by Brad Thor
Surobi, like most of Afghanistan, was nothing more than a collection of mud brick buildings. The only color at all came from the produce or mass-produced consumer goods being sold from drab roadside shops and stalls.
Harvath spotted three more men, all of whom were wearing black turbans and had AK-47s slung over their shoulders. The fact that they not only carried weapons, but so openly and brazenly displayed their allegiance to the Taliban, said a lot about Surobi. If only all of the Taliban and the rest of world’s Islamic fundamentalists had the courage to so openly identify themselves. Instead, they hid behind women and children and used mentally challenged people to carry out suicide attacks. For all their talk about being brave warriors, they were the biggest cowards on the planet.
If the world could see these assholes for the animals they really were, maybe there wouldn’t be such a hue and cry from the fools who wanted to afford them all of the protections due signers of the Geneva and Hague conventions. Forget the fact that idiots like the Taliban weren’t signers of either Geneva or Hague, refused to appear on the battlefield wearing even so much as an armband to identify themselves as honorable combatants, and wreaked untold misery upon civilian populations—the major group the conventions were designed to protect.
Harvath just couldn’t understand the liberal mind-set. He was convinced that they believed deeply in what they said and what they did; his only problem was that it so often flew in the face of reality. They continually focused their rage on their protectors rather than their enemy. They denigrated their country, believing it was the source of all evil in the world. The truth was, when it came to Islam, it had been violent since its inception. Its clearly stated goal was worldwide conquest. It was a mandate handed down in all of its religious texts. And while Harvath believed there were peaceful and moderate Muslims, he knew from studying the religion that there was no such thing as peaceful and moderate Islam.
The entire religion was a mess and needed a complete gut-rehab. And though he had a good feeling his country’s new president would probably not agree with him, he also knew that until the politically correct crowd stopped making excuses for them and undercutting any motivation to reform their religion themselves, the majority of Muslims wouldn’t do anything. Their religion forbade them from even changing one word of the Qur’an. Islam had been Islam for fourteen hundred years and what it had been was violent. As far as Harvath was concerned, they could have the rest of the world, but they couldn’t have his country.
Harvath was content to go door-to-door and eliminate as many trouble-making members of the “religion of peace” as was necessary. He didn’t need, nor did he expect, so much as a thank-you for it. He knew it was the right thing to do and he would continue to do it for as long as he was able to squeeze a throat or a trigger. It was what he was trained to do and it was an oath he had taken. That he was no longer in the direct employ of his nation did not mean that he felt any less responsible to see to its protection. There was nothing he held more sacred than his duty to his nation.
Seeing a roadside vendor up ahead advertising Coca-Cola, Harvath told Gallagher to pull the truck over.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“Of course. I want to be able to say I stopped for a drink in Surobi.”
Baba G looked at Fontaine.
“Fine by me,” replied the Canadian.
Gallagher navigated the truck to the side of the road and came to a stop in front of the small shop. “I’ll wait here,” he said.
“Chickenshit,” replied Harvath as he opened the door and hopped out.
Walking into the tiny store, he found a toothless old man sitting behind a worn table that functioned as the shop’s makeshift counter, with a faded cookie tin that acted as its cash register. The old man smiled as Harvath entered. Covering his heart and bowing slightly, he wished Harvath peace. “Wa alaikum salaam,” Harvath replied.
The old man’s smile remained as he waited to serve his customer.
“Coca-Cola?” asked Harvath.
Smiling more widely, the man removed one of the many plastic bags hung on the arm of his chair and shuffled across the dirt floor to a small cooler. “Dua?” the man asked holding up two fingers.
Harvath couldn’t tell if he was the world’s greatest salesman, or if he was trying to figure out how many people Harvath was traveling with to maybe relay the information up the road to a waiting sniper. It was an inhospitable way to think, especially as the old man seemed very nice, but it was the kind of viewpoint that kept people like Harvath alive.
