Betrayed

Mahoud smiled, nodding as he said, “Your President told me he would send me a man I could trust with my life.” He leaned forward to stare at Bolan’s face, looking deep into the American’s eyes. Bolan held his stare, unblinking, aware that Mahoud’s scrutiny might make the difference between acceptance or rejection. “I see no guile. No deceit. But I do see honesty. I see a man who has endured a great deal of adversity and who has learned to overcome. Perhaps together we can confront whatever lies before us and reach sanctuary together.”

Mahoud leaned his rifle against the cave wall beside his makeshift bed. He squatted in front of his cooking stove, a small butane-fueled unit. He set water on to boil.

“Azal’s death serves to show how determined my enemies are to reach me. I hope you realize how much danger you have placed yourself in, Mr. Cooper.”

“Let’s concern ourselves with your safety, Dr. Mahoud.”

“On one condition. We may be together for some time. Too long for you to keep calling me Dr. Mahoud. Call me Reef. Please.”

Bolan nodded. “Matt.”

“I will prepare food, then. While we eat we can talk.”

At the cave entrance Bolan took time to check out the terrain. From this high position he could see for a long way. The Afghan landscape was stark, empty, simply endless miles of bleak rock formations. Serrated and steep-sided, it gave the impression it went on forever. At this higher elevation the wind held constant and Bolan knew once darkness fell the temperature would drop. As the days were hot, the nights were bitter. It wasn’t Bolan’s first time in the country. He had tramped the inhospitable hills and dusty plains on a number of occasions, and he had seen blood spilled. The country had seen its share of bloody war, oppression and divided loyalties. The Afghan people were a resilient breed, a proud warrior class that refused to bend beneath the heel of the invader. It was nothing new. Afghanistan resisted, survived and watched its enemies withdraw.

Squatting in the dust, Bolan took out compact but powerful binoculars from his backpack and spent long minutes scanning the area. His meticulous surveillance told him there were no insurgents around. Even so Bolan maintained a cautious attitude. It was too easy to let himself be convinced the enemy was nowhere around. That kind of thinking could get a man killed. Just because he couldn’t see anyone didn’t mean gunners weren’t out there somewhere. He stayed where he was until Mahoud called him in for the meal.

“This is the last of the food I have with me,” Mahoud explained. “I brought it from the last village I was in. Many Afghan people have helped me as I traveled. Often at possible great risk to themselves. If the local Taliban learned they had been aiding me…” There was no need for him to finish. “They gave me some food at each place, even though they had little. This is all I have left. Rice. Some lamb and onion. Spices.” He smiled at something. “You know, in Paris this would cost a great deal of money in a restaurant. It is a traditional dish. Qorma. Not very fancy but tasty.”

He filled bowls and passed one to Bolan. From a satchel he produced rolled wheat Afghan bread. They broke it and used it to scoop up the spicy stew, eating in silence for a while.

“This makes me appreciate the expensive meals I’ve eaten in Paris restaurants,” Mahoud said. He studied Bolan’s face. “And why then, you wonder, does the man exile himself to a cave in the middle of nowhere, dressed this way?”

“I’d say you’re less likely to get yourself shot than walking around in an Armani suit.”

“Perhaps. But how could I get the locals to take my word seriously from the comparative safety of Paris. Or London. Or New York. I promise them I will plead their case for peace. Should I expect them to believe me if I refuse to walk into their village while I drive through Washington in a bulletproof automobile? Matt, these are men who live and fight in this country. They build their homes from the materials they find around them. They trust someone who will talk to them face-to-face, who will eat what they eat, a man who would walk ten miles to help a neighbor. I will do what I can to try to bring some kind of order here. There is mistrust here, religious intolerance, bigotry, tribal disputes. Expand that across the borders and you will find the same in Iran and Iraq. All across the Middle East.” Mahoud leaned back against the cave wall. “I want to help. I must help. While I am able, I have to try. Does that sound naive to you? Be truthful—am I deluding myself? Am I a lone voice in the wilderness, unheard, ignored?”

Mack Bolan understood Mahoud’s dilemma. The man’s cause mirrored his own struggles against evil. Bolan, too, did what he could because he was able to. If he stood by and allowed evil to flourish, those who were too weak, incapable of fighting back, would simply suffer and perish. Bolan was a warrior trained in the art of war. His unique perspective of the machinery of savagery had placed in his hands and in his heart the will and the ability to fight the battles on behalf of the beleaguered. Bolan did what he did because he was able and he felt himself allied with Mahoud.

“I’d say the opposite. If your cause is having no effect, why are so many out to stop you? Why are there people desperate to silence you?”

Mahoud filled tin mugs with hot bitter coffee, thoughtful as he returned the tin pot to the stove.

“You will have heard about my good friend Jamal Mehet being murdered. And the decoy in Algeria. They were brave men who willingly stood alone so I can make my bid for peace. And now my dear friend Rahim Azal. They have all died because they believed in what I try to do. And I put my family at risk by bringing them here. All that because there are those who are still determined to kill me.”

“Do you have any idea who these enemies are?” Bolan asked.

