Critical Exposure Read online

  “Except us,” Kurtzman said with a knowing wink.

  Price didn’t hold back a chance to smile at her friend’s mock attempts to be surreptitious. “Right. We actually look at everything as a matter of policy instead of dismissing it out of hand.”

  “So you think something she’s reporting has merit?”

  “I do,” Price replied. “In fact, I think it may even be related to this case.”

  Kurtzman gave the information some attention. He’d learned a long time ago that if Price keyed on something that seemed far-reaching, there was usually a good reason. From what he’d just read, however, he couldn’t see any link to the compromise of U.S. military intelligence operations and Serif’s reports.

  “Okay, I give up,” Kurtzman said. “What’s the connection?”

  “First off, there’s this claim about a secret organization called the Council of Luminárii, particularly Serif’s theory that this group doesn’t operate with a leader, per se. She thinks this group operates well because they work in a symbiotic fashion.”

  Kurtzman nodded. “The ideal rules them all. It’s been done before and quite effectively. Too crazy for Serif to make up.”

  “Exactly. And then there’s the main player Serif has had in her sights practically from the beginning, a man she believes to be a member of the group, if not an actual puppet they use to do their bidding. His name’s Gastone Amocacci. Fifty-six years old, citizen of Italy. Former police officer with Interpol’s intelligence division.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “I checked his background and discovered he quit after an operation went wrong and most of the members in his unit were killed. He moved to Istanbul a short time later and started a business in exports of Turkish goods. The government there loves the guy. Guess he’s made many of their diplomats a lot of money.”

  “Probably in kickbacks,” Kurtzman interjected with a snort.

  “Probably. He’s also quite the jet-setter. He’s been seen traipsing about Europe and Southeast Asia with Lady Allegra Fellini, who’s practically Italian royalty in her own right.”

  “I’ve heard the name.”

  “I don’t doubt it. She’s the sole heir to a clothing line empire that makes Armani look like a garment district peddler.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yes, ‘ouch’ is right,” Price said. “Fellini and Amocacci are an item and have been for at least a year.”

  “Okay, but even if Amocacci’s in bed with this secret council, I still don’t see what that has to do with a compromise of U.S. military intelligence,” Kurtzman said.

  “That’s where Alara Serif comes in. Based on her surveillance and the psychological profile she worked up on Amocacci, coupled with his movements, she thinks the Council of Luminárii may be composed of people just like him.”

  “You mean former intelligence operatives.”

  “Right. And possibly even intelligence officers still currently active with multinational agencies. Can you imagine what such a group could do? And especially when you consider they’re operating in Turkey. The government there would never suspect Amocacci of being involved with international espionage and even if they did, they’d never make the accusation.”

  “Because of his connections and the favor he’s found with certain high-ranking politicians.”

  Price nodded. “To make no mention that he’s managed to sell a lot of Turkish-made materials. That’s good for their economy. And it’s probably why he’s allowed to move around the country freely, as well as come and go as he pleases.”

  “It would be a perfect cover for this Council of... What did you call it?”

  “Luminárii,” Price replied. “Serif translates it to mean ‘the Council of Lights’ and often references it as just ‘the Council.’”

  “But what’s the motive?” Kurtzman asked. “And why only U.S. operations?”

  Price chewed her lip as she thought on the answer. “That is, unfortunately, something I haven’t been able to put my finger on. Not yet anyway.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” Kurtzman said.

  “Maybe. Let’s just hope I do before Striker gets into any more trouble.”

  Kurtzman chuckled. “Now that’s just asking for miracles, girlfriend.”

  Istanbul, Turkey

  NOTHING IN ALARA SERIF’S DIA training could have prepared her for what happened in the seconds following her departure from the consulate.

  As she turned onto the main thoroughfare that ran in front of the consulate building, a vehicle pulled up alongside her in the outside lane. At first Serif thought nothing of it but then she saw the silhouette of the vehicle as it seemed to get closer and closer to her own car. Finally she blew her horn and started to roll down the passenger-side window to communicate with the erratic driver.

  The body of the vehicle made contact with her own before she could open her mouth, forcing her to turn her attention to the looming rush of oncoming traffic.

  Serif stomped on her brake pedal and swerved into the opposing lane, but instead of staying there she continued across until her vehicle bounced onto the sidewalk. Drivers in the oncoming vehicles leaned on their horns, a small price to pay to avoid slamming into them head-on. She would have most definitely occupied the losing position of any such an encounter.

  Like an expert, Serif downshifted and applied her brake until the engine stalled, then threw her gearshift in reverse and tromped the accelerator. Most occupants on the sidewalk had already moved out of the danger area when Serif had first jumped the sidewalk, so there weren’t many in her way as she backed half the distance of the block before swinging the nose of her vehicle in the opposite direction, now moving with the flow of traffic.

