Brad Thor - The Apostle

“May I ask how much?”

“That, I don’t know. All I know is that they had turned down multiple offers from Gallo up to that point. According to Herb, she handed them a blank check and told them to fill in any amount they wanted.”

“Seriously?”

De Palma nodded.

“How about you? Were you ever offered a settlement?”

“I don’t think I was ever even a lawsuit contender in anyone’s eyes. When Sheryl was killed, along with Charlie and the kids, I inherited her full share of the business. I didn’t have a reason to sue.”

“So Stephanie Gallo never approached you? You never heard from any of her people?”

“No, why? Are you trying to tell me I should sue?”

Campbell put up her hands. “No not at all. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then I’m confused. Why are you here?”

It was a good question and one Elise had spent the night on Rita Klees’ pull-out sofa bed trying to find an answer to. “What if there is more to this story than any of us know?”

“Like what?”

“What if someone that night did do something that led to the accident?”

De Palma placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Agent Campbell, do you have any evidence to support that?”

Elise took a deep breath and blew it out. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure? Now I’m really confused. Why are you even talking to me? Why aren’t the East Hampton police following this up?”

“It’s complicated,” offered Rita.

De Palma looked at her. “We’re not only talking about the death of my business partner, we’re also talking about the death of my best friend. Those children were my godchildren. We were family, so if you know something, I want to hear it.”

Klees took her time and explained the limitations of pursuing a criminal investigation exactly as she had for Elise the night before.

“So if there is some sort of evidence from that night that’s being suppressed,” stated De Palma, “I’m the only one who can bring a civil suit to punish the person or persons responsible?”

“If there is such evidence,” said Campbell, “then that’s correct.”

Christine De Palma sat back in her chair and was silent for several moments. “I always thought Gallo offered Charlie’s parents the money to avoid the embarrassment of a trial. I never took it as an admission of guilt.”

“We don’t really know what her motivation was,” cautioned Elise.

“But you believe there’s something more to what happened that night or you wouldn’t have come all the way out here to talk to me.”

“That’s correct.”

“So what exactly do you think happened?”

“I think someone made a very big mistake and has tried to cover it up. But to find out who it was and how big a mistake they made, I need your help.”

“This could be all smoke and no fire, though. You want me to go through all the hassles and the risks of mounting a lawsuit against not only Stephanie Gallo, but also the president of the United States just because you have a suspicion that something may have happened?”

Elise shook her head. “You don’t have to mount anything. All I need to do is to say that you’re considering a lawsuit.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. If my suspicion is wrong, you’re not out anything. But if I’m right, you get your friends and your godchildren the kind of justice they deserve.”

For several moments, there was only the sound of the fountain. Finally, De Palma spoke. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

AFGHANISTAN

Sergei Simonov didn’t take any pleasure in having to kill Elam Badar, but he wouldn’t lose sleep over it either. The Afghan peasant had picked a fight with the wrong man. His veiled threats to the shura of Mullah Massoud’s village had earned him an early ticket to paradise.

Massoud had debated taking out the son, Asadoulah, as well, but the Russian had advised against it. Killing two people at the same time and making it look like an accident was very difficult unless they were a bomb-making team.

Once Massoud had acquiesced, the Russian discussed the best way to handle the situation. They agreed that the sooner the problem was taken care of, the better. And though it posed considerable risk, they further agreed that it should happen in broad daylight, or as much daylight as possible, which would make it very hard for people to believe that what had transpired was anything but a tragic accident.

The winding footpath the Russian now hid near was just as Massoud had described it. In all his years among the Afghans, their intimate knowledge of the terrain never ceased to amaze him.

The bleating of the injured sheep on the rocky ledge below had continued unabated for nearly a half hour. While he waited, Simonov pictured his son, Sasha, in his mind’s eye. Soon, they would not only be together, inseparable, but he would have the money to care for him properly. He would be able to afford the best surgeons, not just those idiots the state hospitals had provided in Russia.

He could take Sasha anywhere in the world for treatment, America even. He would spare no expense and would go to any lengths to help his boy regain as much of a normal life as possible. They only had each other and needed to stick together. Together, anything was possible. Together, he would prove to his boy how much he loved him and how sorry he was for what had happened to him.

As the bleating of the sheep started to deaden Simonov’s hearing, he suddenly noticed another sound; the sound of feet shambling up the rocky path. He began to slow his breathing. The moment was almost here.

Elam Badar was close enough to hear the bleating of his animal now and his pace quickened.

Simonov marveled at how the world worked. Both he and the Afghan had been drawn to this moment by the same thing-a deep and abiding love of their sons, as well as a misfortune that needed to be set right.

The Russian ignored the fact that he had the benefit of surprise, strength, and experience on his side, and instead believed that he would succeed in killing Elam Badar simply because he loved his son more. They were championing two separate causes, and in Simonov’s mind, his was more worthy.

When Elam Badar appeared on the path and peered over the jagged outcropping for his injured sheep, the blue-eyed Russian took a final breath and sprang from behind the rocks.

At the sound of movement, the Afghan spun, but it was too late. Simonov was already on him.

Elam Badar should never have underestimated Mullah Massoud.

To the broken neck, the Russian added a very badly broken arm and then rolled the body off the path and watched as it landed with a thud only feet from the wounded animal.

His job complete, Simonov stepped back and disappeared into the landscape.

But as he retraced his steps back up and over the top of the mountain, his heart rate quickened as he suddenly realized he was being followed.

TWO HOURS LATER

When the door was kicked open, Dr. Julia Gallo was caught in a significant state of undress. The outside temperature that afternoon had been quite mild, which meant that inside the small, poorly ventilated mud brick room where she was being kept, the temperature had been stifling.

She had been lying on the floor trying to stay cool while staring out the small hole in the base of the wall. She wore only a damp T-shirt and trousers, both of which clung provocatively to her body, and her long, red hair hung loose about her shoulders.

Her overseer had returned. The mentally challenged man had not been there that morning to feed her. In fact, no one had come by her cell at all that day, and she had been battling a terrible fear that she had been forgotten or worse still, purposely left to die.