Betrayed

by Don Pendleton

  The sound of battle faded. Bolan’s way was becoming steeper, the ground beneath his feet less firm. Afghanistan refused to treat anyone with any kind of favor. Its lofty slopes presented obstacles at every turn, demanding that anyone bold enough to confront it did so at a high cost. Many had tried and failed. This time the inhospitable met the undefeatable. Mack Bolan never gave up, no matter what the odds. Afghanistan was about to find that out.

  Something played on his mind: Shehan, a paid mercenary or a believer in the cause?

  Bolan could accept either, but it seemed illogical for someone like Shehan to kill Bolan’s guide before he led him to Mahoud. It was a counterproductive move. If the intention was to get to Mahoud, why eliminate Azal now? Bolan saw no sense in the act. Unless Shehan had known about the GPS unit and decided to step up his mission by taking out Azal and gaining possession of the unit himself. Anything was possible. Maybe Bolan had been next on Shehan’s list. If it had been his intention Shehan had shown his hand too quickly. His unexpected action, the savage attack on Azal, the man directing Bolan to Mahoud’s whereabouts, had played out his hand. There didn’t appear to be any kind of logic in his desire to kill the Afghan—unless Shehan had been in the pay of Mahoud’s enemies, working covertly until the moment arrived when he could strike at Azal and remove him, leaving Bolan without his guide, alone in enemy territory with little way of knowing where Mahoud was waiting. It was likely, now that he considered Shehan’s risky move, that the man had panicked because of the Taliban attack. He had been just as surprised as Bolan when they had showed up. Fearing his chance slipping away Shehan had gone for the GPS unit, hoping he could lose Bolan and go after Mahoud himself.

  He hadn’t thought his plan through. Maybe he panicked when he realized Bolan had almost wiped out the unexpected Taliban group and he, Shehan, was on his own. Whichever way, it forced Bolan to carry on his mission solo. Not the first time he had been left to his own devices.

  Bolan secured his backpack, drawing the straps tight. He did the same with the MP-5. The last thing he needed was the subgun swinging loose as he made his climb. With his equipment seen to, the soldier ran a final check from the GPS unit, establishing his line of travel before he began his ascent.

  It wasn’t exactly a vertical climb, but the slopes were some of the steepest Bolan had faced for a long time. The outcroppings weren’t solid, often breaking away when he put weight on them. It forced him to move slowly, testing each section as he moved across it. That wasn’t a bad thing, Bolan decided. Better late than no show.

  Despite his caution, he twice found a handhold giving way. The second time he found himself slipping down the slope. It took a few stomach-clenching moments before he arrested his fall, digging for footholds and flattening himself against the rocks until his breathing settled. Bolan felt warm blood oozing from grazes on the palm of one hand, and he wiped it across his jacket.

  Moving on, he negotiated the fragile surface and pushed himself another fifty feet before he was able to take a break on a dusty ledge. He allowed himself some water, pressing himself back against the rocks. The temperature was high on this exposed slope. Bolan looked out across the empty landscape. It was all sky. Cloudless. He picked out contrails showing against the blue, wondering who the jets belonged to. Bolan knew there were allied aircraft operating high overhead. U.S.? British? There was no way he could determine which at their great height. Were they on their way to initiate an armed strike, or on their way back to base at the conclusion of their mission?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Four hours in and Bolan was making progress, albeit slow. Reaching a comparatively level section, he rolled into the scant shade of an overhang, placing his back against the hot rock wall. He took his water bottle from its webbing and used a small amount of the warm liquid to moisten his lips. He spit the dusty taste from his mouth and took a couple of sips, just enough to ease his dry throat. Bolan put away the bottle and took the GPS unit from the pocket he’d stored it in. He checked his position and found he had drifted slightly off course. Not by much, but every deviation from the satellite track simply added to his journey time. Bolan figured he could pull himself back on line without too much effort. It was worth a great deal to him right now. He was starting to feel the effects of his climb. Not so much that it would hold him back, but enough to warn him to maintain his steady pace. He used the scarf around his neck to wipe his face, then pulled off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his damp hair. He allowed himself a full ten minutes of rest before pushing to his feet and moving off again.

  Once he built up to his steady pace again he kept a regular check of the GPS and after a half hour he was back on track. He estimated that if he kept up this pace he would reach his destination just before dark.

  The heights Bolan scaled gave way to what was level terrain for Afghanistan—a jumbled maze of baked and dusty rock and brittle vegetation. Bolan had the MP-5 back in his hands as he made his way, according to the GPS, in a direct line for Sharif Mahoud’s location.

