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  “We are no worse off,” cut in Quon Ma, a countersurveillance expert with the MSS. Amocacci and the rest of the group knew the least about Ma— something Amocacci assumed to be much by design—who had served in a number of high-ranking positions. Ma seemed almost apolitical in his views, but he was behind the Council a hundred percent and utterly trustworthy.

  “You think not?” Willham asked.

  Ma saw the bait his British counterpart dangled for what it was, but he took it anyway. “I do. There was no guarantee the secrecy of that operation would hold. I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did, and for this, Gastone is to be commended. However, I also think this American Air Force officer...Shoup, is it? He’s become a liability we could do without. It’s too early in the program to risk exposure.”

  “I’m forced to agree with Ma,” Penzak stated. “Shoup has to go.”

  “I think it can be arranged,” Amocacci replied, managing to keep the disdain from his tone.

  It wouldn’t do to be disrespectful to rebut the members of the Council. They had proved to be his greatest allies and to alienate them over such a trifle issue would have been a stroke of lunacy on Amocacci’s part, no matter how strongly he might disagree with them. Shoup had nearly blown it, but now he had to tell them of this other matter.

  “I’m bothered by the fact that there’s another player who has inserted himself into the game now. His name is Colonel Brandon Stone and he’s an officer with American military intelligence.”

  “Bah!” Ryzkhov cut in with a wave. “Complete fabrication...cover name, most likely.”

  “What makes you think so?” Amocacci said. “Even Shoup couldn’t verify any falsehoods in his story.”

  “Would this Stone be the same man who singlehandedly brought down our, er...I meant to say the Colorado operation?” Willham inquired.

  Amocacci nodded.

  “That’s very interesting,” Willham said.

  “How so?” Penzak asked.

  “Well, it would seem that something of that nature would have gone to the FBI, or even the Department of Homeland Security. For anyone to turn over such a potential threat to one officer in the DIA, even a colonel, sounds a bit out of step for U.S. intelligence efforts. After all, they know there’s a problem within the military intelligence circles.”

  “Or at least they suspect it,” Ryzkhov said in an uncharacteristically agreeable tone. “So it wouldn’t make sense for them to send in someone from a potential pool of suspects. They’d go to the outside.”

  “And so they probably have,” Ma said, inspecting his fingernails. “Clearly, this Stone isn’t whoever he wants to appear to be. I’d vote he be eliminated along with Shoup.”

  “Listen,” Amocacci said. “Killing an American military officer is already going to draw significant attention. Killing two would bring down every American agency on us. It’s too risky. I can’t urge you enough to reconsider.”

  “There may be another way,” Penzak said. He looked at Amocacci. “Didn’t you say you’d planned to send them on a wild-goose chase to Guatemala?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Well, then, why not turn the Islamic Brotherhood on to that fact? We know they’re operating in Guatemala, and to score such a victory against the Americans would do their cause well. Nobody would question it if an American special operation in a foreign country met with a few dead military officers.”

  Willham nodded enthusiastically. “Not to mention those bloody wimps at the Pentagon would never let something like that go public. It would be too humiliating for them.”

  “It might be able to get done,” Amocacci said. “The trouble is I have no contacts with the Islamic extremists in that part of the world.”

  “I think I can help with that,” Penzak said. “With one phone call.”

  Even as nods of approval commenced around the table, Amocacci couldn’t help but feel a twinge of doubt.

  Tyndall AFB, Florida

  “I DON’T LIKE him,” Mack Bolan announced.

  “Who?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Major Shoup. He just rubs me wrong.”

  Grimaldi looked stoic. “You think he’s lying?”

  “I think he might be,” the Executioner replied. “Whatever else, I’m going to have to watch my back every second. Or I could wind up with a knife in it right when I’m not looking.”

  “So maybe going to Guatemala with him and his team isn’t such a wise thing.”

  They sat in the VIP quarters at the base with an array of weapons disassembled on the small, simple table in front of them along with a cleaning kit for various calibers. Bolan ruminated as he worked mechanically on his deadly hardware. “I’m really only going for the lift.”

  “I could give you that, Sarge.”

  “You will.” Bolan winked at his friend. “In a way.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re going to take the jet down on your own. Once there, I need for you to arrange for a civilian chopper.”

  “A civvie job won’t be of much good in a hot LZ, Sarge,” Grimaldi replied. “Although I’m guessing you already know that.”

  “I do.” Bolan ran a bore cleaner through the barrel of his Beretta 93-R before saying, “I need something small and quick. There’s a lot of jungle terrain, and you won’t have much in the way of maneuvering room.”

  “So there is a method to your madness.”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “You think there’ll be trouble.”

  “I’m betting on it,” Bolan said. “It all seemed just a little too timely that Shoup and his people had a finger on this from the outset. Don’t you think?”

  “It does seem like heavy coincidence.”

