Blowback

by Brad Thor

  The Aga Khan looked at him and said, “Revolution.”

  “Revolution? Where? Across the Muslim world?”

  “Eventually, but first they must set an example—an example that will empower Muslims everywhere to rise up. It will happen in the holiest of countries most dear to all Muslims and a symbol of corruption and Western influence—Saudi Arabia.”

  Harvath was stunned. “How can they hope to pull it off? The Saudis rule that country with an iron fist.”

  “They have been very patient. With the help of al-Qaeda, the Wahhabis have been able to slowly infiltrate the ranks of the Saudi military and security forces. While there are many soldiers and policemen who are not loyal to bin Laden or the Wahhabi faith, there may not be enough of them to make a difference. Time and again in small skirmishes created by the Wahhabis to test the resolve of the military and police, it has been shown that Saudi troops and policemen will not fire on their own people.”

  Harvath felt the blood go cold in his body. “And if American troops in the region try to help put down a revolt—”

  “Hannibal’s weapon will be released on them, as well as in the United States. All the Wahhabis will need is twelve hours, twenty-four on the outside, to wrest power from the Saudi Royal Family and take full and unassailable control of the country. Saudi Arabia is the key to the illness, the revolution, everything. And as goes Saudi Arabia, to amend a quote from history, so goes the rest of the Islamic world.”

  Harvath knew he was right. Considering the Wahhabis’ deep hate for America and the vast amount of military hardware the Saudi Monarchy had purchased and stockpiled from the U.S. over the years, the new Saudi Arabia, or whatever the extremists would end up calling it, would immediately join the league of rogue nations.

  But that wasn’t all. With the Wahhabis’ well-defined social and religious agenda, their breed of radical, fundamentalist Islam would begin to spread to the neighboring states and sheikdoms. Much as the Soviet Union gobbled up its neighbors, the exact same thing would happen in the Middle East, with Saudi Arabia playing the role of mother Russia and places like Oman, Qatar, and UAE becoming the next Poland, East Germany, and Czechoslovakia.

  As the movement pushed eastward, Pakistan would quickly collapse and along with it any hopes of keeping nuclear weapons out of the hands of the Wahhabis. As Indonesia, the most populous Muslim nation, joined and became the new China, the Western world would be plunged into a clash more devastating than anything it had ever known.

  One thing was for sure, while the extremists might claim to be using the illness solely as a bargaining chip now, there was no question that when they were ready, they would set it loose it on the rest of the world.

  “How did the Ottomans ever get the Wahhabis to agree to all of this?” asked Harvath.

  “The Ottomans recognized the power of the Wahhabis and aligned themselves with them early on. That was how they were able to gain access to bin Laden and create al-Qaeda. It is a relationship of religion and politics—a match made in Paradise. The Wahhabis provided the spiritual justification for revolution and the establishment of a single Islamic state while the Ottomans provided the know-how and ability to run it efficiently. The one thing the Wahhabis recognize is that while they may have had a similar social agenda, the Taliban were defeated because they had no idea how to maintain the sovereignty of their country. That is something the Ottomans have more than proven they are capable of.”

  Harvath’s head was reeling. “Without knowing how they are inoculating the Sunni, how the hell can we stop them?”

  “You can’t,” said a voice from the other end of the room.

  The Aga Khan recognized the voice immediately. “Akrep, “He said as the color drained from his face.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  W atching the man as he crossed the room, Harvath now realized that the helicopter he had heard belonged neither to Claudia Mueller nor to the Aga Khan but to someone else who apparently had business at Château Aiglemont.

  “I was right,” said Harvath as one of Ozan Kalachka’s two bodyguards stripped him of his weapons. “Everything does have its price with you, even friendship.”

  “This isn’t about friendship,” replied Kalachka.

  “I’m also willing to bet that this isn’t about your nephew either.”

  Kalachka smiled. “Nephew? I don’t have any nephew.”

  Harvath had underestimated the man yet again.

  “I needed to find Tokay, and I knew you would lead me right to him,” said Kalachka.

