by Brad Thor
Elise took a deep breath and blew it out. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure? Now I’m really confused. Why are you even talking to me? Why aren’t the East Hampton police following this up?”
“It’s complicated,” offered Rita.
De Palma looked at her. “We’re not only talking about the death of my business partner, we’re also talking about the death of my best friend. Those children were my godchildren. We were family, so if you know something, I want to hear it.”
Klees took her time and explained the limitations of pursuing a criminal investigation exactly as she had for Elise the night before.
“So if there is some sort of evidence from that night that’s being suppressed,” stated De Palma, “I’m the only one who can bring a civil suit to punish the person or persons responsible?”
“If there is such evidence,” said Campbell, “then that’s correct.”
Christine De Palma sat back in her chair and was silent for several moments. “I always thought Gallo offered Charlie’s parents the money to avoid the embarrassment of a trial. I never took it as an admission of guilt.”
“We don’t really know what her motivation was,” cautioned Elise.
“But you believe there’s something more to what happened that night or you wouldn’t have come all the way out here to talk to me.”
“That’s correct.”
“So what exactly do you think happened?”
“I think someone made a very big mistake and has tried to cover it up. But to find out who it was and how big a mistake they made, I need your help.”
“This could be all smoke and no fire, though. You want me to go through all the hassles and the risks of mounting a lawsuit against not only Stephanie Gallo, but also the president of the United States just because you have a suspicion that something may have happened?”
Elise shook her head. “You don’t have to mount anything. All I need to do is to say that you’re considering a lawsuit.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. If my suspicion is wrong, you’re not out anything. But if I’m right, you get your friends and your godchildren the kind of justice they deserve.”
For several moments, there was only the sound of the fountain. Finally, De Palma spoke. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
CHAPTER 26
AFGHANISTAN
Sergei Simonov didn’t take any pleasure in having to kill Elam Badar, but he wouldn’t lose sleep over it either. The Afghan peasant had picked a fight with the wrong man. His veiled threats to the shura of Mullah Massoud’s village had earned him an early ticket to paradise.
Massoud had debated taking out the son, Asadoulah, as well, but the Russian had advised against it. Killing two people at the same time and making it look like an accident was very difficult unless they were a bomb-making team.
Once Massoud had acquiesced, the Russian discussed the best way to handle the situation. They agreed that the sooner the problem was taken care of, the better. And though it posed considerable risk, they further agreed that it should happen in broad daylight, or as much daylight as possible, which would make it very hard for people to believe that what had transpired was anything but a tragic accident.
The winding footpath the Russian now hid near was just as Massoud had described it. In all his years among the Afghans, their intimate knowledge of the terrain never ceased to amaze him.
The bleating of the injured sheep on the rocky ledge below had continued unabated for nearly a half hour. While he waited, Simonov pictured his son, Sasha, in his mind’s eye. Soon, they would not only be together, inseparable, but he would have the money to care for him properly. He would be able to afford the best surgeons, not just those idiots the state hospitals had provided in Russia.
He could take Sasha anywhere in the world for treatment, America even. He would spare no expense and would go to any lengths to help his boy regain as much of a normal life as possible. They only had each other and needed to stick together. Together, anything was possible. Together, he would prove to his boy how much he loved him and how sorry he was for what had happened to him.
As the bleating of the sheep started to deaden Simonov’s hearing, he suddenly noticed another sound; the sound of feet shambling up the rocky path. He began to slow his breathing. The moment was almost here.
Elam Badar was close enough to hear the bleating of his animal now and his pace quickened.
Simonov marveled at how the world worked. Both he and the Afghan had been drawn to this moment by the same thing—a deep and abiding love of their sons, as well as a misfortune that needed to be set right.
The Russian ignored the fact that he had the benefit of surprise, strength, and experience on his side, and instead believed that he would succeed in killing Elam Badar simply because he loved his son more. They were championing two separate causes, and in Simonov’s mind, his was more worthy.
When Elam Badar appeared on the path and peered over the jagged outcropping for his injured sheep, the blue-eyed Russian took a final breath and sprang from behind the rocks.
At the sound of movement, the Afghan spun, but it was too late. Simonov was already on him.
Elam Badar should never have underestimated Mullah Massoud.
To the broken neck, the Russian added a very badly broken arm and then rolled the body off the path and watched as it landed with a thud only feet from the wounded animal.
His job complete, Simonov stepped back and disappeared into the landscape.
But as he retraced his steps back up and over the top of the mountain, his heart rate quickened as he suddenly realized he was being followed.
CHAPTER 27
TWO HOURS LATER
When the door was kicked open, Dr. Julia Gallo was caught in a significant state of undress. The outside temperature that afternoon had been quite mild, which meant that inside the small, poorly ventilated mud brick room where she was being kept, the temperature had been stifling.
She had been lying on the floor trying to stay cool while staring out the small hole in the base of the wall. She wore only a damp T-shirt and trousers, both of which clung provocatively to her body, and her long, red hair hung loose about her shoulders.
