by Brad Thor
Because of his parachuting experience, Enzo soon offered to let Harvath take control of the paraglider, but Harvath politely declined. He wanted to enjoy his respite from responsibility until the very last possible moment.
Ten minutes later, the red-tiled rooftops and soccer field of Capolago materialized beneath them and Enzo brought them in for a landing. They had already unclipped from their harnesses and were folding up the canopy when Paolo and Jillian touched down mid-field.
Jillian and Scot stripped out of their flight suits and then helped the men pack up the rest of the gear. By the time they were finished, they were met by a small van sporting the Volo Libero Ticino logo, which drove them the fourteen kilometers into the city of Lugano. Per Marco’s instructions, Harvath and Alcott were dropped at a parking structure on the Via Pretorio, near the Piazzetta della Posta.
The silver Mercedes coupe had been left exactly where it was supposed to be, along with its key, a detailed map of Switzerland, and a full tank of gas. Taking the A2, they headed north until they ran out of highway and then turned west toward the Swiss Canton of Valais, Timothy Rayburn, and hopefully a very much alive Emir Tokay.
FIFTY-EIGHT
A LBAN T OWERS A PARTMENTS
G EORGETOWN
I t had been a long time since Gary Lawlor had conducted a black-bag job. With FBI surveillance teams keeping an eye on Brian
Turner, he knew he’d have plenty of time to get out of the man’s apartment if need be.
Entering the extravagant Gothic Revival lobby and passing the grand piano on the way to the elevators, Lawlor remarked that either Brian Turner had a hidden trust fund no one knew about, or the young CIA employee was living way above his pay grade.
On the third floor, Lawlor exited the elevator and turned right, down the long carpeted hallway. At Apartment 324, he set down his briefcase and removed a lockpick gun from his suit pocket. Seconds later, he was inside. The former deputy director of the FBI had not lost his touch.
A by-the-book guy, Lawlor had gone over the warrant one final time before getting out of his car. He knew exactly what he was allowed to look for and what he wasn’t—which didn’t amount to much, considering the Department of Homeland Security had secured the warrant under the Patriot Act and had, with Neal Monroe’s reluctant testimony, been able to make a very compelling case that national security interests were at stake.
Setting his briefcase on the kitchen counter, Lawlor popped it open and marveled at how technology had changed over the years. A product of the Cold War, he was amazed at how much smaller everything was. Gone were the days of complicated installations that all but the most inexperienced observer could detect with enough effort. These days, covert listening and viewing devices were near impossible to spot. Not only that, but the DHS was working with the world’s most cutting-edge technology. Even the CIA, and that meant people like Brian Turner, hadn’t seen this type of gear.
Once everything was in place, Lawlor used a handheld short-distance radar emission unit to scan the apartment for any place Turner could have secreted documents clandestinely removed from CIA head-quarters. The search came up empty, and after verifying all of his covert video and audio feeds, Lawlor backed out of the apartment, making sure he left no trace of his visit.
FIFTY-NINE
S WITZERLAND
I t was well past midnight when Jillian and Harvath arrived in the quiet town of Sion, capital of the Swiss canton of Valais, and found rooms for the night.
The next morning, after breakfast and a quick chat with the front desk clerk, they drove through town to an electronics shop called François JOST, where Harvath purchased a high-resolution digital camera, a small digital camcorder, and a top-of-the-line printer. in addition to extremely powerful, high-definition telephoto lenses for each camera, he also purchased a type of lens that had once only been available to people within the intelligence and law enforcement communities. Manufactured by a company called Squintar, the lens had a built-in mirror that allowed a photographer to take pictures at a 90-degree angle. In total, its housing could be rotated almost a full 360 degrees, all while the camera was pointing straight ahead. A popular surveillance tool for years, the Squintar allowed its user to take pictures of subjects without the subjects ever knowing they were being photographed.
Once the salesperson had explained how the cameras worked and had talked Harvath into upgrading to higher memory cards and purchasing extra batteries, videotape, and a dual car adaptor, the pair left the store and headed for the village of Le Râleur.
As they drove, Jillian charged the camera batteries, while Harvath explained their cover and how he wanted to handle things. The element of surprise was the only thing they had going for them. If Rayburn discovered that they were on to him, they would not only lose their advantage, but if he did still have Emir Tokay alive, he might get spooked and kill him, which was the absolute last thing they wanted.
Perched on the banks of a small, glacial lake surrounded by the sheer, rocky cliffs of the Bernese Alps on all sides, Le Râleur was one of the most beautiful villages Harvath or Jillian had ever seen. It looked like it should be gracing posters promoting tourism to Switzerland, as flowers spilled from boxes hung from the windows of intricately crafted wooden chalets, and the whitewashed village church, with its weather-worn copper-covered steeple gave scale to the towering grandeur of Le Râleur’s surroundings.
The first stop they made was at the village tourist information office, which was nothing more than a small glass booth with an ATM and a couple of racks filled with brochures. After selecting what they wanted, Harvath and Jillian got their cameras out and strolled into the heart of the town.
