Detachment Bravo

by Richard Marcinko

  0215. While Boomerang dropped onto his bed for a combat nap, I turned on the television to mask the sound, picked up the cell phone, dialed London, and got a coded sit-rep from Nod. Things were quiet, he reported. Gerry Kelley had been keeping to a regular schedule. He hadn’t communicated with Gwilliam, so far as my guys could tell. There had been no further attacks or bombings. DET Bravo’s intel squirrels had all their antennae up—but hadn’t picked up any ripples of TIRA or other IRA splinter group activity.

  I asked if there’d been any further news about Leather Boy, the kid I’d rolled up on Davies Street. Nod said he didn’t know, but he’d do some snooping and give me an update the next time I called. What about Eamon the Demon, I asked. “Not a peep from North Audley Street, Skipper,” Nod reported.

  “Well, you know how to find me if the merde hits the ventilateur.”

  “Aye, aye, Boss Man.”

  “Good.” I rang off, rolled over, and racked up. It had been one long, fucking day, and the schedule wasn’t going to improve much in the foreseeable future.

  10

  0617. I STRETCHED, YAWNED, AND REACHED OVER TO open the passenger-side window, because Enrique, the driver, who lay snoozing on the backseat of his cab, had just released a huge, wet balloon of a fart. Timex had parked in a cab stand most of the night, lights and engine off, watching the well-lit embassy from half a klik away, until I relieved him at 0545. At 0605, the municipal water truck had sprayed the street in front of the embassy clean. At 0610, the security lights were switched off. At 0615, the rent-a-cops began to show up for the morning shift. That’s right, friends, the perimeter wasn’t guarded twenty-four hours a day. I told you things were being done by the numbers.

  0629. The city was slowly coming to life. It would be rush hour soon. From somewhere off to the southeast, I heard the growl of a truck, approaching from the direction of the Plaza Italia.

  I tapped the “transmit” button on the bright yellow walkie-talkie. “Radio check.”

  Boomerang’s distinctive high-pitched voice came back at me five by five. “Buenos días, Pibe.”

  “Anything?”

  “Nada.” The walkie-talkie squawked feedback and I adjusted the volume knob. “It’s been all quiet by the office complex.”

  “Then let’s cruise, and take a look-see anyway.” I dropped the radio onto the seat, woke Enrique so he could play the passenger, switched on the ignition, threw the cab into gear, and eased away from the curb. I drove slowly around the embassy perimeter. Just as Boomerang had said, it was all quiet. As I turned right, from Cruz onto Avenida Cervino, Boomerang wheeled his cab in the opposite direction, covering the ground I’d just left behind. All clear.

  0656. I was back in position to cover the entire front side of the embassy compound. The pasaperro, with his three dogs pulling ahead, began his first slow march of the day past the gate area. There were still only two of the eight-man rent-a-cop shift walking their beats. I flicked the button on the Motorola. “Geezus—he’s up and working before the fucking rent-a-cops.”

  Boomerang’s voice came back at me immediately. “Maybe we should talk to him about doing some security work, Boss Dude.”

  0728. Dog walker’s second go-round. By now, the rest of the fucking rent-a-cops had finally shown up. Embassy staff began to trickle in.

  0801. The ambassador’s car pulled into the protected driveway. The antiterrorist barriers were dropped, and the limo proceeded into the underground garage. But no one mirrored the undercarriage. No one opened the trunk or the hood. Over the next eighteen minutes, six other senior staff arrived, all of them driving their own cars directly into the garage. None was checked for explosives. This was a fucking accident waiting to happen.

  0829. Dog walker’s third go-round. He paused to chat with the rent-a-cops. The FedEx panel truck pulled past the main gate, slowed, then moved on. The visa line was starting to form around the consulate entrance. I could see action inside the embassy itself—staff scurrying around; people coming and going.

  1006. I changed clothes and did a brief walk-around to stretch my legs and see what was happening on the far side of the compound. All clear.

