Like the Cosa Nostra of Sicily and the Camorra of Campania, the N’drangheta of Calabria were ruthless.
So thoroughly capable was the Mafia of getting to anyone who stood in its way that Carabinieri were required to work outside their home region for eight years before they could be trusted to apply for a transfer to come back.
It was said that 70 percent of the Carabinieri came from the four Italian regions most plagued by organized crime. Faced with a choice between good and evil, they chose good. They chose to side with law and justice. They were noble men and women engaged in a tough, dangerous fight.
And nobody knew that better than Paolo Argento.
“Okay,” he said, opening a folder on his laptop and bringing up a photo. “Let’s talk about Antonio Vottari.”
Harvath and Lovett moved closer to each other so they could see.
“Antonio is the nephew of Franco Vottari. The Vottaris are one of the most powerful families in the Calabrian Mafia. The N’drangheta is considered one of the richest and most powerful organized crime groups in the world.
“They are known for their extreme violence. Of all its families, the Vottaris are considered one of the most brutal. Antonio, like his uncle Franco, is known for his savagery.
“He’s small. That’s how he received his nickname.”
“La Formícula,” said Harvath. “The Ant.”
“Exactly,” replied Argento as he clicked through pictures of Antonio, as well as bloody crime scene photos. “But make no mistake, he’s extremely dangerous. Deadly even.
“The N’drangheta have their hands in everything — they traffic in drugs, weapons, prostitution, fraud, extortion, political corruption, contract killing, even black market artifacts looted out of North Africa and the Middle East. If there’s money to be made in something illegal, you’ll find them there.”
Harvath was trying to connect all the dots. “So ISIS pays Umar Ali Halim to smuggle Marzouk from Libya to Italy. Members of the Black Axe, under Ragusa’s control, are sent out to meet him near the island of Lampedusa and bring him to shore. Once Marzouk’s feet are dry, Ragusa is supposed to smuggle him to Rome, where he has people who will get him to his final destination. All of which, Ragusa is doing as a favor for Antonio Vottari. Why?”
“Good question,” Argento answered. “The different Mafia networks have been known to work together, but there’s always something in it for them. Ragusa wasn’t helping La Formícula out of the kindness of his heart. There had to be some sort of transaction.”
“And what’s the Vottari — ISIS connection?” Lovett asked.
“Also a good question and probably even easier to answer. Obviously, ISIS didn’t have a smuggling relationship in Italy. They did, apparently, have a relationship with Vottari and asked him to arrange a smuggler to get Marzouk into Italy and up to Rome.
“Was this a relationship based on looted artifacts? Drugs? Weapons? All of those are possible. ISIS has been making strong inroads with different Mafia groups in southern Italy.”
“If you had to guess,” asked Harvath, “which would you pick?”
Argento shrugged. “Drugs or stolen artifacts make the most sense. That’s all ISIS really has to offer, unless they’re buying weapons.”
“Which could be paid for with artifacts, drugs, or cash.”
“Correct.”
“They could have also been buying explosives. The attacks in Spain and Paris might end up leading right back to Vottari.”
“Or they could have come from another source entirely,” the Italian responded. “In this case, Vottari may be nothing more than a middleman. ISIS needed a smuggler and he made the introduction to Ragusa.”
Harvath was growing frustrated. There had to be something. Something he was missing. “What if Vottari was lying to Ragusa?” he asked.
“About what?”
“About Mustapha Marzouk having his own people in Rome — people who would get him to his final destination,” said Harvath.
“Why would he lie about that?”
“I can think of two reasons. The one that makes the most sense is for operational security purposes. The less Ragusa knew about Marzouk’s final destination the better.”
Argento nodded. “Agreed. What’s the second reason?”
Harvath was a lot less sure of number two, but he shared it anyway. “What if Rome was Marzouk’s final destination? What if that’s where the attack was supposed to take place?”
Lovett felt a chill run down her spine as a terrible thought took hold of her mind. “Oh my God,” she uttered.
Both men turned to look at her.
“What is it?” asked Harvath.
“What if the attack is still on? What if ISIS has already found a replacement chemist?”
Before anyone could say another word, Argento pulled out his phone and dialed a highly classified number.
CHAPTER 65
The best time to make a getaway was in the midst of chaos — when authorities didn’t know who, or what, they were looking for.
In the wake of the Tuileries bombings, Paris was in a panic. Emergency vehicles fought to get to and from the scene. The streets were in gridlock.
People were terrified about a second round of attacks. No one felt safe.
Joining the wave of guests fleeing the city, Tursunov dropped his room key at the front desk of Le Meurice and exited the hotel.
Out on the street, he had no need to pause. He had taken in the full spectacle from the balcony of his room. Whatever had caused the first bomber to detonate early was not worth worrying about. As far as he was concerned, the attack had been a success.
Cutting across the Pont de la Concorde, he walked to the Boulevard Saint-Germain and took a left.
Emergency vehicles continued to speed past, their klaxons blaring and lights flashing. Pulling his rolling suitcase behind him, he was careful to take detours in order to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Though this was extremely unlikely, it was good tradecraft.
At the Pont de Sully, in the shadow of the Arab World Institute building, he turned onto the Quai Saint Bernard. The walk from Le Meurice to the Gare d’Austerlitz took a little over a half hour.
The station took its name from a town in the Czech Republic where Napoleon had defeated a far superior force. There might have been some irony for him there if Paris wasn’t full of such monuments.
Checking his watch, he saw he had time to stop nearby for a coffee. The train wasn’t leaving until 9:22. The less time he spent inside the station, the better. It would only be filled with nervous police and anxious soldiers, suspicious of everything and everyone.
He kept walking until he found a café with an open terrace where he could also enjoy a cigarette. Taking a seat, he pulled out his Gauloises and called the waiter over.
He ordered un serré, lit his cigarette, then watched the faces of the people who passed by.
Their expressions were the same as he had seen up and down the Boulevard Saint-Germain — shock, sadness, terror. It was all Tursunov could do not to smile.
The French, always so quick to participate in bombing runs of Muslim lands, had been served a stern rebuke.
From his table, he could also see the TVs on inside. It reminded him of how he sat, just days ago, in the tiny café in Reggio di Calabria, watching the aftermath of the bombing in America.
All of the televisions were broadcasting video from the Tuileries. The dead and injured were there in full, high-definition glory for the world to see. The attack had been more than successful; it had been spectacular.
The message from ISIS had been delivered, loud and clear: You may advance upon us in Iraq, Libya, or Syria, but you will never, ever defeat us.