Interspersed with the high-end clothing boutiques, which had obviously been established with the wealthy tourist crowd in mind, were the small shops and businesses that were the true lifeblood of Le Râleur. Harvath and Jillian passed a fromagerie, a patisserie, a boucherie, and a boulangerie—all testaments to the French-speaking heritage of the region, but what could have drawn Rayburn to this place? Harvath wondered.
His first clue came when they reached the village square and spotted two manned police cars parked alongside each other in front of an old funicular railway. The scene reminded Harvath of something, but he couldn’t quite place it. Looking up, he could see that the railway line went all the way up to the top of one of the mountains. Even with his telephoto lens, all he could see from this distance was what looked to be the upper housing for the funicular.
A heavy metal chain blocked the stone steps leading to the railway car, and in case that and the policemen were not enough to dissuade any curious passersby, a large metal placard with Do Not Enter written in several languages had been hung from the chain itself.
Positioning Jillian at a ninety-degree angle from the funicular, Harvath took advantage of the Squintar lens affixed to his camera and clicked away. Once he had taken enough pictures, he called Jillian back over and suggested they get a coffee.
They took a table on the terrace of a small café facing the square called La Bergère. It was one of the establishments Rayburn had used his credit card in, and from where Harvath was sitting, he could also see the bank where two days ago Rayburn had conducted a cash advance.
Pegging them as tourists, the waitress brought out two menus written in English, Italian, French, and German. Harvath ignored the one that was laid in front of him and instead scrolled through the pictures on his digital camera. Jillian, though, was in the mood for more than just coffee and actually took a look at her menu. “This is interesting,” she said after several moments.
“What is? “ replied Harvath, not bothering to look up from his camera.
“The funicular railway.”
“What about it?”
“There’s a story on the back of the menu about the village and its history. Apparently, there used to be a monastery on the top of that mountain, but in the early 1900s the monks couldn’t afford to maintain it and ended up sellin
g it to a group of backers who turned it into a sanitarium.”
“Like a health resort?” said Harvath, still engrossed in his images.
“Exactly. It attracted wealthy clients from all over Europe, but especially Geneva because of its close proximity. It went out of business, though, in the sixties and fell into a state of disrepair, but was then purchased in the late eighties, rehabbed, and turned into a private residence.”
“Whose private residence?”
“It doesn’t say. The only additional info is that the peak upon which it is built is at a height of 6,500 feet, and as it is surrounded by mountains and steep, sloping cliffs on all sides, the only way to get up or down is via the funicular.”
“Which, for some reason, those heavily armed police officers are now guarding,” said Harvath as he looked up from his camera and across the square.
“Have you decided?” asked the waitress as she appeared beside the table with a pad and pencil in hand.
“I’ll have a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant,” said Jillian, setting down the menu and looking at Harvath.
“An espresso, please.”
“I have a question,” said Jillian. “I was reading in your menu about the history of Le Râleur and am fascinated by the monastery that used to be at the top of the funicular railway.”
Harvath tensed, worried that she might blow their cover, but then relaxed as he realized that everyone who came to the café probably asked the same question.
“Back then, Madame, there was no funicular. It came much later, with the sanitarium.”
“I see,” said Jillian. “It must be very romantic living in an old monastery on top of a mountain. I read that it’s a private residence these days?”
“Correct.”
Jillian leaned in toward the waitress and asked, “Who lives there now, some big movie star trying to get away from it all? I heard a rumor that Michael Caine owns a villa near here.”
The waitress looked around to make sure no one else was listening and then said, “It belongs to the Aga Khan of Bombay.”
“The Aga Khan?” repeated Harvath.
“Oui, Monsieur.”
“The Shia Muslim spiritual leader?”
“Oui, Monsieur, ”the waitress said again. “He is very, very rich, this man. Did you know that every year on his birthday, his people give him his weight in emeralds, diamonds, and rubies?”
“I have heard that,” replied Harvath, knowing full well the practice had ended a long time ago and even then the man had only been given his weight in gold or diamonds. Still, it was nothing to sneeze at and was obviously the kind of romantic mystique that would cling forever. “That must be why the police guard the funicular.”
“Yes, but it’s not just the police. He has his own bodyguards too. Sometimes in the evening, if they are not working, they come down here to the village. The police only guard the funicular when the Aga Khan is staying at Château Aiglemont.”
“Aiglemont?” asked Jillian. “Is that the name of the monastery?”
“Yes, it means mountain of the eagles.”
“Well, I hope the coffee here is as good as the view,” said Harvath with a smile. The sooner they got their order, the sooner they could drink up and get out of there. Somehow the Aga Khan was now involved in all of this, and he needed to find out why. He knew enough about the man to know that two police cars at the bottom of a funicular was only the tip of the security iceberg. The Aga Khan would have the absolute best, and the more Harvath thought about it, the more his gut told him he had just discovered where Timothy Rayburn had been able to secure gainful employment.
SIXTY
W hy would a major, internationally recognized Muslim spiritual figure be involved in a kidnapping?” asked Jillian once they were in the car and on their way back to Sion.
