Brad Thor - Blowback

“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?”

“We found Tokay, but he’s dead now. We were waiting for you when the helicopter landed. The fat man said you called him.”

It was true, Harvath had called him, but he had never expected Kalachka to show up. He really had underestimated him.

“He knew Tokay by name and asked if he was all right,” continued Schroeder, coughing from the smoke and the blood that had pooled in his lungs. “He offered to load him into the helicopter, so we could go help you. We should have been more careful.”

No, Harvath thought to himself, I should have been there with you.

“The moment we got within range of the helicopter, his men began shooting at us,” continued Schroeder. “Tokay was killed instantly. He never had a chance. Gösser’s dead as well.”

Harvath felt sick and beyond angry with himself as the news sliced right through him. The whole reason they were here was to rescue Tokay, and they had failed. He had failed. He had allowed himself to get distracted from their primary objective, and because of it, two men had died and their mission was a failure. “You’re going to be okay, “He said as he pulled down a tapestry, folded it, and pressed it against Schroeder’s chest as a compression bandage. If Schroeder died, not only would Claudia never forgive him, but he’d never forgive himself. This hadn’t been Schroeder’s fight. He had come to help, and already one of his men was killed. Harvath owed it to him to make sure he and the rest of his team got out of there alive.

“What about Rayburn?” Harvath asked as he laid Schroeder’s arm over the tapestry. “What happened to him?”

“Gone. The minute the shooting started, he disappeared.”

“What about the remote? Did you try to detonate the device he was wearing?”

Schroeder shook his head. “By the time I knew what was happening, he was out of range. “Sliding the remote from his pocket, he handed it to Harvath and said, “Here. He’s all yours.”

As much as Harvath wanted to chase after Rayburn and Kalachka to make them pay for what they had done, he needed to get the parchments and folios scattered across the Aga Khan’s desk. There was no telling what they might be able to learn from them.