Critical Effect. Don Pendleton

do you guess is their main angle?” Brognola asked.

      “Supposedly they’re smugglers for VIPs in the terrorist network. Mostly, they handle al Qaeda and other affiliates with strong ties throughout most of the ECU.”

      “Well, it’s no secret Germany’s always been somewhat of a terrorist sanctuary,” Brognola said.

      “Right.”

      “That would also fit the guys we tangled with,” Lyons added. He quickly brought McCarter up to speed on Able Team’s activities.

      “Does anybody have a plausible theory on what this all means?” McCarter asked.

      “I’m wary about speculating on this thing,” Brognola said. “The situation has obviously grown more complex. And you guys need hard intelligence. Facts. It’s up to us to get them to you in the best and most efficient way possible. I don’t want either of your teams acting on conjecture. Give us a little time to put together some reasonable data and we’ll get back to you within…I don’t know. Aaron?”

      “Two hours should be more than enough time,” Kurtzman said. “We’ll definitely have something solid by then.”

      “Fine,” Brognola said. “In the meantime, both of you sit tight and try not to get your asses shot off until I can get back to you.”

      “Don’t have to tell me twice, Hal,” McCarter replied.

      “Ditto,” Lyons said.

      Brognola sat back with a deep sigh once his men disconnected. The information about the Germanic Freedom Railroad had proved interesting. The big Fed searched his memory and couldn’t recall hearing of them before now. Apparently they had been operating in relative secrecy. Had he been a betting man, Brognola would have let it all ride on the odds Choldwig Burke was the number one guy in the GFR.

      The man from Justice got to his feet and headed for the Annex. He didn’t plan to breathe down Kurtzman’s neck—or maybe he would and just wouldn’t make it seem like that—but he wanted to be involved with the process.

      He reached the Computer Center and found Kurtzman hunkered in his chair and focused on a wide, flat-panel computer screen.

      “What do you know?”

      Kurtzman looked at Brognola with a cocksure grin. “You mean, since ten minutes ago? What makes you think I’d have something that fast?”

      Brognola grinned as he dropped into a nearby chair. “Come on, Aaron. We’re talking about you here.”

      “Yes, we are, aren’t we?” he replied, his normally booming voice rising in tone. Somehow the higher pitch sounded funny on him. Kurtzman made a production of looking at his nails, exhaling on them and then rubbing them against his shirt. “But as it just so happens, I do have something for you.”

      “Shoot,” Brognola said, settling back in his chair.

      “The GFR apparently has a reputation in certain circles. We haven’t picked up on it until now because they’ve made a point of never referring to the organization by name.”

      “Any idea on the hierarchy?”

      “Pretty much what you’d expect from your run-of-the-mill smuggling operation,” Kurtzman replied. “It’s been proposed by the international law enforcement community that the secret of their ability to remain virtually nonexistent is because they operate in teams of no more than three to four on any given job. Additionally, they deal strictly in cash and all up front.”

      “Makes for a good way to keep your clients silent,” Brognola said.

      “Sure. Collect the entire advance and your customers will do just about anything to make sure they get their money’s worth.”

      “What else?”

      “Well, I’m just spit-balling here, but it seems a little interesting that a group like this would risk blowing it for these LAMPs. The technology hasn’t been completely researched and is relatively untested in any kind of legitimate trials. They haven’t even been retrofitted with delivery systems. And insofar as I can tell, the GFR’s never been into actual commission of terrorist acts. It seems they’ve stuck to smuggling, hiding and criminal acts that meet those ends.”

      Brognola nodded. “I agree. They make their money by optimal discretion, not drawing any attention to themselves. Why risk that on a major operation like bringing down a military plane so close to their home turf and stealing untried technology?”

      “Maybe it’s a special job,” Kurtzman proposed. “Maybe, just maybe, the hostiles Able Team encountered are part of the deal, and that’s why they grabbed Delmico.”

      “It fits. The GFR gets approached about this job. It’s so big, bigger than anything they’ve ever done before, they spend nearly a year planning it. Then they make their play, but things don’t go quite right.”

      “Then their clients get nervous when Phoenix Force shows up at the plane, and Able Team lands in St. Louis and starts asking a whole lot of uncomfortable questions.”

      “So they decide to take over the operation before it gets out of control,” Brognola finished. “It all seems plausible.”

      “Well, as it stands now, that’s about the extent of our facts. Other than the fact it’s become plainly obvious these are some tough customers we’re up against.”

      “A band of overachievers,” Brognola mused. “Marvelous.”

      “Where do you want to go from here?”

      “Keep plugging away at it, Aaron. We’ll need a bit more to give Phoenix Force and Able Team something to act on.”

      “Oh, you’ll get it,” Kurtzman said as Brognola rose. “Or your money back.”

      Brognola chuckled. “Aren’t you the same Aaron Kurtzman who’s always complaining I don’t pay you enough?”

      “Why, Hal, don’t you get it? That’s just my little way of endearing myself to you.”

      Brognola shook his head and quipped, “Glory.”

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      Choldwig Burke quietly placed the cordless telephone handset on his makeshift metal desk and swiveled in his chair to look upon the dusk cityscape of Wiesbaden. He had a perfect view of it from the abandoned automobile factory on the south side of the city, and it calmed him. He had purchased the factory a mere six months earlier for a song under a deal he’d worked out anonymously through a third-party agent.

      Burke considered the recent news. He opened and closed his hands, clenching his jaw in tandem with the movements, as if keeping time with an orchestral piece. The detachment he left behind to observe the plane failed to check in at either of their scheduled times, and then he received the message that most if not all were probably dead. The informant didn’t have much more information than that, but she had noticed one of his men in the custody of five strangers of various ethnicities. He’d instructed her to call back as soon as she had more information on their current whereabouts.

      The other issue weighing on Burke’s mind was the unsteady alliance he’d formed with the Palestinians. Mukhtar Tarif, leader of the Hezbollah unit under sanctuary provided by the GFR, had proved himself totally unpredictable. Such men were not trustworthy to Burke’s way of thinking, and he didn’t know how much longer they could maintain a credible alliance. Burke hadn’t wanted this whole thing to begin with, but the people he employed expected payment for their services, and being they were very good at what they did, they didn’t come cheap, either.

      When Burke’s operation had still been small—with just a couple dozen men able to handle the business in the way it needed handling—these kinds of troubles hadn’t been an issue. But with growth came greater risks, and greater risks demanded upping the ante for certain types of services. Tarif had stepped