Betrayed

Mahoud ignored him, pushing the American aside

His resistance was futile as the group rushed to meet him, beating him 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. He was searched for any other weapons, but all that was found was the GPS unit and Bolan’s cell phone. He watched as they were thrown to the cave floor and crushed under heavy boots.

“They will not be of use to you any longer, American. You are in the hands of the Taliban now. We will give the orders.”

Bolan looked him in the eye. “I’ll try to remember that.”

The Taliban leader laughed. “Be certain, American. You will remember. I promise you.”

Betrayed

Don Pendleton

Mack Bolan ®

Have the courage to say no. Have the courage to face the truth. Do the right thing because it is right. These are the magic keys to living your life with integrity.

—W. Clement Stone,

1902–2002

A person who steps forward to do the right thing must be protected. I’ll stand my ground and offer whatever support I can give, no matter what the consequences.

—Mack Bolan

For the peacemakers

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

PROLOGUE

They tracked Jamal Mehet to Paris, caught up with him when he emerged from a Métro station, followed him until he was alone on a quiet side street, grabbed him and bundled him into the rear of a Citroën delivery truck. Even as the vehicle was pulling away from the curb, a hypo needle was jabbed into Mehet’s neck. It held a liberal dose of a powerful drug that rendered him unconscious. By the time he woke up he was far away from the city, locked in a room that had a mattress on the bare floor and nothing else. When he regained consciousness he was violently ill, emptying what little food his stomach held on to the floorboards. The aftereffects of the drug weren’t pleasant, and he spent most of the day curled up on the mattress, drifting in and out of sleep. When his senses allowed him to focus he tried to work out how long he had been in the room.

A day?

Two?

He couldn’t be sure. His watch was missing, so he had to judge the time of day by the passage of light he could see through the grubby window set in the roof over his head. It had already started to grow dark when he heard a key rattle in the lock and the door was flung open wide, banging against the inner wall with hard force.

Mehet rolled over so he could see the doorway. He had to blink his eyes to sharpen the image, and that was when he made out two figures stepping into the room. Beyond them he saw a third. Someone stood watch. The three figures separated and he could see them in detail now. The man just outside the door was holding a weapon. The two inside the room he didn’t recognize. They were unknown to him. Both wore expensive, well-cut suits, complete with shirts and ties. He even found himself looking down at their polished shoes.

When he looked into their faces his first impression was they were business executives. Everything about them spoke of wealth. And they were Westerners with their light-colored, clean-shaved skin and benign expressions.

One of the pair moved farther into the room, his actions controlled and precise. He stopped at the foot of the bed, his hands crossed in front of him. Mehet noticed the man’s fingernails. Neat and well manicured. Odd details that seemed very important to Mehet at that moment.

“We know who you are, Jamal Mehet,” the man said. “We know all about your connections to Sharif Mahoud. We know he trusts you more than any man alive. That he trusts you with his life. I’m sure you will realize by now why you are here and what we want.”

Mehet did realize what this was all about even as the man mouthed the words. He had been taken because of his intimate knowledge of Sharif Mahoud. These men, whoever they were, wanted the knowledge he carried inside his head. He also realized they were Mahoud’s enemies. They wanted to locate Mahoud and not for any good reason.

If they found his friend, they would most likely kill him.

A small realization pushed into Mehet’s mind at that moment.

The man speaking to him had an American accent. Quiet, refined almost, but most definitely American.

“You have had enough time to think over what I’ve just said, so I’ll tell you what happens next. I’m going to ask you a simple question. I will ask it once, and you will have the opportunity to answer. Give me what I want or I walk out of here and place you in the hands of my associates who are waiting in the cellar below. In the end you will deliver your friend Sharif Mahoud to us. Choose the second option, and you will live longer but the experience will not be pleasant. I believe I have explained everything clearly.” The man paused for a short time. “You know the current whereabouts of Mahoud. I need that location. Will you tell me where he is?”