  “Why me? Why not Alomari?”

  “Assassins have their place in this world, but he lacked your investigative skills. He also lacked the proper motivation. Not only is your entire country at risk, but someone you bore a serious grudge against was involved as well.”

  “Rayburn.”

  “Exactly. It all came together to form the perfect combination. I knew no matter what, you would find Emir Tokay for me.”

  “But then why did you send Alomari to kill me?”

  “I didn’t. In fact, when Alomari missed getting to Tokay before his kidnapping, I terminated his employment. Had he done his job, I never would have needed your services.”

  “He found us in London, though.”

  “He found you because he tortured the information about Dr. Alcott out of my colleague, Gökhan Celik. By going after Ms. Alcott and Emir Tokay, Alomari was trying to get himself back into my good graces.”

  “Well, now that you’ve found Tokay, what do you intend to do with him?”

  Kalachka looked at Harvath and smiled. “I’ve already done it. He’s dead.”

  Without his radio, there was no way Harvath could contact Schroeder and verify whether or not he’d found Tokay, much less if he’d found the man alive. Glancing at his Kobold, Harvath realized that if Schroeder’s part of the operation had gone according to plan, he and Gösser would have already gotten to Tokay and moved him outside.

  “So now that the last scientist has been silenced, you can set your sights on starting your own personal revolution, is that it?”

  “It has already started, “He said, pointing to the television set behind the Aga Khan’s desk.

  Harvath turned and saw scenes of small groups of young men throwing stones and bottles at Saudi police. It looked like a scene from Gaza or the West Bank. “That? That’s your revolution? Those are just kids.”

  “And they’re just the beginning. They think the U.S. has convinced the Saudi monarchy to round up all their spiritual leaders and put them on trial. Those kids, as you put it, are going to cause so much trouble on the streets of Riyadh that the Saudi Monarchy will have no choice but to come to the table and meet with the Wahhabi leadership. They will beg the Wahhabis to put an end to the rioting. That’s when the real revolution will be ignited.”

  Harvath looked at him. “Then what, you’ll have your Wahhabis bump off the leading members of the Royal Family? Is that how you’re going to start it?”

  “Quite the opposite, actually. Killing the most prominent members of the Saudi Royal Family wouldn’t cause outrage in the streets; in fact, people would be dancing for joy. Instead, the Royal Family is going to kill the top members of the Wahhabi leadership. I think that will prove much more effective.”

  Saudi Arabia was a religious powder keg, and Kalachka was playing with a terrifying book of matches. Killing the Wahhabi leadership would send much of the country into a furor. Even a hint that the Royal Family had something to do with the killings would guarantee rioting the likes of which the Middle East and the world had never seen. “That’s it then,” said Harvath. “You’ve wrapped up all your loose ends.”

  “Not exactly,” said Kalachka as he withdrew a pistol. “There’s one last thing I have to do. “Pointing it at the Aga Khan, he pulled the trigger.

  The powerful bullet entered squarely between the man’s eyes and knocked him over backward in his chair. Bloody pink pieces of brain and scalp spattered onto the ceiling and covered one
of the walls.

  As Kalachka turned to look at him, Harvath prepared for the worst.

  “Despite what you might think, I still do value our friendship,” said the man. “And to that end, I will offer you a final chance to live. Come with me. Work for me. I’ll make you wealthier and more powerful than you could ever imagine. Of course, you’ll have to convert to Islam, but believe me, it’s a small price to pay for the riches that await you.”

  Harvath looked at the man as if he was insane. “Are you kidding?”

  “I couldn’t be more serious. My plane is waiting right now. Come with me and watch history being made.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” replied Harvath. “I’m not interested.”

  Not a man who agonized over decisions, Ozan Kalachka raised his pistol and said, “Suit yourself.”

  Though Kalachka had an advantage because he was holding the pistol, Harvath had something he didn’t—a clear view of the front of the room.

