“Hal, it happens. Raika chose Homani’s way. She was young. He would have played on her weaknesses. No different from Yusef Masada, or any of those others at the farm. They wanted to believe and Homani used that need. At least the President knows he doesn’t have a leak from the White House. Okay?”
Brognola wasn’t entirely satisfied, but he knew when it was time to let something go. After the past week he’d had plenty to chew over, not least the aftermath of the destruction at Homani’s retreat.
Bolan and Sharon had been arrested by the French police. Sharon had been locked up. Bolan, concussed and suffering broken ribs and multiple lacerations, had been secured in a hospital under guard. Despite his being semiconscious for the first couple of days, the police insisted he be shackled to the bed. By the time Brognola heard what had happened Bolan was close to being charged with every crime on the books.
Frantic diplomatic maneuvering took place. When it emerged that Homani had been running an indoctrination facility, discovered by the investigating team from French security, and that a plot against Sharif Mahoud and his family had been under way, the French relented a little. There were still the matters of the deaths preceding the strike at the farm. The hits against the Homani bases in Paris. The street battle between Bolan and the pursuit team. The list seemed to become longer as the wrangling continued.
Sharif Mahoud, a well-respected figure in France, presented himself as a witness. His relating of the incidents in Afghanistan and the subsequent harassment of his family in Paris took a lot of the wind out of the French protests. They were aware of his international standing, plus the upcoming peace conference. Mahoud, using his eloquent words and persuasive manner, promised the French security and the government ministers that his revelations at the conference would clear up much of their reservations. It appeared that on the list of individuals he had there were a number of French citizens, some in government posts, who he could link to Homani and the American Hartman.
It was around this juncture that the American President himself made personal telephone contact with French authorities. The U.S. President managed to get his point across concerning the presence in France of Wazir Homani and Ali Asadi. Both active dissidents. Not France’s finest example of monitoring illegal activities. In the end, still not completely mollified, and stinging at the American President’s subtle reference to the U.S. having to pull France’s ass out of the fire once again, the authorities agreed it would be best if the matter was put aside. Bolan and Sharon would return to their respective countries. The French would liaise with the U.S. Embassy and assist in the transfer of Sharif Mahoud to the upcoming peace conference. The promised revelations Mahoud had dangled in front of the French went a long way to appeasing them.
Ben Sharon, after a brief visit to Bolan’s hospital to say goodbye, was placed on a plane back to Israel. The Mossad agent had completed his mission and had also furnished his department with additional information from the computer files he and Bolan had obtained.
There was a final meeting between Bolan and Mahoud. The man was still in mourning over the death of Raika. Bolan made it as easy as he could for the man. His respect for Mahoud had grown with each day he had spent with him. Ignoring the pain still plaguing him, Bolan had spoken quietly to Mahoud and Amina.
Alone when they left, Bolan drifted in and out of sleep. He remembered very little about the trip from the hospital to the waiting U.S. military plane that flew him home. After touchdown Bolan was transferred to a private clinic where he was treated like a VIP.
“UPDATE, HAL,” Bolan said.
“Aaron and the cyberteam have plenty to work on. Those downloads you sent have exposed a hell of a lot of information about Islamic cells in the Middle East. Some interesting names keep jumping into view. The cell phones you passed along showed calls tying Homani and Asadi to Hartman and his CEO Roger Dane. Corey Mandelson’s data has proved valid, too. Okay, the guy was a son of a bitch, but the stuff he detailed is pointing the finger at a bunch of names.”
“And?”
Brognola smiled. “Hartman is wriggling under the spotlight. The information we extracted linking him to less-than-savory individuals and organizations has been snatched up by every security agency on the list. They’re practically drooling at what they’ve been fed. Hartman’s legal army is working overtime trying to fend off indictments. He’s sinking in the water.” Brognola’s face became wreathed in a wide smile at the expression.
“Okay, I bite, Hal. Just don’t make me laugh. It still hurts.”
“I meant to tell you. Hartman’s multimillion-dollar motor cruiser, Crescent Moon, was sunk yesterday. An explosion below the waterline while she was in Cannes harbor.” He shrugged. “No one is claiming responsibility but I think it was a parting gift from the Mossad now that they know Hartman has been supplying rockets to Hamas.”
