Harvath’s head was reeling. “Without knowing how they are inoculating the Sunni, how the hell can we stop them?”

“You can’t,” said a voice from the other end of the room.

The Aga Khan recognized the voice immediately. “Akrep, “He said as the color drained from his face.

SEVENTY-EIGHT

Watching the man as he crossed the room, Harvath now realized that the helicopter he had heard belonged neither to Claudia Mueller nor to the Aga Khan but to someone else who apparently had business at Château Aiglemont.

“I was right,” said Harvath as one of Ozan Kalachka’s two bodyguards stripped him of his weapons. “Everything does have its price with you, even friendship.”

“This isn’t about friendship,” replied Kalachka.

“I’m also willing to bet that this isn’t about your nephew either.”

Kalachka smiled. “Nephew? I don’t have any nephew.”

Harvath had underestimated the man yet again.

“I needed to find Tokay, and I knew you would lead me right to him,” said Kalachka.

“Why me? Why not Alomari?”

“Assassins have their place in this world, but he lacked your investigative skills. He also lacked the proper motivation. Not only is your entire country at risk, but someone you bore a serious grudge against was involved as well.”

“Rayburn.”

“Exactly. It all came together to form the perfect combination. I knew no matter what, you would find Emir Tokay for me.”

“But then why did you send Alomari to kill me?”

“I didn’t. In fact, when Alomari missed getting to Tokay before his kidnapping, I terminated his employment. Had he done his job, I never would have needed your services.”

“He found us in London, though.”

“He found you because he tortured the information about Dr. Alcott out of my colleague, Gökhan Celik. By going after Ms. Alcott and Emir Tokay, Alomari was trying to get himself back into my good graces.”

“Well, now that you’ve found Tokay, what do you intend to do with him?”

Kalachka looked at Harvath and smiled. “I’ve already done it. He’s dead.”

Without his radio, there was no way Harvath could contact Schroeder and verify whether or not he’d found Tokay, much less if he’d found the man alive. Glancing at his Kobold, Harvath realized that if Schroeder’s part of the operation had gone according to plan, he and Gösser would have already gotten to Tokay and moved him outside.

“So now that the last scientist has been silenced, you can set your sights on starting your own personal revolution, is that it?”

“It has already started, “He said, pointing to the television set behind the Aga Khan’s desk.

Harvath turned and saw scenes of small groups of young men throwing stones and bottles at Saudi police. It looked like a scene from Gaza or the West Bank. “That? That’s your revolution? Those are just kids.”

“And they’re just the beginning. They think the U.S. has convinced the Saudi monarchy to round up all their spiritual leaders and put them on trial. Those kids, as you put it, are going to cause so much trouble on the streets of Riyadh that the Saudi Monarchy will have no choice but to come to the table and meet with the Wahhabi leadership. They will beg the Wahhabis to put an end to the rioting. That’s when the real revolution will be ignited.”

Harvath looked at him. “Then what, you’ll have your Wahhabis bump off the leading members of the Royal Family? Is that how you’re going to start it?”

“Quite the opposite, actually. Killing the most prominent members of the Saudi Royal Family wouldn’t cause outrage in the streets; in fact, people would be dancing for joy. Instead, the Royal Family is going to kill the top members of the Wahhabi leadership. I think that will prove much more effective.”

Saudi Arabia was a religious powder keg, and Kalachka was playing with a terrifying book of matches. Killing the Wahhabi leadership would send much of the country into a furor. Even a hint that the Royal Family had something to do with the killings would guarantee rioting the likes of which the Middle East and the world had never seen. “That’s it then,” said Harvath. “You’ve wrapped up all your loose ends.”

“Not exactly,” said Kalachka as he withdrew a pistol. “There’s one last thing I have to do. “Pointing it at the Aga Khan, he pulled the trigger.

The powerful bullet entered squarely between the man’s eyes and knocked him over backward in his chair. Bloody pink pieces of brain and scalp spattered onto the ceiling and covered one of the walls.

As Kalachka turned to look at him, Harvath prepared for the worst.

“Despite what you might think, I still do value our friendship,” said the man. “And to that end, I will offer you a final chance to live. Come with me. Work for me. I’ll make you wealthier and more powerful than you could ever imagine. Of course, you’ll have to convert to Islam, but believe me, it’s a small price to pay for the riches that await you.”

Harvath looked at the man as if he was insane. “Are you kidding?”

“I couldn’t be more serious. My plane is waiting right now. Come with me and watch history being made.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” replied Harvath. “I’m not interested.”

Not a man who agonized over decisions, Ozan Kalachka raised his pistol and said, “Suit yourself.”

Though Kalachka had an advantage because he was holding the pistol, Harvath had something he didn’t-a clear view of the front of the room.

Immediately, Scot dove for the ground as Horst Schroeder stumbled through the doorway, bleeding from several gunshot wounds, and began firing at Kalachka and his two bodyguards.

Soon rounds were flying everywhere, and Harvath clasped his hands above his head to protect against the hunks of plaster and stone that were being blown away from the mantelpiece above him. He quickly realized that not only were Kalachka and his men trying to take out Schroeder, they were shooting at him as well. Without any sort of weapon, Harvath was absolutely defenseless.

Hiding behind the upended club chair the Aga Khan had been sitting in, Harvath heard another series of rounds make contact with the wall and fireplace behind him and then felt a searing pain in his calf. At first he thought he’d been hit by a ricochet, but as his hand raced to his leg, he realized it wasn’t a bullet at all. Several of the fireplace logs had rolled out into the room.

When Harvath kicked the flaming pieces of wood away, one of the logs rolled up against a curtain and set the heavy velvet drapery ablaze. With the bullets still flying, there was nothing he could do to stop it. From the curtains it was only a short jump to the Aga Khan’s stacks of books, and within the blink of an eye, almost half the room was on fire. Harvath knew he couldn’t stay where he was.

Just as he was about to sneak from behind the cover of the overturned leather club chair, he saw a pair of heavy black boots stumbling in his direction. They were followed by the silenced muzzle of an automatic weapon, and before Harvath could react, its owner was right on top of him.

Horst Schroeder literally collapsed at Harvath’s feet, his chest heaving for air. The man was suffering not only from multiple gunshot wounds, but the early stages of smoke inhalation as well. Taking his weapon, Harvath strained to look through the smoke to see if anyone else was advancing in their direction.

“Dead,” said Schroeder, his voice hoarse. “All except for one.”

“Which one?” asked Harvath as he looked around again and tried to get a fix on whoever was left.

“The fat one. He’s gone.”

The flames were getting hotter. They had to get out of there. “Can you walk?”

Schroeder weakly shook his head no.

Slinging the weapon over his shoulder, Harvath reached his arms around the Stern commando’s chest and dragged him toward the hallway. Once outside, he could hear men shouting and running up the stairs at the other end. Rayburn’s men. Were they coming because of the fire? Or had they been unleashed to kill? “Horst,” said Harvath as he tried to get the commando’s attention. The man was having trouble breathing. “What happened downstairs?”