Betrayed

by Don Pendleton

  “Ben.”

  Sharon smiled and reached out to take Bolan’s hand. Then he caught the proprietor’s eye.

  “Two black coffees, please,” Sharon said in French. He then noted the bruises on Bolan’s face. “Still attracting the wrong kind of people?”

  “It’s something I do.”

  “I remember.”

  “As I recall, you’re not above a little of it yourself.”

  They halted their conversation as the coffee arrived.

  “Merci,” Bolan said.

  “Can you talk about your involvement with Sharif Mahoud?”

  Bolan related the events that had occurred since his arrival in Afghanistan, bringing Sharon up to date with the attack at the château.

  “It’s no secret Mahoud has attracted plenty of opposition. His intention to head the peace accord has sent resistance sky-high. He’s placed himself and his family on the firing line. I can’t fault their courage. I only hope it doesn’t end badly.”

  “In the time I’ve spent with them it isn’t hard to see they’re united in backing him. The only one who doesn’t seem one hundred percent is the elder daughter, Raika. I can’t put my finger on it yet, but she seems to stand back from it all.”

  “I guess it must be hard on them. Having to put their lives on hold because of Mahoud’s cause.”

  “One of our people is on the son’s case. Rafiq Mahoud attends a college in California. He went to pick him up and found out Rafiq had been snatched. It was a setup. He was lured away by a young woman, then grabbed. The last we heard was that our guy had tracked them down. After that, nothing.”

  “The boy’s been taken to be used as leverage?”

  “Seems most likely.”

  “Did Mahoud give you any names who could be behind these attacks?” Sharon queried.

  “The main suspect is Wazir Homani.”

  Sharon nodded. “One of Mahoud’s main opponents, a real hardass who’s radical down to the tips of his shoes. Mossad has a file on him. His favorite rants include Israel, the U.S. and Western society in general. The man loves the sound of his own voice. He encourages his followers to give their lives in the name of God, and tells them all to take up the struggle while he stays in comparative safety behind his personal bodyguards. Never moves without them. They travel around in a bombproof Mercedes.”

  “Mahoud understands the resistance and won’t allow it to put him off. He regrets the way his family has been sucked right into the danger zone. It places him in a dilemma. I feel for him, Ben. He wants to do the right thing but is aware it could cost him dearly.”

  “You seem to be handling things fine, Matt.”

  “Facing off against the opposition isn’t the problem. Figuring out what’s in the background, in the shadows, isn’t.”

  “We seem to be running along close lines here,” Sharon said. “I’m chasing down Mohan Bouvier. One of his operations looks to be centered around Mahoud.”

  “Suggests a home visit might be helpful,” Bolan said.

  “Just what I was about to recommend.”

  “BOUVIER LIVES on the third floor, the apartment on the corner that you can see from here.”

  “Does he live alone?” Bolan asked.

  “He has a young woman he dates when he’s in Paris. He never brings her to the apartment, however. He goes to her. She lives across the city.”

  “She’s not involved in what he does?”

  “No. I ran checks on her. Very solid French upbringing, though not a very active political animal.”

  “You make that sound unusual.”

  Sharon grinned. “You should understand the French are normally well into politics. Why do you think lunch takes hours to get through?”

  “I’ll take your word for it, Ben.” Bolan eased the Beretta from its holster and checked it. “Does Bouvier keep protection close?”

  “Sometimes a couple of heavies. It looks as if at least one of them could be on duty today. The dark blue Citroën parked at the entrance is his.”

  “I don’t have time to wait for him to leave, Ben. We need to do this now.”

  “No problem,” Sharon said. “Third floor. Apartment twenty-three. I’ll go around the back in case there’s a second one there. If you go in, leave the door off the latch.”

  The rain persisted, splashing off the street and making a fine mist at ground level. Bolan saw Sharon slip into the alley next to the apartment building. He stayed on course and pushed his way through the entrance door, which took him into the lobby. As he crossed the lobby Bolan saw the small ground-floor apartment usually occupied by the building’s concierge was closed and shuttered. The age-old tradition provided by the usually formidable female guardians was dying out. In this instance the absence of the concierge made Bolan’s entry easy.

