Betrayed
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 day 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.
Beyond the military base the inhospitable Afghanistan landscape glowered beneath an empty sky. There were few clouds. It was hot and dusty, with the ever present dry wind soughing down off the higher hills. Underfoot the ground was hard and stony, with little vegetation other than isolated clumps of brittle grass.
The Hummer rolled to a stop a few feet away. The uniformed figure stepping out from behind the wheel nodded at Bolan. The guy was young, Bolan’s height. Lean and burned brown from the sun.
“Mr. Cooper.”
“I’ll be out of your hair ASAP, Lieutenant Pearson,” Bolan said, reading the man’s uniform name tag.
He understood the sometimes reluctance of the military to have to nursemaid civilians in their midst. They had enough on their hands, and Mack Bolan had no desire to add to their problems.
The officer smiled, said, “I don’t suppose you want to be here either.”
“I can think of more pleasant surroundings.”
They climbed into the Hummer. Bolan stowed his rucksack and weapons hold-all. Pearson turned the Hummer and headed in the direction of the collection of tents and huts that made up the base. It all looked familiar to Bolan, bringing back memories of his own service time, when he had lived and operated out of such places. It made him aware once more of the privations and the danger the men and women placed themselves in when they became part of the operation. Here, in this foreign environment, thousands of miles from family and country, they daily put themselves in harm’s way, exposing themselves to the ever present threat of violence. There were no guarantees out here. No promises of uneventful tours. Only the reality of sudden and brutal action.
“I was told to expect you, do whatever was needed to facilitate your mission, and not ask questions. I was told a local would be showing up to meet you. Something about him walking you into hostile territory, so I guess you’re not here to sightsee.”
“You’ve got that right, LT.”
Pearson threw him a quick glance, smiling.
“Now that’s not a civilian speaking. I’d say you’ve served your time.”
“And then some,” Bolan answered.
He didn’t expand and Pearson didn’t probe. The soldier might have been surprised if he learned about Bolan’s own private war, waged for many years against enemies who might not have worn regular uniforms but who were certainly combatants. It might have been waged against a different backdrop in some instances, but by any definition it was still war.
They reached the main camp, Pearson rolling the Hummer to a stop outside one of the smaller huts.
“Your guy is there,” the soldier said. He waited until Bolan had claimed his gear. “Anything you might need, give me a shout. I was told you might need assistance with an extract?”
“If I do, I’ll call.”
“We’ll be around if you need us.”
“Good to know.”
Pearson raised a hand, then gunned the Hummer and drove away.
Bolan pushed his way through the hut’s door and went inside. It was sparsely furnished, functional.
It was empty except for a single occupant.
A tall, lean Afghan turned at Bolan’s entrance. He wore a mix of traditional Afghan and Western clothing. A long sheepskin coat covered a colorful shirt, and U.S.-style combat pants were tucked into sturdy leather boots. He wore a lungee, the turban’s long scarf hanging almost to his waist. A broad leather belt circled his hips, supporting a canvas holster that held a modern autopistol. On the opposite hip was a sheathed knife. Leaning against a table was an AK-47. The Afghan eyed the big American while he continued to drink from a tin mug. Finally he lowered the mug. He wore a trimmed dark beard.
“You are Cooper?” When Bolan nodded, the man said, “I am Rahim Azal. You know why I am here?”
“Yes.”
“It is too late to go today. We will leave in the morning. Early.” Azal indicated a steaming pot sitting on a butane gas stove. “Tea?”
Bolan nodded. “Sure.”
The tin mug Azal handed Bolan was hot, the strong tea scalding. Bolan tasted it, nodding his approval.
“I can see why the Afghans are good fighters,” he said. “If you can drink this, you can face anyone.”
Azal laughed.
“I think I might like you, Cooper.” He looked Bolan over. “Are you a warrior? Dressing as one does not make it so.”
Bolan picked up his hold-all and dropped it on the table. He opened it to show Azal his ordnance. The Afghan peered at the contents of the bag.
Azal raised his mug. “Defeat to our enemies.”
