by Brad Thor
“You and me both,” Gallagher replied with a smile as he pointed Harvath around to the passenger side of the Land Cruiser.
Climbing inside, Harvath looked down at the book the Marine had been reading. “Jackie Collins?” he asked as Gallagher climbed into the driver’s seat and shut his door.
“The infidel section of the Kabul library is somewhat limited, my friend,” Baba G replied, as he slid the gearshift, which was surrounded by expired air fresheners, into first. “But we do what we can. TIA, right?”
TIA was an acronym that stood for This Is Afghanistan. It was a catchall phrase that unburdened them of the need for long, drawn-out explanations of things. Both men had come to appreciate that Afghanistan was a country and culture unique unto itself. Here, certain things happened certain ways for certain reasons. To try to explain or understand them in a Western frame of mind was a waste of time. Hence, TIA.
Before letting out the clutch, Gallagher reached behind his seat and withdrew a small, insulated cooler bag. “A little something to help you adjust,” he said as he handed it to Harvath. “Courtesy of the local Welcome Wagon.”
Harvath unzipped the lid and saw that it contained a cold six-pack of sugar-free Red Bull and a 9mm Glock 19. “I feel at home already,” he said as he removed the pistol, checked to make sure a round was chambered, and then tucked it into his waistband before popping the tab on a Red Bull.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” replied Gallagher. “There’ve been a couple of developments since we last spoke and I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to report.”
CHAPTER 10
They splashed through the streets past drab Soviet-era buildings, mud-walled compounds, and stores fronted by pushcarts and wheelbarrows filled with cheap merchandise from Pakistan.
Afghan men squatted in groups alongside the road or shuffled slowly through the cold air that still clung to the six-thousand-foot-high city, their hands clasped behind their backs in the Afghan fashion while women in cornflower-blue burkas filled ratty shopping bags with their marketing or carried large plastic jugs of water. Children ran everywhere.
The late-morning traffic was thick and was accompanied by a cacophony of car horns. The only person who wasn’t honking was Baba G, who was busy answering Harvath’s questions.
“You’re absolutely sure?” asked Harvath one more time.
Baba G nodded as he downshifted and maneuvered his Land Cruiser around one of Kabul’s many traffic circles. At the top of the circle were two trucks filled with Afghan National Army soldiers, all of them armed with heavy weapons, as well as 7.62mm machine guns mounted to the roll bars of their vehicles.
Harvath didn’t know what he liked less, the close proximity of so many cars—any number of which could be carrying al-Qaeda or Taliban militants—or the fact that Mustafa Khan was no longer being kept at Policharki Prison. “Why’d they move him?”
Gallagher smiled and rubbed his left thumb and forefinger together. “For the same reason we thought we’d be able to get him out.”
“Baksheesh.”
“Welcome to Afghanistan.”
Harvath was familiar with the ancient adage that “you can’t buy an Afghan, you can only rent one,” and Policharki wasn’t immune from this long-standing Afghan tradition of trading money for favors. In fact, Policharki was infamous for being able to hold anyone but a rich man. Bribe the right guard, the right family of a guard, or the right elders of the village the guard was from and anyone could be sprung from Policharki.
Harvath hadn’t expected freeing Khan to be a walk in the park. He and Gallagher had assumed that the al-Qaeda operative would have been kept away from the general population and that it was going to take big money not only to get the two of them inside, but also to get back out again with Khan in their custody.
What had bothered Harvath from the start, though, was that if he was thinking this way, then al-Qaeda had to be as well. They would be willing to spend a lot of money to get him back, and this must have been exactly what the Afghan government was worried about. They had come to the conclusion that Policharki couldn’t hold him, so they had moved him. The question was, where?
“So how do we find him?” asked Harvath.
“I’ve got some feelers out,” said Gallagher as they passed another heavily armed Afghan National Army checkpoint.
Harvath watched the picture recede in his side-view mirror. “I don’t remember seeing so many soldiers the last time I was here.”
