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 pinata 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 pinata party.”
Harvath smiled. “That reminds me. I need you to pack a cooler.”
CHAPTER 63
BAGRAM AIR BASE, AFGHANISTAN
“If this guy’s not at the gate,” said Harvath into his cell phone, “I’m gonna cut Khan loose.”
Seven thousand miles away in Langley, Virginia, CIA operative Aydin Ozbek tried to put his friend at ease. “My guy is already there waiting for you. Don’t worry.”
Hoyt motioned to the cooler on the backseat.
“And nobody searches the car either,” added Harvath.
“For fuck’s sake, Scot. You’re driving onto an American military base in the middle of a war zone. If they want to search your car, they get to search your fucking car.”
“You know what, Oz? You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. We’re going to turn around and hand Khan over to the Afghans.”
“All right, all right. No inspection. I’ll let them know. Now, are there any last-minute bites at the apple I need to bend over for?” asked Ozbek.
“Let me think a minute,” said Harvath. “Considering how I’m giving you, and by you I mean the Agency, one of the highest-ranking al-Qaeda operatives since Khalid Sheik Mohammed-”
“Whom, I believe, you stole from the Afghan government,” Ozbek clarified.
“Hey, if you don’t want him.”
“Scot, you know we want him. We also know that the Afghans didn’t really catch him, so we consider him fair game.”
“Okay,” said Harvath. “What happens after you’re done with him?”
“When we’ve wrung him out like a damp dishcloth? We’ll arrange for the Afghans to recapture him.”
“That’s good enough for me. That plus a month’s worth of drinks at a bar of my choosing in the D.C. area.”