“Hope he’s insured.”
“French security identified the shooter who took down Mandelson. Jason Decourt. Professional assassin according to their dossier. Decourt was on a Wanted list for a number of killings throughout Europe. There’s a lot to sort out of all this, but we’ll benefit.”
“So how is Mahoud doing?”
“The conference is going well. There won’t be any quick fixes from it. Even Mahoud understands that, but he’s a long-term guy, Mack. When he passed around printed copies of his information, naming names, there were some of the fastest withdrawals of members ever seen. His revelations caused an uproar, but I think he won himself some brownie points.”
Good for Reef, Bolan thought. He was starting to drift again.
“I’ll come back later,” Brognola said. “You take it easy, big guy.” At the door he turned. “The President sends his regards—and his thanks.”
“That makes my day,” Bolan said.
Brognola paused again. “Leila Mahoud is in the country. She’s going to see her son. She said she might drop in to see you.”
Bolan raised a hand. He heard the door click shut just before he fell asleep.
IN THE AFTERNOON of the following day Leila Mahoud came into the room. She stood at the side of Bolan’s bed. She looked fresh and cool in a slim-fitting pale dress. They made small talk for a while before she sat gently on the edge of his bed.
“It was nice what you said to Amina. Thank you for that. It will help her. When she gets older, perhaps she’ll understand.”
“She had the right to know how her sister behaved. So did Reef.”
“Oh, you mean the truth? Tell me, Matt, what was the truth?” Her stare was unflinching, intense. “I think you and I know what the real truth is. Not the version you delivered to Reef and Amina.”
“I did what I had to do,” Bolan said.
“Of course.”
Her sudden smile caught him off guard. “You understand what I’m saying, Matt. Raika had been behaving oddly for some time. I watched her when she listened to her father. The distance in her eyes. Detached. And there were times she held herself back, almost as if she was about to deny his beliefs. I saw it, but I never took it further, because whatever I might have felt, she was my daughter and that was enough. My excuse, no excuse really, was I had become so immersed in helping Reef that I dismissed her moods. Even when she took herself off for weeks I imagined this boyfriend thing had caused her rebellion. She would phone to say she was fine, with friends. Then she came back and we all traveled to Afghanistan. I misread everything and I regret it so much now. How wrong I was.”
“It’s easy to blame yourself, Leila. Don’t.”
“But I understand now. It was Raika who was letting Homani know where we were. Her insistence on keeping her cell phone with her at all times, saying she needed to be able to speak to friends. How naive I was. She wasn’t calling friends. She was betraying her father, sending text messages to Homani and Asadi, letting them know where they could find Reef. Even when we returned to France she was still doing it. The château. The hotel. I never thought for one moment that was wh
at she was doing.”
“We always see the best in those close to us.”
“But you saw. You worked it out.”
“Almost too late,” Bolan said. “At first I thought she was simply against me. A confused young woman in a dangerous situation. I didn’t look any deeper. Ben Sharon’s photographs made me look closer. Seeing her with Homani and Yusef Masada made the difference. What can I say, Leila? Misjudgment all around.”
She fought back the tears, laid a cool hand on Bolan’s.
“You are a good man, Matthew Cooper. And a friend to us all.”
Before she turned away to leave she leaned over and gently kissed him on the cheek. Then she hurried out of the room, leaving Bolan pleasantly surprised at the show of affection.
He found he was thinking back to the final moments in the room below the farmhouse. When Raika had turned to stare at him, her eyes moist with tears.
For herself?
A moment of doubt over what had happened to her?
The realization at what she had lost and would never have a chance of regaining, regardless of Homani’s indoctrination?
The explosion had wiped away any answers. It had destroyed whatever Raika Mahoud had been, leaving Bolan with the doubt.
He might have given it some thought, but the door to his room opened and Barbara Price and Carl Lyons burst in, and Mack Bolan found he had enough on his hands with the living.
The dead would have to wait.
There was no rush.
They had an eternity stretching before them.
a cognizant original v5 release october 09 2010
ISBN: 978-1-4268-5039-4
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Linaker for his contribution to this work.
BETRAYED
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