by Brad Thor
Per standard practice, none of the Taliban commanders attending the meeting had known its exact location until shortly before the meeting was scheduled to take place. They had many things to discuss, but the most important was their spring offensive.
The Taliban had successfully placed a noose around Kabul, and the readiness status of their forces was excellent, but their infrastructure and the condition of their military equipment was quite poor. The Russians and several other countries covertly supported their cause, but were only willing to supply so much. If they flooded Afghanistan with hardware and other things that could be traced back to them, they risked the wrath of the United States government and its allies.
Most of the commanders were pessimistic about what they were going to be able to do with the limited resources they had at hand. Opium eradication in Afghanistan had been stepped up dramatically, and that meant their main source of revenue had been just as dramatically stepped down. If they were to have any long-term success, they needed more money to buy more equipment and to train more fighters. Without a major infusion of cash, all their achievements of the last several years would be for naught.
None of this was news to Massoud. In fact, he’d been one of the first commanders to see it coming, but the other commanders wouldn’t listen to him. The poppy crops had produced so much money for so long and the Americans had been so halfhearted in their attempts to stem the flow that they thought they had a license to print money that would never expire.
As their circumstances started to erode, so did their blind faith in Mullah Omar. His empty promises and unwise alliance with bin Laden and his Arab al-Qaeda would be his ultimate undoing.
Massoud knew something that no one else in the room but Simonov did. Soon things were going to change. While the other commanders complained and worried about the progress of the spring offensive, Massoud had looked beyond it. He had seen a new future for Afghanistan and he was quietly confident in the resurgence the Taliban was going to achieve under his command.
His optimistic mood, though, did not last long. During a break in the meeting, Massoud and Simonov learned that Mustafa Khan was no longer a resident of Policharki. The talk was that he had been moved to another, more secure facility.
The two men were well aware of how the Afghan grapevine worked. Every piece of information was normally inflated as each person in the chain exaggerated his involvement or knowledge of the topic to make himself look more important and better informed. The Taliban commander and his Russian colleague would have been considerably more heartened if the “news” had been of a full blown escape rather than a transfer. If the Afghan government had indeed moved Khan to a more secure facility, it would mean the Americans would have a much tougher job on their hands.
While Massoud didn’t particularly care how difficult the task was for them, he was dependent upon their success. Mustafa Khan was the key not only to the Taliban’s ridding itself of al-Qaeda, but also to its being able to drive the American and other international troops out of the country so they could retake complete and final control of Afghanistan.
When they returned to Massoud’s compound it was shortly before sunrise. Most of the men were already saying their dawn prayers.
To help him stay both warm and awake in Surobi, the Taliban commander had consumed large quantities of tea. Though he had urinated before leaving, he had refused to allow any stops on the way back, even for himself. Combined with the hour at which the meeting had finally ended he was not only late for prayers, he also needed to urinate again most urgently.
Stepping out of the vehicle, Mullah Massoud shooed away one of his lieutenants eager to speak with him and headed for the compound’s rudimentary toilet facilities.
After relieving himself, the Taliban commander performed his ablutions and then hurried to his quarters for his prayer rug. Upon opening the door to the main room, he was quite surprised to find his brother, Zwak, leading the four village elders in prayer. His pride was quite apparent, as the volume of his voice was much louder than it should have been.
Massoud removed his shoes and stepped quietly inside. After retrieving his prayer rug, he respectfully laid it on the floor and prostrated himself toward Mecca.
He followed the prayers until their completion and then greeted the elders and his brother. Stepping away for a moment, he opened his door and found his lieutenant waiting for him. The man’s message was no longer urgent now that the commander had discovered the village elders waiting for him.
Massoud sent the lieutenant for tea and stepped back inside. The room was colder than it should have been and Massoud realized that in his excitement over the visit from the elders, Zwak had forgotten to turn on the heat. Approaching the propane heater in the corner, the Taliban commander took down a box of matches and got it going.
He was tired and not much in the mood to deal with village politics, but he had no choice. Undoubtedly, the elders needed something important from him and had appeared at such an early hour in the hopes that their request would magically jump to the top of his list.
Though he was annoyed to see them, he knew his place. He might be the most powerful man in the village, but it was necessary that he respect the elders. They provided him and his men with cover and that was very valuable. The quality of his life was directly proportional to how content the elders were.
Though Massoud had tried a long time ago to force communication to go through his lieutenants, the elders hadn’t gone for it. They would deal with no one but him and him directly. It could be an incredible distraction at times, but it was also a sign of great respect, and respect was a two-way street.
The men made small talk about the weather, how deep the snows had been, and the relatively strong grip the cold still held on their valley, especially at night. Once the tea came, Zwak played host and made sure everyone was well taken care of before he saw to himself.
When they had been served, Baseer, the chief elder, explained why they had come. Upon mention of the American woman, Zwak’s mouth spread into a broad smile, revealing several of his missing teeth. “Doktar. Doktar,” he sang as he brought his hands together.
