Cyprus Rage

by J E Higgins

  Tarkov shook his head as he leaned back in his seat. “Contrary to what you may think, commandos are not secret agents. We don’t play in this sort of field. We fight on battlefields and operate as shadows. This espionage thing is not what we do or what we are necessarily trained for. And, to be honest, I don’t much like it.”

  “As I said, surprising,” the woman replied, keeping her poise.

  “So, what do I call you?” Tarkov asked, noticing the burly man in the suit had moved from the bar to a neighboring table.

  “You may call me Rita,” she replied.

  “Before we go any further, Rita, I would like to ask you about the two guys keeping an eye on us from across the street. Are they with you, or are you having problems with them?” Tarkov’s look was serious and demanding of an answer.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Rita gave a slightly condescending chuckle as if she were amused by the Russian’s childish paranoia.

  “If you don’t,” Tarkov started to rise to his feet, “then I guess we have nothing more to say.”

  “Wait, please,” Rita’s expression broke from arrogant amusement to a twinge of concern. “Please sit.”

  He lowered himself back into his chair and looked at her with an irritated expression. “I saw those two men, and they are very interested in this place. They look like they come from the same place you and your friend next to us do. So, either I’m a fool who sees what is not there and am not the man you need for your job, or they are there. If they are not with you, and you didn’t notice them, you picked the perfect place for us to be observed. In that case, whatever you are doing, you are in over your head, and I have no interest in having anything to do with you.”

  Rita folded her hands in front of her as she took a lengthy pause. Her eyes darted to the next table and met the gaze of the burly man, who nodded back at her. Tarkov watched the action play out unsure what to make of it. Finally, lowering her hands to the table, Rita returned her attention to him. “Those men outside do work for us. We weren’t sure who we were getting, and we wanted to make certain what we were getting into before we made contact. The men outside are keeping watch to make sure no one is watching us, or we are not walking into a trap. I’m sure you can appreciate these precautions.”

  “And the man sitting next to us?” Tarkov shifted his eyes in the direction of the burly man at the neighboring table. “He’s with you. Is he in command, or are you?”

  “It is too early in our relationship to disclose that much,” Rita said quietly but in a firm tone.

  Not wanting to press the issue further, Tarkov nodded. “Then what is this, an interview? Are we going to discuss my history and your situation here?”

  “Not quite,” Rita folded her hands once more. “This is an initial meeting to feel you out. Those whom I work for are not going to expose themselves or discuss a highly sensitive matter with a stranger. Especially one whose reasons for being here are purely monetary. Consider this a discussion to see if you are the man we want for the job.”

  “And, if I’m not?” Tarkov shifted his eyes again to the burly man. “Then what?”

  “Not what you’re thinking,” Rita cracked another condescending smirk. “The whole point of this meeting is so we can decide if you are the right fit. If not, we don’t have to worry about you. We simply say goodbye and depart.”

  Tarkov shrugged. “What do you need to know?”

  “You were a former communist, were you not?” Her gaze grew cold and serious.

  “I may still be one. Honestly, I don’t know what I am anymore.” He returned her gaze with a look of indifference. He understood now that this meeting could end either way. The games being played made him less enthusiastic by the minute.

  “A reasonable answer,” Rita ran her teeth over her lower lip. “My concern is why a long-serving Russian officer suddenly puts himself on the market.”

  “I didn’t wash out if that’s why you are concerned.” He folded his arms and maintained his look of indifference. “My reasons are like many others. My career was over, and I saw no future where I was headed.”

  She took another sip of her drink. As she did her eyes looked over to the burly man. “And you are now a freelancer in the private market, why?”

  “I’m a soldier,” Tarkov replied sharply. “It’s the skills I have, and what I do. My country is in ruins, people are living on scraps, and the Russian army can’t even feed its own troops. I consider this the only paying job available right now.”

  “The man who recommended you gave you high accolades as a skilled operator.” Not wanting to arouse attention, she chose her words carefully. “Are you comfortable using your skills outside of a state military?”

  “If I have to, but it depends on what I would be doing, and what resources are available.” He kept his eyes fixed on her. “Until I know exactly what the mission is and review it, I would not want to give you a finite answer. No professional would.”

  Rita darted her eyes over to the burly man once more. She returned her focus to the Russian and tilted her head slightly. “I believe we have what we need.” She slid one of her magazines over to him. “Wait until you are someplace else then read the article on page ten. You’ll know by tonight if we wish to retain your services.” With that, she packed the remaining magazines into her bag and rose to her feet. “It was nice meeting you.” She got up and started in the direction of the door. As she passed the burly man’s table, he too rose and started to follow her.

  Tarkov waited until they left then snatched up the magazine. Leaving the bottles of liquor on the table he headed out of the bar. He half expected to be stopped by one of the staff anxious to inform him that he was leaving two expensive bottles behind. No one did, and the few staff tending to some demanding costumers hardly noticed him leaving.

  5

  The meeting had been short, vague, and not what Tarkov expected. Being honest with himself, he didn’t really know what to expect. He was unfamiliar with the world of espionage. The protocols of such a culture were unknown to a man whose experience was engaging the enemy in battle or watching him from a concealed position.

