He found it when he was approached by Roger Dane and drawn into the world headed by Daniel Hartman. Mandelson was aware of Hartman. The man had a reputation and his activities were observed by the agency. Hartman was surrounded by powerful, influential figures from government and military, each with their own reasons for keeping the man protected. In return Hartman saw to it that any friends were well treated. Mandelson let himself be sucked in. It all seemed so easy. The advantages of being under Hartman’s wing began to pay off quickly and Mandelson’s personal circumstances became more than tolerable. He was discreet nonetheless, understanding that suddenly displaying his new status would immediately arouse suspicions, and Langley would have pounced on anything they could use to discredit him.
Eighteen months on and Mandelson was well and truly part of Hartman’s organization. He was able to supply Hartman with useful information regarding political situations in Europe and the Middle East. Swathes of information came through the Paris station, from various sources. It would be out, analyzed and forwarded to Langley. From time to time Hartman would request data financial information that involved Europe and the UK, Russia and her former satellites. He also had an insatiable appetite for news on strategic flashpoints. Mandelson understood Hartman’s interest here. The man was involved in armament production. The supply of ordnance. Hartman realized no boundaries. Weapons were weapons. If there was a market, he would supply. The same went for Hartman’s interest in natural resources. Oil. Minerals. Mining rights. The list was endless. The people Hartman had within his circle were the faceless fat cats who profited from the misery and suffering of others.
Mandelson quickly allowed himself to become absorbed into that society. The money piling up in his accounts was all the incentive he needed.
When he was asked to assist in the Mahoud matter, Mandelson agreed readily. He had heard about the man and his dedication to striving for some kind of peace initiative. Hartman had pointed out that Mahoud was liable to upset a very profitable apple cart if he pulled off his ambitious plan. By this time Mandelson was in deep. He couldn’t simply walk away. He understood enough about Mandelson to realize it was not the done thing to desert ship. Hartman’s influence was wide spread. The old phrase “I know people” meant just that with Hartman. The people he had in his pocket were truly powerful. Betray Hartman and all the man had to do was pick up a phone and Corey Mandelson would vanish from the face of the Earth.
At this moment in time Mandelson was caught between two bad choices.
Turn on Hartman—he was dead.
Refuse to help Cooper—that could have the same result. Mandelson was aware of the hell the man had been raising since he had shown up as Mahoud’s protector.
What had started as a pleasant day was rapidly going down the toilet.
“You expect me to go against Daniel Hartman?” Mandelson gave a strangled laugh. “Might as well pull that trigger right now. You realize what a bastard he is? You do not cross Daniel Hartman.”
“I want to find Raika Mahoud. And don’t turn all coy, Mandelson. You know who I’m talking about.”
“How do I know where she is?” he said, still trying a last-minute bluff.
“Because you work for Hartman and he’s in bed with Homani and Asadi, until they decide you’re no longer any use to them. It’s time to look out for yourself, Mandelson. Nobody else will. Right now I’m the only one who can give you some kind of protection. Help me, I help you.”
“How? If you say you worked out that I’ve turned, there’s no way out for me. Once Hartman knows, he’ll have me taken down because I know too much about his operations. Cooper, I’m fucked whichever way I run.”
“Let’s say I won’t take it any farther if you furnish me with information on Homani. Give me that and I’ll walk away. You take your chances with Hartman and your CIA buddies. Best I can do. Play straight with me and I promise I’ll give you a fair run.”
Mandelson considered the offer. It was the best he was about to get. Somewhere along the line someone, somewhere, might catch up with him. He smiled. Might? His days were numbered. But at least Cooper would slip the leash and allow him his last chance.
“Give me time and I’ll call you. We fix a meet. I hand over what you want, then you turn your back and I walk. Deal?”
Bolan nodded. “Deal.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Hartman’s anger manifested itself in a protracted silence. Only Dane understood. He raised a hand to placate Asadi who was working himself toward another argument. Dane gestured and guided Asadi out of the cabin. He closed the door, a nervous smile edging his lips.
“What is going on in there? Why does he just sit and refuse to speak?” Asadi asked.
“How do you express yourself when angry?”
“What?”
“It’s a serious question, Mr. Asadi, sir. How do you show your anger? Frustration?”
“With strong words. I sometimes rage when matters do not reach a satisfactory conclusion. And the way things are progressing right now, you will soon have an example.”
“Yes. When Mr. Hartman is in that state he simply retreats into himself. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t show signs of rage. He remains outwardly calm. Inside he is working out his anger and attempting to reach a solution.”
“And when will he make his decision known to us? Understand me, Dane. I have little patience left. Things are not going well for us. We have lost men and equipment. And still, that damned man, Mahoud, is alive. Hartman and you. Homani and myself. We came together through a common enemy. Each of us wants Sharif Mahoud dead. Removed so that he will not attend the conference and spout his vile words. Yet here we are, only days away from the conference and we are unable to stop Mahoud. It would not amaze me if I saw that rabble-rouser walking on water. Something needs to be done and quickly. Now we learn that Mandelson has turned away. Seen with the man Cooper. He will not answer his phones. Stays out of sight. For all we know he may have given Cooper important information that could place us all in danger. No, this is not acceptable any longer. If Hartman cannot bring matters under control, I will sever our ties and make my own decisions.”
