Brad Thor - Blowback

“First, we’re going to check in with my Wal-Mart connection. It sounds like we may have just caught a break.”

Jillian didn’t bother asking him to explain.

Harvath depressed the hook switch on his phone and dialed Nick Kampos’s cell phone on Cyprus. When the man answered, it was obvious that Harvath had awakened him from a sound sleep. “Nick, it’s Scot. I got a message you were trying to reach me.”

“Jesus, Harvath. What time is it?” asked the groggy DEA agent.

“Almost five A.M. your time. What do you have for me?”

“I posted a message on that web site bulletin board thing like you asked, but I didn’t hear back from you. Don’t you ever check your messages?”

“In all fairness, Nick, I’ve been kind of busy.”

“Well, so have I,” said Kampos. “I think I may have a lead for you on Rayburn.”

Harvath gripped the phone tighter. “What is it?”

“Hold on a second, “He grumbled as he covered the mouthpiece of his phone and coughed several times, trying to get his lungs started before he returned and said, “I contacted a guy we use occasionally and gave him that e-mail address you called me with.”

“And?”

“Apparently, your guy Rayburn wanted to look as authentic as possible with his bogus archeology foundation, so using a hotmail-style e-mail account on his business cards, which would have been nearly impossible to trace, was out of the question. He had to purchase the domain name he wanted, and then he set up his e-mail account through some cheapo filipo ISP. And he did all of that with a Visa debit card.”

“That’s great. Were you able to get any information on the account holder? A mailing address or something?”

“Nope. The information trail on the account holder ends at a bank in Malta. Without a warrant, I couldn’t get any further than that.”

Harvath was disappointed, but said, “Thanks, Nick. I appreciate you trying.”

“What the hell’s the matter with you? Do you think I would have left all those cryptic messages with your boss-knowing full well you were in the doghouse-if I didn’t have something more for you than that? I said the account holder’s information trail ended at the bank in Malta, but the financial trail keeps going.”

“How far?”

“According to my source, whoever has that credit card has recently been using it in a town in the Rhône Valley of Switzerland, about an hour and a half outside Geneva, called Le Râleur.”

“How recently?”

“As recently as last night.”

Harvath tore the sheet off the top of his notepad and asked, “Can you fax me the list of exact places in Le Râleur?”

“Why not?” he grunted. “I’m up anyway.”

“Thanks, Nick. I owe you another dinner.”

“You owe me a hell of a lot more than dinner, but that’ll be a start.”

Harvath thanked his friend again, then hung up the phone and turned to Jillian. “We’ve got a lead on Rayburn.”

“Where is he?” she replied.

“In some town in Switzerland called Le Râleur. Ring any bells?”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Neither have I,” said Harvath.

“So what’s our plan?”

“First we need to find a courier service to get those tissue samples back to the States. Then we’ll need an Internet café where I can post an update for Gary.”

“And then?” she asked.

“Then we need to figure out how we’re going to get into Switzerland.”

“I take it we’re not going to be driving.”

“Not with an Interpol Red Notice out on us. It’s one thing driving over the border between EU countries, but going into Switzerland is completely different. They check everybody.”

“Trains and planes will be out as well then. What does that leave us?”

“Not what,” said Harvath, as reluctant as he was to go back to Kalachka for more help, “but who.”

It was just before noon when Harvath and Alcott, dressed in the new clothes they had purchased before leaving Milan, drove into the lakeside town of Como and abandoned Khalild Alomari’s black BMW on a quiet side street. From here on out, Ozan Kalachka would be handling their transportation.

Harvath had been to Como only once before. He and Meg had stayed at the famous Villa d’Este for an entire week. It had been one of the most extravagant vacations he had ever taken. As he and Jillian now killed time strolling the lakeshore, admiring the lavish villas and lush bougainvillea, he couldn’t help but remember the time he had spent there with Meg.

Shortly before their appointed rendezvous with Kalachka’s man, Harvath entered the tiny café overlooking the water and conducted a quick security sweep. He didn’t like to walk into any place he didn’t know how to walk out of. Once he was convinced everything was okay, he signaled Jillian and she came inside and joined him at a table. Fifteen minutes later, a middle-aged Italian with a pencil-thin mustache and a copy of the International Herald Tribune tucked under his right arm entered the café and looked around.

Kalachka’s description of Harvath must have been very good, as the Italian zeroed right in on him. So much for Harvath’s copy of the International Herald Tribune which he had folded open at the sports section and left in a predetermined corner of the table. Judging from the man’s white linen blazer and pastel-colored silk trousers, subtlety was not one of his strong suits. At least the man stuck to the script Harvath had established with Kalachka when he approached their table and said in slightly accented English, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but didn’t we meet last summer in Tremezzo? You and your wife were staying at the Grand Hotel, no?”

“Actually, we were at the San Giorgio.”

“Ah sì, it was the San Giorgio,” said the man as he motioned to one of the empty chairs and Harvath invited him to sit down. Once the waiter had taken his order and disappeared, the Italian introduced himself. “My name is Marco, “He said as he extended his hand and shook both Harvath’s and Aloctt’s. “I am at your disposal.”

Harvath got right to the point. “Our mutual friend explained what we need?”

“Of course, and it’s no problem,” replied Marco, waving his hand dismissively.

The man was a little too relaxed for Harvath’s taste. Leaning across the table and fixing him with his eyes, he said, “This is serious. I expect it to go off without a hitch. No problems at all. Do you understand?’

“Sì, sì. This is why I said no problem. Getting out of Italy is much easier than getting in. If your trip was reversed, then I would be concerned.”

Somehow, Harvath had trouble believing that. “Why is that?”

“Because you are crossing over into the Swiss province of Ticino, and Ticino has legalized marijuana. It’s the new Amsterdam. Many Americans haven’t heard of it, but it is well known by the Italians. Not only is cannabis legal in Ticino, but it is also much higher quality than what can be found throughout this country. Call it reefer madness, but everyone who smokes wants their marijuana from Ticino. The Italian border guards have their hands full trying to search as many cars and motor scooters as possible coming back into Italy via our local border crossing with Switzerland.”

“What about Swiss border guards and going in?”

Again, the Italian waved his hand in the air. “We never see them, except at the crossing itself. There’s about fifteen kilometers of chain-link fence defining the border between Italy and Switzerland with holes cut through it all along. I could drop you at the edge of the forest and you would actually be able to find arrows spray-painted on the trees to lead you in the right direction.”