by J E Higgins
“I have, madam,” he said acidly. “Normally, illegalities are part of the business of corporate warfare. Especially in quasi-socialist countries where free enterprise is disdained, and such things are at times necessary. Yet, there are limits to the amount of exposure I will accept.”
“I take it you have reached those limits?” She raised her arms interlocking her fingers in front of her face.
“In this case, yes. I feel we have exceeded those limits.” Ridgeway began tapping his fingers on the table.
“Why don’t you tell me what you have found, then we can settle up and go our separate ways,” she said coolly.
Leaning over, Ridgeway grabbed a leather satchel sitting on the adjacent seat. Dropping it on the table and throwing back the fold, he produced a set of thick manila folders that he placed on top of the satchel. “This is what we have found for you. Your delegation of businessmen has apparently reached out to one Theo Kalopolis, a serious trafficker in illegal arms. They have been meeting with him regularly. What we were able to ascertain is that they are trying to buy up a large consignment of weapons and munitions. We don’t know much ─ Kalopolis is a very dangerous man to run afoul of, so I limited the scope of how far we would go to obtain your information. I have told my people to keep their energies focused on your businessmen and stay clear of Kalopolis. What you now have is what we have collected on them.”
She reached for the top folder and slid it onto her lap. Opening it, she began reading the first document. It was a well-compiled dossier aided by a collection of photographs organized chronologically. The dossier centered on a five-man delegation. She wasted little time on the individual biographies. She already knew who they were. Though she had to admit Ridgeway’s firm had been quite thorough in their research. They had captured academic records, business dealings, and family connections. She was impressed.
They were equally meticulous collecting and documenting intelligence on the men’s stay in Europe. The men hadn’t come directly to Cyprus. They had gone first to Rome, Italy where they laid low in some penthouse suites they reserved at an expensive hotel. They had sent a few of their people to Cyprus ─ a lawyer plus three men described as personal security types. This lawyer met with Kalopolis’ representative on a few occasions over the course of three weeks. The dossier notes described the meetings as a feeling out between the two parties.
According to the report, after a series of meetings in which the few involved were taken to some private locations controlled by the Kalopolis group, the lawyer had given a satisfactory report to his employers in Rome. A week later the delegation was in Cyprus in the tourist city of Limassol. They had taken up residence in suites at one of the city’s top hotels.
Morayo continued flipping through the stack of folders while Ridgeway sat quietly. The files contained further reports detailing the day-to-day activities of the delegation and the key people they kept around them. Ridgeway’s people had wiretapped telephone conversations and provided surveillance photos of people coming to the hotel to meet them. The final folder surprised Morayo. It was an overview of Kalopolis, his biography, and a list of the people he used in his business dealings. It wasn’t much, but it was far more than she had expected after Ridgeway’s apprehension at the start of the meeting. She looked up at him questioningly.
“I did some basic research for you,” he explained before she could ask the question. “I felt it was only professional to let you know something about who you were going up against. So long as it didn’t endanger my people or threaten my organization, I wanted to provide quality service.”
Morayo continued looking over the files. “I appreciate what you have given us. This will do nicely. The quality of your research is impeccable.” She reached into her briefcase and removed a bank draft. “This should compensate you for your services.”
Ridgeway smoothly took the check from the woman’s hand and examined it carefully. “Will you require my services in the near future?”
“No, I don’t believe so,” she replied. “But, that may change. If it does, I promise I will not involve you beyond your customary sphere.” She gathered the folders and returned them to the satchel. Just as gracefully as when she arrived, she picked up the satchel, said her goodbyes, and left.
14
It was early morning when the van pulled up to the Izmir docks. The mercenaries filed out the side door, and Tarkov led them toward the harbor. The move had been timed to coincide with the swarms of fisherman moving quickly to catch their quarry during feeding time. It was easy for the mercenaries to blend in to give the appearance of being just a few sailors on their way out to sea. To aid this facade, the mercenaries had been provided P-coats, old sweatshirts, and rubber boots allowing them to blend in with the fishermen. This gear was also practical for facing the cold waters of the Mediterranean.
Tarkov and the Filipino, who everyone now knew as Carzona, led the mercenaries down the docks to a large boat surrounded by thick rubber bumpers. They reached the ladder well and were met by a man with a thick grizzled beard covering his face and a matching head of salt and pepper hair that made him look more beast than human. The woolly sweater concealing his neck looked like it had never seen the inside of a washing machine. The Filipino ascended the thin metal staircase and extended his arm for an introduction. The grizzled man regarded the motley group standing below him with suspicion as he reluctantly grabbed the Filipino’s hand. He paid particular attention to Sauwa. His expression stated that it was bad enough to have a bunch of mercenaries bringing him trouble, but now he had a woman and all the problems that was sure to bring.
The boat set out with a sizable fleet of fishing vessels and tugboats. It looked like any other craft going about its usual routine. The mercenaries were relegated to hold up in the sleeping quarters squeezed in among the tightly placed rows of bunk beds below deck, out of sight, and out of the way of the actual crew. To pass the time, the mercenaries threw their gear into a pile in the walkway of the bunk room to use it as a table. Inevitably, someone had a deck of cards ─ money was produced, and the poker game was on.
