Apostle (33 page)

M
ullah Massoud grinned as he and Simonov barreled down on the men who had stolen the American woman from him. Their vehicle had been destroyed, but there were still survivors returning fire. He prayed that he would find the woman there. He didn’t care if she was injured, as long as she was alive. He and the Russian both had too much invested in her to allow her to slip through their hands.

As they drew closer, the accuracy of the person shooting at them improved. Whoever it was, he was very good with a rifle. Massoud pounded the roof of the truck and yelled at his soldier to make sure he didn’t shoot the woman or their fellow Taliban down below.

The commander was going to teach whoever this was a very painful lesson. You didn’t steal from a man like Massoud Akhund. All he had to do now was to keep them pinned down until they ran out of ammunition; then he and his men would move in.

Simonov slowed their truck to a crawl to allow the soldiers from the checkpoint below to move up and apply pressure. Hot shell casings tinkled onto the roof of the cab as Massoud leaned against the roll bar and kept firing in short bursts.

It was during a break in the shooting, when the soldier ejected his spent magazine and fished for another, that Massoud realized that the marksman near the flaming wreckage below had stopped shooting at them. It was also at that time that he heard an explosion from behind.

Looking into his side mirror, he saw the trucks behind him erupting in bright yellow flashes. “Move! Move! Move!” he yelled at Simonov.

The Russian, who had been transfixed by the spectacle behind them, popped the clutch and leaped forward. Though neither of them could see any aircraft, they knew they were under attack from above.

Simonov pushed the truck as fast as it would go, as the hand of death came racing up behind them.

Both he and the Taliban commander were so mesmerized by what was happening in their mirrors that they didn’t realize how quickly they had closed with the burning hulk of the truck in front of them that had been RPGed.

The Russian tried to brake but lost control. The truck bounced against the high rock wall on the right side of the road and then slammed into the flaming wreckage.

The last thing that went through Sergei Simonov’s mind as he went through the windshield and was killed was his son Sasha.

Mullah Massoud was ejected from the passenger window as the vehicle flipped over and rolled several hundred feet down the road.

He regained consciousness for only a moment. Blood poured from his nose and ears. Though his eyes refused to focus, he thought he could see daylight. Off in the distance he heard his brother calling him to prayer.

As the sun’s rays grew brighter, his body was beset by cold and grew numb. Zwak’s voice seemed to move farther away as the life drained from his body.

Standing above him were two shapes. They were men with guns, foreigners; probably Americans. Massoud Akhund opened his mouth to tell them that they would never triumph in Afghanistan.

The Taliban commander wanted to mock them for their arrogance, but nothing came. Nothing but deep, impenetrable, bottomless darkness.

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.
T
WO DAYS LATER

C
arolyn Leonard cleared White House security on West Executive Drive and then found a parking space. It was one of those perfect D.C. days—warm with a bright blue sky and barely a trace of humidity.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked as she turned off the car’s engine. “Maybe you should take some more time to think about it.”

Elise Campbell turned to her, “Carolyn, I didn’t bring you along to talk me out of my decision. I brought you for moral support.”

Leonard smiled. “I’ll be waiting right here when you come out.”

“Thanks,” said Campbell as she unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the door.

As she stepped out of the car, she was greeted by the scent of magnolia blossoms drifting across the grounds. Max Holland was waiting for her in front of the West Wing entrance.

“Are you sure about this, Campbell?”

Elise nodded. “I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he replied. “The president is waiting for you in the residence. Are you okay if we walk this way?” he asked, pointing toward the North Lawn. “It’s a nice day, and I’d like to enjoy what’s left of it.”

“That would be nice. Thank you.”

As they walked, Holland said, “The night Nikki Hale drove off the estate, I’d been on break when Alden went to the guesthouse. I never knew the details of what happened until you asked me to set up this meeting. I’d like to think that if I’d been there that night, things might have turned out differently.”

