Betrayed

by Don Pendleton

  “My son, He did such a thing because He had greater plans for you. Your time had yet to come. Now it has, and if you do His bidding, then your entry into Paradise will be of greater significance. Yusef, accept this gift from God.”

  Masada’s gaze lowered with humility. “If this is your wish, Mullah Homani, then I accept and offer my life if it will accomplish my mission.”

  “Getting close to Mahoud would have been difficult. But I believe I have found a way. We are fortunate to have within our ranks another faithful to the cause who has come back to us. Someone willing to stand next to you in the moment of your triumph.”

  Homani rose and crossed the room to a door at the opposite end. He opened it and beckoned to someone.

  “Yusef, here is your way to Mahoud’s side.”

  Masada raised his eyes and looked on the vision of loveliness he had believed he would never see again. He rose clumsily to his feet, a rare smile crossing his face.

  “For this I will go to Paradise fulfilled,” he said.

  And Raika Mahoud smiled back at him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Carmen Delahunt had been scrolling through the images from Ben Sharon’s camera, moving forward, then back as she studied the high-definition monitor. She was so intent on her task she didn’t notice the time slipping by until Barbara Price came to stand behind her, placing her hands on the high back of the comfortable chair.

  “How about a mug of Aaron’s coffee?” Price said.

  “Yes, that would be nice.”

  “Now I know you’re onto something.”

  Delahunt leaned back, tearing her eyes from the screen and eased her chair around. She took a moment to stretch.

  “Did I just say yes to Aaron’s coffee?”

  Price nodded. “You did.”

  “I need to get out more.”

  “So tell me what’s got your attention.”

  Delahunt took a breath. “Something has been bugging me about these images. I might be imagining it. Take a look yourself and see if you spot what I have.”

  Price pulled a spare seat alongside Delahunt’s and sat.

  “So what am I looking for?”

  “These four shots. All taken within a minute or so of each other. Ignore everyone except for Raika Mahoud and the young bearded guy in white. I’ll show them in order for you.”

  Delahunt keyed in the strokes that would display the shots in order, on a loop. When number four was reached, the display returned to number one again. There was enough of a time delay to allow the viewer a reasonable look at each shot.

  “Take your time,” Delahunt said.

  Price let the display run a few times. Then she began to toggle back and forth. Delahunt could see she was studying the images closely, as she herself had been doing. Finally, Price sat back.

  “He can’t take his eyes off her,” she said.

  “Just what I thought,” Delahunt said.

  “Maybe this is the mysterious boyfriend Mack told us about. I’d better get this to Mack.”

  BOLAN ABSORBED the news in grim silence. “Any other information?”

  Price cleared her throat. “Aaron has had the team working overtime on all the names we’ve come up with. Now we have Mandelson locked in with Hartman, he’s trawling every call and e-mail coming from Hartman’s sources. Electronic chatter is netting us some interesting snippets. Our friend Hartman’s CEO, Roger Dane, keeps popping up. That man is a serious communicator. We can connect him to Ali Asadi, couple of high-flyers from the armament industry and some influential bankers, one of whom has been under investigation for illegal dealing.”

  “Under investigation suggests nothing has been proved yet?”

  “These are slippery guys, Striker. Hartman is a man with connections. He works suspect deals across the board and doesn’t seem to care how many lines he crosses.”

  “The threat of Mahoud’s revelations seems to have unnerved him. He’s been doing his best to suppress it and have Mahoud eliminated.”

  “Nothing like having all your dirty deeds brought into the open to touch a raw nerve.”

  “Keep the guys digging. Anything they come up with, Hal will know how to use.”

  “Do you think Raika Mahoud is going to do something crazy? I just don’t get this deal of hers with Homani.”

  “I’m trying to get a handle on it myself,” Bolan said. “Are we any closer to who leaked the deal between the President and Mahoud?”

  “Uh-uh. Aaron has Hunt on it full-time, but no joy.” Price was referring to Huntington Wethers, a former Berkley professor of cybernetics.

