by Brad Thor
Captain West was silent as he thought it over.
Sensing that the man was leaning in their direction, Fontaine pressed him. “All we need is thirty minutes to button this down.”
West finally spoke. “Okay, here’s what I am prepared to do. Based on one of our operatives’ being in imminent danger inside the village, I’m going to go ahead and authorize you to extract him, but that’s it. The bomb maker is secondary and you can sort him out with the Americans when they get here. Agreed?”
Fontaine shook hands with West. “We’re good with that.”
“How many of my men do you want to take with you?” the captain then asked.
“You maintain your cordon. We’ll go in and link up with our operative and take things from there.”
“You might want to rethink that. When we showed up, there were a lot of villagers moving around with guns.”
“Which brings up something else,” said Fontaine. “Our operative indicated that there are three dead Afghans in there, two of whom had been shot. What do you know about that? I’m assuming you’ve got snipers out.”
“We do, but it wasn’t us. There’s been no gunfire since we arrived,” replied West. “But that’s not to say that it couldn’t start at any moment. Those villagers were getting ready for something. You should take some of my guys with you.”
“We’ll be okay,” stated Fontaine.
“How are you going to do this without stirring up the hornets’ nest? Do you know which structure he’s in?”
“He’s got a relationship with the village elders. If they give their permission, we’ll be able to walk in and get him.”
West didn’t look as if he put much faith in Pashtunwali. “How are you set for comms?” he asked.
“We’ve got radios in the truck,” answered Gallagher. “Give us your frequencies and we’ll be good to go.”
West nodded and called over one of his men to accompany Gallagher to the Land Cruiser and help set up the radios.
“I’d also like to know where your snipers are,” added Fontaine.
West nodded and motioned Fontaine back to his LAV. “I’ll show you on the map how we’re set up.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Harvath, Gallagher, and Fontaine were ready to roll. Harvath pulled out his Afghan cell phone and dialed Clear Water International’s Khogyani interpreter.
“Mr Daoud?” Harvath said when the man answered. “This is Mr. Staley. We’re at the village now. The soldiers have agreed to allow us to come in.”
“What do they want?” asked Daoud. “No one understands why they are here.”
“It’s all going to be okay, “Harvath reassured him. “Are you with the shura right now?”
“Yes.”
“I have two other members of my team with me. Do we have the shura’s permission to enter the village?”
Harvath waited while the interpreter spoke to someone in the background and then came back on the phone. “Yes. You and your colleagues have their permission.”
After being given a description of the building they were in and how to find it, Harvath disconnected the call, tucked the phone back in his pocket, warned his team to be on their guard, and headed with them into the village.
CHAPTER 38
As the men made their way into the dusty village, it was like walking into a ghost town. Every house and compound was shuttered and not a single soul roamed the streets, not even children. Any soldier worth his salt knew that kids were a combat indicator. When they disappeared it meant that something very bad was about to happen.
Nevertheless, Harvath ignored the hair standing on end on the back of his neck and kept going. He also ignored the pain from the hidden MP5 banging against his bruised back. “Everybody stay sharp,” he said.
All three made mental notes of the buildings they passed. Finally, they came to the structure where the shura was meeting. Just as Daoud had said, laid out in front were three bodies covered with sheets.
Harvath and Gallagher approached to examine them while Fontaine kept his eyes peeled for trouble.
“This one looks like a broken neck,” said Gallagher as he inspected one of the corpses. “How about the other two?”
Harvath looked under the first sheet and then the second. “Bullet wounds to the foreheads. Very clean.”
“And also very professional. That’s not the way Afghans normally handle their problems.”
“So who shot them?”
“No idea,” said Gallagher as Harvath set the sheet down and the two men straightened up.
Motioning toward the door of the structure, Harvath said, “Let’s see if we can get some answers inside.”
None of them were prepared for what they discovered. Crammed inside were at least fifty heavily armed men from the village. They all eyed Harvath and his tall, well-built compatriots warily. Harvath, Gallagher, and Fontaine all placed their hands over their hearts, bowed ever so slightly, and wished the men peace. A handful of men returned the gesture; most of them did not.
Daoud stepped forward and introduced himself. He was a short man in his late thirties dressed in traditional Afghan clothing, with a neatly trimmed beard and a checked kaffiyeh hung loosely around his neck.
After Harvath and his team had removed their boots, the interpreter led them into an inner room where the shura was waiting. As they were introduced, the men repeated the customary greeting to the elders of the village, who politely greeted them back.
The interpreter invited the men to sit down upon the floor, which they did. Harvath noticed very quickly that the shura had no intention of serving tea.
“Tell the shura,” Harvath said to Daoud, “that we have come for the American woman.”
The interpreter was confused, but based on the stern faces and powerful physiques of the three men, surmised they probably weren’t NGO workers here to conduct a project assessment. “I don’t think I understand—” he began.
Harvath held up his hand. “They’ll know what we’re talking about. Tell them.”