“Me too,” replied Elise.

They covered the rest of the distance in silence. On the third floor of the executive residence, Campbell followed Holland down the hallway to a carpeted ramp that branched off to their left. At the top was a room most Americans didn’t know even existed; the White House solarium.

Constructed by William Howard Taft in the early part of the twentieth century as a sleeping porch, it had originally been intended as a place to catch a cool breeze on hot nights and had been a favorite of first families ever since. President Eisenhower barbequed outside on its promenade, while his wife, Mamie, hosted bridge parties inside. The Kennedys used it as a kindergarten for Caroline and other children, President Nixon gathered his family here to break the news of his resignation, and President Reagan spent weeks in the solarium, recuperating from the assassination attempt on his life.

“The president will be here in a minute,” said Holland. “Make yourself comfortable.”

As he left, Elise took in the solarium.

It was an octagonal room, composed almost entirely of windows. The décor was bright and the tasteful furnishings plush and comfortable—exactly what one would expect to find in a sun room meant for relaxed family gatherings.

Its most striking feature was its view. In the foreground was the Washington Monument and beyond that the Jefferson Memorial.

“Best view in all of Washington,” said a voice from behind.

Surprised, Campbell turned around. “Hello, Mr. President,” she said. It was the first time she had ever seen him on time for any meeting, much less early.

“Elise,” he said as he crossed the room to shake her hand. “I understand you were quite insistent about seeing me.”

“I was. Thank you, Mr. President,” she replied as she accepted his hand.

Alden pointed toward one of the overstuffed couches. “Please sit down. Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

“No thank you, sir.”

“Okay,” said the president, taking a seat in the armchair just adjacent. “I’m all yours.”

Elise knew there would be no perfect segue or preamble for what she had come to say. The only way to say it was to say it, and when she did, the color drained from Alden’s face. “Mr. President. I wanted to tender my resignation to you personally.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know what happened the night Nikki Hale killed the Coleman family. She had been drinking with both you and the first lady. The three of you quarreled, and despite the fact that she was drunk, you insisted she get in her car and leave the estate. Then you lied about what happened that night under oath.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your answers to interrogatories in the civil suit. You lied about everything that happened that night. As if your involvement in Hale’s death wasn’t enough, you perjured yourself in trying to cover it up.”

“You wait just a second,” snapped the president indignantly.

“No, you wait, sir,” said Elise, cutting him off. “You lied to protect yourself and you lied to protect your candidacy, and I can’t work for you anymore.”

Standing up and buttoning his suit jacket, Alden said, “Agent Campbell, you simply don’t have your facts straight. I don’t know what’s ailing you, but I think you need to take some more time off and come back when you’re feeling better.”

“I feel fine, Mr. President. And I’m not coming back,” said Elise as she stood up as well. “Where this goes now is up to you. And for your information, Herb and Janet Coleman will be taking a very keen interest in what you decide to do going forward.”

“The Colemans? Is that who’s behind this?” said Alden contemptuously. “I should have known.”

“Yes, you should have, Mr. President. Lying under oath is a felony.”

Alden glared at her and tried to shift the blame. “So this is how divisive politics have become? Even when the people have spoken, you won’t stop until you find a reason to force the duly elected president of the United States out of office, even if you have to make the reasons up?”

“This has nothing to do with me, or politics. I voted for you. I
believed
in you. But you’re unworthy of your office.”

“I guess I made a mistake asking to have you assigned to my detail.”

Elise had had it with the man’s arrogance. “You politicians want to blame everyone but yourselves when you screw up. Your mistake wasn’t having me assigned to your detail. Your mistake was lying under oath. In fact, now you’ve got me talking like a politician. Lying under oath isn’t a mistake, it’s a reflection of a very deep character flaw. The office of president and the people of the United States deserve better. The Colemans and I will be expecting you to announce your resignation shortly. Good-bye, Mr. President.”

