by Brad Thor
“You’re going back to the Virginia Beach PD?”
“No. I’ve been offered a job in East Hampton.”
CHAPTER 62
KABUL, AFGHANISTAN
With the convoy of Massoud’s soldiers taken care of, as well as those he had posted along the road, Harvath knew it was safe to call Daoud in to pick them up. As a courtesy, Flash 22 stayed on station until they were all safely back in Dagar.
Reshteen and his cousins mobilized the other men of their village. Arming themselves, they established a perimeter around Dagar just in case any stray Taliban happened to wander down from the mountain camp or travel over from Massoud’s village looking for revenge.
Out of appreciation, Harvath had allowed the Canadians to be credited with the success of the operation and the recovery of Julia Gallo. He neither needed nor wanted the publicity, but more than that, the Canadians had been integral to their success. Without them, things could have turned out very differently. They more than deserved the credit.
When Captain West and his team arrived, they helped reinforce the village and establish a secure LZ. Twenty minutes later, a UH 60 BlackHawk, accompanied by two AH-64 Apaches, landed to transport Julia Gallo to Bagram.
Once the helos had lifted off, Fontaine led Captain West and his team back to Massoud’s camp to gather as much intel as possible about the Taliban commander and his Russian counterpart. In the truck that Fayaz had loaned them earlier that night, Harvath and Daoud followed.
Most of the Taliban vehicles were still smoldering as the column made its way up the narrow mountain pass. Though it took some doing, the heavy LAVs were able to clear a wide enough path for everyone to make it up without having to permanently dismount.
Once they arrived, the Canadian forces swept the camp. Only one survivor was found; Mullah Massoud Akhund’s brother, Zwak.
Though Zwak had been untied, he had remained in the storage building beneath the protection of the IR strobe Harvath had thrown on the roof. Though the man had no idea that it had been there, it had saved his life.
Daoud spoke to him quietly and tried to calm him down, but Zwak kept asking for his brother, saying he wanted to go home. With Captain West’s blessing, Harvath and Daoud were granted permission to return the man to his village, providing Harvath didn’t tip them that it was their next stop. The Canadians planned on taking Massoud’s compound apart, as well as all of the other houses that the Taliban had been using. Harvath, of course, agreed.
Harvath and Daoud drove Zwak home and remanded him into the care of Baseer, who thanked Harvath for being a man of honor who kept his promises. He also gave his assurance that he would deal with young Usman personally.
Harvath and Daoud then drove to Bagram, on the outskirts of Jalalabad, and Gallagher’s Shangri-La guesthouse cum fortified compound. There, after arranging to get the truck back to Fayaz and his village, Harvath paid the intrepid interpreter and, though the man politely attempted to refuse, gave him a significant bonus. Daoud had more than earned it.
Harvath then took a long hot shower, poured a stiff drink, and popped a much overdue Motrin. He then slid into bed, closed his eyes, and didn’t wake up for twelve hours.
When he awoke, he checked the email account he was using for this assignment. Waiting for him was a two-word message from Stephanie Gallo. It read simply, Thank You.
Out of sheer curiosity, he surfed over to his bank’s website and logged in. Mrs. Gallo had already deposited the balance of his fee. She was a woman of her word, and though he disagreed with much of her politics he had to give credit where credit was due. While he didn’t really care either way, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe her opinion of people like him and the other brave men and women in the world who risked all to protect the innocent and take the fight to the bad guys had maybe now changed.
Next he logged in to the personal account he used to communicate with Tracy and found six emails, all with photos of their dog, Bullet, attached. Harvath smiled as he read through them, but felt an odd sense of melancholy. He loved his dog, but a dog wasn’t the same as having children. There was no bond stronger than family, and he was ready to start one of his own. Considering how much money he’d just banked, Tracy couldn’t argue that kids were too expensive. And he wanted to have a ton of them.
His optimism returning, Harvath smiled and typed a quick reply to the last email she had sent. Done having fun. Wish I was there. Be home soon.
