CHAPTER 38
As the men made their way into the dusty village, it was like walking into a ghost town. Every house and compound was shuttered and not a single soul roamed the streets, not even children. Any soldier worth his salt knew that kids were a combat indicator. When they disappeared it meant that something very bad was about to happen.
Nevertheless, Harvath ignored the hair standing on end on the back of his neck and kept going. He also ignored the pain from the hidden MP5 banging against his bruised back. “Everybody stay sharp,” he said.
All three made mental notes of the buildings they passed. Finally, they came to the structure where the shura was meeting. Just as Daoud had said, laid out in front were three bodies covered with sheets.
Harvath and Gallagher approached to examine them while Fontaine kept his eyes peeled for trouble.
“This one looks like a broken neck,” said Gallagher as he inspected one of the corpses. “How about the other two?”
Harvath looked under the first sheet and then the second. “Bullet wounds to the foreheads. Very clean.”
“And also very professional. That’s not the way Afghans normally handle their problems.”
“So who shot them?”
“No idea,” said Gallagher as Harvath set the sheet down and the two men straightened up.
Motioning toward the door of the structure, Harvath said, “Let’s see if we can get some answers inside.”
None of them were prepared for what they discovered. Crammed inside were at least fifty heavily armed men from the village. They all eyed Harvath and his tall, well-built compatriots warily. Harvath, Gallagher, and Fontaine all placed their hands over their hearts, bowed ever so slightly, and wished the men peace. A handful of men returned the gesture; most of them did not.
Daoud stepped forward and introduced himself. He was a short man in his late thirties dressed in traditional Afghan clothing, with a neatly trimmed beard and a checked kaffiyeh hung loosely around his neck.
After Harvath and his team had removed their boots, the interpreter led them into an inner room where the shura was waiting. As they were introduced, the men repeated the customary greeting to the elders of the village, who politely greeted them back.
The interpreter invited the men to sit down upon the floor, which they did. Harvath noticed very quickly that the shura had no intention of serving tea.
“Tell the shura,” Harvath said to Daoud, “that we have come for the American woman.”
The interpreter was confused, but based on the stern faces and powerful physiques of the three men, surmised they probably weren’t NGO workers here to conduct a project assessment. “I don’t think I understand—” he began.
Harvath held up his hand. “They’ll know what we’re talking about. Tell them.”
Daoud turned to the shura and repeated what Harvath had said. He waited for their response and then translated. “They say they don’t know anything about an American woman.”
“Ask them why they have three bodies outside.”
The interpreter posed the question, and while the elders exchanged hushed remarks among themselves he tried to ask Harvath a question of his own, but Harvath silenced him. He was intent on studying the old men’s faces and listening to the cadence of their voices. It was obvious they were very upset about something.
After extensive deliberation, the chief elder, a man named Fayaz, spoke and Daoud translated. “They say it is a private matter.”
“Private?” repeated Harvath. “Please inform the shura that with their village surrounded, they no longer have privacy. In fact, if they don’t turn over the woman immediately, I’m going to call in an airstrike.”
The interpreter delivered Harvath’s ultimatum and then asked a question on behalf of the elders. “The shura wants to know if this means there isn’t going to be a clean water project for their village.”
Are these people trying to horse trade with us? Harvath wondered to himself. It didn’t make any sense. Not only had he just threatened them with an airstrike, but their village was surrounded. Soldiers were poised to come kick in every door, flip over every bed, and turn every one of their buildings inside out. What could they possibly have to bargain with?
“Tell them,” said Harvath, “that I didn’t come here to negotiate. I want the woman, now.”
Harvath waited for the interpreter to respond. When he did, his face reflected considerable shock. “The woman is not here,” he said.
So these f*ckers did know where Gallo was. It was all Harvath could do not to string the village elder up by his ankles and beat the shit out of him. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“First,” Daoud translated, “we must reach terms.”
Harvath was stunned by the audacity of these people. No matter how weak their hand, the Afghans never missed an opportunity to haggle. Harvath removed his radio so they could see he was serious about calling in a strike. “I’m giving you sixty more seconds and then I’m going to have your village turned into one big grease spot.”
As the interpreter relayed the message to the shura, the elders began yelling “Na! Na!” No, No, together in Pashtu.
Daoud looked at Harvath and said, “They say they are not the ones who kidnapped the American woman.”
“Tell them I don’t believe them.”
The interpreter relayed the statement and the shura broke into a barrage of heated crosstalk. After a moment, Fayaz, the chief elder, spoke and Daoud translated. “The shura says that their village is the victim here. The bodies of the men you see outside, they were killed by the man who took the American woman.”
Harvath still didn’t believe them. “Why are so many of your men armed right now? Obviously, you have been expecting trouble. Why shouldn’t I believe it was because this village was involved with Doctor Gallo’s kidnapping?”
When Daoud passed on Harvath’s remarks, the elders erupted in another chorus of “Na! Na!” and the chief of the shura locked eyes with Harvath and began speaking as the interpreter translated. “We did not kidnap the American woman.”
“Then who did?” demanded Harvath.
“Mullah Massoud Akhund. A local Taliban commander.”
“And Massoud killed the men outside?”
“Na, na,” said Fayaz. No.
“His Russian did,” explained the interpreter.
“What Russian?” asked Harvath.
Daoud listened to the shura and then said, “Massoud’s men call the Russian Bakht Rawan.”
“How do you know it was this Russian who killed the men?”
“He was seen by the son of one of the men.”
“And where is he now?”
The interpreter conveyed Harvath’s question to the shura, and the chief elder yelled toward the door. It opened and one of the armed villagers stuck his head inside.
Harvath didn’t understand the entirety of the order Fayaz delivered, but he caught part of it and that was all he needed to hear. The elder had told the villager to fetch the young man they had been looking for, Asadoulah Badar.