The Apostle

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.

When the waiter returned, he rolled a green plastic mat out along the floor and upon it set glasses, a pot of tea, and dishes filled with several things to eat. The police inspector poured the steaming hot green tea known as chai sabz for each of them. It had been seasoned with cardamom, and the scent quickly filled the air. Despite the heater and having three bodies in the small room, it was still so cold you could almost see your breath.

Rashid explained to Harvath what all the dishes were and encouraged him to help himself. Harvath hadn’t eaten since his arrival and hadn’t realized how hungry he had been. He tore off a large piece of freshly baked Afghan bread known as nan and then served himself some rice. He added a few chunks of cooked lamb and then covered everything with yogurt sauce. In order to protect his stomach, he avoided the salad and took a serving of fried vegetables, known as borani.

Harvath had always enjoyed the cuisine in Afghanistan and laughed at Westerners who arrived expecting to lose weight only to return home having added several pounds.

There was a dish of sugar cubes on the mat, and Rashid, who like most Afghans had a sweet tooth, picked up three and dropped them into his short glass of tea.

Soon, he and Gallagher began talking shop.

“The city is surrounded by the Taliban,” said Rashid. “All four highways, even the road to the Shomali plains, are now under their control.”

“I heard fuel truck drivers are being offered ten thousand dollars to make the run down to Kandahar,” replied Gallagher.

The inspector nodded and dropped another sugar cube into his tea. “It’s an 800 percent increase over what Afghans are paid for carrying anything else. The only problem is that the Taliban forbade transporting fuel to foreign troops.”

Gallagher looked at Harvath and said, “A contractor asked one of Flower’s brothers if he wanted to make the run, and the man wisely declined. But another man from their village agreed. The Taliban stopped him on the road and chopped his head off.”

Harvath grimaced in disgust.

“Commercial aircraft can no longer refuel at the airport in Kandahar and most military bases are being forced to ration, even the Americans,” said Rashid. “The greater problem, though, is that the Taliban once again control most of Afghanistan. As they did in their rise to power in the 1990s, they’re promoting themselves as the best and most reliable force for stability throughout the country.”

“Which is only bolstered by the fact that the Afghan government ca

Rashid looked at Harvath. “Your country has invested significantly in us, but unfortunately the U.S. does not have much to show for it. I’m afraid we are all losing ground.”

Harvath didn’t disagree. The situation in Afghanistan was deteriorating daily. The mujahideen had defeated the Soviets, and while Harvath still held out hope, he had to admit that if the United States did not drastically change its strategy, there was a very good chance that the Taliban, along with al-Qaeda, were going to be the wi

He nodded as Rashid continued. “I know many Afghans who will not go back to life under the Taliban again. These people are begi

“The United States will turn things around,” stated Harvath.

The inspector smiled. “That’s exactly what the Soviets said before they pulled their troops out.”

“We’ll see,” said Harvath. “The Afghan people deserve better than the Taliban. They deserve a government that can protect them and provide an environment that will allow them to succeed.”

Rashid raised his glass. “I agree.”

Gallagher and Harvath raised their glasses and they all took a sip. When they had been lowered, Gallagher quietly got to the heart of the meeting. “Does the Amniyat have anything new on the American doctor’s kidnapping?”

Amniyat was a local term for the National Directorate of Security, Afghanistan’s domestic intelligence agency, also known as the NDS.

“No. Nothing. They questioned the people of the last village she and her interpreter had been in and no one knows anything. As you know, her organization’s vehicle and the body of the interpreter were found a couple of kilometers away, and village elders within thirty kilometers have all been questioned, but still nothing,” said Rashid, who then turned to Harvath. “I understand that is why you are here.”

Harvath nodded.

“Ahmad,” Gallagher replied, “my friend represents Dr. Gallo’s family. As I explained to you, he is a man of much experience and is highly regarded by the government of the United States. He has a deeply ingrained dislike for both the Taliban and al-Qaeda, as well as much experience dealing with them. I am hoping you will be able to help him.”

“By finding Mustafa Khan, correct?” asked Rashid.

Gallagher nodded.

“My government will not be very happy if Khan does not stand trial for his crimes.”

“And you?” asked Harvath. “How would you feel about it?”

“As a police officer, I would be professionally disappointed, of course. But as a Pashtun, I know that justice will eventually be served. Several of Khan’s victims have been Pashtun. Their families know who he is and he won’t be able to hide forever. Now, whether tribal justice should trump the national rule of law in Afghanistan is another debate entirely.”

“The rule of law notwithstanding, can we assume you may be willing to help?” asked Harvath.

Rashid smiled. “Have you ever heard of the Red Mullah, Mr. Harvath?”

Harvath shook his head.

“Mullah Sorkh Naqaib, or as he is more commonly known, the Red Mullah,” continued the inspector, “is a high-ranking Taliban commander from Helmand Province who specializes in attacks on British troops. Over the last three years, he has been arrested and released three times. Each time he purchased his release through bribery.