  He took the stairs, his soft-soled boots making no sound. Bolan took out the Beretta and held it against his thigh, muzzle down. He didn’t want to cause any alarm if he encountered one of the building’s occupants. He reached the second floor without incident. The only sound he heard was a door closing along the corridor at the far end of the building. Stepping onto the third-floor landing, Bolan edged to the angled turn of the corridor that would lead him to Bouvier’s door. The corridor was carpeted, and softly lit from sconces. A window at the extreme end would look out over the alley Sharon had chosen. Bolan guessed there would be a fire escape leading up the rear outside wall.

  Bolan spotted the door to number twenty-three, and approached it cautiously. Before he had taken more than a couple of steps he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A dark-suited figure lunged around the angle of the corridor, coming straight for him. The guy was as tall as the American, and broad across the shoulders. Bolan’s attention went to the knife that appeared from beneath the man’s jacket. He held it confidently, closing on Bolan with deceptive speed despite his bulk.

  The way the attacker held the knife told Bolan he was going for a crippling gut sweep. The Beretta in Bolan’s hand arced up, but as fast as he was, the other guy reacted with surprising speed. His left arm swatted around and his large fist knocked the Beretta up out of harm’s way. The pistol fell from Bolan’s fingers as he concentrated on the gleaming blade as it swept in toward his lower torso, clamping his hand around the thick wrist and pushing the blade aside. He swiveled, his back to his attacker, and slammed his right elbow up and back, connecting with the guy’s face.

  The blow was hard, snapping the guy’s head back, blood streaming from a torn lip. The guy grunted, reached out and curled his free arm around Bolan’s neck. The soldier snapped his chin down against his chest, preventing a throat hold. For a moment they were poised motionless, until Bolan hooked the guy’s right foot with his own, yanked hard and took it off the floor. Left on one leg, the guy lost his balance as the Executioner thrust back. They toppled, Bolan on top, and slammed to the carpeted floor.

  The attacker grunted on impact, the arm around his neck slackening. Bolan drove his elbow into the guy’s face, once, then again as bone cracked. The man cried out, drawing air into his lungs. Bolan struck again. For a few seconds the guy went limp. Rolling, Bolan twisted the knife arm, gripping it with his free hand, and pulled it across his hip, adding hard pressure until bone cracked. The knife slipped from nerveless fingers. Bolan snatched it up, pushing to his feet. As he stepped away from his attacker, the guy used his good arm to push himself into a sitting position, gathering his legs beneath him as he began to rise. The Executioner steadied himself, then swung his right foot in a brutal kick that thudded against the guy’s exposed jaw. Blood erupted from his mouth as his head was whipsawed back. The force of the blow spun him across the floor and he slammed into the base of the wall.

  Bolan retrieved the Beretta. He turned to the apartment door again, his thoughts concentrated on getting inside. He needed to learn just how detailed Bouvier’s knowledge of Mahoud was, who the man’s contacts were.

  He raised his right foot and slammed it against t
he door, level with the handle. Wood cracked and the door flew wide. Bolan went in fast, viewing the large, high-ceilinged room. Little furniture, tall windows, a desk holding computer and telephones.

  And four men.

  Two were standing, while a third leaned over the desk. The pair on its feet already turned in his direction, their hands reaching for the pistols under their jackets.

  The fourth man was seated at the desk, his eyes staring across the room at Bolan. He seemed transfixed, unable to grasp what was happening.

  Ben Sharon came into the room behind Bolan, a Desert Eagle filling his hand as he kicked the door shut behind him.

  The moment broke.

  Sharon triggered his handgun, the .44 thundering as it sent a slug into the closest of the hardmen. Blood spurted from between his shoulders as the heavy slug burst free.

