Critical Exposure

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan knew he’d be viewed as an outsider unless he could imitate membership in at least one of those intelligence agencies, and given most of what had happened up to now it seemed posing as DIA would be the best choice.

  Upon his arrival at Tyndall, his guess was confirmed. Straight from the airfield he was shuttled by military sedan to DIA offices adjacent to the 53rd WEG HQ. A tall man in an AF uniform with the rank of major and a nametag that read “Shoup, R.” came out of his office and greeted Bolan where he’d been waiting in a chair near the secretary’s desk.

  “Colonel Stone?” the officer said in greeting as he stuck out his hand. As Bolan shook it he continued, “Major Randy Shoup, DIA Operations Officer. Please come in.”

  Shoup led Bolan into his office, offered him a drink, which Bolan politely declined, and then settled behind his desk and sat back. Bolan watched the man’s eyes carefully, meeting his gaze with a striking stare that was neither friendly nor frosty. He didn’t know who he could trust at this stage, since whoever had been funneling inside information to America’s enemies hadn’t yet been identified. Not that it would have made a difference.

  Bolan didn’t think he could trust anyone in this case. He’d have to play his cards close to the vest.

  “Major, you’ve been briefed about my reasons for being here?”

  Shoup shook his head. “Frankly, no. I just got a communication from B Ring less than an hour ago to expect your arrival. My orders are to cooperate with your investigation.”

  “Good,” Bolan said with a nod.

  Shoup didn’t miss a beat as he continued. “And I’ll be happy to do that just as soon as I know exactly what it is you’re investigating. For example, if you’re here to pick apart my unit, then I have to be up front and tell you that isn’t going to happen, orders or no goddamned orders. With all due respect, sir.”

  Bolan forced his expression to remain impassive. He had a traitor to sniff out, but being rude or confrontational wouldn’t buy him any love in the shut-up-and-mind-your-own-business world of military intelligence. Not to mention that if Shoup or his men thought Bolan was here to find wrongdoing on their parts, they’d close ranks as if it was nobody’s business and that wouldn’t help Bolan in the progress department. No, best to play it cool and be as honest as he could without compromising his identity or mission. Still, there were some things on which he’d have to play hardball if he wanted to gain Shoup’s respect.

  “Since you’ve set the tone for us so eloquently,” Bolan began, “then let me get you clear on a few things, Major.

  “First, I’m a superior officer and here at the behest of the Pentagon, so you’ll follow my orders or I’ll personally rip that cluster off your lapel. Second, I’m not here to pick apart your unit. There’s a lot of evidence to support the fact we have a traitor in the MI community. I’m here to expose the traitor while trying to make as little noise as possible, so if the traitor isn’t among your crew you have nothing to worry about.

  “Last, and I can’t stress the importance of this enough, there have been a lot of good military personnel who have died in the past forty-eight hours due to the actions of this individual. I’m going to need your cooperation to make sure no more service personnel come home in a flag-draped coffin. You get me, mister?”

  Shoup’s face was stony and his cheek twitched as he replied, “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine. Now as I understand it, you may already have information on this potential traitor. Tell me about what you’ve found.”

  Shoup reached to a nearby locked filing cabinet. He inserted a key and then swiped his thumb over the cabinet and the biometric reader beeped once before Bolan heard a locking mechanism release. Shoup opened the middle of the three doors, thumbed through a number of files and finally came out with a thick manila folder labeled in red and white along its edges. The Executioner immediately recognized the top-secret labeling as Shoup handed the file to him.

  “This is eyes-only, sir,” Shoup said. “You technically shouldn’t even see it.”

  Bolan nodded as he took it. “I’ll take it as a sign of good faith. And don’t worry, Major, I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

  “I hope so, sir,” Shoup replied. “Because what you’re going to see in that file isn’t pretty.”

  Bolan glanced through each page, skimming most of the text. Eventually he came upon a snippet of information regarding a USAF chopper that had been transferred on loan to the 21st Medical Group at Peterson AFB. This had supposedly been at the request of the USAFSC-HQ adjutant. Oddly, the chopper had recently been reported out of service after an accident that occurred while trying to assist in a civilian air rescue operation in the forest just northeast of Durango, Colorado. Bolan continued through the rest of the information, watching as the intelligence analysts followed the trail of paperwork and odd requests.

  Finally, Bolan looked up and met Shoup’s waiting gaze. “Then the trail just ended?”

  Shoup nodded. “Yes, sir. I mean...in a way.”

  “What way is that?”

  “Well, a field intelligence officer with the NSA, who’d been working jointly with us, tried to pick up the trail after it went cold. That was where we decided not to catalog or record any of the information until he could get us something solid. He eventually traced those tracks to a site in the Guatemalan jungles.”

  Bolan nodded. It made sense, considering that terrorist groups all over the world had been using points in Central America to stage operations. Silence could be bought rather cheaply in poor countries such as Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador. Plus, it provided terrorists with bases closer to American soil than they could ever hope to get anywhere else, and a natural pipeline for information and personnel by piggybacking onto the drug and arms trades.

