by Brad Thor
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR BRAD THOR IS “CHANGING [THE] SCOPE OF THE ESPIONAGE NOVEL IN TODAY’S
WORLD” (Tampa Tribune)
Every politician has a secret. And when the daughter of a politically connected family is kidnapped abroad, America’s new president will agree to anything—even a deadly and ill-advised rescue plan—in order to keep his secret hidden.
But when covert counterterrorism operative Scot Harvath is assigned to infiltrate one of the world’s most notorious prisons and free the man the kidnappers demand as ransom, he quickly learns that there is much more to the operation than anyone dares to admit.
As the subterfuge is laid bare, Harvath must examine his own career of ruthlessly hunting down and killing terrorists and decide if he has what it takes to help one of the world’s worst go free.
THE APOSTLE
“ONE OF THE BEST THRILLER WRITERS IN THE BUSINESS.”
—Ottawa Citizen
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BRAD THOR
IS “QUITE POSSIBLY THE NEXT COMING OF ROBERT LUDLUM” (Chicago Tribune)
SCOT HARVATH IS AMERICA’S SECRET WEAPON IN THE WAR ON TERROR
GET SWEPT UP IN BRAD THOR’S RIVETING SCOT HARVATH BESTSELLERS FROM ATRIA BOOKS
BRAD THOR, a graduate of the University of Southern California, has served as a member of the Department of Homeland Security’s Analytic Red Cell Program and is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Lions of Lucerne, Path of the Assassin, State of the Union, Blowback, Takedown, The First Commandment, The Last Patriot, and The Apostle. Visit his website at www.BradThor.com.
Glenn Beck calls Brad Thor’s The Last Patriot “a thriller to die for.” Nelson DeMille dubs Scot Harvath “the perfect all-American hero for the post–September 11th world.” Now Brad Thor delivers more “high voltage entertainment reminiscent of Robert Ludlum” (Library Journal). . . .
THE APOSTLE
“Blasts off like a guided missile and never slows down, weaving current events into a frightening scenario that just could happen. Brad Thor rocks!”
—Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author of The Keepsake
“Brad Thor has done it again . . . an out-of-the-ballpark homerun. You won’t want to put it down.”
—Blackwater Tactical Weekly
“A must read. . . . An action-packed story with more than a few parallels to the current political climate. . . . Powerfully and convincingly draws you in. . . . A breathtaking, edge-of-your-seat experience.”
—National Terror Alert.com
Read the #1 New York Times bestseller that is “as close to a perfect thriller as you’ll ever find”*—Brad Thor’s
THE LAST PATRIOT
“Brilliantly plotted and ingeniously conceived.”
—Providence Journal-Bulletin (RI)*
“Stunning.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Apostle is also available from Simon & Schuster Audio
“The Last Patriot . . . [will] make an action addict drool.”
—San Antonio Express-News
“Wow, this guy can write.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“[A] nonstop action machine. . . . A thoroughly researched, high-fueled thrill ride.”
—Tampa Tribune
THE FIRST COMMANDMENT
“An intelligent, sizzling adventure full of international intrigue.”
—Wilmington Morning Star (NC)
“Readers who like Tom Clancy and Stephen Coonts will love Brad Thor.”
—Chicago Tribune
“An adrenaline-charged thriller. . . . Brad Thor knows how to excite the senses.”
—Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Vendetta
TAKEDOWN
“[Like] the TV show 24 and other high-octane thrillers, Takedown is crisp and cinematic, with . . . gun-blazing, gut-busting action.”
—The Tennessean
“Enthralling. . . . A smart, explosive work that details events about to happen outside your front door.”
—Bookreporter.com
“Exciting . . . frightening. . . . [A] masterpiece.”
—Midwest Book Review
BLOWBACK
“Haunting, high-voltage. . . . One of the best thriller writers in the business.”
—Ottawa Citizen
“An incredible international thriller. . . . Riveting and superior.”
—Brunei Press Syndicate
STATE OF THE UNION
“Frighteningly real.”
—Ottawa Citizen
“[A] blistering, testosterone-fueled espionage thriller.”
—Publishers Weekly
PATH OF THE ASSASSIN
“Brad Thor is as current as tomorrow’s headlines.”
—Dan Brown
“The action is relentless, the pacing sublime.”
