CHAPTER 22

Though Harvath had slept fitfully, he’d gotten a better night’s sleep than he had expected. He took a hot shower in his meat locker of a bathroom and shaved. After getting dressed, he walked across the courtyard to the dining room.

Opening the door, he bumped into Daniel Fontaine, who had just finished eating and was on his way to see a client. They were in the midst of exchanging greetings when Gallagher yelled, “In or out!” and demanded that the door be shut.

Harvath stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Hoyt and Gallagher were sitting at the table reading the Kabul Daily, which was a stack of pages they had printed off different news, sports, and entertainment websites and stapled together. Both men were wearing reading glasses.

Mei was scrambling eggs in the kitchen and the dining room smelled fantastic. Judging from the tray of fresh croissants on the table, Flower had already been out to the best bakery in Kabul. It was run by an Iranian whom Harvath, Gallagher, and Hoyt were convinced was a spy for Iran.

The bakery was a superb front, as it offered every kind of Westernstyle baked good, including pizza, as well as such other Western products as Gatorade, Doritos, and Hershey’s chocolate. Westerners based in Kabul flocked to the Iranian by the carload. Harvath could only imagine the kinds of relationships the man was building and the level of intel he was gathering from his unsuspecting customers.

Harvath poured himself a mug of coffee and sat down at the table. “I distinctly remember when I checked in,” he said to no one in particular, “requesting a morning paper.”

Gallagher didn’t bother looking up from his reading material. “It wasn’t outside your door this morning?”

“Nope,” replied Harvath as he took a sip of his coffee.

“Damn paperboy. If it’s not in the bushes, it’s up on the roof. Take Hoyt’s.”

Hoyt held up his middle finger in response and kept reading.

“You want an omelet?” asked Mei as she stuck her head out of the kitchen and pointed a spatula at Harvath.

“Yes, please.”

“He no eat omelet,” Hoyt shouted back at his wife, mimicking her Chinese accent. “He on Continental breakfast plan. One cup coffee. One Iranian bagel. One swift kick in ass out door.”

Mei swore at her husband in Chinese and vanished back into the kitchen.

“If that woman had any sense, she’d leave you,” said Harvath.

“If that woman had any sense,” clarified Gallagher, “she never would have married him in the first place.”

“I heard that,” said Mei as she reemerged from the kitchen carrying a heaping plate of food.

“You all in trouble now,” added Hoyt, continuing to mimic his wife’s accent.

As she passed him, she snatched the pages from his hand and delivered them, along with the food, to Harvath.

“Hey,” exclaimed Hoyt. “That’s my paper and my breakfast. I’ve been waiting longer than he has.”

“The kitchen is now closed,” stated Mei.

“What do you mean closed?”

Returning to where her husband was sitting, Mei bent down and grabbed one of his love handles. “I married an old man. Okay. But not a fat old man. Your new diet starts today.”

Hoyt lunged to kiss her, but Mei evaded his grasp and with a shriek ran back to the kitchen. “And stop making fun of my accent,” she admonished him. “Or you won’t get dinner either.”

“That’s okay,” replied Hoyt, “I’m getting sick of eating dog anyway.”

Hoyt’s remark was met with another string of invective in Chinese.

Harvath kept his eyes on his food, but couldn’t help laughing.

“You think that’s funny?” demanded Hoyt. “I’ll show you funny. The dining room is now closed. Hand over that breakfast, sailor.”

Harvath put down his fork, raised his shirt, and flashed his Glock, then went back to eating.

Hoyt swore and reached for another croissant just as Mei reappeared to clear the tray.

Gallagher slid his glasses atop his head and set his paper down. “What’s on the agenda for today?” he asked as he slid his coffee mug over to Hoyt and motioned for his partner to pour.

Hoyt leaned back and grabbed the pot. After he had poured for Gallagher, he held it up to inquire if Harvath wanted more. When Harvath nodded, Hoyt smiled and put it back, out of Harvath’s reach.

“I want to pay a visit to the CARE International Hospital,” said Harvath as he took his plate with him and walked over to the coffee pot to top off his mug.

“Are we doing recon on the Soviet base or background on Julia Gallo?”

“Both,” said Harvath as he sat back down. “How soon can we leave?”

Gallagher looked at his watch. “I’ve got a squash game in a half hour. Then there’s my Rotary Club meeting.”

“Don’t forget the Kabul Junior League luncheon,” added Hoyt.

“I almost did forget,” replied Gallagher as he ticked off his “appointments” on his fingers. “I’m sorry, but it looks like I’m booked solid all day.”

Harvath picked up his fork and, scooping up a large bite of omelet, replied, “I’ll see you out front in fifteen minutes.”

“So much for our bake sale.”

When Harvath exited the compound, he found Gallagher sitting in the Land Cruiser with his Jackie Collins book. About seven or eight wise-cracks raced through Harvath’s mind, but he kept them to himself and just shook his head as he hopped in the passenger seat and closed the door.

“Don’t start with me,” Gallagher warned.

Harvath shook his head again and reached over to turn up the heater. It seemed to be twice as cold today as yesterday.

Gallagher pulled to the end of the short street and then turned left onto the main road. When he turned the radio on to his Afghan Bollywood station, Harvath was ready for him. Removing a CD he’d burned on his laptop, he slid it into the player.

As “Apache” by the Sugarhill Gang began to play, Harvath settled back into his seat and smiled.

“What the hell are we listening to?” Gallagher demanded.

“Classic American funk music.”

“I want my radio back on.”

“You’ve been in-country too long. You’ve gone native.”

“I’m going to go medieval if you don’t turn that crap off,” he threatened.

“Sorry, brother,” replied Harvath. “This is an intervention. It’s for your own good. After we work on your musical taste, we’re going to cowboy you up in the reading department.”

Five songs and a litany of curses from Gallagher later, they arrived at the CARE hospital on Darulaman Road. It was fronted by blast barriers and an eight-foot-high stone wall that ran the length of the road.

Unauthorized vehicles were not allowed inside the main gate, so Harvath and Gallagher parked near the perimeter wall. They were given a cursory pat-down by a male guard, who failed to notice that both men were carrying pistols, and were waved inside. Harvath could only hope that the man’s sole job was to discourage suicide bombers. If it entailed anything else, CARE had some big problems on its hands.

The hospital was a narrow, whitewashed two-story building with single-story wings sprouting off it. The grounds were typical Third World-hard-packed brown earth with little to no vegetation. The only hint of color came from the occasional woman who decided to wear a blue burka rather than the ever-popular black. Cultural sensitivity be damned, it was a practice Harvath found demeaning to Muslim women. Walking around with a bag over your head was walking around with a bag over your head. It made no difference how apologists for Islam tried to bullshit it as liberating and empowering for women. No matter where he encountered them, they reminded him of aliens that had just climbed off a spaceship from some strange planet far, far away.

He and Gallagher walked up the drive to the main entrance and stepped inside. Though there were some women right behind them, Harvath knew the laws of polite Western society didn’t always translate well in Muslim nations.