Blowback

FIFTY-NINE

It 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 weatherworn 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 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.