Blowback

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 selling 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

Why 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?”