by Brad Thor
“Agent Campbell, I’m not going to the papers with any of this, and from what I understand, you’ve got your own reasons for playing things pretty close to the vest. Alden was under oath when he responded to those interrogatories at the beginning of our lawsuit against him. If he lied in any of them, then that’s a felony. That’s pretty damn serious. But from a court of public appearance perspective, it’ll be a supernova if he did so to cover up what happened that night to our son, our daughter-in-law, and our two little grandchildren.”
“So you’re prepared to read me the president’s answers to your interrogatories?”
“I am,” said Herb Coleman, “and I hope you’re sitting down. I think you’re going to find this very interesting.”
CHAPTER 51
NANGARHAR PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN
The name of the village they were headed to was Dagar, which in Pashtu meant open space. It also meant battlefield, which Harvath hoped wasn’t going to turn out to be prophetic.
As per Captain West, it had been Fontaine’s idea to mushroom him, and as much as Harvath regretted having to feed the guy so much BS and keep him in the dark, they had no choice. Until Julia Gallo was recovered, operational security was of primary importance.
This wasn’t the first time Harvath had lied to get what he needed. It was just how the game worked. If West had been in his shoes, he would have done the same thing. Sometimes, the ends did in fact justify the means. It was the height of moral folly to play by a set of self-imposed rules when your enemy played by none whatsoever. While Harvath would readily admit that rules were important, there were also times when they weren’t, and this was one of them.
Harvath stuck to the same story they had told West in the beginning and kept his embellishments as simple as possible from there. While they did get their interpreter out of the first village, he informed them, the al-Qaeda bomber they were after had fled. They had proceeded to Massoud’s village to gather more info on the bomber and his Taliban accomplice only to be ambushed on their way out. Now they wanted to hit Dagar in the hopes of getting up to Massoud’s summer grazing pasture to confirm that the bomber was there, and either take the men into custody or call in another airstrike to make sure they never carried out another attack.
Whether West fully believed Harvath was beside the point. Wiping out seventy-plus Taliban fighters and helping to weaken a local Taliban commander was a good thing, regardless of who got the credit for it. Taking out forty or fifty more would only run up the score and make for a much better night. West only wished his men could help.
Understanding that he couldn’t roll his armored column right through Dagar and that even if he could, he’d have considerable difficulty actually getting his men to the final objective, Captain Chris West proved that he and the Canadians were true partners in the international war on terror by offering Harvath anything else he needed.
Harvath eagerly accepted the help. West and his team transported them back to Asadoulah’s village, where Fayaz provided a Toyota pickup truck and offered to send along as many armed men as the vehicle could carry.
While the idea of having extra men was appealing, Harvath declined. He did, though, accept the truck and promised to have it returned as soon as he was done. It was exceedingly generous of Fayaz, considering the fact that the village had just lost two vehicles in a firefight and would need to return to reclaim their dead.
From the Canadians, Harvath took as much ammo for Gallagher’s sniper rifle, the MP5s, and his and Fontaine’s pistols as could be spared. He also changed out the batteries in their NODs and was extra-grateful when West handed them several fragmentation grenades.
Daoud knew Dagar, so they let him drive the truck while Harvath rode shotgun and Fontaine sat in back.
“So how do you know Dagar?” asked Harvath as they drove.
“I have a friend there,” said the interpreter. “We grew up in the same refugee camp in Pakistan. We used to play cricket together.”
“Would your friend be willing to help us?”
“He is a good man,” replied Daoud. “He doesn’t like al-Qaeda and he does not like the Taliban. He will help us.”
“I hope he can help us to some coffee,” Fontaine added from the backseat.
Harvath looked at his watch and then rubbed his eyes. It was well after midnight, his back was throbbing again, and he was out of Motrin. Baba G’s med kit had gone up in flames with his Land Cruiser. The only things he wanted as much as finding Julia Gallo were a hot shower, a stiff drink, and a soft bed. In fact, despite how grimy he was, he’d be glad to forgo the shower and move right to the drink and the bed.
