“As you wish. Do you have everything?”
“We have enough.”
Tursunov looked at him. “Excuse me?”
The Italian jerked his head toward the outbuilding. “Come. This way.”
Tursunov didn’t know what he meant by having enough, but he fell into step alongside him anyway. Two bodyguards took up the rear, while the rest stayed with the vehicles.
The path was overgrown with weeds. As they walked, Tursunov looked up into the sky again. This is Italy, he reminded himself. There are no drone strikes here.
But if there were, a voice in his head countered, waiting until everyone was inside the building would be the perfect moment.
Tursunov felt a twinge of paranoia building at the edge of his mind and shut it down. He needed to remain in control.
At the door to the outbuilding, Vottari motioned at his cigarette. “No smoking inside.”
The Italian was being overly cautious. Nevertheless, Tursunov complied. Taking a final drag, he dropped the cigarette to the ground, and crushed it out with his heel.
Exhaling the smoke from his lungs, he stole one more glance skyward, and then followed the man inside.
The walls were built of concrete block and the building appeared to have been used to house livestock.
“Don’t worry,” Vottari said, suddenly reading his mind. “Sheep. No pigs.”
In Islam, contact with pigs was forbidden, as was contact with alcohol. It was obvious the Italian knew it. Vottari was fucking with him. It was why he’d sent him to a bar and told him to order a Negroni. And it was also why Tursunov was positive that they were at a pig farm.
He’d have to rethink the little Mafioso’s death. He’d have to come up with something much more painful and drawn out.
“Come. Come,” Vottari said, waving him forward. Three wooden crates, all painted olive green, were displayed on a long table. Their tops had been pried off and some of the packing straw removed.
Tursunov studied the markings on the first crate before removing its contents and assembling the pieces.
“Not your first time,” the Italian remarked.
Before joining ISIS, Tursunov had served in both the Tajik military and an elite police unit—facts that were none of Vottari’s business. So he ignored him.
Moving to the second and third crates, he examined their markings and assembled the contents.
“Where are the rest of them?”
The Italian grinned, “You don’t trust me?”
Tursunov looked at the clumps of what he was certain was dried pig shit covering the floor, and smiled back. “Where are the rest of them?” he repeated.
“You’ll get them when I get my money. Half now, half on delivery.”
Tursunov shook his head. “We agreed that I would be allowed to inspect all the merchandise. Before delivery.”
Vottari snapped his fingers and one of his men handed Tursunov a tablet.
“What’s this?”
“Pictures of the rest of your merchandise.”
Tursunov angrily swiped through them.
“You can clearly see all the markings and serial numbers,” the Italian stated.
“This is not what we agreed to.”
“It is within the spirit of our agreement.”
Tursunov thought for a moment and stated, “Thirty percent.”
“My friend, this isn’t a negotiation.”
“This isn’t a business relationship either,” he replied, handing the tablet back. “We’ll take our money elsewhere. Good luck selling those.”
“Pazzo,” he chuckled to his men. Crazy. But Vottari liked crazy. You had to have balls to be this crazy.
He let Tursunov walk all the way back to the farmhouse before sending one of his men to return him to the outbuilding.
When Tursunov came back in, Vottari said, “The merchandise you requested was very difficult to get. Only a fool would bring all of it together in one place. If something were to happen to it before I received my money, that would be very bad.”
Tursunov didn’t respond. The Italian hadn’t asked a question. He had made a statement. People weakened their hands by feeling they had to fill uncomfortable silences.
“Forty percent,” the Italian offered. “And you allow me to change the delivery location.”
“Change it? Why? Where to?”
“Someplace safer. Not far from where we agreed.”
Safer? Tursunov didn’t like it. Vottari was changing all the parameters of the deal. “Twenty-five percent.”
“Molto pazzo!” the Italian exclaimed, smiling. “Thirty percent and I’ll throw in two cases of these. No charge.”
He nodded to one of his men, who retrieved a smaller crate from the back of the Range Rover and brought it over for inspection.
Tursunov lifted the lid. Fragmentation grenades. His plan didn’t call for them, but better to have something and not need it than need it and not have it. “Deal.”
Vottari shook hands with Tursunov, but didn’t let go. “Remember,” he cautioned, “all of the merchandise leaves Italy. Take it to France. Take it to Germany. Take it to the moon. I don’t care. But if I find out you didn’t, you and your people are dead. All of you.”
Tursunov smiled right back and replied, “The last thing I and my people want is any trouble, especially with you and your people.”
CHAPTER 7
* * *
* * *
SATURDAY
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The small lockkeeper’s house, only a short drive from D.C., sat along the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. It was a squat, two-story structure, built of local stone painted white.
Its shutters and door were painted robin’s-egg blue—the genesis of its nickname.
Unlike other lockhouses in the C&O National Historic Park, which could be rented for overnight stays, the “blue lockhouse” was closed to the public. And for good reason. It was owned and maintained by the Central Intelligence Agency.
One of the Agency’s numerous safe houses, it had been used extensively during the Cold War for debriefing high-value Soviet defectors. Today, it was being used for a very important, very quiet meeting.
When Harvath rolled up, he saw three heavily armored black Suburbans parked in front. Even in casual clothes, the detail agents posted outside gave off a serious don’t-fuck-with-us vibe. Intensity was an important prerequisite for the job.
Even more important were experience and ability. Terrorists the world over would have loved nothing more than to get their hands on the two people inside.
Parking his Tahoe in the grass, Harvath shook hands with the lead agent—a man named Haggerty—and chatted with him for a few seconds.
Haggerty had gone to Notre Dame, which Harvath, as a University of Southern California grad, always explained wasn’t the man’s fault. It was obvious that his parents hadn’t cared much for him.
It was good-natured ribbing born from a storied college rivalry. Haggerty was confident about the football team Notre Dame was fielding this year. So confident, in fact, that he wanted to place a wager on the game against USC.
After reminding him of the Code of Federal Regulations banning gambling in the federal workplace, Harvath smiled and agreed to a hundred dollars.