  “Okay. Keep me updated.”

  “One last thing. We isolated this young guy’s face and ran him through facial recognition programs. His name is Yusef Masada. Aaron found a sheet on him in Agency databases.”

  “After asking permission?”

  “Of course,” Price said. “What kind of an outfit do you think we’re running here?”

  “So what did we learn about Masada?”

  “A U.S. raid launched missiles that hit off target. Masada was the only survivor. He was badly burned and spent months in recovery. It appears our friend Mullah Homani was a family friend. Took the young man under his wing and brought him into his group. Masada became faithful to the mullah. He spent some time in a training camp where, according to reports, he became proficient in weapons and explosives. He’s wanted on suspicion of being involved in at least three car bombings in Afghanistan and an assassination in Iraq. He’s known to have developed a pathological hatred of anything American. His profile suggest he’s a dangerous individual.”

  “Can you send me a photo image?”

  “It’s already on its way through Sharon’s e-mail link. You watch out for this Masada, Striker.”

  When the image came through Bolan took Sharon aside, showing him the picture. He briefed the Mossad agent on Masada and explained the link between the man and Raika Mahoud.

  “Your people are very perceptive,” Sharon said.

  “They’re usually right when it comes to something like this,” Bolan said. “Homani will use this attraction to his advantage. He’ll get Raika to move Masada in close to her father. Possibly use the pretext Masada is her boyfriend and she’s been with him. Now she’s had a change of heart and wants to bring him to meet her family.”

  “Masada gets close and takes out Mahoud?”

  “Our information told us Masada trained in the use of explosives as well as weapons. What if he shows up wearing a bomb under his clothes?”

  “Homani could persuade him the sacrifice was necessary, a chance for Masada to earn his entry into Paradise.” Sharon glanced across the apartment where Mahoud and his family were seated. “If Masada succeeded, he could wipe out the whole family. And if Raika is with him?”

  “We discussed this before, Ben. If Raika has joined Homani, she might well be willing to sacrifice herself to fulfill his wishes.”

  Sharon scrubbed a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration.

  “My God, this gets worse.”

  “Nature of the beast,” Bolan said. “We need to find where Homani has Raika and this Masada before they decide to do anything.”

  “I’ll get the word out to all my contacts,” Sharon said.

  “I’m still hoping Mandelson might come through. Thin chance but it might happen.”

  “The man has few options left.”

  BOLAN TRIED TO REST. Until they came up with answers, there wasn’t much else he could do. He was on a brief stand-down now that the Mahoud family had been moved out of Sharon’s apartment and taken to the U.S. Embassy. Through Brognola, Bolan’s request had been passed to the President. Agreeing to the decision, the President had called the ambassador and requested Mahoud and his family be escorted there, where they would stay until the time of the conference.

  Mahoud had been clearly disappointed that Bolan was stepping aside, but he understood the choice of location. In truth he was grateful that his wif
e and daughter would be safer at the embassy.

  “Will I see you at the conference?”

  Bolan smiled. “I expect so. Someone needs to cover your back.”

  “It has been an interesting time, Matt Cooper. And a privilege. I owe you a great deal. I owe you my life.”

  “If I recall, you did a great deal of covering my back out there, Reef.”

  “Thank you for my family.”

  “Your family can speak for itself,” Leila said. She put her arms around Bolan and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you. Stay safe, Matthew Cooper.”

  Amina cried unashamedly as she clung to Bolan. He held her in his arms as she touched his cheek.

  “Try not to get hurt anymore,” she said. “You do seem to fall down a lot and get cuts and bruises.”

  Bolan couldn’t resist a wide grin at that.

  “I will try to avoid that, young lady.”

  “And see if you can find Raika,” the girl said. “Tell her she should come back home. And bring her boyfriend, too, if she wants. Even though she is a pain, I do miss her.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  Bolan kept recalling Amina’s final request. He understood the feeling behind it, but he was still doubtful any reconciliation was on the books.

