The Apostle

CHAPTER 44

When the center of the village finally came into sight, Harvath instructed his group to stop while he pulled on his NODs and took a long, careful look around.

As Fayaz’s map indicated, in the center of the village was an elevated wooden structure surrounded by a copse of trees. It looked like a tree house with a wide, wraparound porch. Lights burned inside, and over the tumble of the icy river as its water slushed down out of the mountains, Harvath could hear voices. The two shuras were still engaged in their jirga. It was time.

Harvath moved his three Afghan charges quickly through the open, over to the stand of trees, while Gallagher covered them. Once they were safely at the base of the structure, Gallagher traversed the open space and joined them.

“What do you want to do with him?” Baba G asked as he nodded toward Usman. “Should we cut him loose?”

Harvath powered down his NODs and stuffed them into one of his coat pockets. “We’ll let his elders decide what to do with him,” he said as he pulled out his knife and sliced off the boy’s plastic restraints. Daoud helped unwind the kaffiyeh from around his face and warned him to remain silent.

Putting Daoud in the lead, Harvath ordered his team up the stairs. At the door, the interpreter removed his loafers and stepped inside. Harvath and company immediately followed suit.

Inside there was a group of gnarled, weather-beaten men with automatic weapons. Some belonged to Fayaz and his shura, the others were local and immediately scrambled for their guns.

“Salaam alaikum. Salaam alaikum,” Daoud repeated with his hand placed over his heart in an attempt to reassure the men that they meant no harm.

The locals weren’t buying it. Harvath and Gallagher were Westerners and that could only mean one thing-trouble.

The men hurriedly leaped to their feet, the room filling with the metallic clicks of AK-47 safeties being flipped off.

“Salaam, salaam,” Daoud continued to implore the men. Peace, peace.

Gallagher took a step to his right to better shield Asadoulah. One of the locals recognized Usman standing behind Harvath and began speaking to him.

“Tell them we’re here to see the shura,” Harvath said to their interpreter.

Daoud relayed the message, but the man ignored him. Instead he kept speaking to Usman and was now cocking his head, beckoning the boy to step away from the strangers and join him on the other side of the room.

The interpreter once more repeated his request and the man swung his rifle barrel over and focused his sights right on the center of Daoud’s face. Immediately, all of the color drained from his face.

It was a very aggressive move, and in unison Harvath and Gallagher pulled their weapons out from under their patoos and trained them on the handful of Afghans who were aiming at them from the other side of the room. It was a Mexican standoff, Afghanistan style.

Across the room, the man began raising his voice as he called for Usman to come to him. “Na,” Harvath said. No.

The man did not like that answer and was about to reply when a door on the other side of the room opened. In the doorway stood an older man with a long, gray beard, coal-black eyes, and a thick scar that ran from his nose to the bottom of his left ear. He appeared to be one of the village elders, and he was very angry.

He yelled at the villagers to put down their guns and, reluctantly, they did. He then turned his eyes upon the group of strangers.

Daoud bade the elder peace and, as they had not been invited into the village like Fayaz and his shura had been and were in effect trespassing, immediately requested melmasthia-protection and hospitality.

The elder studied the strangers and then slowly granted his approval. With that, Harvath and Gallagher lowered their weapons. As they did, Usman bolted for the elder and began yelling out what had happened to him.

The elder fixed the boy with a glare that stopped him in his tracks. He looked at Daoud for an explanation, which the interpreter quickly gave. The elder was obviously not happy with what he heard and he locked eyes with Harvath.

Harvath returned the man’s stare and refused to look away. Finally, he held up his hand to silence Daoud and called for the strangers to follow him into the other room.

As they entered, Harvath, Gallagher, and Daoud politely greeted Fayaz and his shura as well as the members of the local shura. Their chief elder, who introduced himself as Baseer, asked the men their names and then invited them all to sit down and take tea. When the teenagers tried to join them, Baseer hissed through his teeth and dismissively waved them away to the back of the room, where he ordered them to remain standing.

The men sat down on a large blue rug. Baseer had more tea brought in, and small plates of food. Harvath knew that he had no choice in the matter. Taking tea was an ancient, time-honored tradition meant to show respect and secure good relations. Rejecting it would have been an incredible insult to his hosts. Nevertheless, Gallagher had taken out four Taliban soldiers on the edge of the village, and as Fontaine had said, where you see four Taliban there are always at least forty more nearby, or if one wanted to believe Usman, no more than ten. Whatever the number, Harvath felt like a sitting duck and wanted to be on his way as quickly as possible. To do that, though, he would have to convince Baseer and the other members of his shura that it was now in their best interest to work with him.

Daoud and Fayaz spoke briefly, and then the interpreter filled Harvath in on everything the two shuras had thus far discussed.

Waving Asadoulah over, Fayaz made the boy apologize to Baseer and the other members of his shura for how he had treated the American woman and for lying about his altercation with Zwak.

Usman was then summoned by Baseer, who severely chastised him and demanded the names of the other boys who had joined them in assaulting the American woman so that they could be dealt with. Once the boy complied, he and Asadoulah were dismissed from the room. It was now time to discuss the most serious issues.

Fayaz made it clear to Baseer and his shura that Harvath had the biggest stick in the room. He could call upon American and NATO militaries at will and they would do his bidding, including leveling this village with a massive airstrike.

As Daoud translated, Harvath was concerned that Fayaz might be laying it on a bit too thick, but if there was one thing the Afghans recognized and respected instantly, it was force. Watching the faces of Baseer and his fellow shura members, it was clear that Fayaz’s words were sinking in.

Baseer looked at Harvath finally and said, “You have come for the woman?”

“Yes, we have,” Harvath replied through Daoud.

“Mullah Massoud is one of the most powerful Taliban commanders in all of Afghanistan. If he had caught you here, he would have killed you.”

“But he is not here, is he?”

“Na,” replied Baseer. “He is not.”

Harvath had been right, but there was little satisfaction in the knowledge. The important thing was getting Julia Gallo back safely. Removing his cell phone, Harvath showed Baseer the pictures he had taken and said, “We know the woman was held here and I have proof. I have sent these pictures to the American military commanders at Bagram. They know and I know that Mullah Massoud couldn’t have kept Dr. Gallo here without your knowledge. Because of this, we make no distinction between you and the Taliban. If you do not cooperate with us, airstrikes will be launched immediately against your village. There will be nothing left here but dust.”

Harvath was bluffing again, of course, but he’d dealt with enough village elders in his day to know that their primary obligation wasn’t to a man like Massoud, but to the people of their village, whom the Taliban relentlessly manipulated, extorted, and hid behind.