  “Not to mention there weren’t one but two agents, one working local, that Shoup said disappeared shortly after the first man. And why Guatemala? What’s the connection? There’s nothing down there that would pose any sort of an internal threat to USAF operations here in the U.S. And we don’t have anything going on down there at present in the way of major military intelligence. Just minor CIA work keeping an eye on the drug runners.”

  “Weren’t there rumors of al Qaeda using Guatemala as a base of operations?” Grimaldi asked.

  Bolan dismissed the rumor with a wave of his hand. “Small-time. Mostly wannabes with the occasional real bad guy in the Islamic Brotherhood thrown in to gain credibility. The one thing terrorists have encountered in Guatemala is a whole lot of resistance from state terrorist groups. Basically drug gangs like Mara Salvatrucha and so forth. Local crime is the big problem there, and it’s no secret that the local gangs don’t like to share.”

  “Ah, honor among thieves,” Grimaldi quipped.

  Bolan deadpanned. “Really.”

  “Sounds like maybe you’re walking into an ambush on purpose.”

  “Exactly. I’m betting whoever is behind the compromise in the security of American MI operations is also getting nervous. They’ll want to do some damage control, and they’ll want to make sure they get all the players in one fell swoop.”

  “Sounds like a real group of sweethearts.”

  “Interesting you say that,” Bolan replied. “Because that’s exactly what I’m thinking. We’re dealing with a group here, and one that seems to have significant knowledge about special operations. At least insofar as ops by the U.S. military. So far, we’ve had a Navy SEAL operation compromised, intelligence signals and data to NORAD intercepted, and the near destruction of an entire platoon of special recon Marines.”

  “Plus the Delta Force gig in Germany.”

  Bolan nodded. “All military operations, all highly classified, with no rhyme or reason for specific locations. None of the groups these special units were operating against was related in any way. That means the motive has t
o be centered on intelligence or, more specifically, American defense intelligence operations.”

  “You definitely have your work cut out for you on this one, Sarge.”

  “Guess that’s just how I roll, Jack,” Bolan replied.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Istanbul, Turkey

  “Please, Alara,” Colonel Alan Bindler said. “Please let’s not go into this again.”

  Alara Serif stood defiantly with hands on hips in their office located within the U.S. Consulate. “I will go into it again and again...and again until someone starts listening to me. Alan, you have to take this seriously.”

  Bindler pinned Serif with a cool gaze. “I take everything seriously my staff members bring to me, and I give equal weight to the opinions of all. Is that clear?”

  Serif did her best to look properly mollified. “Yes, sir.”

  Bindler sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head as he continued. “You want to know why I hired you, Alara? It’s because you’re diligent, because you care about the security of our nation and you give a shit about your job. Sadly, I can’t say that about most of my people. And technically, you know we’re not even supposed to have military personnel within our consulate, other than the Marine guard.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” Bindler stood and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He went around the desk and sat on the edge of it to look into Serif’s eyes.

  The haughty, impetuous expression she returned almost made him want to laugh. In so many ways, Serif was like one of those little girls who’s defiant and opinionated, and yet not out of spite but from driven curiosity. Serif was one of those little girls who’d been forced to grow up all too soon, if the contents of her CIA file were any indication.

  The daughter of an American diplomat who married a Turkish man, Serif’s entire life had been spent in embassies throughout the world. Her father, Maliki Serif, had refused to let his precious Alara go through life absent of her Turkish identity, and he’d been quite insistent on teaching her the culture, customs and language—taking her on frequent trips to the country—even when she was absent so often while her American mother made her tours of duty as an attaché at various U.S. embassies around the world.

  Her background had made Serif an highly advantageous instrument to defense intelligence efforts in Turkey. Where in most ways it would have taken much training to fit a representative from the DIA into that role in this country, Alara Serif had been tailor-made for it. She could speak the language, knew the customs, and had enough of her father’s genetic traits that she fit right in without a second glance. Other than her beauty, which caused a stirring even in Bindler now and again when he watched her coming or going.

  Bindler forced his mind to more practical matters. “Listen, Alara. I know you’re convinced this...this Council of Lights exists.” Serif started to open her mouth but Bindler raised his hand. “Let me finish! I know you think it exists and maybe it does. But what do you have as a shred of proof beyond a series of loosely coupled theories that you can back with hard evidence but you can’t actually tie together.”

  “Can’t tie together until now,” Serif said with a triumphant smile. She withdrew a photograph from the thick manila envelope streamed with classified red-and-white-striped tape and handed it to Bindler. “Take a look at that.”

  Bindler sighed as he stared at the picture. “Okay, it’s a little grainy. What am I looking at?”

  “The man in that photograph is Gastone Amocacci, a former Italian police inspector attached to the Interpol Intelligence Division.”

  “Great. What about him?”

  “I’ve long believed that the Council doesn’t have any leadership,” Serif said, charging straight to the point as she always did. “At least not in any conventional sense. I think they operate on equal terms with one another. An effort like theirs could not survive if there was one individual in charge. One person with all the power and/or information would pose a security risk to them. That’s why they’ve been able to operate for so long without being detected.”

