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 connected to the base by underground tunnels. The hospital was one of the closest buildings to the base. If they were going to build an escape tunnel that would have been one of the easiest places to do it.”
Harvath turned to Rashid. “Do you know anything about these tunnels?”
“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 tunnel between the hospital and the base, he’ll know about it.”
“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 connected with the Internet, Harvath took a long slug of water, glanced at his watch, and did the math. It was nearing 5:00 P.M. in Kabul, which meant it was almost 8:30 A.M. back in D.C. He forced the jet lag from his mind and focused on the work he needed to get done.
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.”
Only CIA, thought Harvath, would waste time and money putting its paramilitary operatives through sensitivity training. If it wasn’t so sad, it might actually have been funny. “My tax dollars at work.”
“Look at it this way,” the voice stated. “When I eventually kill bin Laden, I’ll be able to do it while embracing all of the differences between our cultures that make us both unique and special.”
“Not if I get to him first.”
This time, it was Aydin Ozbek’s turn to laugh. Harvath’s CIA contact was a part of the Agency’s Special Activities Division, which was responsible for counterterrorism activities. He and Harvath had gotten to know each other the previous summer when cases they were working on intersected.
Harvath had a lot of respect for Ozbek, who refused to let the CIA tie him up in bureaucratic knots. If management wouldn’t cooperate, the man wasn’t afraid to do what needed to be done, even if it meant coloring outside the lines. Ozbek represented not only what was right about CIA, but what direction it needed to take to go from being a Cold War era relic that many referred to as the “Failure Factory” to a modern terrorism-fighting machine.
It went without saying that Ozbek’s style didn’t exactly endear him to his superiors. The only reason he still had a job at the CIA after breaking multiple laws in pursuit of a nest of Islamic radicals operating on American soil last summer was that Harvath had asked the president to intervene on his behalf. Now that the CIA had a bean counter with no intelligence experience in charge and a president in the Oval Office who knew even less about the intel community, Ozbek needed to tread carefully.