“Believe me, Matt, I know who they are. Some are from Afghanistan. Those who want me out of the way because I threaten their grip on positions of power. If my particular brand of peace becomes accepted, then there are those who will see their control fade away. Add to them the entrenched religious zealots who use the written words in twisted versions, forcing the ordinary people to bend to their will. They terrorize. Cajole. Turn brother against brother because they refuse to look beyond carved-in-stone obedience to rigid laws. They want me dead. Of that I have no doubt. And there are others from your own country, men who see coming peace as a tragedy because it will weaken their hold on the region. They encourage the radicals, the rabble-rousers, the hotheads so full of rage against the U.S.A. These are their customers. They buy the arms these people offer. They make deals for oil. For long-term agitation. These hyenas feed off the despair of the Middle East. They foment confrontation because it is worth millions of dollars to them. War is big business, Matt. And these men are powerful. Their organizations are worldwide. They have the power to influence the policies of nations, to manipulate and direct governments. They want conflict to continue to maintain their markets. If my upcoming negotiations help to pacify the regions, these men will see their dealings dwindle.” Mahoud paused, smiling at Bolan. “Do I talk too much? I am afraid it is one of my failings.”

“Reef, we need more men who can talk enough to bring adversaries together. Talking is easy, but the kind you bring to the table is special. As long as you are able keep that going, you keep right on speaking. If we don’t talk our way to some kind of accord, the Middle East is going to stay on the path that will simply eat away at all the good.”

Mahoud refilled the coffee mugs. He placed the pot down, thoughtful, then looked directly at Bolan.

“Is my son safe? Is he being protected in America?”

“One of my most trusted people is guarding him.”

“Yes?”

“I’d put myself in his hands if my life was at risk. Whatever happens, he won’t let you down.”

“Well, your President said he would send me a man I should trust. He must think of you very highly.”

Bolan smiled. “We have an understanding. We would never betray each other, or break our word.”

“I wish trust was as easy to gain in my world,” Mahoud said. “Unfortunately it is not. Among those who oppose me betrayal is the watchword. I have little reason to trust anyone.”

“Things are that bad?”

“The reason is simple,” Mahoud said. “I know many of the ones who may attend the meeting are not who they seem. They pretend to be peacemakers, but truly they are in league with the hard-line radicals. And they know if I attend and stand in front of them I will point the finger and expose them. Over the past couple of years I have made it part of my mission to gain a great amount of data on the betrayals and the deceit.

“Deals are made behind closed doors. Money and favors are bartered for loyalty. Matt, if the talks are to offer any chance of reconciliation, no matter how small, then the ones who want to wreck the conference have to be exposed for what they are.”

“And that’s why they seem set on pulling your family apart, to silence you? To make it impossible for you to offer your solutions?”

“These people are desperate. And they will resist me to the last breath.”

“Who controls them?”

“The one with power here in Afghanistan is Mullah Homani. We have been declared enemies for many years. He has denounced the peace accord as nothing more than blasphemy. He condemns it every chance he gets, to anyone who will listen. My sources tell me that many are tired of his radical posturing, the way he urges his followers to make every sacrifice in order to crush my initiative.” Mahoud smiled. “He sends out his followers, convinced they are on missions for God, and that their sacrifices will be rewarded with a wonderful afterlife. This man sits in comparative safety, issuing death sentences, and never once places himself in any kind of danger. His hypocrisy staggers me. He denounces everything that is not of our religion as evil, as corrupting, but orders the deaths of men and women and even children if, in his words, they contribute a threat to God. The sad thing is he will never run short of those who he can bend to his will. He calls himself a peacemaker. Yet he refuses to even discuss that very thing, and is willing to urge hundreds to follow his calling.”

“In reality I guess any leader with influence employs similar actions,” Bolan said. “They all have to call on their people to go to war while they sit in the safety of their offices.”

“An astute observation, and in a way you are correct. But the reasoning behind the call differs here. Homani is urging slaughter. He wants his believers to go out and create rivers of blood, to destroy Western culture, to wipe out Israel. He even wages his Holy War against other Muslims, those who see things differently. The man openly declares he will spread his campaigns across the Middle East. I cannot in all honesty sit back and allow his poison to be spread.

“Homani condemns the West to his followers but also deals with the consortium of Americans whose aim is to bolster his plans, to make him stronger. They promise him weapons and backing to keep the Middle East in a state of war. They profit from the concessions he and his own partners across the region offer—contracts for construction, for rebuilding, minerals, oil, of course. These powerful groups comprise businessmen and politicians, even the military. To them it is a great game that will bring them more power and wealth. They manipulate policy, playing the region as if it is a chess game, seeking the advantage, setting one regime against another.”

“And it’s the people who suffer,” Bolan said. “They become the losers, the refugees, and are dispossessed in their own countries. They lose every time.”

“Now you see why I must carry on. Why I have to try.”

Bolan dropped his coffee mug, reaching for his MP-5. He pushed to his feet and headed for the cave entrance.

“What is it?” Mahoud asked, snatching up his own weapon. “Did you hear something?”

Bolan didn’t get a chance to reply. Shadows loomed large as gunmen rushed the cave entrance, crowding in. Their weapons were up and ready, covering Bolan and Mahoud as they pushed forward. Bolan counted at least seven, maybe eight. He had no chance to tackle them. There were too many.

The superior force failed to stop Mahoud. He rushed at the interlopers, his weapon rising.

“Mahoud, don’t give them the chance…” Bolan yelled.

Mahoud ignored him, pushing the American aside.

His resistance was futile as the group rushed to meet him, someone knocking aside Mahoud’s AK-47. His finger jerked against the trigger, sending a single shot into the cave wall. And then Mahoud was beaten to his knees with rifle butts and barrels, the brutal blows driving him down, blood streaking his face.

Bolan had his own weapon snatched from his hands. Others took his Beretta and his sheathed knife. He was searched for any other weapons, but all that was found was the GPS unit and Bolan’s triband cell phone. He watched as they were thrown to the cave floor and crushed under heavy boots.

One of the attackers scattered the crushed items across the cave.