  As the guy went down Bolan turned the Beretta on his partner, a 3-round burst hitting his target chest-high, toppling him facedown onto the hardwood floor.

  The guy at the side of the desk went for the SIG-Sauer in front of him. Bolan and Sharon fired in the same instant, their combined shots spinning the guy off his feet. He crashed to the floor in a welter of bloody debris.

  Bolan focused the 93-R on the man behind the desk, whose right hand was moving toward the keyboard of his laptop.

  “If you want to lose those fingers,” Bolan said, “just keep moving that hand.”

  Sharon headed to the desk. He slammed his foot against the swivel chair and shoved away it and its occupant. The chair rolled across the floor and came to a stop against the window frame.

  “Meet Mohan Bouvier,” Sharon said. “This is the man who arranged the hit on your safehouse. He’s also responsible for countless deaths across the Middle East, Europe and Israel. One of your backroom warriors who send others to do his dirty work for him.”

  “My work is for God,” Bouvier said.

  “I forgot,” Sharon said. “These cowards always hide behind religion to justify their deeds.”

  “We fight the jihad. In many ways.”

  “What would you do without your blessed jihad, the excuse to slaughter and maim in the name of God.”

  “Your blasphemy will not stop us,” Bouvier said.

  Sharon smiled as he leveled the Desert Eagle. “I can stop you, Bouvier.”

  “Then I will enter Paradise.”

  Sharon shook his head in weary resignation. “How can you talk to people like these? Rivers of honey and endless virgins.”

  Bolan was at the desk, switching off the laptop and pocketing the cell phone Bouvier had set beside it.

  “If you don’t want to end up in paradise, as well, Ben, we should get the hell out of here before the French cops show up. I’ve got all I need here. He isn’t about to tell us anything and we don’t have time to interrogate him.”

  Sharon nodded, turning away to follow as Bolan made for the door with the laptop. As Bolan reached the door something made him turn. He was in time to see Sharon track the Desert Eagle in on Bouvier. The Mossad agent triggered a pair of .44s that practically sheared off the top of Bouvier’s skull, spreading bloody matter across the wall and window.

  “Now we’ve both got what we came for,” he said, and followed Bolan from the apartment.

  “You have any problems getting in?” Bolan asked.

  “No. I left the one downstairs unconscious. He’ll have a hell of a headache when he comes around.”

  “And some explaining to do,” Bolan said.

  They holstered their weapons as they descended the stairs. Surprisingly there was little in way of alarmed responses to the shooting. Perhaps, Bolan figured, the inhabitants of Paris had learned to stay out of harm’s way in such matters. Civilians could do very little in the face of armed aggression. The only sure thing was they might get shot themselves. Self-preservation had become the watchword. Bolan couldn’t truthfully blame them.

  Nor, he found, did he have much criticism for Sharon’s actions. The man was carrying out his agency’s mandate. Israel’s Mossad had always made it clear they would exercise the ultimate penalty against their enemies, had always made the option clear to the world. In their eyes Israel was fighting an out-and-out struggle against those who denounced the nation and its people. It was a war that had been going on for a long time, and Israel showed no weakness when it came to dealing with combatants.

  At the street exit Bolan and Sharon stepped outside, crossing to the far side. They walked to their car and climbed in. Sharon fired up the engine and pulled away from the sidewalk. They had driven a couple of blocks before a pair of police cars sped past, sirens wailing and lights flashing.

  “Having Bouvier out of the picture is going to wreck the system for a while,” Sharon said. “As a major facilitator, he linked a great number of cells, had access to funds and suppliers.”

  “Someone else will step in to fill the void,” Bolan said. “It’s going to take a lot more than the removal of one guy to seriously stop these people.”

  Sharon shrugged. “Don’t I know it. But at least today we rattled their cage a little.”

  “Downloading the contents of his laptop might offer us a look at what Bouvier was handling recently.”