  Immediately, Scot dove for the ground as Horst Schroeder stumbled through the doorway, bleeding from several gunshot wounds, and began firing at Kalachka and his two bodyguards.

  Soon rounds were flying everywhere, and Harvath clasped his hands above his head to protect against the hunks of plaster and stone that were being blown away from the mantelpiece above him. He quickly realized that not only were Kalachka and his men trying to take out Schroeder, they were shooting at him as well. Without any sort of weapon, Harvath was absolutely defenseless.

  Hiding behind the upended club chair the Aga Khan had been sitting in, Harvath heard another series of rounds make contact with the wall and fireplace behind him and then felt a searing pain in his calf. At first he thought he’d been hit by a ricochet, but as his hand raced to his leg, he realized it wasn’t a bullet at all. Several of the fireplace logs had rolled out into the room.

  When Harvath kicked the flaming pieces of wood away, one of the logs rolled up against a curtain and set the heavy velvet drapery ablaze. With the bullets still flying, there was nothing he could do to stop it. From the curtains it was only a short jump to the Aga Khan’s stacks of books, and within the blink of an eye, almost half the room was on fire. Harvath knew he couldn’t stay where he was.

  Just as he was about to sneak from behind the cover of the overturned leather club chair, he saw a pair of heavy black boots stumbling in his direction. They were followed by the silenced muzzle of an automatic weapon, and before Harvath could react, its owner was right on top of him.

  Horst Schroeder literally collapsed at Harvath’s feet, his chest heaving for air. The man was suffering not only from multiple gunshot wounds, but the early stages of smoke inhalation as well. Taking his weapon, Harvath strained to look through the smoke to see if anyone else was advancing in their direction.

  “Dead,” said Schroeder, his voice hoarse. “All except for one.”

  “Which one?” asked Harvath as he looked around again and tried to get a fix on whoever was left.

  “The fat one. He’s gone.”

  The flames were getting hotter. They had to get out of there. “Can you walk?”

  Schroeder weakly shook his head no.

  Slinging the weapon over his shoulder, Harvath reached his arms around the Stern commando’s chest and dragged him toward the hallway. Once outside, he could hear men shouting and running up the stairs at the other end. Rayburn’s men. Were they coming because of the fire? Or had they been unleashed to kill? “Horst,” said Harvath as he tried to get the commando’s attention. The man was having trouble breathing. “What happened downstairs?”

  “We found Tokay, but he’s dead now. We were waiting for you when the helicopter landed. The fat man said you called him.”

  It was true, Harvath had called him, but he had never expected Kalachka to show up. He really had underestimated him.

  “He knew Tokay by name and asked if he was all right,” continued Schroeder, coughing from the smoke and the blood that had pooled in his lungs. “He offered to load him into the helicopter, so we could go help you. We should have been more careful.”

  No, Harvath thought to himself, I should have been there with you.

  “The moment we got within range of the helicopter, his men began shooting at us,” continued Schroeder. “Tokay was killed instantly. He never had a chance. Gösser’s dead as well.”

  Harvath felt sick and beyond angry with himself as the news sliced right through him. The whole reason they were here was to rescue Tokay, and they had failed. He had failed. He had allowed himself to get distracted from their primary objective, and because of it, two men had died and their mission was a failure. “You’re going to be okay, “He said as he pulled down a tapestry, folded it, and pressed it against Schroeder’s chest as a compression bandage. If Schroeder died, not only would Claudia never forgive him, but he’d never forgive himself. This hadn’t been Schroeder’s fight. He had come to help, and already one of his men was killed. Harvath owed it to him to make sure he and the rest of his team got out of there alive.

  “What about Rayburn?” Harvath asked as he laid Schroeder’s arm over the tapestry. “What happened to him?”

  “Gone. The minute the shooting started, he disappeared.”

  “What about the remote? Did you try to detonate the device he was wearing?”

  Schroeder shook his head. “By the time I knew what was happening, he was out of range. “Sliding the remote from his pocket, he handed it to Harvath and said, “Here. He’s all yours.”