Borrowing the Shangri-La’s other Land Cruiser, Harvath drove himself back to Kabul, alone. He slowed in Surobi and hoped to see the little old man who sold the Jackie Collins book standing outside his shop, but the store was closed. It was prayer time, and even in a village not “officially” controlled by the Taliban, repercussions for not strictly adhering to Islamic laws could be harsh.
Harvath did see, though, the same man with the same black Taliban turban he had seen the last time he had passed through Surobi. The man’s eyes were still filled with hate, and he threw Harvath the same blood-chilling stare. Fuck diplomacy, thought Harvath as he flipped the guy the finger.
He drove to the safe house in the Shahr-e Naw and called Flower from his cell phone to come outside and open the gates.
“Mr. Scot, I am not there,” he said. “My wife had the baby. A beautiful little girl.”
Harvath was glad to hear Flower so excited about having another girl. “Congratulations. I wish you and your family much health and happiness.”
Flower thanked him and said his cousin was at the house and he would call him and have him open the gates.
Less than a minute after they hung up, the gates opened. Harvath drove the Land Cruiser into the courtyard, parked, and entered the house.
The large plasma television was on in the living room. Hoyt was sitting on the couch with his back to him.
“I hope you bought enough beer, Mei. We’re going to have half of the NGO community here for this party tonight.”
Harvath was about to reply when Hoyt turned around, saw him, and said, “Or maybe not.”
“Nice try.”
Hoyt smiled. “Now that the job’s done you’re finally lightening up. Better late than never.”
“How’s Midland?”
“Fine.”
“And our guest?”
“Mustafa, Special K, Khan? Still a creepy pain in the ass, but on the right side of the grass, which is only because I like you so much. Now that Gallo’s safe, Mark wants to hang him from his ankles and beat him like a fucking piñata for what he did to his ear.”
“First things first,” said Harvath, who then glanced up at the TV. “What are you watching?”
Hoyt looked at the plasma and then back at Harvath. “What? You couldn’t get a fucking newspaper in Nangarhar? Alden just announced his resignation.”
“President Alden?” said Harvath as he stepped closer to the couch.
“Yup. Second-shortest presidency in U.S. history. William Henry Harrison is first. He served for only thirty-five days, and also coincidentally gave the longest inaugural address. Guess who gave the second-longest inaugural address?”
“Alden?”
Hoyt nodded. “Spooky, huh?”
“Why is he resigning?”
“Nobody knows. He made a brief statement and evaporated.”
“Well something must have happened. No one runs for office as hard as he did just to give it up,” replied Harvath, bringing his mind back to the work they still had to do. “We’ve gotta get Khan ready to roll.”
“Where are we taking him?”
“Bagram.”
Hoyt smiled. “Scot Harvath! Aren’t you thoughtful.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Next to cold beer, there’s nothing Baba G loves more than a piñata party.”
Harvath smiled. “That reminds me. I need you to pack a cooler.”
CHAPTER 63
BAGRAM AIR BASE, AFGHANISTAN
“If this guy’s not at the gate,” said Harvath into
his cell phone, “I’m gonna cut Khan loose.”
Seven thousand miles away in Langley, Virginia, CIA operative Aydin Ozbek tried to put his friend at ease. “My guy is already there waiting for you. Don’t worry.”
Hoyt motioned to the cooler on the backseat.
“And nobody searches the car either,” added Harvath.
“For fuck’s sake, Scot. You’re driving onto an American military base in the middle of a war zone. If they want to search your car, they get to search your fucking car.”
“You know what, Oz? You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. We’re going to turn around and hand Khan over to the Afghans.”
“All right, all right. No inspection. I’ll let them know. Now, are there any last-minute bites at the apple I need to bend over for?” asked Ozbek.
“Let me think a minute,” said Harvath. “Considering how I’m giving you, and by you I mean the Agency, one of the highest-ranking al-Qaeda operatives since Khalid Sheik Mohammed—”
“Whom, I believe, you stole from the Afghan government,” Ozbek clarified.