Daoud turned to the shura and repeated what Harvath had said. He waited for their response and then translated. “They say they don’t know anything about an American woman.”
“Ask them why they have three bodies outside.”
The interpreter posed the question, and while the elders exchanged hushed remarks among themselves he tried to ask Harvath a question of his own, but Harvath silenced him. He was intent on studying the old men’s faces and listening to the cadence of their voices. It was obvious they were very upset about something.
After extensive deliberation, the chief elder, a man named Fayaz, spoke and Daoud translated. “They say it is a private matter.”
“Private?” repeated Harvath. “Please inform the shura that with their village surrounded, they no longer have privacy. In fact, if they don’t turn over the woman immediately, I’m going to call in an airstrike.”
The interpreter delivered Harvath’s ultimatum and then asked a question on behalf of the elders. “The shura wants to know if this means there isn’t going to be a clean water project for their village.”
Are these people trying to horse trade with us? Harvath wondered to himself. It didn’t make any sense. Not only had he just threatened them with an airstrike, but their village was surrounded. Soldiers were poised to come kick in every door, flip over every bed, and turn every one of their buildings inside out. What could they possibly have to bargain with?
“Tell them,” said Harvath, “that I didn’t come here to negotiate. I want the woman, now.”
Harvath waited for the interpreter to respond. When he did, his face reflected considerable shock. “The woman is not here,” he said.
So these fuckers did know where Gallo was. It was all Harvath could do not to string the village elder up by his ankles and beat the shit out of him. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“First,” Daoud translated, “we must reach terms.”
Harvath was stun
ned by the audacity of these people. No matter how weak their hand, the Afghans never missed an opportunity to haggle. Harvath removed his radio so they could see he was serious about calling in a strike. “I’m giving you sixty more seconds and then I’m going to have your village turned into one big grease spot.”
As the interpreter relayed the message to the shura, the elders began yelling “Na! Na!” No, No, together in Pashtu.
Daoud looked at Harvath and said, “They say they are not the ones who kidnapped the American woman.”
“Tell them I don’t believe them.”
The interpreter relayed the statement and the shura broke into a barrage of heated crosstalk. After a moment, Fayaz, the chief elder, spoke and Daoud translated. “The shura says that their village is the victim here. The bodies of the men you see outside, they were killed by the man who took the American woman.”
Harvath still didn’t believe them. “Why are so many of your men armed right now? Obviously, you have been expecting trouble. Why shouldn’t I believe it was because this village was involved with Doctor Gallo’s kidnapping?”
When Daoud passed on Harvath’s remarks, the elders erupted in another chorus of “Na! Na!” and the chief of the shura locked eyes with Harvath and began speaking as the interpreter translated. “We did not kidnap the American woman.”
“Then who did?” demanded Harvath.
“Mullah Massoud Akhund. A local Taliban commander.”
“And Massoud killed the men outside?”
“Na, na,” said Fayaz. No.
“His Russian did,” explained the interpreter.
“What Russian?” asked Harvath.
Daoud listened to the shura and then said, “Massoud’s men call the Russian Bakht Rawan.”
“How do you know it was this Russian who killed the men?”
“He was seen by the son of one of the men.”
“And where is he now?”
The interpreter conveyed Harvath’s question to the shura, and the chief elder yelled toward the door. It opened and one of the armed villagers stuck his head inside.
Harvath didn’t understand the entirety of the order Fayaz delivered, but he caught part of it and that was all he needed to hear. The elder had told the villager to fetch the young man they had been looking for, Asadoulah Badar.
CHAPTER 39
Because of his broken jaw, the young man was difficult to understand, and several times during their interrogation, the shura rebuked him for speaking too softly and ordered him to speak up.
The elders had already heard the story once, but they wanted the boy to tell it again for the benefit of the three men, the only things standing between their village and what they knew would be a crippling airstrike.
Asadoulah Badar, though distraught over the murder of his father, recounted the circumstances surrounding his death. He explained how one of their sheep had gone missing. Asadoulah and his father, along with his two cousins, Raham and Yama, who also tended the large family flock, had gone looking for the animal. They split in different directions, with Asadoulah taking one of the higher mountain trails on the opposite face. It was from that vantage point that he had seen the Russian dump his father’s body so that it landed near the family’s crippled sheep below.
As the Russian retreated up his side of the mountain, Asadoulah caught a glimpse of his cousins. They were still looking for the lost sheep, and he doubted they had any idea what was about to happen to them. Asadoulah tried to warn them, but they didn’t hear. When he found their bodies, they were both dead, but unlike his father, who’d had his neck and arm broken by the Russian, his cousins had both been felled with single shots to the head.
Asadoulah finished his tale by explaining where he had seen the American woman. And though it shamed him to admit to his lies, he told the entire truth. He then explained how, based upon his lie, his father had met with the shura of Massoud’s village and had chastised them for housing the American woman and had demanded redress for what had happened to his son. When he returned, he explained that he had called Massoud reckless and said that he posed a great danger to their villages.
