Harvath and Ozbek were similar in many ways, in particular the love they held for their country and the animosity they possessed toward its enemies, especially Islamic fundamentalists.
Even if Harvath hadn’t saved Ozbek’s job, the two would have been good friends. The job-saving part of the relationship did, however, mean that Harvath had a lot of bonus points on his side of the board.
“There’s a bit of a delay on the line,” said Ozbek. “Where are you?”
“Kabul,” replied Harvath. “How’d you get out of your sensitivity training so fast?”
“I told my supervisor you were a North Korean arms source I was developing and that I needed to take your call. You should have seen the look on the guy’s face.”
“Knowing you, his BS detector was probably pegging into the red.”
“On the contrary,” said Ozbek. “I could hear the gears grinding away in his mind as he tried to figure out how to work it into his next report and take credit for it. So what are you doing in Kabul, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“I’m looking for something.”
“Something or someone?”
“Both,” said Harvath, “but I need the something before I can get my hands on the someone.”
Ozbek understood Harvath’s need to watch what he said over the phone and didn’t press him any further. “How can I help?”
“How deep is the talent on your Afghan desk?”
“Pretty deep.”
“Any people there from the Soviet days?” asked Harvath.
Ozbek thought about it a moment. “I think they’ve hired one or two of the retired guys back as private contractors.”
“Can you get to a computer in the next few minutes?”
“I’m going to miss out on the trust fall, but if I have to, I have to.”
“I’ll drop something in the box,” said Harvath.
“Roger that. How soon to do you need a reply?”
“ASAP.”
“All right,” said Ozbek. “I’m on it.”
Harvath thanked him and disconnected the call. He then opened the web-based email account he and Oz used to communicate and left a note for him in the draft folder.
What he wanted to know was what kind of intel the CIA had developed on the old Soviet military base where Mustafa Khan was being held, as well as the hospital across the road. Hopefully the CIA had turned the Soviet embassy inside out as the last of the Russians were rolling out of Kabul and maybe, just maybe, they had come up with something that he could use.
The next thing Harvath had to do was prepare a report for Stephanie Gallo. She had no background in intelligence or national security and Harvath had to assume that no matter how badly she wanted her daughter back, any correspondence he exchanged with her could end up being compromised.
Before leaving, he had explained that his communications would be purposefully vague and that there would be periods when he would not be able to send her any reports at all. He wasn’t in Afghanistan to trade emails with her, he was there to rescue her daughter.
Harvath knew, though, that despite her tough exterior, Stephanie Gallo was still a mother, and like any parent, she was undoubtedly agonizing over her daughter’s situation. When Harvath thought of Stephanie Gallo, it was her role as parent that he tried to picture.
Drawing from the code words they had developed, he dashed off a quick message.
Have arrived. Rug dealer has moved. Working on new location. Will be in touch when I know more.
He debated adding an assurance that he felt good about the prospects of getting Gallo’s daughter back alive, but he decided against it. He hadn’t been hired to hold her hand. He had been hired to get results. In the end, that’s all anyone would care about.
Logging out of that email account, Harvath switched over to gmail and found a message waiting from Tracy. In it was a picture she had taken of Bullet lying by the front door of the cottage.
Who needs a deadbolt? Hope you had a good flight. Stay safe. See you when you get back.
Harvath smiled. Tracy was a wonderful woman. He sent her a reply, logged out of the account, and opened Google Earth to see what kind of open-source imagery was available for their target locations.
The imagery was somewhere between one to three years old yet fairly detailed. All the same, Harvath wasn’t happy with what it showed him. At least three of the buildings, and possibly more, had brand-new roofs and displayed other signs of having been upgraded. It was very possible that the base was being used as more than just the Afghan president’s private detention complex.
Before they did anything, they were going to need to get a look at those facilities. And the closer, the better.
CHAPTER 16
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Thirty-two-year-old Elise Campbell lived in a tiny apartment on Massachusetts Avenue between Sixth and Seventh. It was a “junior” one-bedroom with an efficiency kitchen, a narrow bathroom, and a living/sleeping space separated by a sleek divider that only went three-quarters of the way to the ceiling.
Lining the walls were black and white reprints of famous French photographs. Stainless-steel shelving held an assortment of hip periodicals, as well as a commemorative coffee-table book about the New York Yankees, and a small entertainment center housed a flatscreen TV, a DVD player, and an iPod docking station.
All told, the apartment looked more like a trendy hotel suite than a space someone actually called home. It was obvious that Elise Campbell didn’t spend much time there. The only personal touch was a collection of framed photos of friends and family along the windowsill.
She had grown up in the eastern portion of the Commonwealth of Virginia often referred to as the Tidewater region. Her father had been a Virginia Beach police officer and had risen through the ranks to become a detective, as had his father, and his grandfather. Even Elise’s great-great grandfather had been a law enforcement officer in the Tidewater area. She was the fifth generation of Campbells to continue the tradition, which was significant not only because she was the first Campbell woman to join the VBPD, but because both of her brothers had chosen careers in the corporate world. One had become a banker and the other a stockbroker.
Many believed Elise had followed the distinguished Campbell tradition to please her father and grandfather, but the answer was more simple than that. For Elise, as it had been for the Campbells who had come before her, law enforcement was a calling. She believed in justice and fair play. She believed in protecting those who were too weak to protect themselves, and she also knew that no matter how hard the police worked, they would never rid the world completely of evil. There would always be a need for cops because evil would always need to be kept at bay.
Elise also believed that she would touch more lives, and affect them for the better, than either of her brothers would in their chosen fields. She didn’t see that as a knock on them and what they had chosen to do. Their careers were their callings and she respected them for having the guts to break with what the family had expected them to do.
Though she would never make the kind of money her brothers did, her compensation wasn’t measured by a paycheck. It was measured by the sense of satisfaction and fulfillment she got from performing her job well and from the distinguished men and women she served alongside.
Her decision to switch to the Secret Service hadn’t been easy, but it was one of the smartest career moves she had ever made. While she loved her colleagues and her job with the Virginia Beach PD, she never felt she’d make a good detective like the Campbells before her, and the pressure from her father and grandfather to follow their career track was just too intense.
Though she didn’t see herself as a detective and wanted to get away from the pressure from Dad and “Pop” to be one, she also didn’t want to entirely give up a career in law enforcement. Simply put, she loved being a cop.