Massoud motioned for him to be quiet. Baseer waited until Zwak had calmed down before continuing. “Zwak,” he said, addressing him directly. “Did you strike someone with your rifle yesterday?”
The man’s smile faded and a confused expression fell across his face. He looked around the room for his rifle like a child suddenly gripped by the fear that a cherished blanket or stuffed animal had disappeared.
Spotting his rifle, Zwak visibly relaxed and turned back to face the elder. As the man was about to repeat the question, Mullah Massoud stepped in and came to his brother’s defense. “What are you talking about?”
Baseer recounted his meeting with Elam Badar from the previous evening and how his son Asadoulah’s jaw had allegedly been broken.
“Why did he not come to discuss this with me?” demanded Massoud.
“You are a Taliban commander,” replied the elder. “Elam Badar is a farmer. It is understandable that he came to speak to us first.”
The Taliban commander shook his head. “This should have been settled between us like fathers, but he did not have the courage to come to me. What else did he say?”
Baseer shrugged. “This was his primary concern.”
Massoud laughed. “He spoke of nothing else? He attempted to build no further case against my brother?”
Seconds passed before the elder spoke. “He did raise concern over Zwak’s behavior in the past.”
“What kind of behavior?”
“His aggressive behavior.”
“Aggressive behavior? That is ridiculous,” scoffed the commander.
Baseer fixed him with a hard stare. “Massoud, you yourself encourage this behavior. You have given him a rifle—”
“Which you know has been specially modified for him.”
“Be that as it may, you are well aware of how he acts toward
people from outside our village. He accuses them of spying or trying to poison our water.”
The commander looked at his brother and smiled. “Because of his hard work, our water is pure and we have not had one spy in our village.”
Zwak, who had grown more agitated as the conversation grew more intense, stared nervously at his brother. “No spies,” he said. “Clean water. Safe water.”
“Do you feel that your brother was the best choice to guard the woman?” asked Baseer.
“In conjunction with the lock upon the door, yes I do,” said Massoud. “He is very attentive and has watched prisoners for us before.”
The elders had all known Zwak since he was a boy. He was just as much a member of their family as he was of Massoud’s. “Zwak is a very important member of our village, and in respect to the well and chasing away spies, he has done a very good job,” offered the elder, careful not to demean Zwak or his powerful brother.
“And he has never harmed anyone,” added Massoud. “Not once. If his behavior frightens people, Elam Badar is the only one complaining. If he is so delicate, maybe he should stay home and tend his children while his wife tends his affairs.”
The commander had paid Elam Badar a very egregious shkanza and the elder was glad the man was not present to have heard the insult uttered. “Maybe we should ask Zwak what happened,” stated Baseer.
Massoud turned to his brother. “Zwak, do you know the boy we are taking about, Asadoulah?”
Zwak nodded and repeated the words, “Bad boy, bad boy,” several times.
“Did you see him yesterday?”
Zwak was frightened and his eyes darted from side to side. Slowly, he nodded.
“Did he come to where you were watching over the American woman?”
“Protecting,” said Zwak, correcting his brother.
It was an odd choice of words, but Massoud had learned long ago that it was easier to communicate with his brother using the words he chose. “Did he come to where you were protecting the American woman?”
Zwak nodded and began repeating the words “bad boy, bad boy,” again.
“Did he make you angry?”
Zwak began to rock back and forth as he nodded.
“What did he do?”
Zwak didn’t want to answer and put his arms around himself as he continued to rock.
Massoud repeated the question. “Zwak, what did he do to make you angry?”
He still wouldn’t answer, and Massoud pushed him by raising his voice.
The mentally challenged man began to cry as his brother pressed the question. “Tell me what happened,” he demanded.
Unable to take it any longer, his eyes filled with tears, Zwak yelled at the top of his lungs, “Unclean! Unclean! Unclean!” and wouldn’t stop.
The commotion brought people running to Massoud’s door, and he ordered them to go away. Standing up, he walked over to the door, bolted it, then came back and put his arm around his brother’s shoulder.
It took more than five minutes for Zwak to calm down and to stop trembling. The only sound in the room came from the hiss of the propane heater and the short, quick gasps of air Zwak took as he tried to stop crying.
“Elam Badar is concerned that someone could inform the authorities about the American woman and that it would be bad for our villages,” Baseer interjected into the relative silence.
Massoud looked up from comforting his brother. “I suspected there was more said during your meeting. It sounds like Elam Badar is threatening us, and it wouldn’t be the first time he has caused trouble. He does not care for the Taliban.”
The elder locked eyes with the commander. “Be that as it may, on this point, his concern may be justified.”
Massoud was getting angrier by the second and fought to keep himself under control. “Elam Badar is a fool. He has no idea what he is talking about.”
“So, we’re wrong to be concerned then? The woman’s presence is no danger to us at all?”
The Taliban commander did not care for the elder’s facetiousness. “If Elam Badar keeps his mouth shut there is no danger, especially to Elam Badar and his village.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Massoud spoke slowly and clearly so that the elder would understand that the topic was no longer open for discussion. “I will worry about Elam Badar. And as far as the woman is concerned, her presence, at least for the time being, is necessary and will also benefit our cause.”
