“Reef, we need more men who can talk enough to bring adversaries together. Talking is easy, but the kind you bring to the table is special. As long as you are able keep that going, you keep right on speaking. If we don’t talk our way to some kind of accord, the Middle East is going to stay on the path that will simply eat away at all the good.”
Mahoud refilled the coffee mugs. He placed the pot down, thoughtful, then looked directly at Bolan.
“Is my son safe? Is he being protected in America?”
“One of my most trusted people is guarding him.”
“Yes?”
“I’d put myself in his hands if my life was at risk. Whatever happens, he won’t let you down.”
“Well, your President said he would send me a man I should trust. He must think of you very highly.”
Bolan smiled. “We have an understanding. We would never betray each other, or break our word.”
“I wish trust was as easy to gain in my world,” Mahoud said. “Unfortunately it is not. Among those who oppose me betrayal is the watchword. I have little reason to trust anyone.”
“Things are that bad?”
“The reason is simple,” Mahoud said. “I know many of the ones who may attend the meeting are not who they seem. They pretend to be peacemakers, but truly they are in league with the hard-line radicals. And they know if I attend and stand in front of them I will point the finger and expose them. Over the past couple of years I have made it part of my mission to gain a great amount of data on the betrayals and the deceit.
“Deals are made behind closed doors. Money and favors are bartered for loyalty. Matt, if the talks are to offer any chance of reconciliation, no matter how small, then the ones who want to wreck the conference have to be exposed for what they are.”
“And that’s why they seem set on pulling your family apart, to silence you? To make it impossible for you to offer your solutions?”
“These people are desperate. And they will resist me to the last breath.”
“Who controls them?”
“The one with power here in Afghanistan is Mullah Homani. We have been declared enemies for many years. He has denounced the peace accord as nothing more than blasphemy. He condemns it every chance he gets, to anyone who will listen. My sources tell me that many are tired of his radical posturing, the way he urges his followers to make every sacrifice in order to crush my initiative.” Mahoud smiled. “He sends out his followers, convinced they are on missions for God, and that their sacrifices will be rewarded with a wonderful afterlife. This man sits in comparative safety, issuing death sentences, and never once places himself in any kind of danger. His hypocrisy staggers me. He denounces everything that is not of our religion as evil, as corrupting, but orders the deaths of men and women and even children if, in his words, they contribute a threat to God. The sad thing is he will never run short of those who he can bend to his will. He calls himself a peacemaker. Yet he refuses to even discuss that very thing, and is willing to urge hundreds to follow his calling.”
“In reality I guess any leader with influence employs similar actions,” Bolan said. “They all have to call on their people to go to war while they sit in the safety of their offices.”
“An astute observation, and in a way you are correct. But the reasoning behind the call differs here. Homani is urging slaughter. He wants his believers to go out and create rivers of blood, to destroy Western culture, to wipe out Israel. He even wages his Holy War against other Muslims, those who see things differently. The man openly declares he will spread his campaigns across the Middle East. I cannot in all honesty sit back and allow his poison to be spread.
“Homani condemns the West to his followers but also deals with the consortium of Americans whose aim is to bolster his plans, to make him stronger. They promise him weapons and backing to keep the Middle East in a state of war. They profit from the concessions he and his own partners across the region offer—contracts for construction, for rebuilding, minerals, oil, of course. These powerful groups comprise businessmen and politicians, even the military. To them it is a great game that will bring them more power and wealth. They manipulate policy, playing the region as if it is a chess game, seeking the advantage, setting one regime against another.”
“And it’s the people who suffer,” Bolan said. “They become the losers, the refugees, and are dispossessed in their own countries. They lose every time.”
“Now you see why I must carry on. Why I have to try.”
Bolan dropped his coffee mug, reaching for his MP-5. He pushed to his feet and headed for the cave entrance.
“What is it?” Mahoud asked, snatching up his own weapon. “Did you hear something?”
Bolan didn’t get a chance to reply. Shadows loomed large as gunmen rushed the cave entrance, crowding in. Their weapons were up and ready, covering Bolan and Mahoud as they pushed forward. Bolan counted at least seven, maybe eight. He had no chance to tackle them. There were too many.
The superior force failed to stop Mahoud. He rushed at the interlopers, his weapon rising.
“Mahoud, don’t give them the chance…” Bolan yelled.
Mahoud ignored him, pushing the American aside.
His resistance was futile as the group rushed to meet him, someone knocking aside Mahoud’s AK-47. His finger jerked against the trigger, sending a single shot into the cave wall. And then Mahoud was beaten to his knees with rifle butts and barrels, the brutal blows driving him down, blood streaking his face.
Bolan had his own weapon snatched from his hands. Others took his Beretta and his sheathed knife. He was searched for any other weapons, but all that was found was the GPS unit and Bolan’s triband cell phone. He watched as they were thrown to the cave floor and crushed under heavy boots.
One of the attackers scattered the crushed items across the cave.
“They will not be of use to you any longer, American. You are in our hands now. We are the Taliban. We will give the orders.”
Bolan looked him in the eye. “I’ll try to remember that.”
The Taliban fighter laughed. He spoke to his men in the local dialect. His words seemed to humor them. The leader turned back to Bolan.
“Be certain, American. You will remember. I promise you.”
“So will I,” Bolan said.
And he meant it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The journey lasted at least a couple of hours. The vehicle drove over some of the worst tracks Bolan had ever experienced. The old truck had worn springs, or no springs at all. The fact he was bound hand and foot and had been thrown on the wooden floor did little to ease Bolan’s condition. His body ached from the continuous bouncing as the truck wheels hit every pothole and crevice.
Mahoud lay a couple of feet away, his back to