  1131. The pasaperro was back, taking the dogs on their midmorning jaunt. His walkabout was disturbed by a fracas at the visa section. A team of Gunny Jarriel’s Marines escorted a trio of nylon-restraint-sporting troublemakers to the gates. Outside, the instant their restraints were removed, they began beating on the rent-a-cops. It took only four and a half minutes for a tactical team of Buenos Aires cops to arrive in their SWAT truck, subdue the perps, and drive ’em off to jail or wherever.

  1142. In the midst of this goatfuck, the FedEx truck pulled up on the far side of the road and parked about three hundred yards from the main gate. The rear of the truck faced the embassy. That certainly raised a “caution” flag in my head. I shifted position so that I could ease my binoculars over the dash and focus them on the truck’s cab. When I made out the driver inside, I saw he was frantically punching the keys of his electronic package-tracker. Then he disappeared into the rear of the truck for five minutes. Then he reappeared, picked up a cellular phone, spoke on it for a few seconds, and then settled himself behind the wheel, strapped his seat belt tight, threw the vehicle into gear, and drove off in a big hurry. You had to hand it to him: the area around the American Embassy was one of the few places in Buenos Aires that he could park to do his paperwork without getting hassled.

  1200. Timex and Rotten Randy relieved Boomerang and me. I headed back to the Étoile for a well-deserved shower, shit, and shave. Boomerang went in search of Porteña pussy. Ah, the unquenchable, testosterone-enhanced energy of the young.

  Day Three. 0600. I told you this was boring. In fact, we’d almost begun to settle into a routine: the dog walker in the morning, noon, and evening, the visa line, the unprotected cars, the rent-a-cops showing up late, the FedEx truck on his appointed rounds, and the cruising taxis. We’d accepted them all as a part of our daily schedule, which was not good. One of the most important elements of countersurveillance is keeping yourself and your team right at the edge of the observational envelope. You are a sponge, soaking up information and processing it, noting minute changes that could become significant once you understand the whole picture.

  And so, instead of remaining static, I decided that today we’d conduct a rolling surveillance of the embassy and its grounds. That would shake us up and, I hoped, force us to detect something or other we hadn’t picked up on before.

  0612. I wheeled the cab in a U-turn, then continued around the compound in a clockwise direction, circled the Plaza Italia once, twice, thrice, and then cruised in a more or less northerly direction, up the Avenida Sarmiento, took a left onto Colombia, and another on Cervino, and cruised back past the embassy once again. I picked up no bad vibes; nothing unexpected. In the intervening four minutes, half a dozen cars had pulled into the most convenient parking spots. As usual, the rent-a-cops were nowhere to be found. I saw that Boomerang’s cab had slid into a convenient spot from where he could watch the comings and goings at the front of the embassy. “Move,” I told him. “Keep your eyes open.” I watched as he drove off.

  0627. I continued around the perimeter back onto Avenida Santa Fe, the six-lane artery that ran all the way downtown. Two blocks ahead, workers were setting up barricades for a construction site, and reducing the avenue’s six wide lanes to two narrow ones. I wasn’t about to get stuck, so I reversed course by swerving to starboard.

  Shit. I’d turned into a literal canyon: a narrow, unmarked, one-way residential street lined with tall, slender apartment houses set cheek-by-jowl behind a thin ribbon of sidewalk. To park and still allow a single lane for traffic, residents had set their cars half on the sidewalk, and half in the street.

  0636. I eased the cab along, scanning the high-rises. It was obviously as crowded here as it is in Tokyo—with living space at a similar premium. The architecture was eclectic. Modern, concrete housing was juxtaposed, contrap
untally, with Art Deco apartment houses that would have looked right at home in the Paris of the 1920s. I cruised slowly up to an intersection: a two-lane street called Guemes. When the light changed, I turned left so I could head back toward the embassy compound without having to go through the roadblock on Santa Fe.

  That’s when I saw my old pal, the pasaperro. I wouldn’t have noticed him except for the fact that he was having a hell of a time trying to unload the hyperactive Airedale from a beat-up, chocolate-colored Peugeot van while his other two dogs—a Heinz-57 variety mutt and a nice-looking female Rottweiler—strained at their leashes. I slowed down to take a closer look at his vehicle, which was parked, right-side wheels up on the sidewalk, at the corner of Guemes and another unmarked street, diagonally across from a small vegetable store that was just opening up for business.