Her overseer had returned. The mentally challenged man had not been there that morning to feed her. In fact, no one had come by her cell at all that day, and she had been battling a terrible fear that she had been forgotten or worse still, purposely left to die.
Julia was ravenous, and as the man set the tray down, she noticed that there was more food on it than usual. Whether it was an attempt to make up for his tardiness or an additional apology, like the candies he had given her yesterday, she could not say. She also didn’t much care. Whoever these people were, they were not feeding her enough. A meal this size, as paltry as it still was, was the least they should have been feeding a prisoner. She had no idea how much weight she had lost since Sayed had been murdered and she had been taken into captivity, but she had to imagine it was significant and she hadn’t had that much extra weight to lose to begin with.
Julia collected her clothes and quickly dressed. Affixing her hijab, she looked down and noticed her guard’s new basketball shoes were gone, and in their place he wore a pair of battered boots too big for his feet. When she looked up, she saw that his eyes were red and puffy.
Something had happened to him, and intuitively she knew it had to do with the boys who had come to rape her the day before. Pointing at his feet, she spoke quietly the Pashtu word for shoes, “Botaan?”
The man’s eyes welled with tears and he rubbed his sleeve across his face to try to hold them back. He began stammering and gesturing at his feet. Julia couldn’t understand what he was saying, but it sounded like his shoes were gone and that it had something to do with his brother.
He had been very attached to his shoes and she found it horrible that his own brother would take them away. The Taliban were absolute bastards. Stealing fro
m a mentally challenged man was reprehensible. But if al-Qaeda had no problem using the intellectually disabled as suicide bombers, then she shouldn’t find it difficult to believe that the Taliban would prey on them as well.
Her body was desperate for nourishment, but Gallo poured some tea and held the metal cup out to her guard.
He didn’t know what to do. His captive was offering him tea? Having been steeped in the Pashtunwali his entire life, he understood that he was obliged to accept and so took the cup.
“Sta noom tse dai?” asked Julia. What is your name?
He drank the warm tea in one long swallow and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Zema num Zwak dai,” he replied. His sadness over his shoes temporarily forgotten, Zwak’s broad face broke into a wide smile.
Whether it was his size, his beard, or the pointy sweatshirt hood he always wore, the man reminded Julia of a gnome. “Zema num—” she began, but Zwak interrupted her.
“Doktar,” he said proudly.
Julia smiled back at him. He had heard and understood her yesterday. “Hoo,” she replied. “Doktar Julia.”
“Doktar. Doktar,” Zwak repeated, even prouder of himself.
They were communicating. That was good. If she could bond with him, maybe she could convince him to let her go. She had learned a long time ago that the fastest way to build a bond with someone was to ask them to do you a favor.
“Sarraoh nan shpa,” tonight cold, she attempted in her broken Pashtu. “Sheta brresten? Lutfan.” Do you have any blanket? “Please.”
“Doktar. Doktar,” Zwak repeated. “Soor wextu.”
Julia smiled and nodded. “Hoo, soor wextu.” Yes, red hair. “Sheta brresten?” Any blankets? she asked once more.
Zwak looked at the blanket on Julia’s bed and then back at her. Then without another word, he set down the metal cup and walked out of the room, slamming and locking the door behind him.
He was a strange little man. She wondered if she had offended him. Resigning herself to the fact that there was nothing she could do about it now, she sat down on her bed, tore off a piece of nan bread, and used it to scoop food into her mouth.
She poured more tea and savored the rest of her food. When she was finished, she discovered that Zwak had hidden two more pieces of dashlama, just like the candies he had given her yesterday, under her plate. Julia put one in her mouth and tried to enjoy it. Stay positive, she repeated to herself, but it was so hard.
She wasn’t living day to day. She wasn’t even living hour to hour. It was minute by minute, and she was slowly losing her mind, as well as her will to live. She chastised herself for being so weak. She needed to snap out of it. She had to focus on something worthwhile that she could live for.
She searched herself, but couldn’t come up with much. The one significant person in her life was her mother, and their relationship wasn’t exactly storybook material. Julia had spent a good part of her adulthood trying to find her own sliver of sunshine beyond the mammoth shadow her mother cast. It was that search that had brought her to Afghanistan and, ultimately, to the cell in which she now sat.
If the Taliban killed her today, she felt she wouldn’t have left much of a mark on the world.
A voice deep inside told her she was being too hard on herself, but she refused to listen to it. She didn’t want to be told she was a good person and that her life had value. She had gotten Sayed killed, and who knew how many other Afghan women who had been naïve enough to follow her political advice had been brutalized or killed because of it. Rise up. Take control of your lives. Embrace your rights, she had told them. It was all easy enough for an American woman to say, especially one who could go home to her First World country any time she wanted.
What an idiot I have been, Gallo thought as she broke down.
The tears were flowing down her face when the door to her cell was kicked open. It took her by surprise, as it always did, and her heart leaped into her throat. Looking up, she expected to see Zwak, but instead she saw several of the men who had killed Sayed.
They moved quickly. Two of them jerked her up off the bed while a third approached with a light blue burka and other items.
Once her wrists were bound, her eyes blindfolded, and the burka had been pulled down over her head, she was shoved outside.