  “So what does this...this Amocacci?” Bindler interjected. When Serif nodded he said, “What does he have to do with it?”

  “I think he’s a member.”

  “Uh-huh. And you have proof of this, of course.”

  “That photograph was taken just yesterday,” she said. “I know, because I took it.”

  “You were in the field again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alara, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a million times...you are not to perform fieldwork without first my express permission and second my knowledge.”

  “I was off work,” she said. “I pursued this on my own time.”

  “You’re not authorized to do that.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” Bindler cut in. “Now I’ve told you before and this is the last time. One more transgression, even a minor one, and I’ll pull you from duty and ship you back to an assignment in the States. Is that understood?”

  Serif didn’t say anything at first but when Bindler repeated the question, she finally nodded and muttered an affirmative.

  “Now as to this Amocacci character, I assume—” Bindler nodded at the folder “—you have a full report in that folder.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, leave it with me. If I think what you’ve put together has merit, I’ll consider pursuing the matter.”

  Serif looked extremely hopeful so Bindler realized he’d need to put a damper on her enthusiasm. “But only if I think it has merit and I give the go-ahead to assign an agent to it. That won’t be you.”

  “What? Why not?” she cried.

  “Because you’re too close to this thing. It’s like some kind of obsession. It’s causing you to disregard procedures and endanger our position here.” Bindler handed her the picture and she placed it in the folder before he snapped his fingers and held out his hand.

  Serif gave the entire package to him, albeit reluctantly, and then rose from her chair. “You’re not going to pursue it. You’re going to mothball it, Alan, just like you have all my other reports. Apparently nobody here or at the Pentagon considers this a priority.”

  “I’ve already told you—”

  “And I believe you, Alan. But you still answer to others, and it’s them I don’t trust. You’ll read the report, you’ll forward it to them, and everyone will conveniently forget about it. And in two or three months when I ask you about it, you’ll tell me you haven’t heard anything and all will be forgotten.”

  “You know how it works here, Alara. We take the good with the bad.”

  “Yes,” Serif replied. “I know how it works. It just leaves me wondering why nobody here is interested in something that could well affect the security of our nation.”

  “That’s just not true, and you know it.”

  As Serif turned to leave his office she asked quietly, “Do I?”

  Stony Man Farm, Virginia

  “HEY, AARON?” BARBARA Price said as she walked into the Computer Room.

  “Yes?” Kurtzman replied.

  “What do you think the chances are that a DIA intelligence analyst would be filing reports about a secret group of former intelligence officers at the same time as this leak in military intelligence occurred?”

  Kurtzman grinned as he shrugged his wrestler-like shoulders. Despite the bullet that had put him in a wheelchair, he still found time to work out a couple of hours every day. Such activities had left him in top physical condition. He may not have been able to walk but he’d never let it stop him. His physique, coupled with his booming voice and warm disposition, had earned him his “Bear” nickname.

  “I’d have to say the chances are about a million to one. What have you got?”


  “Pull up DIA file number 607P9.”

  Kurtzman returned his attention to the keyboard, punched in some codes and numbers and a moment later the entire contents of the file were displayed across three massive screens on the far wall. Kurtzman squinted at the center monitor in an attempt to make out the photograph of the key agent behind the reports.

  “Alara Serif, Defense Intelligence Agency,” he read mechanically. He muttered his way through the next few statistics, her physical characteristics, date of birth and such. Then he continued aloud, “Current assignment’s in Turkey?”

  “Istanbul,” Price confirmed, shuffling through the papers she held. “She was assigned there eighteen months ago under the title of assistant to the military Marine officer in charge, Colonel Alan Bindler.”

  “What would the commanding officer of a U.S. Consulate Marine guard need with a DIA analyst as an assistant?”

  “I’m sure the Turkish government would like to know the same thing if they had her real credentials,” Price said. “Since 9/11, we’ve been slowly switching out standard military clerks with our intelligence analysts from various agencies. NSA works up a thorough cover for each, and the U.S. gets approval on each assignment from the host government before sending them in. Of course, those governments think they’re seeing the real dossiers.”

  “But what they’re really seeing are the cooked papers.”

  “Correct,” Price said. “They forge just about everything from names to birth dates to closest living relatives.”

  “Naturally. So what’s so special about this one?”

  “Alara Serif is half Turkish,” Price said. “Her father is a Turkish citizen. Married an attaché to the U.S. ambassador of Turkey at the time.”

  “So she knows the territory.”

  “More than that, Aaron. She knows the politics of the country and who’s who behind every button. A lot of wheeling and dealing goes on behind the curtains in Turkey. Something few people outside the most inner circles know about that country. Of course, it’s no secret to our intelligence communities, but the better part of Washington seems to want to turn a blind eye when it comes to seriously looking at the intelligence coming out of Ankara.”