  He tried to get some sleep, but it was hard to get there. It seemed he had only closed his eyes for a moment when his cell rang. Bolan sat up as he recognized Corey Mandelson’s voice.

  “One hour.” He gave Bolan a location in the city. “Just you. Anyone else and I walk away. No games, Cooper. I might be a loser in this but I know my job. I’ll spot any backup. You want Masada and the girl, do what I ask. No games.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Bolan was at the rendezvous point early. He paid the driver and stepped out of the cab. It swung around and disappeared the way it had come. The sky was heavy with storm clouds and rain started to fall as he made his way along the narrow, deserted sidewalk. Long-established antique and art shops lined the street, though they were not doing much business at the moment. Bolan turned up the collar of his coat.

  The crooked line of the street segued into a small church just before it curved off to the right. Bolan spotted the low stone wall that bounded the entrance to the church grounds. It had an arched stone frame formed above the wooden gates. A figure hunched in a tan trench coat stood beneath the arch, water dripping from the stone overhead.

  It was Mandelson. He had a cigarette in his mouth, and he was dragging on it heavily.

  “I know, they’re bad for my health,” Mandelson said as Bolan reached him. “Doesn’t seem to matter much now.”

  He thrust his hand into one of the trench coat pockets and took out a slim flash drive. He handed it to Bolan who dropped it in his inside pocket.

  “It’s all on there. Location of Homani’s retreat, as he calls it. The son of a bitch uses the place for recruiting followers. They get the full indoctrination there. Go in wide-eyed and full of hope, come out the other side card-carrying extremists just itching to earn their tickets to Paradise.”

  “Is that what happened to Raika Mahoud?”

  “Did it ever. She came ready to denounce her dear daddy as a spawn of the devil. A puppet of American culture. That girl carried so much hate for what Mahoud’s doing. She was already halfway turned on day one. It must have been like Christmas and New Year rolled into one for Homani. Sharif Mahoud’s precious daughter. He gave her the full treatment and she lapped it up. Couldn’t listen to enough of his propaganda. By the time she went back home Raika was all fired up. She would have done anything Homani wanted.”

  Mandelson dropped his cigarette butt and fired up a fresh one.

  “Raika is the one sending information about Mahoud’s locations?” Bolan asked. “Using her cell to set her father up?”

  “Smart girl,” Mandelson said. “Homani and Asadi worked on her really well. The spying work was her first mission. She picked up on the details about Mahoud’s deal with the U.S. President. He told his family what he had arranged, so Raika had the information straight from her own daddy. Even knew your name. When they all went to Afghanistan she was phoning in regularly with everything Mahoud talked about. When you picked the family up in Afghanistan and took them to the Army base, she called in and told Homani just where you all were.”

  Mandelson paused to drag on his cigarette.

  And it was then the first bullet struck him in the chest. It was a heavy caliber that burned its way through and blew out a hole between Mandelson’s shoulders on exit. The sound of the shot filled Bolan’s ears as he saw the CIA man twist away from him, his face rigid with shock. Before Mandelson’s knees had started to buckle, three more shots hammered at his body, each one capable of inflicting a fatal injury. As Mandelson fell, another shot sent a slug screaming past Bolan as he threw himself away from the bullet-ravaged target. This slug hit the wooden gate, blowing chunks of timber into the air. More shots followed, but Bolan had swung around the side of the archway and dived over the low wall. He struck the rain-sodden lawn on the other side, pulling his body to the base of the wall, his right hand working inside his coat to unlimber the Beretta.

  Mandelson was down and there was no point in checking him. The shooter had known what he was doing. His shots had been well placed. Fired for maximum effect, the slugs had ensured Mandelson wouldn’t be walking away from the attack.

  More shots slammed into the stone wall, confirming that the shooter wanted his second target now.

  Mack Bolan.