In the face of such a despicable act of murder, the shura explained that the men of their village lusted for badal—revenge—and the badal for killing was to kill. This was an affair they were not confident could be mediated with the shura of Massoud’s village. Their men wanted blood, plain and simple. Vengeance was the cornerstone of Pashtun character. Had the soldiers outside not arrived when they did, the men would have had it. Fayaz shared his doubts about whether the bloodletting would have ended with the Russian and Mullah Massoud.
“I’m sure the men of your village are very capable warriors,” said Harvath, “but Massoud is a Taliban commander, which means he has soldiers of his own, probably many more than you do. How did the men of your village expect to win?”
As the question was translated, the old man shook his head. “They were waiting for nightfall,” said Daoud, translating the chief elder’s remarks. “They had hoped to take Massoud and his men by surprise.”
“Do you think they knew you were coming?” asked Harvath.
“The Taliban have their spies everywhere,” replied Fayaz, “should Massoud be any different?”
Probably not, thought Harvath, who then asked, “Is there any reason, any reason at all that the Americans would take an interest in your village?”
Once the question had been translated, the chief elder put it to each of his colleagues on the shura in turn. Daoud translated as each elder replied. None of them could think of a single reason. Harvath could, though.
Massoud was Taliban and Chris West said that he and his men had been mobilized based upon a tip from a Taliban informant. The Russian had apparently intended for the death of Asadoulah’s father to look like an accident. If that hadn’t been the intent, he would have simply shot the man the same way he did Asadoulah’s two cousins. Massoud now had a big problem on his hands.
It wouldn’t take long for the family to find the bodies and to suspect that Massoud was behind the murders. Little did the Taliban commander know that there was actually a witness. Faced with the prospect that his neighboring village was going to be out for blood and would want to do as much damage to him as possible, he had to have envisioned that they might tip the authorities to the identity of their captive. That meant Massoud would have to deal with foes on two different fronts. What should he do? The answer seemed very apparent to Harvath and he was willing to bet he knew exactly why there was a cordon around the village and the Americans were on their way in. Massoud had set the two against each other.
Based on the description Asadoulah had given of the woman held captive in Massoud’s village, he was convinced that it was Julia Gallo. What didn’t make sense was that somehow the Russians, or at least a Russian, was mixed up in all of this. At this point, though, it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting to Julia Gallo as quickly as possible and getting her back alive. And if Harvath was right about Massoud having tricked the NATO forces into surrounding Asadoulah’s village, he’d have done it for one reason and one reason only—to buy himself time to get away.
Nevertheless, Harvath wanted to see Massoud’s village for himself. The only question was how. Looking at Asadoulah, he began to get an idea.
Studying the elders, Harvath asked, “If I could provide an opportunity for you to prove that your village had nothing to do with the kidnapping would you act upon it?”
After the question was translated, Fayaz’s response was simple and concise. “Hoo,” he said. Yes. “And if we help you,” he continued through Daoud, “will you help get us the water project?”
The threat of the airstrike was one thing, but Harvath needed to earn the shura’s loyalty for what he was going to ask them to do next. In order for that to happen he had to give them something they needed, something that would make the shura look good to their village. Meeting Fayaz’s gaze, Harvath replied, “Hoo. We will help you get the
clean water project.”
Excusing himself then to use the bathroom, Harvath took Fontaine and Gallagher with him so they could talk privately.
“I’ve got an encrypted sat phone back in the truck,” said Harvath as he stood next to Fontaine outside the bathroom. “I need you to get hold of whoever you can, so that West will allow us to take some of these villagers out of here with us.”
“Who do you expect me to call?” asked Fontaine.
“I’m sure you’re well connected.”
“Why not you? The only reason that Canadian cordon is there is that the Americans asked for it.”
“I don’t have that kind of pull,” said Harvath.
Fontaine laughed. “Modesty, now that’s an interesting character trait in an American.”
He let the jab slide. “Listen Dan, I’m not even supposed to be here.”
“Really? Okay, I’ll bite. Where should you be then?”
“Back in Kabul,” replied Harvath, “negotiating Julia Gallo’s ransom.”
“So you’re telling me you’re not authorized for this.”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“And you want me to pull strings for you so that you can take a bunch of villagers out of here to do God knows what.”
“Not God knows what. We’re going to take the shura out so they can meet with the shura from Massoud’s village and mediate their dispute.”
“You want to set up a jirga?” asked Fontaine, using the Pashtu word for a gathering orchestrated specifically to administer tribal justice.
“Yes.”
“And how do you know that once the cordon is lifted here, the men of this village won’t just march over that mountain and mow Massoud, his Russian counterpart, and the rest of his village right down?”
“Because I don’t think Massoud, the Russian, or his men are even there anymore,” replied Harvath.