The Apostle

by Brad Thor

  Flash 22 had promised to be on station, ready to shower steel at 5:00 A.M., thirteen minutes before sunrise.

  “Nothing,” responded Fontaine. “We’re surrounded by solid rock. The radio isn’t powerful enough to get out.”

  “How about a phone?” said Harvath as he pulled his Afghan cell phone from his pocket. “Do you have a direct number for J3 Air?”

  Fontaine rattled off the digits and Harvath punched them into his phone. He hit send, but the call failed to connect. The signal strength wasn’t strong enough.

  “No joy,” said Harvath as he punched the end button on his cell phone and tucked it back in his pocket.

  “What’s going on?” asked Julia from the floor behind them.

  “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “You picked a great night not to bring a sat phone,” said Fontaine.

  Harvath was about to tell the Canadian he had brought one, but that it had been barbecued along with Gallagher’s Land Cruiser, when two trucks came up on their three-vehicle column from behind and begin firing. The results were instantaneous.

  “We’ve lost the rear vehicle!” yelled Harvath as he watched the truck one of Reshteen’s cousins was driving slide to the side of the road and come to a stop.

  “We can’t do anything for him now,” said Fontaine as he kept his foot on the gas. “We’re almost at the first checkpoint. Get ready.”

  As the MP5 was an easier weapon to shoot one-handed, Harvath traded it to Fontaine for Gallagher’s LaRue. Positioning the sniper rifle out the window, Harvath looked once more into his side mirror. “Damn it!” he cursed. “Reshteen’s going back for his cousins.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about that,” replied the Canadian. “We’re going to have that checkpoint in sight in less than a minute.”

  Underneath them, their bald tires were skidding and slipping over the icy road. “Go back,” said Harvath.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” replied Fontaine. “There are at least forty Taliban back there.”

  “Who are going to execute three men who risked everything to help us if we don’t help them.”

  “Goddamn Afghans,” Fontaine growled, as he stepped on the brakes and the truck fishtailed back and forth. “How the hell am I supposed to turn around?”

  They had just left the valley area of the pasture and entered the narrow canyon with its single-lane road that led down to the village.

  “Reverse it,” ordered Harvath.

  The Canadian shook his head and slammed the truck into reverse. Its tires spun until they finally caught and they went hurtling backward in the direction they had just come.

  Harvath jumped into the backseat, opened the rear window, and pushed the barrel of his rifle through. Pulling his Afghan cell phone from his pocket, he dropped it to Julia Gallo and said, “Keep redialing the number on there and don’t stop until you get through.”

  Fontaine continued to speed backward. Thirty meters out, Harvath could see Reshteen’s vehicle, as well as that of his cousins. He could also see the two Taliban trucks just beyond, which were closing fast and firing at them with everything they had.

  “What are we doing here, Scot?” yelled the Canadian as errant rounds began pinging off their truck.

  Harvath took several shots at the approaching Taliban vehicles as he quickly studied the situation.

  Although Reshteen’s cousins wouldn’t be happy about losing their trucks, the way they were now parked, side by side, made them a perfect roadblock. There was only one thing that could make them better.

  “Stop!” yelled Harvath.

  As Fontaine brought the vehicle to a halt, Harvath leaped out, raised his weapon to engage their attackers, and yelled for Reshteen and his cousins to come to him.

  The men ran right toward him, and as Harvath examined their vehicles, he could see that both trucks had flat tires and were inoperable.

  “Get in the truck!” he yelled as he pointed over his shoulder. Despite their inability to speak English, they had no problem understanding him.

  Harvath continued to return fire, until he got within a few meters of the trucks. As he dropped to a knee, he could see beyond the two Taliban trucks rapidly approaching, to an armada of headlights right behind them.

  Breaking off his assault, Harvath fished two fragmentation grenades from his coat pocket. He pulled the pins, pitched one underneath each of the disabled vehicles, and yelled, “Frag out!” as he ran back to his pickup.

  Leaping into the bed, he slammed his fist against its side and yelled, “Go, go, go!”

  Immediately, Fontaine stepped on the gas and Harvath ducked down. When the frags detonated, they lifted both of the disabled vehicles off the ground and sent a bright orange plume of flame into the air. Shrapnel pockmarked their tailgate and skipped across the roof of the cab.

  They had been driving for only a few hundred feet when Fontaine saw something up ahead and stepped on the brakes yet again. Before Harvath could ask what it was, the Canadian yelled, “RPG!”

  He managed to grind the vehicle into reverse but ended up spinning the tires so fast that he couldn’t get any traction.

  Harvath jumped from the bed yelling, “Everyone out!” as he scrambled to make it to the passenger side door in time. With no choice but to abandon ship, Fontaine did the same.

  As the Afghans and Dr. Gallo poured out of the vehicle, there was an ear-splitting pop as the RPG was fired and hissed toward them.

  Grabbing Julia Gallo by the shoulder, Harvath pulled her behind a narrow outcropping of rock and yelled for everyone to take cover.

  No sooner had he said the words than the RPG hit their truck and detonated, sending another towering fireball into the sky.

