Tsunami Connection

by Michael James Gallagher

  "You have balls to match your beauty, but I suppose I should expect nothing less from Michael MacAuley. Pity you bend the other way," said Rostov.

  "Michael will find you at his leisure at the golf club in the next few days. Please golf every day. Acting unpredictably has kept him alive for more years than he really deserves in his business. Please accept his humble apologies for any inconvenience he may have caused."

  "By all means, and I thought he had weakened when he asked for the belly dancer by name."

  Rostov clapped his hands. The dancer's hands and head snapped into an opening pose, her arms locked over her head, raising the sculpted shape of her breasts. Haunting flute music filled the suite as she delicately commenced her dance on the upper landing. She swayed, and then hesitated, unsure of herself. Her upbringing made her gravitate toward Rostov. He smiled and gestured toward Michael. Ms. MacAuley was looking on very appreciatively, her eyes taking in the entire woman she knew she would soon be embracing. Rostov left. Under his breath, he muttered, "This is too much for me. Such a waste of beauty." He continued, more loudly, "Enjoy, but remember … if your brother does not show, you will pay with your life."

  A stunningly beautiful young woman gracefully made her way down the spiral staircase from the upper floor of the suite. Her eyelids darkened by thin black lines, her face flushed with preparation, the whites of her eyes shimmered. Perfectly shaped nipples pierced through rows of tiny beads that outlined exquisite, regal shoulders and just more than a handful of taut breast. Her fleshy hips fluxed around her belly. She turned around and bent down, exposing perfect, apple-shaped hips covered by slightly opaque gossamer shorts of silk threaded with golden patterns, but exposing a shaved pubis under a tuft of dark hair on the top of her pubic mound.

  Michael noticed a cognac and espresso beside honeyed, Middle Eastern sweets on the coffee table. Her libido excited, she greedily gulped the coffee, swallowed some Baklava and then finished with the cognac.

  The dancer was warmed by her exertions. Her musky smell incensed her onlooker, as she passed close to Michael. The red-haired devil reached out in a practiced gesture, almost throttling the dancer with the intensity of her grip, stopping her in her tracks. The belly dancer's eyes, full of glycerin to make them shine, were locked onto the stare of the other woman and … there was fear in her young eyes.

  The gambling debts of her older brother, whose life she was saving by her sacrifice, had compromised her. She was new to the profession and shocked by the reality of her new life. The thought of giving herself, a virgin, to anyone had been easier than the actuality.

  Tears streamed from her eyes, smudging her inexpensive make-up. Michael pulled her lips toward hers, never letting go of her throat. Her grip was so tight that bruises were sure to form later. Their lips touched. Michael's tongue forced its way into the young woman's unwilling mouth. Michael bit the young dancer's lip, drawing blood. The older woman moved her lips away, then came back drawn by the blood. She cooed and sucked, still paralyzing the young woman with her clutch. The Irish woman's free left hand caressed the taut nipples then pinched them, producing a small yelp. She flipped the dancer around, altering her chokehold to accommodate the change. Her other hand slipped down and under the gauzy shorts as Michael started swaying to the music, forcing her body to mould with the dancer's body.

  "Move with me like this," she ordered.

  The fear of God contorting her body, the younger woman complied with a nod. Michael let go of the dancer's neck and caressed her nipples. They swayed together as only professional dancers could. The younger woman saw no choice, and moved to the ministrations of the woman she thought of as a fear-provoking, red-haired devil. She thought she would need to feign arousal, but her body betrayed her.

  "You see, pain is pleasure. I saw it in your eyes. Wait my sweet, the best is yet to come," whispered Michael from behind.

  They slowly walked to the upstairs bathroom and Michael guided her into the shower. Rostov's hidden cameras were following everything.

  The next morning, at slightly after dawn, Rostov left the Presidential Suite after having a full Russian breakfast of caviar, cold pork, eggs, smoked bacon and black tea with jam served in a glass, all of which he had brought with him from Russia. His taster sat beside him, feeling overstuffed as the oligarch continually requested that he taste before the oligarch would eat.