In order not to focus on his fatigue, he tried to envision again what Julia Gallo was going through. The fact that she had scratched her initials into her previous cell meant that she had remembered her training. That was a good sign. Harvath hoped she also remembered the part about keeping her spirits up and not allowing herself to slip into depression as she imagined the worst that might befall her. It was an easy lesson to teach, but much more difficult to actually put into practice.
As the truck, with its worn-out shocks, bounced and jostled toward Dagar, Harvath closed his eyes and allowed his mind to rest. He knew all too well that the next couple of hours were going to be extremely tense and most likely, extremely dangerous. Fontaine and Daoud seemed to be thinking the same thing, as both men were silent for the rest of the ride.
* * *
A deep pothole a kilometer outside the village drew Harvath’s mind back to the here and now.
“I’m sorry about that,” said Daoud. “I couldn’t avoid it.”
“That’s okay,” replied Harvath. “Are we close?”
“Yes, we’re very close now.”
“Fontaine?” said Harvath looking into the backseat. “You up?”
“No,” replied the Canadian.
“Too bad. I think I just saw a Molson sign.”
“Well, when you see one for Labatt’s, we’ll stop. Until then, leave me alone.”
Harvath smiled, turned back around, and checked his weapon, knowing full well Fontaine was doing the same. He was an exceptional operator and, like Harvath, was now 100 percent switched on.
Turning to Daoud, Harvath said, “Are you ready to make the call?”
The interpreter nodded and pulled out his phone. Scrolling through the address book as he balanced it on the steering wheel, he found the number and connected the call. Within two rings, his old cricket pal was on the other end and they were chatting as if Daoud had called him in the middle of the day rather than the middle of the night. At one point, the chubby interpreter began laughing.
Eventually he rang off and slid the phone back into his pocket.
“Is everything okay?” asked Harvath.
“Fine,” said Daoud with a smile. “He is waiting for us at his home.”
Harvath wondered if Daoud had extended an apology for waking up his friend’s wife. Then he remembered where he was. TIA.
CHAPTER 52
Daoud’s boyhood friend was a short, whip-thin man named Reshteen. He had widely set brown eyes, a flat, thick nose, and a bushy beard dyed henna red.
He ushered his guests into his home and quickly shut the door behind them. They removed their shoes and entered the living room, where two of Reshteen’s young sons were laying out small dishes of cold food and a pot of warm tea. The room was lit by a small oil lamp, which threw off just about as much heat as the old, rusted stove in the corner. They had come up considerably in altitude and Harvath could feel the cold seeping right into his bones despite the clothing he was wearing.
Daoud and Reshteen spoke for several minutes while Harvath studied their faces. He could follow the direction of their conversation simply by their expressions. He had always been good at reading people, but his time at the Secret Service had taken him to a completely different level.
He could tell they were talking about Massoud and the Taliban now. Both men had become very seri
ous. Daoud was doing most of the talking, while Reshteen seemed to respond only with one- or two-word answers.
Turning to Harvath, Daoud stated, “The men passed through here in two groups, several hours apart, but they all went to the same place.”
“The grazing pasture,” replied Harvath.
The interpreter nodded.
Flash 22 had done a high-altitude pass on their way back to Bagram and had relayed everything back over the radio to Fontaine as they made their way to Dagar. If Reshteen had said that the Taliban weren’t here, or that he hadn’t seen anything, then they would have had a problem. So far so good.
“Did he see Dr. Gallo? An American woman with red hair?”
“In one of the first trucks that came through there were two women in burkas.”
