Apostle (22 page)

“I’m not sure,” said Harvath, “but we’re not going to sit here and wait to find out. Let’s go.”

T
he drive from Jalalabad to Khogyani normally took an hour. Gallagher made it in twenty minutes.

They encountered their first roadblock a mile out along the single-lane road leading through the village. Two eight-wheeled LAV III armored personnel carriers were parked diagonally blocking all traffic in or out. Their 25mm Bushmaster chain guns, along with a complement of 7.62 and 5.56 machine guns, were ready for action.

“Coming up on the roadblock,” said Gallagher.

Two more LAVs were blocking the road on the other side of the village.

“Anybody see any activity on the ground?” asked Harvath.

Baba G shook his head. “Looks like all they’ve done so far is set up a cordon.”

“Which means they’re either waiting for another element to show, or they’re gearing up to go in themselves. We run this exactly the way we planned on the way down,” stated Harvath.

“Actually,” said Fontaine as they closed on the roadblock and he reached in his pocket for his military ID, “we might have just caught a break.”

“What kind of break?” asked Harvath.

“We’ll see in a moment,” he replied.

Fontaine rolled his window down and told Gallagher to pull all the way up. They were waved to a stop by a Canadian soldier carrying a C-7 assault rifle.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the soldier as he studied Fontaine’s Canadian military ID card.

“Corporal,” said Fontaine as he retrieved his ID and slid it back into his pocket, “who are you and what the hell are you doing here?”

“Mechanized Quick Reaction Force, B Company, First Battalion,” the man responded. “We were sent in to hold this village.”

“Hold it for whom?”

“The Americans. They’re sending a unit to go house-to-house.”

“Do you know what they’re looking for?” asked Fontaine.

“No, sir.”

“What’s their ETA?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said the corporal.

“Who’s in charge here?” demanded Fontaine.

“Captain West, sir.”

“Captain Chris West?”

“Yes, sir.”

Fontaine opened his door and stepped out. “Get him on the radio for me right now,” he said as he began walking toward one of the LAVs.

“Get the captain on the line,” the corporal ordered one of the soldiers standing near the LAV.

“Who’s raising Captain West for me?” asked Fontaine as the hatch was raised on the armored vehicle and he ducked inside.

“Right here,” said a soldier, who offered up a handset.

Fontaine took the handset and spoke into it. “Chris? This is Dan Fontaine. You and your men have just walked into the middle of our operation. We need to talk right now.”

Fontaine listened for a moment and then gave the handset back to the soldier. He waited for the soldier to finish speaking with his superior and then he stepped out of the LAV. As he did, the soldier stuck his head out of the back and informed his sergeant that Fontaine and the men in the Land Cruiser had been granted permission to pass.

“So far so good,” said Fontaine as he hopped back in the truck and the Canadian soldiers directed them around their roadblock.

“Where to?” asked Gallagher as he steered around the LAVs and got back on the road.

“We’re going to meet up with their captain at the roadblock on the other side of the village.”

“What do you think the Americans want with this place?”

“Drugs, weapons, Taliban or al-Qaeda fighters,” replied Fontaine. “You name it.”

“Julia Gallo?” Harvath asked.

“That’d be one hell of a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in them,” continued Harvath from the backseat, more convinced than ever that Fontaine was CSIS. “By the way, you still carry an active military ID?”

“Expired,” replied Fontaine. “Nobody ever checks the date. How about you? I’ll bet you have some interesting items in your wallet.”

Harvath doubted the Canadian’s ID was expired. He also knew that while he had never told Fontaine what exactly he did for a living, it was quietly understood that he worked for the U.S. government. Based on Harvath’s special operations experience, it wasn’t a huge leap to assume he did something other than pushing paper. The suggestion of what might be in his wallet was a way of intimating that Fontaine had a good idea who Harvath really was too.

It was also probably a reminder that the pot shouldn’t call the kettle black.

“You know this guy West well?” asked Harvath, changing the subject yet again.

“He and I served in the Pats together,” replied Fontaine.

Harvath was familiar with Canada’s highly decorated regiment, Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry. “Do you think he’ll help us out?”

“We always say ‘Once a Patricia, always a Patricia.’”

“Well, no matter what happens and no matter what reason the Americans have for wanting to get in there and do a house-to-house,” stated Harvath, “we
are
going into that village. If Julia Gallo is in there, the longer we wait, the greater the odds are that they’ll figure out a way to slip that cordon and smuggle her out. And for all we know, they might have fled with her the minute they spotted these soldiers coming. I don’t want to wait around to find out.”

“Agreed,” said Gallagher.

“You got us over one hurdle,” Harvath said to Fontaine. “Now how do we get over the second and into the village?”

Staring at the armored vehicles up ahead, he replied, “By appealing to West’s innate sense of Canadian patriotism.”

Harvath looked at him. “I think I like my plan better.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Fontaine. “It’s still your plan.”

“This is it,” said Gallagher as they slowed to a stop before the two LAVs that formed the roadblock on the other side of the village. “You want us to wait in here?”

“You can come, but try to let me do the talking. Okay?”

“We’ll try,” said Harvath, opening his door.

The three men exited the Land Cruiser and were greeted by Captain West, a career military man in his late forties with dark hair and pale eyes.

“What’s this about us walking into the middle of
your
operation?” asked West as he shook hands with Fontaine.

The former JTF2 man didn’t bother introducing Harvath or Gallagher. Even among their allies, spooks often preferred to keep their identities private. “We’ve had this village under surveillance for two days.”

“Why?” asked West.

Fontaine dropped his voice and moved the captain off to the side, out of earshot of his men. Harvath and Gallagher followed.

“We believe that the village elders have been harboring an al-Qaeda asset. We’ve got one of our men inside who can ID him. We were about ready to pull the trigger when you guys showed up. Speaking of which, what are you and your men doing here?”

“NATO command got some sort of tip from one of its Taliban informants. They passed it on to the Americans, who, knowing we were in the area, asked us to come in and establish this cordon.”

“Did they get anything in the air for you?” asked Harvath. “A Predator? Anything?”

West shook his head. “They’ve been tied up. They couldn’t get any assets on target before we arrived.”

“So we don’t know if anyone slipped out as your cordon was being established.”

“No, we don’t,” said West as he turned back to Fontaine and asked, “Is this al-Qaeda asset you’re looking for the same reason the Americans are on their way?”

“No,” replied Fontaine. “It isn’t.”

“You sound pretty sure.”

“I am.”

“Well,” replied West, “my gut says I should put the brakes on everything until the Americans get here.”

“Chris, we’ve been chasing the al-Qaeda operative in that village for almost a year. And now that we have him cornered, he’s sitting in there wondering who gave him up. Pretty soon, if he hasn’t already, he’s going to zero in on my operative, a Canadian, I might add, who’ll be as good as dead when that happens. I need to shut this thing down now.”

“Dan, you and I go way back, but orders are orders,” said West.

“And what happens if this guy slips your cordon? I’m sure your men are good, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility. If we let a Canadian operative get killed and an al-Qaeda bomb maker, who specializes in targeting Canadian troops, escape, it won’t exactly be a blue-ribbon day, will it?”

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.

A
s 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 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.