Cyprus Rage

by J E Higgins

  “We need an independent operator who can plan and direct a mission to neutralize this problem while it is still being organized in Cyprus. So long as the weapons don’t make it to our country, the System will not be able to set off this chaotic insurgency, then we will be alright.”

  “You are asking a great deal.” Tarkov scanned the people sitting before him. “You are asking me to go to a foreign land and conduct what exactly ─ a black operation, an assassination, an all-out terrorist act? And, you are not asking this to be done in some remote location where the interference from police is minute. No, you are asking this to be done in a European country. A country where the security forces have far better training and resources. In my opinion, you’d be better off applying whatever political pressure you can on the Cyprus government. It would stand you in better stead than what you’re proposing.”

  “The risks you speak of have been discussed in previous meetings,” Carzona explained. “The conclusion, after a great deal of deliberation, was that the mission we are employing you to undertake is necessary and worth the risk.”

  “Cyprus is known to play host to the black market,” Rita was speaking again. “It is also known to have a somewhat volatile political situation. Even if we did apply pressure, there is no guarantee it would do much, if anything. And, it would all be pointless if a heavy influx of weapons should arrive in the country.”

  Tarkov took several deep breaths as he digested what was being told to him. He pondered the situation as he chose his next words carefully. The panel remained silent allowing him to think. Finally, he spoke. “If I do this, I imagine that I will be working with someone from your organization. I don’t assume that you will simply trust me to run free half a world away on your tab.”

  “You are correct,” Rita answered. “Though you will be in command, all decisions regarding money will go through Colonel Carzona. He will accompany you and have oversight of all funds.”

  The Russian studied the burly figure. He had evaluated him once already as a man who was no stranger to combat. But not all soldiers are suited to all forms of war. Carzona looked the part of a man who had seen action. It was more than likely his conflicts had been entirely in the jungles of the tropics not the big cities of Europe. “I assume you’re an experienced hand in military matters.”

  “I’ve fired some shots in my life,” Carzona replied dismissively.

  “I imagine you’ve fired more than a few shots in anger in your time Colonel. I just want to make sure who I’m reporting to knows what we’re up against.” Tarkov stared the burly man straight in the eye to get his point across. “The odds are we’ll be operating in large cities and urban environments not in the countryside. As I’ve stated, we’ll be operating in a sophisticated country, not a war zone. I can handle oversight, but only if that oversight understands what they’re doing.”

  “I can assure you that the Col...” Rita had started to answer but was cut off immediately by Carzona.

  “Your concern is well taken. I, too, have witnessed ‘military professionals’ who arrogantly overestimate their abilities and assume too much on their previous experiences. I have seen the dangers that it brings. I also understand that my experience in this type of situation is limited which is why you are here, and I’m not leading. However, much like you, I have fought in silent wars and know the complications that go with conducting secret wars.”

  Tarkov liked the answer. “Well then, I guess I will assume the risk. However, we are going to need some people. We’re going to have to assemble a team.”

  “We can work through your broker,” Rita began to offer.

  “No,” Tarkov said curtly. “The elaborate interview and testing you put me through tonight are for you to make your own assessment of my abilities. You clearly had your doubts about him ─ as do I. If we go to him, he will more than likely be interested in hastily filling the order rather than carefully assessing the recruits. The market is awash with Russian soldiers right now. Due to the state of affairs back home, we come a lot cheaper than our western counterparts. That is why you’re hiring me and not the more notable American Navy Seal or British Special Air Service soldier whose exploits and abilities have been more extensively publicized. The problem is the average Russian soldier who can be hired is most likely going to be a conscript. Army Spetsnaz is recruited straight from the ranks of fresh conscripts. Their only military experience is with the units. They serve a two-year commitment just like any other conscript. This means that most are hastily trained so they can be of some use before their commitment is up. That also means that though they boast impressive credentials as Special Forces soldiers, their training and experience is not as good. It is the same with the naval Spetsnaz. Most of our people serve a three-year commitment and, though they receive far more in-depth training than most, they have little actual experience. The few who stay and make a career of the army receive more thorough training and experience, but they are hard to sort out from the short-termers. And, all of them will try to sell themselves as seasoned experts.”

  The panel grimaced. The briefing they had just received was not taken well. Carzona pressed his finger to his lips as he maintained his focus on the Russian. “So, what would you recommend, if your broker is not an option?”

  Tarkov sighed as he began to pace across the room. “At least to start with, we need people who know this kind of war. They have experience not only conducting clandestine missions in European cities but in working outside of the support and protection of government service. This is the lynchpin of the operation. There are operators who have worked for some of the best, most sophisticated intelligence agencies in the world and know the dark world of black operations but have never worked outside of the support network of their respected agency. We need to be careful about recruiting these people, too. What we have to do is to go through the world of illicit trade to recruit the next members of the force. I happen to have an old friend who works out of the Middle-East as an arms trafficker. He’s headquartered in Turkey. He could be a good source to aid us.”