  Harvath pressed Gallo into the rock, covering her body with his as the charred remains of the vehicle rained down around them.

  It took what felt like a lifetime for the ringing in his ears to subside. When it did, he could hear Fontaine calling out his name.

  “Over here!” Harvath yelled back, and soon they were joined by the Canadian and the three Afghans.

  Fontaine was just about to speak, when they all heard a tremendous crash from up the road.

  “They’re trying to ram their way through the trucks I fragged,” said Harvath.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Fight,” replied Harvath, who was suddenly interrupted by Julia Gallo.

  “It’s ringing!” she cried as she held the phone out.

  Fontaine took it from her as Harvath leaned out toward the road and took aim.

  After three attempts at ramming into the wreckage, the men above them broke through. At the same moment, the sentries from the checkpoint below them pinpointed their position, and they immediately began taking fire from both directions.

  Harvath very quickly burned through his magazine and yelled for Fontaine to hand him another. As he did, the Canadian relayed their situation to J3 Air at Bagram, which patched him in to Flash 22.

  With their strobe gone, all Fontaine could do was give their approximate location in relation to their burning pickup.

  As the string of Taliban trucks came rushing down the road toward them, Harvath alternated trying to slow them down and engaging the sentries from the checkpoint who were now coming up the road.

  There was a distinct clap as the final round in Harvath’s magazine was fired. He had just called for a fresh mag, when Fontaine yelled for everyone to drop and take cover.

  CHAPTER 60

  Mullah Massoud grinned as he and Simonov barreled down on the men who had stolen the American woman from him. Their vehicle had been destroyed, but there were still survivors returning fire. He prayed that he would find the woman there. He didn’t care if she was injured, as long as she was alive. He and the Russian both had too much invested in her to allow her to slip through their hands.

  As they drew closer, the accuracy of the person shooting at them improved. Whoever it was, he was very good with a rifle.
Massoud pounded the roof of the truck and yelled at his soldier to make sure he didn’t shoot the woman or their fellow Taliban down below.

  The commander was going to teach whoever this was a very painful lesson. You didn’t steal from a man like Massoud Akhund. All he had to do now was to keep them pinned down until they ran out of ammunition; then he and his men would move in.

  Simonov slowed their truck to a crawl to allow the soldiers from the checkpoint below to move up and apply pressure. Hot shell casings tinkled onto the roof of the cab as Massoud leaned against the roll bar and kept firing in short bursts.

  It was during a break in the shooting, when the soldier ejected his spent magazine and fished for another, that Massoud realized that the marksman near the flaming wreckage below had stopped shooting at them. It was also at that time that he heard an explosion from behind.

  Looking into his side mirror, he saw the trucks behind him erupting in bright yellow flashes. “Move! Move! Move!” he yelled at Simonov.

  The Russian, who had been transfixed by the spectacle behind them, popped the clutch and leaped forward. Though neither of them could see any aircraft, they knew they were under attack from above.

  Simonov pushed the truck as fast as it would go, as the hand of death came racing up behind them.

  Both he and the Taliban commander were so mesmerized by what was happening in their mirrors that they didn’t realize how quickly they had closed with the burning hulk of the truck in front of them that had been RPGed.

  The Russian tried to brake but lost control. The truck bounced against the high rock wall on the right side of the road and then slammed into the flaming wreckage.

  The last thing that went through Sergei Simonov’s mind as he went through the windshield and was killed was his son, Sasha.

  Mullah Massoud was ejected from the passenger window as the vehicle flipped over and rolled several hundred feet down the road.

  He regained consciousness for only a moment. Blood poured from his nose and ears. Though his eyes refused to focus, he thought he could see daylight. Off in the distance he heard his brother calling him to prayer.

  As the sun’s rays grew brighter, his body was beset by cold and grew numb. Zwak’s voice seemed to move farther away as the life drained from his body.

  Standing above him were two shapes. They were men with guns, foreigners; probably Americans. Massoud Akhund opened his mouth to tell them that they would never triumph in Afghanistan.

  The Taliban commander wanted to mock them for their arrogance, but nothing came. Nothing but deep, impenetrable, bottomless darkness.

  CHAPTER 61

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  TWO DAYS LATER

  Carolyn Leonard cleared White House security on West Executive Drive and then found a parking space. It was one of those perfect D.C. days—warm with a bright blue sky and barely a trace of humidity.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked as she turned off the car’s engine. “Maybe you should take some more time to think about it.”

  Elise Campbell turned to her, “Carolyn, I didn’t bring you along to talk me out of my decision. I brought you for moral support.”

  Leonard smiled. “I’ll be waiting right here when you come out.”

  “Thanks,” said Campbell as she unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door.

  As she stepped out of the car, she was greeted by the scent of magnolia blossoms drifting across the grounds. Max Holland was waiting for her in front of the West Wing entrance.

  “Are you sure about this, Campbell?”

  Elise nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “Okay,” he replied. “The president is waiting for you in the residence. Are you okay if we walk this way?” he asked, pointing toward the North Lawn. “It’s a nice day, and I’d like to enjoy what’s left of it.”

