Brad Thor

by The Apostle

When the waiter returned, he rolled a green plastic mat out along the floor and upon it set glasses, a pot of tea, and dishes filled with several things to eat. The police inspector poured the steaming hot green tea known as chai sabz for each of them. It had been seasoned with cardamom, and the scent quickly filled the air. Despite the heater and having three bodies in the small room, it was still so cold you could almost see your breath.

  Rashid explained to Harvath what all the dishes were and encouraged him to help himself. Harvath hadn’t eaten since his arrival and hadn’t realized how hungry he had been. He tore off a large piece of freshly baked Afghan bread known as nan and then served himself some rice. He added a few chunks of cooked lamb and then covered everything with yogurt sauce. In order to protect his stomach, he avoided the salad and took a serving of fried vegetables, known as borani.

  Harvath had always enjoyed the cuisine in Afghanistan and laughed at Westerners who arrived expecting to lose weight only to return home having added several pounds.

  There was a dish of sugar cubes on the mat, and Rashid, who like most Afghans had a sweet tooth, picked up three and dropped them into his short glass of tea.

  Soon, he and Gallagher began talking shop.

  “The city is surrounded by the Taliban,” said Rashid. “All four highways, even the road to the Shomali plains, are now under their control.”

  “I heard fuel truck drivers are being offered ten thousand dollars to make the run down to Kandahar,” replied Gallagher.

  The inspector nodded and dropped another sugar cube into his tea. “It’s an 800 percent increase over what Afghans are paid for carrying anything else. The only problem is that the Taliban forbade transporting fuel to foreign troops.”

  Gallagher looked at Harvath and said, “A contractor asked one of Flower’s brothers if he wanted to make the run, and the man wisely declined. But another man from their village agreed. The Taliban stopped him on the road and chopped his head off.”

  Harvath grimaced in disgust.

  “Commercial aircraft can no longer refuel at the airport in Kandahar and most military bases are being forced to ration, even the Americans,” said Rashid. “The greater problem, though, is that the Taliban once again control most of Afghanistan. As they did in their rise to power in the 1990s, they’re promoting themselves as the best and most reliable force for stability throughout the country.”

  “Which is only bolstered by the fact that the Afghan government cannot project any power outside of Kabul,” added Gallagher.

  Rashid looked at Harvath. “Your country has invested significantly in us, but unfortunately the U.S. does not have much to show for it. I’m afraid we are all losing ground.”

  Harvath didn’t disagree. The situation in Afghanistan was deteriorating daily. The mujahideen had defeated the Soviets, and while Harvath still held out hope, he had to admit that if the United States did not drastically change its strategy, there was a very good chance that the Taliban, along with al-Qaeda, were going to be the winners. An outcome like that would be devastating not only for Afghanistan, but for America and the rest of the world. It was an all too real possibility that Harvath didn’t like thinking about.

  He nodded as Rashid continued. “I know many Afghans who will not go back to life under the Taliban again. These people are beginning to plan their exit strategies.”

  “The United States will turn things around,” stated Harvath.

  The inspector smiled. “That’s exactly what the Soviets said before they pulled their troops out.”

  “We’ll see,” said Harvath. “The Afghan people deserve better than the Taliban. They deserve a government that can protect them and provide an environment that will allow them to succeed.”

  Rashid raised his glass. “I agree.”

  Gallagher and Harvath raised their glasses and they all took a sip. When they had been lowered, Gallagher quietly got to the heart of the meeting. “Does the Amniyat have anything new on the American doctor’s kidnapping?”

  Amniyat was a local term for the National Directorate of Security, Afghanistan’s domestic intelligence agency, also known as the NDS.

  “No. Nothing. They questioned the people of the last village she and her interpreter had been in and no one knows anything. As you know, her organization’s vehicle and the body of the interpreter were found a couple of kilometers away, and village elders within thirty kilometers have all been questioned, but still nothing,” said Rashid, who then turned to Harvath. “I understand that is why you are here.”

  Harvath nodded.

  “Ahmad,” Gallagher replied, “my friend represents Dr. Gallo’s family. As I explained to you, he is a man of much experience and is highly regarded by the government of the United States. He has a deeply ingrained dislike for both the Taliban and al-Qaeda, as well as much experience dealing with them. I am hoping you will be able to help him.”

  “By finding Mustafa Khan, correct?” asked Rashid.

  Gallagher nodded.

  “My government will not be very happy if Khan does not stand trial for his crimes.”

  “And you?” asked Harvath. “How would you feel about it?”

  “As a police officer, I would be professionally disappointed, of course. But as a Pashtun, I know that justice will eventually be served. Several of Khan’s victims have been Pashtun. Their families know who he is and he won’t be able to hide forever. Now, whether tribal justice should trump the national rule of law in Afghanistan is another debate entirely.”

  “The rule of law notwithstanding, can we assume you may be willing to help?” asked Harvath.

  Rashid smiled. “Have you ever heard of the Red Mullah, Mr. Harvath?”

  Harvath shook his head.

  “Mullah Sorkh Naqaib, or as he is more commonly known, the Red Mullah,” continued the inspector, “is a high-ranking Taliban commander from Helmand Province who specializes in attacks on British troops. Over the last three years, he has been arrested and released three times. Each time he purchased his release through bribery.

