Brad Thor

by The Apostle

  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.

  “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. Some 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?”

  “Call it professional curiosity.”

  “It was a sad night for everyone,” he said, raising his coffee cup again and taking a sip.

  “I understand you saw her shortly before she died.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Max Holland did,” she replied.

  “Why were you and Max talking about Nikki Hale?”

  Campbell ignored his question and gently pushed forward with her own. “Do you think the president was sleeping with her?”

  “Who?” responded Hutchinson. “Nikki? How would I know?”

  “The night she died she had been alone with him for a while.”

  “Maybe they were sleeping together. Who cares?”

  “Max says that after she left the president, she was still on the estate for a little bit before she finally climbed into her car to drive back to her hotel,” stated Campbell.

  “So?”

  “So,” she replied, “he also said while she might have had a drink or two with Alden, she didn’t look drunk to him when she left.”

  “What does any of this have to do with me?” Hutchinson asked.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

  As a Secret Service agent, Campbell had been trained in detecting microexpressions, small facial clues that indicated someone was either lying or trying to mask an intent to do harm. As she glanced at Hutchinson’s face, she could clearly see the man was under stress and did not like answering her questions.

  “Elise, listen,” he said. “If Max knows where Nikki Hale went after leaving the president that night, he should tell you. If he doesn’t want to, then that’s between the two of you.”

  “Hutch, he did tell me. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

  “It’s unprofessional.”

  “Why?”

  “Because by pointing you to me, he’s casting aspersions on the first lady.”

  Campbell looked at him. “I don’t get it.”

  “Listen, I know Holland doesn’t care for me,” said Hutch as they passed Blair House and entered the park. “There are plenty of senior agents just like him that I’ve either butted heads with or not gotten along with over the years. I don’t want to lose my position. I like being on the first lady’s detail.”

  “How are you going to lose your position by talking to me?”

  “If I start telling tales out of school and the first lady hears about it, how long do you think it’ll take for her to have me reassigned?”

  Elise couldn’t argue with him. It was the same fear she’d had, still had actually, about pursuing the conversation between the president and Stephanie Gallo. “So this is a job security issue for you.”

  “No,” said Hutchinson, pointing to a nearby bench. “It’s a loyalty issue. We’re here to protect these people. That’s our job. And their job is to let us, and that can’t be easy for them. They aren’t allowed many private, unguarded moments.”

  “Okay,” said Elise as she sat down on the bench with him. “We all know that. It’s drilled into us as agents, but—”

  “No ‘buts’ for a second,” said Hutchinson, interrupting her. “I want to know why you suddenly find Nikki Hale’s death so interesting.”

  Elise had no intention of lying to Hutchinson. He had the same training she did and would be able to smell a lie a mile away. At the same time, she had no intention of being completely truthful with him either. “Someone is considering bringing a civil suit over her accident.”

  Hutchinson was clearly taken by surprise. “Who?” he asked.

  “Christi
ne De Palma. The business partner of Sheryl Coleman, who was killed that night.”

  “The wife of the man driving the mini-van,” Hutchinson said absent-mindedly.

  “Who also,” added Elise, “was the mother of the two children killed in that crash.”

  “Why now?”

  “Maybe she wants justice.”

  “It was an accident. A lawsuit is not going to change anything. What grounds could this woman possibly bring a civil suit on?”

  “Hale obviously had way too much to drink before she left the estate. I’m not an attorney, but from what I understand, if anyone contributed to Nikki’s intoxication, and knowingly allowed her to drive drunk, they could be in some serious trouble.”

  Hutchinson balanced his coffee cup on his knee and stared across the park toward the statue of Andrew Jackson.

  “How do you know about this lawsuit?” he asked.

  “I’m friends with a detective in East Hampton.”

  “Do you think this De Palma woman is serious about the suit?”

  “I don’t know,” Campbell replied. “But if she does go through with it, everyone who was there that night is going to get subpoenaed.”

  Hutchinson closed his eyes and shook his head. Exhaling a long breath, he opened them again and said, “The first lady is not fond of the women the president surrounds himself with. Stephanie Gallo and Nikki Hale in particular. She resents the access Gallo has to her husband. It makes her feel like she has been cast aside. Wherever the president was on the campaign trail Gallo was always close by. In fact, she traveled with him more than Mrs. Alden did. Rumors of affairs have been rampant—”

  “As have rumors of the first lady’s drinking,” interjected Campbell, wondering aloud about something many insiders had long suspected. “Some say that played a part in the president’s not putting her out front as much as other candidates do with their spouses.”

  Hutchinson shrugged. “From what I saw, I’d say the stress was pretty hard on her.”

  “How does Nikki Hale fit into all of this? Was she with the first lady that night?”