Dane could understand Asadi’s reluctance to carry on the way things were going. The man controlled a large group of dissidents. His own power and status was substantial. He was a formidable ally, and he would be a devastating enemy. Asadi’s record when it came to terror attacks was impressive, and before the recent death of Mohan Bouvier, his intelligence network was the envy of many cells. If they lost Asadi, the effects would be dire as far as Hartman’s Middle East operations were concerned. He held great sway across a wide area. Asadi’s word meant a great deal to those who saw the continuing fight the only way to achieving their aims.
Asadi was astute enough to know that Sharif Mahoud’s words could have such an effect, too, but in an opposite direction. Mahoud talked peace. He talked cooperation between factions. A resolution of old feuds. He was a superb orator, able to command respect when he stood in front of an audience. It was that ability to draw in the crowd and point out to them the futility of endless conflict, the destruction of communities and the misuse of religion and politics. Asadi feared the strength of Mahoud’s arguments, the man’s ability to persuade his listeners to at least consider an alternative. He was also concerned over the evidence Mahoud had gathered that might expose the transgressions of individuals attending the conference. Any underhand tricks, concealed deals between parties, anything that might suggest secretive alliances between groups or individuals would create a situation Mahoud could grasp and use to his advantage.
And Corey Mandelson’s undesirable behavior wasn’t helping things.
“Mr. Hartman is endeavoring to ensure the ongoing matters turn in our favor,” Dane stated. “We must allow him his time to make his decisions. Do you understand, Asadi?”
“I understand that all the grand talk and gestures have not exactly worked out. We are no further forward than we were when we s
tarted. That is what I understand, and that is what concerns.”
Asadi turned and gestured to one of his bodyguards. He spoke to the man in his own language, denying Dane any way of knowing what he was saying. The bulky man nodded, then walked away.
“I will be returning to the Cannes,” Asadi said. “Contact me if your Mr. Hartman reaches his decision. I will be at my hotel.”
“If that is what you wish. You are more than welcome to remain on board. Crescent Moon is always at your disposal.”
Asadi’s smile was icy, words just as bitter. “There is a certain truth in the saying ‘keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.’ Perhaps a little distance will allow Mr. Hartman an opportunity to reflect on that.”
He walked away, descending the companionway to the lower deck. Leaning on the rail, Dane watched as the Crescent Moon’s motorboat pulled away and headed for the harbor.
Now what was Asadi up to? And what the hell did he mean about friends and enemies?
Unfortunately the man had been correct in his summation of their combined efforts at containing Mahoud. From Afghanistan to Paris, Sharif Mahoud had evaded them. Even his incarceration in the Taliban camp had come to nothing. The American, Cooper, had broken Mahoud out and they had escaped, taking on the teams sent to deal with them.
Was Asadi pulling out of the deal? Deciding to go on his own?
If he did, Hartman wasn’t going to like it. The truth was, they had no real control over Asadi or Homani. They had come together in the face of a common enemy—Mahoud. They all had their reason for eliminating the man. He represented a real threat with his damned peace accord. Plus the added complication of his secret information. That meant different things to them all. Power over the individuals who might be politically and religiously affected by exposure. The ability to force them to toe the line by whoever held that information. There were a number of possibilities.
Hartman, Homani and Asadi all had their eye on the brass ring. Each had his own agenda, and their alliance was now starting to crumble.
Dane made his way to the main cabin. He saw Hartman raise a hand. He went inside and crossed to face his employer.
“I heard the boat leave. Has someone gone ashore?”
“I’m afraid it was Asadi. He decided to return to his hotel. There were matters that needed his attention. Daniel, he’s not happy. He sees the situation as a disaster.”
Hartman smiled. “My feeling is Asadi doesn’t have the vision to see this through.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“Doing what we’re good at. Sorting out problems, in our own, or someone else’s backyard.” Hartman smiled. “Don’t look like that, Roger, we’re not down and out yet.”
“We lost the advantage of having Mahoud’s son as a bargaining chip.”
“But we still have other aces to play. If Asadi wants to opt out and do it his way, he might succeed and we still get what we want. In the meantime we move on.”
“What do we do about Mandelson? If he does have a terminal change of heart, he could cause us problems.”
Hartman nodded his agreement. “I think our best option here would be to cut all links with him. Have everything we’ve ever done where he’s linked wiped from databases. Same with the money he’s been paid. Have it taken off the books.”
“And Mandelson?”
Hartman smiled his empty smile. “I’ll look for his obituary in the newspapers. Very soon.”
Dane reached for the phone. “Decourt is available.”
