The Apostle

“The last time was just this past summer when he was being held in NDS custody at Policharki prison. He had a visitor smuggle in fifteen thousand dollars and a half hour later he was free. An investigation wasn’t begun until Naqaib bragged to the British press about how easy it is to get out of jail in Afghanistan.”

“So what you are saying,” stated Harvath, “is that with money all things are possible.”

Rashid clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “No. What I am saying is that the Afghan government is tired of being embarrassed. These are not stupid men who run our country. Many of them are corrupt, but they realize that they must at least appear to be trying to do their jobs if Afghanistan hopes to enjoy continued international support. These men fatten their bank accounts from the aid money that flows into the country, and rivers run downhill not up.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, prison guards are not sending a portion of the bribes they receive back to Kabul. The men in power don’t profit when prisoners escape. In fact, it jeopardizes their positions, so they have taken measures to crack down on it. This is why Mustafa Khan was moved.”

“Do you know where he was moved to?”

Rashid nodded, but remained silent.

Gallagher looked at Harvath and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Harvath slid his hand beneath his patoo and discreetly withdrew an envelope filled with cash. He was well aware that no senior Afghan liked to be passed money directly, so he tucked the envelope beneath one of the cushions between him and Rashid. “Dr. Gallo’s family and I appreciate any support you can give us,” Harvath said as he reached for his tea and took another sip.

The inspector scooped up some rice with his nan and looked at it as he chose his next words. “There are many men like me who still believe in Afghanistan’s future, but only a foolish man would ignore the possibility that our future may not be that bright. The Taliban might return to power, and we have our families to think of. As you may know, mine is not very popular with the Taliban. There is much bad blood between us.”

Once, Harvath had been put in a position of having to choose between protecting his family or his country. It was a decision he never should have been asked to make, but he hadn’t hesitated. He had chosen his family. In that respect, part of him understood where Ahmad Rashid was coming from. There was also part of him that didn’t. The man was apparently willing to undermine his own government in order to finance his personal escape plan.

Maybe if Harvath had experienced everything Rashid had experienced over the last thirty-some-odd years he would see things differently. He honestly couldn’t say. Nevertheless, he replied, “I understand.”

Looking at Baba G, Rashid asked, “Do you know the abandoned Soviet military base on the Darulaman Road?”

Gallagher nodded.

“Beneath the barracks, there is an old detention facility. After the current government was installed, our president reopened the facility. It’s his own private prison. That’s where they’ve moved Mustafa Khan.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

The inspector nodded.

“What’s the security like?” asked Gallagher.

“Afghan Special Forces. All handpicked by the defense minister, all Pashtuns loyal to the president.”

“How many?” asked Harvath.

“I don’t know, but I may be able to find out,” said Rashid.

Harvath’s mind moved in multiple directions as he made a list of the specific intelligence they’d need to mount their operation. “We’ll also need schematics, drawings.”

“I’m not sure if any professional drawings exist.”

“I’d prefer professional drawings, but I’ll settle for unprofessional as long as they’re accurate.”

“The Soviet base is directly across the Darulaman Road from the CARE hospital,” said Gallagher.

“Correct,” replied Rashid.

It took Harvath a second to realize the irony. “Isn’t that where Julia Gallo’s NGO, CARE International, is based?”

“Yes.”

They had been keeping their voices low, but Gallagher lowered his even more as he said, “This might work to our advantage.”

“How?” asked Harvath.

“Way before CARE International came along, it was a Soviet hospital. In fact, the Soviets built it.”

“So?”

“So, the Soviets did a lot of construction in that area, including the building of their embassy. Many of the structures are rumored to be co

Harvath turned to Rashid. “Do you know anything about these tu

“I’ve heard about them, yes,” he replied.

“But have you ever seen them yourself?”

“No, but I may know someone who has. If there’s a tu

“How soon can you get hold of him?” asked Harvath.

The inspector looked at his watch. “I will call you in two hours.”

Harvath wrote down the number for the prepaid mobile phone Flower had purchased for him and then made a list of gear he would need Rashid to procure. “Can you get these things for me?”

As the inspector read the items on the list, he raised his eyebrows. “This is quite an unusual list.”

“This is going to be quite an unusual job. Can you get them?”

“I’ll make some calls.”

“Okay,” said Harvath, anxious to get back to Baba G’s and make some calls of his own. “We’ll talk again in two hours.”

Inspector Rashid stood and offered Harvath his hand. “If you need anything else in the meantime, Mr. Gallagher knows how to get hold of me.”

As Harvath and Baba G turned to leave, the police officer added, “Please be careful. Kabul is a very dangerous place.”

CHAPTER 15

There was gunfire on the way back to the ISS compound, but it wasn’t directed at Baba G’s Land Cruiser. It was small-arms fire, referred to in military parlance as saf, and as best they could tell it had come from a block or two away. Too close for comfort and even more unsettling when Gallagher explained that saf, RPG, and suicide bombing attacks were on the upswing in the Afghan capital.

Back at the compound, Harvath grabbed a bottle of water from the kitchen and then commandeered Baba G’s room so that he could send secure emails and make a few phone calls. As he waited for his laptop to power up, he noticed that Gallagher’s trash can had been emptied and that the bottles from the night before had been removed.

While his browser co

Pulling out his encrypted BlackBerry, he texted a colleague based in D.C. with the message “Need help. Can u talk?”

Three minutes later he received a response. “Life/death? In a meeting.”

Harvath shook his head. CIA was obsessed with meetings. If their management showed even half as much interest in supporting the excellent people it had in the field and green-lighting operations to nail bad guys, America would be a much safer place. Harvath texted back a one-word response-“Yes.” He was fairly certain the free world would continue to survive if his contact stepped out of a meeting for a few minutes.

Less than sixty seconds later, his BlackBerry rang. Activating the call, Harvath raised the phone to his ear and said, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“I think the CIA is trying to kill me,” replied a voice from Northern Virginia.

Harvath laughed. “Death by PowerPoint?”

“Worse,” said the voice. “Mandatory sensitivity training. They’re killing us with kindness.”