Brad Thor Page 8

  One of the boys reached his hand out to touch her breast. Reflexively, Gallo slapped it away. The other boys laughed, and the first boy’s face flushed red. Julia couldn’t be sure whether it was embarrassment or anger.

  The boy, who couldn’t be more than sixteen, drew his hand back and struck her hard across the mouth. Julia tasted blood. The other boys laughed and the chanting began again in earnest. When the boy reached out to touch her breast again, Julia didn’t stop him.

  When he made contact his hand crushed down like a vise. Julia winced and bit down on her lip to keep from crying out. His grasp was amazingly strong.

  She almost felt that she deserved this—that this was the price she must pay for having gotten Sayed killed.

  As the boy’s other hand clamped down on her opposite breast, Julia willed her mind to leave her body. She wanted to travel as far away as possible.

  She had made it to a small village in the south of France where she had vacationed after graduating medical school when the sound of the door being kicked open pulled her back to her tiny cell.

  Standing in the doorway was the mentally challenged man who had been feeding her. In his hands he held the cardboard box he always carried. Slung over his shoulder was a rifle, its barrel covered with tape. On his feet was a pair of new basketball shoes.

  Upon seeing the boys in the room, the man set down his box and unslung his rifle.

  He pointed it at the boys, but it had no effect. They weren’t scared.

  The man repeated a Pashtu phrase Julia was familiar with. “Lar sha. Lar sha!” Go away.

  The boy gripping Julia’s breasts called the man over to the bed. He approached slowly and looked confused.

  The boy let go of one of Julia’s breasts and motioned for the man to put his hand in its place. The man shuffled forward and Julia resigned herself to the fact that what was about to happen might turn out to be worse than she had imagined. Fighting back the nausea rising in her throat, she prepared her mind to return to the south of France.

  The man studied the situation as the boy and the others behind him egged him on. The chant of whore, whore, whore in Pashtu was taken up again, and he looked at Julia with an emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. Then he lowered his rifle, and she closed her eyes for what would happen next.

  But it didn’t happen. With amazing force, the man snapped his rifle straight up. There was a crack as the butt of the weapon connected with the boy’s jaw.

  Spinning, the man raised the weapon as high as he could and began beating the other boys. They shouted curses at him and he shouted right back, but none of them raised a hand to strike him.

  He hit them repeatedly against their backs and shoulders as they dragged their dazed friend from the room and ran.

  Once they had gone, the man slung his rifle, reached down, and helped Julia up. He was incredibly strong for his small size. He helped her to the bed and took her chin in one of his rough hands.

  He turned her face from side to side, examining her split lip, and then let her go.

  Returning to his cardboard box, he unpacked her paltry meal and muttered to himself repeatedly the Pashtu word for bad.

  Julia had never spoken to the man. Each time he had entered to bring her food, she had kept her eyes cast toward the floor. She had remained quiet, her goal to appear meek and unthreatening. The last thing she wanted was to draw the ire of her kidnappers.

  But now that the local boys had made their intentions clear, she needed to make sure she was protected from them.

  While far from the stereotypical knight in shining armor, the mentally challenged man had come to her rescue once. Would he do so again?

  The man appeared to take his job very seriously—unceremoniously kicking her door in at all hours in some form of surprise inspection. She had no idea if the kicking was necessitated by a sticking door or if it was designed to keep her on edge. If it was the latter, it was working. Every time the door crashed open, Julia’s heart raced into the red zone. She never had any idea who was on the other side or what their intentions were. Were they coming to kill her? Beat her? Rape her? The not knowing had frayed the nerves of the normally cool and collected doctor right to their bitter ends.

  “Stan a shukria,” she said. Thank you.

  The man in the basketball shoes acted as if he didn’t hear her.

  “Sta noom tse dai?” she asked. What’s your name? “My name is Julia,” she said. “I’m a doctor.”

  Doctors were revered in Afghanistan and she hoped that if her kidnappers could see her as someone who could provide value to them, they might think twice about killing her. Though her Pashtu was limited, it was passable.

  But despite her attempt to communicate, the man continued to mutter to himself.

  After laying everything out, he gathered up his box, tucked it under his arm, and headed for the door.

  “Stan a shukria,” Julia repeated.

  As he reached the door, the man stopped. He then spun so quickly that he startled Julia, and she shrank into the corner.

  He stepped quickly, almost violently across the room and shoved his hand into his pocket.

  When he pulled it out, he held two Afghan sweets known as dashlama in his upturned palm. Suddenly very timid, like a little boy feeding an animal at a petting zoo, he offered them to Julia.

  Slowly, she crept forward and reached her hand out to take the sweets.

  The man watched and then motioned with his fingers to place them in her mouth.

  Julia placed one of the candies on her tongue. The man smiled, but as soon as the smile appeared it was replaced by a frown.

  He returned to muttering the Pashtu word for bad and left the room, slamming the door on the way out.

  CHAPTER 13

  KABUL

  Baba G’s Afghan National Police contact, Inspector Ahmad Rashid, had picked a small restaurant in an obscure part of the city that rarely, if ever, saw any white people.