  Dubai was a city transitioning quickly from the ancient to the modern. The changes were moving so rapidly it was not uncommon to find an uneven social order honeycombed within the same neighborhoods. Tarkov found a small cafe a few blocks from the bar. It was wedged along one of the less trendy streets of the city.

  He liked the location. There was nothing across the street that could provide decent concealment, and the windows were covered with posters or colored paper preventing anyone from seeing inside. Walking through the door Tarkov looked around. The patrons had no interest in a new face entering the premise. This was a place generally attended by regulars where everyone knew everyone intimately which made it easier to spot a possible tail. The clientele was not the upscale business types he had just left. Older local men enjoying small glasses of coffee were watching a soccer game on the television. If a man entered and didn’t immediately get received as an old friend, it would alert Tarkov to be leery.

  Most of the tables were empty on the right side. He took a seat at the one furthest from the window. Anyone wanting to see what he was doing would have to get close or come inside. He had a full view of the room and the doorway. He didn’t expect any serious danger. Nothing he had seen so far had given him any indication he was being followed or that he might be targeted by the enemies of his potential new employer.

  Besides, the city had spent a fortune overhauling their police force ─ providing all the equipment and training one would find in a Western European or North American city. This made the city far above the third rate forces commonly found in the third world. It was a factor that would likely deter any enemy from attempting a violent act.

  No sooner had he sat down at a chair against the wall, when an elderly woman in a traditional Muslim dress approached him. “Might I offer you some coffee, sir?” The Russian was guessing at
what she said. Her language was crude, riddled with a drawl, and she used certain slang words that suggested she was a Bedouin who had come from the country to the city.

  “Yes please, ma’am,” Tarkov replied politely. The woman smiled and bowed slightly as she turned and quietly walked away. Taking a casual look around to ensure there were no prying eyes, he opened the magazine. Turning to page 10 as Rita directed, he found writing scribbled in black ink over one of the clearer pages. The writing was in English which he figured was another test. The message directed him to be at the pay phone center at the Dubai bus terminal at 0030 hours and wait for one of the phones to ring.

  Flipping the magazine closed just in time for the old woman to return with his coffee, Tarkov leaned back in his chair thinking how theatrical this seemed. These people had seen too many spy movies or read too many spy novels and wanted to make the process as intriguing as possible. The woman smiled as she lowered a small glass containing a milky brown liquid onto the table in front of him. She acted particularly proud of the drink she was serving him ─ as if it were her own special recipe. She eagerly accepted the few small bills he handed her. The foreigner was not interested in either the menu or watching the game. She asked no further questions and left to tend to other customers who were working up an appetite from all the excitement fostered by the game.

  Tarkov stared at the clock posted high on the wall. It read 2116 hours. Finishing his coffee, he rose and left taking the magazine with him. On the main street, he found a nearby establishment with a lavatory. Ripping the page with the instructions from the magazine into pieces, he sprinkled them into a vacant toilet then promptly flushed it. He left the establishment and hailed a cab. Thankfully, there were several cabs on the street that night eager to find new fares.

  The bus terminal was a new, modern structure with tile flooring and a concrete walkway. It took him some time to find the phone center in the maze-like structure ─ it was 2345 hours. He had expected the ride to take a considerable amount of time navigating the congested roadways. He arrived early and occupied himself by walking around. He frequently checked to see if anyone was trying to keep tabs on him, but he wasn’t that concerned at this point. It would have been tough to trace him after everything he had done this evening.

  At 0022 hours, aside from a few individuals, the call center at the bus station was a virtual graveyard. It would have been easier for him to make contact at a busier time. However, the phone chosen might have been occupied by someone else. Perhaps that was why they chose the hour they did. At precisely 0030hours, the phone at station nine began to ring. Walking over he picked up the phone.

  “Yes?” was all he said.

  “Mr. Tarkov?” He recognized the voice at once.

  “Rita?” He responded with calm confidence.

  “We’ve decided to retain your services,” Rita responded. “Please take a cab to the Kasha Inn and go to room 31.”

  He heard a click on the other end signaling the conversation was over. Hailing another cab, he rode to the far end of town. The Kasha Inn was a modest, upscale establishment. It wasn’t the type of place VIPs and dignitaries would necessarily choose, however for newlyweds or people just enjoying a quiet vacation, it was perfect. It was wedged between clusters of high, full-grown palm trees and thick shrubbery. While it was unsuitable for someone to move through undetected, it was perfect for deterring any outside surveillance. The closest buildings were placed at angles making it difficult for anyone to see in.

  Stepping inside, he walked past the counter, which was manned by a nerdy, skeletal teenager who was more interested in the gorgeous young foreign women hanging out in the lounge than him. Avoiding the elevator, Tarkov opted to take the stairs. He didn’t like the thought of being trapped in a confined box with people he didn’t know.

