When intercepted communications reveal a chilling attack in Europe, elite Israeli operative Sara Cohen of Mossad, and DIGOS chief detective Luca Martini, find themselves on a collision course with a shadowy network of ruthless terrorists. With the target and timing of the attack shrouded in mystery, their only hope is a captured undercover operative who holds the key to unravelling the conspiracy, but time is running out. And as Sara and Luca race to save the agent, they must grapple with the ethical boundaries of their mission. With the clock ticking, can they connect the dots before chaos erupts? And, what will they risk to save countless innocent lives from the brink of disaster?
Reviews
“Target Unknown” by Riccardo Forte: An international thriller full of twists and turns and breathtaking investigations.
The story unfolds at a fast pace, with a succession of false leads, misdirections, and unexpected revelations. Every character—from the main protagonists to the supporting roles—is masterfully woven into a network of action, drama, and mystery. The race against time to uncover the objective and stop the terrorists creates a palpable tension that keeps the reader glued to the pages.”
Alessandria Today Review
“Beautiful and captivating, it competes with more renowned authors.”
Alessandro, Amazon Review
“An extremely engaging read, and finally, a writer who writes in excellent Italian and is well-documented. An author to keep in mind for future readings. Thank you.”
Giò, Amazon Review
“The book reveals the author’s extensive research and deep knowledge of topics related to geopolitics, international relations, and state security apparatuses. Furthermore, the descriptions of the characters and environments are very detailed, immersing the reader in a reality of action and increasingly thrilling emotions. Highly recommended!”
Amazon Review
“Beautiful, absolutely gripping”
Amazon Review
“Keep Writing, Signor Forte!
Best book I have read in ages. Pacing, character development, research.”
Amazon Review
Excerpt
Prologue
CHUSCLAN, France, Marcoule nuclear power plant, April 15
Just before two in the morning, two vans marked “France Telecom” drove down a quiet country road, lined by vineyards, to the small village of Chusclan, in the popular tourist region of Côtes du Rhône. Each van carried four men in blue uniforms bearing the symbol of the telecommunications company. They were alert and watchful despite the early hour.
As the first houses came into view, the driver of the first van turned left onto Rue de Surville without putting his blinker on. The second vehicle followed. This turn lengthened the journey a bit, but it circumvented the center of town. Not a soul could be seen along the streets of this rural neighborhood, and the sound of the engines at that unusual hour could have awoken residents and aroused suspicion. Rue de Surville flanked the town to the north, like a small bypass. Just ahead, at the Chateau de Gicon ruins, the road veered left and changed into Rue de Ruisseau.
The man in the passenger seat in the first van pointed at the ruins. Although completely ensconced in the darkness of the moonless night, the castle’s outline was visible against the starry sky. It was a reference point in the directions to the Marcoule nuclear power plant. The vans turned left as the man in the passenger seat activated the GPS.
About half a mile ahead, a female voice, speaking in French, announced an upcoming right turn, without specifying the name of the street, then alerted the men to another right turn onto Route de Codolet a half mile head.
“I wonder why these things always have female voices?” the driver said.
No one reacted. A few seconds later, one of the men in the back seat said, “Would you rather be guided by a bearded Imam?”
The driver and the other man in the back seat snickered.
“Cut it out!” grumbled the man in the passenger seat. “Be respectful.”
The female voice remerged from the GPS, interrupting the argument. The two vans turned south onto Route de Codolet, and after about a mile of S-curves, they approached a traffic circle. To the left, the men could see the plant’s powerful surveillance lights in the distance.
A dual carriageway led to the main entrance, where a gate blocked the way. A guard booth on the right projected two spotlights onto the traffic circle. The men in the France Telecom uniforms tried to shield their eyes from the glare as two Gendarmerie Nationale agents bearing MP5s and wrapped in bulletproof vests and military-issued puffer jackets nodded at the first van to stop. They eyed the vehicles with suspicion.
One gendarme pointed his MP5 at the van and motioned for the driver to lower his window.
“We’re France Telecom technicians,” the driver said calmly, checking his notes. “We were called in for urgent repairs near the south entrance.”
“No can do,” said the gendarme. “We were not informed and have no record—”
He was interrupted by the man in the passenger seat, who had quietly spoken a word in Arabic. The driver pulled out a Glock 22 fitted with a silencer and shot the gendarme between the eyes. Almost at the same time, another man leaned out the window and offed the second gendarme with the same level of precision. A third man incapacitated the surveillance cameras with two more shots.