Harvath held up four fingers and the old man beamed. He was making his day. As the man selected four Cokes and placed them in the bag, Harvath looked around the little shop. Not knowing when they might be eating again, he bought a can of nuts, some chocolate, and a tube of Pakistani Pringles.
The old man followed Harvath, carefully placing each item in the bag. Harvath was about ready to pay when he noticed a small, dusty row of books along the floor in the corner. The man had one or two books in German, Swedish, French, Italian, Dutch, and English—something for almost every potential NGO worker who might have once stopped at his place of business before Surobi became so dangerous.
Harvath looked through the titles in English. One in particular caught his eye. Picking it up, he smiled.
Done with his shopping, he followed the old man to the counter and paid him.
Handing the bag across the table to his customer, the old man said, “U.K.?”
“No, U.S.A.”
“Ah, America. America good.”
Harvath nodded and replied, “Afghanistan good, too.”
Glancing toward the door to make sure they were still alone, the old man’s toothless smile faded as he stated, “Taliban bad.”
“Yes,” Harvath said as he picked up his bag. “Taliban very bad. But Afghanistan good.”
The smile returned to the old man’s face and he watched his American customer leave the shop.
Outside, Harvath climbed back into the waiting Land Cruiser, pulled out the tattered Jackie Collins novel, and tossed it into the front seat.
“What took you so long?” asked Gallagher as he looked at the book. “I thought you were just buying a drink.”
“I was making a new friend,” replied Harvath. “You’d like him. Same taste in literature. You two could start your own book club.”
“I don’t think so,” said Baba G as he put the truck in gear and pulled out onto the road. “You just couldn’t pay me to sit around with a bunch of Taliban deconstructing Lady Boss.”
“How about having a lady boss who pays you to deconstruct a bunch of Taliban who are just sitting around?” asked Harvath as he settled back into his seat.
Gallagher laughed. “Throw in a cooler of cold beer at the end and that would be my kind of job. But by the same token, I learned a long time ago that you should be very careful what you wish for.”
CHAPTER 36
In Bagrami, on the outskirts of Jalalabad, Gallagher turned down the driveway of the largest walled compound Harvath had seen outside of Kabul. It sat in the middle of about eight acres and was surrounded by nothing but flat, rock-strewn, dusty ground. Tactically, it was a brilliant location. You could not only see trouble coming from any direction, you could also engage it and mow it down before it even got close to your front door.
“The realtors around J-bad will talk your ear off all day long about location, location, location,” stated Baba G as they approached. “But for me, it’s all about the interlocking fields of fire.”
The compound had been constructed by a local Afghan contractor at the behest of the United Nations. It was built to exacting U.N. standards and was composed of two buildings with seventeen en suite bedrooms, a full basement with workout facility and safe room/bomb shelter, a large communal dining room and kitchen, an expansive garden, swimming pool, and tiki bar.
When the U.N. fled Bagrami on the heels of the overhyped Mohammed cartoon riots, Gallagher had heard
about the property and drove down from Kabul to check it out. He and Hoyt had been wanting to expand their operations farther into eastern Afghanistan. NGOs were doing more work there and would need security. Gallagher also saw the compound as a great money-making opportunity and turned it into a guesthouse, complete with free WiFi access, and dubbed it the Shangri-La. Its garden tiki bar was the only international bar in the region and did a hell of a Thursday night business. In the summer months, Baba G sold memberships to the pool, where Westerners could swim and sun themselves without offending Afghan sensibilities. The man was always alert to opportunity.
There was a guardhouse outside the main gates, and as Gallagher’s guards saw him driving up, they opened the large iron gates for him. He parked near the main building, and when Harvath stepped out of the vehicle, the first thing he noticed was how much warmer it was. The air was thick and humid. The sky was clear and azure blue.
“Pretty nice, huh?” asked Baba G. “You’ve come down over four thousand feet in elevation.”
“Very nice,” replied Harvath as he unwrapped the patoo from around his shoulders and took the pakol off his head. It was at least twenty degrees warmer.