  Based on how violent things had become in Kabul, Gallagher advised that they go native. They wore the salwar kameez—the baggy cotton trousers and loose-fitting tunics—as well as the pakol hats upon their heads and patoo blankets over their shoulders to combat the intense cold that would build in the late afternoon as soon as the sun started to dip behind the mountains.

  After changing into his Afghan clothes, Harvath stopped in Hoyt’s room to access his “safety deposit box” and then stepped out into the courtyard. Gallagher looked him up and down and reminded him to leave his sunglasses behind. Few things in Afghanistan screamed, “I’m a Westerner, shoot me,” louder than a pair of shades, and that went double if they were Oakleys.

  “Thanks, Greg,” said Harvath. “But this isn’t my first rodeo.”

  Gallagher laughed. “I’m so used to carting civilians around that it just becomes second nature to tick off all the boxes. Let me see your walk.”

  “My Afghan walk?”

  Baba G nodded.

  “Then what? A bathing suit contest and the talent portion of the show?” remarked Harvath. “I’ve got it. Don’t worry about it.”

  Gallagher wasn’t giving in. “We’re not driving into downtown Detroit, buddy. TIA, remember?”

  Harvath shook his head. He was as detail-minded as the next guy, but Gallagher took things to a whole new level. He had learned long ago not to argue with him. They’d get on the road a lot faster if he simply gave the man what he wanted.

  Harvath tucked his hands behind his back beneath the patoo, leaned forward, and began the slow, shambling Afghan walk. At the edge of the small courtyard, he turned and came back. “Are we good?”

  “I’ll make sure to park as close to the restaurant as possible,” he replied.

  “Up yours,” said Harvath.

  Once they were in the Land Cruiser and Baba G had it started, Harvath cracked another can of Red Bull and cranked the heater up as far as it would go. His jet lag had made him extra susceptible to the cold.

  “You can monkey with th
at all you want,” admonished Gallagher. “It won’t do any good until the engine heats up.”

  “Really?” Harvath replied as he took another sip of Red Bull.

  Baba G was about to explain when he realized that Harvath was being facetious. For a moment, he had forgotten who he was with. Harvath had used humor to deal with good situations and bad for as long as he had known him. He decided to change the subject. “How’s Tracy doing?”

  Harvath had been so exhausted, he honestly hadn’t thought much about her since he’d landed in Kabul. He’d learned a long time ago that one of the keys to being successful and staying alive in his line of work was the ability to compartmentalize. If you couldn’t put the rest of your life in a box and keep a lid on it while you were in the field, this wasn’t the career for you.

  Gallagher was an old friend, though, and the question wasn’t out of bounds. Still, the relationship with Tracy was complicated. “She’s good,” he replied.

  “Are her headaches any better?”

  This was where things got complicated. Tracy had been shot almost two years ago by someone with a very serious vendetta against Harvath. She had survived and recovered, but not 100 percent. The doctors had advised her to avoid stress as much as possible. There had been little to no stress in Maine. In fact, they had joked that it had been like spending the winter inside a snow globe. But the net effect on Tracy’s headaches had been negligible. She still got them and when she did, she had to pop some pretty strong medication to beat them back. Tracy was tough and she refused to give up. She also, however, refused to move forward.

  An ex–Navy Explosive Ordnance Disposal technician, she had seen danger up close and had even had an IED she was defusing detonate prematurely and take one of her eyes. The doctors had matched it perfectly and you had to look very closely to notice any of the scarring her face had suffered. Lesser people would have given up, but not Tracy, and Scot admired the hell out of her for that.

  Where she refused to move forward was in their relationship. Harvath wanted to get married and Tracy didn’t. She knew how badly Scot wanted children and she just didn’t think she could handle the headaches and kids. They were engaged in a quiet stalemate and had been most of the winter.

  On the job front, Harvath couldn’t have hoped for a person more understanding or supportive of his career. Tracy was content keeping the home fires burning for as long as his assignments took him wherever they took him. She appreciated both the danger and the fact that this work was what he was born to do. She would never make him decide between being with her or pursuing his career. Tracy allowed him both. What she asked in return was to accept their relationship as it was and to not ask her to make any changes.

  It sounded reasonable, but the longer he and Tracy were together, the more he realized what a great mother she would be—even with the headaches. Harvath wanted kids and he wanted to have them with her. He still held out hope, as dim as he knew it was, that Tracy might change her mind and come around.

  “The headaches are still the same,” said Harvath. “Regularly irregular and when they come they’re pretty tough.”

  “Have you guys seen any specialists?”

  “Tons,” replied Harvath as he took another sip of Red Bull.

  “That sucks,” said Gallagher.

  Harvath attempted to change the subject. “How long have you known this police inspector we’re going to see?”

  “Ahmad?” asked Gallagher as he did the math in his head. “About three years now.”

  “And you trust him?”

  Baba G laughed. “If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be going to Kabul’s version of South Central LA for this meeting. Don’t worry. He’s good people.”

  Don’t worry. It was a funny piece of advice coming from the man who had insisted upon seeing Harvath’s “Afghan walk.”

  “Normally, we just meet to gossip. Sometimes, we trade pieces of intelligence. This is the first time I’m going to offer him money for something.”