  KURTZMAN WAS BEAMING like a kid at Christmas as he looked over the data streaming in from Bouvier’s laptop. Barbara Price leaned over his shoulder, understanding Kurtzman’s almost ecstatic pleasure.

  “Striker, you hit the mother lode here,” he said over the audio link.

  “Anything to keep you happy.”

  “Give me a couple of hours to decipher this clutter.”

  “I need fast results,” Bolan said. “I’m running out of time here.”

  “It’s a priority, Striker.”

  “Heard anything from Ironman yet?”

  “No,” Price said. “No contact. The local law located the cabin. There were signs it was occupied. Rafiq Mahoud’s vehicle was parked outside, along with another 4x4. They’re running a trace on it. They found Carl’s rental parked up a few miles from the place. Oh, and there was blood found inside the cabin, and a number of recently fired shell casings. One of the forest rangers who was called in did find tracks leading away from the cabin and heading into the forest away from the area.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Take care, Striker,” Price said, and closed the connection.

  Bolan handed over the laptop and Sharon set up the computer connection with his Mossad agency and triggered the download.

  Bolan helped himself to a second cup of the rich Moroccan coffee Sharon had made.

  “What’s next for you, Ben?”

  “You need to ask?” Sharon glanced at Bolan. “I’m dealing myself in. And don’t tell me you couldn’t do with an extra pair of hands.”

  Bolan raised his cup in thanks.

  “If Mahoud can work his miracle at the conference, Israel could benefit, as well.”

  Aboard the Crescent Moon

  “SOMEONE PUT two bullets into Bouvier’s head. The team’s dead, as well.”

  Asadi sat back, shock etched across his face.

  Bouvier dead? The man had organized so much for the cause. Bouvier had been the man with all the connections, the knowledge of who and what and how. If he was dead, much of Asadi’s backup died with him. It would take a long time to regain the leverage Bouvier had kept at his fingertips.

  “Whoever made the attack took Bouvier’s laptop and cell phone.”

  Asadi closed his mind to everything else as he sought to make sense of events. The conference was coming up fast and Mahoud still lived. It changed things. Asadi wasn’t quite sure how to make his next move.

  “Still no reports on where Mahoud is now?”

  “No,” the informant said. “He was moved very quickly after the attack at the château, before we had a chance to regroup. No one seems to know where the family is now.”

  “Keep looking,” Asadi said. “If you discover where he is, get directly back to me.”


  After putting away his phone, Asadi left his cabin and made his way to the deck of the Crescent Moon. He needed to report to Mullah Homani. The pretence had to be maintained at least for the present.

  MULLAH WAZIR HOMANI stood at the rail, seeing the activity in the harbor, though his attention wasn’t completely focused on it. His mind was occupied with other matters. Mainly Sharif Mahoud. The man seemed to be leading a charmed life. Over the past few days Mahoud had survived all things directed toward him. He had come through the trek across the Afghan hills to reach safety in the American military base. His family had been brought out, despite the Taliban watch over them, and they had all walked away from the personal attack during the rebel strike at the U.S. base. Since relocating in France, a second attempt to deal with the Mahoud problem had gone disastrously wrong, and the latest report from Paris had informed Homani of the death of Mohan Bouvier.

  It wasn’t the actual death of Bouvier that concerned Homani, but rather the implications behind that death. Mohan Bouvier held knowledge, his contacts, suppliers, cash deposits held in various locations. He had an ability to arrange and organize. All was gone now that the man was dead. Homani regretted the material loss, away and above the demise of the man himself. Human life was cheap. The loss of one man was insignificant. What had rested within Bouvier’s brain was irreplaceable. It was going to take time and effort to rebuild Bouvier’s store of knowledge.

  Time was something Homani was running out of. He had already set a small team of his trusted people the task of trying to rebuild Bouvier’s information bank. It wouldn’t be easy, but they were patient men, faithful servants of God, and they would devote as much time as they needed. The fact that Bouvier’s killers had walked away with his computer meant their work would be so much harder. They would find a way, Homani knew.