Blowback

Posted outside the Aga Khan’s rooms at the end of the frescoed hallway were two husky, ex-military types who reminded Harvath very much of the security guards he’d encountered at Sotheby’s in Paris. “Who the fuck are you?” barked one of the men, obviously American by his accent, as he snapped his weapon to attention and pointed it in Harvath’s direction.

“FNG,” replied Harvath, using the military acronym for fucking new guy. “Rayburn wants both of you in the dining hall for a meeting. I was sent to relieve you.”

“I’m not going anywhere until Rayburn gives me the order himself.”

“What are you, the only guy without a fucking radio in this place?” said Harvath. “Do you know what just happened outside? Didn’t you hear that a meeting has been called?”

“Sure but-”

“Sure, but nothing, asshole. I was on that plane outside, which is now in flaming pieces, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t feel like debating this with you.”

“Maybe we should go to the dining hall,” replied the man’s partner.

“Fuck that. Until I hear from Rayburn, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Suit yourself,” said Harvath as he turned and began walking down the hallway. So much for taking the compound without a shot being fired, he thought as he readied his MP7 and prepared to turn and fire.

“Hold it a second,” said the sentry just as Harvath was about to spin around and pull the trigger. “I’m already on Rayburn’s shit list. I don’t need any more trouble. Besides, I could use a cup of coffee.”

Harvath eased his finger off the trigger and gently lowered his weapon. So far, so good.

SEVENTY-FIVE

Once the guards had left the hallway and disappeared behind the statue of Saint Nicholas, Harvath prepared to kick in the door of the Aga Khan’s chambers. At the last minute, though, he stopped himself and decided to try the handle-it was unlocked. Bringing his MP7 up to the firing position, Harvath pushed open the door with the toe of his boot and carefully stepped inside.

Just like the rest of the monastery, the Aga Khan’s rooms were sumptuously appointed. Thick velvet draperies were drawn tight against the windows while ornate chandeliers and Tiffany-style table lamps cast the room in a dim orange glow. Logs stacked upright, A-frame style, blazed in the fireplace. There was a moldy, bookish smell to the place.

At the far end of the main sitting room, which looked more like a study or a library, Harvath found the Aga Khan at a large wooden desk covered with scrolls and old pieces of papyrus. The flat-screen TV behind him was tuned to one of the twenty-four-hour cable news networks.

Dressed in a plaid button-down shirt and khaki trousers, the Aga Khan looked nothing like a stereotypical Muslim spiritual leader. He sported neither flowing robes nor a long unkempt beard. Balding and slightly overweight, his appearance was deceptively placid, more like a grandfather than a fabulously wealthy international power broker. His true character, though, came through when he lifted his head and spoke. Born in exile, the man was completely westernized, and his sharp words were pronounced with a crisp British accent. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing in here?”

Harvath knew the Aga Khan was dangerous and wasted no time taking control of the situation. Pointing the MP7 at him, he said, “I’m here to ask you a few questions. Now stand up and put your hands where I can see them.”

The Aga Khan refused to move. “Do you know who I am?” he stated.

Harvath didn’t care. All he was thinking about at this moment was the possibility of mass American casualties from the bioweapon that had been tested in the village of Asalaam and that the man sitting in front of him somehow was the key to all of it. Flicking the fire selector of his MP7 to single shot, Harvath put a silenced round through the top of the man’s leather desk chair, inches from his head. “Apparently, you’re someone who doesn’t listen very well.”

With his gold Rolex and matching cufflinks glinting in the light from his desk lamp, the Aga Khan placed his palms on the desk and pushed himself up to standing. “You’re going to pay for this, “He said as he held his hands up in the air. “I swear to you, you are going to pay.”

“Zip it,” said Harvath, motioning with his weapon for the man to take a seat in one of the leather club chairs near the fireplace. “I don’t want to hear anything out of you unless it’s in answer to one of my questions. Do you understand me?”

The Aga Khan sat down in one of the chairs, but refused to acknowledge him. Harvath fired another round, this one right between the man’s legs, which sent a clump of batting sailing through the air. Reluctantly, the Aga Khan nodded his head and murmured, “I understand.”

“Good,” said Harvath as he sat down across from him, turned on the MP7’s laser sight, and painted the man’s knee with the small red dot. “Just so we further understand each other, this is exactly where my next shot is headed.”

The Aga Khan nodded his head.