“It can get pretty cold at night, though,” added Gallagher as two members of the house staff appeared. He directed them to grab the liquor out of the back of the truck and take it inside along with Harvath’s bag.
Fontaine already knew his way around the Shangri-La and told his colleagues that he’d see them shortly for lunch.
Baba G gave Harvath a quick tour of the property, then put him in the biggest room he had available and told him he’d see him in the dining room in fifteen minutes.
Harvath drew back the drapes and opened the large French windows. The fresh air felt good.
Setting up his laptop, he logged on to the Internet and checked the email account he had established for communicating with Stephanie Gallo. There was a message waiting. The subject line read POL, short for Proof of Life.
Opening the email, Harvath read Gallo’s update:
Wonderful news! All questions answered correctly! When will you get hold of the rug dealer?
Harvath didn’t like stringing Stephanie Gallo along, but it was going to be necessary for a little while longer. He was way off the reservation, running an operation that she had not sanctioned. He dashed off a response telling her that they expected to move on the rug dealer in the next forty-eight hours. It was as far as he felt comfortable pushing things. If he couldn’t locate Julia Gallo in the next two days, he’d have no choice but to set up the exchange with her captors. Waiting any longer than that was just asking for them to get desperate. The last thing he wanted was for them to start slicing off body parts, one of the Taliban’s favorite attention-getters, and dropping them off in front of the American embassy in Kabul.
Pulling out his Afghan phone, Harvath dialed Hoyt at the Shahr-e Naw safe house. “How’s our guest?” he asked when Hoyt answered.
“Who? Hannibal Fucking Lecter?”
Harvath sat up straighter in his chair. “What happened?”
“After he soiled himself, Midland went in to try to clean him up and—”
“Wait a second,” interrupted Harvath. “Why did Midland go in and not you?”
“Because rock beats scissors, that’s why. Besides, I’m management and he’s labor.”
“Do you think he soiled himself on purpose?” asked Harvath.
“You’re damn right he did.”
“You should have left him like that.”
“I didn’t have a choice. Flower was raising holy hell. He thought maybe the guy was sick or something. Since he’s our prisoner, it’s our duty to see to his comfort. You know, all that Pashtunwali crap. Blah, blah, blah.”
Harvath knew what Pashtunwali was and he had a lot of respect for it. It was far from crap. The rest of “modern” civilization could benefit from adhering to such a code of honor. “So what happened?”
“Midland and Flower went in to deal with the guy while I covered them. As Midland was removing Khan’s pants, the shitbag bent over and tore a chunk out of his ear with his teeth.”
“Jesus. Is he going to be okay?”
“Flower drove him over to the CARE hospital to get his ear sewn back on.”
“CARE?” replied Harvath.
“Relax,” said Hoyt. “He doesn’t know anything about where we got Khan from. Besides, CARE is the best place for plastics.”
Plastic surgeons or no plastic surgeons, Harvath didn’t like it. “You should have gone with him. If he talks, this whole operation could be blown.”
“Don’t worry, he’s not stupid. He won’t talk. And as far as me going to the hospital with him, I figured you’d rather I stay here and watch our guest. If I’m wrong, I can call a cab right now.”
Harvath put his elbow on the desk and rested his forehead in the palm of his hand. “No, you did the right thing. I’m glad you stayed there. Tell Mark I’ll cover all his medical bills.”
“I already told him that,” replied Hoyt. “By the way, did you know the biter speaks English?”
“Yeah, he grew up in the U.K.”
“Well he’s one creepy son of a bitch. He keeps threatening us every time we open the door to his cage and I’m not talking run-of-the-mill, macho, I’m-going-to-kick-your-ass kind of stuff. He’s one sick motherfucker.”
“Don’t let him get to you,” said Harvath. “Do you guys need anything?”
“I need a couple more boxes of those XREPs.”