  “How do you know you can trust him?” Rita asked softly.

  “I don’t,” the Russian replied. “Since he’s not in the business of brokering mercenaries, and he has no personal interest in it, it should make his advice objective.”

  6

  Sauwa savored the warm water of the shower that ran over her aching body. She had just completed her morning workout, a rough formula of weights and cardio, and wanted nothing more than to enjoy the downtime. Her adventurous return trip had been very physical. With no new jobs lined up, she was looking forward to a few months of relaxation.

  Shutting off the water, she stepped through the sliding glass door, her feet touching the soft rug she had placed over the tile floor. She dried herself off. Dressed in a pair of tan cargo pants and a grey T-shirt, she made her way to her room.

  Valikov maintained his palatial mansion in the upscale Cesme area of the city of Izmir, one of Turkey’s largest cities. He assigned her to one of his several guest rooms. He did this to control her whereabouts. She didn’t mind too much. After all, it was a nice room with a comfortable bed and nice furniture. It was a pleasant improvement over her previous living accommodations.

  Padding across the plush, red Oriental rug, she made her way to the window. It had become part of her ritual to take time to view the fabulous gardens and stately homes surrounding Valikov’s mansion. It wasn’t just the view that guided this practice, it was her discipline. Conducting regular, informal security checks looking for anything out of the ordinary or any signs that someone was watching the house was part of her job. Valikov had not chosen her room for its comfort and confinement. It was so his skilled operative could serve as part of his security system. Satisfied that all looked well, she went to a nearby chair where she slipped on outdoor clothes, a pair of socks, and black military boots. Then she headed out the door.

  In the hallway, high-grade, hidden cameras were placed at b
oth ends. She couldn’t believe it had taken her two days after moving in to notice them. She was told that they were there to protect against intruders. Judging by where they were positioned, she believed they were there as another means by which her employer could keep an eye on her. She walked down the hall then headed down a flight of stairs.

  Rounding a corner she proceeded down a short hallway and stepped outside. Walking past the long swimming pool, she passed a grey building housing a gymnasium containing all sorts of modern exercise equipment. Valikov, being a former special operations man himself, respected the need to maintain physical fitness. Moving past the gym, she entered the garden. It was a majestic Eden with an extensive array of rose bushes neatly arranged and guarded on either side by tall shrubs, providing for moments of tranquility.

  Her primary function was serving as Valikov’s right hand managing his arms shipments. However, when back at the house, she acted as his security chief. It was here she started her rounds. Making daily random patrols around the estate daily helped ensure no one was attempting to breach it. The garden, though beautiful, was a great place for someone to enter the grounds if they intended to raid the house. Any professional team, knowing who they were going after, would notice this in their first recce to gain intelligence. Her concern, when going through the garden in daylight, was less about encountering an assailant than finding signs that someone had been traipsing around.

  Walking along the narrow concrete pathway, she acted as if she were just out for a walk enjoying the plants. She didn’t want to give the neighbors any reason to be suspicious about who was living next door. It was a good way to have people take an unneeded interest in what went on at the house. She proceeded to look for broken limbs or footprints in the dirt that was different from the treads she identified as those belonging to the gardening staff. She inspected the foliage for unexplainable breaks that suggested someone had tried to hide in the bushes. Though not the best tactic to sneak into the yard of a target simply to observe, it was not out of the question with less trained and inexperienced operatives.

  Nothing caught her attention as she completed her rounds. However, a few times she had noticed several tell-tale signs suggesting intruders had slipped into the garden in the past to observe the owner and his dealings.

  After the garden, she checked the remainder of the yard and found nothing to spark her concern. Completing her stroll, she went back into the house retrieving her brown leather jacket and some fighting knives that she tucked in the front and back of her belt ─ the jacket hiding any bulges the knives might create. Checking herself in the large, full-sized mirror, there was no indication of any weapons, her boots did not look too tactical, and there were no signs of protruding laces.

  A young athletic man in his mid-twenties emerged from the kitchen and walked up to Sauwa. Wearing a devilish smile he spoke, “Ah, women can never pass up a mirror. They are always admiring or judging themselves.”

  Mustafa, the only name she knew him by, had been a member of the Turkish Jandarma, the militarized police force responsible for protecting and enforcing the law in Turkey’s rural countryside and smaller towns. She was never clear why he left there. He never spoke about it nor did their employer, but he was hired to assist in providing physical security for the house during times Sauwa was away on business. He was a good asset ─ he spoke fluent English, had strong tactical skills and a good working knowledge of police operations and Turkish law. All of which came in handy when operating inside the country.

  “Are you ready for our little walk?” She asked, ignoring his previous comment.

  “Always. You’re great arm candy,” he replied jokingly. “It helps make the ladies around here jealous.”

  “Glad I can be of service.” She adjusted her front knife a bit and checked it in the mirror.

