Apostle by Brad Thor Page B

his forehead in loose black curls. The sides, like his jet-black beard, were neatly trimmed.
    He motioned for Harvath and Gallagher to join him and they each picked a cushion and sat down.
    Rashid articulated instructions to the waiter and once he was gone, he and Gallagher engaged in the customary Afghan preamble regarding each other’s health, families, and various local goings-on.
    When the waiter returned, he rolled a green plastic mat out along the floor and upon it set glasses, a pot of tea, and dishes filled with several things to eat. The police inspector poured the steaming hot green tea known as chai sabz for each of them. It had been seasoned with cardamom, and the scent quickly filled the air. Despite the heater and having three bodies in the small room, it was still so cold you could almost see your breath.
    Rashid explained to Harvath what all the dishes were and encouraged him to help himself. Harvath hadn’t eaten since his arrival and hadn’t realized how hungry he had been. He tore off a large piece of freshly baked Afghan bread known as nan and then served himself some rice. He added a few chunks of cooked lamb and then covered everything with yogurt sauce. In order to protect his stomach, he avoided the salad and took a serving of fried vegetables, known as borani.
    Harvath had always enjoyed the cuisine in Afghanistan and laughed at Westerners who arrived expecting to lose weight only to return home having added several pounds.
    There was a dish of sugar cubes on the mat, and Rashid, who like most Afghans had a sweet tooth, picked up three and dropped them into his short glass of tea.
    Soon, he and Gallagher began talking shop.
    “The city is surrounded by the Taliban,” said Rashid. “All four highways, even the road to the Shomali plains, are now under their control.”
    “I heard fuel truck drivers are being offered ten thousand dollars to make the run down to Kandahar,” replied Gallagher.
    The inspector nodded and dropped another sugar cube into his tea. “It’s an 800 percent increase over what Afghans are paid for carrying anything else. The only problem is that the Taliban forbade transporting fuel to foreign troops.”
    Gallagher looked at Harvath and said, “A contractor asked one of Flower’s brothers if he wanted to make the run, and the man wisely declined. But another man from their village agreed. The Taliban stopped him on the road and chopped his head off.”
    Harvath grimaced in disgust.
    “Commercial aircraft can no longer refuel at the airport in Kandahar and most military bases are being forced to ration, even the Americans,” said Rashid. “The greater problem, though, is that the Taliban once again control most of Afghanistan. As they did in their rise to power in the 1990s, they’re promoting themselves as the best and most reliable force for stability throughout the country.”
    “Which is only bolstered by the fact that the Afghan government cannot project any power outside of Kabul,” added Gallagher.
    Rashid looked at Harvath. “Your country has invested significantly in us, but unfortunately the U.S. does not have much to show for it. I’m afraid we are all losing ground.”
    Harvath didn’t disagree. The situation in Afghanistan was deteriorating daily. The mujahideen had defeated the Soviets, and while Harvath still held out hope, he had to admit that if the United States did not drastically change its strategy, there was a very good chance that the Taliban, along with al-Qaeda, were going to be the winners. An outcome like that would be devastating not only for Afghanistan, but for America and the rest of the world. It was an all too real possibility that Harvath didn’t like thinking about.
    He nodded as Rashid continued. “I know many Afghans who will not go back to life under the Taliban again. These people are beginning to plan their exit strategies.”
    “The United States will turn things around,” stated Harvath.
    The inspector smiled.