“Odd, your file doesn’t indicate that.”
“The file you have probably doesn’t,” Serif replied. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the government of the United States knows all about you and your activities here, and I can guarantee they’re going to stop you. And whatever you’re up to.”
“I can see that despite the fact your own people have betrayed you, you’re resolute in your views. Nothing I say is going to change them.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Then I guess there’s really little reason for us to continue this conversation.” Amocacci stood. “You will be fed and treated humanely for the duration of your stay. And no one will touch you because you are under my protection. If you cooperate and don’t make trouble for the guards, you will be released when this is done. But I cannot afford to have you running around Istanbul right now following me or any of my people.”
“You do realize that my people are already looking for me. You won’t be able to keep me here indefinitely.”
“I have no need to keep you here indefinitely. I know my timetable down to the minute. I wish you a pleasant stay, Miss Serif. If you would care to change your mind at any point, please let the guards know and I will come and speak with you.”
Amocacci inclined his head with a polite smile, turned and left the cell. A moment later the door closed behind him.
There was no reason to worry about it being open while he spoke with her. She’d already figured out any hope of escape through the door was nothing short of impossible, given her left leg had been affixed to a metal ring stamped into the concrete. A thick, leather restraint encircled her ankle and was attached to a cord just long enough for her to reach the stainless-steel toilet in the wall at the foot of the cot on which she now sat.
After Amocacci’s footfalls diminished, Serif considered the information he’d given her. Actually, he’d told her more than he probably realized—maybe even more than she realized. First, his immediately bringing up the Council of Luminárii as a ruse told her that it was anything but. Moreover, he’d spoken out against not only U.S. intelligence but the intelligence community in general, which meant those entities were key targets in whatever he had planned.
In fact he’d said the plan was already under way, and Serif bet the recent compromises in select military intelligence operations, something that had recently gone over the alert wire, may well be Amocacci’s people at work. When she’d first heard of the breaches, Serif had tried to determine commonality among the ops. Unfortunately, she hadn’t managed to come up with much of anything. All of the compromised ops had been in disparate sectors, and they had all involved different agencies. The only common thread among them was that they had all been against terrorist organizations, and those organizations had links to al Qaeda. Then again, that wasn’t much of a surprise—most Islamic terrorists were connected to that body in one fashion or another.
Whatever was happening, Serif couldn’t see someone like Amocacci allying himself with Islamic extremists. No, there was a lot more going on here than met the eye. Serif saw it as her duty to find out what.
And that began with objective one: escape and evade.
* * *
AS GASTONE AMOCACCI left the hideaway, a house set in a quiet and unobtrusive neighborhood at the southernmost edge of Istanbul, he contemplated his predicament. This hadn’t gone exactly as he had planned.
Originally he’d thought to lead Alara Serif around by the nose and let her provide them with a nice, quiet cover story. After all, if the DIA or other U.S. intelligence units wanted to play it that way, Amocacci was more than happy to oblige them.
What he hadn’t expected was for someone, anyone, let alone a lone woman in America’s junior spy division, to uncover so many details regarding the Council. He’d lied to her, of course, but she wasn’t biting. That meant tailing him hadn’t been her only source of information. He’d known about her surveillance practically from when it began, and he’d fed her information one delectable morsel at a time.
Since Amocacci hadn’t leaked it to her, that could only mean one thing. The former Italian Interpol intelligence officer waited until he was in his car and headed toward his home in the heart of the city before dialing a number on his secure satellite phone.
“Yes?” the voice answered.
“It’s me.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Our little fox would seem to know a lot more than I suspected. She got close somehow.”
“Somehow?” Silence followed that statement before the voice continued. “We both know that’s a generalization you’re making because you really don’t want to voice the alternatives.”
“I suppose.”
“You have a leak.”
“Perhaps.”
“Just because you don’t want to believe it doesn’t make it any less true.”
“I don’t need a lecture.”
“Not at all my intention. I’m simply pointing out the fact we knew this might happen. It wasn’t as if you could keep such a thing a secret forever. Working with individuals in the intelligence world to overcome other assets was highly risky to begin with.”
“I understand.”
“So how do you propose to deal with the situation?”
“I thought that’s what you were paid for,” Amocacci said in a borderline snarky tone. “Do you have a specific target in mind?”
“If I had to venture a guess, I think the chips would fall on your friend with the MSS.”
“That’s an unusual choice,” Amocacci said. “Are you sure it’s necessary? In very many ways, he’s been one of my greatest supporters.”
“None of them are your supporters, my friend. And none of them can be trusted. If I were in your shoes—”
“I don’t mean to sound pedantic, but you aren’t in my shoes.” Amocacci sighed. “I really could do without platitudes or advice.”
“You asked me who I thought the most likely culprit and I gave you my answer. As per contract, only you have the authority to make the final decision. But once made, you cannot reverse yourself.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I would think very carefully on it. If you have a stronger alternative, you’re obviously welcome to name the party selected.”