  As much as Harvath wanted to chase after Rayburn and Kalachka to make them pay for what they had done, he needed to get the parchments and folios scattered across the Aga Khan’s desk. There was no telling what they might be able to learn from them.

  The first of Rayburn’s security forces were pouring through the door behind the Saint Nicholas statue at the end of the hallway when Harvath placed Schroeder’s hands over the tapestry and said, “You’re going to be okay, ”before dashing back inside the Aga Khan’s chambers.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  H arvath could feel the heat tightening the skin on his face as he ran into the room. It was impossible to see, and he had to make his way completely from memory.

  Once he made it to the Aga Khan’s enormous wooden desk, he bent down beneath the level of the smoke, where he could see pieces of parchment and the pages from ancient manuscripts already starting to curl because of the heat. Opening the top three buttons of his Nomex shirt, he began stuffing it with whatever he could get his hands on.

  As he shoved the remaining pages inside his shirt, the sides of the desk glowed a fluorescent orange and then burst into flames. Harvath leapt back as the wood from the burning desk began to snap and pop from the intense heat. At least, that’s what Harvath initially thought was happening.

  When a bullet narrowly missed his shoulder and sent him stumbling backward, he suddenly realized it wasn’t the fire he’d been hearing. Raising the MP7 he had taken from Schroeder, he raked the entire room with gunfire and then dropped to the floor. As he ejected the spent magazine and inserted a fresh one, Harvath greedily took in enormous gasps of air.

  “Sloppy work, asshole,” yelled Rayburn’s choked voice from somewhere within the wall of smoke and flames consuming the room.

  Harvath was tempted to empty another magazine and spray the room with lead, but he restrained himself. He needed to stay in control. Fishing the remote detonation device from his pocket, Harvath powered it up and depressed the transmit switch again, but nothing happened. Rayburn had somehow deactivated it.

  The heat in the room had Harvath close to passing out. He forced himself to think. If he were Rayburn, where would he be? He’d either be standing in the doorway where he could at least have some sort of reasonable air supply from the hall, or he’d be hugging the floor. If Rayburn was in the doorway, he’d make a decent target, but if he was hugging the floor, there could be any number of pieces of furniture standing between the two of them.

  “Show yourse
lf, motherfucker,” yelled the ex-Secret Service man, “and I promise I’ll kill you quick.”

  Hearing the voice, Harvath ascertained that the man wasn’t standing in the doorway after all. He was crawling along the floor, and he was closing in.

  Harvath had to bite his tongue to keep from responding. There were only about a million things he wanted to say, several of them quite clever, but if all they wound up doing was help Rayburn zero in on his position, he knew he was better off keeping his mouth shut.

  It was a smoke-shrouded Mexican standoff. Neither knew exactly where the other was, but both had a somewhat vague idea. They could have played at it all day if the fire wasn’t sucking the last vestiges of air from the room and the flames weren’t on the verge of consuming them both. The heat had become so intense he needed to raise his arm to shield his face.

  As he did, he heard a scuffing noise intermingled with the roar and crackle of the flames. Rayburn was sliding one of the leather chairs along the floor, using it for cover as he tried to get closer. That was all the information Harvath needed. Creeping as near as he could to the burning desk, he aimed his weapon toward the fireplace and began to spray rounds back and forth two feet off the ground in front of him.

  When he connected with Rayburn, he heard the man cry out in pain. Rayburn’s weapon clattered to the floor, and then there was silence. Harvath inserted another clip and emptied it in Rayburn’s direction. The handle of his gun had grown so hot from the fire he could barely hold it anymore.

  Ejecting the spent magazine, he decided he could use it as a diversion by throwing it against the far wall as he ran for the doorway. Counting to three, he pitched the magazine toward the front of the room, and as he awaited a reaction, he heard a groan of wood and plaster from above. A fraction of a second later the ceiling came crashing down.

  Harvath dove as far away as he could and ended up tangled in a set of flaming draperies. Had he been wearing anything other than Nomex, he would have instantly gone up in flames.