  Arriving on the third floor he walked into the hallway and was instantly noticed by two men standing at the far end of the hallway. They were the same two men he had seen watching the bar. They were wearing suits with jackets that were far larger than their frames. The Spetsnaz commando assumed that this time they were armed. They must have thought he would arrive using the elevator and were standing next to the elevator doors.

  Entering the hallway from the stairs, the two men spotted him immediately. Keeping his hands raised Tarkov opened his jacket to reveal he was not carrying any weapons. The two men didn’t move nor did they make the slightest gesture responding to his courtesy. He saw one of the men speak into a small walkie-talkie as he walked to room 31 and knocked on the door. The door flew open after his second knock revealing a tall, slender man with a pencil mustache, neatly groomed hair, and finely tailored suit.

  “Please comrade come in. We’ve been expecting you,” the man greeted him with a grin that was more sinister than pleasant and stepped aside to allow the Russian to enter.

  Tarkov watched the man’s hands ensuring they remained away from his jacket. If they hadn’t, it would have meant one deadly beating. He entered a room that had been organized for a meeting. There was a group of about a half-dozen people sitting in chairs that had been arranged in a semi-circle. It looked like the introduction to some weird cult initiation. Rita was seated at the far left next to the burly man he had seen earlier. The other four men were unknown to him. Judging by their expensive looking, grey suits they were men of both means and position.

  Tarkov heard the door shut behind him. He turned slightly to keep the tall man in his sight. “Please don’t stand behind me,” he told the man in a low and cold, serious voice. The slender man’s smile turned to an awkward, nervous look as he eyed the Russian. With a shrug, the tall man slid past him and moved over to the others.

  With everyone where he could see them, Tarkov entered the room slowly. “Well, you have me here,” he said in English. “Now, what is this about?” His eyes carefully scanned everyone seated in the semi-circle as he tried to determine the rank structure.

  “Mr. Tarkov,” Rita began. While she was the one talking, it was evident that she was not the one in charge. “We represent the Filipino government in an informal way. Currently, our president is working to make great changes in our country. Changes that are meant to help liberalize the means by which more of our society can partake in the wealth in our country. A few very powerful families control the majority of the arable land leaving the rest of the population in abject poverty. There are those in power who do not wish to see these reforms come to fruition.

  We have been fighting a serious political battle at home against these powerful forces, which we will refer to as the System. It has come to our attention that there is a plan to bring down the government by means of an insurrection. We have ascertained from our intelligence that they plan to arm several Islamic and communist rebel groups with supplies and weapons in the hopes of igniting an uprising that will be beyond the control of local authorities. Through this burst of violence, the government will be destabilized. To counter this action, the military will step in to assume control of the country. If the violence is widespread, the military will be forced to call upon the help of these powerful interests who control their own well equipped, private armies to augment the military forces. This will give the System the position they need to end the reforms entirely.”

  Tarkov pursed his lips as he shook his head. “If you are looking at me to be your savior in combating these guerrillas and subverting this inevitable coup, then I’m sorry. This would be far beyond my abilities as a commando. Besides, if you have all this information, why not expose this System publicly and have them arrested? That would be my advice.”

  “I’m afraid the political situation in our country is too sensitive and volatile to make that an option,” the burly man suddenly responded. His accent was rough but clear. “The information we have is too limited to actually act upon through legal means and, even if we could, it could have a negative backlash.”

  “This still doesn’t explain what you think I can do for you,” Tarkov said. “I
mean I would like to be employed. I make no secret of the fact that I currently am in need of a job, but I still don’t wish to be hired based on a false pretense or lead you into something I know I wouldn’t be able to handle.”

  “I thank you for that,” the burly man answered, “but what we need you for is something else.”

  “Forgive me,” Tarkov interrupted. “As you seem to be the man who I believe I owe for this meeting, what exactly do I call you?”

  “Oh, before we go any further Mr. Tarkov,” Rita spoke up, “I wish to introduce you to Colonial Carzona.”

  “That’s not his real name, is it? Just as I’m sure Rita isn’t your real name.” the Russian stated.

  “No, it is not,” Carzona retook the conversation. “I am advising this panel on military matters. That is all you need to know.”

  “I agree,” Tarkov replied. “Again, I apologize.”

  Carzona waved politely assuring he was not offended. “You see, what we have learned is that members of the System have been reaching outside of the South Pacific region in search of an arms trafficker who can fill their sizable demand. They are looking for a Muslim broker who can be the middle-man for dealing with the Islamic rebels. Apparently, they have made inroads in this endeavor through a party in Cyprus. The plan is to organize this operation outside the region where our intelligence assets have the means to monitor this, and our military has the means to conduct necessary actions to neutralize the threat. Through this contact, the insurgents, both communist and Islamic, will think they have a sympathetic benefactor aiding their cause. No one will ever be able to prove that this whole thing was being orchestrated and directed by the very group that these insurgents are fighting.”

  “We are a small, poor country with limited resources to operate globally,” Rita added. “We’re not the United States or Russia. We don’t have the political clout to survive any scandal if our people were discovered and caught operating an illegal military operation on a foreign shore ─ especially when that country is in Europe. Which brings us to you,” she turned and looked back at Carzona who resumed talking.