  That high up the wind was constant, the fine dust it stirred scratching at his skin. Bolan pulled his scarf across his mouth so he didn’t have to breathe in so much of the fine grit. He kept his MP-5 close to his body, the muzzle angled down and away from the drifting dust.

  His last GPS reading had indicated he was close to his destination. The soldier made his way along a dry streambed, the earth underfoot cracked and broken. There hadn’t been water here for a long time.

  The whisper of sound might easily have been lost in the wind, but Bolan picked it up. To his left and just behind. He turned the MP-5, snapping into position and locating its target as the newcomer mirrored Bolan’s move.

  They faced off, neither man willing to back down, weapons trained on each other, fingers laid against triggers. The only movement the restless flap of the other man’s loose garb, caught by the wind. Bolan saw traditional Afghan dress—sturdy, coarse clothing, a wrapped robe and headdress; strong boots for comfortable travel across the harsh terrain; a belt around the man’s waist with a holstered, modern autopistol and a curved knife; in his strong brown hands an AK-47. Above the neatly bearded face keen eyes surveyed Bolan with unblinking calm.

  Bolan knew the face from the photographs he had seen in Brognola’s files.

  Dr. Sharif Mahoud, the man he had come to meet. But not dressed the way his photograph had shown him.

  It was Mahoud who broke the silence.

  “Tell me how you see the Koran.”

  “It presents the true believer with the peaceful path he should walk. Not as a handbook of war and injustice.”

  The password phrase Mahoud and the U.S. President had decided on.

  Mahoud’s eyes remained steady. His gaze penetrated the outer man, looking down into Bolan’s soul. The moment passed. The muzzle of the AK lowered a fraction and Mahoud’s shoulders relaxed.

  “You are Cooper?”

  “Yes, Dr. Mahoud.”

  “Where is Azal?”

  “Most likely dead. We were betrayed by a man named Shehan. He must have been in the pay of your enemies. We had been attacked by a roving group of Taliban and had to retreat. Azal took us through the hills and we lost the Taliban, but Shehan turned on Azal and stabbed him before I could stop him. Azal knew he couldn’t keep up with me, so he chose to hold off any Taliban. He stayed behind to give me time.”

  “Azal was a good friend. Then how did you find me, Cooper?”

  Bolan showed the GPS unit.

  “Azal gave me this. Told me it would lead me to you.”

  “This man Shehan?”

  “He won’t be killing anyone else.”

  Mahoud turned, beckoning Bolan to follow him. They walked along the dry bed for a couple hundred yards before Mahoud turned abruptly and led Bolan through tangled scrub, emerging at what looked very much like a narrow slit in the dry streambed. He pushed his way through, Bolan close behind, and after a few feet they emerged in a small clearing with a cave entrance on on
e side.

  Inside, the head-high cave proved to be surprisingly expansive. Mahoud was equipped with relatively few belongings: a bedroll and blankets, a few cooking items, a sturdy backpack.

  “As you see, I travel light.”

  “Makes it easy to move on.”

  “Dangerous times force us to desperate measures.”

  Bolan eyed the AK-47 in Mahoud’s grasp.

  “So I see.”

  “I am not by nature a violent man, Mr. Cooper. By the same token I am also not stupid. If someone makes an attempt to harm me, or a member of my family, I will defend myself.” Mahoud made a vague gesture with the AK. “To the extent of using this.” He smiled wistfully. “So much for the man of peace.”

  “Denying yourself the right to live is no answer,” Bolan said. “It benefits no one.”

  “Except my enemy.” Mahoud smiled, a weary expression that betrayed his sadness, his dismay at how the region and its people were trapped in the mire of religious and political intolerance. It was a state that had kept the country at war, struggling through years of deprivation and suffering, violence and mistrust. “Afghanistan is once again the prize that others struggle over. Its people are the real victims. Pushed back and forth by the different groups, each working its own agenda. Then the foreign powers who come here and tell us they will liberate us. Make us free so we can plan our own destiny. The destiny of Afghanistan lies in the hands of our invaders. It has been this way for so many decades it is hard to remember when the country was its own master.

  “Tell me, Mr. Cooper, how will Afghanistan ever break free from the imposition of those who come here and decide our fate? Who say one year that this group are their allies, and the next declare them to be terrorists? First they arm them, give them great supplies of weapons, and then find those very same groups have turned against the Afghan people and are slaughtering them.”

  “I have no answer, Dr. Mahoud. I’m just a soldier sent to protect you and take you to safety. I’m told you are the man who might be able to bring some sanity to this madness. That you have the skills to bring opposing factions to the conference table and get them talking. If that’s true, then it’s worth the risk to enable you to do just that. Someone has to try.”

  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 becaus
e 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.”