  “The last time was just this past summer when he was being held in NDS custody at Policharki prison. He had a visitor smuggle in fifteen thousand dollars and a half hour later he was free. An investigation wasn’t begun until Naqaib bragged to the British press about how easy it is to get out of jail in Afghanistan.”

  “So what you are saying,” stated Harvath, “is that with money all things are possible.”

  Rashid clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “No. What I am saying is that the Afghan government is tired of being embarrassed. These are not stupid men who run our country. Many of them are corrupt, but they realize that they must at least appear to be trying to do their jobs if Afghanistan hopes to enjoy continued international support. These men fatten their bank accounts from the aid money that flows into the country, and rivers run downhill not up.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, prison guards are not sending a portion of the bribes they receive back to Kabul. The men in power don’t profit when prisoners escape. In fact, it jeopardizes their positions, so they have taken measures to crack down on it. This is why Mustafa Khan was moved.”

  “Do you know where he was moved to?”

  Rashid nodded, but remained silent.

  Gallagher looked at Harvath and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Harvath slid his hand beneath his patoo and discreetly withdrew an envelope filled with cash. He was well aware that no senior Afghan liked to be passed money directly, so he tucked the envelope beneath one of the cushions between him and Rashid. “Dr. Gallo’s family and I appreciate any support you can give us,” Harvath said as he reached for his tea and took another sip.

  The inspector scooped up some rice with his nan and looked at it as he chose his next words. “There are many men like me who still believe in Afghanistan’s future, but only a foolish man would ignore the possibility that our future may not be that bright. The Taliban might return to power, and we have our families to think
of. As you may know, mine is not very popular with the Taliban. There is much bad blood between us.”

  Once, Harvath had been put in a position of having to choose between protecting his family or his country. It was a decision he never should have been asked to make, but he hadn’t hesitated. He had chosen his family. In that respect, part of him understood where Ahmad Rashid was coming from. There was also part of him that didn’t. The man was apparently willing to undermine his own government in order to finance his personal escape plan.

  Maybe if Harvath had experienced everything Rashid had experienced over the last thirty-some-odd years he would see things differently. He honestly couldn’t say. Nevertheless, he replied, “I understand.”

  Looking at Baba G, Rashid asked, “Do you know the abandoned Soviet military base on the Darulaman Road?”

  Gallagher nodded.

  “Beneath the barracks, there is an old detention facility. After the current government was installed, our president reopened the facility. It’s his own private prison. That’s where they’ve moved Mustafa Khan.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  The inspector nodded.

  “What’s the security like?” asked Gallagher.

  “Afghan Special Forces. All handpicked by the defense minister, all Pashtuns loyal to the president.”

  “How many?” asked Harvath.

  “I don’t know, but I may be able to find out,” said Rashid.

  Harvath’s mind moved in multiple directions as he made a list of the specific intelligence they’d need to mount their operation. “We’ll also need schematics, drawings.”

  “I’m not sure if any professional drawings exist.”

  “I’d prefer professional drawings, but I’ll settle for unprofessional as long as they’re accurate.”

  “The Soviet base is directly across the Darulaman Road from the CARE hospital,” said Gallagher.

  “Correct,” replied Rashid.

  It took Harvath a second to realize the irony. “Isn’t that where Julia Gallo’s NGO, CARE International, is based?”

  “Yes.”

  They had been keeping their voices low, but Gallagher lowered his even more as he said, “This might work to our advantage.”

  “How?” asked Harvath.

  “Way before CARE International came along, it was a Soviet hospital. In fact, the Soviets built it.”

  “So?”

  “So, the Soviets did a lot of construction in that area, including the building of their embassy. Many of the structures are rumored to be connected to the base by underground tunnels. The hospital was one of the closest buildings to the base. If they were going to build an escape tunnel that would have been one of the easiest places to do it.”

  Harvath turned to Rashid. “Do you know anything about these tunnels?”

  “I’ve heard about them, yes,” he replied.

  “But have you ever seen them yourself?”

  “No, but I may know someone who has. If there’s a tunnel between the hospital and the base, he’ll know about it.”

  “How soon can you get hold of him?” asked Harvath.

  The inspector looked at his watch. “I will call you in two hours.”

  Harvath wrote down the number for the prepaid mobile phone Flower had purchased for him and then made a list of gear he would need Rashid to procure. “Can you get these things for me?”

  As the inspector read the items on the list, he raised his eyebrows. “This is quite an unusual list.”

  “This is going to be quite an unusual job. Can you get them?”

  “I’ll make some calls.”

  “Okay,” said Harvath, anxious to get back to Baba G’s and make some calls of his own. “We’ll talk again in two hours.”

  Inspector Rashid stood and offered Harvath his hand. “If you need anything else in the meantime, Mr. Gallagher knows how to get hold of me.”

  As Harvath and Baba G turned to leave, the police officer added, “Please be careful. Kabul is a very dangerous place.”

