Folding the jacket over his arm, he left the hotel and headed for the tram. His destination was a suburb on the eastern side of the city called Tor Pignattara.
Tor Pignattara was Rome’s version of Aubervilliers—a predominantly Muslim enclave that had been left to atrophy. Throughout it and the surrounding neighborhoods, Italian authorities, citing building codes and safety concerns, had been shutting down Islamic cultural centers that had turned into mosques.
With no local places to congregate and pray, the faithful had taken to commandeering garages and empty storefronts. Shutting such places down over “safety” concerns had created a lot of ill will with local residents. Violence had broken out more than once and threatened to again.
And while Tursunov didn’t like to see his Muslim brothers and sisters denied places to worship, heightened tensions served his ends. Tor Pignattara had quietly become known among police as a “no-go” area. In other words, if they showed up, they had better bring backup. The place was a powder keg and cops were doing whatever they could to avoid the area.
With this kind of hands-off mentality, ISIS was able to recruit, plan, train, and operate with little fear of discovery.
There were the occasional arrests, usually of idiots communicating with and supporting ISIS elements abroad. The local members were much more careful. Anyone who looked like he could end up being a problem was turned away on the spot. They had too much at stake to allow people in who could bring everything crashing down.
Exiting the tram, Tursunov walked for several blocks. It was a warm, sticky night.
Cars and motorbikes whizzed by. Women wearing the hijab passed, pushing strollers, their husbands or other male family members nearby. Men sat at small tables outside stores playing cards or dominoes. There were more signs in Arabic than in Italian. He felt as if he could have been in Amman, or Cairo, or Najaf.
Up ahead, he finally saw his destination. It was a small tailor’s shop. The lights were still on, but the sign on the door read Chiuso, closed. Underneath was the same word in Arabic. A balding, middle-aged man sat at a table repairing a pair of trousers with a needle and thread.
Tursunov approached the glass door and knocked. When the man at the table looked up, the Tajik held out his jacket so he could see the damage.
Setting down his needle and thread, the man stood and came to unlock the door.
Opening it a crack, he said, “I’m closed.”
“Indeed,” the Tajik replied, quoting the Qur’an, “Allah, peace be upon Him, is with those who are of service to others.”
“As He is with those who are righteous and those who do good.”
Tursunov smiled. “The reward of goodness is nothing but goodness.”
The tailor smiled and opened the door for his guest to enter. “As-sala-mu ‘alaykum,” he offered. Peace be upon you.
“Wa ‘alaykum al-salaam,” the Tajik responded.
The tailor’s name was Hamad Sarsur. He was Syrian by birth, but had fled his nation more than twenty-five years ago. When ISIS had raised the call to jihad, he had answered, but he had done so while remaining in Rome.
Sarsur was an extremely gifted tailor. He had worked for multiple fashion houses in Milan and several high-end boutiques in Rome. All the while, he had never given up his shop in Tor Pignattara.
He was far more wealthy than appearances would suggest. And wealthy Muslims tended to know other wealthy Muslims. There was no one better at raising money in Italy than Sarsur.
But more important, he was a deeply pious Muslim. His knowledge of the Qur’an and the Hadith was without equal. He could have been one of the most revered Imams in all of Europe, but that was not the purpose Allah had chosen for him. Allah had selected Sarsur to help coordinate the efforts of ISIS in Italy and ultimately to strike right at the heart of the infidel.
Closing the door behind his guest, he said, “I am honored to have you in my shop, brother.”
“The honor is mine,” Tursunov replied. “Where may we speak?”
The tailor locked the front door and then led the Tajik into a back room that functioned as his office. On a hotplate was a kettle. “Tea?” he asked.
“Do you have coffee?”
Sarsur nodded, removed a jar of instant coffee from a cabinet, and selected a cup. Spooning in the granules, he drowned them with hot water and then stirred.
Handing the cup to his guest, he apologized, “I’m sorry, it’s all I have.”
“That’s quite all right,” the Tajik replied, taking the cup. He hated instant coffee.
Sarsur made himself a tea and then the two men took chairs at his desk.
“Everything is in place,” said the tailor.
Tursunov took a sip of the coffee and immediately set it down. “The weapons were delivered?”
Sarsur nodded.
“Any problems with changing the location?”
The man shook his head.
“Did your men examine the crates as I instructed?”
The tailor nodded again, and, this time, he smiled.
Reaching into his desk, he retrieved his phone, opened the photo app, and showed the Tajik what his people had found.
“What did they do with those once they found them?” the Tajik asked.
Sarsur took a sip of his tea and responded, “We sent them out to sea.”
Tursunov was pleased with his colleague’s answer. “Well done,” he replied. “Is everything else ready?”
“The chemist has arrived, the weapons are in place, and now, like the Italians say, the meal will cook itself.”
He smiled in reply. “Where I am from, we also have a saying. The cook who doesn’t watch his stove loses his house.”
Sarsur looked confused. “I don’t understand.”
“We are going to go over all of it,” he said. “All night if we have to. I want to cover every single step, every single millimeter. Until I am convinced that everything is absolutely perfect, we will do nothing else. Is that clear?”
The tailor nodded.
“Good,” said Tursunov, as he picked up his cup and poured the contents into the pail next to the desk. “You can start by finding me some decent coffee.”
CHAPTER 73
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CALABRIA
FRIDAY
Despite being told to get a “good night’s sleep,” almost everyone was up early at the safe house in Villa San Giovanni.
Barton and Morrison joined several of Argento’s men for a run. Lovett left to pick up some things she needed in town. Staelin was up on the roof drinking coffee and reading his book. Harvath was the last person to stumble into the kitchen.
“Buon giorno,” said Argento. He was standing at a press, wearing only a pair of workout shorts, juicing oranges. “Ready for breakfast? Let Roberto know how you like your eggs.”
Standing at the stove, similarly dressed, was Roberto. Stopping what he was doing, he turned to look at Harvath.
Harvath, who was wearing a pair of Under Armour boxer briefs and a Parliament-Funkadelic T-shirt, replied, “Scrambled.”
“Strapazzate,” Argento translated, as he continued to squeeze oranges.
“Is there any coffee?”