Betrayed. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ nodded. “We were born and raised in the same village. We grew up together. Both our families were as one. Our fathers and grandfathers fought against the Russians. We both lost people in the war.” Azal shrugged. “As far as I can remember there has always been some kind of fighting going on. But we survived. We were never wealthy but life could be good.”

      “Mahoud wanted more?” Bolan said.

      “Even as a young man he was unhappy with the fighting, though there were times he had to use a gun to defend what was his. The tribal squabbling saddened him. He wanted changes. Everyone told him it could never happen. Sharif refused to accept that. He started to speak at village councils and traveled all over talking to people. He had a way with words. He sat and discussed matters with politicians and religious leaders. People trusted him. He settled local differences. It was good for him, but he was restless for more change and in the end he went away for almost three years. When he returned, he was different. Still passionate about making things better, but he said staying here wouldn’t allow him to do that. He had been accepted to a place of learning in France, where he could understand the ways of higher learning. It was all too complicated for me to understand. Sharif was away for seven years and the next time he came to the village he brought his wife and children with him.”

      “Was he different then?”

      “Yes, and no,” Azal said. “He was Sharif of the village, but he was also Dr. Sharif Mahoud, a man of the world. A learned man building his reputation as a negotiator. He had written books and articles for magazines. His qualifications allowed him to mix with powerful men and took him around the country and to far places in the Middle East. When he sat in his parents’ house he was one of us again. Everyone was so proud of Sharif. They took to his beautiful wife and their children. But when I watched his face, I knew he would not be staying for long. He had his path to follow and it was not just to be in Afghanistan. When we talked alone, he told me how he needed to travel to other places to do what he could for other oppressed people. To try and bring enemies together and settled differences.

      “From his wife we learned of their other life. An apartment in Paris. Their visits to America and London. The important people they met. His work with government organizations. Sharif has gone far. Has helped many. His friends are all over the world.” Azal raised his hands. “But so are his enemies. He has disturbed many people who are angry at his attempts to make solid peace. For many reasons, Cooper. Money. Power. Religious intolerance. He knows this, but all he does is shrug and say it is something he has to bear.”

      “These enemies are the ones who want him dead?”

      Azal nodded. “Yes. The ones who murdered Jamal Mehet. The same ones who killed the man acting as a decoy. The same ones who tried to disrupt his meetings and forced his wife and children into hiding while Sharif had to seek sanctuary elsewhere.”

      He leaned back, closing his eyes, and rested.

      “We will reach our next place before dark,” he said. “A village I used to know well. It is empty now. You will see what the Taliban is doing to our life.”

      THE VILLAGE had been empty for some time. Azal explained how the Taliban had driven out the occupants, forcing them to clear the village or be wiped out.

      “They wanted to make an example to show how they were in charge. All around here the Taliban has been forcing people to do as they say. Anyone who defies them is either killed or beaten until they are crippled. This is the way the Taliban works. Fear. Violence. Their fighters wage war on women and children, and force the young men to join them, or watch their families be slaughtered. These villagers are poor. They have nothing, no power, so they can be exploited.”

      “So where do they go?”

      Azal shrugged. “Look around, Cooper. Where is there for them to go? Many of them simply vanish into the hills. They hide. Starve. If they are lucky, they make their way to the refugee camps many miles away. Some die on the way there. The Taliban is ripping out the heart of my country because so many refuse to bow to their demands.” The Afghan faced Bolan. “Now ask me why I believe in Sharif Mahoud. Because he is the one man who is prepared to face up to the truths about these people. He is willing stand up to them. Talk with the moderates and face the enemies of Afghanistan. I am simple man, Cooper. Not clever with words, but I would give my life so Sharif Mahoud can speak for me.”

      “For a man who claims he is not clever with words, Rahim, you make your point well.”

      Azal shook his head, smiling briefly.

      “I will make tea. We will rest here overnight.” He turned to indicate the rising wall of the rocky hills behind the village. “Then we have that to climb. And no clever words will make that any easier.”

      “Let’s check out the area. Make sure we have a way to get clear if needed. Too late if we find ourselves boxed in.”

      “Yes. I will show you something I found once before when I was here. It will serve us well.”

      THEY WERE PREPARING to leave a couple of hours after dawn when Bolan picked up the distant sound of a vehicle engine powering its way up the incline leading into the village. The narrow track he and Azal had used bore faint tire impressions, showing past usage by motorized transport. The Afghan was inside one of the empty huts, packing away the gear they had been using.

      “Azal.”

      The Afghan joined him, nodding. “I hear it.”

      “Taliban?”

      “Could be. But the fighters would be less likely to allow themselves be heard in such a way. A vehicle cannot go farther than this place. Your military would only use helicopters if they were coming here.”

      “Wait inside the hut,” Bolan said. “Cover me from there.”

      Azal backed away and stood inside the doorway, hidden in the shadows, while Bolan edged around the corner of the hut.

      The vehicle turned out to be a battered 4WD Land Rover. Bolan couldn’t have guessed how old it was. Despite the outward appearance, the mechanics of the vehicle seemed to be in good shape. It rocked into view over the final rise in the trail and came to a stop near the edge of the steep drop-off. The beat of the engine faded.

      The passenger door opened and a man climbed out, one hand raised to shade his eyes from the glare of the sun. He was of medium height, heavy build, with beefy shoulders. He wore crumpled chinos and a short-sleeved bush shirt. The moment he stepped from the Land Rover the man locked eyes with Bolan, staring at him with a hard gaze. His eyes were shadowed under thick brows, deep set in a lined, unshaved brown face, and he made no attempt to hide his aggressive manner.

      “You guys are off the beaten track,” he said, which was more of an accusation than a query.

      Bolan ignored him. That seemed to annoy the man even more.

      “You hear me?”

      “They can probably hear you in Pakistan,” Bolan said. He hadn’t missed the man’s reference to Bolan not being on his own.

      You guys.

      Whoever he was, the newcomer was sharp. Or he knew more than was apparent.

      “You want something or are you passing through?” Bolan asked.

      “Could СКАЧАТЬ