in contact with encouraged them to come back again the following night. The head of the VIP room offered to reserve the same seating area for them and the bouncers out front told them not to even worry about the line, but to come directly up to the door and see them.
A little money had gone a long way.
With the skids greased, they returned to the safe house in Villa San Giovanni.
Harvath was ready to turn in, but he still had a couple of items to check off his to-do list.
Once he had written up a brief for McGee, returned several important emails, and uploaded the rest of the photos and video for Nicholas, he was ready to call it a night.
Getting undressed, he slid into bed and turned out the light.
Normally, even when he was on operations, he fell asleep pretty fast. Tonight wasn’t one of those nights. His brain kept jumping from one topic to another. What if the entire reason the CIA had sent him to investigate Mustapha Marzouk had been a waste? What if ISIS had already found a chemist to replace him? Would Rome be their target? And if it was, what kind of attack would they need a chemist for? What if they couldn’t get Vottari to The Beach Club? What if Vottari didn’t know anything?
When Harvath started questioning whether he should have moved to Boston to be with Lara, and whether now he should move back to D.C. to run a Special Operations Group for the Old Man, he knew he was overtired.
Slowing his breathing, he picked one thing to focus his mind on. He tried to make it the view from the house he was renting overlooking the Charles River in Boston. That image slowly morphed into one he knew much better and felt much more comfortable with—the dock at his old house and its view over the Potomac.
With that image in his mind, and memories of how many times he’d sat there with a six-pack, decompressing after coming home from assignments just like this, he finally fell asleep.
CHAPTER 72
* * *
* * *
ROME
At precisely 6:55 p.m. the high-speed train from Milan pulled into Rome’s Termini station. Tursunov had stood up early and had positioned himself at the door so he could be one of the first people from his carriage to exit. He wanted to make sure he was in the best possible position to observe the chemist.
Stepping down onto the platform, he walked to the far side and removed his cigarettes. The fines for smoking in Italy were outrageous. If you lit up in the wrong place, you could be ticketed for three hundred Euros or more.
He had thought about just holding a cigarette in his mouth until he could get outside to the street and light it up, but that might attract unwanted attention from the police, so he slid the pack back into his pocket.
Pretending to check the messages on his phone, he waited for Younes to disembark. When the young man appeared, he followed him.
As instructed, the chemist had tied a white handkerchief around the handle of his bag. Slowly, he made his way to the station’s main hall.
He stopped in the McDonald’s, chose the longest line, and when he got to the front, ordered a hamburger and fries to go. Once he had his meal in hand, he headed toward the station’s side exit. Tursunov kept his eyes on him the entire time. There was no sign he was under surveillance.
Near the exit, Younes was approached by a gypsy cab driver. The young man had a goatee and wore jeans along with an AC/DC T-shirt. He offered to drive Younes anywhere he wanted to go.
The chemist turned him down by saying he expected Uber Rome to be just as good as Uber Paris.
When the driver professed to be a great tour guide with a cousin who could get him into the Colosseum for free, their coded introduction was complete. Younes handed over his bag and the pair exited the station.
The Tajik trailed behind and watched. The driver led the chemist a block down to his “taxi,” where he placed his bag in the trunk, the chemist got into the backseat, and the car drove away. There was no one behind them.
Relieved, Tursunov gave a short prayer of thanks to Allah and walked to his hotel.
He had chosen a small, unremarkable hotel not far from the station, just as he had upon arriving in Paris. It was the kind of place that saw so many guests in a year that the faces were a blur for the staff.
After checking in, he conducted his ablutions, prayed, and unpacked.
Removing a razor from his shaving kit, he slit the hem of his suit jacket and exposed the edge of the lining.