by Brad Thor
After the kids had disappeared, the owner showed the two Americans into the back of his shop, where he pulled a trap door down from the ceiling and extended an aging wooden staircase that led to the second floor. The men mounted the narrow steps single file and emerged in a warehouse space that smelled faintly of tobacco and damp carpets.
Sitting on a large rug at the opposite end were Inspector Rashid and his two cousins, Marjan and Pamir. In the middle was a pot of tea. Judging from the steam coming from their cups, it appeared to be Afghan and not American.
The shop owner retreated to the first floor, telescoped the stairs back into their hiding place, and closed the trap door to give the men their privacy.
After conducting the customary greetings, the three Afghans invited their American counterparts to sit down and take tea. Harvath wanted to get straight to business, but he knew you never said no to tea, so he sat down and accepted a cup. Fortunately, the Afghans were in no mood for chitchat. Once the tea was poured, they got right to the point.
Marjan was the first to speak. “Our president is so determined that Mustafa Khan stand trial for his crimes that he wants to watch over him personally.”
“What do you mean personally?” asked Harvath.
“He is going to have Khan moved to the presidential palace.”
“Where are they going to put him? In a guest room?”
Marjan shook his head. “Of course not. There are two cells beneath the palace.”
“When are they going to move him?”
“As early as tomorrow,” replied Pamir.
“Which is why,” interjected Rashid, “we must do this tonight.”
They were right. Grabbing Khan at the old Soviet base made more sense than trying to launch an assault on the presidential palace, but they still didn’t have everything they needed.
“What about a map of the tunnels?” asked Harvath.
Pamir reached into a small shoulder bag that was sitting on the floor behind him and pulled out a medium-sized tube. “Right here.”
Harvath looked at Marjan. “You can sketch the base layout, as well as the interrogation facility?”
The NDS operative nodded.
“Then the only thing we’re missing . . .” Harvath began to say, but his voice trailed off as Inspector Rashid stood and disappeared behind a pile of carpets.
He returned carrying a watertight, high-density, plastic Storm case and said, “Are the munitions.”
Gallagher looked at Harvath and smiled. “I told you he was good.”
“I never doubted it for a second,” lied Harvath.
The room was warm and he removed his jacket and set it on the floor behind him. Rolling up his sleeves, he looked at the Afghans as Rashid retook his seat and said, “Now we need a plan.”
* * *
They spent the next six hours evaluating their objective and assessing their options. The shopkeeper downstairs kept the tea coming and sent his son out twice for food.
One of the biggest things bothering Harvath about the operation was the satellite imagery he’d seen. According to Marjan, the Afghans had reconstructed several of the base buildings to use as barracks. The NDS operative’s assurance that the barracks were only used when training exercises were being conducted did little to stem Harvath’s concern, especially considering that the interrogation facility was located beneath one of them.
Not knowing how many Afghan Special Forces soldiers were guarding Khan was one thing, but they also had no way of gauging how many soldiers would be in the barracks above, or how many would be on the base in general. The fact that his team could easily be outnumbered and overwhelmed weighed heavily on Harvath’s mind, as did the fact that if that happened, there would be no cavalry he could call for help.
He and Gallagher drilled Rashid, Pamir, and Marjan relentlessly. Looking at his watch, Harvath decided they all needed a break. There were only a couple of hours of daylight left and he wanted to drive the perimeter of the base, as well as visit the ruins of the old palace at the end of Darulaman Road to see what kind of vantage point it might provide.
The men agreed to reassemble at midnight, and Harvath warned them all one last time not to talk to anyone, especially Rashid, who had repeatedly offered to reach out to a few more contacts to see if he could nail down the exact troop strength at the base. It was more important that they maintain the element of surprise. Besides, based on Harvath’s plan, it didn’t matter if the Afghans had five men there or five hundred. Either it was going to work or it wasn’t.
Harvath wrapped the Storm case in a plastic garbage bag and waited while Gallagher brought the Land Cruiser around. Once it was loaded, the two Americans drove down Chicken Street and headed for the Darulaman Road.
Baba G was uncharacteristically silent.
“You can still back out,” said Harvath.
“What makes you think I want to back out?”
“Nothing. I’m just saying.”
“I don’t like rush jobs.”
Harvath nodded. “Nobody does, but when the window of opportunity opens, you move or it closes.”
“We can still bring Fontaine with us.”
Harvath understood Gallagher’s apprehension, and the idea of bringing someone as qualified as the Canadian was tempting. Though he and Baba G had both the right kind of training and the experience for an operation like this, Pamir and Marjan were a different story. At best, the two Afghans were window dressing. If the fit hit the shan, there was no way of knowing how they’d react. Having Fontaine along would dramatically improve their odds, but he had the potential to be a political liability. Harvath couldn’t allow the president or the United States to be implicated in what he was going to do. “We’re not taking him,” he finally said.
