Red Bull out of the cooler bag and then took it, along with his pack, down to Hoyt’s room.
He knocked on the glass and when he heard Tom’s grunt he opened the door and stepped inside. The room reeked of cigarette smoke. Hoyt had one going in the ashtray at his desk next to his computer and another in his hand. “Everything okay with your room?” he asked. “I upgraded you to the one with the biggest bathroom mirror we have. I know how you SEALs are about looking at yourselves.”
“Very funny,” replied Harvath. “You know, as a returning guest I would have appreciated an ocean view or at least the club floor.”
“Pay off your bar bill and I’ll talk to my manager. Speaking of which,” said Hoyt as he leaned over and flipped open the door of a small refrigerator next to his desk. “How about a beer?”
Harvath held up his hand. “Maybe later. Greg and I have to meet an Afghan contact of his for tea. I don’t want to smell like a brewery.”
“Probably a good idea.” Hoyt flipped the fridge shut.
“I came to see you about a safety deposit box.”
“What do you need to store?”
Harvath held up his pack.
“Close the door,” said Hoyt.
Even though Harvath disliked being trapped inside the room with all that smoke and no fresh air, he did as he was told.
Hoyt stood up, placed his cigarette in his mouth, and crossed to a small closet. When he opened the door, it was obvious that most of the clothing belonged to Mei. “The lion, the bitch, and her wardrobe,” he muttered through the cigarette as he removed everything.
Next, he took down the rod and pulled out the shelves. Then, he pried a panel off the back of the closet and revealed a Cannon-brand gun safe that had been set into the concrete wall.
“Where’d you get that?” Harvath asked.
“Mei had it at the restaurant.”
“Where’d she get it?”
“I’ve got no idea. Knowing Mei, she probably stole it,” replied Hoyt as he punched in his code.
Harvath doubted that and was about to say as much when Hoyt swung open the safe’s door. Inside was a rather thin weapons cache, especially for men who were supposed to be in the private security business. All Harvath saw was a single AK-47, a pistol-grip Mossberg twelve-gauge shotgun, another Glock 19, and a few boxes of ammunition.
“What happened to all of your gear?” asked Harvath.
“Ever since one of the sons of Afghanistan’s illustrious president got into the private security business, owning weapons has become very expensive.”
“But you guys had a ton of stuff.”
“Still do. We just don’t keep it here.”
Harvath looked at him. “Why? Have they outlawed them?”
“All but,” said Hoyt. “You’re supposed to pay per man, per gun, and per contract that your company is working under. It’s a big pain in the ass. The Afghan bureaucrats not only get rich off the bribes, they still paperwork us to death. I go through the trouble of keeping a few of our weps on the up and up, but as far as the rest are concerned, the Afghans can go fuck themselves.”
“So as long as your papers and payments are up to date,” said Harvath, “you can have whatever you want?”
“It’s complicated. If you cross all your t’s and if you dot all your i’s you can legally carry a pistol and a long gun. That said, contractors in Kabul still get stopped on a regular basis and have their perfectly registered weapons confiscated. The Afghans do it to Afghan contractors as well as ex-pats. It’s totally fucked up.
“Now, if you get caught with a crew-serve weapon like a PKM, you’re going straight to the big house. Same for grenades and RPGs. Plus P and hollow point ammo are also big no-nos. Even so, everybody’s got that stuff, especially if they plan on traveling outside Kabul. Let’s face it, this isn’t the Caymans, it’s Afghanistan.”
“True.”
“Basically, the number-one rule Greg and I have is to just keep everything below the window line and out of
He knocked on the glass and when he heard Tom’s grunt he opened the door and stepped inside. The room reeked of cigarette smoke. Hoyt had one going in the ashtray at his desk next to his computer and another in his hand. “Everything okay with your room?” he asked. “I upgraded you to the one with the biggest bathroom mirror we have. I know how you SEALs are about looking at yourselves.”
“Very funny,” replied Harvath. “You know, as a returning guest I would have appreciated an ocean view or at least the club floor.”
“Pay off your bar bill and I’ll talk to my manager. Speaking of which,” said Hoyt as he leaned over and flipped open the door of a small refrigerator next to his desk. “How about a beer?”
Harvath held up his hand. “Maybe later. Greg and I have to meet an Afghan contact of his for tea. I don’t want to smell like a brewery.”
“Probably a good idea.” Hoyt flipped the fridge shut.
“I came to see you about a safety deposit box.”
“What do you need to store?”
Harvath held up his pack.
“Close the door,” said Hoyt.
Even though Harvath disliked being trapped inside the room with all that smoke and no fresh air, he did as he was told.
Hoyt stood up, placed his cigarette in his mouth, and crossed to a small closet. When he opened the door, it was obvious that most of the clothing belonged to Mei. “The lion, the bitch, and her wardrobe,” he muttered through the cigarette as he removed everything.
Next, he took down the rod and pulled out the shelves. Then, he pried a panel off the back of the closet and revealed a Cannon-brand gun safe that had been set into the concrete wall.
“Where’d you get that?” Harvath asked.
“Mei had it at the restaurant.”
“Where’d she get it?”
“I’ve got no idea. Knowing Mei, she probably stole it,” replied Hoyt as he punched in his code.
Harvath doubted that and was about to say as much when Hoyt swung open the safe’s door. Inside was a rather thin weapons cache, especially for men who were supposed to be in the private security business. All Harvath saw was a single AK-47, a pistol-grip Mossberg twelve-gauge shotgun, another Glock 19, and a few boxes of ammunition.
“What happened to all of your gear?” asked Harvath.
“Ever since one of the sons of Afghanistan’s illustrious president got into the private security business, owning weapons has become very expensive.”
“But you guys had a ton of stuff.”
“Still do. We just don’t keep it here.”
Harvath looked at him. “Why? Have they outlawed them?”
“All but,” said Hoyt. “You’re supposed to pay per man, per gun, and per contract that your company is working under. It’s a big pain in the ass. The Afghan bureaucrats not only get rich off the bribes, they still paperwork us to death. I go through the trouble of keeping a few of our weps on the up and up, but as far as the rest are concerned, the Afghans can go fuck themselves.”
“So as long as your papers and payments are up to date,” said Harvath, “you can have whatever you want?”
“It’s complicated. If you cross all your t’s and if you dot all your i’s you can legally carry a pistol and a long gun. That said, contractors in Kabul still get stopped on a regular basis and have their perfectly registered weapons confiscated. The Afghans do it to Afghan contractors as well as ex-pats. It’s totally fucked up.
“Now, if you get caught with a crew-serve weapon like a PKM, you’re going straight to the big house. Same for grenades and RPGs. Plus P and hollow point ammo are also big no-nos. Even so, everybody’s got that stuff, especially if they plan on traveling outside Kabul. Let’s face it, this isn’t the Caymans, it’s Afghanistan.”
“True.”
“Basically, the number-one rule Greg and I have is to just keep everything below the window line and out of
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