“So you have said, but what exactly is our cause, Massoud?”
It was all the commander could do not to reach out and slap this arrogant old man. Silently, he vowed that he would make Elam Badar pay for his interference. “You know full well what our cause is.”
“I do,” replied Baseer, “but I remain confused about why our cause needs to be intertwined with the Russians.”
“You know why.”
“I know only what you have told me. But regardless, right now we must focus on making compensation to Elam Badar and his family.”
“Compensation,” exclaimed Massoud. “For what?”
“For his son’s broken jaw,” snapped the elder.
“We still don’t even know what happened.”
“We know enough,” replied Baseer, as he rose to his feet and was joined by his three silent colleagues. “I will let you decide what is appropriate, but I want it done quickly. If his grievance is left too long, Elam Badar could become a very serious problem for us—and by us I mean our entire village.
“I am counting on you to do the sensible thing. And I expect you to see that no harm comes to him or his family.”
Massoud embraced the elders, but as soon as they had left the compound he crossed the courtyard to Simonov’s room and pounded on the door.
When the Russian answered, it was obvious he had been sleeping. “What is it?”
“I need you to do something for me,” replied the Taliban commander, “and I need it to look like an accident.”
CHAPTER 22
Though Harvath had slept fitfully, he’d gotten a better night’s sleep than he had expected. He took a hot shower in his meat locker of a bathroom and shaved. After getting dressed, he walked across the courtyard to the dining room.
Opening the door, he bumped into Daniel Fontaine, who had just finished eating and was on his way to see a client. They were in the midst of exchanging greetings when Gallagher yelled, “In or out!” and demanded that the door be shut.
Harvath stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Hoyt and Gallagher were sitting at the table reading the Kabul Daily, which was a stack of pages they had printed off different news, sports, and entertainment websites and stapled together. Both men were wearing reading glasses.
Mei was scrambling eggs in the kitchen and the dining room smelled fantastic. Judging from the tray of fresh croissants on the table, Flower had already been out to the best bakery in Kabul. It was run by an Iranian who Harvath, Gallagher, and Hoyt were convinced was a spy for Iran.
The bakery was a superb front, as it offered every kind of Western-style baked good, including pizza, as well as such other Western products as Gatorade, Doritos, and Hershey’s chocolate. Westerners based in Kabul flocked to the Iranian by the carload. Harvath could only imagine the kinds of relationships the man was building and the level of intel he was gathering from his unsuspecting customers.
Harvath poured himself a mug of coffee and sat down at the table. “I distinctly remember when I checked in,” he said to no one in particular, “requesting a morning paper.”
Gallagher didn’t bother looking up from his reading material. “It wasn’t outside your door this morning?”
“Nope,” replied Harvath as he took a sip of his coffee.
“Damn paperboy. If it’s not in the bushes, it’s up on the roof. Take Hoyt’s.”
Hoyt held up his middle finger in response and kept reading.
“You want an omelet?” asked Mei as she stuck her head out of the kitchen and pointed
a spatula at Harvath.
“Yes, please.”
“He no eat omelet,” Hoyt shouted back at his wife, mimicking her Chinese accent. “He on Continental breakfast plan. One cup coffee. One Iranian bagel. One swift kick in ass out door.”
Mei swore at her husband in Chinese and vanished back into the kitchen.
“If that woman had any sense, she’d leave you,” said Harvath.
“If that woman had any sense,” clarified Gallagher, “she never would have married him in the first place.”
“I heard that,” said Mei as she reemerged from the kitchen carrying a heaping plate of food.
“You all in trouble now,” added Hoyt, continuing to mimic his wife’s accent.
As she passed him, she snatched the pages from his hand and delivered them, along with the food, to Harvath.
“Hey,” exclaimed Hoyt. “That’s my paper and my breakfast. I’ve been waiting longer than he has.”
“The kitchen is now closed,” stated Mei.
“What do you mean closed?”
Returning to where her husband was sitting, Mei bent down and grabbed one of his love handles. “I married an old man. Okay. But not a fat old man. Your new diet starts today.”
Hoyt lunged to kiss her, but Mei evaded his grasp and with a shriek ran back to the kitchen. “And stop making fun of my accent,” she admonished him. “Or you won’t get dinner either.”
“That’s okay,” replied Hoyt, “I’m getting sick of eating dog anyway.”
Hoyt’s remark was met with another string of invective in Chinese.
Harvath kept his eyes on his food, but couldn’t help laughing.
“You think that’s funny?” demanded Hoyt. “I’ll show you funny. The dining room is now closed. Hand over that breakfast, sailor.”
Harvath put down his fork, raised his shirt, and flashed his Glock, then went back to eating.
Hoyt swore and reached for another croissant just as Mei reappeared to clear the tray.
Gallagher slid his glasses atop his head and set his paper down. “What’s on the agenda for today?” he asked as he slid his coffee mug over to Hoyt and motioned for his partner to pour.