“Hey, if you don’t want him.”
“Scot, you know we want him. We also know that the Afghans didn’t really catch him, so we consider him fair game.”
“Okay,” said Harvath. “What happens after you’re done with him?”
“When we’ve wrung him out like a damp dishcloth? We’ll arrange for the Afghans to recapture him.”
“That’s good enough for me. That plus a month’s worth of drinks at a bar of my choosing in the D.C. area.”
Back at Langley, Ozbek began laughing. “Feel free to grab my dick and shake the money tree.”
“Oz, you and I both know you’re going to jump at least two pay grades because of this. If I want to drink Macallan 1926 you’re buying.”
“For a month? You’re out of you’re fucking mind. I’ll buy you a case of Johnnie Green and we’ll call it even.”
“Johnnie Blue and I want it on my doorstep by the time I get home.”
“Deal. Now drive onto that base and surrender that prisoner so I can go home and beg American Express to raise my credit limit.”
“And all of the deals we made with the Afghans get honored, right?”
“Yes,” said Ozbek. “I will see to it personally.”
“I’m going to hold you to that, Oz,” said Harvath. “These people risked everything for us. If we don’t live up to our end, we deserve all the problems they can cause for us, and believe me, even small villages like theirs can cause problems.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Oz, these villages have lived with the Taliban. They know them and they can be huge treasure chests of intel; don’t let the ‘failure factory’ fuck this up.”
“I’m going to make sure these villages get taken care of. The projects they want are within the scope of the budgets that have been proposed for their province. Everything is good.”
“I gave them my word,” said Harvath. “So I am going to make sure every single project happens.”
“Scot,” said Ozbek. “You’ve already blown half the budget for these projects on cell phone minutes. Would you just hump to Bagram and dump the prisoner already?”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Hoyt drove the Land Cruiser up to a little-used gate on the far side of the air base.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” asked one of several American soldiers at the guard booth armed with very atypical weapons.
“We seem to be a bit lost,” replied Hoyt. “Is this the road to Sea World?”
As the sentry smirked, Harvath leaned across his friend and, using the front name for the Agency’s air transport unit, said, “We’ve got a perishable cargo delivery for Polar Air.”
The sentry nodded and, stepping back inside the guardhouse, raised the gate and lowered the bollards.
Thanking the guards, Hoyt smiled and drove forward. Thirty yards inside the base they were greeted by a tall man with short, dark hair in blue jeans and a TAD Gear jacket. “You must be Norseman,” he said, using Harvath’s call sign as Harvath rolled down his window. “My name is Jude.”
Harvath smiled, “Nice call sign. The patron saint of lost causes. Well, it just so happens that I have someone who is a follower of a very major lost cause here with me.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Harvath pointed at Hoyt and said, “He thinks the Dolphins are definitely going to go to the Super Bowl this year.”
The man in the blue jeans didn’t laugh. “Where’s the other guy?”
“Oh, that guy,” replied Harvath. “We’ve got him wrapped up in a rug in the back.”
Opening the rear passenger door, Jude hopped in and said, “Hang a left at the first road and keep going until I tell you to stop.”
“Are we going to see Shamu?” asked Hoyt, who loved to fuck with humorless intel people. When Jude didn’t respond, Hoyt put the Land Cruiser in gear and started driving.
Jude led them to a dark aircraft hangar where several men in blue jeans helped unload Mustafa Khan from the back of the SUV.
“Don’t forget to read him his Miranda rights,” yelled Hoyt. When Jude didn’t respond, he added, “On second thought, fuck it. Who cares, right?”
Harvath put his hand on Hoyt’s shoulder and he drove the car out of the hangar and made his way across the tarmac and over to the Craig Joint-Theater Hospital.
Parking the Land Cruiser, he and Harvath pulled out the enormous Igloo cooler that had been spray-painted on the side with a red cross and the words, Rush: Human Blood Plasma.