  Now, my friends, the pasaperro’s arrival struck me as odd. Does it do something similar to you? I mean, we’ve both been told by Robert Evers that pasaperros normally work specific neighborhoods. That means, they show up every morning and pick up their dogs from the apartment houses, then walk them, then return ’em, and so on and so forth all day. That’s what I’d assumed this guy was doing.

  But we all know that assuming makes an ASS of U and ME. So, I should have remembered not to assume. Because this here professional dog walker, this here particular pasaperro, he brought his own dogs with him to this specific neighborhood. The very neighborhood, you’ll remember, that adjoined the embassy compound. And it didn’t look as if he was going to pick up any other perros, either.

  I grabbed one of the hats I’d bought and jammed it on my head to conceal my French braid, pulled the visor low across my eyes, and then cruised past the sumbitch as he locked his van, eased a leather satchel on a long strap across his chest, and started up the unmarked street, toward Avenida Santa Fe—and the eastern side of the embassy complex, the three dogs leading the way.

  I kept going, turned right at the next corner, then turned right again at the first street I could, drove until I could make a right turn, then made my way back onto Guemes. I pulled slowly past the van, this time making a note of the license plate on the palm of my hand. Then I got on the radio and told Boomerang to keep an eye out for the dog walker and to take careful note of what he did. Me, I had other things to do.

  I drove up the street and pulled over in front of a small café. Just like Rome, every residential neighborhood in Buenos Aires has half a dozen or so small, mom-and-pop cafés, where Porteños go for their morning dose of caffeine and sugar, which translates into espresso laced with lots of azúcar, and plates of sweet buns or croissants. Like cafés in Paris or Rome, you can sit for hours, reading the newspaper and sipping excellent espresso. First, I switched my hat and my shirt. Then I ordered Enrique to go around the block and park. I told him to sit far enough down Guemes so he wouldn’t be prominente, or be noticed by the dog walker, but close enough so he could see me if I came out of the café and waved at him to come and pick me up rápidamente.

  I grabbed the Motorola, jammed it into a back pocket, and slid out of the cab. Enrique pulled away and I jogged over to the café. It was on the opposite side of Guemes, perhaps sixty yards up the street—southwest—of the dog walker’s van. He couldn’t leave, except by passing my position; in other words, it was a perfect surveillance location. I took a table next to the window, ordered a double espresso, and paid for it. You don’t want to have to leave quickly only to discover that your waiter’s taking a cigarette break out back. Then I dug in my pocket, came up with the cellular, flipped it open, and called the hotel. I asked in Spanish for Mick’s room.

  He answered on the third ring. “Owen.”

  “It’s me. Can you get hold of your pal? The guy we had lunch with the other day?”

  A pause. Then: “Sure, but at this hour?”

  “Yeah, right now. I have a local license plate I’d like checked.”

  “I hope he’ll be able to do that for us.”

  “So do I.” I squinted down at my hairy palm and read the number off for Mick. He repeated it to make sure he had it right. “I’m on it,” he said.

  “Good. I’ll get back to you in an hour or so.”

  “It’s okay, mate, I’ll call you.”

  Brigadier or not, that was a bad tactical idea. You don’t want a phone ringing when you’re on a surveillance unless it is a matter of absolute life or death. I insisted: “Negative-negative. I’ll call you.”

  I guess Mick got the message loud and clear, because he said, “Righty-o,” and the receiver went dead.

  0856. I was on my fourth double espresso and second croissant when I saw the pasaperro and his three dogs making their way up the street. The pasaperro was in a hurry. He had all three leashes wrapped around his right wrist and he was almost dragging the poor dogs. He switched hands and dug in his pocket, found his keys, unlocked the van, swung the rear gates open wide, and impatiently slapped his palm on the cargo area decking. The dogs took the cue and jumped in. He slapped the doors shut, went round to the driver’s side and clambered in, turned the motor, and without bothering to check the rush-hour traffic flow, pulled into Guemes and headed west.

  As you know, I’d already paid the bill. I sauntered outside, looked left and right as if searching for some-thing—which of course I was—and then held up my hand as if hailing a cab. In fact, I could see the taxi. Enrique had wedged it up on the sidewalk half a short block behind the van. But there was no fucking Enrique behind the wheel. There was no fucking Enrique anywhere.