“The government is trying to exert more control over Kabul. Attacks and suicide bombings have been going through the roof. Everybody’s all keyed up.”
Harvath was aware of the fact that the situation in Afghanistan had deteriorated, but seeing how severely Kabul, which once had a modicum of security, had been affected didn’t do much for his mood. “Tell me about the feelers you’ve got out.”
“The Afghans are big-time gossips. Nobody talks more than they do. I’ve got a guy in the Afghan National Police who has a couple of cousins in Afghan intelligence. I’ve fed him some information in the past. Nothing stellar, pretty low-hanging fruit, but it made him look good at work and so we’ve got a happy relationship. We’re meeting him this afternoon. Insha’Allah, he’ll have something worthwhile for us.”
Harvath laughed at Baba G’s use of the popular Muslim phrase for Allah willing. “You haven’t gone native on me, have you?”
“When in Rome,” answered Gallagher, applying his turn signal as they approached a narrow, dead-end street. Three-quarters of the way down on the left-hand side was Baba G’s Kabul compound. His company owned, or more appropriately “managed,” another in Jalalabad, which was where Gallagher was normally based.
As in all the other compounds in Afghanistan, there were no windows facing the street. The main entrance consisted of a pair of thick, nine-foot-high steel doors, painted green, with a normal-sized door cut into the steel to make it easier for people to come and go.
Gallagher pulled a U-turn, brought his truck to a stop outside the gates, and turned off the ignition. “Welcome to the Plaza,” he said as he opened his door and hopped out.
Harvath picked up the cooler bag, met him at the rear of the Land Cruiser, and grabbed his suitcases. Gallagher walked up to the door and rang the buzzer. Moments later, it was opened by Gallagher’s business partner, Tom Hoyt.
Hoyt was a chain-smoker from Miami who stood about five-foot-eight and had a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. He was in his early fifties, spoke fluent Arabic, and could have passed for the brother of movie actor Robert Mitchum.
As ex–U.S. Army intelligence, Hoyt was the logistical mind behind the company he and Gallagher had named International Security Solutions, or ISS.
“Hey! The circus must be in town,” said Hoyt as he looked past Gallagher and saw Harvath standing in the street. “There’s a SEAL outside.”
“Neek hallack,” Harvath replied in Arabic, suggesting his friend go perform an anatomically impossible act.
“Wow. And he’s got quite a mouth on him too.”
Once they were inside, Hoyt bolted the door and gave Harvath a slap on the back. “It’s good to see you again. Have you gained weight? You SEALs just go right to shit the minute the Navy kicks you loose.”
Harvath smiled. Hoyt loved to play up interservice rivalries, and so did Gallagher. Both could be merciless—especially when they were drinking.
Harvath tapped Hoyt’s burgeoning midsection and said, “Married life seems to agree with you, doesn’t it?”
Tom threw his hand up in the air and almost lost his cigarette. “I bought her a color TV and a satellite dish, but all she still wants is sex, sex, sex. I’m a man. Not an animal, for Chrissake.”
Hoyt was referring to his younger and much more attractive wife, Mei. She was a Chinese national who had come to Kabul to start a restaurant to serve its growing Chinese population, many of whom worked in the “massage industry.”
It had been love at first sight for H
oyt, and he had almost bankrupted himself eating every meal in Mei’s restaurant. She was twenty-five years his junior and made him feel like he was eighteen years old again. In addition to being incredibly sexy, she was smart as hell—smarter than Hoyt, which was something he hadn’t come across that often in life. More important, she understood him and even appreciated his off-color sense of humor.
Within six months Mei had sold her restaurant and had moved into the compound with Hoyt. She was in charge of day-to-day operations and did all of the cooking—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Harvath had visited the compound on two different trips to Afghanistan, and no matter where they went out to eat, the food was never as good as Mei’s.
“Speaking of which,” said Harvath. “Where’s your better half?”