As he was less than thirty miles north of Kabul, Hoyt had already been to see Gallagher multiple times since he had been admitted and knew exactly how to get to his room.
As he entered, he identified the other soldiers in the room and said, “Fell out of a jeep. Fell off a ladder changing a lightbulb. Slipped taking a piss. And our own Baba G, who apparently broke off his dick jerking off.”
A chorus of “Fuck you!” erupted in the room, complete with multiple middle-finger salutes.
“I’m sorry,” responded Hoyt defiantly. “We only brought beer for warriors.”
Once again the “Fuck you” chorus rose until Hoyt waved his arms to calm the men down. “Okay, okay,” he admitted. “This isn’t exactly the paper-cut ward. There may be one or two warriors sucking up some easy medical leave within these four walls, but as I’m not a guy to point fingers, I ain’t saying nothing.”
Harvath bumped Hoyt out of the way and introduced himself around the room, meeting three Army Rangers and a Green Beret.
He blamed not having come to the hospital earlier on having to mop up after Gallagher and killing another forty-plus Taliban, which roused cheers throughout the room.
“Tom, I think all of these men deserve a beer,” said Harvath, upon which Hoyt flipped open the lid of the cooler and delivered cold beer to everyone.
Baba G smiled. “How’s your back feeling?” he asked.
“Not great,” replied Harvath.
“You still taking those Motrin even though I warned you to be careful?”
“I’ve upped it,” said Harvath, holding up his bottle of beer. “Vitamin M and vitamin B.”
Gallagher pulled a plastic bag from beneath the pillow propping him up and said, “I had one of the nurses pick this up in PX for you.”
“I should have guessed,” said Harvath as he pulled a PEZ dispenser with a Marine Corps drill instructor’s head out of the bag.
“Now, while you’re frying your liver and kidneys you can think of me.”
Harvath laughed and opened his beer. “To a successful mission,” he said as he raised his bottle.
There was a television on in the corner running a story about President Alden’s resignation and the swearing in of the VP as the new commander in chief. One of the Army Rangers raised his beer and said, “To the United States of America.”
With that, all of the men in the room raised their bottles and in un
ison said, “To the United States of America.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This part of the book is where I get to thank all of the people who make it possible. At the top of my list are you, my wonderful readers. Thank you for your letters, emails, participation on the BradThor.com forum, your appearances at my signings, choosing my novels for your book clubs, and for turning so many of your family, friends, and co-workers on to my work. Nothing builds a successful author like good word of mouth and you all have been incredibly generous to me. Thank you.
The next V.I.P. group I want to thank are the fabulous booksellers who have been supporting me since my very first book. From Peoria to Paris and San Antonio to São Paolo, whether you are a national chain, an independent, an online retailer, a warehouse club, or any other type of bookseller, please know that you have my deepest appreciation for everything that you have done and continue to do for me.
My literary agent par excellence, Heide Lange, of Sanford J. Greenburger Associates, Inc., is hands-down the best agent on the planet. An author could not hope to have a more dedicated, principled, and enthusiastic powerhouse in his camp than Heide. Thank you, Heide, for all that you do for me.
I have called Simon & Schuster’s Atria and Pocket Books home since my very first novel. There’s a reason for that. They are not only the best people in the publishing business, they have become like family to me. My deep gratitude goes to the brilliant men and women in the Atria / Pocket sales staff, the Pocket / Atria art and production departments, and the Simon & Schuster Audio family. Thanks as well go to Lisa Keim and Michael Selleck, as well as Laura Stern, Sarah Branham, Mellony Torres, and Irene Lipsky.
My editor, Emily Bestler, is the type of editor whom authors dream of someday working with. I have been fortunate enough to have been with her since my very first novel. Not only is Emily brilliant and incredibly talented, but she is funny as hell and keeps me laughing so hard that it can be easy to forget that what we do is called work. Thank you, Emily.