“My concern would be if you’re wrong that we would be losing a powerful asset. And if it gets out too soon, suspicion could well fall back on me.”
“I’ve already given you my full assurances that you cannot and will not be even remotely tied to it. In fact, given the back stories of these individuals, any of them has acquired more than enough enemies over the years that you would be able to remain safely above reproach.”
“You’ve obviously been thorough in your research.”
“As I always am. So what would you like to do?”
“Go forward with the target you originally specified. How long will it take?”
“Forty-eight hours from the point we verify the funds were transferred securely via the route specified and in the amount agreed.”
“It will be done shortly.”
“And remember—?”
“You don’t need to say it,” Amocacci cut in.
“What was I going to say?”
“That once it’s done there’s no going back.”
“I’m impressed. It’s nice that you make a point to understand our position. Of course, we will get to work as soon as possible.”
“Just make sure it doesn’t come back on me,” Amocacci replied.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Livingston, Guatemala
It didn’t take Grimaldi any time at all to find Miguel. He sat on a stool just outside one of the several boats for rent arrayed along the dock—marked by a sign identifying the place
as Los Flotantes and promising tours up the Río Dulce—and polished some sort of wooden piece that looked as if it belonged to one of his small craft. Miguel was short and squat with massive shoulders. He had a shock of long, dark hair coated by a fine layer of dirt that gave it a dull sheen in the sunlight. Basically, he looked like a black lab that had rolled in some mud that had since dried.
When he smiled, Grimaldi saw a row of teeth stained by tobacco and who knew what else. One of the front teeth looked as though it was made from gold, and that surprised Grimaldi. The man had a piece of metal in his mouth that might well have exceeded the value of some Guatemalans’ annual income. Yet for all Miguel’s seeming shortcomings he came off as agreeable and friendly.
Grimaldi liked the guy right off. In Spanish, Grimaldi inquired, “You’re Miguel?”
The man studied Grimaldi a long moment, squinting against the sun although a large camouflage boonie hat was covering his head, and then spit a giant wad of tobacco juice into the water nearby before nodding.
“Cretia sent me here,” Grimaldi said, figuring it was best to press forward and be honest. While guys like Miguel were known for their shady dealings, they were also known for their candor. They didn’t mess around with anyone and preferred to deal with others in a no-bullshit fashion. Especially in a community such as Livingston where things were loose and somewhat liberal.
“What do you want with Cretia?” Miguel asked in a voice so quiet Grimaldi thought maybe at first he was hearing things.
“We were meeting each other and ran into some trouble. We had to separate and she told me that you would know an alternate location where I could meet her.”
Miguel swatted a mosquito away from the back of his neck and then nodded. He set down the wood he’d been polishing and gestured for Grimaldi to enter one of the boats. The pilot reached the edge of the dock and was about to step in when Miguel, who’d already entered the boat, cleared his throat and held out his palm.
Cretia hadn’t said anything about giving Miguel or anyone else any money, but that didn’t mean anything. That’s just the way they did things in this area, and this was definitely not the time to be arguing for what was fair. Grimaldi gave all of that only a moment’s consideration before he reached into his pocket and withdrew a wad of cash. He peeled off two fifties and slapped them into Miguel’s waiting hand.
Grimaldi never really saw what happened to the bills other than they disappeared very quickly. Next thing he knew, Miguel had turned to head for the pilot’s hatch and Grimaldi gingerly stepped into the boat. Within a minute a short cloud of oily smoke puffed into the air as the engine sounded. The water gurgled to life and seconds later the boat slid from the dock.
The Stony Man pilot watched the area behind him as they gently and smoothly made distance from the shore, intent on locating anyone who might be observing them. Nobody seemed to be close to the boat dock and he heard no shouts for them to stop. The boat made a sudden turn and before he knew it they were passing beneath the shade of overhanging trees that marked the mouth of the Río Dulce.
Miguel kept the boat at a steady but slow pace. Grimaldi tried not to become impatient, but time was beginning to run short. The longer it took him to find Bolan, the less his chances of finding his friend alive. He had no idea who’d taken the Executioner; he only knew the GPS transponder signal had him at a fixed point upriver.
Grimaldi was about to point out to Miguel that he didn’t have much time and to consider a different pace when he suddenly realized how clever the decision had been. If Miguel had gone blasting down the river in a tour boat, a sight that had to be pretty uncommon among the local residents, that could have potentially attracted some very unwanted attention. Instead, Miguel had taken a more leisurely pace so that anyone who saw them wouldn’t think anything of it.
Grimaldi smiled to himself. It was obvious Cretia knew her business and how to choose the right allies.
* * *
THEY HAD TRAVELED roughly thirty minutes upriver before Miguel slowed to a crawl and pointed the boat toward shore. At first Grimaldi didn’t see anything, but then he could spot the almost imperceptible opening in the dense trees and brush and what appeared to be a man-made path. As they got closer to the shore, a small and familiar figure emerged from the trees.