“Good. Before you call, arrange for us to fly back home. Coming here to cement relations with our Middle Eastern friends hasn’t quite achieved the results I was hoping for. And the way responses have been working against us, I don’t want to wake up and find we have an unwelcome guest in the form of that man Cooper. Time we returned to our native soil, Roger.”
It was the best news Dane had heard all week. He preferred the U.S. to these foreign countries. In these days of electronic business dealing there was no reason they had to be on the spot. It was entirely possible to fix their deals and screw the asses off their associates while sitting in New York or Miami.
The thought of returning home cheered Dane and he was almost humming as he walked up on deck. Leaning against the rail, he turned on an unused, disposable cell phone and tapped in a number.
His call was answered on the third ring.
“Jason, I’m going to arrange for a courier to deliver something to you. Usual rates and procedures will apply.”
“Time scale?”
“Immediate. This is important.”
“Understood.”
The line clicked dead.
Dane methodically stripped down the cell, snapping the SIM card and dropping all the items over the rail into the water. He turned back to the cabin and went to his office where he put together the information, including photographs, that he was about to courier to Jason Decourt.
“Can’t say it’s been much of a pleasure, Corey,” he murmured to himself. “What the hell. You’re going to die a rich man.”
He found that amusing and was still chuckling over it hours later.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Mullah Wazir Homani had remained within his private study for most of the day. He made several telephone calls, none of which gave him the answers he wanted. He deliberated, made his decisions. After his midday prayers he called in his most devoted follower, an intense, lean young man named Yusef Masada.
Masada, as always, wore a white robe and skull cap. His serious demeanor was more than simply his utter devotion to Homani and God. The young man was the only survivor of an attack by American bombers that had mistakenly targeted the family home. Pulled from the rubble after three days, Masada hadn’t been expected to live. Severely injured, his body terribly burned, though his face and hands had not been touched, he spent long months in hospital. His recovery had been slow, but his faith and the ministrations of Wazir Homani, a longtime family friend, had helped him pull through. Once recovered Masada had joined Homani, devoting his life to the mullah’s cause and was constantly at his side. He never questioned Homani, saw only the positive in everything the mullah said or did.
He stood at Homani’s desk, looking down on the man he respected with every fiber of his being. Homani indicated he sit on one of the chairs.
“I should not sit in your presence, sir,” the bearded young man said reverently.
“Am I not your master, Yusef?”
“Of course, Mullah Homani.”
“And my word is always to be obeyed?”
“Without question,” Masada replied.
Homani spread his hands. “Then sit.”
Masada did what he was ordered.
“You have been following the events of recent weeks?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must be aware that my association with Asadi and the American, Hartman, have not produced the results we expected.”
“Any association with Americans is bound by God’s grace to fail. They are desecrators of every aspect of life. Corrupt. Without honor, or humility.”
Homani allowed the young man his say. He wanted, needed, Masada’s revulsion at the mere mention of anything American. His sheer hatred fueled the fire of his loathing.
“That was my first mistake. I am aware of Hartman’s influence. His ability to supply material things we need. He also has widespread connections within our communities. I would have been a fool not to have taken advantage. We must allow ourselves to use the capitalist society to give us things we cannot obtain so easily. Once that has been accomplished, the Americans will be cast aside as dirt from beneath our shoes.”
This time Masada didn’t speak. He might have disapproved of any kind of connection with Americans, but he was wise enough not overstep the mark in front of the mullah.
Homani let the silence drift for a moment.
“I see now that Hartman, for all his wealth and power, was not the man to solve our pro
blem.”
“Sharif Mahoud?”
Homani nodded. “Yes. We both understand the need to eliminate Mahoud. The man’s views are dangerous, as we know. His appearance at the forthcoming conference would generate unrest. He is a clever man, I cannot diminish that. His rhetoric could easily sway many of the delegates toward his views, and if that occurs, much of my own influence would be weakened. And we are not unaware that Mahoud is in league with the Americans. Even the U.S. President has sanctioned Mahoud’s presence at the conference. Even to the extent of sending one of his infamous assassins, this man Cooper, to assist Mahoud.”
Masada’s head rose sharply and for a moment he seemed ready to rise from his seat. A gentle movement of Homani’s hand calmed him.
“I may be getting old, Yusef, but my senses have not been dulled. The power of words is great. Simply observe how they spring from the pages of the Koran and bestow their truths on our faithful. In his own way, Sharif Mahoud holds that strength within his words, though he mouths those words as instructed by the infidels.”
“Then he must be stopped,” Masada said.
Homani nodded, seeing the interest gleaming in the younger man’s eyes. He leaned forward across the desk, eager to keep the momentum of the moment.
“Yes. Mahoud must be silenced permanently. And I believed the honor should go to you, Yusef.”
“You consider me worthy of accepting such a task, Master? I am less than nothing. When my family died, I was not considered worthy enough to enter Paradise. God looked on me and turned me from the gates.”
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