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  As they walked, Holland said, “The night Nikki Hale drove off the estate, I’d been on break when Alden went to the guesthouse. I never knew the details of what happened until you asked me to set up this meeting. I’d like to think that if I’d been there that night, things might have turned out differently.”

  “Me too,” replied Elise.

  They covered the rest of the distance in silence. On the third floor of the executive residence, Campbell followed Holland down the hallway to a carpeted ramp that branched off to their left. At the top was a room most Americans didn’t know even existed, the White House solarium.

  Constructed by William Howard Taft in the early part of the twentieth century as a sleeping porch, it had originally been intended as a place to catch a cool breeze on hot nights and had been a favorite of first families ever since. President Eisenhower barbequed outside on its promenade, while his wife, Mamie, hosted bridge parties inside. The Kennedys used it as a kindergarten for Caroline and other children; President Nixon gathered his family here to break the news of his resignation; and President Reagan spent weeks in the solarium, recuperating from the assassination attempt on his life.

  “The president will be here in a minute,” said Holland. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  As he left, Elise took in the solarium.

  It was an octagonal room, composed almost entirely of windows. The décor was bright and the tasteful furnishings plush and comfortable—exactly what one would expect to find in a sunroom meant for relaxed family gatherings.

  Its most striking feature was its view. In the foreground was the Washington Monument and beyond that the Jefferson Memorial.

  “Best view in all of Washington,” said a voice from behind.

  Surprised, Campbell turned around. “Hello, Mr. President,” she said. It was the first time she had ever seen him on time for any meeting, much less early.

  “Elise,” he said as he crossed the room to shake her hand. “I understand you were quite insistent about seeing me.”

  “I was. Thank you, Mr. President,” she replied as she accepted his hand.

  Alden pointed toward one of the overstuffed couches. “Please sit down. Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

  “No thank you, sir.”

  “Okay,” said the president, taking a seat in the armchair just adjacent. “I’m all yours.”

  Elise knew there would be no perfect segue or preamble for what she had come to say. The only way to say it was to say it, and when she did, the color drained from Alden’s face. “Mr. President. I wanted to tender my resignation to you personally.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I know what happened the night Nikki Hale killed the Coleman family. She had been drinking with both you and the first lady. The three of you quarreled, and despite the fact that she was drunk, you insisted she get in her car and leave the estate. Then you lied about what happened that night under oath.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about your answers to interrogatories in the civil suit. You lied about everything that happened that night. As if your involvement in Hale’s death wasn’t enough, you perjured yourself in trying to cover it up.”

  “You wait just a second,” snapped the president indignantly.

  “No, you wait, sir,” said Elise, cutting him off. “You lied to protect yourself and you lied to protect your candidacy, and I can’t work for you anymore.”

  Standing up and buttoning his suit jacket, Alden said, “Agent Campbell, you simply don’t have your facts straight. I don’t know what’s ailing you, but I think you need to take some more time off and come back when you’re feeling better.”

  “I feel fine, Mr. President. And I’m not coming back,” said Elise as she stood up as well. “Where this goes now is up to you. And for your information, Herb and Janet Coleman will be taking a very keen interest in what you decide to do going forward.”

  “The Colemans? Is that who’s behind this?” said Alden contemptuously. “I should have known.”

  “Yes, you should have, Mr. President. Lying under oath i
s a felony.”

  Alden glared at her and tried to shift the blame. “So this is how divisive politics have become? Even when the people have spoken, you won’t stop until you find a reason to force the duly elected president of the United States out of office, even if you have to make the reasons up?”

  “This has nothing to do with me, or politics. I voted for you. I believed in you. But you’re unworthy of your office.”

  “I guess I made a mistake asking to have you assigned to my detail.”

  Elise had had it with the man’s arrogance. “You politicians want to blame everyone but yourselves when you screw up. Your mistake wasn’t having me assigned to your detail. Your mistake was lying under oath. In fact, now you’ve got me talking like a politician. Lying under oath isn’t a mistake, it’s a reflection of a very deep character flaw. The office of president and the people of the United States deserve better. The Colemans and I will be expecting you to announce your resignation shortly. Good-bye, Mr. President.”

  * * *

  Elise left the president and exited the solarium. Max Holland was waiting for her outside. “How’d it go?”

  “C’mon, Max,” said Elise. “You’re telling me you heard none of that?”

  “Our job’s to protect the president, not to eavesdrop on his conversations.”

  Campbell was silent.

  “That said, sometimes you can’t help but hear things,” replied Holland. “You’re a good agent, Elise. Don’t quit the Service just because of him. We’ll get you reassigned. In fact, there’s a position open on the first lady’s detail.”

  “Hutch resigned?”

  Holland nodded. “Ten minutes ago.”

  Removing her credentials, she handed them over to him. “Thanks, Max, but I’ve got other plans.”

  Holland knew better than to argue with her. Reluctantly, he accepted her creds and slipped them into his pocket. “So what are you going to do?” Max asked. “Are you just going to give up on law enforcement?”

  Elise smiled, “I think I’m going to become a detective.”