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?”

“We came here looking for Rayburn. He’s the one who put together the hunt for Hannibal ’s mysterious weapon. Once the weapon was found and made ready for modern use, everyone associated with it was killed, by an al-Qaeda assassin.”

“Or kidnapped. Emir might still be alive,” said Jillian.

“Fine,” replied Harvath, “but it’s no coincidence that both the Aga Khan and Rayburn are known to be in this village. The Aga Khan is the Shia connection, and Khalid Alomari is the Sunni. All of the al-Qaeda are Sunni.”

“What’s the difference, though? They’re all Muslims.”

“That’s not the way the Sunnis see it. To a good number of them, the Shia are even worse than Western infidel Christians. Hard to believe, isn’t it?” said Harvath. “Even holier-than-thou Muslim terrorists are prejudiced against other followers of Islam, but at this point nothing surprises me anymore when it comes to these people. As far as I’m concerned, there are only two kinds of Muslims in the world-good ones and bad ones. Other than that, I really don’t care. That’s not my department.”

“I still don’t understand why the distinction is important.”

“Most of the terrorism, “He tried to explain, “all that militant, radical fundamentalist Wahhabi crap out of Saudi Arabia, is Sunni. The only major Shia problem out there is the Iranians.”

“But if they all follow Islam, where does the acrimony come from?”

“Simple,” said Harvath. “Thirteen hundred years ago, the Prophet Muhammad died without leaving a will.”

“I don’t get it.”

Harvath turned up the air conditioning and said, “During his time, the Prophet Muhammad had created his own earthly kingdom or caliphate. After his death, his successors were known as caliphs, and it was their job to lead the worldwide Muslim community, or ummah. But after the fourth caliph, Ali, was assassinated in 661, a schism erupted between the Sunni and the Shia. The Sunnis believe that Muhammad had intended for the Muslim community to choose a successor, or caliph, by consensus to lead the caliphate, while the Shia believe that Muhammad had chosen his son-in-law, Ali, as his successor and that only the descendents of Ali and his wife, Fatima, were entitled to rule.”

“But what does any of this have to do with the Aga Khan?”

“Now we start drifting into the realm of the very interesting,” said Harvath as he signaled to change lanes. “The Aga Khan, as I’ve said, is Shia, and the Shia have a very esoteric interpretation of the Koran. They believe that beneath the explicit and literal levels is another level entirely, and it is on that level that all of the secrets of the universe are contained.”

“Including scientific secrets?” asked Jillian, anticipating where he was going.

“Yes, including scientific secrets.”

“What’s the likelihood that he was involved with the organization Emir was working for?”

“The Islamic Institute for Science and Technology?” replied Harvath. “Anything is possible. It takes a lot of money to fund the expeditions they were engaged in, and the Aga Khan has lots and lots of money. Not only that, but the specific type of expeditions they were conducting would fit very nicely with the Shia interpretation of the Koran.”