  WTF? Had he gone to drain his lizard? Had he fallen asleep? Had he been taken out by the opposition? The answer was: it didn’t fucking matter. All that fucking mattered was that Señor Murphy had managed to sneak aboard my flight and was here in Buenos Aires creating his usual havoc. So what time is it, kids? It’s Doom on Dickie time.

  I watched the van creep slowly up the jam-packed street. I moved back around the corner and yanked the yellow Motorola Talkabout out of my back pocket.

  “Boomerang—”

  The response was immediate. “Yo, Pibe.”

  “Lost my transportation. I’m on foot following our friend.”

  “Gimme the coordinates, Pibe, and I’ll be there.”

  Coordinates? I didn’t have any fucking coordinates. So far as I was concerned, I was at the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk. “Shit, I don’t know where the fuck I am. I’m on a street called Guemes, but I don’t have a clue about the cross street.” I looked up and down the street helplessly. “I think I’m somewhere close to the Plaza Italia.”

  “On my way, Pibe.”

  On his way was no good. Not now. I peeked around the corner. The van was already two and a half blocks ahead of where I stood. I took one last futile look toward Enrique’s taxi, and then I started jogging after the van.

  Here is the good news. It was rush hour, and traffic was moving in fits and starts. Here is the bad news. It was rush hour, and drivers in Buenos Aires don’t give a shit about pedestrian welfare. I felt like a goddamn matador, dodging bumpers and rearview mirrors as I tried to navigate the frantic stop-and-go traffic. There was something else, too: when you’re running after a car, you tend to draw attention to yourself. The human eye is a complex mechanism. It tends to instinctively pick out any motion that is dissimilar from its surroundings. That’s why your eye is drawn to the flashing of a deer’s flicking white tail in the woods when you’re hunting. Or toward the one asshole who’s running in a crowd of walkers.

  Not only did I have to chase the cocksucker in the van down, I had to do it while keeping myself in his blind spot. And so, I had to slalom from side to side, as he wove in and out of traffic. And let me be honest about this: I wasn’t gaining on him. Yes, I am in top physical condition. Yes, I can run a mile in less than five minutes and thirty seconds. Yes, I can do six hundred fingertip push-ups, and a thousand sit-ups without breaking a sweat. But all of that doesn’t mean shit when you’re out and about and trying to navigate your
way through rush-hour traffic and follow a target vehicle without being noticed.

  Well, guess what: stealth wasn’t getting me anywhere, except left behind. So what if he saw me. He didn’t have any idea who I was—or whether I was after him, or just some anonymous asshole out running. I vaulted the fender of a Mercedes and just flatout sprinted up Guemes after the van. I was gaining on the sumbitch, too—when a fucking Fiat convertible driven by one of your Argentine Dale Earnhardts or Jeff Gordons or whoever the fuck gunned his car right through one of the side-street intersections heedless of what was in his way.

  I almost didn’t see him coming. At the very last minute I caught the flash of sunlight on his bumper. And then, I was flipped straight into the air.

  I knew enough not to tense my body, so I relaxed and just took the blow. But shit, I came down hard. My shoulders cracked the Fiat’s windshield. The back of my head smacked the top of the windshield frame. My butt and feet smashed into the hood, leaving a Rogue-size indentation. I rolled off the car seeing double. There was going to be a fucking nut the size of a tennis ball on the back of my head.

  And what about the goddamn brown van? I looked up Guemes and saw two of ’em. They were fuzzy. And then, both of the fuzzy vans made a swerving right turn and disappeared from view.

  I stood there, my head pounding, my body sore as hell. At which point Mario fucking Andretti, or more properly, Maria fucking Andretti, pulled herself out of the Fiat and started pointing to the bumps and lumps on her convertible, and beating me with her purse while she screamed abuse.

  Frankly, I didn’t think ladies were supposed to know the sorts of words she was using. Nor would it have been possible for me to do to myself the acts she was suggesting I perform. But then, maybe she wasn’t a lady, and perhaps she’d never taken a course in the laws of physics.