The Apostle

CHAPTER 51

NANGARHAR PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN

The name of the village they were headed to was Dagar, which in Pashtu meant open space. It also meant battlefield, which Harvath hoped wasn’t going to turn out to be prophetic.

As per Captain West, it had been Fontaine’s idea to mushroom him, and as much as Harvath regretted having to feed the guy so much BS and keep him in the dark, they had no choice. Until Julia Gallo was recovered, operational security was of primary importance.

This wasn’t the first time Harvath had lied to get what he needed. It was just how the game worked. If West had been in his shoes, he would have done the same thing. Sometimes, the ends did in fact justify the means. It was the height of moral folly to play by a set of self-imposed rules when your enemy played by none whatsoever. While Harvath would readily admit that rules were important, there were also times when they weren’t, and this was one of them.

Harvath stuck to the same story they had told West in the begi

Whether West fully believed Harvath was beside the point. Wiping out seventy-plus Taliban fighters and helping to weaken a local Taliban commander was a good thing, regardless of who got the credit for it. Taking out forty or fifty more would only run up the score and make for a much better night. West only wished his men could help.

Understanding that he couldn’t roll his armored column right through Dagar and that even if he could, he’d have considerable difficulty actually getting his men to the final objective, Captain Chris West proved that he and the Canadians were true partners in the international war on terror by offering Harvath anything else he needed.

Harvath eagerly accepted the help. West and his team transported them back to Asadoulah’s village, where Fayaz provided a Toyota pickup truck and offered to send along as many armed men as the vehicle could carry.

While the idea of having extra men was appealing, Harvath declined. He did, though, accept the truck and promised to have it returned as soon as he was done. It was exceedingly generous of Fayaz, considering the fact that the village had just lost two vehicles in a firefight and would need to return to reclaim their dead.

From the Canadians, Harvath took as much ammo for Gallagher’s sniper rifle, the MP5s, and his and Fontaine’s pistols as could be spared. He also changed out the batteries in their NODs and was extra-grateful when West handed them several fragmentation grenades.

Daoud knew Dagar, so they let him drive the truck while Harvath rode shotgun and Fontaine sat in back.

“So how do you know Dagar?” asked Harvath as they drove.

“I have a friend there,” said the interpreter. “We grew up in the same refugee camp in Pakistan. We used to play cricket together.”

“Would your friend be willing to help us?”

“He is a good man,” replied Daoud. “He doesn’t like al-Qaeda and he does not like the Taliban. He will help us.”

“I hope he can help us to some coffee,” Fontaine added from the backseat.

Harvath looked at his watch and then rubbed his eyes. It was well after midnight, his back was throbbing again, and he was out of Motrin. Baba G’s med kit had gone up in flames with his Land Cruiser. The only things he wanted as much as finding Julia Gallo were a hot shower, a stiff drink, and a soft bed. In fact, despite how grimy he was, he’d be glad to forgo the shower and move right to the drink and the bed.

In order not to focus on his fatigue, he tried to envision again what Julia Gallo was going through. The fact that she had scratched her initials into her previous cell meant that she had remembered her training. That was a good sign. Harvath hoped she also remembered the part about keeping her spirits up and not allowing herself to slip into depression as she imagined the worst that might befall her. It was an easy lesson to teach, but much more difficult to actually put into practice.

As the truck, with its worn-out shocks, bounced and jostled toward Dagar, Harvath closed his eyes and allowed his mind to rest. He knew all too well that the next couple of hours were going to be extremely tense and most likely, extremely dangerous. Fontaine and Daoud seemed to be thinking the same thing, as both men were silent for the rest of the ride.

A deep pothole a kilometer outside the village drew Harvath’s mind back to the here and now.

“I’m sorry about that,” said Daoud. “I couldn’t avoid it.”

“That’s okay,” replied Harvath. “Are we close?”

“Yes, we’re very close now.”

“Fontaine?” said Harvath looking into the backseat. “You up?”

“No,” replied the Canadian.

“Too bad. I think I just saw a Molson sign.”

“Well, when you see one for Labatt’s, we’ll stop. Until then, leave me alone.”

Harvath smiled, turned back around, and checked his weapon, knowing full well Fontaine was doing the same. He was an exceptional operator and, like Harvath, was now 100 percent switched on.

Turning to Daoud, Harvath said, “Are you ready to make the call?”

The interpreter nodded and pulled out his phone. Scrolling through the address book as he balanced it on the steering wheel, he found the number and co

Eventually he rang off and slid the phone back into his pocket.

“Is everything okay?” asked Harvath.

“Fine,” said Daoud with a smile. “He is waiting for us at his home.”

Harvath wondered if Daoud had extended an apology for waking up his friend’s wife. Then he remembered where he was. TIA.

CHAPTER 52

Daoud’s boyhood friend was a short, whip-thin man named Reshteen. He had widely set brown eyes, a flat, thick nose, and a bushy beard dyed he

He ushered his guests into his home and quickly shut the door behind them. They removed their shoes and entered the living room, where two of Reshteen’s young sons were laying out small dishes of cold food and a pot of warm tea. The room was lit by a small oil lamp, which threw off just about as much heat as the old, rusted stove in the corner. They had come up considerably in altitude and Harvath could feel the cold seeping right into his bones despite the clothing he was wearing.

Daoud and Reshteen spoke for several minutes while Harvath studied their faces. He could follow the direction of their conversation simply by their expressions. He had always been good at reading people, but his time at the Secret Service had taken him to a completely different level.

He could tell they were talking about Massoud and the Taliban now. Both men had become very serious. Daoud was doing most of the talking, while Reshteen seemed to respond only with one-or two-word answers.

Turning to Harvath, Daoud stated, “The men passed through here in two groups, several hours apart, but they all went to the same place.”

“The grazing pasture,” replied Harvath.