Reaching ground level, they exited the elevator and stepped outside onto the cobbled driveway.
The Vatican gardens covered fifty-seven acres, seven and a half of which were forest. From where they stood, Harvath thought he smelled gardenias, but as it was so late in the season, it had to be something else.
He took another breath, trying to place the scent, but it was interrupted by Argento, who lit up, and then promptly exhaled a cloud of steel-gray smoke.
He was about to make a joke about his smoking in the cleanest place in all of Rome when the Italian’s cell phone rang.
Harvath listened as an animated conversation took place. When it was finished and Argento had disconnected the call, he turned to Harvath and said, “The ISIS man. The one who bought the mortars from La Formícula? We have his picture.”
“From where?”
The Italian smiled. “Your man Vella has been hard at work. He had Vottari tell him everything, every single step from the beginning. Apparently, La Formícula set up a meeting. There is a bar in a rough neighborhood of Reggio Calabria. He told the ISIS man to go there and wait to be picked up. When he was there, he had to do something specific with a newspaper and order a Negroni so that they knew it was him. Once he did that, the bar owners reached out to Vottari.”
“And there was a camera inside the bar?”
Argento nodded. “Outside too. Like I said, it is in a rough neighborhood.”
“Has Vottari confirmed the picture?”
“Yes. Vella just showed it to him.”
This was a huge break. “Send it to me,” said Harvath as he reached for his phone and dialed Vella to confirm.
“He says it’s him,” the doctor stated from the ROS safe house.
“But he doesn’t have any identifying information we can use to track him down?”
“All of their conversations were through an encrypted chat room.”
“Okay,” Harvath relented. “Keep working on him.”
Turning back to Argento, he asked, “Did you send the still frame?”
The Italian nodded and moments later, he had it. Right away, he sent the photo along to Nicholas. Within a few seconds, the phone rang.
“This is the guy?” the little man asked.
“According to La Formícula, yes.”
“Okay, I’m on it. No idea how long this will take.”
“See if you can place him in Rome. If he’s the guy who arranged the weapons, he may be connected to those six brand-new cell phones we’re tracking.”
“Roger that. Keep your ringer on,” Nicholas replied.
And before Harvath could tell him where he was, and that he couldn’t get a signal underground, the little man had hung up.
Crushing out his cigarette, Argento asked, “Back downstairs?”
“I have to wait for a call,” Harvath replied, holding up his phone.
The Italian looked at him. “The Pope has Wi-Fi, you know.”
“It’s not the Pope I’m concerned about.”
“Understood,” said Argento. “It’s too beautiful a day to spend in a dungeon. We should be outside. I’m going to get an espresso. What can I bring you?”
“Espresso sounds good,” he responded, handing over his keycard so he could access the elevator.
As the Italian went back inside, Harvath leaned against the side of the building and turned his face up toward the sun.
It felt warm against his skin and it was good to close his eyes. He had only been able to snatch small slices of sleep here and there.
A lot of his body was still sore from Libya. That sore part wanted him to reach down and fish the bottle of Motrin out of his pack so he didn’t forget to take some. The rest of his body didn’t want him to move. It not only felt good just the way he was, but ever since Argento had put out his cigarette, it also smelled good. When was he ever going to get another chance to close his eyes and just relax in the Vatican gardens?
He stood there like that for several moments until a sound broke his reverie. It was off in the distance, but coming closer.
He opened his eyes and focused. He could distinctly make out a car, traveling at a high rate of speed.
Moments later, he could see it—a black, unmarked Fiat sedan, speeding up the driveway toward him. He didn’t know what to make of it until Argento burst back outside, slinging his pack over his shoulder.
As the car came skidding to a halt atop the cobblestones, he could see a young Carabinieri officer inside behind the wheel.
“One of the phones just went active,” Argento shouted. “We’ve got a fix on its location.”
“Where is Lovett?” Harvath asked as the Italian opened the passenger door and hopped in.
“Downstairs,” he replied. “She can’t go tactical here. Now that she’s brought the Ambassador up to speed, he wants her to stay put.”
All Harvath could do was shake his head. He hated bureaucracy. Opening the rear door, he tossed his pack on the seat and jumped in.
Before he had even closed the door, the driver activated his lights and klaxon and took off.
CHAPTER 88
* * *
* * *
The terrorist’s cell phone had been traced to a rooftop apartment overlooking the Campo de’ Fiori, just south of the Piazza Navona. From the apartment’s outdoor terrace, a mortar would have a straight line of travel over the Tiber River and into St. Peter’s Square.
The Carabinieri officer turned off his lights and klaxon two blocks away from the building. Half a block from the entrance, he pulled over and stopped so Argento and Harvath could get out.
A tactical team was en route, but it would be another five minutes before they arrived. “Come watch the door,” Argento told the young officer in Italian. “Don’t let anyone in or out. Understand?”
The young man nodded and as he did, Harvath and Argento took off down the street.
Stepping inside the vestibule of the centuries-old apartment building, the ROS operator rang for the concierge. She appeared seconds later, a tough-looking woman in her seventies. Argento showed her his credentials and spoke with her in rapid-fire Italian. When they finished, the woman disappeared back inside.
Argento explained to Harvath what was going on. “She says the rooftop apartment is owned by a couple from Florence. She doesn’t see them much. They rent the place out online to tourists.”
“Who’s in it now?”
“Two men.”
“What do they look like?” asked Harvath.
“According to the concierge, Arabs. More than that, she doesn’t know. They’ve been here for a week and have kept to themselves.”
“Where’d she go?”
Argento was about to reply when the concierge returned and handed him a key. Holding open the main door, she stood back and allowed the men to step inside.
A wide staircase wound its way all the way up to the fifth floor. In the center was an ancient, cage-style elevator. Neither man needed to discuss which they were going to take. They both headed for the stairs.
Halfway up, they stopped and removed their weapons from their bags, then they climbed the rest of the way. Just shy of the final landing, they stopped to catch their breath.