Two women? Did the Taliban have more than one female hostage? Had they brought along a woman to watch over Dr. Gallo? Harvath doubted it. Watching Julia was the job of Massoud’s retarded brother, Zwak. Most likely, the Russian had put Julia in a burka to disguise her appearance and had dressed up Zwak or one of Massoud’s other men in a burka as well. That way they’d be a lot less obvious. People would remember a bunch of Taliban riding around with one woman, but two was less suspicious, especially when they were trying to make their getaway as discreetly as possible. That was what Harvath would do, and he was willing to bet the Russian thought along the same lines.
Just for clarification, Harvath asked, “Do the Taliban normally bring women with them?”
“No, they don’t,” replied Daoud. “They also never come at this time of year.”
That was enough for Harvath. What he needed now was someone to guide them to a position where they could observe Massoud’s camp without being discovered. He put the question to Daoud and waited for the man to speak with Reshteen and translate his response.
“He says it is impossible,” the interpreter finally responded. “The road passes through a narrow canyon and the pasture is surrounded by sheer cliffs.”
“There has got to be some way.”
“Only if you come over the mountain from the other side, but even then there are very few places to hide. Massoud chose the location very carefully.”
“The pasture abuts part of the Tora Bora cave complex,” offered Harvath. “Do any of the caves interconnect? Could we somehow approach that way?”
The interpreter spoke with his friend. After a brief exchange, Daoud reported, “Some of the villagers know the caves, but none of them will go into them for fear of booby traps. They say only the al-Qaeda know which tunnels are truly safe.”
On a whim, Harvath asked about the Lake of Broken Glass and if Reshteen had ever heard of it or seen anyone in the area with SCUBA equipment.
“Na,” the man answered.
Harvath wasn’t surprised. It would have been the ultimate irony if Massoud and the Russian had gone to all this trouble only to discover they’d been sitting atop bin Laden’s pot of gold the entire time.
Fontaine nudged Harvath. “What’s the Lake of Broken Glass?”
“It’s a wives’ tale,” replied Harvath. “Something that might have to do with where bin Laden hid his money.”
“Where’d you hear about it?”
“Like I said, it’s a wives’ tale,” replied Harvath, who, despite all of Fontaine’s help, still had no desire to read him in on how he and Gallagher had snatched Mustafa Khan from the Afghan government.
Changing the subject, Harvath ran through their options once more aloud. “Now, since there’s only one road into Massoud’s camp, that doesn’t sound like it is going to work for us. The tunnels are too dangerous and we couldn’t find a guide even if we wanted one. There’s only sparse cover on the rock faces around the pasture, and to get to those, we’ve got to come over the mountains from the other side. At this point, it sounds like that is our only option.”
“Maybe not,” replied Daoud, who had been simultaneously translating as Harvath spoke. He waited for Reshteen to finish saying something to him and then stated, “There may be a way you can use the road.”
“What do you mean?”
Reshteen spoke for several more moments and then Daoud said, “As I told you, my friend does not like the Taliban or al-Qaeda. Neither do the people of his village. But they are not stupid. If he helps you, he knows what could happen to him and the rest of the people in Dagar.”
“Please tell your friend that I don’t like al-Qaeda or the Taliban either, and I am willing to make this worth his while, but we have to keep this quiet. I don’t want to run this through his shura. We’re too close now.”
Daoud smiled. “He does not want to run it through his shura either.”
“So what does he want?”
“He wants the summer grazing pasture.”
“Does he want me to help buy it for him?” replied Harvath. “Because it is not mine to give.”
Daoud’s smile remained as he said, “I have told him of your relationship with Massoud’s shura and in particular with the elder, Baseer. This grazing pasture once belonged to Reshteen’s grandfather, but he lost it to the Taliban when he couldn’t pay his debts. Reshteen’s family still graze their flocks there in the summer, but Massoud charges very heavy fees for it.
“After what you did to Massoud’s men already this evening, I have told Reshteen that I have every confidence you can do so again. If you defeat Massoud, you will be able to convince Baseer to return the pasture to its rightful owner.”
