more than they do. I’ve got a guy in the Afghan National Police who has a couple of cousins in Afghan intelligence. I’ve fed him some information in the past. Nothing stellar, pretty low-hanging fruit, but it made him look good at work and so we’ve got a happy relationship. We’re meeting him this afternoon. Insha’Allah , he’ll have something worthwhile for us.”
Harvath laughed at Baba G’s use of the popular Muslim phrase for Allah willing . “You haven’t gone native on me, have you?”
“When in Rome,” answered Gallagher, applying his turn signal as they approached a narrow, dead-end street. Three-quarters of the way down on the left-hand side was Baba G’s Kabul compound. His company owned, or more appropriately “managed,” another in Jalalabad, which was where Gallagher was normally based.
As in all the other compounds in Afghanistan, there were no windows facing the street. The main entrance consisted of a pair of thick, nine-foot-high steel doors, painted green, with a normal-sized door cut into the steel to make it easier for people to come and go.
Gallagher pulled a U-turn, brought his truck to a stop outside the gates, and turned off the ignition. “Welcome to the Plaza,” he said as he opened his door and hopped out.
Harvath picked up the cooler bag, met him at the rear of the Land Cruiser, and grabbed his suitcases. Gallagher walked up to the door and rang the buzzer. Moments later, it was opened by Gallagher’s business partner, Tom Hoyt.
Hoyt was a chain smoker from Miami who stood about five-foot-eight and had a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. He was in his early fifties, spoke fluent Arabic, and could have passed for the brother of movie actor Robert Mitchum.
As ex–U.S. Army intelligence, Hoyt was the logistical mind behind the company he and Gallagher had named International Security Solutions, or ISS.
“Hey! The circus must be in town,” said Hoyt as he looked past Gallagher and saw Harvath standing in the street. “There’s a SEAL outside.”
“Neek hallack,” Harvath replied in Arabic, suggesting his friend go perform an anatomically impossible act.
“Wow. And he’s got quite a mouth on him too.”
Once they were inside, Hoyt bolted the door and gave Harvath a slap on the back. “It’s good to see you again. Have you gained weight? You SEALs just go right to shit the minute the Navy kicks you loose.”
Harvath smiled. Hoyt loved to play up interservice rivalries, and so did Gallagher. Both could be merciless—especially when they were drinking.
Harvath tapped Hoyt’s burgeoning midsection and said, “Married life seems to agree with you, doesn’t it?”
Tom threw his hand up in the air and almost lost his cigarette. “I bought her a color TV and a satellite dish, but all she still wants is sex, sex, sex. I’m a man. Not an animal, for Chrissake.”
Hoyt was referring to his younger and much more attractive wife, Mei. She was a Chinese national who had come to Kabul to start a restaurant to serve its growing Chinese population, many of whom worked in the “massage industry.”
It had been love at first sight for Hoyt, and he had almost bankrupted himself eating every meal in Mei’s restaurant. She was twenty-five years his junior and made him feel like he was eighteen years old again. In addition to being incredibly sexy, she was smart as hell—smarter than Hoyt, which was something he hadn’t come across that often in life. More important, she understood him and even appreciated his off-color sense of humor.
Within six months Mei had sold her restaurant and had moved into the compound with Hoyt. She was in charge of day-to-day operations and did all of the cooking—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Harvath had visited the compound on two different trips to Afghanistan, and no matter where they went out to eat, the food was never as good as Mei’s.
“Speaking of which,” said Harvath. “Where’s your better half?”
“The Dragon
Harvath laughed at Baba G’s use of the popular Muslim phrase for Allah willing . “You haven’t gone native on me, have you?”
“When in Rome,” answered Gallagher, applying his turn signal as they approached a narrow, dead-end street. Three-quarters of the way down on the left-hand side was Baba G’s Kabul compound. His company owned, or more appropriately “managed,” another in Jalalabad, which was where Gallagher was normally based.
As in all the other compounds in Afghanistan, there were no windows facing the street. The main entrance consisted of a pair of thick, nine-foot-high steel doors, painted green, with a normal-sized door cut into the steel to make it easier for people to come and go.
Gallagher pulled a U-turn, brought his truck to a stop outside the gates, and turned off the ignition. “Welcome to the Plaza,” he said as he opened his door and hopped out.
Harvath picked up the cooler bag, met him at the rear of the Land Cruiser, and grabbed his suitcases. Gallagher walked up to the door and rang the buzzer. Moments later, it was opened by Gallagher’s business partner, Tom Hoyt.
Hoyt was a chain smoker from Miami who stood about five-foot-eight and had a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. He was in his early fifties, spoke fluent Arabic, and could have passed for the brother of movie actor Robert Mitchum.
As ex–U.S. Army intelligence, Hoyt was the logistical mind behind the company he and Gallagher had named International Security Solutions, or ISS.
“Hey! The circus must be in town,” said Hoyt as he looked past Gallagher and saw Harvath standing in the street. “There’s a SEAL outside.”
“Neek hallack,” Harvath replied in Arabic, suggesting his friend go perform an anatomically impossible act.
“Wow. And he’s got quite a mouth on him too.”
Once they were inside, Hoyt bolted the door and gave Harvath a slap on the back. “It’s good to see you again. Have you gained weight? You SEALs just go right to shit the minute the Navy kicks you loose.”
Harvath smiled. Hoyt loved to play up interservice rivalries, and so did Gallagher. Both could be merciless—especially when they were drinking.
Harvath tapped Hoyt’s burgeoning midsection and said, “Married life seems to agree with you, doesn’t it?”
Tom threw his hand up in the air and almost lost his cigarette. “I bought her a color TV and a satellite dish, but all she still wants is sex, sex, sex. I’m a man. Not an animal, for Chrissake.”
Hoyt was referring to his younger and much more attractive wife, Mei. She was a Chinese national who had come to Kabul to start a restaurant to serve its growing Chinese population, many of whom worked in the “massage industry.”
It had been love at first sight for Hoyt, and he had almost bankrupted himself eating every meal in Mei’s restaurant. She was twenty-five years his junior and made him feel like he was eighteen years old again. In addition to being incredibly sexy, she was smart as hell—smarter than Hoyt, which was something he hadn’t come across that often in life. More important, she understood him and even appreciated his off-color sense of humor.
Within six months Mei had sold her restaurant and had moved into the compound with Hoyt. She was in charge of day-to-day operations and did all of the cooking—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Harvath had visited the compound on two different trips to Afghanistan, and no matter where they went out to eat, the food was never as good as Mei’s.
“Speaking of which,” said Harvath. “Where’s your better half?”
“The Dragon
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