  The low-profile sedan nearly bottomed out as Serif came off the high curb of the sidewalk and entered the lane. The drivers were now giving her plenty of room, but it didn’t make a whole lot of difference. Even as she passed the intersection onto which she’d originally turned, she saw the headlights of two more vehicles swing tight on her tail. Serif wondered where the police were at the time she needed them. She thought about circling back and making a break for the consulate, but that would be the first thing they’d expect her to do and more than likely she’d walk right into their waiting arms.

  Serif chewed at her lower lip. She couldn’t go to the consulate and she sure as hell couldn’t go home. She needed some running room, and she wouldn’t get that in Ankara. She’d have to get clear and onto a highway, go south and circle back.

  First, however, she would have to lose her pursuers and that wasn’t going to prove easy. Apparently she’d stepped into something much bigger than she’d originally anticipated. She slammed her fist on the steering wheel as her eyes flicked continuously between her rearview mirror and the twin pairs of headlights now close on her tail.

  “Damn it,” she muttered. “How could I have been so stupid...?”

  She never finished the thought, so distracted by her self-flagellation that she didn’t notice another vehicle come off a side road and smash into her. The lateral impact caused her to lose control of the steering and simultaneously her hips went one way while her head went another. The breaking of glass as her skull smacked into it was the last sound in her ear, coupled with the rushing wind through the shattered window.

  By the time her car had veered onto a nearby sidewalk and smashed into a storefront, Serif had completely lost consciousness, totally unaware that her enemies had just seized the upper hand.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Somewhere in U.S. airspace, the Executioner watched the shimmering, blue-green waters of the Gulf of Mexico in silence.

  He sensed such tension in the air that it seemed nearly palpable to him, and he could feel the occasional boring looks from Shoup and his men. They were treating him like an outsider an
d not making any secret of it. That was fine. Technically, he outranked all of them and he could take charge of the unit at any time. He didn’t want do that, though. Playing it more as a neutral party and letting the major run the show would allow him to keep one wary eye on Shoup.

  On paper, the guy was a first-rate officer. He was a highly decorated veteran of several combat posts as well, and his superiors spoke nothing but the best of his command abilities. Chances were good, in fact, that Shoup would be up for promotion to lieutenant-colonel before the year was out. Bolan still had his reservations. He had been at this game a long time, and he knew trouble whenever it came his way. Yeah, he’d definitely have to keep his eye on this one.

  Bolan’s phone vibrated. He whipped it out and saw the special code that told him it was Stony Man. He looked around to make sure nobody was paying him any attention—not easy to do onboard a sparse plane where they were basically forced to face one another—before he answered it. At least being a pariah among this crew bore out a few privileges.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me.” Barbara Price’s voice greeted him like a warm rush in his ears. While they had a rather unusual arrangement as it went among most, Bolan never got tired of hearing from her. “Are you secure?”

  “As can be expected.”

  “Should I call back?”

  “I don’t know that an hour or two from now will be better,” Bolan said. “So you talk and I’ll listen. How’s that?”

  “As it should be,” she replied, and that brought a chuckle from the Executioner. “Anyway, we came across some interesting information and I thought you might want to hear it. There’s a DIA agent serving with the U.S. consulate in Istanbul, named Alara Serif. She’s been filing reports through her superiors, hounding the Pentagon or anybody who will listen to her, really, about a secret group she believes has formed in Istanbul.

  “Under normal circumstances I would have just filed it away, but she’s drawn some rather atypical conclusions and I thought it worth a closer look at her background and theories. She has some very interesting insights. Quite unusual really.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, for one thing she’s convinced that this group, which may go officially by the name of Council of Luminárii, is composed of members from a variety of intelligence organizations. And she thinks the group operates in a sort of symbiotic fashion, where every decision is agreed upon by all or none.”

  “It’s an interesting theory,” Bolan said. “But how does it tie into our problem?”

  “According to Serif’s reports, the movements of the guy she’s been tailing have increased significantly in the past couple of weeks. A lot of visits to his home in the Yildiz Mountains.”

  “And she thinks what? That maybe he’s meeting these other agents there?”

  “Precisely. She’s never been able to acquire any tangible proof, mind you, which is why I don’t think the Pentagon’s acted on the information much beyond giving it a cursory note. But it seems with these recent events, we should probably take it seriously. I’ve started working the angles at our end to see if I can gain some additional intelligence.”

  “All right,” Bolan said. “Let me know what you find. If you hit something significant, I’ll be happy to check it out when I’m through here. I don’t want any loose ends.”

  “Agreed. We’ve hit a snag, however, and that could make it more difficult.”

  Bolan sighed tiredly. “Lay it on me.”

  “She’s been nabbed,” Price said. “Information came over the wire less than a half hour ago. I thought you’d want to know up front, which is why I decided to call.”

  “That would definitely be a game changer,” Bolan replied. “Okay, intel is noted and thanks.”

  “Any time,” Price said. “And Striker?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Jack called, told me about your suspicions regarding Shoup. I dug deeply into his background and didn’t find anything. He’s clean as clean can be.”

  “Too clean?”

  “Maybe. But I trust your instincts over sketchy facts. So do me a favor and keep listening to them.”

