Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [15]
“As long as you’re okay with casual Monday,” replied Harvath, referring to his shorts-and-no-shirt look.
The older man nodded and followed him inside. After pulling a shirt from the hall closet and putting it on, Harvath directed his new boss to the kitchen.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Please,” said Reed as he sat down at the kitchen table and placed his briefcase next to him. “I understand Iraq was a success.”
“Not for the little boy who died.”
“I was sorry to hear about that.”
Harvath didn’t reply. He kept his back to the man, pulled two large mugs out of the cupboard, and set them on the counter.
“I haven’t read your full debrief yet,” continued Carlton. “Did you go through with the whole thing?”
There was silence, and the Old Man waited. Finally, Harvath said, “All of it.”
While Carlton was a master at psychological operations, this assignment had been Harvath’s from start to finish. He had dubbed it Paradise Lost. The idea was to shake any other al-Qaeda cells who might be considering the kidnapping and torture of children. Upon each terrorist body at the safe house was left a black envelope. Inside the envelope was a detailed account, in Arabic, of horrible things supposedly done to the men before they had been killed. Placed into the mouth of each terrorist had been a pickled pig’s foot from a jar that Harvath had brought with him from the U.S.
The idea of the notes in the black envelopes was to send a message to all of the other terrorists preying on children in Iraq. They would not die martyrs’ deaths. They would not go to Paradise. They would be defiled before their god. They would be unclean and unworthy. And to make sure the point was driven home, the pickled pigs’ feet were placed into the mouth of each of the corpses.
It was a derivative of the Colombian necktie, and Harvath was confident word of it would spread quickly, its meaning clear.
Carlton changed the subject. “You heard about Rome?”
Harvath filled the coffee cups and brought them to the table where he sat down. “I did. Twenty American college students.”
“Plus their teacher, the bus driver, and eleven others who had the misfortune of being near that bus when it detonated at the Colosseum. Current count has over forty wounded.”
He shook his head. “Do we have any leads?”
Reaching into his briefcase Carlton withdrew a folder. “The Italians are investigating a rumor about four Muslim men trying to purchase military-grade explosives in Sicily. The same kind used in the attack in Rome.”
Sicily could mean only one thing. “They think the Mafia’s involved?”
“That’s what they thought at first. And considering the fact that the Cosa Nostra did over two billion dollars in illicit-weapons trafficking last year, it makes sense to start with them.”
“So there’s a connection?”
Carlton shook his head. “From what they’ve uncovered, the Mafia was happy to sell the suspects guns, but they drew the line at explosives, fearing correctly that they might be used on Italian soil.”
“Then where did the terrorists get the explosives?”
“According to the Italians, the explosives came in through another channel. A man mentioned in chatter before and after the attack—Moscerino.”
“Who is Moscerino?” asked Harvath.
“It’s not a who exactly, it’s a what,” replied Carlton, as he slid the file across the table. “Moscerino is Italian for ‘dwarf.’”
Harvath hesitated as he reached for the file. It was only a fraction of a second, but the old man noticed.
“Based on a tip they received, the Italians located a private airfield in the north of Sicily where the exchange supposedly took place. Sifting through air traffic control records, they traced the plane to a charter company in Naples. After being served with a court order, the company handed over its records and made the pilot available for questioning.”
“And let me guess. He admitted to flying a dwarf in and out of Sicily?”
“Along with two very large dogs.”
Harvath didn’t like it. “Did the pilot see anything?” he