Blowback

by Brad Thor

  His exit from the Aga Khan’s chambers blocked by the collapsed ceiling, he used a nearby chair to bat the blazing curtains away from the window. Once he had them clear, he pulled his hand up into his shirt-sleeve and used it to unlock the hinged windows and push them open.

  The burst of fresh air only doubled the fire’s intensity, and the raging inferno clawed for any hold it could get on his body as Harvath rolled out the window.

  Once on the slippery Spanish tile roof, he moved as far away from the source of the fire as he could. Looking up, he not only saw the rest of the motorgliders circling overhead, most likely awaiting instructions on where they could safely land, but he also saw Ozan Kalachka’s helicopter as it steadily rose in the mountain air. Unfortunately, the MP7 slung across his back was made for close-quarters battle. There was no way he could hit the helicopter from this distance.

  Down on the patio beneath him, Harvath saw a large plastic case, which most likely contained the shoulder-fired missile spotted during his surveillance flight, but it was also useless. Even if he could get to it in time and pull it out, the sky above was filled with friendly aircraft. Any miscue, and the missile could lock onto a latent heat signature from one of the motorgliders and more innocent people would die. That was something Harvath couldn’t live with.

  The only thought he could find to console himself with as he climbed down from the roof was that he had a pretty good idea of where Kalachka was headed, and if he moved fast enough, he just might be able to catch him.

  EIGHTY

  W hen Harvath finally made it to the ground floor, he discovered that whatever Rayburn had done between escaping from Horst Schroeder and confronting him in the Aga Khan’s chambers, he hadn’t told his men they were under attack.

  Still believing that Harvath and his team were on their side, the Aga Khan’s security personnel had carried Schroeder outside, and one of the men who’d had previous training as a military medic was busy tending to his wounds. The rest of the men were busy trying to put out the fire that was quickly sweeping through the complex.

  Picking up Schroeder’s radio from where the medic had neatly stacked the wounded man’s gear, Harvath walked away from the security people and was able to contact the rest of the team. He ordered the men in the village to subdue the canton police and proceed on up via the funicular. He then ordered the motorgliders back to Sion International and told Claudia to get a medical chopper up to Aiglemont to evacuate Schroeder ASAP.

  Hearing the chatter across the radio, Silo One’s pilot walked across the narrow meadow and joined Harvath, quietly accepting Schroeder’s. 40 Sig Sauer pistol, just in case the Aga Khan’s men figured out they’d been duped and things got unfriendly. With Rayburn crushed beneath the burning ceiling on the monastery’s second floor, Harvath had few concerns about that coming to pass.

  The first of the Stern commandos were climbing off the funicular twenty minutes later when the medical chopper arrived. After helping Harvath and Silo One’s pilot load Schroeder, along with the bodies of Gösser and Emir Tokay, into the helicopter, the commandos casually strolled past all the men fighting the blazing inferno and rode the funicular back down to the village.

  On board the chopper, the medics stabilized Schroeder, treated the burns Harvath had suffered, then helped clean and redress the head wound of Silo One’s pilot. Harvath learned the man’s name was Wilhelm, and that in addition to motorgliders, when he wasn’t flying as a Swiss Air Force reservist, his area of expertise was private, long-haul business jets.

  When asked if he was rated on the Cessna Citation X, Wilhelm smiled and nodded his head. Somehow, he knew exactly what Harvath was thinking. “They’ll want us to file a flight plan, you know.”

  Harvath didn’t care. With all the turmoil caused by the fire at Château Aiglemont, it would be days before the Aga Khan’s pilots knew that their boss’s plane had been stolen.

  As the Cessna Citation X raced toward Saudi Arabia at Mach .92, nearly the speed of sound, Harvath wondered how many sand dunes he was going to have to look behind before he finally found Ozan Kalachka. He knew the man had to be somewhere inside the desert kingdom. The only questions were where and would Harvath be able to get to him in time.

  For her part, Jillian seemed more concerned with Scot’s condition than the condition of the ancient documents, which he repeatedly apologized for letting get damaged in the fire.

  With no time for anything but the preflight check before they left, Jillian scrounged what she could from the galley—some crackers, a wheel of Brie, two jars of Caspian caviar, and a bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water—and brought it to him.

  Harvath ate what little there was and then tried to concentrate on how the hell he was going to get the aircraft cleared to land in Saudi Arabia and avoid customs. He didn’t know anyone with any pull in the kingdom. Regardless of any potential fallout, it was time for him to contact Gary Lawlor directly.

  While Jillian studied the pages retrieved from Château Aiglemont, Harvath used the jet’s onboard telephone to contact DC. He caught Lawlor on his encrypted cell phone and launched into everything that had happened.

  “Claudia Mueller is going to be in some hot water with her superiors, “Lawlor remarked.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Harvath. “Kalachka’s the one who pulled strings with his contacts in the Swiss government to get the rescue operation approved.”

  “Either way, they still lost an operator and Tokay.”

  Harvath squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and fore-finger. “I know. “He didn’t want to think about what happened at Aiglemont, and how he had been conned by Ozan Kalachka. “What about the Whitcombs? Have they had any luck with the tissue samples we sent back?”