  Harvath looked at him. “Any reason to believe that might change things between you?”

  “If anything, it’ll probably make me more valuable to him and technically, I’m not giving him any money, you are. Ahmad and I are just facilitators, or fixers, as they say. I’m hooking you up with him and then hopefully he’ll hook you up with some information.”

  “Hopefully,” repeated Harvath.

  “Don’t worry,” Gallagher said yet again.

  As they drove toward their rendezvous, the streets were as crowded as they had been before. Men rode three and sometimes even four to a motorbike. Yellow and white taxis were everywhere, as were donkey carts and bicycles. Cars were parked halfway on sidewalks and men stood in the road every fifteen feet selling prepaid phone cards. Baba G had the Land Cruiser’s radio tuned to an Afghan station with music that sounded like a Bollywood sound track.

  They passed the normally anemic Kabul River, which was swollen with spring runoff, and had to stop for two men who were driving a flock of dirty sheep out of a muddy alley and across the road. All the while, Harvath kept his eyes alert for trouble. His local garb might help in not drawing attention to himself, but he had no doubt that he still looked every bit the American and that he was one big target.

  He pressed the Glock hidden beneath his tunic for reassurance, and when he looked over at Baba G, he saw that he was not only watching the traffic, but scanning the sidewalks and parked cars for danger as well. Kabul was like a Wild West town surrounded by Indian country. There wasn’t one single place where you could let your guard down.

  When they reached the restaurant, there weren’t any parking spaces available in front and Baba G had to park about a block down. “Don’t leave any valuables in the car,” he cautioned.

  Harvath tapped his side and replied, “Don’t worry.”

  The restaurant was housed in a two-story concrete structure with a dark green corrugated metal awning hanging over the sidewalk. On the ground floor was a small shop selling household odds and ends like the one Harvath had sent Flower to for extra blankets. Next to the shop was a door that opened onto a staircase leading to the building’s second floor. Harvath tried to make out the writing on the door as they approached.

  “Private club,” offered Gallagher. “Pashtuns only.”

  “Seriously?” asked Harvath.

  “Not really, but the sign is written only in Pashtu, not Dari, so the message is pretty clear. If you’re not Pashtun, find someplace else to eat.”

  Harvath was well aware of how the hierarchies operated here. Afghan identity followed a clear trajectory of loyalty. Family came first, then clan, village, tribe, and finally, at the bottom of the list, was national identity as a citizen of Afghanistan.

  Afghan tribalism was pervasive throughout the country and was a big reason why it was so fractured. Pashtuns, who accounted for roughly 45 percent of the population, hated the Tajiks, and Tajiks, who made up 25 percent of the population, hated the Pashtuns. Together, the Pashtuns and Tajiks both hated the 10 percent minority Hazaras, and the tribalism continued right down the ladder to include the lowly Uzbeks, Turkmen, Baluchi, Nuristanis, and all the other minority groups.

  The only time the tribes worked together was when they united to repel an outside invader. After the invader was sent packing, the tribes went back to waging war against each other. In essence, Afghanistan was both its own best ally and its own worst enemy.

  If you wanted to develop contacts with the most powerful people in the Afghan government, the Pashtuns were the ones to be in bed with. From the president of Afghanistan on down, the Pashtuns occupied the most important posts. Though the government was working hard to desegregate its infrastructure, it still had a long way to go and Baba G had been wise to align himself with a highly placed Pashtun police inspector. Harvath just hoped the man would have the information they needed.

  CHAPTER 14

  Gallagher and Harvath climbed the dank stairs to the restaurant and were shown to a private room
near the back. Its floor was covered with a variety of faded Afghan carpets and several brightly colored cushions. A pair of mismatched curtains had been drawn across the windows. Sitting in the corner, near a small propane heater, was Ahmad Rashid. A round man in his late forties, he rose to greet his guests.

  After Rashid and Gallagher had touched hearts and completed their embrace, Baba G introduced Harvath.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Rashid as they shook hands. His English was excellent. As Harvath and Gallagher had walked from the truck to the restaurant, Baba G had explained that Rashid had been a university student before two of his brothers had been killed by the Taliban. After aiding his family in hunting down those responsible, Rashid had become a police officer. He had a very sharp mind coupled with a keen eye for opportunity and had risen quickly through the ranks of the ANP. The man was adept at trading favors and Gallagher claimed that while Rashid never technically broke the law, he often bent it in exceptionally creative ways.

  The inspector was in plain clothes, wearing a gray sweater over a blue tunic and a vest popular with Afghans that resembled the vests photographers or people on safari often wore. Harvath didn’t know if the man was on duty or not, but considering that cops were prime Taliban and al-Qaeda targets, going plainclothes was probably a very good idea.

  Beneath his traditional pakol, Rashid’s hair poked out over his forehead in loose black curls. The sides, like his jet-black beard, were neatly trimmed.

  He motioned for Harvath and Gallagher to join him and they each picked a cushion and sat down.

  Rashid articulated instructions to the waiter and once he was gone, he and Gallagher engaged in the customary Afghan preamble regarding each other’s health, families, and various local goings-on.