Mehet felt his stomach churn. He understood the threat the man had posed, and he knew his refusal to answer would condemn him to pain and suffering. Two things he did not even want to imagine. He would give the man an answer, the only one he could.

“No,” Mehet said, “I will not.”

True to his word the man accepted Mehet’s reply. He simply turned away, followed by his companion. They walked out of the room. The guard at the door leaned in and pulled it shut.

Mehet lay back, staring at the patch of light beyond the skylight. He saw the clouds drifting by, watched the gloom deepen, and knew darkness would soon fall and he would be lost in that darkness.

No more than ten minutes passed before they came for him, took him from the room and led him to the cellar beneath the house.

It became Mehet’s final refuge. He spent almost three days in the place, days of terrible suffering as his captors worked on him, using every crude method of torture they could think of. There was little finesse in their actions. They believed in physical brutality of the worst kind. The intention was to inflict severe pain and mutilation to extract the information they needed. Mehet’s pitiful screams echoed through the vaulted bleakness of the cellar, never reaching beyond the thick stone walls.

On the third day there was little more that could be done to make him suffer. Barely an inch of his body had not been violated, and it was a surprise even to Mehet’s torturers that he was still alive.

An additional surprise they received was when he spoke for the first time since they had brought him to the cellar. They had to lean close to understand the words that whispered from his bleeding lips, sliding over toothless gums where his teeth had been torn free. He had gestured them to come closer by jerking the raw stumps of severed fingers at them.

And he had finally told them where they could find Sharif Mahoud, then begged them to put him out of his misery.

The chief torturer sent one of his men to relay the information upstairs and then put two 9 mm bullets into Mehet’s head.

TWO NIGHTS LATER a strike force of three men, dressed from head to foot in black, splashed through the waves and came ashore from a small boat onto a beach in Northern Algeria. Behind them lay the Mediterranean Sea. In front the low profile of the isolated villa that was their target.

Intelligence had told them there were four armed guards patrolling the villa and surrounding terrain. Two more and the subject inside. The black-clad trio understood the patrol parameters that had been passed to them, providing them with the movements of the security team, so they were able to move in quickly. Using Heckler & Koch MP-5s fitted with suppressors, they were well equipped for what lay ahead.

The first guard was taken down by the lead shooter, his body crumpling under the impact of the suppressed 9 mm slugs. Skirting the perimeter of the villa, the strike team closed on the other guards, making their kills quickly and with a minimum of fuss.

With four guards down, the team crossed the tiled courtyard, skirted the circular stone fountain and approached the open archway that gave access to the interior of the villa.

Their information about the two bodyguards inside the villa, protecting Sharif Mahoud, was correct. As the strike team burst into the room, covering the occupants, the pair of guards sprang up from their seats, weapons sliding from holsters. They were too slow and went down in a hail of 9 mm bullets, their bodies torn and bloodied.

The robed figure seated with his back to the strike team rose slowly to his feet, turning to meet them. As light fell across his face, alarm showed in his eyes.

“What is going on? Who are you people and what do you want?” He stared down at the bodies on the floor. “This is not what I agreed to. It was only to be an impersonation for a few days.”

The lead shooter took a long look at the robed figure, shaking his head in frustration.

“This is not Sharif Mahoud. We have been deceived. Mehet gave us false information.”

The impersonator realizing his position was untenable turned back and forth in desperation. Now he understood, and in understanding he panicked. He turned his back on the strike team, wailing in terror as he ran for the door on the far side of the room.

Three SMGs fired simultaneously, riddling his body with 9 mm slugs. Cloth was shredded, flesh punctured and bloody gouts erupted from his back. When a number of the slugs tore his spinal column apart, the man dropped to the tiled floor. He sprawled across the smooth tiles, blood starting to seep from beneath him in rich red fingers.

The head shooter took out a sat phone and punched in a number. He waited until pickup.

