by Brad Thor
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.
Hoyt leaned back and grabbed the pot. After he had poured for Gallagher, he held it up to inquire if Harvath wanted more. When Harvath nodded, Hoyt smiled and put it back, out of Harvath’s reach.
“I want to pay a visit to the CARE International Hospital,” said Harvath as he took his plate with him and walked over to the coffeepot to top off his mug.
“Are we doing recon on the Soviet base or background on Julia Gallo?”
“Both,” said Harvath as he sat back down. “How soon can we leave?”
Gallagher looked at his watch. “I’ve got a squash game in a half hour. Then there’s my Rotary Club meeting.”
“Don’t forget the Kabul Junior League luncheon,” added Hoyt.
“I almost did forget,” replied Gallagher as he ticked off his “appointments” on his fingers. “I’m sorry, but it looks like I’m booked solid all day.”
Harvath picked up his fork and, scooping up a large bite of omelet, replied, “I’ll see you out front in fifteen minutes.”
“So much for our bake sale.”
* * *
When Harvath exited the compound, he found Gallagher sitting in the Land Cruiser with his Jackie Collins book. About seven or eight wisecracks raced through Harvath’s mind, but he kept them to himself and just shook his head as he hopped in the passenger seat and closed the door.
“Don’t start with me,” Gallagher warned.
Harvath shook his head again and reached over to turn up the heater. It seemed to be twice as cold today as yesterday.
Gallagher pulled to the end of the short street and then turned left onto the main road. When he turned the radio on to his Afghan Bollywood station, Harvath was ready for him. Removing a CD he’d burned on his laptop, he slid it into the player.
As “Apache” by the Sugarhill Gang began to play, Harvath settled back into his seat and smiled.
“What the hell are we listening to?” Gallagher demanded.
“Classic American funk music.”
“I want my radio back on.”
“You’ve been in-country too long. You’ve gone native.”
“I’m going to go medieval if you don’t turn that crap off,” he threatened.
“Sorry, brother,” replied Harvath. “This is an intervention. It’s for your own good. After we work on your musical taste, we’re going to cowboy you up in the reading department.”
Five songs and a litany of curses from Gallagher later, they arrived at the CARE hospital on Darulaman Road. It was fronted by blast barriers and an eight-foot-high stone wall that ran the length of the road.
Unauthorized vehicles were not allowed inside the main gate, so Harvath and Gallagher parked near the perimeter wall. They were given a cursory pat-down by a male guard, who failed to notice that both men were carrying pistols, and were waved inside. Harvath could only hope that the man’s sole job was to discourage suicide bombers. If it entailed anything else, CARE had some big problems on its hands.
The hospital was a narrow, whitewashed two-story building with single-story wings sprouting off it. The grounds were typical Third World—hard-packed brown earth with little to no vegetation. The only hint of color came from the occasional woman who decided to wear a blue burka rather than the ever-popular black. Cultural sensitivity be damned, it was a practice Harvath found demeaning to Muslim women. Walking around with a bag over your head was walking around with a bag over your head. It made no difference how apologists for Islam tried to bullshit it as liberating and empowering for women. No matter where he encountered them, they reminded him of aliens that had just climbed off a spaceship from some strange planet far, far away.
He and Gallagher walked up the drive to the main entrance and stepped inside. Though there were some women right behind them, Harvath knew the laws of polite Western society didn’t always translate well in Muslim nations.
His instinct was to hold the door for them, but doing so would not only have confused them, it could have drawn the ire of any of the men they were most likely traveling with. While he thought it was stupid and didn’t like acting that way, Harvath knew it was often best to pretend the women weren’t there at all.
In the corner of the lobby was a registration desk. Harvath greeted the young man sitting behind it and gave him the name of the doctor he had come to see. The man picked up his phone and, as he dialed, handed Harvath a pen and a
sked him to sign the log book.
With Gallagher standing next to him, Harvath printed the names Samuel Colt and Jack E. Collins. Though he couldn’t be sure, he thought he heard Gallagher sling the F word at him under his breath.
After hanging up the phone, the young man pointed to the waiting area and said, “Please, five minutes.”
“Tashakor,” Harvath replied. He and Gallagher grabbed seats along the wall and sat down. The waiting area was packed, especially for a Saturday.
“Best medical care in Afghanistan,” said Gallagher. “Lots of volunteer docs from the West. This is a first-rate hospital.”
Harvath looked around. Everything was clean and there was a faint odor of antiseptic. It was better than most of the hell-hole medical centers he’d seen across the Third World. Even so, it still wasn’t someplace he’d want to have to undergo a procedure.
The waiting area was filled with families. All of their women were shrouded in burkas, so the only adult faces he could see belonged to the men.
Afghanistan was a hard place to live, and that was reflected in their countenances. They looked drawn and haggard, their faces as weather-beaten and craggy as the jagged mountains that surrounded their country. Dark, solemn eyes stared off in different directions. The only vitality in the room came from the children, who were running and laughing.
Sitting near Harvath and Gallagher was a family of adults who did not speak. An older man peeled an orange and silently offered slices to the other men sitting near him. Harvath couldn’t tell if they were waiting to go in or waiting for someone to come out.
His question was soon answered when a young Afghan doctor in a white lab coat entered the waiting area and asked the man at the reception desk a question. The man leaned forward and pointed in Harvath’s direction.
Harvath gave Gallagher a jab with his elbow and nodded at the approaching doctor. While he wasn’t the American medical director they had come to see, Harvath assumed the young doctor had been sent to collect them.
As he neared, Harvath began to stand, but then noticed the doctor’s eyes were not on him, but on the family sitting next to them.
Easing himself back into his chair, Harvath watched him. He could tell by the young man’s face and his body language that he wasn’t bringing good news.
