“Yeah. Have faith, though. Barb’s been working her contacts in Washington and she’s come up with some interesting information about Mr. Clark.”
“Yeah?”
“Now that the proverbial shit has hit the fan, suddenly everyone understands what’s been happening for the past couple of months with the Garrison investigation. Bly apparently knew it was happening for a while at least. We’re still trying to figure out how he knew, but he knew. Unfortunately for us, he was smart about it. He offered up a couple of sources to the team, and Clark took the bait. They were offering him all kinds of information, some of it too good to be true.”
“Which means it was,” Bolan stated. “He was an experienced field guy. How’d he fall for that?”
“Hard to say,” Brognola replied. “It’s possible that he was too taken with the information to analyze it and determine whether it actually made sense given what we know. Or that it had enough of an air of credibility about it to make it worth pursuing.”
“That’d make sense,” Bolan said, “considering that the guy at the top was the one feeding the information to him.”
“Sure, it could’ve had just enough truth in it to make the lie seem plausible. I mean Bly was pulling the strings on most of what came out, so he could direct traffic and lead the CIA where he wanted it to go.”
“Do we know who was feeding the controller his information?”
“I’ve got a contact,” Brognola said. “There’s a guy on the ground there, name’s Bill Wallace. He’s a ballistics expert and a gunsmith and a former commando. The U.S. sent him to Colombia a couple of years ago to consult with their military. The assignment stuck and he’s still there. Whenever we—meaning Langley, Justice or the Pentagon—send someone into the country covertly, whether for a drug investigation or some other clandestine op, he provides the weapons and equipment. Saves us the headache of smuggling guns through airports. I know him. We go back a long way. The guy’s absolutely incorruptible.”
“Did he arm Serrano’s team?”
“Can’t say for sure,” Brognola replied. “But, it’s likely he did, and he’ll tell us what we want to know. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
B OLAN GUIDED THE CAR into a curved driveway that led to an iron gate. He parked and waited for a guard to appear. Jack Grimaldi undid his seat belt and opened his windbreaker, giving him better access to his handgun.
A minute later, Bolan sensed someone coming. He looked into the rearview mirror and saw three guards approaching the car from the rear. Two of the men stopped a few yards behind the vehicle and stood on either side of it, their FN submachine guns cradled in plain view.
A third man came up alongside the car and stopped just behind Bolan’s shoulder. The position made it easier for him to get the drop on the Executioner, should he make a play for a weapon. The guard, a scarecrow-thin man with a bushy black mustache, his eyes shaded by a billed cap, rested his hand on his sidearm.
“Quick,” Grimaldi said, mock urgency in his voice, “hide the joint.”
“Comedy,” Bolan said. “Just what we need.”
The Executioner rolled down his window. A blast of hot air tinged with oppressive humidity blasted his face.
“Can I help you?” the guard asked.
“Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. “I’m supposed to meet Mr. Wallace.”
“ID?”
Bolan dug out the leather carrying case that contained his wallet from the cup holder built into the car’s console. He handed it, already flipped open, to the guard. The man studied it, nodded and handed it back. They repeated the process with Grimaldi. Then the guard reached up and keyed the microphone clipped to his shoulder and ordered the gate open.
Once inside the compound, Bolan navigated the car along the curved driveway. He noticed most of the land around the house was stripped of trees and most shrubs, for security purposes, he assumed.
The rooftop became visible before the rest of the house did. He turned another corner, followed the driveway as it dipped and finally rolled up in front of the big hacienda-style house.
Wallace stood in the driveway and watched them roll in. Except for the Glock that rested on his hip, he otherwise looked like a father waiting to take his kids to soccer practice. He wore a polo shirt, khakis and brown loafers. His wide face seemed to swallow up a pair of glasses with small, round lenses that were perched on his nose.
Bolan parked the vehicle. He and Grimaldi exited it.
Wallace ambled toward them. He shook hands first with Grimaldi and then with Bolan, who found his handshake firm and confident.
“Sorry about the theatrics,” Wallace said. A soft Southern accent colored his voice. He made a sweeping wave that took in his house and a pair of Mercedes SUVs parked nearby. “People see all this and they want to help themselves to it. They can have it. But it’s my family I worry about. Place is filthy with kidnappers.”
“Understood,” Bolan said.
“Come inside,” Wallace said.
They followed Wallace through the house, ascended a circular staircase that led to the second floor and adjourned to Wallace’s luxurious study.
Several bottles of water and a carafe of coffee stood with some cups at the center of a small conference table ringed with chairs.
“Help yourselves to a drink,” Wallace said. “Cop a squat. Do whatever you want. Any friend of Hal’s is a friend of mine.”
Wallace seated himself at the conference table. He took a bottle of water, twisted off the cap and gulped some. Grimaldi took a seat at the table while Bolan continued to stand.
“Did Hal tell you why we’re here?” Bolan asked.
“He told me enough,” Wallace replied. “I work with the Feds on pretty big projects, so my clearances run pretty high. Not bragging. Just letting you know that I have access to things other nongovernment folks can’t touch. Hal said that a CIA ops team that was looking into Garrison went missing. Said you’d come down here to find them.”
“You familiar with the team?” Bolan asked.
“I provided them with some surveillance equipment,” Wallace said. “And a secure phone, along with a few pistols and submachine guns. They were under nonofficial cover, so they couldn’t go through any of the traditional channels. They couldn’t go near the embassy or meet with anyone from the local CIA station. It’d raise too many eyebrows.”
“Meeting with you wouldn’t?” the Executioner asked.
Wallace nodded. “Hell, yeah. But they didn’t meet with me. I have a couple of freelance operatives I run around here. I used one of them to pass things along.”
“Which means they met at least some of the team.”
“Wrong,” Wallace said, a hint of irritation in his voice. “I’ve done this a few times, remember? My guy was brand-new to the area, an unknown quantity to everyone but me. I had him leave the stuff at a dead drop, get the hell out of there before the recipients arrived. He never met anyone face-to-face. I monitored the drop by camera until someone picked up the gear.”
“Was it someone from the team?”
“Of course,” Wallace said. “I would’ve sounded the alarms in Washington if it’d happened some other way.”
Bolan nodded. “Have you heard anything from them since?”
“Not personally,” Wallace said. “But I am hearing other stuff. Funky stuff.”
“Like?”
“I’ve got a couple of