—Ottawa Citizen
THE LIONS OF LUCERNE
“Fast-paced, scarily authentic—I just couldn’t put it down.”
—Vince Flynn
“A hot read for a winter night. . . . Bottom line: Lions roars.”
—People
Also by Brad Thor
The Lions of Lucerne
Path of the Assassin
State of the Union
Blowback
Takedown
The First Commandment
The Last Patriot
The Apostle
Foreign Influence
The Athena Project
Full Black
Black List
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ATRIA BOOKS
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Brad Thor
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Atria Books paperback edition June 2010
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Cover art and design by Alan Dingman
ISBN 978-1-4165-8658-6
ISBN 978-1-4165-8674-6 (ebook)
For James Ryan,
Warrior
People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.
—George Orwell
In our nation’s war on terror, a new breed of operator has emerged. Passionately dedicated to their craft, they ignore the trials and hardships of their profession and work tirelessly in the face of limited support and bloated bureaucracies to achieve one singular goal—mission success.
Motivated by a deep and undying love for their country, these operators willingly
face intense danger so that America may remain free.
Once labeled “true believers,” this term no longer applies. These warriors have become Apostles.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Acknowledgments
‘Black List’ Excerpt
Reader’s Companion
About the Author
About Emily Bestler Books
About Atria Books
Ask Atria
CHAPTER 1
NANGARHAR PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN
Next to a stream of icy snowmelt from the Hindu Kush, a small caravan unloaded its contraband. Cases filled with weapons, money, communications equipment, and other gear were placed beneath a rocky overhang and covered with camouflage netting to keep them concealed from overhead surveillance.
A man in his late forties with deep Slavic features stood nearby and supervised. He had blue eyes, medium-length gray hair, and both the clothing and bearing of a local Afghan.
When his team of Pakistani smugglers was done, the man removed a stack of bills and paid them double what he normally did for bringing him into the country. It was a severance package. He wouldn’t be using them again. This was going to be his final operation.
He made himself comfortable near a stack of rams’ horns that marked a Taliban grave site and watched as the line of smugglers and pack animals disappeared back into the mountains toward Pakistan. Though he couldn’t spot them, he knew there were men in the rugged hills above, men with sophisticated weapons—weapons he had provided to them—who were keeping him in their sights.
Twenty minutes later, three muddy Toyota Hilux double-cab pickup trucks appeared from the other end of the valley. The convoy splashed across the fast-moving stream and drove up to the overhang. As the trucks rolled to a stop, young men with thick, dark beards and Kalashnikovs jumped out.
Like the man next to the rams’ horns, they were dressed in traditional Afghan clothing known as salwar kameez—baggy cotton trousers that stopped just above the ankle and loose-fitting tunics that ended just above the knee. They all wore winter coats that came to midthigh. Many slung warm wool blankets referred to locally as patoos over their shoulders to further ward off the cold. Upon their heads they wore pakols, the wide wool hat encircled by a thick, rolled brim made famous by the mujahideen during their war with the Soviets.
The men worked quickly and efficiently. Once the gear was loaded, the blue-eyed man climbed into the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle, the driver popped the clutch, and the truck lurched forward.
It was a painful, kidney-jarring ride along a rutted road that followed the snowmelt downstream into the valley. As the truck came down hard into yet another pothole, the men in the backseat erupted in a barrage of Pashtu curses.
The blue-eyed man tuned them out and stared through the spattered windshield. The landscape outside was windswept and barren. It was hard for him to believe that he had been fighting and running operations in this country for over twenty-five years. His blood had been spilled upon its soil on more occasions than he cared to remember and he had watched more men die than anyone ever should.
He loved and hated Afghanistan at the same time. It had taken far more from him than it had ever given. His body was in shambles, as was the small family he had managed to begin over the years during his short visits home. All he was left with in his life was a sweet, innocent boy who had been terribly disfigured.
The blue-eyed man blamed himself. He had known about his wife’s alcoholism. He also knew that it grew worse when he was away. Even though he’d been trained to listen to his intuition, he had ignored it when it told him that the woman could no longer properly see to their child. Had he made other arrangements for the boy, had he found a responsible caregiver to see to him while he was away, the fire might never have happened.