  Shoup continued. “Unfortunately we hit a snag. Our guy in the NSA disappeared on his last assignment into Guatemala. He hasn’t been heard from in over a week. We had another guy in place, a local, actually, we tried to put on the trail but he’s disappeared, too.”

  “Seems like whoever you’re after doesn’t want to be found,” Bolan remarked.

  “That was our assessment, as well. Fortunately we do have an informant who’s been able tell us with some accuracy where both of these individuals might be found, but we’re only about sixty percent confident in the accuracy of the information. I’m trying to decide if it’s enough to act on.”

  “At least it tells you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re on the right track. So what was your next move?”

  “We’ve put a plan in motion, more of an information gathering than anything else,” Shoup said. “We’re hoping to be able to call it a rescue operation, but who knows if we’ll get our way on that count. The devil usually deals the cards the way he wants.”

  “And often they’re not in our favor,” Bolan added.

  “Right,” Shoup said with a curt nod.

  “Okay, I’m game to go along with this plan. But I’m going to take over the operation.”

  Shoup’s lip twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

  Bolan put up a hand. “And before you go all territorial on me, you’ll still be in charge of your men. All of them. And you’ll call the shots in this reconnaissance. I’ll handle how we act on any intelligence we find. And if it comes down to a rescue operation and we get enough evidence either of these men are alive, I’ll accompany you on the op but you’ll get full credit. My name need not even come into it.”

  “And what if it goes south?”

  “Then the whole thing falls on my shoulders,” Bolan said. “I’ll take full blame and responsibility.”

  Shoup appeared to consider it for a long moment and finally nodded. “Colonel, sounds like you got yourself a deal.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Istanbul,
Turkey

  Gastone Amocacci wasn’t pleased to hear the latest report regarding their operations in Colorado.

  The Council wouldn’t be happy, either, although Amocacci worried much less about that than he did about how this would affect the overall timetable. So far they had only managed to counter three of the most recent special operations. So few was infuriating. He pushed down the anger that manifested itself as bile in his throat. In reality, those victories had proved no small feat. Not only had their intelligence been right about the operations, but they’d managed to conduct them at points across the globe. This proved the initial reach of the Council, but more, it proved that reach could expand. Yes, growth potential would be realized if they were able to continue to operate in secret.

  This most recent incident in Colorado, however, threatened that possibility, and Amocacci knew his allies would expect him to deal with it. Swiftly and decisively; anything less would constitute a failure of a magnitude Amocacci didn’t even wish to entertain on a hypothetical basis. That idiot Shoup had screwed things up royally, and now Amocacci was forced to clean up the mess. Fortunately he’d managed to provide the diversion they’d needed, so with any luck they would be able to mitigate the damage. The guy from the DIA who called himself Colonel Stone, an obvious alias, would have a very nice surprise waiting for him in Guatemala.

  Yes, a nice surprise indeed.

  Amocacci tossed the fake paperwork into his briefcase, shut off the lights and left his office in downtown Istanbul. His driver took him across town to the airport, where he boarded his private helicopter and made for his home in the foothills. Amocacci liked to make it look as if he were a successful, fat-cat businessman. His cover as a successful exporter of Turkish goods had served him much better than any other he’d attempted in the past because it allowed him to grease the palms of certain government officials. Unfortunately he didn’t own any of it. All of his belongings, including his very personage, were community property of the Council.

  The Council of Luminárii, also known as the Council of Lights, was composed of former and current high-rankers from some of the most active intelligence services in the world. It included representatives from the British SIS, Russian GRU, Mossad, Chinese MSS and the Turkish NIO. The Council also boasted informants and connections from nearly every intelligence service in the Middle East and a half-dozen in Europe.

  Thus far, Amocacci had only been able to recruit support from the DIA within North America. There had been no Canadian takers at all, and the one CIA case officer Amocacci had approached had had the poor grace to kill himself rather than risk the exposure that such an organization had been operating in Turkey on his watch. Amocacci had merely shaken his head when he’d learned the news.

  Amocacci jumped from the chopper and walked hunched over as he headed toward the house constructed with the funds from the coffers of the Council founders. Amocacci had contributed only a small portion, his funds limited after he’d left his position as an Italian police officer attached to Interpol. He’d been a dedicated officer until the death of his family; the net result of an intelligence operation gone very wrong. The criminals Amocacci had been trying to apprehend had discovered they had an informant inside their organization.

  The informant had talked, blown the entire operation wide open, unbeknown to the task force assigned to the takedown. When the time came, there had been no criminals to be found. Many had been luckier than Amocacci, having lost their lives alongside those of their immediate family, but Amocacci had been on assignment when the criminals had killed his wife, two sons and his sister-in-law, who’d had the poor misfortune to be visiting at the time. Amocacci had immediately resigned his post and hunted down every last one of the bastards.

