Brad Thor: The Apostle

Borrowing the Shangri-La’s other Land Cruiser, Harvath drove himself back to Kabul, alone. He slowed in Surobi and hoped to see the little old man who sold the Jackie Collins book standing outside his shop, but the store was closed. It was prayer time, and even in a village not “officially” controlled by the Taliban, repercussions for not strictly adhering to Islamic laws could be harsh.

Harvath did see, though, the same man with the same black Taliban turban he had seen the last time he had passed through Surobi. The man’s eyes were still filled with hate, and he threw Harvath the same blood-chilling stare. Fuck diplomacy, thought Harvath as he flipped the guy the finger.

He drove to the safe house in the Shahr-e Naw and called Flower from his cell phone to come outside and open the gates.

“Mr. Scot, I am not there,” he said. “My wife had the baby. A beautiful little girl.”

Harvath was glad to hear Flower so excited about having another girl. “Congratulations. I wish you and your family much health and happiness.”

Flower thanked him and said his cousin was at the house and he would call him and have him open the gates.

Less than a minute after they hung up, the gates opened. Harvath drove the Land Cruiser into the courtyard, parked, and entered the house.

The large plasma television was on in the living room. Hoyt was sitting on the couch with his back to him.

“I hope you bought enough beer, Mei. We’re going to have half of the NGO community here for this party tonight.”

Harvath was about to reply when Hoyt turned around, saw him, and said, “Or maybe not.”

“Nice try.”

Hoyt smiled. “Now that the job’s done you’re finally lightening up. Better late than never.”

“How’s Midland?”

“Fine.”

“And our guest?”

“Mustafa, Special K, Khan? Still a creepy pain in the ass, but on the right side of the grass, which is only because I like you so much. Now that Gallo’s safe, Mark wants to hang him from his ankles and beat him like a fucking piñata for what he did to his ear.”

“First things first,” said Harvath, who then glanced up at the TV. “What are you watching?”

Hoyt looked at the plasma and then back at Harvath. “What? You couldn’t get a fucking newspaper in Nangarhar? Alden just announced his resignation.”

“President Alden?” said Harvath as he stepped closer to the couch.

“Yup. Second-shortest presidency in U.S. history. William Henry Harrison is first. He served for only thirty-five days, and also coincidentally gave the longest inaugural address. Guess who gave the second-longest inaugural address?”

“Alden?”

Hoyt nodded. “Spooky, huh?”

“Why is he resigning?”

“Nobody knows. He made a brief statement and evaporated.”

“Well something must have happened. No one runs for office as hard as he did just to give it up,” replied Harvath, bringing his mind back to the work they still had to do. “We’ve gotta get Khan ready to roll.”

“Where are we taking him?”

“Bagram.”

Hoyt smiled. “Scot Harvath! Aren’t you thoughtful.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Next to cold beer, there’s nothing Baba G loves more than a piñata party.”

Harvath smiled. “That reminds me. I need you to pack a cooler.”

BAGRAM AIR BASE, AFGHANISTAN

“If this guy’s not at the gate,” said Harvath into his cell phone, “I’m gonna cut Khan loose.”

Seven thousand miles away in Langley, Virginia, CIA operative Aydin Ozbek tried to put his friend at ease. “My guy is already there waiting for you. Don’t worry.”

Hoyt motioned to the cooler on the backseat.

“And nobody searches the car either,” added Harvath.

“For fuck’s sake, Scot. You’re driving onto an American military base in the middle of a war zone. If they want to search your car, they get to search your fucking car.”

“You know what, Oz? You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. We’re going to turn around and hand Khan over to the Afghans.”

“All right, all right. No inspection. I’ll let them know. Now, are there any last-minute bites at the apple I need to bend over for?” asked Ozbek.

“Let me think a minute,” said Harvath. “Considering how I’m giving you, and by you I mean the Agency, one of the highest-ranking al-Qaeda operatives since Khalid Sheik Mohammed-”

“Whom, I believe, you stole from the Afghan government,” Ozbek clarified.

“Hey, if you don’t want him.”

“Scot, you know we want him. We also know that the Afghans didn’t really catch him, so we consider him fair game.”

“Okay,” said Harvath. “What happens after you’re done with him?”

“When we’ve wrung him out like a damp dishcloth? We’ll arrange for the Afghans to recapture him.”

“That’s good enough for me. That plus a month’s worth of drinks at a bar of my choosing in the D.C. area.”

Back at Langley, Ozbek began laughing. “Feel free to grab my dick and shake the money tree.”

“Oz, you and I both know you’re going to jump at least two pay grades because of this. If I want to drink Macallan 1926 you’re buying.”

“For a month? You’re out of you’re fucking mind. I’ll buy you a case of Johnnie Green and we’ll call it even.”

“Johnnie Blue and I want it on my doorstep by the time I get home.”

“Deal. Now drive onto that base and surrender that prisoner so I can go home and beg American Express to raise my credit limit.”

“And all of the deals we made with the Afghans get honored, right?”

“Yes,” said Ozbek. “I will see to it personally.”

“I’m going to hold you to that, Oz,” said Harvath. “These people risked everything for us. If we don’t live up to our end, we deserve all the problems they can cause for us, and believe me, even small villages like theirs can cause problems.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Oz, these villages have lived with the Taliban. They know them and they can be huge treasure chests of intel; don’t let the ‘failure factory’ fuck this up.”

“I’m going to make sure these villages get taken care of. The projects they want are within the scope of the budgets that have been proposed for their province. Everything is good.”

“I gave them my word,” said Harvath. “So I am going to make sure every single project happens.”

“Scot,” said Ozbek. “You’ve already blown half the budget for these projects on cell phone minutes. Would you just hump to Bagram and dump the prisoner already?”

Ten minutes later, Hoyt drove the Land Cruiser up to a little-used gate on the far side of the air base.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” asked one of several American soldiers at the guard booth armed with very atypical weapons.

“We seem to be a bit lost,” replied Hoyt. “Is this the road to Sea World?”

As the sentry smirked, Harvath leaned across his friend and, using the front name for the Agency’s air transport unit, said, “We’ve got a perishable cargo delivery for Polar Air.”

The sentry nodded and, stepping back inside the guardhouse, raised the gate and lowered the bollards.

Thanking the guards, Hoyt smiled and drove forward. Thirty yards inside the base they were greeted by a tall man with short, dark hair in blue jeans and a TAD Gear jacket. “You must be Norseman,” he said, using Harvath’s call sign as Harvath rolled down his window. “My name is Jude.”

Harvath smiled, “Nice call sign. The patron saint of lost causes. Well, it just so happens that I have someone who is a follower of a very major lost cause here with me.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”