Betrayed Read online

  “Should I begin to suspect that maybe your passion against Sharif Mahoud is not as strong as it should be? Perhaps our collaboration is not such a good idea after all.”

  “That is not—”

  Hartman raised a hand to silence Dane.

  “Please, Ali, you must not take what I said as praise for Mahoud. I’m merely attempting to explain that the man has great standing among his supporters. Not me. Or you. Or the people behind both of us. Our joint aim is to find and eliminate Sharif Mahoud. Be in no doubt as to that. But to help us in our search we have to look at the man as others see him.

  “Mahoud has a gift. One we must never overlook. That gift is his ability to communicate. To be able to sit down with men from opposing cultures and religions. To talk with politicians of all persuasions. Even to bring together those who have fought bitterly for many years. Mahoud does this through his communication skills. It’s a rare quality, and it makes our task that much more difficult because we’ll receive very little help overall. Ali, we may not like how the world perceives Mahoud, but we can’t ignore it.”

  Asadi digested what Hartman said, not liking what he was implying because it only added to Mahoud’s mystique. He couldn’t deny the effect Mahoud had over many he came into contact with. Secretly he envied the man’s power to sway a crowd with his words. The ease at which he drew people to him and seemed able to calm their fear and suspicion. Asadi might only ever admit to himself that it was that very persuasiveness that generated his distrust of Mahoud. In his eyes it was not normal. As if Mahoud possessed some otherworldly spirituality above that of normal men. That was what created the hostility against him.

  That and of course the more mundane fact that Mahoud’s interference in the region’s business might tip the balance of power within certain political-religious factions. Bringing them together might appear a miracle cure for the region’s ills, but many were violently opposed to such maneuvering.

  Roger Dane cleared his throat, one hand nervously touching the buff folder he had brought to the meeting.

  “There is also the matter of the information Mahoud has in his possession concerning the identification and affiliation of a number of important figures within the various breakaway factions.”

  “Thank you, Roger. We can’t ignore that detail,” Hartman said. “Mahoud’s zeal for his righteous crusade well may bring down these notable figures. Singly and collectively these individuals have great influence within various radical groups. If they were compromised, even killed, the effect could be serious. Cut off the head of a snake and the body may well still thrash around, but it will have lost its purpose and in doing that, its effectiveness.”

  AN HOUR LATER Roger Dane found Hartman relaxing on deck, a chilled drink in his hand. Watching his assistant approaching, Hartman peered over the top of his dark glasses, allowing a thin smile to curl his lips.

  Dane, he knew, was a worrier. He always found the weak spot in any argument, the chink in armor, something to fret about. The look on the man’s lean face spoke volumes.

  “All right, Roger, spit it out. I always know when you have something to say.”

  “I just got off the phone with Wazir Homani. The word is out on Mahoud, but Homani told me he has heard that Mahoud has a deal being set up. He’s on the verge of accepting. Homani doesn’t have all the details yet, but he’ll inform us when he has more.”

  Hartman tool a long swallow from his glass. “And?”

  “From what Homani has found out, Mahoud will make his commitment to broker the talks if he can be guaranteed safe passage to a secret location for them. He has made a nonnegotiable demand that his family is to be brought out, as well. Homani believes his source had also verified this deal is being made by the U.S. President himself. He’s going to send in someone he vouches for. Someone he trusts to do the job. The President, Daniel, of the United States, is getting personally involved.”

  Dane turned and helped himself to a large drink, swallowing it back in a single gulp.

  “Am I missing something here?” Hartman asked.

  “Only that the American Commander in Chief is dealing himself in. Our own President.”