THEY WERE on the move at first light. The air was still chilled from the cold night as Bolan and Azal finished their breakfast and readied themselves. The soldier took out his weapons and strapped on the webbing belt that would carry his Beretta 93-R in a hip holster. He had an MP-5 SMG, and a Cold Steel Tanto knife sheathed on his left side. A combat harness held extra magazines for both his weapons and Bolan added a few fragmentation grenades. From his backpack he took a black baseball cap and an olive-drab cotton scarf. The long scarf wound around his neck could be used to wipe away dust and sweat from his face; it could also prevent dust entering his mouth. Azal watched as Bolan put on the scarf, a smile curling his lips as he observed.
“Now I know you have been here before,” he said. “Once the dust of Afghan has been tasted, no man wants to repeat the experience if he can avoid it.”
Bolan swung his backpack into place and adjusted the straps. He checked his filled canteen and clipped it to his web belt.
Lieutenant Pearson drove up in his Hummer. He had been assigned to drive Bolan and Azal for the initial part of their journey, where he would leave them in the foothills. The lieutenant was fully armed, and a second soldier sat in the seat beside him.
The trip took them a couple of hours, over rugged terrain that offered little relief from the ever present heat and the restless, drifting breeze. Serrated, undulating, the Afghan landscape had little to recommend itself. This was a savage and unwelcoming place, and Bolan knew that there might easily be armed figures waiting behind any one of a dozen boulders, or concealed in shallow ravines. Maybe he was in someone’s sights at that very moment. It was an unsettling thought, one he had experienced many times, so he accepted the fact because there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Pearson slowed the Hummer, swinging the vehicle in a half circle at Azal’s instruction. When he came to a full stop the Afghan leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder.
“This is the place. We go on foot from here.”
Pearson waited until Bolan and the Afghan climbed out.
“Good luck, Cooper. Don’t forget the ride home when you need it.”
Bolan nodded. “Thanks for the assist, LT. Take it easy on your way back.”
The Hummer sped away, leaving Bolan and his guide alone. Dust drifted in the Hummer’s wake. Azal turned to check the way ahead.
“You enjoy walking, Cooper?”
“Yeah. Let’s move out.”
They followed a faint track that led directly into the rugged hills. After a couple of miles even the thin trail vanished. Azal didn’t hesitate. He moved with great agility, ignoring the steep angle of the slopes. Azal glanced back a few times, smiling to himself when he saw the American keeping pace with him.
It was noon straight up when Azal called a halt. He guided Bolan to a wide overhang of rock that shielded them from the sun. From his pack the Afghan produced a loaf of bread and a wedge of goat’s cheese. He divided the meal, handing half to Bolan. The bread was coarse, the cheese strong. They ate in silence, washing the food down with water from their canteens.
“There is a small spring ahead,” Azal said. “We can refill the canteens.”
“You’ve known Mahoud a long time?” Bolan asked.
Azal nodded. “We were born and raised in the same village. We grew up together. Both our families were as one. Our fathers and grandfathers fought against the Russians. We both lost people in the war.” Azal shrugged. “As far as I can remember there has always been some kind of fighting going on. But we survived. We were never wealthy but life could be good.”
“Mahoud wanted more?” Bolan said.
“Even as a young man he was unhappy with the fighting, though there were times he had to use a gun to defend what was his. The tribal squabbling saddened him. He wanted changes. Everyone told him it could never happen. Sharif refused to accept that. He started to speak at village councils and traveled all over talking to people. He had a way with words. He sat and discussed matters with politicians and religious leaders. People trusted him. He settled local differences. It was good for him, but he was restless for more change and in the end he went away for almost three years. When he returned, he was different. Still passionate about making things better, but he said staying here wouldn’t allow him to do that. He had been accepted to a place of learning in France, where he could understand the ways of higher learning. It was all too complicated for me to understand. Sharif was away for seven years and the next time he came to the village he brought his wife and children with him.”
“Was he different then?”