  "How do you keep in shape eating like this?" asked the taster.

  "Ah. My father taught me that you never know when there will be a war. I always eat well in the morning."

  The Rolls Royce left to take them to the Dubai Creek Golf and Yacht Club. After bribing the man making the day's line up for tee off, Rostov got the second place. He was an impatient man and bore no waiting. The first on the tee off was a sheik and, as a result, very difficult to displace. The sheik kept the pace of his game brisk until the third hole when he suddenly welcomed a second player on the green. They chatted loudly in Arabic and refused to move from the green. Rostov was fuming. He slammed down his club.

  "Yob tvoyu mat," he cursed and jumped into his cart, leaving his caddy open-mouthed behind him.

  He drove arrogantly onto the green beside the sheik and was stunned to see an Uzi pop out from the sheik's robes. Rostov turned to the other player, an American-looking gentleman in his early forties, wearing hopelessly foolish looking plaid Bermuda shorts and a yellow Lacoste golf shirt. He then recognized his folly. MacAuley approached as a third man took the Russian's cart and returned it to the waiting caddy and bodyguard.

  After a brief discussion and a nod from the now distant oligarch, they all agreed to continue their games. The sheik trotted to his cart and caddy, and waved to MacAuley and the Russian, both of whom were climbing into a third cart driven by someone who nodded to MacAuley. The driver wore an earpiece and looked like American CIA. MacAuley, sporting a USS Tucson cap, was chuckling to himself. He got right to the point when he spoke to Doctor Rostov.

  "First, seeing as my sister has already left the country, I want the original videos and any copies of my sister's activities delivered to me, today. Second, I can safely tell you that I've done what you wanted. The weapon works. The news will show a tsunami of incredible force washing over Aceh Province in Sumatra. Many hundreds of thousands will die. Third, the Americans do not know how you did it and they will not sink your submarine, and lastly, if you ever try to blackmail my family again, I will castrate you personally," said MacAuley, a stiletto appearing in his hand and then sticking into the seat between Rostov's legs.

  "You will die for this insult."

  "I doubt it. I did your stinking bidding, by providing you with information that even your billions could not buy. As I said before, the weapon works. Now, on to more practical matters: my money had better be in my account as planned," said MacAuley as he entered something on his Blackberry.

  MacAuley had used his connections at Russian Military Intelligence to get information about and compromise the communications of an Akula attack submarine, controlled by a group of ex-Soviet Navy submariners near Sumatra, Indonesia. One of MacAuley's past lives included being an assassin for the Foreign Military Intelligence Directorate (GRU) of the former USSR.

  MacAuley was owed some favors because of his excellent unbeaten record of assassinations without being apprehended. He had called in these favors, and because he paid exceedingly well, the Irishman had been able to garner highly sensitive information about the whereabouts and recent successes of the hijacked Akula.

  Everything was for sale in Russia, but sometimes it was difficult to know whom to ask in order to make a purchase. MacAuley's connection at GRU was responsible for, among other ultra-secret tasks, tracking the stolen Akula, using a recently manufactured and quieter Akula submarine. Even the American submarine USS Tucson SSN 770, which was clandestinely following the rogue Russian Akula attack class submarine, had not yet discovered the ultra-quiet, Russian tail on the rogue Akula.

  "Your blood money is there. I mad
e sure of it when I heard this morning of the tsunami. I have another request. Look at this picture. It is the child of the Admiral commanding the rogue Akula submarine. I want her in a secure location to ensure his compliance. She is my, how do you say it, 'ace in the hole′. There's another ten million in it for you."

  "Get one of your goons to do it. I don't do children. God Bless, an' the top of the marning to ya," said MacAuley, chuckling to himself as he left a flabbergasted Rostov on the fourth green. The doctor was literally blue in the face when his cart, caddy, and goon arrived.