  “Well, hell, Roger, let’s stand up and salute the flag. We didn’t expect it to be an easy ride. Don’t wet your pants over this. Look on it as a sign they’re taking things seriously. Nothing changes. We carry on as we have been. This might work in our favor. We have contacts in Washington. If the administration has thrown its cap into the ring, it presents us with a possible chance to pick up scuttlebutt. Jesus, Roger, the D.C. circuit has more holes than a leaky sieve. This could make life a lot easier for us. You get back on your phone and rouse everyone we know in Washington. Call in favors. Make threats. Do what the hell is needed, but see if you can get the info we need.”

  Alone again Hartman topped up his own drink and turned to stare out across the blue expanse of the Mediterranean. The unexpected news Dane had delivered added a new angle to the affair. He wouldn’t have admitted it to Dane, but the emergence of the U.S. President sanctioning an operation to assist Sharif Mahoud had two sides. The probability of clashing with the American administration was something that needed consideration, though it was small compared with the positive benefits. If they could connect with whoever the President was sending in, their job could be made easier. All in all, it wasn’t too bad a deal, and Daniel Hartman had never been one to back off from a reasonable gamble.

  Now all they needed to do was to find out the identity of the man the President was putting forward and give him enough leeway to guide them to Mahoud himself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “The guy in the picture is—was—Jamal Mehet. That was how the French police found him in the cellar of a house outside of Paris,” Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group at Stony Man Farm, said. “The house had been rented by some guy who walked into the Paris office of the selling agent. Said he worked for a movie company and they just needed to shoot some interiors for a production. They only needed it for a few days. Guy paid cash. The agent figured it an easy deal because the old place was showing no signs of being bought. It was only when the keys weren’t returned and the agent drove out to check that he found the body. The medical examiner worked out that the body had been in the cellar for at least four days. Before he died Mehet had been subject to some pretty horrendous torture. On top of everything else both his legs had been broken. Fingers on both hands amputated. His teeth torn from his gums. He finally died from a double tap of 9 mm slugs to the back of his skull.”

  Mack Bolan looked over the copies of the official police photographs. They were far from pleasant viewing. The fact that he had seen similar images many times over didn’t make any difference. The sight of what had once been a living, breathing human reduced to a shrunken and battered corpse always affected him. The idea that a human could do this to another, for whatever reason, saddened him.

  He placed the photographs on the table, pushing them away.

  “Not exactly family snapshots,” Brognola remarked. “Whoever did that to Mehet wanted something from him. Badly enough to torture him, then execute him when he was no more use to them.”

  “And do you believe they did get something?”

  “All we do know is that a couple of days later a hit team breached a villa on the Algerian coast after taking out the four-man security force. Once inside they also killed the two bodyguards, then cut down the guy they had been led to believe was Dr. Sharif Mahoud. Only it wasn’t Mahoud. Guy was a decoy being employed as a diversion while the real Sharif Mahoud was moving to a new location in Afghanistan.”

  “Doesn’t look as if it worked the way Mahoud wanted.”

  “His opponents found out he was in Afghanistan and broke up his trip. Mahoud and his family were separated, if that’s what you mean. Now the guy needs our help, Mack.”

  “If Mahoud can be helped.”

  “The President feels we should at least give Dr. Mahoud the benefit of
the doubt. We should give the guy his chance. The President believes the man could make a difference.”

  Bolan didn’t answer as quickly as Brognola expected, and his silence threw the big Fed slightly off balance.

  “Or don’t you agree?” Brognola asked, trying to elicit some kind of response.

  “Hal, I understand exactly what you’re pitching on the President’s behalf.”

  “I happen to go along with him, Mack. His argument for backing Mahoud makes sense. If the guy can offer something—anything—out there we should be backing him. Hell, the Middle East, the whole region, is in a mess. I’m the first to hold up my hand to that. If someone comes along willing to put himself up as a mediator and without any kind of agenda other than looking for peace…”

  Silence again as Bolan considered his friend’s words. He respected Hal Brognola more than any other man he could name. The big Fed was open, without guile, and he would be ahead of the list to cheer if Stony Man had to stand down because universal peace broke out. Brognola carried no death wish on his broad shoulders. He wanted a world where the eradication of violent conflict became the norm, but he also understood the likelihood of such a condition wasn’t in the cards. Greed, ignorance, political and religious desires were simply not going to vanish overnight. So the need for units such as Stony Man remained, and would for a long time.