  Unfortunately it hadn’t been enough for him and that’s when he created the Council of Luminárii. The Council had grown beyond anything he’d been able to comprehend, though, and although he’d started it he found himself mired in politics. The Council worked effectively, still, but Amocacci was in too deep, as were all the rest of them. Nobody left the Council unless feetfirst, and nobody would dare betray them by becoming slack. There were other punishments worse than death.

  But Amocacci didn’t hate the Council. Far from it. In fact, he’d dedicated his life to eliminating special operations and intelligence where it would mean the compromise or death of bystanders, or create political upheaval where none need exist. The other Council members were as tired of their respective superiors creating havoc in the world as Amocacci, and they had finally reached a point where they could do something about it. These first few victories, as small as they might seem, were just demonstrations, a test bench to prove that the Council could work effectively on a macrocosmic scale, a global scale, and that those efforts could make a difference in the international intelligence community.

  Amocacci entered the estate, dropped his briefcase on the antique table near the massive double front doors through which the housekeeper had admitted him. She tugged the overcoat from his shoulders as she advised him that the lady of the house had gone out for the evening. Ah, yes, Lady Allegra Fellini was every bit a woman as she was a consummate companion to Amocacci. They’d met while she was on vacation in Crete and Amocacci was on Council business. For more than a year Fellini had shared his table and his bed, and she’d never expected anything of him. It was a perfect match, and he’d been more than agreeable to her taking up somewhat of a permanent residence at the estate.

  Amocacci acknowledged the housekeeper’s notice, advised her he would be ready for dinner in about an hour, and then entered his study. He secured the doors behind him and took the access tunnel—hidden behind a full-length mirror that doubled as a door—to the headquarters of the Council. The remainder of the Council of Luminárii was already present and awaiting him. From the looks on their respective faces, they had been waiting for some time. All the rest of them had made their entrance through a hidden elevator set off a private access road that wound its way from the Eastern Thrace regional capital of Kirklareli.

  It was in Kirklareli that the Council had established its urban headquarters, and only when the members needed to meet did they travel to their stronghold in the Yildiz Mountains. Their setting up residence in the region hadn’t been by accident. This part of Turkey had proved a most invaluable location from which to base their operations as it allowed them proximity to both European and Middle Eastern theaters. That had paid off more than once, and they’d been allowed to operate with significant impunity and right under the noses of Turkish officials, who seemed to remain woefully ignorant. Of course, their massive infrastructure had allowed them to establish a number of front companies and a paper trail that, if inspected closely, would have led anyone straight to nothing.

  And all by design, Amocacci thought with a smile as he entered the massive conference room.

  The first to greet him was Mikhail Ryzkhov of the Russian GRU, a pudgy and red-faced man in his mid-sixties who ate too much and drank too much vodka. Not that it mattered, since he still had an uncanny mind and was a genius on the small-unit tactics of at least half a dozen countries, including the United States. But he was a staunch Communist in a time where communism had long lost favor over more modern socialism with a progressive turn, and while the Russians kept him on, they did so at a considerable arm’s length.

  “Well, Gastone,” Ryzkhov said. “It’s about time you joined us!”

  “Were you worried, comrade?”

  “Not so much,” Ryzkhov replied quietly as he turned his attention to his drink, now feeling a bit foolish for his outburst.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I was unavoidably detained,” Amocacci said as he took his seat at the table.

  It was massive and as round as a doughnut, again by design. The idea was that all of them were on equal ground and nobody necessarily took the head of Council. Despite that, it had become a rather unspoke
n edict that while Amocacci was no lesser or better than the rest of them, the Council had been his idea and so in that light he did act as a chair, of sorts. It was more of a figurehead title than much else, and Amocacci had never really taken to it, figuring more that it just gave all the rest of them someone to blame when things went wrong.

  “I hope you weren’t detained by bad news,” replied a voice with a cultured but clipped British accent.

  Amocacci let his gaze rest on the SIS case officer for Bulgaria, Hurley Willham. A former member of the British SAS and later a military intelligence analyst, Willham was known for his unique affiliations with agents from intelligence services. He had connections on most every continent. In fact, it was Willham who had approached a number of American agents with a proposition to join the Council, but all of them had turned him down. Still, Willham had managed to recruit the chief Israeli representative on the Council, Lev Penzak of the Mossad.

  “I wish I could answer in the negative, Hurley, but unfortunately I can’t,” Amocacci said. “All three of our test operations went off without any problems. But...it would seem our potential contact in America fucked up.”

  Penzak, a fifty-eight-year-old man with a big nose, square jaw, wild gray hair and deep brown eyes, shook his head. “I’m not sure it’s appropriate to refer to him as ‘our’ contact, Gastone.”

  “We share everything, don’t we?” Amocacci replied easily with a wave. “Anyway, I’ve managed to mitigate the circumstances in our favor. Our operation in Colorado has been discovered, but it’s of no consequence.”

  “No consequence?” Willham inquired, one eyebrow arching studiously. “And what leads you to draw such a conclusion? The Colorado base provided us with the only way to intercept information on U.S. special operations. Without it—”