The driver of the second van parked his vehicle and walked to the checkpoint. He entered the guard booth, turned on the light, and watched a screen light up. He pressed a few buttons and the gate opened. The vans crossed onto the grounds while the man in the guard booth activated the gate’s automatic closure mechanism and in a flash, retook his place behind the wheel of the second van. Both vehicles sped to the southern entrance to the power plant.
The men knew that the four entrances were not permanently guarded. Instead, patrols passed by every fifteen minutes.
The driver of the first van checked the digital clock. It was 2:33 am.
“Perfect,” he said. “Twelve minutes. Go!” Three men got out of the van. The driver dialed a 3-digit number on his phone and three men got out of the second van. Two of them walked to the France Telecom junction box and started working on it. The other four headed for the entrance carrying a metal trunk. They pulled out a small plastic explosive device and attached it to the armored door. A moment later, an explosion blew the door off its hinges, and the fake technicians entered the power plant. The two men by the junction box replaced the door to hide the damage in the dark and returned to their task.
Almost three minutes later, the driver of the second van called one of the men in the power plant on his cell phone.
“They’re coming.”
Both drivers, looking into their rearview mirrors, watched a 4×4 approach from behind, and got ready to spring into action if necessary.
The 4×4 stopped a few feet behind them. Two security guards got out and pointed their electric flashlights at the vans and at the power plant. The third agent took up position with his MP5, ready to shoot.
One of the men in front of the power plant turned around, shielding his eyes from the strong light. The front doors to the vans were half open, but the two drivers inside pressed themselves against the back of their seats, keeping out of view. “Nothing to worry about,” he said calmly. “We’re France Telecom technicians.”
“What Telecom technicians?” a guard said.
The man repeated the explanation he’d given the guards at the outer gate.
The guard issued an order to his colleagues that the fake technicians did not hear. The other guard, who hadn’t spoken yet, also got into a shooting position.
The third guard pulled out his SIG P220 and yelled, “Hands over your head! Turn around and lean against the railing!”
“Shit,” the driver of the first van cursed under his breath.
“Show us your papers!” the guard barked.
The first driver dialed a 3-digit number into his cell phone, which was resting on the right side of his seat, without looking away from the rearview mirror. The other driver suddenly turned on his headlights and engine.
“Halt!” yelled a guard turning toward the second van, while the other two also instinctively turned to look.
Suddenly, the two men by the junction box pulled out two Beretta 92s and got ready to shoot. The first driver grabbed a BM 92 resting on the edge of the seat, got out of the van and started to shoot repeatedly. The first guard fell to the ground, lifeless. The second shot two rounds before he, too, fell. Only the third managed to wound one of the junction box men in the shoulder, but he was shot in the head soon after.
The shots attracted the attention of guards at the other sectors of the power plant. The first driver ordered his men to whisk the bodies onto the vans, which were then hidden among the bushes on the side of the road. Even though the vehicles were just a few feet away, they were invisible in the moonless night.
Three of the men from the van undressed the dead agents, pulled off their own Telecom uniforms, and donned the Gendarmerie Nationale uniforms. Just then, a second 4×4 arrived carrying six police officers.
The fake guards tried to keep their faces out of the light.
“We’re here!” yelled the first driver, standing between the Telecom junction box and the south entrance. He tried to think quickly. He had to keep the newcomers away from the booth at the external gate, where the two gendarmes lay lifeless.
“Everything is under control. The shots came from that direction!” he said finally, pointing toward what he knew to be the corporate offices. “Just some drunken farmers,” he said with a chuckle.
The police officer in the 4×4 was not amused. He glared at the fake guard, then ordered his driver to go left, toward the corporate offices.
The fake guard sighed with relief. It had worked. For now.
After a quarter of an hour, the men in the France Telecom overalls inside the power plant reappeared with a metal trunk. The first driver headed for his van among the bushes and shouted for the other to turn on the engine. Then he pulled his van up to the south entrance to the plant. The fake technicians tossed the bodies of the agents into the trees, among the darkness. They loaded the metal trunk into the back of the van and closed the doors. The two vans peeled out and disappeared into the night.