The Apostle

“So how do we find him?” asked Harvath.

“I’ve got some feelers out,” said Gallagher as they passed another heavily armed Afghan National Army checkpoint.

Harvath watched the picture recede in his side-view mirror. “I don’t remember seeing so many soldiers the last time I was here.”

“The government is trying to exert more control over Kabul. Attacks and suicide bombings have been going through the roof. Everybody’s all keyed up.”

Harvath was aware of the fact that the situation in Afghanistan had deteriorated, but seeing how severely Kabul, which once had a modicum of security, had been affected didn’t do much for his mood. “Tell me about the feelers you’ve got out.”

“The Afghans are big-time gossips. Nobody talks more than they do. I’ve got a guy in the Afghan National Police who has a couple of cousins in Afghan intelligence. I’ve fed him some information in the past. Nothing stellar, pretty low-hanging fruit, but it made him look good at work and so we’ve got a happy relationship. We’re meeting him this afternoon. Insha’Allah, he’ll have something worthwhile for us.”

Harvath laughed at Baba G’s use of the popular Muslim phrase for Allah willing. “You haven’t gone native on me, have you?”

“When in Rome,” answered Gallagher, applying his turn signal as they approached a narrow, dead-end street. Three-quarters of the way down on the left-hand side was Baba G’s Kabul compound. His company owned, or more appropriately “managed,” another in Jalalabad, which was where Gallagher was normally based.

As in all the other compounds in Afghanistan, there were no windows facing the street. The main entrance consisted of a pair of thick, nine-foot-high steel doors, painted green, with a normal-sized door cut into the steel to make it easier for people to come and go.

Gallagher pulled a U-turn, brought his truck to a stop outside the gates, and turned off the ignition. “Welcome to the Plaza,” he said as he opened his door and hopped out.

Harvath picked up the cooler bag, met him at the rear of the Land Cruiser, and grabbed his suitcases. Gallagher walked up to the door and rang the buzzer. Moments later, it was opened by Gallagher’s business partner, Tom Hoyt.

Hoyt was a chain smoker from Miami who stood about five-foot-eight and had a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. He was in his early fifties, spoke fluent Arabic, and could have passed for the brother of movie actor Robert Mitchum.

As ex-U.S. Army intelligence, Hoyt was the logistical mind behind the company he and Gallagher had named International Security Solutions, or ISS.

“Hey! The circus must be in town,” said Hoyt as he looked past Gallagher and saw Harvath standing in the street. “There’s a SEAL outside.”

“Neek hallack,” Harvath replied in Arabic, suggesting his friend go perform an anatomically impossible act.

“Wow. And he’s got quite a mouth on him too.”

Once they were inside, Hoyt bolted the door and gave Harvath a slap on the back. “It’s good to see you again. Have you gained weight? You SEALs just go right to shit the minute the Navy kicks you loose.”

Harvath smiled. Hoyt loved to play up interservice rivalries, and so did Gallagher. Both could be merciless-especially when they were drinking.

Harvath tapped Hoyt’s burgeoning midsection and said, “Married life seems to agree with you, doesn’t it?”

Tom threw his hand up in the air and almost lost his cigarette. “I bought her a color TV and a satellite dish, but all she still wants is sex, sex, sex. I’m a man. Not an animal, for Chrissake.”

Hoyt was referring to his younger and much more attractive wife, Mei. She was a Chinese national who had come to Kabul to start a restaurant to serve its growing Chinese population, many of whom worked in the “massage industry.”

It had been love at first sight for Hoyt, and he had almost bankrupted himself eating every meal in Mei’s restaurant. She was twenty-five years his junior and made him feel like he was eighteen years old again. In addition to being incredibly sexy, she was smart as hell-smarter than Hoyt, which was something he hadn’t come across that often in life. More important, she understood him and even appreciated his off-color sense of humor.

Within six months Mei had sold her restaurant and had moved into the compound with Hoyt. She was in charge of day-to-day operations and did all of the cooking-breakfast, lunch, and di

“Speaking of which,” said Harvath. “Where’s your better half?”

“The Dragon Lady?” replied Hoyt with his characteristic feigned disrespect for his wife. “She’s off playing mahjong somewhere.”

Harvath shook his head.

“What?”

“I don’t know why you talk about her like that.”

Hoyt looked at Gallagher and shrugged his shoulders. “She left an hour ago to play mahjong, right?”

“That’s what she said,” replied Gallagher.

Harvath was about to make a crack about Hoyt’s marital skills when the compound’s majordomo stepped out of the main building. He was a chubby, thirty-year-old Afghan with slicked-back hair and a pointy goatee. He was the youngest of eight children, and his parents had given him the Urdu name for pine flower. Hoyt had found that hysterical, and since the name was too hard to pronounce, everyone just called him Flower.

Flower recognized Harvath immediately and walked right over. The two men gave each other the customary Afghan greeting and embraced.

“It’s good to see you, Flower,” said Harvath. “How is your family?”

Flower smiled and replied, “Good, Mr. Scot. Good. I have two more boys now.”

“Two? How many does that make total?”

“Four boys. One girl,” beamed Flower.

“And his wife’s pregnant again,” replied Gallagher.

“Flower,” quipped Hoyt. “Maybe I should give your wife Mei’s TV set.”

Harvath laughed. “That’s great. When is she due?”

“Any time,” said Flower as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and held it up, indicating he was on call.

“Congratulations.”

Flower bent and picked up Harvath’s bags. “I’ll take you to your room.”

While Mei managed the compound, Flower was in charge of the heavy lifting. When the municipal power went out, which happened daily all over Afghanistan, the call went out for Flower to fire up the auxiliary generator. If someone needed a ride, they called Flower. If you needed anything from the market-Flower. And even though he couldn’t shoot to save his life, he knew how to point a sawed-off shotgun in the right direction and look imposing, so Gallagher and Hoyt even took him on operations from time to time.

Flower had a bedroom at the compound, which not coincidentally was the closest to the gate, so he was also the de facto porter. Harvath had no idea when the man ever had time to see his wife and children, much less make more. Flower took his job very seriously and worked harder than most people Harvath had met.

The single-story compound was laid out in a rough U shape. In the center was a long courtyard and next to it a small parking pad big enough to hold three vehicles if you parked them bumper to bumper. Right now it was empty except for ISS’s sole armored vehicle-a Toyota pickup.

There were seven bedrooms, each with a tiny bathroom and handheld shower. Every bedroom had its own entrance and one window that faced onto the courtyard. There was a kitchen and a long communal room that functioned as the compound’s bar, dining room, and entertainment center. Detached from the main building was a small structure that housed ISS’s communications and strategic operations center. On the roof were a series of satellite dishes and ante

Flower walked Harvath to his room, set the bags inside, and turned the heater on via a small remote. “Very cold at night,” he offered.