“The Dragon Lady?” replied Hoyt with his characteristic feigned disrespect for his wife. “She’s off playing mahjong somewhere.”
Harvath shook his head.
“What?”
“I don’t know why you talk about her like that.”
Hoyt looked at Gallagher and shrugged his shoulders. “She left an hour ago to play mahjong, right?”
“That’s what she said,” replied Gallagher.
Harvath was about to make a crack about Hoyt’s marital skills when the compound’s majordomo stepped out of the main building. He was a chubby, thirty-year-old Afghan with slicked-back hair and a pointy goatee. He was the youngest of eight children, and his parents had given him the Urdu name for pine flower. Hoyt had found that hysterical, and since the name was too hard to pronounce, everyone just called him Flower.
Flower recognized Harvath immediately and walked right over. The two men gave each other the customary Afghan greeting and embraced.
“It’s good to see you, Flower,” said Harvath. “How is your family?”
Flower smiled and replied, “Good, Mr. Scot. Good. I have two more boys now.”
“Two? How many does that make total?”
“Four boys. One girl,” beamed Flower.
“And his wife’s pregnant again,” replied Gallagher.
“Flower,” quipped Hoyt. “Maybe I should give your wife Mei’s TV set.”
Harvath laughed. “That’s great. When is she due?”
“Any time,” said Flower as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and held it up, indicating he was on call.
“Congratulations.”
Flower bent and picked up Harvath’s bags. “I’ll take you to your room.”
While Mei managed the compound, Flower was in charge of the heavy lifting. When the municipal power went out, which happened daily all over Afghanistan, the call went out for Flower to fire up the auxiliary generator. If someone needed a ride, they called Flower. If you needed anything from the market—Flower. And even though he couldn’t shoot to save his life, he knew how to point a sawed-off shotgun in the right direction and look imposing, so Gallagher and Hoyt even took him on operations from time to time.
Flower had a bedroom at the compound, which not coincidentally was the closest to the gate, so he was also the de facto porter. Harvath had no idea when the man ever had time to see his wife and children, much less make more. Flower took his job very seriously and worked harder than most people Harvath had met.
The single-story compound was laid out in a rough U shape. In the center was a long courtyard and next to it a small parking pad big enough to hold three vehicles if you parked them bumper to bumper. Right now it was empty except for ISS’s sole armored vehicle—a Toyota pickup.
There were seven bedrooms, each with a tiny bathroom and handheld shower. Every bedroom had its own entrance and one window that faced onto the courtyard. There was a kitchen and a long communal room that functioned as the compound’s bar, dining room, and entertainment center. Detached from the main building was a small structure that housed ISS’s communications and strategic operations center. On the roof were a series of satellite dishes and antennas.
Flower walked Harvath to his room, set the bags inside, and turned the heater on via a small remote. “Very cold at night,” he offered.
There was a small wardrobe, a desk, and a single bed with one thin blanket on it. Harvath knew the weak wall heater and his current bedding weren’t going to cut it.
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a handful of Afghanis and peeled off several large notes. “The store on the corner has those thick wool blankets hanging outside. Can you go down and buy me a couple, please?”
Flower nodded. “Anything else?”
Harvath rattled off a short list and once the man had gone, he closed the door and unpacked his bags.
Tearing up the lining in each suitcase, he removed the stacks of currency and placed them in a small backpack along with his laptop. He fished another Red Bull out of the cooler bag and then took it, along with his pack, down to Hoyt’s room.
He knocked on the glass and when he heard Tom’s grunt he opened the door and stepped inside. The room reeked of cigarette smoke. Hoyt had one going in the ashtray at his desk next to his computer and another in his hand. “Everything okay with your room?” he asked. “I upgraded you to the one with the biggest bathroom mirror we have. I know how you SEALs are about looking at yourselves.”
“Very funny,” replied Harvath. “You know, as a returning guest I would have appreciated an ocean view or at least the club floor.”
