Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 62

I will speak with him,” said Yusuf. “Okay? No one else. It is better if it is just me.”

Harvath understood. Thoman and Mathan agreed. As Yusuf exited the vehicle to go talk to the old farmer, the twins got out to stretch their legs.

Harvath would have liked to as well, but for their purposes he was a woman. That meant he was relegated to second-class-citizen status. He remained behind in the truck.

It was quiet, even peaceful, here near the Euphrates. Date palms and fig trees hung heavy with fruit. The air was sweet.

The Hadids held their phones up in the air attempting to get a signal while Yusuf spoke to the farmer.

Harvath kept alert, his eyes sweeping back and forth beneath the burka, watching for trouble.

As they drove, he had tracked their position on his phone. He made mental notes of where they were. Damascus was nearly five hundred kilometers behind them. Irbil, via Mosul, was five hundred kilometers northeast. Baghdad was five hundred and sixty kilometers southeast.

They were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded on all sides by ISIS. There was no cavalry just over the hill, ready to ride to their rescue. All they had was a single drone, high and out of sight.

After five minutes of talking, Yusuf returned to the truck. “We have been invited to tea.”

“All of us?” Harvath asked.

“Yes. You can trust Qabbani.”

Thoman opened the door for him, Harvath stepped out, and they all walked to the small stone house.

The first thing Harvath noticed were how low the ceilings were. The next thing he noticed were all the books. The man had stacks and stacks of them.

There were carpets on the floor and pillows against the wall. The farmer invited his guests to sit down.

Retreating to an adjacent room that must have been the kitchen, he returned several moments later with a large tray. On it was a plate of dates, a plate of figs, and tea. He set it down in the middle of the floor and took a seat.

His face was gaunt and deeply tanned; his eyes sunken. He looked very poorly nourished.

Smiling, the man looked at Harvath and said in English, “It is safe here. You may remove the burka.”

Harvath thanked him and pulled it off. He had no idea how Muslim women could spend all day inside those things.

Folding the garment, he set it on the carpet next to him and accepted a cup of tea.

“How long has it been?” Yusuf asked his old university friend.

“More years than I can remember.”

Qabbani’s English was good. Out of respect for his guest, he refrained from Arabic unless he needed to ask for a particular word.

After a few minutes of polite catching up, they got to the heart of why Yusuf was there.

“The roads are dangerous,” Qabbani stated. “There are checkpoints and patrols. It is not safe for you to go to Ar Raqqah.”

“We’re not traveling to Raqqa,” Harvath said, removing a map. Laying it out on the floor, he pointed to a town halfway there. “This is where we need to go.”

The farmer clucked his tongue against his teeth. “Not safe.”

“But is it possible?” Yusuf asked.

The man thought about it. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“There are rumors about this town. Bad things happen there. People go and do not come back. Not ever.”

Harvath wasn’t surprised. “Are you familiar with it?”

Qabbani nodded.

“Can you help us get there?”

“No.”

“Pardon me?”

“They will kill my family if I help you. I cannot risk this.”

“Is there something you need? Something I could offer you to secure your assistance?” Harvath asked.

Qabbani smiled sadly. “Can you bring peace?”

“No,” he replied. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Then I am afraid there is nothing to discuss.”

Harvath took a sip of tea and then, setting the glass down, said, “How many people are in your immediate family?”

“Why do you ask?”

“How many?” Harvath repeated.

“Five. I have one wife and four children.”

“How old are your children?”

“My two boys are twelve and fourteen. My girls are eight and eleven. Why are you asking this?”

Harvath looked at him. “I cannot bring your country peace. But what if I could bring safety to you and your family?”

He definitely had the man’s attention. Leaning forward, Qabbani said, “Tell me how.”