“First of all,” said Harvath, pointing at his own eyes to emphasize the point, “I only want to go up there to look.”
“For the woman,” replied Daoud.
“Exactly. Once we confirm that she is indeed there, we’ll consider our options and decide what our next move should be.”
“Na, na, na,” replied Reshteen as Daoud translated.
“What’s wrong?”
“He says he has an idea, but you would have to leave very soon.”
Something like this was extremely dangerous to rush into. “Let’s hear his idea, first.”
Daoud spoke to Reshteen and then listened as the man laid out his plan. Then he relayed the information to Harvath. “There are many Taliban up at Massoud’s camp. At least forty men. They came in a hurry, with very little supplies. They have no fuel for cooking or heating the buildings there. They have no food and no water.”
A smile spread across Harvath’s face. “And let me guess,” he said. “They asked Reshteen to gather these things and bring them to them.”
Daoud’s head bobbed from side to side and he turned his palms upward. “They asked Reshteen’s cousins, but it is the same thing. Reshteen will be one of the men traveling up to the camp to deliver the supplies.”
“Will he take us with him?” asked Harvath.
“If you promise him you will take care of Massoud and that he will get the pasture, he will take you.”
Harvath, who was sitting across from the Afghans, leaned forward and said, “Once I have the girl, I guarantee you I will take care of Massoud. And once that is done, I will do everything in my power to get that grazing pasture returned to his family or I will buy him another, even better pasture.”
As Daoud translated, Reshteen tugged at his red beard. Slowly, a smile began to form at the edges of his lips.
When the man finally nodded, indicating they had a deal, Harvath said, “Now let’s talk about how exactly Reshteen is going to get us up there.”
CHAPTER 53
ANNANDALE, VIRGINIA
Elise Campbell took a deep breath and knocked on Todd Hutchinson’s faded front door. When he didn’t answer, she began knocking louder.
Finally, a shadow passed behind the peephole and there was the scrape of the chain being undone, followed by the sound of the dead bolt unlocking.
Hutchinson must have been down in his basement, working out. “Campbell?” he said, standing there in a pair of gym shorts and a tight T-shirt. “What are you doing here?”
El
ise had never before noticed how well built her colleague was. “We need to talk,” she said, as she brushed past him and entered his home uninvited.
“Come on in. I guess,” said Hutch as he closed and locked the door behind her.
Campbell had purposefully worked herself into a lather on the drive down from D.C. The more emotional she appeared, the harder it would be for him to read her. “Why’d you lie to me?”
“Wait a second, calm down. What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you and Nikki Hale.”
Hutchinson was about to say something, but then stopped himself. Abandoning his response, he asked, “What about me and Nikki Hale?”
“Do you think I’m stupid, Hutch? Did you think nobody was going to know?”
“Know what?” demanded the man. “You’re talking in circles.”
“The night Nikki Hale died, you had sex with her.”
No sooner had the accusation sprung from her lips than the microexpression Campbell had witnessed in Lafayette Park was back on Hutchinson’s face.
“You’re out of your mind,” he stated.
“Really?” bluffed Campbell, removing the Suffolk County medical examiner’s form from her pocket. “Not only were you dumb enough to screw her, you were dumb enough to leave your DNA behind.”
Hutchinson snatched the form away from her. “That’s insane. Let me see that.”
“I’ve got a witness that saw you playing grab-ass with her near the guesthouse.”
“Who?”
“Never mind who. Did you and Nikki have an ongoing relationship, or was this just a one-nighter?”
“This is bullshit,” said Hutchinson as he crumpled the ME’s form and tossed it across the room. “I want you to leave.”
“If this is all bullshit, you’ve got nothing to lose by answering my questions, do you?”
“What’s the point? You’ve already made up your mind.”
“The point is, five people died that night and you know something you’re not telling me. If I have to drag your relationship with Nikki Hale into the light of day to get some answers, believe me, I’m going to do it.”