  With the 93-R set for triple bursts, Bolan moved along the wall until he could risk a low-profile look. Recalling Mandelson’s position when the first shot struck, Bolan figured the angle. The most likely shooting spot was a narrow alley between two of the shops some way back along the street. The rain made it hard to get a clear view into the shadowed alley.

  He waited, wondering if the shooter had moved away now Mandelson was down.

  He wiped that thought.

  The guy was still out there, biding his time and hoping Bolan made the first mistake. Mistakes were what often ended this kind of situation. One of the opposing parties got tired of waiting. Or figured it was safe to come out.

  Time was running out for both of them. Though the street was empty, due in part to the rain, Bolan felt sure someone inside one of the shops had called the police. It wouldn’t be too long before the cops showed up. Bolan didn’t want to get involved with the local law. French police tended to be a feisty bunch, prone to lots of shouting and brandishing pistols that came with obligatory itchy trigger-fingers. And the French authorities became very belligerent toward foreigners indulging in unlawful shooting matches on the streets.

  Bolan glanced over his shoulder. Beyond the squat gray bulk of the church tall trees filled the area. If he could get himself lost in the timber he might be able to slip away and lose the shooter. Bolan saw no profit staying where he was. He had no hot desire to become involved with the shooter and his heavy artillery.

  Between Bolan and the church building were a straggling number of headstones sticking up from the grassed area. They were large enough to provide cover. He could use them to work his way to the church itself, then move along the side and into the trees.

  With his mind made up Bolan pushed away from the wall, staying as low as he could. It worked for the first few yards, but it made moving awkward.

  The shooter, seeing his target backing off, opened up with a volley of shots that cleared the low wall and burned air over Bolan’s head. He reached the first set of headstones, slipping behind as slugs began to smash against the weatherworn stone, blowing sharp chips into the air.

  As the shots faded into silence, Bolan chanced a look back and saw the dark figure coming across the street, heading for the church.

  Shooting on the move with a big rifle wasn’t conducive to accurate results. Bolan decided to use that fact to cover him. He pushed his feet under him, rose and powered away from cover. He had gained a few yard
s when the thunder of the shooter’s weapon reached him. The slug clipped the headstone he was passing. Bolan felt something slice across the back of his left hand, leaving a stinging reminder. He spotted a solid-looking headstone in his path and vaulted over it, turning and dropping into its cover.

  Raising his head, Bolan saw the dark-clad figure slide to a halt, raising his rifle. The guy was well inside the Beretta’s range now. Bolan braced his wrists on the top of the headstone, tracking in quickly.

  The rifle fired. The large-caliber slug passed through Bolan’s jacket at shoulder level without touching flesh.

  Bolan’s finger stroked the 93-R’s light trigger and it spit a 3-round burst. The 9 mm Parabellum rounds were on target. The rifle shooter stepped back, his eyes wide in the pale blur of his face. The rifle sagged. Bolan hit him with two more triple bursts and the shooter fell stiff-legged onto his back, the rifle jerking from his slack grip.

  Upright, Bolan slid the Beretta back into its holster and closed his coat. Now he could hear the approaching sound of sirens. It was time to leave. He turned and made his way down the side of the church, moving into the trees where the shadows swallowed him.

  The Executioner was moving on. The end of his mission was in sight now. Just one more phase to complete.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Loire Valley was a region of natural beauty, vineyards and an almost pastoral tranquility. Mack Bolan had made the trip from Paris to confront one of the many faces of evil. His thoughts were far removed from anything the Loire might offer.

  Mandelson’s data had described the route and what they would find at the end of the journey.

  The retreat, based on an old farm estate, was described as a place of peace and harmony, where the words of Islam could be contemplated in restful surroundings. The first part was correct. The house and outbuildings were original structures, the stone and timbers worn with age. The farm stood in extensive lands, surrounded by green fields, timber and a thin stream winding its way down from low hills. The farm stood isolated, the closest neighbor over three miles away.