  CHAPTER 15

  There was gunfire on the way back to the ISS compound, but it wasn’t directed at Baba G’s Land Cruiser. It was small-arms fire, referred to in military parlance as saf, and as best they could tell it had come from a block or two away. Too close for comfort and even more unsettling when Gallagher explained that saf, RPG, and suicide bombing attacks were on the upswing in the Afghan capital.

  Back at the compound, Harvath grabbed a bottle of water from the kitchen and then commandeered Baba G’s room so that he could send secure emails and make a few phone calls. As he waited for his laptop to power up, he noticed that Gallagher’s trash can had been emptied and that the bottles from the night before had been removed.

  While his browser connected with the Internet, Harvath took a long slug of water, glanced at his watch, and did the math. It was nearing 5:00 P.M. in Kabul, which meant it was almost 8:30 A.M. back in D.C. He forced the jet lag from his mind and focused on the work he needed to get done.

  Pulling out his encrypted BlackBerry, he texted a colleague based in D.C. with the message “Need help. Can u talk?”

  Three minutes later he received a response. “Life/death? In a meeting.”

  Harvath shook his head. CIA was obsessed with meetings. If their management showed even half as much interest in supporting the excellent people it had in the field and green-lighting operations to nail bad guys, America would be a much safer place. Harvath texted back a one-word response—“Yes.” He was fairly certain the free world would continue to survive if his contact stepped out of a meeting for a few minutes.

  Less than sixty seconds later, his BlackBerry rang. Activating the call, Harvath raised the phone to his ear and said, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “I think the CIA is trying to kill me,” replied a voice from Northern Virginia.

  Harvath laughed. “Death by PowerPoint?”

  “Worse,” said the voice. “Mandatory sensitivity training. They’re killing us with kindness.”

  Only CIA, thought Harvath, would waste time and money putting its paramilitary operatives through sensitivity training. If it wasn’t so sad, it might actually have been funny. “My tax dollars at work.”

  “Look at it this way,” the voice stated. “When I eventually kill bin Laden, I’ll be able to do it while embracing all of the differences between our cultures that make us both unique and special.”

  “Not if I get to him first.”

  This time, it was Aydin Ozbek’s turn to laugh. Harvath’s CIA contact was a part of the Agency’s Special Activities Division, which was responsible for counterterrorism activities. He and Harvath had gotten to know each other the previous summer when cases they were working on intersected.

  Harvath had a lot of respect for Ozbek, who refused to let the CIA tie him up in bureaucratic knots. If management wouldn’t cooperate, the man wasn’t afraid to do what needed to be done, even if it meant coloring outside the lines. Ozbek represented not only what was right about CIA, but what direction it needed to take to go from being a Cold War era relic that many referred to as the “Failure Factory” to a modern terrorism-fighting machine.

  It went without saying that Ozbek’s style didn’t exactly endear him to his superiors. The only reason he still had a job at the CIA after breaking multiple laws in pursuit of a nest of Islamic radicals operating on American soil last summer was that Harvath had asked the president to intervene on his behalf. Now that the CIA had a bean counter with no intelligence experience in charge and a president in the Oval Office who knew even less about the intel community, Ozbek needed to tread carefully.

  Harvath and Ozbek were similar in many ways, in particular the love they held for their country and the animosity they possessed toward its enemies, especially Islamic fundamentalists.

  Even if Harvath hadn’t saved Ozbek’s job, the two would have been good friends. The job-saving part of the relationship did, however, mean that Harvath had a lot o
f bonus points on his side of the board.

  “There’s a bit of a delay on the line,” said Ozbek. “Where are you?”

  “Kabul,” replied Harvath. “How’d you get out of your sensitivity training so fast?”

  “I told my supervisor you were a North Korean arms source I was developing and that I needed to take your call. You should have seen the look on the guy’s face.”

  “Knowing you, his BS detector was probably pegging into the red.”

  “On the contrary,” said Ozbek. “I could hear the gears grinding away in his mind as he tried to figure out how to work it into his next report and take credit for it. So what are you doing in Kabul, or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “I’m looking for something.”

  “Something or someone?”

  “Both,” said Harvath, “but I need the something before I can get my hands on the someone.”

  Ozbek understood Harvath’s need to watch what he said over the phone and didn’t press him any further. “How can I help?”

  “How deep is the talent on your Afghan desk?”

  “Pretty deep.”

  “Any people there from the Soviet days?” asked Harvath.

  Ozbek thought about it a moment. “I think they’ve hired one or two of the retired guys back as private contractors.”

  “Can you get to a computer in the next few minutes?”

  “I’m going to miss out on the trust fall, but if I have to, I have to.”

  “I’ll drop something in the box,” said Harvath.

  “Roger that. How soon to do you need a reply?”

  “ASAP.”

  “All right,” said Ozbek. “I’m on it.”

  Harvath thanked him and disconnected the call. He then opened the web-based email account he and Oz used to communicate and left a note for him in the draft folder.

  What he wanted to know was what kind of intel the CIA had developed on the old Soviet military base where Mustafa Khan was being held, as well as the hospital across the road. Hopefully the CIA had turned the Soviet embassy inside out as the last of the Russians were rolling out of Kabul and maybe, just maybe, they had come up with something that he could use.