The fact that ISIS had intended to smuggle the weapons out via the Port of Rome was also reinforced in the interrogation when Vottari admitted that his ISIS contact wanted the weapons delivered to a warehouse in Civitavecchia.
So thorough was the security at the Port of Rome that after an initial investigation, Vottari’s people had told him it was too dangerous. So Vottari had negotiated a different, safer location for the weapons to be delivered to.
For Harvath, everything was coming together. Via the Italian Mafia, ISIS had purchased Russian weapons, capable of delivering sarin gas. Those weapons were to be smuggled to Rome, along with an ISIS chemist.
ISIS had then lied about the final target, evidently intending to put the weapons and the chemist on a cargo container bound for the United States. According to the app on Vottari’s phone tracking the RFID tags he had hidden in the crates, the weapons were on their way. If Lovett’s assumption back in Palermo had been right, then so too was a new ISIS chemist.
The good news, though, was that the United States knew exactly where the Grimaldi Lines’ Grande Senegal was and a U.S. Navy SEAL Team had already launched from a ship in the western Mediterranean.
Sitting on the rooftop of the ROS safe house in Villa San Giovanni, Harvath and Argento watched as a video feed of the interdiction was beamed to Harvath’s laptop via his satellite phone.
A drone had been dispatched to shadow the ship and send back reconnaissance information.
Once the SEALs launched, they did so via two Sikorsky SH-60 Seahawk helicopters.
All of the SEALs were wearing miniature cameras that would provide real-time video of the assault.
Half of the team was responsible for locating the weapons, including any chemical components. The other half of the team was responsible for securing all crew and passengers. After which, they would conduct an investigation to determine if anyone aboard was an ISIS member or sympathizer.
Knowing what was at stake, the SEALs went in, not only expecting the chemist to be on the ship, but also expecting that he might be traveling with protection.
When the teams fast-roped out of the helos, Harvath’s screen split in two and he received video feeds from each team leader.
As Alpha team—armed with an RFID scanner that let them zero in on the frequencies of Vottari’s tags—headed for the containers, Bravo team headed for the bridge.
It took about twenty minutes for the bad news to start flooding in. First came a report from Alpha team. They had found the RFID tags, all thrown together in a plastic grocery bag. There were no weapons and no chemicals in the container.
Then came Bravo’s SITREP. All passengers and crew were accounted for. Unless there were stowaways that nobody knew about, they were it.
Bravo team’s leader held the passports up to his camera, so everyone watching the feeds could see them. Back at Langley, the CIA ran the names and photos through all of their databases. None of them were on any lists, nor were they affiliated with any known or suspected terrorist, terrorist supporter, or terrorist organizations.
The entire interdiction—all of that work—had been a bust. Harvath was back to square one.
But then, reflecting on the RFID tags, he abruptly realized that being back to square one was exactly where they needed to be.
CHAPTER 82
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WASHINGTON, D.C.
“If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” Nicholas said over the secure uplink, “I never would have believed it. In addition to having their own covert servers, they’ve hidden an entire SCIF right inside Cedars-Sinai.”
“How the hell is that possible?” Ryan replied.
“They won a legitimate contract to encrypt patient medical records. As part of the agreement, they have office space at the hospital. Inside that office space is a raised-floor computer room. Except the floor wasn’t raised just so cables and a cooling system could run underneath. The entire room has been shielded to TEMPEST specifications.”
TEMPEST was the code name for the NSA’s data security guidelines. It set the standard for protecting highly sensitive information from being intercepted.
“You said ‘they’ won a legitimate contract. Who are they?”
“In putting out the contract for bid, priority was given to veterans, women, and minority-owned businesses. The winning bid came from a company called Blue Pine Technologies.”
“Never heard of them,” replied Ryan.
“Me neither. I had to work my ass off to track down their bid package. Apparently, they ticked all three boxes. Blue Pine is owned by two women, both IT whizzes. One of them is of Asian descent. The other is an Army veteran.”
“And?”
“The Army veteran worked in Army Intelligence. Then she went to work for the NSA.”
It just so happened that the CIA contracted a certain amount of off-the-books surveillance to a group run by a woman who had worked both in Army Intelligence and at the NSA. Ryan didn’t believe in coincidences.
“What’s her name?” she asked.
“Susan Viscovich.”
? ? ?
Doing jobs for the branch of the CIA responsible for clandestine intelligence collection meant taking meetings at interesting times in interesting places. A lockhouse in the C&O National Historical Park on a Friday night definitely ranked toward the top of Susan Viscovich’s “most interesting” list.
Upon arrival, she saw a lone Lexus sedan parked outside. It seemed a little bit odd, but then again, what had she expected? A column of blacked-out Suburbans? That probably wasn’t how the Director of the Clandestine Service rolled—especially not when he was meeting to discuss such a sensitive surveillance case.
She figured the meeting had to do with her surveillance of Lydia Ryan and Reed Carlton. Was she going to get her ass chewed for the fact that the cameras, microphones, and vehicle trackers had been discovered? Maybe.
She had reached out to Andy Jordan to get a heads-up on what was going on, but her calls went right to voicemail. He hadn’t responded to any of her texts either. Whatever.
Sometimes surveillance assignments got blown. It happened. She had, though, delivered on the emails, and maybe that was what she was being asked in to discuss.
Nevertheless, it was weird for her to be having a Director-level meeting. Perhaps they had discovered something highly sensitive and they wanted to dot all their i’s and cross their t’s before confronting Lydia Ryan. There was only one way to find out.
Parking her Volvo next to the Lexus, she got out, walked up the short flight of steps, and knocked on the blue door.
A moment later, it opened. But instead of seeing the Director of the Clandestine Service, she saw the Director of Central Intelligence.
“Thank you for coming,” said Bob McGee.
Shocked, she looked deeper into the room and saw the Deputy Director, Lydia Ryan, sitting at a table near the fireplace.
Opening the door the rest of the way, the Director motioned for her to come inside.