  As much as he might regret that need, Hal Brognola would use Stony Man to continue the fight. He would also reach out for any glimmer of hope, no matter how fragile.

  “If you go for it, Hal, I’m in.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Brognola muttered good-naturedly. “You enjoy seeing me squirm?”

  He understood Bolan’s need to have the nature of a mission clarified, the reason behind it placed before him. The mission had to fit in with Bolan’s own agenda before he would put himself on the firing line.

  “Mahoud believes he can bring various factions together, draw them to future meetings with opposing parties long enough to make serious inroads?”

  “The man has that ability, Striker. You only have to check back over previous successes, the way he negotiated a cease-fire in one area of Afghanistan. He sat opposing warlords down at the table to talk and finally got them to agree to stop killing each other and cooperate. That was six months ago and the peace has held in that region. Don’t ask me how the guy does it. People have called him a messiah, a holy man. That he has the touch. And that comes from any region across the spectrum. Mention Dr. Sharif Mahoud and you’ve said the magic words.”

  “What about the other side of the coin, Hal? He must have enemies. A man with that set of skills has to have upset a lot of people.”

  Brognola nodded.

  “Damn right. When it comes down to it, Mahoud has the premium. Mullahs. Clerics. Out-and-out hard-liners. They put out calls for his death routinely. He’s been accused of everything from being a false prophet to a blasphemer. His detractors accuse him of trying to weaken the beliefs of those who trust in God. The moderates accuse the hard-liners of being afraid of one man who only wishes to bring about peace across the region.”

  “Do we know where Mahoud is right now?”

  “Increased threats are forcing him to keep changing locations. He’s trying to stay one step ahead. When his message got through to the President he said he would make his whereabouts known only if the Man promised to bring him to safety.”

  “And where would safety be?”

  Brognola shrugged. “That’s open to debate. We’re working on it. First we need to get Mahoud and his family free and clear from Afghanistan.”

  “Odds are that could be tricky. Bringing one man out from hostile territory isn’t going to be an easy trip.”

  “Correction, Stricker. Not one man. Mahoud made a strict stipulation. He’ll fulfill his role as mediator for as long as it takes. But only if his wife and two children are also brought out with him.”

  “Four people. An extraction from unfriendly territory. No backup.”

  Bolan’s statement wasn’t a question or an exclamation of surprise. It was simply a confirmation of the cold, hard facts.

  He leaned back in his seat, gently tapping the file on the table in front of him. Brognola recognized the signs. Bolan working the facts over in his mind, agilely creating and dismissing operational scenarios until he brought the number down to one.

  “Five,” Brognola said.

  “Say again.”

  “Mahoud has a son, Rafiq, who just turned eighteen. He’s a student at Southern Cal, and according to information the kid is a high achiever.”

  “In that case I’m going to need an assist. Even I can’t stretch myself between Afghanistan and California.”

  “Yeah, I figured you’d say that so I pulled Carl’s name out of the hat. He’s on standing down at the moment, visiting a friend in Oregon. That puts him the closest to California. I’ll contact him.”

  “So when do I get my flight plan?”

  “I’m waiting for the President to pass me details,” Brognola replied. “When Mahoud spoke with him, he said one man would be waiting to guide you in to where Mahoud is in hiding. One of the few of his countrymen Mahoud trusts not to betray him.”

  “Kind of putting his head into the lion’s jaws, isn’t it? What if this guy isn’t as loyal as Mahoud believes?”

  “Mahoud does trust this guy. Enough to put his life in his hands. He’ll take you to Mahoud, then it’s down to you to make sure the man and his family gets safely to the U.S. base for his extract. You bring him out and stay with him until the conference. Stony Man will provide backup and whatever you need. President’s orders. You have full control on this mission.”

