Chapter Fourteen
December 17
A block south of Piazza Barberini
Rome, Italy
It was an uneventful flight to Rome’s Fiumicino Airport and smooth sailing through customs. Justin hailed a taxi to his rendezvous with Bianchi. It was at Café Mondadori, across from Piazza Barberini, and a few blocks south of the US Embassy in Rome. As usual, Justin had the cab driver drop him off four blocks from his destination, and he continued on foot.
It was close to midnight, but streams of people flowed through the streets. The spirit of Christmas was in the air and displayed in the shop windows. Justin enjoyed the cool weather, a much-needed change from the Swedish freezing cold. He was still wearing his black coat but had unzipped the top half. He had no bulletproof vest on and carried no weapons. I hope I won’t need them.
When he came near the corner where Via del Tritone met with Via del Boccaccio, he stopped and checked behind him one last time, using car mirrors and shop windows along the street. Then he stopped at a Credem Banka cash machine, pretending to be withdrawing some money. Of course, his card did not work, but the maneuver gave Justin a reason to linger and glance covertly for anyone following him. As a last measure of counter-surveillance, he crossed the street and entered a small café. He bought a coffee and sat near the window. He sipped the coffee slowly, while his eyes studied the street and the faces of passersby.
Once he was convinced he was in the clear, Justin made his way to Café Mondadori. He had never met Bianchi, but Flavio had given Justin a brief description of the CIA operative. He was a tall, skinny man in his thirties, with long wavy black hair, black eyes, a large nose, and a full beard. He was dressed in a cream-colored leather jacket and khaki chinos, and a plaid cap was on the table by his coffee cup. Bianchi was sitting near the corner by the café’s entrance, with his back toward the wall. No patrons were at the two nearest tables. His observant eyes were covering both the entrance and the hall leading to what Justin suspected was the back of the café. Bianchi seemed to be reading a folded newspaper, but occasionally his gaze would drift over the top of the paper.
He’s my man.
Justin cast a wide glance up and down the sidewalk, then entered the café. The red walls were filled with paintings, mostly portraits, but also some stunning Mediterranean landscapes of rolling hills and harvest fields. He did not make eye contact with Bianchi, but inspected the half-full café as if looking for a friend. Justin shook his head and shrugged, then headed to the counter. He ordered a cappuccino and two slices of chocolate cake in Italian, then slowly made his way to Bianchi’s table.
Justin slipped into the seat across from Bianchi and gave him a small nod. “Sorry, I’m late.”
“No problem.” Bianchi folded and put away his paper. “Glad to see you. Good trip?”
“Yeah, pretty good.”
“No trouble?”
“No trouble.”
“That’s great. What did you order?”
“Cappuccino and cake.”
Bianchi’s perfect rows of teeth formed a large smile. “Perfettissimo. The best choice.”
“I got you a slice too.”
“Oh, no, I can’t.” Bianchi made an exaggerated hand gesture pointing at his stomach. “I’ve got to lose some weight.”
“Lose weight? From where?”
Bianchi shrugged. “I’m getting married in three weeks. So I’ve got to watch it.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
Bianchi looked at a middle-aged couple that had just entered the café. The man was bundled up in a long black coat, while the woman wore a form-fitting blue jacket. She sat at a table on the other side of the café, while the man went to the counter to place his order.
Justin had followed their reflection on the glass of a large dark cupboard set to Bianchi’s right. “You know them?” he whispered.
Bianchi shook his head. “No, but they look local.”
“You’re from Rome?”
“Yes, born and raised.”
“How long with the agency?”
“A few years.”
“In Iraq?”
“A couple of months.” Bianchi coughed and nodded toward Justin’s left.
The waiter brought the cappuccino and the cake to the table.
Justin glanced at the inviting foamy drink. He brought the cup to his lips and took a small sip. He inhaled the strong aroma, then placed it back on the table and stirred it with the small spoon.
“How is it?” Bianchi asked.
“Delicious. Now, what happened in Mosul?”
Bianchi leaned forward in his seat and drew nearer to Justin. “Mosul was a real mess, an unbelievable freaking mess. The SAD teams were targeting confirmed ISIS leaders still active in the area. But this time, they hit the wrong house.” He shrugged. “Well, maybe not exactly the wrong house, but it was a house where the teams did not find the expected targets.”
“It was al-Nueimi’s family.”
“Yes. The teams thought they had the safehouse. They thought they’d encounter guards and a fierce resistance. Instead, they made contact with women and children.”
“But there was still a gunfight.”
“Yes, the women opened fire on the teams as they entered the building. As I said, it was a bloody mess.” Bianchi shook his head.
“There has been no public acknowledgment that the CIA was operating in the area?”
“And there will never be. This is too embarrassing, even for us.”
Justin sipped his cappuccino. “I don’t understand how this happened. SAD is known for their carefully planned ops. Bad intel?”
“Or no intel. See, our agencies, especially the CIA, are going through a tough time. The president doesn’t attend intel briefings and rarely reads any reports that come across his desk. He trusts his security advisors, who are as arrogant as he is. The problem gets worse as this I-don’t-care attitude trickles down to chiefs, generals, commanders. It’s all f—”
“Yes, yes, I get it. And you think that’s what happened in this case?”
Bianchi nodded. “I know this is what happened. The teams had very little intel, but orders came that progress in the ‘war against terrorism’ was needed, considering the president was delivering an important speech to Congress. Thankfully, none of the team members was KIA, otherwise, this might have turned into a nightmare for the White House.” He sipped his cup then looked over Justin’s shoulders.
“Everything all right?” Justin’s eyes went to the cupboard. The couple were chatting and nursing their drinks.
“Yes, yes, it’s all good.”
“So, what happened after the op went sideways?”
“Well, the SAD teams had to clean up the area. They avoided casualties as much as they could, but you know how Iraq is, especially Mosul. You enter a neighborhood and everyone who has a gun—and everyone has a gun, since it’s a war zone and has been so for years—puts you in their sights. Most of the people killed had fired on the teams.”
“The children too?”
“Yes, but that shouldn’t surprise you. Justin, you’ve been to Iraq and Syria. You know children there don’t play with toy guns. They use AKs even when the rifle is taller than them.”
Justin nodded. “I know, but I had to ask so that I fully understand what happened. Now, al-Nueimi claims his son bled to death. You know anything about it?”
Bianchi finished the last of his coffee, then leaned forward. “Yes, I know where al-Nueimi’s son is.”