She’d changed from her beat-up jeans and T-shirt to a khaki shirt tied at the midriff and tan shorts. Brown hiking boots and a boonie hat similar to that worn by Miguel completed the ensemble. She’d tied up her dark hair, but a small braided tail danced from the hat and down the left side of her neck until it came to rest just over the rise of her left breast. Her skin was dark, almost exotic, a point Grimaldi hadn’t noticed before in the dim lighting of the bar. She was even more beautiful in the rugged jungle terrain, and Grimaldi found it noteworthy that the natural but dangerous beauty of the environment seemed to suit the natural and dangerous beauty of the woman he knew only as Cretia.
“How do I look?” she asked with a beaming smile.
“Like you’ve done this before,” Grimaldi said. He looked her up and down, adding, “And that getup gives you sort of an animal attraction.”
She cocked her head. “What are you trying to say?”
“That you got me thinking.”
“Good.”
As soon as the nose of the boat came close to the shore, Miguel tossed a rope and Cretia grabbed it. She towed the boat until it bumped against the muddy shoreline, her small but shapely arms straining as she pulled hand over hand. She then stepped back, tied the rope loosely around her waist, made two long strides and jumped into the bow of the craft with the ease of a pole-vaulter.
Cretia disengaged the rope from her waist before coiling it onto the deck in much the same condition it had been. Apparently, Grimaldi had been more right than he’d known about her experience. She seemed to know just where things were supposed to be and how they worked, and it came as even more of a surprise when she sidled up to Miguel, hugged his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek.
As Cretia moved aft where Grimaldi stood waiting, she seemed to notice the shocked look on his face. “Why do you look so surprised?”
“Huh?” Grimaldi shook himself. “Oh...nothing, I guess.”
“You think he’s not my type?” Cretia asked, tossing a thumb behind her to indicate Miguel.
“No, I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort.”
She cocked her head again in that way Grimaldi found so irresistibly cute and said, “For a man in your line of business, Señor Jack, you’re not a very good liar.”
“That right?”
Cretia nodded. “And, anyway, you’re thinking of it all wrong. He’s my papa.”
“Your dad?” Grimaldi’s eyebrows rose involuntarily and he wondered why he was acting like a jealous schoolboy. More bothersome was that she could obviously read the relief in his face. “You mean your real dad? So this is a family business.”
“Yes.”
“Makes much more sense now,” Grimaldi said with a grin intended to charm her.
“So what’s the story?” he asked as the boat eased out of the shallows and Miguel backed them from the shore. “You were about to tell me you had information regarding my friend.”
She nodded, taking a seat next to him on the boat once they were clear of the shallows. She had to raise her voice to be heard above the hum of the motor.
“Yes, we made some inquiries as soon as your people called us.”
Grimaldi knew what that meant: any information Cretia gave him could be trusted implicitly. Although you never trusted anyone implicitly as a general rule, Stony Man had apparently used this team before and so the intelligence had to be solid. Besides, Cretia and her father didn’t seem like the type who had a thing for terrorists or drug smugglers, or whoever was tied to the military intelligence leak. And they certainly didn’t seem like t
he type to rub elbows with turncoats and criminals.
Cretia continued. “There’s no question your friend was captured by members of the Islamic Brotherhood.”
“Terrorists? Operating here in Guatemala in such an open fashion?” Grimaldi shook his head. “Seems like a bit of a stretch.”
“It would be under normal circumstances. But this group has had relatively good success with keeping the drug and weapons pipelines open, and in return they acquire significant resources.”
“What sort of resources could a poor and meager country like this offer the IB?” Grimaldi asked. “I mean, I can see by your expression you’re a little offended, but that’s not my intent. I like this country and its people. But from a strictly conventional sense, there isn’t much in the way of money flowing through here. And they can get all the weapons and dope they want. So how does it help them?”
“The same way it helps you,” Cretia said. “And no offense taken.”
Sunlight danced across her long, tanned legs as she leaned over to the side of the seats they were on and reached into a cooler. She withdrew a couple of bottled waters that had been set in ice and handed one to him.
“Information,” Cretia said after taking a long pull from the bottle and licking her lips. “It’s as valuable to the Islamic terrorists operating here as it is to your people.”
“Okay, fair enough,” Grimaldi replied. “But what about Stone? Is he still alive?”
“That information wasn’t available to us, and believe me when I say we definitely inquired deeply into it. A lot of people made a lot of money, even for us to find out what we did. All we can confirm is that after he was captured, he was taken to a prison camp deep inside our territory up the Río Dulce. That’s where we’re headed now.”
“And how do you plan to get in?” Grimaldi asked. “I mean, I don’t think you’re hiding any sort of army aboard this boat.”
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