  “DNA takes a long time to analyze, and ancient DNA even longer. But we’ve got an even bigger problem on our hands.”

  “What’s happening now?”

  “The virus, the illness—whatever you want to call it—has turned up here.”

  “In the United States,” said Harvath. “How?”

  “We’re still investigating. It seems to have originated with a grocer in Michigan who imports Muslim foods for his mail-order business.”

  “How many people are infected?”

  “Only a handful that we know of, and they’re quarantined, of course. But this thing is about to explode,” replied Lawlor. “Listen, Scot. The president has initiated the Campfire Protocol—we’re running out of time.”

  Harvath didn’t want to believe what he had just heard, but he had worked in the White House long enough to know that the president probably had no choice. The illness had to be contained, and if they discovered nuking entire cities was the only way to do it, Rutledge would be left with no other choice. “Do they already have strike aircraft aloft?”

  “They do. If this thing starts gaining ground and the USAMRIID and CDC teams can’t pen it in, then they’re going to go for ultimate containment.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “There’s no way of knowing.”

  “Well, if I can track down Kalachka, maybe we can head this thing off. Ultimately, he’s the only person left with the answers,” said Harvath.

  “I agree, but you have no idea where he is.”

  “We’re going to need help. We’ll have to reach out to somebody inside the kingdom—somebody we can trust. Somebody who can get us in with no customs and no questions and then help us get the information we need.”

  Lawlor thought about it for a moment and then responded, “I think I might know the right person. Give me about twenty minutes and I’ll call you back.”

  Harvath hung up the phone and poured another glass of mineral water. The smoke and heat from the fire had made him thirsty as hell. Turning to Jillian, who was still examining the documents that had been taken from Tokay when the Aga Khan had him kidnapped, he asked, “Have you been able to find anything helpful in there?”

  “Maybe,” she said as she reread a p
assage from one of the folios. “Apparently, whatever the vaccine is, it works even after the onset of symptoms. Other than that, the rest of it just confirms what we already knew or suspected. Hannibal did in fact manage to secure a copy of the Arthashastra. He was fascinated with the Azemiops feae viper and the potency of its venom. The Carthaginians conducted countless experiments, combining derivatives of the venom with other chemical and biological components until they finally settled on rabies as the most deadly complement.”

  “That makes sense, but how were they able to come up with a vaccine for it?”

  “Probably by knowing the weapon’s key components.”

  “Azemiops feae venom and rabies. Big deal,” responded Harvath. “We know that too, yet we’re no closer to uncovering a vaccine than we were when this whole thing started.”

  “What the Carthaginians knew was the actual type of each component. They would have known how the venom was extracted and if anything else along the way was done to refine it. They also would have been dealing with a form of rabies that was current during their day.”

  “But even knowing the key components, how did they make the leap to an actual vaccine?”

  Alcott set down the parchment she was studying and said, “Man has always been fascinated not only with what kills, but also with what cures. Pliny the Elder, a Roman who was one of the foremost authorities on science in the ancient world, claimed that resin from giant fennel and a type of laurel known as purple spurge were effective at curing wounds caused by envenomed arrows.”

  Harvath remembered reading something to that effect in Vanessa Whitcomb’s office. Nodding his head, he listened as Jillian continued.

  “In the ancient world, it was common knowledge that people who lived in areas plagued with venomous creatures such as snakes and scorpions often developed some degree of immunity due to their constant exposure. Some believed that the breath or saliva of these people could cure venomous bites in anyone. In fact, there was a tribe in North Africa known as the Psylli who were so immune to snake bites and scorpion stings that their saliva was considered the wonder drug of its day. It was, in essence, one of the first forms of antivenin.”

  “Do you actually think human saliva was part of Hannibal’s vaccine?”

  “It’s possible, but not very likely if it had to be mass-produced to protect his entire army. More than likely, the antivenin portion of the cure was created in nature somehow.”

  “Created how?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Carthaginians had discovered a way to expose livestock to a form of the venom and extract antivenin—much the same way we do today with sheep and horses.”

  “And the rabies component of the cure?”

  “We used to grow inactive rabies virus in duck eggs. These days we grow it in human cells in a laboratory, but considering what fifth-century B.C. Scythians knew about separating human blood plasma for use in their toxins, who’s to say the Carthaginians didn’t discover a similar method? The bottom line is that they were masterful at manipulating their environment and the world around them. We can’t underestimate any discoveries they might have made.”

  It wasn’t that Harvath didn’t agree with her, he did, but that didn’t change the fact that they were no closer to discovering a way to head this thing off. If they didn’t catch some sort of break and catch it very soon, a lot of people were going to start dying.

  Ten minutes later, the onboard telephone rang and Harvath picked it up. Gary Lawlor’s voice was on the other end. “I got hold of somebody who is going to get your plane cleared to land.”

  “Good.”

  “He’s also got something I want you to check out. We may have a break in the case.”