She heard several vehicles come to a skidding halt only feet away and she was thrown roughly inside the nearest one.
As it lurched away, she could feel the presence of another person near her. As he began to cry, she knew in an instant that it was Zwak and that wherever they were taking her, it was so they could kill her.
CHAPTER 28
KABUL
Harvath knew enough about surgeons to know they weren’t night owls, and that went double for missionary doctors. He also knew that the best time to get someone to do what you wanted was when they were running for the fence.
In the case of Dr. Kevin Boyle, his fence was sleep, and Harvath waited until just after ten o’clock at night to call him. He had come to the conclusion that the less Boyle knew about what was going on, the better.
He dialed the number the medical director had given him and woke the man out of a sound sleep. Having seen the call schedule while they were walking through the hospital, Harvath knew the resident on duty that night was none other than Dr. Atash. Explaining that he was leaving to follow up a lead in Kandahar Province in the morning and needed to speak with Atash once more before he left, Harvath asked Boyle to call the security team at the hospital and clear him and Baba G as well as their vehicle through the main gate.
Boyle grumbled his assent and hung up the phone without saying good-bye or asking if Harvath needed anything else. He doubted Boyle would bother to try to track down Atash and tell him to expect visitors. Even if he had, it wouldn’t have been a problem. Harvath didn’t say when he would be at the hospital. Based upon how exhausted the surgeon sounded, he was pretty confident that he’d fall back asleep within sixty seconds of placing the call to the guards at the front gate.
From their reconnaissance of the old Soviet military base, Harvath and Gallagher had identified two alternative evacuation points where they would station Flower and Inspector Rashid in two different vehicles. Tom Hoyt would monitor the operation from the ops center back at the compound. And just to make sure he wouldn’t be disturbed, Mei and her girlfriends had taken Fontaine and Mark Midland out drinking and dancing courtesy of a stack of bills Harvath had slipped her. Everything, so far, was right on track.
As the main threat to the CARE hospital was a suicide bomber or an active shooter who tried to walk or drive onto the property, the primary security focus was the front of the property along Darulaman Road. The rear, while secured by a high, gated fence, wasn’t patrolled as heavily, and even less so at night. Electricity was not only expensive, but also unreliable, so the rear of the property wasn’t even lit. This was where Harvath had decided Marjan and Pamir would enter.
When it was time for the operation to begin, Flower led the way in the Land Cruiser while Harvath and Gallagher brought up the rear in a van purchased specifically for the job.
Three blocks later, Flower slowed down as Inspector Rashid pulled out from a side street and took the lead. His job was to navigate them around any checkpoints and make sure Harvath and Gallagher arrived at the hospital without being stopped.
When they reached the Darulaman Road and could see that traffic was moving without any impediments, Harvath grabbed his cooler bag from behind his seat and pulled out another Red Bull. “You want one?” he asked Baba G.
“You got any beer in there?”
“Sure, you want it in a bottle or draft?”
“Forget it,” said Gallagher as he reached behind his seat and withdrew a bottle of water. Unscrewing the cap, he took a long sip, and then put the bottle back.
“When this is all over, I’ll buy you as much beer as you can drink.”
“I want that in writing.”
Baba G might hav
e worn an outward air of confidence and nonchalance, but underneath he was obsessively cautious. He had not only triple-checked all of their gear, he had quadruple-checked it and had made Harvath run through the plan so many more times than was necessary that Hoyt eventually turned on the television back at the ISS compound to drown him out.
Harvath reminded himself of how Gallagher had performed in the hospital waiting area that morning and the way he’d been in the Marines. The man had excellent instincts. He’d have Harvath’s back. The ones he really needed to worry about were Marjan and Pamir.
The NDS operatives appeared professional enough, but there was no telling how they would act under pressure. Even though they were going in as a four-man team, Harvath had designed the entire assault around him and Gallagher doing all of the heavy lifting.
As they neared the CARE International Hospital, Gallagher slowed, applied his blinker, and slapped his warmest American grin to his face as he turned into the main drive. Harvath handed over his ID, which Gallagher added to his own as he rolled down the window.
A bored sentry with an AK-47 slung casually around his neck stepped out of the heated guard shack, checked their IDs, then opened the gate and waved them through.
They drove the van to the main entrance and parked. With its sliding door on the driver’s side, the guard down at the gate couldn’t have seen what Harvath and Gallagher were doing without walking all the way up to the hospital.
After a quick check inside to make sure the coast was clear, the two men unloaded their gear onto a small hand truck and pushed it inside.
Entering the building, Harvath’s Afghan cell phone began to vibrate. Removing it from his pocket, he read the text message out loud to Gallagher. “Flower just handed off the money to Rashid.”
“Which means we ought to be seeing Marjan and Pamir momentarily.”
Harvath nodded as he slipped the phone back into his pocket and continued. Unlike American hospitals, the CARE hospital was very poorly staffed at night. In addition to Dr. Atash, Harvath doubted there were more than two other employees in the building, both of them Western nurses, who were probably either off sleeping or surfing the net in the nurses’ lounge.
