Betrayed. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 one 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 СКАЧАТЬ