“Pay off your bar bill and I’ll talk to my manager. Speaking of which,” said Hoyt as he leaned over and flipped open the door of a small refrigerator next to his desk. “How about a beer?”
Harvath held up his hand. “Maybe later. Greg and I have to meet an Afghan contact of his for tea. I don’t want to smell like a brewery.”
“Probably a good idea.” Hoyt flipped the fridge shut.
“I came to see you about a safety deposit box.”
“What do you need to store?”
Harvath held up his pack.
“Close the door,” said Hoyt.
Even though Harvath disliked being trapped inside the room with all that smoke and no fresh air, he did as he was told.
Hoyt stood up, placed his cigarette in his mouth, and crossed to a small closet. When he opened the door, it was obvious that most of the clothing belonged to Mei. “The lion, the bitch, and her wardrobe,” he muttered through the cigarette as he removed everything.
Next, he took down the rod and pulled out the shelves. Then, he pried a panel off the back of the closet and revealed a Cannon-brand gun safe that had been set into the concrete wall.
“Where’d you get that?” Harvath asked.
“Mei had it at the restaurant.”
“Where’d she get it?”
“I’ve got no idea. Knowing Mei, she probably stole it,” replied Hoyt as he punched in his code.
Harvath doubted that and was about to say as much when Hoyt swung open the safe’s door. Inside was a rather thin weapons cache, especially for men who were supposed to be in the private security business. All Harvath saw was a single AK-47, a pistol-grip Mossberg twelve-gauge shotgun, another Glock 19, and a few boxes of ammunition.
“What happened to all of your gear?” asked Harvath.
“Ever since one of the sons of Afghanistan’s illustrious president got into the private security business, owning weapons has become very expensive.”
“But you guys had a ton of stuff.”
“Still do. We just don’t keep it here.”
Harvath looked at him. “Why? Have they outlawed them?”
“All but,” said Hoyt. “You’re supposed to pay per man, per gun, and per contract that your company is working under. It’s a big pain in the ass. The Afghan bureaucrats not only get rich off the bribes, they still paperwork us to death. I go through the trouble of keeping a few of our weps on the up-and-up, but as far as the rest are concerned, the Afghans can go fuck themselves.”
“So as long as your papers and payments are up-to-date,” said Harvath, “you can have whatever you want?”
“Now, if you get caught with a crew-serve weapon like a PKM, you’re going straight to the big house. Same for grenades and RPGs. Plus P and hollow point ammo are also big no-nos. Even so, everybody’s got that stuff, especially if they plan on traveling outside Kabul. Let’s face it, this isn’t the Caymans, it’s Afghanistan.”
“True.”
“Basically, the number-one rule Greg and I have is to just keep everything below the window line and out of sight.”
“What a scam,” replied Harvath.
“TIA,” said Hoyt as he motioned for Harvath to hand him his bag.
Removing his laptop, Harvath handed Hoyt the pack. “I’m going to need a receipt for that,” he joked.
“You can talk to our accountant when she gets back from mahjong. Anything else?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a holster for the 19 I’m carrying, would you?”
Hoyt riffled through a few items stacked on one of the shelves in the safe and came up with a Blackhawk Check Six concealable leather holster. He tossed it to Harvath, closed the door, and put the wardrobe back together.
Harvath pulled the Glock from his waistband and set it on the bed. After he had slid the holster onto his belt he replaced his weapon and looked in the bathroom mirror to see if he was printing. Confident no one could see the weapon beneath his untucked shirt, he turned back to Hoyt. “I also need a secure link for email.”
“I’ve got one and Greg’s got one. If that jarhead’s not watching war porn, you can probably get online in his room.”
“Thanks,” said Harvath.
Hoyt waved at him with his cigarette as he went back to whatever it was he’d been doing on his computer.
Gallagher’s room was two doors down and the door was ajar. Harvath knocked, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside.