Elise left the president and exited the solarium. Max Holland was waiting for her outside. “How’d it go?”

“C’mon, Max,” said Elise. “You’re telling me you heard none of that?”

“Our job’s to protect the president, not to eavesdrop on his conversations.”

Campbell was silent.

“That said, sometimes you can’t help but hear things,” replied Holland. “You’re a good agent, Elise. Don’t quit the Service just because of him. We’ll get you reassigned. In fact, there’s a position open on the first lady’s detail.”

“Hutch resigned?”

Holland nodded. “Ten minutes ago.”

Removing her credentials, she handed them over to him. “Thanks, Max, but I’ve got other plans.”

Holland knew better than to argue with her. Reluctantly, he accepted her creds and slipped them into his pocket. “So what are you going to do?” Max asked. “Are you just going to give up on law enforcement?”

Elise smiled, “I think I’m going to become a detective.”

“You’re going back to the Virginia Beach PD?”

“No. I’ve been offered a job in East Hampton.”

K
ABUL
, A
FGHANISTAN

W
ith the convoy of Massoud’s soldiers taken care of, as well as those he had posted along the road, Harvath knew it was safe to call Daoud in to pick them up. As a courtesy, Flash 22 stayed on station until they were all safely back in Dagar.

Reshteen and his cousins mobilized the other men of their village. Arming themselves, they established a perimeter around Dagar just in case any stray Taliban happened to wander down from the mountain camp or travel over from Massoud’s village looking for revenge.

Out of appreciation, Harvath had allowed the Canadians to be credited with the success of the operation and the recovery of Julia Gallo. He neither needed nor wanted the publicity, but more than that, the Canadians had been integral to their success. Without them, things could have turned out very differently. They more than deserved the credit.

When Captain West and his team arrived, they helped reinforce the village and establish a secure LZ. Twenty minutes later, a UH 60 BlackHawk, accompanied by two AH-64 Apaches, landed to transport Julia Gallo to Bagram.

Once the helos had lifted off, Fontaine led Captain West and his team back to Massoud’s camp to gather as much intel as possible about the Taliban commander and his Russian counterpart. In the truck that Fayaz had loaned them earlier that night, Harvath and Daoud followed.

Most of the Taliban vehicles were still smoldering as the column made its way up the narrow mountain pass. Though it took some doing, the heavy LAVs were able to clear a wide enough path for everyone to make it up without having to permanently dismount.

Once they arrived, the Canadian forces swept the camp. Only one survivor was found; Mullah Massoud Akhund’s brother, Zwak.

Though Zwak had been untied, he had remained in the storage building beneath the protection of the IR strobe Harvath had thrown on the roof. Though the man had no idea that it had been there, it had saved his life.

Daoud spoke to him quietly and tried to calm him down, but Zwak kept asking for his brother, saying he wanted to go home. With Captain West’s blessing, Harvath and Daoud were granted permission to return the man to his village, providing Harvath didn’t tip them that it was their next stop. The Canadians planned on taking Massoud’s compound apart, as well as all of the other houses that the Taliban had been using. Harvath, of course, agreed.

Harvath and Daoud drove Zwak home and remanded him into the care of Baseer, who thanked Harvath for being a man of honor who kept his promises. He also gave his assurance that he would deal with young Usman personally.

Harvath and Daoud then drove to Bagram, on the outskirts of Jalalabad, and Gallagher’s Shangri-La guesthouse cum fortified compound. There, after arranging to get the truck back to Fayaz and his village, Harvath paid the intrepid interpreter and, though the man politely attempted to refuse, gave him a significant bonus. Daoud had more than earned it.

Harvath then took a long hot shower, poured a stiff drink, and popped a much overdue Motrin. He then slid into bed, closed his eyes, and didn’t wake up for twelve hours.

When he awoke, he checked the email account he was using for this assignment. Waiting for him was a two-word message from Stephanie Gallo. It read simply,
Thank You.