  Bolan grinned into the phone as he replied, “Always.”

  * * *

  THE SUN HAD not quite set beyond the rolling hillsides of Guatemala as the small, retrofitted USAF cargo plane streaked below radar level. They would make their jump at just below twelve-hundred feet. Bolan would have preferred a HALO entry if he’d been given a choice, but he hadn’t and he’d promised to let Shoup conduct the operation as he saw fit. Besides, being in the air that short a period reduced the risk that any traitor among them might attempt to shoot him out of the sky.

  Not that the Executioner had left the idea to chance. He’d decided to cover his upper torso in a Kevlar vest, something he didn’t wear under normal circumstances. He supposed it wasn’t the smartest thing. These days, he could only dodge bullets if they came real slow. As he’d been fond of telling others in his line of work, “It’s not the bullet with my name on it that concerns me. It’s the one addressed ‘To whom it may concern.’”

  Despite Bolan’s concerns, the jump went off without a hitch, and in just a few minutes the entire team of a dozen combat special operatives was on the ground and assembled by their assigned groups. Shoup moved out immediately, letting the two point men take the lead as they advanced deeper into the jungle. Bolan stuck by Shoup’s side, allowing him to keep one eye on the officer while he watched for a betrayal from a squad member with the other.

  Bolan didn’t know if any of the men under Shoup’s command were dirty. Maybe they were just nervous because they were itching for a fight, or maybe it was just a measure of uncharacteristic paranoia on Bolan’s part. In truth, the Executioner couldn’t be sure Shoup wasn’t anything but a first-rate officer. He had an impeccable record with many good recommendations from his superior officers. Then again, he could be fooling them all.

  So far, Bolan hadn’t seen or heard anything that would point to this particular location as the place where the agent disappeared. In fact, he couldn’t understand what evidence Shoup had that would even have led him to Guatemala. The connection between the compromise of U.S. military intelligence operations and a terrorist group operating in Central America seemed thin at best. Moreover, he didn’t know the exact location in which they’d be operating, so he hoped Grimaldi could maintain a signal on the tiny GPS transmitter the Executioner had stowed in his gear.

  Bolan had asked for the operation details just prior to their departure and Shoup had refused to tell him.

  “Under the circumstances, sir,” Shoup had said, “you’ll understand if we don’t disclose any details before absolutely necessary.”

  “Even to me?”

  “Even to you, sir.”

  In one way, Bolan had been able to understand that—he admired it, in fact, so he didn’t bother to press the issue. Besides, he could find out if he really wanted to know badly enough, but he figured if he circumvented Shoup it would only make the guy more defensive and even less willing to share information. Bolan couldn’t blame him—there had been a lot of strange happenings the past few weeks, enough to put every secret operations agency in the U.S. on full alert. And somewhere in that mix Bolan knew they had a traitor—possibly Shoup and possibly someone else.

  Something else bothered Bolan, though. This new information about a DIA agent in Turkey and some random intelligence about a possible secret ring of operatives. While he had to admit there was something definitely off about the timing, he also knew Stony Man had no evidence tying them to any of the compromised military ops. Of course, like any good soldier, he couldn’t afford to believe in mere coincidence. In a situation such as this, they had to pursue every possible lead and if this did have something to do with his mission, Price would sniff it out.

  Minutes
passed, then a half hour, then an hour. The jungle got darker and they were nearly at the two-hour point of their journey by the time they had reached the target. Bolan could only make out the shadowy outlines of his team members when the point guys brought the entire team to a halt.

  Shoup’s whispered order came through the ear buds of every man on the team. “Disperse.”

  The Air Force combat controllers did as ordered, each taking his assigned position. Shoup turned to Bolan. “It’s your show from here, Colonel.”

  “My show?”

  Shoup nodded. “You said you called the shots on any intelligence we find.”

  “And this is it?” Bolan gestured to dark jungle terrain ahead of them.

  Shoup nodded. “Perimeter of the camp is just beyond this tree line.”

  Bolan felt something cold settle in the pit of his stomach. Was this the point Shoup planned to make his move? If Bolan pressed forward with investigating whatever lay beyond them, would he find answers or only death? The Executioner decided to call Shoup’s hand, knowing that if there would be any time now was it. He wouldn’t get a second chance.

  “Okay, I’ll go ahead of the rest of you.” Bolan shed his small pack and retained the M-4 ACC-M he’d brought. He also had his trusty Beretta 93-R in shoulder rigging, and the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle rode in military webbing at his right hip.

  Bolan turned and made his way toward the rear of the squad, moving in the opposite direction of the perimeter. He could almost feel Shoup’s eyes on his back. The guy hadn’t planned for this move at all. Bolan wasn’t going to just walk right into the trap he suspected lay waiting for him, giving Shoup the satisfaction of knowing he’d outwitted his enemy. Instead the Executioner would circumvent his plans and make entry to this alleged camp on the far side. He knew, just as his enemy did, that if Shoup offered up any protest to Bolan’s change in plans he’d be showing his hand.