Gallagher understood and changed the subject. “So you’re sure Boyle will let us stage at the hospital?”
“It depends on how much he trusts us. This whole thing could end up being a big problem for him. If we spring Khan and the Afghans figure out he helped, it’ll be very bad for him and the hospital. We have to do it in a way that provides cover for him.”
“And how do we do that?”
“I’m still working that one out,” said Harvath.
“Well, you’d better hurry up,” replied Baba G. “Without Boyle’s cooperation, there’s absolutely no way this thing is going to work.”
CHAPTER 25
EAST HAMPTON, NEW YORK
Elise Campbell and Rita Klees were leaning against the detective’s Mini Cooper, finishing their Starbucks coffees as Christine De Palma pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Cobblestone Nursery at 7:30 A.M. on the dot.
“Thank you for meeting us this morning,” said Rita as De Palma climbed out of her Mercedes SUV and came over to greet them.
She was an attractive, petite woman in her late forties. Her medium-length brown hair was pulled back in a bun and her face bore only a hint of makeup. She wore a green Barbour jacket, a gray cashmere sweater, tan jodhpurs, and a pair of green Wellington boots. “Of course. You said this had to do with Sheryl and Charlie’s accident?”
“It does,” replied Klees as she introduced Elise. “I’d like you to meet Elise Campbell of the United States Secret Service.”
Campbell stepped forward and the two women shook hands.
“Is it okay if we speak inside?”
“Certainly,” replied De Palma. “Follow me.”
Pulling a large brass ring from her pocket, De Palma found the correct key, slid it into the lock, and opened the front door. She flipped on the lights and deactivated the alarm. The room was cold and smelled of damp earth. After locking the front door behind them, she led the women through another door and across a small landscaped court to a vintage greenhouse.
Inside, the temperature was much more agreeable. The air smelled of flowers and other fresh greenery. De Palma flipped a series of switches and somewhere a fountain began to bubble. In the center of the greenhouse was a cast-iron table wit
h matching chairs.
De Palma pulled one out and motioned for the ladies to sit. “The greenhouse beats meeting in my cramped office any day of the week.”
“Mine too,” replied Klees.
“So what can I do for you?”
“First of all,” stated Elise, “I want you to know that this is all completely off the record and has nothing to do with the East Hampton Police Department. I asked Rita if she knew you and she offered to introduce us.”
“Okay,” said De Palma, drawing the word out.
“As Sheryl Coleman’s business partner,” Elise continued, “you could have had grounds to bring a wrongful death claim. Why didn’t you?”
De Palma was a bit taken aback. “Am I suspected of having done something?”
Campbell smiled and shook her head. “No. Not at all. I’m just curious.”
“What does this have to do with Sheryl and Charlie’s death?”
“Mr. Coleman’s parents began a civil action, but then dropped it. Supposedly, there was some sort of settlement.”
“There was nothing supposed about it,” replied De Palma. “Stephanie Gallo had been trying to get them to drop that suit from day one, but Charlie’s father wouldn’t quit. He hated Alden and he said no amount of money in the world could get him to back down.”
“He told you that?”
De Palma nodded. “He probably shouldn’t have, but we’re like family, even more so after Charlie and Sheryl and the kids were killed.”
“So what happened to change their minds?”
“Apparently, they had just gotten through the first set of questions they wanted the defendants to answer—”
“Interrogatories?” asked Elise.
“That’s right,” she replied. “Gallo and Alden’s attorneys kept trying to outmaneuver the Colemans with continuances and that kind of garbage and I think Herb and Janet realized just how many years they could be in court over it. The suit definitely wasn’t going to keep Alden from getting elected, which is something I think Herb secretly wanted. Finally, Gallo made the Colemans an offer they couldn’t refuse.”
“May I ask how much?”
“That, I don’t know. All I know is that they had turned down multiple offers from Gallo up to that point. According to Herb, she handed them a blank check and told them to fill in any amount they wanted.”
“Seriously?”
De Palma nodded.
“How about you? Were you ever offered a settlement?”
“I don’t think I was ever even a lawsuit contender in anyone’s eyes. When Sheryl was killed, along with Charlie and the kids, I inherited her full share of the business. I didn’t have a reason to sue.”
“So Stephanie Gallo never approached you? You never heard from any of her people?”
“No, why? Are you trying to tell me I should sue?”
Campbell put up her hands. “No not at all. That’s not why I’m here.”
“Then I’m confused. Why are you here?”
It was a good question and one Elise had spent the night on Rita Klees’ pullout sofa bed trying to find an answer to. “What if there is more to this story than any of us know?”
“Like what?”
“What if someone that night did do something that led to the accident?”
De Palma placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Agent Campbell, do you have any evidence to support that?”
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 a
biding 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.