“We were tricked,” he said simply. “Mahoud is not here. Only a look-alike decoy. While we have been searching for him, he has probably moved on to a new location. By God, if that jackal Mehet could be brought back to life I would kill him all over again.”

The American voice on the other end of the call maintained a calmness that was all the more chilling due to the circumstances.

“Leave the villa. Return to the landing zone and get back to the ship. We will rendezvous as soon as possible and review. I don’t care where he has gone. We will keep looking until we find Mahoud, take the information he possesses, and then we will kill him. Him and his whole damn family.”

CHAPTER ONE

The motor yacht Crescent Moon coasted sedately along the Corsican coastline, heading north toward Monaco. It was a half-day out, plowing gracefully through the Mediterranean Sea. Outwardly it looked like one of the many expensive pleasure crafts cruising the blue waters. Inside, however, the talk was far from casual.

The three men sitting around the large table in the ship’s main cabin had more on their minds than the current trends in Monaco.

“We need to make a decision,” Daniel Hartman said. “Rolling ideas back and forth is all very well, but it doesn’t advance us one little bit.”

His cultured tones, never raised above conversational level, drew everyone’s eyes toward him. His importance in the group was enough to command its undivided attention. He had a policy of seldom repeating himself. And when he gave an ultimatum he never, ever, went back on it.

Hartman had been the man who had allowed Jamal Mehet his one chance to answer the question concerning Sharif Mahoud. The man’s refusal had condemned him to the torturers waiting in the cellars and ultimately his death. His false information had drawn the three-man strike team to the villa on the Algerian coast. When Hartman had learned Mahoud hadn’t been at the villa his calm exterior showed nothing of how he felt inside. He had simply called the strike team back and the team leader to this gathering to decide on their next move.

The quiet American looked around the table. His exceptional patience was often mistaken for indifference. It made him appear cold and distant even to those who knew him. Almost passive. Yet behind the facade was a sharp, incisive mind capable of intellectual keenness and an ability to make unpleasant decisions without a moment’s hesitation.

The leader of the strike team, Ali Asadi, said, “Whatever else we decide, I think it is time to put the California operation into action. Everything is in place. At least that would give us something to fall back on.”

Hartman nodded in agreement.

“I agree.” He turned to the man on his left. “Make the call, Roger. Tell Marino to go. Once they have the Mahoud boy secure, Marino can advise us.”

Roger Dane stood and crossed to a sat phone. He picked up the receiver and tapped in a number, waiting as the connection was made.

“Marino, this is Dane. You’re on. Do it and advise us on completion.”

“Good,” Hartman said as Dane resumed his seat. “Let’s continue. We have to accept that even if we succeed and get our hands on Mahoud’s son there’s no guarantee it will bring Mahoud himself into the open, or even force him to do what we ask. So we still need to follow this through ourselves. One thing is in our favor. Mahoud must have heard by now that Mehet has disappeared, that we took his bait and went for his decoy. No matter how dedicated the man is, losing someone like Mehet must unnerve him. He wouldn’t have expected that to happen. Having his decoy killed will also make him realize he can’t hide from us forever. Those two elements are likely to force him into doing something that might leave a trace. So we double our efforts. Increase the bounty and make sure that every informant available to us is fully aware that Sharif Mahoud is the most important name on their lists.”

“He must be found. And eliminated,” Asadi said, unable to keep his emotion under control. “The man is a traitor to everything he ever believed in. He defiles the very air he breathes, and his words are blasphemy each time he speaks.”

“That may well be so, Ali,” Hartman said, “but we can’t ignore the fact that he is held in great respect by many men of influence throughout your region and beyond. Sharif Mahoud is a force to be reckoned with. No doubt because of his popularity he has many followers willing to hide him and throw off anyone looking for him. Why do you think we’ve had so much difficulty locating the man?”

Asadi’s face darkened as he listened to the American. The knuckles of his clenched fists cracked under the tension.

“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.”