“Yes, and no,” Azal said. “He was Sharif of the village, but he was also Dr. Sharif Mahoud, a man of the world. A learned man building his reputation as a negotiator. He had written books and articles for magazines. His qualifications allowed him to mix with powerful men and took him around the country and to far places in the Middle East. When he sat in his parents’ house he was one of us again. Everyone was so proud of Sharif. They took to his beautiful wife and their children. But when I watched his face, I knew he would not be staying for long. He had his path to follow and it was not just to be in Afghanistan. When we talked alone, he told me how he needed to travel to other places to do what he could for other oppressed people. To try and bring enemies together and settled differences.
“From his wife we learned of their other life. An apartment in Paris. Their visits to America and London. The important people they met. His work with government organizations. Sharif has gone far. Has helped many. His friends are all over the world.” Azal raised his hands. “But so are his enemies. He has disturbed many people who are angry at his attempts to make solid peace. For many reasons, Cooper. Money. Power. Religious intolerance. He knows this, but all he does is shrug and say it is something he has to bear.”
“These enemies are the ones who want him dead?”
Azal nodded. “Yes. The ones who murdered Jamal Mehet. The same ones who killed the man acting as a decoy. The same ones who tried to disrupt his meetings and forced his wife and children into hiding while Sharif had to seek sanctuary elsewhere.”
He leaned back, closing his eyes, and rested.
“We will reach our next place before dark,” he said. “A village I used to know well. It is empty now. You will see what the Taliban is doing to our life.”
THE VILLAGE had been empty for some time. Azal explained how the Taliban had driven out the occupants, forcing them to clear the village or be wiped out.
“They wanted to make an example to show how they were in charge. All around here the Taliban has been forcing people to do as they say. Anyone who defies them is either killed or beaten until they are crippled. This is the way the Taliban works. Fear. Violence. Their fighters wage war on women and children, and force the young men to join them, or watch their families be slaughtered. These villagers are poor. They have nothing, no power, so they can be exploited.”
“So where do they go?”
Azal shrugged. “Look around, Cooper. Where is there for them to go? Many of them simply vanish into the hills. They hide. Starve. If they are lucky, they make their way to the refugee camps many miles away. Some die on the way there. The Taliban is ripping out the heart of my country because so many refuse to bow to their demands.” The Afghan faced Bolan. “Now ask me why I believe in Sharif Mahoud. Because he is the one man who is prepared to face up to the truths about these people. He is willing stand up to them. Talk with the moderates and face the enemies of Afghanistan. I am simple man, Cooper. Not clever with words, but I would give my life so Sharif Mahoud can speak for me.”
“For a man who claims he is not clever with words, Rahim, you make your point well.”
Azal shook his head, smiling briefly.
“I will make tea. We will rest here overnight.” He turned to indicate the rising wall of the rocky hills behind the village. “Then we have that to climb. And no clever words will make that any easier.”
“Let’s check out the area. Make sure we have a way to get clear if needed. Too late if we find ourselves boxed in.”
“Yes. I will show you something I found once before when I was here. It will serve us well.”
THEY WERE PREPARING to leave a couple of hours after dawn when Bolan picked up the distant sound of a vehicle engine powering its way up the incline leading into the village. The narrow track he and Azal had used bore faint tire impressions, showing past usage by motorized transport. The Afghan was inside one of the empty huts, packing away the gear they had been using.
“Azal.”
The Afghan joined him, nodding. “I hear it.”
“Taliban?”
“Could be. But the fighters would be less likely to allow themselves be heard in such a way. A vehicle cannot go farther than this place. Your military would only use helicopters if they were coming here.”
“Wait inside the hut,” Bolan said. “Cover me from there.”
Azal backed away and stood inside the doorway, hidden in the shadows, while Bolan edged around the corner of the hut.
The vehicle turned out to be a battered 4WD Land Rover. Bolan couldn’t have guessed how old it was. Despite the outward appearance, the mechanics of the vehicle seemed to be in good shape. It rocked into view over the final rise in the trail and came to a stop near the edge of the steep drop-off. The beat of the engine faded.