But it had happened, and the father wore the guilt of his son’s disfigurement across his shoulders much like the patoos across the shoulders of the Taliban fighters now riding alongside him.
He tried to forget his pain and to instead focus on his mission. It was one of the most audacious operations his intelligence service had ever considered. If it was successful, he could finally retire and would be so highly rewarded that he and his son would never want for anything else. That success, though, ultimately rested with the man he was about to meet. In the near distance, his destination finally came into sight.
The village, in Nangarhar’s rugged Khogyani district, was mostly mud houses, with some made of stone, which were set along either side of the road.
It was austere and colorless, as much of Afghanistan was. Window and door frames were unpainted. Rough-hewn beams jutted out from beneath rooftops, and none of the buildings were more than two stories tall. Dust and children and hard-looking men with guns were everywhere. No women were visible.
They were there, of course; hidden behind the thick mud walls of their houses by Taliban husbands and fathers who forbade them to work, to go to school, or even to go outside without being completely covered and with a male family member accompanying them.
The convoy ground to a halt before a high wall set with two massive double doors. The driver of the lead vehicle tapped his horn three times in quick succession. A small panel opened in the gate and a pair of angry, dark eyes peered out. Moments later the doors swung open and the convoy rolled into a typical Afghan compound known as a kwala.
When the blue-eyed man climbed out of the truck, he was greeted by one of the Taliban’s most notorious, battle-hardened commanders. Mullah Massoud Akhund stood about five-foot-eight, a good three inches shorter than the blue-eyed man, but he had a commanding presence.
Massoud’s eyes were the color of flint and possessed with the power to look right through a man. His heavy black beard was streaked with gray. He was only in his late forties, but a life of incessant combat had aged him beyond his years, giving him the appearance of a man twenty years older.
Placing his right hand over his heart in the traditional Afghan greeting, Mullah Massoud nodded slightly to his guest and said, “Salaam alaikum.”
The blue-eyed man performed the same gesture and replied, “Wa alaikum salaam.”
Massoud embraced his guest and held him tightly for many moments. The blue-eyed man had learned early in his career that a hug from an Afghan man was a sign of respe
ct. The longer the embrace, the deeper the respect you were held in.
Finally, the commander broke off the hug. “It is good to see you again, Bakht Rawan.”
CHAPTER 2
Many suspected that the blue-eyed man was Russian, but it was a topic Mullah Massoud did not like to discuss. There were still dormant animosities, even in his own village, over the long and bloody war the Afghans had fought with the Soviets. For this reason, Massoud addressed the man as Bakht Rawan and not by his given name of Sergei Simonov.
Their relationship stretched back more than twenty years. Before Massoud had joined the Taliban, he had been a fledgling Afghan intelligence operative and Simonov had been his mentor. His code name was Pashtu and meant “running luck,” something Massoud felt his mentor possessed in abundance.
The pair politely inquired into each other’s health, families, and affairs as Massoud gave orders to his men to unload the trucks. He then motioned for Simonov to follow him inside.
The Russian removed his hiking boots at the door and followed his host. The room was spartanly furnished with two long tables, a low bed, a small wooden desk, and a single chair. It would be more than adequate.
Two of Massoud’s men brought in an ancient carpet and unrolled it along the floor. It was a red elephant-foot pattern known as a Bohkara. Simonov could only imagine what such a rug would fetch in Moscow or St. Petersburg.
Other men entered bringing blankets, a pillow, a power strip, and an extension cord, which would allow him to run his electronic equipment off the compound’s generator.
Satisfied that his guest was on his way to being situated, Mullah Massoud informed him that he would see him for tea in twenty minutes.
Simonov thanked his host and closed the door. From the leather holster beneath his tunic, he withdrew his 9mm CZ-75 pistol and placed it on the desk next to a suppressor from his coat pocket. Inside the compound, he had no need for any of his weapons. “Ze talibano milmayam,” he said aloud in Pashtu. “I am a guest of the Taliban.”
The traditional code of honor among the Pashtun, known as Pashtunwali, dictated every aspect of their lives and was very explicit. One of the most important edicts of Pashtunwali dealt with hospitality and the treatment of guests. Once a Pashtun invited someone into his home, he was honor-bound to protect that guest at all costs, even if it meant fighting to his own death to protect him.
