It became Mehet’s final refuge. He spent almost three days in the place, days of terrible suffering as his captors worked on him, using every crude method of torture they could think of. There was little finesse in their actions. They believed in physical brutality of the worst kind. The intention was to inflict severe pain and mutilation to extract the information they needed. Mehet’s pitiful screams echoed through the vaulted bleakness of the cellar, never reaching beyond the thick stone walls.
On the third day there was little more that could be done to make him suffer. Barely an inch of his body had not been violated, and it was a surprise even to Mehet’s torturers that he was still alive.
An additional surprise they received was when he spoke for the first time since they had brought him to the cellar. They had to lean close to understand the words that whispered from his bleeding lips, sliding over toothless gums where his teeth had been torn free. He had gestured them to come closer by jerking the raw stumps of severed fingers at them.
And he had finally told them where they could find Sharif Mahoud, then begged them to put him out of his misery.
The chief torturer sent one of his men to relay the information upstairs and then put two 9 mm bullets into Mehet’s head.
TWO NIGHTS LATER a strike force of three men, dressed from head to foot in black, splashed through the waves and came ashore from a small boat onto a beach in Northern Algeria. Behind them lay the Mediterranean Sea. In front the low profile of the isolated villa that was their target.
Intelligence had told them there were four armed guards patrolling the villa and surrounding terrain. Two more and the subject inside. The black-clad trio understood the patrol parameters that had been passed to them, providing them with the movements of the security team, so they were able to move in quickly. Using Heckler & Koch MP-5s fitted with suppressors, they were well equipped for what lay ahead.
The first guard was taken down by the lead shooter, his body crumpling under the impact of the suppressed 9 mm slugs. Skirting the perimeter of the villa, the strike team closed on the other guards, making their kills quickly and with a minimum of fuss.
With four guards down, the team crossed the tiled courtyard, skirted the circular stone fountain and approached the open archway that gave access to the interior of the villa.
Their information about the two bodyguards inside the villa, protecting Sharif Mahoud, was correct. As the strike team burst into the room, covering the occupants, the pair of guards sprang up from their seats, weapons sliding from holsters. They were too slow and went down in a hail of 9 mm bullets, their bodies torn and bloodied.
The robed figure seated with his back to the strike team rose slowly to his feet, turning to meet them. As light fell across his face, alarm showed in his eyes.
“What is going on? Who are you people and what do you want?” He stared down at the bodies on the floor. “This is not what I agreed to. It was only to be an impersonation for a few days.”
The lead shooter took a long look at the robed figure, shaking his head in frustration.
“This is not Sharif Mahoud. We have been deceived. Mehet gave us false information.”
The impersonator realizing his position was untenable turned back and forth in desperation. Now he understood, and in understanding he panicked. He turned his back on the strike team, wailing in terror as he ran for the door on the far side of the room.
Three SMGs fired simultaneously, riddling his body with 9 mm slugs. Cloth was shredded, flesh punctured and bloody gouts erupted from his back. When a number of the slugs tore his spinal column apart, the man dropped to the tiled floor. He sprawled across the smooth tiles, blood starting to seep from beneath him in rich red fingers.
The head shooter took out a sat phone and punched in a number. He waited until pickup.
“We were tricked,” he said simply. “Mahoud is not here. Only a look-alike decoy. While we have been searching for him, he has probably moved on to a new location. By God, if that jackal Mehet could be brought back to life I would kill him all over again.”
The American voice on the other end of the call maintained a calmness that was all the more chilling due to the circumstances.
“Leave the villa. Return to the landing zone and get back to the ship. We will rendezvous as soon as possible and review. I don’t care where he has gone. We will keep looking until we find Mahoud, take the information he possesses, and then we will kill him. Him and his whole damn family.”
CHAPTER ONE
The motor yacht Crescent Moon coasted sedately along the Corsican coastline, heading north toward Monaco. It was a half-day out, plowing gracefully through the Mediterranean Sea. Outwardly it looked like one of the many expensive pleasure crafts cruising the blue waters. Inside, however, the talk was far from casual.
The three men sitting around the large table in the ship’s main cabin had more on their minds than the current trends in Monaco.
“We need to make a decision,” Daniel Hartman said. “Rolling ideas back and forth is all very well, but it doesn’t advance us one little bit.”
His cultured tones, never raised above conversational level, drew everyone’s eyes toward him. His importance in the group was enough to command its undivided attention. He had a policy of seldom repeating himself. And when he gave an ultimatum he never, ever, went back on it.
Hartman had been the man who had allowed Jamal Mehet his one chance to answer the question concerning Sharif Mahoud. The man’s refusal had condemned him to the torturers waiting in the cellars and ultimately his death. His false information had drawn the three-man strike team to the villa on the Algerian coast. When Hartman had learned Mahoud hadn’t been at the villa his calm exterior showed nothing of how he felt inside. He had simply called the strike team back and the team leader to this gathering to decide on their next move.
The quiet American looked around the table. His exceptional patience was often mistaken for indifference. It made him appear cold and distant even to those who knew him. Almost passive. Yet behind the facade was a sharp, incisive mind capable of intellectual keenness and an ability to make unpleasant decisions without a moment’s hesitation.
The leader of the strike team, Ali Asadi, said, “Whatever else we decide, I think it is time to put the California operation into action. Everything is in place. At least that would give us something to fall back on.”
Hartman nodded in agreement.
“I agree.” He turned to the man on his left. “Make the call, Roger. Tell Marino to go. Once they have the Mahoud boy secure, Marino can advise us.”
Roger Dane stood and crossed to a sat phone. He picked up the receiver and tapped in a number, waiting as the connection was made.
“Marino, this is Dane. You’re on. Do it and advise us on completion.”
“Good,” Hartman said as Dane resumed his seat. “Let’s continue. We have to accept that even if we succeed and get our hands on Mahoud’s son there’s no guarantee it will bring Mahoud himself into the open, or even force him to do what we ask. So we still need to follow this through ourselves. One thing is in our favor. Mahoud must have heard by now that Mehet has disappeared, that we took his bait and went for his decoy. No matter how dedicated the man is, losing someone like Mehet must unnerve him. He wouldn’t have expected that to happen. Having his decoy killed will also make him realize he can’t hide from us forever. Those two elements are likely to force him into doing something that might leave a trace. So we double our efforts. Increase the bounty and make sure that every informant available to us is fully aware that Sharif Mahoud is the most important name on their lists.”
“He must be found. And eliminated,” Asadi said, unable to keep his emotion under control. “The man is a traitor to everything he ever believed