“Please don’t tell me you—”
“Yeah,” said Hoyt. “We fired all of them. And you know what? They work even better when you put the motherfucker’s feet in a bucket of water.”
“Damn it, Hoyt!” snapped Harvath. “That’s way out of line—”
“Relax,” replied Hoyt. “We haven’t done anything to him.”
“Not even when he tore into Midland?”
“All right, we messed him up once.”
“How bad?” asked Harvath.
“Flower beat the crap out of him. Midland and I had to pull him off. So much for Pashtunwali, eh?” said Hoyt with a chuckle.
“I told you the guy was dangerous. The only reason he got Mark’s ear was that he was probably aiming for his throat and missed. I don’t want you going into that room unless you absolutely have to. And if you do, and he moves, TASE him. That’s an order. Understand?”
“You got it, boss.”
“Good,” replied Harvath. “Let me know if Mark has any problems at the hospital. By the way, what’s he going to say anyway when the doctor asks him how it happened?”
“They’re picking up Mei along the way. They’re going to say it was rough sex.”
Harvath couldn’t believe his ears. “Now you’ve got Mei involved in this?”
“I’m just kidding,” said Hoyt. “Relax. Midland will say he tore his ear on a piece of sheet metal.”
“You keep screwing with me,” cautioned Harvath, “and I’m going to tear you on a piece of sheet metal.”
“I’m shaking in my saddle shoes here, Aquaman. Get back to work and find our doctor. We’ve got everything covered on this end.”
“If anything else happens with Khan, I want to know about it. Okay?”
“Roger that,” replied Hoyt.
Harvath disconnected the call and stood up from the desk. Closing the windows, he stepped into the hall, locked the door behind him, and headed toward the dining room. Gallagher and Fontaine were already seated at the table when he got there.
“What’s our status?” asked Gallagher as Harvath walked in.
Harvath couldn’t talk about Khan in front of Fontaine, so he stuck strictly to Julia Gallo. “We’ve got positive proof of life.”
Fontaine grabbed a large orange from the bowl in the center of the table and began peeling it. “So we’re a go for Khogyani?”
“Yup.”
“Let’s assume we get a meeting with the shura,” said Gallagher. “
Then what?”
“The first thing I want is a tour of the village. We take as many pictures as we can and map as many GPS points as possible. We’ll push to look at everything. If they hold anything back or say that something is off-limits, we mark it as a location of interest.
“I want each of us planning as we walk through that village how we would come back in at night, hit our objective, and get out again. Are there any dogs? Any livestock we would want to avoid disturbing? If we got pinned down, where would we want to hole up and fight from? Where’s the nearest location we could use as an LZ if we had a helicopter brought in? If it has to be a hot extraction and we’re taking fire, how would that work? How thick are their doors? How many armed men could they field and how quickly? If we get the chance to do a walk-through, I want to make sure we’re making the most of it.”
“What about this kid with the broken jaw?”
“Asadoulah Badar,” said Harvath.
Baba G nodded.
“We obviously can’t come right out and ask the shura about him. There’s no reason a bunch of NGO workers would know his name. We’d be blown right from the get-go.”
“So what do you suggest?” asked Fontaine.
“We need to figure out a way to get them to offer him to us.”
“What do you mean by offer?”
Harvath pulled out another Motrin and reached for one of the bottles of water on the table.
“The way you’re going through those things,” interrupted Gallagher, “you should have a PEZ dispenser.”
“Do you think I can get a Jackie Collins one?” asked Harvath as he popped the painkiller and took a sip of water.
“You’re going to fry your liver and your kidneys if you keep knocking those things back like that.”
“Can we get back to Badar and the shura, please?”
Gallagher put up his hands in surrender and Harvath continued. “If we tell them we want to involve the young men of the village in the project as well, we might be able to arrange a casting call.
“After tea, we’ll do our tour, and while we’re touring, the shura can have the young men rounded up for us. We’ll then do a Q&A with the kids, ostensibly to select the best candidates. If one of them has a broken jaw, we’ll know.”