“I have no idea, but it’s important to note that Shia Muslims are the second-largest branch of Islam. It’s the Sunnis who make up the world’s majority of Muslims.”
“So?”
“So you don’t often see the two groups working together.”
Jillian turned in her seat and looked at him. “Who says they’re working together?”
“We came here looking for Rayburn. He’s the one who put together the hunt for Hannibal’s mysterious weapon. Once the weapon was found and made ready for modern use, everyone associated with it was killed, by an al-Qaeda assassin.”
“Or kidnapped. Emir might still be alive,” said Jillian.
“Fine,” replied Harvath, “but it’s no coincidence that both the Aga Khan and Rayburn are known to be in this village. The Aga Khan is the Shia connection, and Khalid Alomari is the Sunni. All of the al-Qaeda are Sunni.”
“What’s the difference, though? They’re all Muslims.”
“That’s not the way the Sunnis see it. To a good number of them, the Shia are even worse than Western infidel Christians. Hard to believe, isn’t it?” said Harvath. “Even holier-than-thou Muslim terrorists are prejudiced against other followers of Islam, but at this point nothing surprises me anymore when it comes to these people. As far as I’m concerned, there are only two kinds of Muslims in the world—good ones and bad ones. Other than that, I really don’t care. That’s not my department.”
“I still don’t understand why the distinction is important.”
“Most of the terrorism, “He tried to explain, “all that militant, radical fundamentalist Wahhabi crap out of Saudi Arabia, is Sunni. The only major Shia problem out there is the Iranians.”
“But if they all follow Islam, where does the acrimony come from?”
“Simple,” said Harvath. “Thirteen hundred years ago, the Prophet Muhammad died without leaving a will.”
“I don’t get it.”
Harvath turned up the air conditioning and said, “During his time, the Prophet Muhammad had created his own earthly kingdom or caliphate. After his death, his successors were known as caliphs, and it was their job to lead the worldwide Muslim community, or ummah. But after the fourth caliph, Ali, was assassinated in 661, a schism erupted between the Sunni and the Shia. The Sunnis believe that Muhammad had intended for the Muslim community to choose a successor, or caliph, by consensus to lead the caliphate, while the Shia believe that Muhammad had chosen his son-in-law, Ali, as his successor and that only the descendents of Ali and his wife, Fatima, were entitled to rule.”
“But what does any of this have to do with the Aga Khan?”
“Now we start drifting into the realm of the very interesting,” said Harvath as he signaled to change lanes. “The Aga Khan, as I’ve said, is Shia, and the Shia have a very esoteric interpretation of the Koran. They believe that beneath the explicit and literal levels is another level entirely, and it is on that level that all of the secrets of the universe are contained.”
“Including scientific secrets?” asked Jillian, anticipating where he was going.
“Yes, including scientific secrets.”
“What’s the likelihood that he was involved with the organization Emir was working for?”
“The Islamic Institute for Science and Technology?” replied Harvath. “Anything is possible. It takes a lot of money to fund the expeditions they were engaged in, and the Aga Khan has lots and lots of money. Not only that, but the specific type of expeditions they were conducting would fit very nicely with the Shia interpretation of the Koran.”
“Actually, any follower of Islamic science, Shia or Sunni, believes that the Koran contains the keys to the mysteries of the universe.”
“True,” stated Harvath, “but it’s the fact that the Sunni and Shia seem to be working together at such a high level on this that is so interesting. Maybe using Islamic science to rid the world of nonbelievers is the first thing both camps have ever been able to come together and agree on.”
“That could be,” said Jillian, “but then how does al-Qaeda fit into all this? I see what you mean, at least with the Aga Khan being involved, there is cooperation from at least
one camp at a very high level, but who are the high-level operators on the Sunni side? Al-Qaeda? They’ve always struck me as nothing more than narrow-minded thugs. They’re just terrorists.”
Jillian was right, but there was a piece of the puzzle that she didn’t have. “There is a theory in Western intelligence circles,” said Harvath, “and it has been regularly dismissed as being too far-fetched, but the theory is that there is somebody very far removed from the al-Qaeda organization who pulls their strings. I’m starting to think that theory might hold some water.”
“Someone above bin Laden?”
“Above bin Laden and beyond Ayman al-Zawahiri, bin Laden’s second in command, whom many believe is a lot smarter than bin Laden and could even be the real head of al-Qaeda.”
“But that’s not what you’re talking about, is it?”
“No. You see, during the Afghan war, there was a Soviet KGB agent obsessed with bin Laden. He studied everything he could about him and the burgeoning al-Qaeda organization. Right before the collapse of the Soviet Union, he defected to Great Britain. As these people do, he tried to make himself look as valuable as possible to his new host country. Contained within the intelligence he brought with him were his views and hypotheses about bin Laden and al-Qaeda. At the time, a good portion of that intelligence was seen as pretty fantastic. I mean, bin Laden had been nothing more than a really nasty thorn in the side of the Soviets. The West was on bin Laden’s side back then. We wanted them to cream the Red Army and we helped train and equip them to do so. In hindsight, we probably trained them too well.