Out of sheer curiosity, he surfed over to his bank’s website and logged in. Mrs. Gallo had already deposited the balance of his fee. She was a woman of her word, and though he disagreed with much of her politics he had to give credit where credit was due. While he didn’t really care either way, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe her opinion of people like him and the other brave men and women in the world who risked all to protect the innocent and take the fight to the bad guys had maybe now changed.

Next he logged in to the personal account he used to communicate with Tracy and found six emails, all with photos of their dog, Bullet, attached. Harvath smiled as he read through them, but felt an odd sense of melancholy. He loved his dog, but a dog wasn’t the same as having children. There was no bond stronger than family, and he was ready to start one of his own. Considering how much money he’d just banked, Tracy couldn’t argue that kids were too expensive. And he wanted to have a ton of them.

His optimism returning, Harvath smiled and typed a quick reply to the last email she had sent.
Done having fun. Wish I was there. Be home soon.

Borrowing the Shangri-La’s other Land Cruiser, Harvath drove himself back to Kabul, alone. He slowed in Surobi and hoped to see the little old man who sold the Jackie Collins book standing outside his shop, but the store was closed. It was prayer time, and even in a village not “officially” controlled by the Taliban, repercussions for not strictly adhering to Islamic laws could be harsh.

Harvath did see, though, the same man with the same black Taliban turban he had seen the last time he had passed through Surobi. The man’s eyes were still filled with hate, and he threw Harvath the same blood-chilling stare.
Fuck diplomacy,
thought Harvath as he flipped the guy the finger.

He drove to the safe house in the Shahr-e Naw and called Flower from his cell phone to come outside and open the gates.

“Mr. Scot, I am not there,” he said. “My wife had the baby. A beautiful little girl.”

Harvath was glad to hear Flower so excited about having another girl. “Congratulations. I wish you and your family much health and happiness.”

Flower thanked him and said his cousin was at the house and he would call him and have him open the gates.

Less than a minute after they hung up, the gates opened. Harvath drove the Land Cruiser into the courtyard, parked, and entered the house.

The large plasma television was on in the living room. Hoyt was sitting on the couch with his back to him.

“I hope you bought enough beer, Mei. We’re going to have half of the NGO community here for this party tonight.”

Harvath was about to reply when Hoyt turned around, saw him, and said, “Or maybe not.”

“Nice try.”

Hoyt smiled. “Now that the job’s done you’re finally lightening up. Better late than never.”

“How’s Midland?”

“Fine.”

“And our guest?”

“Mustafa, Special K, Khan? Still a creepy pain in the ass, but on the right side of the grass, which is only because I like you so much. Now that Gallo’s safe, Mark wants to hang him from his ankles and beat him like a fucking piñata for what he did to his ear.”

“First things first,” said Harvath, who then glanced up at the TV. “What are you watching?”

Hoyt looked at the plasma and then back at Harvath. “What? You couldn’t get a fucking newspaper in Nangarhar? Alden just announced his resignation.”

“President Alden?” said Harvath as he stepped closer to the couch.

“Yup. Second-shortest presidency in U.S. history. William Henry Harrison is first. He served for only thirty-five days, and also coincidentally gave the longest inaugural address. Guess who gave the second-longest inaugural address?”

“Alden?”

Hoyt nodded. “Spooky, huh?”

“Why is he resigning?”

“Nobody knows. He made a brief statement and evaporated.”

“Well something must have happened. No one runs for office as hard as he did just to give it up,” replied Harvath, bringing his mind back to the work they still had to do. “We’ve gotta get Khan ready to roll.”

“Where are we taking him?”

“Bagram.”

Hoyt smiled. “Scot Harvath! Aren’t you thoughtful.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Next to cold beer, there’s nothing Baba G loves more than a piñata party.”

Harvath smiled. “That reminds me. I need you to pack a cooler.”