  EIGHTY-ONE

  W ESTIN E MBASSY R OW H OTEL

  W ASHINGTON , DC

  I f the tone of his message didn’t alert Senator Carmichael that he had news worth celebrating, then Brian Turner’s choice of a four-star hotel for their next meeting definitely should have. As an added extravagance, he had booked them into the eighth-floor suite that former Vice President Al Gore grew up in when his father was in the Senate and a cousin of theirs owned the hotel. He hoped the significance of their surroundings wouldn’t be lost on her.

  After arriving early to check in and make sure the room was in order, Turner headed downstairs to the hotel’s Fairfax Lounge for a cocktail. Though he could have gone for a third martini, he made good on his promise to only have two. The senator had not been happy with the condition she had found him in the last time they met, although she did warm up considerably when he presented the information he had obtained for her. He knew today would be no different, especially with the bombshell he was about to drop, but he wanted to have a reasonably clear head when he did. Knowing Helen, she was going to be in the mood for champagne and would probably want to spend an hour or two in the sack before running with the dossier he had put together on the president’s personal covert action team.

  When Carmichael arrived, she was all business. “You must have something pretty big to call me out of my office in the middle of the day,” said the senator as she brushed past the young CIA man and entered the luxuriously appointed suite.

  “Nice to see you too, “He said as he closed the door behind her and crossed over to the minibar. “How about a drink?”

  “I’ve got a floor vote in forty-five minutes, Brian. Why don’t we cut to the chase? Tell me what I’m doing here.”

  She was one hell of a ballbuster, that was for sure, but she was Turner’s ticket to the big leagues, and he tried to keep that in mind as he said, “You think you’d show a little more appreciation to the person who was about to hand you the vice presidency of the United States on a silver platter.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “On the desk, “He replied, nodding in the direction of a gift-wrapped package.

  Carmichael walked over and picked up the box. Sliding the red satin ribbon off, she lifted the lid and found a plain manila folder inside. “What’s this?” she asked.

  Turner picked up the room-service menu and flipped to the wine list. “Open it and see, “He said over his shoulder.

  The senator sat down at the desk and began reading. “How the hell did you get hold of this?”

  “I told you before. I’m very good at my job.”

  “Brian, you’re better than good. This is absolutely incredible. This is going to knock Jack Rutledge out of the White House so fast, there’ll be skid marks down Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  “How about champagne? Should I have room service send up a bottle?”

  “You have them send up anything you want.”

  “Cristal it is,” said Turner as he reached for the phone to place the order.

  Carmichael continued to read. “There’s enough here to launch twenty years’ worth of hearings. “The senator was so excited, she could barely contain herself. “It will take me days just to figure out whether I should drop the whole thing or leak parts of it in dribs and drabs until it reaches such a critical mass that Rutledge and his people will be drawing hot baths and fighting over the razor blades.”

  Turner had known the minute he uncovered the information that his position in Carmichael’s cabinet was all but assured. Now, as she set down the folder and walked over to him, the red satin ribbon dangling seductively from her hand, he knew it was a lock. “When the press asks me where I got my information,” she said, unbuckling his belt, “how am I to explain such a fortuitous discovery?”

  “You’ll tell them it came from a source that was sick of seeing Jack Rutledge mismanage this country’s assets and flagrantly flaunting his disregard for the Constitution and the body of laws that make America great.”

  “That’s quite a mouthful,” said Carmichael as she dropped to her knees and unzipped his fly.

  As she did, the room-service operator came on the line and Turner told her he would have to call back.

  In the next room, one of the FBI surv
eillance agents sitting next to Gary Lawlor removed his headphones, pushed himself away from the video monitor, and said, “Now this scandal has everything. Including its own deep throat.”

  EIGHTY-TWO

  R IYADH , S AUDI A RABIA

  I nstead of landing at the commercial King Khalid International Airport, Harvath was instructed to head for the Riyadh Air Base, where he wouldn’t have to worry about clearing customs.

  As the plane made its final approach, Harvath looked out the window next to him. Despite all of the trouble that had come out of Saudi Arabia, he marveled at its capital city. Translated from Arabic, Riyadh literally meant “the Gardens,” and it was an appropriate name. Situated in the Central Province’s Hanifa Valley, Riyadh was not the city of sand which many pictured it to be. Instead it was lush and green, punctuated with an abundance of beautiful parks. Established as an ancient walled city along a historical trade route between Iran and the holy city of Mecca, Riyadh’s location, like that of most of the major cities in Saudi Arabia, was selected because of its proximity to a source of fresh water, and Harvath couldn’t help but wonder if that water had anything to do with what they were looking for.

  After the plane had landed, the pilots taxied to a large parking revetment and shut down the engines. Despite the fact that they were in the shade, when Harvath opened the forward door and lowered the staircase, the heat from outside was like getting hit in the face by a blast furnace. It was easily well over a hundred and ten degrees.

  Summer in the sandbox, Harvath thought to himself as he and Alcott made their way down the stairs and over to the Toyota Land Cruiser that was waiting for them. Remembering all the miserable conditions he had to endure as a SEAL, he didn’t miss his days of operating in this part of the world at all.

  As they approached the car, the first thing Harvath noticed was a cluster of bullet holes along the rear quarter-panel. Running his finger over them, he tried to gauge their caliber.