  BUENOS AIRES

  March 2, 2012

  Plaza Dorado bustled on weekends. Kefira watched the crowd mingling amongst the hundreds of antique dealers' temporary concession stands from her balcony, adjacently overlooking the square, one of the main tourist centers of the San Telmo district of Buenos Aires. Her apartment was about one hundred meters down a lane and shielded from night-time noise. She had come to Argentina for two main reasons. Primarily, she came to verify her suspicions about Shafiq, to respond to her intuition that MacAuley would be near his sister. On a more personal level, Kefira needed closure about the death of her parents in a bomb attack on the Israeli Embassy in Buenos Aires back in 1992.

  Shafiq was on the Mossad's payroll and Yochana trusted him with her life, but something just did not fit with his involvement in the death of more than half of Kefira's team in the Sinai. The Mossad operative was sure that her time in Argentina would expose what she believed was Shafiq's treachery. She needed to test Shafiq. His file said he was involved in the tango community in the city. According to his reports, his stipend was inadequate to support his lifestyle needs, so he had branched out. The report, filed several months ago, stated that he was running a kind of escort business, providing foreign women with taxi and dance partner services for one hundred dollars an evening.

  Due to a combination of the ever-increasing popularity of tango and the dearth of male partners for the large numbers of foreign women flocking to Buenos Aires to learn the dance, he was quite successful. Apparently, according to his control's intelligence, Shafiq was a very competent and charming partner.

  Since he had no knowledge of Kefira, it would be easy to become one of his clients, but first she had to apply her years of being a dancer to learn tango quickly. She was certain her looks and skill would quickly make her popular in the dance world in the city.

  Today she would have her first private lesson with an older Italian man she had met by chance last evening. His name was Fripo Firipini, and a quick perusal of YouTube had produced enough professional videos to leave her certain of her inkling about him. It also did not hurt that he was charismatic as well as talented, if a bit over the hill.

  While sitting on the Plaza last evening, enjoying the sound of live rock guitar, Fripo had stopped beside her chair with his daughter, a nine-year-old beauty. The girl talked a blue streak about nothing and everything and, for no apparent reason, had taken a shine to Kefira. Fripo was surprisingly reticent for a man who radiated love of womankind in a warm way. Because his daughter Roxanna had insisted, he had asked if he and his daughter might share the table with Kefira. Kefira was glad for the company, flattered by the young girl's attentions, and tired of the advances of young Argentinian men hitting on her. Fripo's warmth was contagious, and she found herself opening up and talking about things she probably should not have discussed.

  "Why are you here?" he asked, toying with the lapel of his linen jacket.

  "I am a dancer and I wanted to have some private lessons from a not too expensive professional with the depth of experience that only arrives in the twilight of a career."

  "Here's my card. I fit the bill to a tee. Now, tell me why you are really here."

  His question startled her a bit. Have I lapsed in my tradecraft? Impossible, she thought, I am just being paranoid. Then, out of the blue, she admitted something dangerous.

  "My parents died here. I can't go into details, but I had to come to Buenos Aires to get over it. I had to see the places they told me about. I need closure. I need to forgive them for leaving me alone in my early life."

  "This is strange," said Fripo.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I wouldn't have told you this, but you look exactly like my ex-wife. That is why my daughter has reacted so strongly to you. Yolanda, my wife, died last year. Roxanna was devastated. You wouldn't believe how much you resemble her."

  At that moment, tears flowed from Kefira's eyes. Years of hiding pain escaped her control mechanisms. Fripo put his arm around her, holding her close to him. It was then he noticed the perfume. It filled him with energy and desire. Roxanna interrupted their embrace. She was crying as well. The three of them, an hour ago strangers, were closer now than some people manage to become in a lifetime, but then Argentinians are unquestionably warm people. Kefira had come to the right place for closure.

  "Two beautiful women crying's too much for me," said Fripo as he handed her his ascot, a pressed silk scarf, to dry her eyes.

  "You're too kind," Kefira replied.

  "As for you, my love, come and sit on Pepito's knee. There, there. Don't you like ice cream?"

  "Si, Papa."

  "Here's some money. You can see the ice cream store just across the square. Go and get yourself one. We can see you from here. Hurry now. It's near closing time."

  Kefira recovered her composure. She looked again at this man in front of her. His smile lit up his face as she reassessed him.