  Bolan raised the file. “Time for me to read up on Mahoud and his family.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Greg Marino checked the temperature and humidity of the Spanish cedarwood humidor. Satisfied it was steady at the required sixty-five degrees and seventy percent humidity, he removed one of the nine-inch Grand Corona cigars. He returned to his leather recliner and proceeded to cut the tip from the thick cigar, then took his time lighting it with a wooden match. He took a slow draw, allowing the mellow aroma to suffuse the length of the cigar, relaxing as the tendrils of tobacco smoke wreathed around him. Next to great sex, what he got from the cigar was the closest to perfection he could imagine.

  Reaching for the phone, he hit a speed-dial number and waited for pickup. He recognized the subdued voice instantly.

  “Grover, I just had the call from Dane,” Marino said. “We’re up. Let’s do it, buddy.”

  “Okay. I’ll call Kate and have her push the kid’s buttons.” He chuckled. “The sap won’t know what’s hit him til it’s too late.”

  “Keep me posted,” Marino said. “I’ll be leaving for the cabin in a couple of hours, so use my cell number.”

  “Will do.”

  Marino ended the call. He leaned back in the recliner, deciding to finish the cigar before he left. After all, he decided, good things should never be rushed. The deal was under way. His team would make it work, so he had nothing to concern himself with for a while.

  RAFIQ MAHOUD SPOTTED the young woman the moment he stepped out of the science building. He weaved his way between the other exiting students and made directly for her. As far as Rafiq was concerned, she could have been the only other person on campus. His full attention was focused on her.

  His Callie. Blond and blue-eyed. A toned, supple figure. Clad in pale blue shorts, extremely short, and an equally skimpy stretch T-shirt. She was, as far as Rafiq was concerned, the ideal California girl.

  His girl.

  She made sure he understood that at every opportunity, and especially when they were alone. Just thinking about those times made him blush.

  Callie waved as he caught her eye, her smile bright and caring. He might not have spoken it out loud, but Rafiq’s emotions were in a turmoil. They always were when he was in her presence. In a word, she captivated him. From the first d
ay he had met her, the delightful blonde had him wrapped around her little finger, and he loved every moment.

  “Hi,” she said when Rafiq reached her side.

  “Hi, yourself. I almost didn’t get clear. Some of the guys wanted to get together and chill. Took me a while to break away.”

  “Last thing I want is you chilling out.” She laughed. “I want you hot.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Very hot. Especially for this weekend. Or had you forgotten?”

  As they moved along the sidewalk, heading for the parking area and Rafiq’s two-year-old SUV, he shook his head.

  “My stuff is already in the truck. What about you?”

  Callie showed him the backpack over her left shoulder. “Everything I need is in here.”

  “It doesn’t look like much.”

  “Enough for what we’re going to be doing.”

  “You are a terrible woman.”

  “It’s why you like me.”

  “Yeah? And for a few other things.”

  When they reached his vehicle, Rafiq unlocked it and Carrie threw her backpack on the rear seat alongside his own. She climbed in and waited as he joined her. He started the engine and reversed out of the slot, raising a hand to a passing group of students. Then he drove out of the lot and negotiated his way along the feeder road until they were on the highway.

  “Let’s go, cowboy,” Carrie said, reaching to click on the radio.

  Rafiq pushed down on the gas pedal and boosted the SUV up a notch.

  He was feeling good. It was a beautiful day. The weekend was coming up and he was alone with the most fantastic woman he had ever known. Things couldn’t get any better.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Air Force plane touched down late afternoon and Mack Bolan stepped back onto Afghanistan soil. Already dressed in military combat fatigues and boots, he slung his backpack over his shoulder, picked up his heavy hold-all, and crossed the dusty field to meet the Hummer speeding out to pick him up.