by Brad Thor
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 stunned 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 thei
r 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.
“So what’s the point?”
“The point is that we can gather some good intel there.”
“You want to pull the NGO bit again?” asked Fontaine.
“I doubt it would work,” said Harvath. “You can’t draw a bucket of water from the well without the village elders’ knowing about it. Any interest from an outside organization at this point, especially a Western one, is going to raise alarm bells.”
“Then what’s your plan?”
“The elders here have a legitimate reason to call for a jirga with the elders of Massoud’s village. They could have one set up in less than an hour. Because of the violent nature of the dispute, the shura is going to travel with some muscle. We ride with the shura as far into the village as we can and then we bail out.
“We take Asadoulah with us and have him show us where they kept Julia Gallo.”
“Kept? As in past tense? You’re that convinced Massoud and company are long gone?”
“I don’t know about long gone,” said Harvath, “but I guarantee they’ve moved on. All we need to find out is where.”
“And if we bump into some Taliban along the way?”
“Then we’ll deal with them.”
Fontaine looked at Gallagher and then back to Harvath. “Suppose I could make a phone call and get West and his men to look the other way for a few minutes, why would I want to?”
“Besides the fact that rescuing this woman is the right thing to do?”
“Besides that.”
“I’ll give you two reasons,” said Harvath. “The first is that news of a Taliban commander working with a Russian operative would be very interesting to both of our governments.”
Fontaine was listening. “And the second?”
“You can take credit for loosening up the cordon and arranging the jirga. The elders of this village seem like good people. You’d be doing them a favor and you know how highly the Pashtuns regard favors.”
“Plus,” Gallagher threw in, “with the cordon left in place after we leave, it will buy the two shuras time to reach an agreement. No matter how badly the men of this village are itching for a fight, they won’t be able to leave. You’ll also get points for helping to head off a war between their two villages.”
Harvath agreed. “With all of the time you spend in this area,” he said, “it wouldn’t hurt to have these guys owe you one. Who knows how much intelligence they could mine for you?”
“That’s assuming,” said Fontaine, “I am even in the intelligence business.”
“Of course,” Harvath replied with a smile.
Fontaine was a smart guy and it didn’t take him long to make up his mind. “If you can convince the elders to set up the jirga, I’ll get West to turn his back long enough for us to get whomever we need out of town.”
* * *
When they returned to the meeting room, the elders had laid out tea, and they invited the men to sit down with them and drink. Harvath, Gallagher, and Fontaine sat down, and as their cups were filled, Harvath spoke through Daoud and explained what he wanted to do.
Right off the bat, the elders expressed concern about Asadoulah’s being part of the operation, but when Harvath explained why the boy’s presence was necessary for more than just identifying the location where Doctor Gallo had been held captive, they began to relent. It was Baba G’s unsolicited promise that he would personally guarantee the boy’s safety that finally seemed to do the trick. Though Harvath couldn’t have scripted a more perfectly timed response, Gallagher’s spontaneous offering was seen by the shura as genuine and therefore trustworthy.
Once the details had been established and the limit to how far the elders would transport the team into the neighboring village was set, the men finished their tea and Harvath, Gallagher, and Fontaine walked back through the village to the Canadian cordon to put their plan into effect.
CHAPTER 40
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Todd Hutchinson was a classic, midforties narcissist incapable of recognizing that his better days were already behind him. A career B-team Secret Service agent, Hutchinson, or Hutch as he insisted on being called, had risen just about as high in the organization as he ever would. Though he was a thoroughly competent agent, simply by being “Hutch” the man had grated on the nerves of almost everyone who had ever worked with him, including the majority of the people he was charged with protecting.
One of the few exceptions was Theresa Alden. Through some opportune twist of fate, Hutch had been assigned to her detail during the primary campaign and he and the soon-to-be first lady had professionally clicked. She was a woman with multiple anxiety problems, which often kept her from sleeping. S
ome said that was why Hutch often worked night shifts on her detail, as he and the first lady liked to sit and talk. No one in the Service could understand what she saw in him, and when Hutch finally outlived all of the company pools for when Terry Alden would finally wake up and request his removal from her detail, they gave up on trying to figure it out.
The best physical description of him that Elise Campbell had ever heard was that he reminded people of five-foot-eight Burt Reynolds without the mustache. The female agents in the White House were in total agreement that there was no way there could be any sexual connection between him and the first lady. How she could enjoy being around him was anybody’s guess, but Terry Alden did, and that was all that mattered. Therefore, Hutch had become a permanent fixture in the first lady’s retinue.
Elise had arranged to meet Hutch for coffee after his overnight shift had finished. Until she could account for how Nikki Hale had spent her final hour and a half before driving away drunk and killing herself and four other people, she wouldn’t be able to forget the conversation she’d overheard between the president and Stephanie Gallo.
She met Hutchinson at a Starbucks a few blocks from the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue near Seventeenth Street.
“So what’s with all the cloak and dagger?” he asked as they exited with their coffees and headed toward Lafayette Park. “We could have grabbed a table inside.”
“I thought it would be nicer if we walked.”
Todd Hutchinson looked up at the overcast sky and turned up the collar of his overcoat. “What did you want to talk with me about?”
Alone, and one-on-one like this, Campbell had expected the man to come on to her as he had in the past. Instead, his demeanor was surprisingly professional.
“I want to talk about the night Nikki Hale died.”
Hutchinson’s coffee cup was halfway to his lips when the question came, and instead of taking a sip, he lowered the cup and looked at Elise. “Why do you want to talk about that?”