  "What was it you said? At the twilight of his career! I'm in my fifties, late fifties, and I am raising my daughter by myself after having lost your twin last year. That settles it. Tomorrow afternoon, you will come to my studio and I will introduce you to the land of tango."

  "I couldn't impose, really."

  "The address is on the card. Here is my cell number. I will be very disappointed if you do not come. Besides, I am a maestro. You can't lose. What did you have?"

  "Just coffee."

  "Fine," he said, leaving some money on the table as they got up.

  Kefira and he strolled towards the child walking in their direction. Roxanna was engrossed in her large cone. Life was beautiful and Kefira linked her arm with Fripo's arm. The gesture seemed natural. She knew she would go to his studio the next day.

  In the light of day, on her balcony drinking a strong espresso that she had prepared in her kitchen, Kefira was less sure of her earlier convictions about taking Fripo up on his offer. The success of her mission was paramount, but she had a good gut feeling about Fripo, and she now realized that, with Fripo's assistance, she might be able to get Shafiq to come to her instead of going after him.

  What the hell, caution to the wind, she thought as she dialed Fripo's cell phone number.

  He answered after three rings, apparently out of breath. She could hear the sound of a studio piano plunking through a fast milonga-style tango.

  "I am very pleased you called," he said, before she could speak.

  "I didn't say anything and you did not know my number. How did you know it was me?"

  "I didn't. I always answer the phone like that."

  "Is that a milonga I hear in the background?"

  "You have been doing your homework. Yes it is. When will you be here?"

  "Is two o'clock okay?"

  "I usually don't teach from 2:00 to 4:00, but if you can eat with me in the studio at 2:00, it would be perfect to start dancing around 2:45."

  "Until then, ciao," said Kefira, shifting from the Spanish they had been using to Italian, another of her languages.

  "Multi-lingual … any more surprises for me?" continued Fripo in Italian.

  "Actually, I am a professional dancer."

  "Yes, you told me last night," he said as the music in the background picked up.

  "Who is that composer?"

  "His name's Rodolfo Biagi. You like it?"

  "The tempo is pressing, interesting."

  "I really have to go. Ciao, bella."


  Kefira wondered why she was coy with this man. Though it was not out of character for her to flirt, she usually displayed her charms exclusively to advance a mission's objectives, not just for the fun of it.

  The Mossad operative got up to leave, knowing she had just enough time to get to the corner of Niceto Vega and Calle Armenia before her dance appointment. She double-checked the safety on the ceramic pistol Aden had provided for her and stashed it under her mattress. She went downstairs, helmet in hand, and jumped onto a Ducati Streetfighter S motorcycle that she had rented for two weeks.

  The GPS she had purchased in Boston operated flawlessly, thanks to Aden's loading of a connection to an Israeli military satellite, all behind an impenetrable firewall. The Armenian section of town was far away, but distances seemed shorter on the Ducati Streetfighter S. Her expertise allowed her to slip through traffic.

  Finding Shafiq's residence was easy. She had the exact location from his Mossad file. Establishing a one-person surveillance was another story. She got off her motorcycle, locked it with a very serious looking device, and pulled off her helmet to the shocked surprise of several men sitting at a cafe opposite the building where Shafiq lived. She decided to have a coffee and see if the Mossad surveillance of Shafiq was accurate. They said he got up and sat on his balcony overlooking the street at exactly 11:00 every morning. It was a third floor balcony, just to the right of the front door.

  Sure enough, at 11:02, the balcony door opened, and a fit-looking man, in his early fifties of Middle Eastern extraction, stepped out. He had a white porcelain coffee cup in his right hand and a morning paper under his arm. He was reading the paper, but Kefira could see that his movements revealed that he was using the reading as a pretext to peruse the street below him. From just under the awning to the left of the cafe, she was invisible to him, but using her make-up mirror, she could see Shafiq. He did a double take on the Ducati, just as she wanted. Before he finished his paper, she let him see her putting on her helmet and take in the sundress as she exposed her upper thigh while getting on the bike. She was off like a light, pulling a small wheelie to the renewed amazement of the men in the shop and Shafiq as well. I'll pique his interest with that, she thought.