  Satisfied that she was inconspicuously prepared for a fight, she stepped out the front door and began her walk. Mustafa followed on her heels. As with her security checks around the yard and house, she made it a practice of taking an occasional walk a couple of times a week just to recce the immediate neighborhood. She would stroll about leisurely, waving to all the neighbors. Typically, Mustafa would accompany her on these patrols to act as interpreter and provide backup should they have any trouble. Since his expertise was more physical security, he found walking with a trained espionage operative quite informative. Sauwa spent time as she educated him on the arts of surveillance and counter-surveillance. She also taught him the finer points of carrying out abductions and assassinations.

  Their walk began in an arbitrary fashion. They were as unpredictable about which routes they took as when they chose to conduct a recce. Routines bred a familiarity that an observant enemy could use to plan an operation, better conceal themselves, or deceive the security team. It was something Sauwa had learned when she was planning missions against her own targets.

  Like Sauwa, Mustafa was dressed in a loose-fitting jacket that hid the weapons he was carrying. Neither one carried a firearm. For a country like Turkey, that had a long history of political violence and military coups, firearms were discouraged by the police. Getting caught with one would have serious consequences or lead to a lot of unwanted attention. In a neighborhood where they were both well known to the locals meant that witnesses would be able to lead the police right to their door.

  Besides, it had been her own experience that if they were to encounter a threat, it would happen when they were too close to an enemy to be able to pull a gun. In a close fight, it was much easier to grab for a double-bladed knife and cut into an abductor’s soft tissue or hit lethal areas up close. She could easily reach her knives whether she was being charged or grabbed by surprise. Having them positioned in front, back, and at her sides gave her multiple places to draw from no matter what her situation.

  Abduction teams generally had limited windows to make their snatch, so the best strategy for their target was to buy time. Once an abduction team began suffering casualties and the target was proving intent on putting up a fight, it usually boiled down to holding on long enough for the abductors to decide the window was closed and the risk too great.

  Sauwa and Mustafa began their walk taking a right and proceeding down a small hill. They viewed the streets, checking for any vehicles that looked out of place. It was a wealthy neighborhood filled with people who were like their employer ─ emerging entrepreneurs who were part of the country’s newly rich. And, like all the new nouveau-riche, they had a desire to flaunt it. Their driveways were littered with flashy, expensive cars imported from Italy and the United States; certainly, not the type of vehicles a government employee or guerrilla group would use. Any modest, everyday car was suspect, especially if it looked like a vehicle that could be used to house surveillance equipment or accommodate a team of people.

  Professional surveillance teams looked for cars that could blend into everyday society and not attract attention. They were usually devoid of any personalizing touches such as ornaments on the dash or around the car and were a neutral color such as black, grey, or white ─ something easily ignored and forgotten by most people. If needing to follow someone through a city or town, bright colored Porches and Lamborghinis were neither practical nor easily hidden. The usual surveillance team consisted of a driver, an observer in the front passenger seat, and one to two additional agents who worked as the foot team if needed to pursue the target. For this reason, vehicles used for such missions would also be four-door rigs capable of carrying at least three to four people.

  She didn’t really expect to see much. The neighborhood was tight. Most of the families had lived in their homes for five to ten years. Any surveillance vehicle would catch more than just her eye after a while. A likely call to the police from a concerned citizen would have gotten rid of them. She was more concerned with teams using disguises such as fake work vehicles. Most people would dismiss a maintenance van, or someone working on telephone wires, even if that same team was working in the same l
ocation for several weeks.

  The mid-afternoon was pleasant with the sun out and a light cool breeze keeping the temperature perfect to make the day enjoyable. As a handsome, athletic couple, they gave the impression to most anyone watching that they were lovers out for their usual walk. Their façade made it easy for locals to dismiss them. Mustafa played his role, keeping a smile on his face, staying close to her as if they were sharing intimate secrets.

  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary ─ no unusual people were hanging about, no houses were empty with the owners off on a lengthy vacation, and everyone seemed to be acting in the routine Sauwa had come to expect from her previous observations. The street appeared safe as the couple pressed on.

  They turned down a side street leading to another row of houses, neither of them expecting anything unusual. Valikov’s house was completely out of viewing distance by anyone staging along this route. It was more a way to get out of the house for a while and enjoy some tranquil time. As they walked past the columns of modern-day palaces, Mustafa took in the view. “Can you ever imagine us owning a house like these in a place like this?” He wore a devilish smile on his face as he asked.

  “No,” Sauwa shook her head. “This is all too civilized and cozy for people like us. We need to live rougher. I’d settle for a small place in one of the fishing villages on the outside of town. Or better yet, a small ranch house in the countryside.”

  “You know, I pegged you for a small-town type,” Mustafa chuckled.

  “Perhaps, I am,” Sauwa replied, taking a deep breath as she began to consider what her life might actually look like when she was no longer living by her wits and forced to work for dangerous men such as Andre Valikov. It had been a long time since she had given any thought to a different lifestyle. She didn’t really like to contemplate it. Deep down, she feared that such a time might never come.