The Apostle

“Dan, you and I go way back, but orders are orders,” said West.

“And what happens if this guy slips your cordon? I’m sure your men are good, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility. If we let a Canadian operative get killed and an al-Qaeda bomb maker, who specializes in targeting Canadian troops, escape, it won’t exactly be a blue-ribbon day, will it?”

Captain West was silent as he thought it over.

Sensing that the man was leaning in their direction, Fontaine pressed him. “All we need is thirty minutes to button this down.”

West finally spoke. “Okay, here’s what I am prepared to do. Based on one of our operatives’ being in imminent danger inside the village, I’m going to go ahead and authorize you to extract him, but that’s it. The bomb maker is secondary and you can sort him out with the Americans when they get here. Agreed?”

Fontaine shook hands with West. “We’re good with that.”

“How many of my men do you want to take with you?” the captain then asked.

“You maintain your cordon. We’ll go in and link up with our operative and take things from there.”

“You might want to rethink that. When we showed up, there were a lot of villagers moving around with guns.”

“Which brings up something else,” said Fontaine. “Our operative indicated that there are three dead Afghans in there, two of whom had been shot. What do you know about that? I’m assuming you’ve got snipers out.”

“We do, but it wasn’t us. There’s been no gunfire since we arrived,” replied West. “But that’s not to say that it couldn’t start at any moment. Those villagers were getting ready for something. You should take some of my guys with you.”

“We’ll be okay,” stated Fontaine.

“How are you going to do this without stirring up the hornets’ nest? Do you know which structure he’s in?”

“He’s got a relationship with the village elders. If they give their permission, we’ll be able to walk in and get him.”

West didn’t look as if he put much faith in Pashtunwali. “How are you set for comms?” he asked.

“We’ve got radios in the truck,” answered Gallagher. “Give us your frequencies and we’ll be good to go.”

West nodded and called over one of his men to accompany Gallagher to the Land Cruiser and help set up the radios.

“I’d also like to know where your snipers are,” added Fontaine.

West nodded and motioned Fontaine back to his LAV. “I’ll show you on the map how we’re set up.”

Fifteen minutes later, Harvath, Gallagher, and Fontaine were ready to roll. Harvath pulled out his Afghan cell phone and dialed Clear Water International’s Khogyani interpreter.

“Mr Daoud?” Harvath said when the man answered. “This is Mr. Staley. We’re at the village now. The soldiers have agreed to allow us to come in.”

“What do they want?” asked Daoud. “No one understands why they are here.”

“It’s all going to be okay, “Harvath reassured him. “Are you with the shura right now?”

“Yes.”

“I have two other members of my team with me. Do we have the shura’s permission to enter the village?”

Harvath waited while the interpreter spoke to someone in the background and then came back on the phone. “Yes. You and your colleagues have their permission.”

After being given a description of the building they were in and how to find it, Harvath disco

CHAPTER 38

As the men made their way into the dusty village, it was like walking into a ghost town. Every house and compound was shuttered and not a single soul roamed the streets, not even children. Any soldier worth his salt knew that kids were a combat indicator. When they disappeared it meant that something very bad was about to happen.

Nevertheless, Harvath ignored the hair standing on end on the back of his neck and kept going. He also ignored the pain from the hidden MP5 banging against his bruised back. “Everybody stay sharp,” he said.

All three made mental notes of the buildings they passed. Finally, they came to the structure where the shura was meeting. Just as Daoud had said, laid out in front were three bodies covered with sheets.

Harvath and Gallagher approached to examine them while Fontaine kept his eyes peeled for trouble.

“This one looks like a broken neck,” said Gallagher as he inspected one of the corpses. “How about the other two?”

Harvath looked under the first sheet and then the second. “Bullet wounds to the foreheads. Very clean.”

“And also very professional. That’s not the way Afghans normally handle their problems.”

“So who shot them?”

“No idea,” said Gallagher as Harvath set the sheet down and the two men straightened up.

Motioning toward the door of the structure, Harvath said, “Let’s see if we can get some answers inside.”

None of them were prepared for what they discovered. Crammed inside were at least fifty heavily armed men from the village. They all eyed Harvath and his tall, well-built compatriots warily. Harvath, Gallagher, and Fontaine all placed their hands over their hearts, bowed ever so slightly, and wished the men peace. A handful of men returned the gesture; most of them did not.

Daoud stepped forward and introduced himself. He was a short man in his late thirties dressed in traditional Afghan clothing, with a neatly trimmed beard and a checked kaffiyeh hung loosely around his neck.

After Harvath and his team had removed their boots, the interpreter led them into an i

The interpreter invited the men to sit down upon the floor, which they did. Harvath noticed very quickly that the shura had no intention of serving tea.

“Tell the shura,” Harvath said to Daoud, “that we have come for the American woman.”

The interpreter was confused, but based on the stern faces and powerful physiques of the three men, surmised they probably weren’t NGO workers here to conduct a project assessment. “I don’t think I understand-” he began.

Harvath held up his hand. “They’ll know what we’re talking about. Tell them.”

Daoud turned to the shura and repeated what Harvath had said. He waited for their response and then translated. “They say they don’t know anything about an American woman.”

“Ask them why they have three bodies outside.”

The interpreter posed the question, and while the elders exchanged hushed remarks among themselves he tried to ask Harvath a question of his own, but Harvath silenced him. He was intent on studying the old men’s faces and listening to the cadence of their voices. It was obvious they were very upset about something.

After extensive deliberation, the chief elder, a man named Fayaz, spoke and Daoud translated. “They say it is a private matter.”

“Private?” repeated Harvath. “Please inform the shura that with their village surrounded, they no longer have privacy. In fact, if they don’t turn over the woman immediately, I’m going to call in an airstrike.”

The interpreter delivered Harvath’s ultimatum and then asked a question on behalf of the elders. “The shura wants to know if this means there isn’t going to be a clean water project for their village.”

Are these people trying to horse trade with us? Harvath wondered to himself. It didn’t make any sense. Not only had he just threatened them with an airstrike, but their village was surrounded. Soldiers were poised to come kick in every door, flip over every bed, and turn every one of their buildings inside out. What could they possibly have to bargain with?

“Tell them,” said Harvath, “that I didn’t come here to negotiate. I want the woman, now.”