Tarkov, De’vor, and the two Italians needed no convincing before they were at the makeshift table. Carzona took one of the empty bunks and engrossed himself in a book he had brought. Sauwa stripped down to her tank top and trousers and began some makeshift exercises.
The men remained ensconced in their game. Money was an added factor that kept their attention focused. She could feel the occasional wandering eye directed at her. The older men, Tarkov and Sacchini, tended to give her an occasional glance expressing a warm, affectionate interest in a fit and pretty young woman that they both knew was far too young for them. De’vor continued his role as an emotionless statue, indifferent to everything except the cards. But even he had been noticed glimpsing her as she exercised. It was Gorzo, the image of an Italian stud, who didn’t try to mask his interest in her. He brazenly took his time in between games to gawk at her and examine every inch of her body. It was an easy guess that he would be the one causing her problems.
The journey from Izmir to Cyprus was a long winding trip around the coast of Western Turkey and out into open waters, and the ice between the mercenaries gradually thawed. They all had time to assess one another. After two days of being cooped up in the house and then crammed together on a grimy vessel, the need for interaction gradually took hold. Everyone began opening up to those they felt comfortable with. In Sauwa’s case, it was oddly enough Sacchini.
Despite his appearance that would have one thinking he spent his days hanging around bars and picking up prostitutes, he turned out to be a remarkably warm and thoughtful man. He had been with the Italian naval commandos until he retired out. Unable to shake the need for adventure, he hired on with a mercenary group working for the Sultan of Oman fighting communist guerrillas. After that, he moved between the Gulf States working a lot of short-term operations. He was the head of a small group of privately hired operators conducting covert actions
against Iranian backed Shia groups trying to subvert the government. He managed some of the more dangerous transactions working on jobs for businessmen whose dealings involved the black market. These days he freelanced which was how he got recruited for this operation. Sauwa liked him. He may have enjoyed the action and adventure soldiering offered, but he wasn’t a psychopath, an action junky, or a complete degenerate when not fighting on some battlefield. She had known enough of those types to recognize the traits when she saw them.
Her interaction with others was more or less hit and run conversations. Tarkov kept a warm but distant relationship with the troops while maintaining the bearing of the ever-professional soldier. De’vor kept to himself speaking very little and only to Tarkov or Sacchini. He was cold to Sauwa, speaking to her only when necessary and then he came straight to the point. He made it clear in the first days of the journey that he wanted nothing to do with her outside of business. At first, she assumed it was because he was naturally cold and was trying to give the appearance of a sophisticated professional soldier. Guy talk being what it was, he was possibly concerned that too much interaction with the young female of the team would have everyone talking and getting the wrong impression. It was when Sacchini informed her that De’vor had expressed a seething disdain for the Apartheid regime, she realized his behavior was over dealing with a white South African who had served in such a vial institution. After Sacchini’s warning, she thought it best to keep her distance from the Frenchman.
It wasn’t long before Gorzo proved to be the most outlandish of the group. As he grew more comfortable in the company of his new comrades, he became slightly obnoxious with some of his playful antics and his need to be outspoken with his opinions. He also began to drop not so subtle hints about having an interest in the young South African woman. Seeing himself as a world-class lady’s man, he had explained to a couple of the guys how he would be sharing her bed shortly. He made a few passes around Sauwa as if he were a shark circling prey. When he did try to talk to her, he strutted up with the cool confident manner of some playboy approaching a target. Her rebukes were equally not so subtle with either cutting him off in mid-sentence by walking away or shutting him down with some cold words about her honest disgust of his behavior. He then thought of her as a tough conquest ─ one he was determined to claim.
Carzona kept his distance from the mercenaries and spoke only with Tarkov. Very little was known of the man. Sauwa assumed the distance he maintained was intentional to keep the hired help from having any potentially dangerous information. With the way he carried himself and the knowledge he possessed, she couldn’t help but respect him. He was the kind of military commander that she could see soldiers following naturally into action.
The voyage, for the most part, was uneventful. Out on the open seas, they were alone except for the occasional sighting of another vessel. As Sauwa had predicted, naval ships from nearby countries patrolled the waters fervently. They had seen a couple of battlecruisers in the distance. A few times the captain was brought onto the radio to explain who he was and what he was doing. Thankfully, it took only a few chosen words to satisfy whoever he was talking to. The ocean was vast, and ships were in abundance. Naval patrols had far more important things to be concerned with than a cargo retrieval vessel that they figured was just randomly scavenging the waters. However, it was clear the waters were being watched and the navies in the area were looking for weapons and terrorists going to nearby volatile conflicts.
It was late afternoon when the mercenaries found themselves on the main deck with their gear watching an old fishing trawler sail in their direction. They were in international waters on the edge of entering Cyprus water space. The salvage ship had gone the long way around the island to its southern region. It then cruised about in international waters for the next several hours until it was much later in the day.
It was then that Tarkov had explained that they would be transferring to another ship. The trawler was going to be their means to get into the country. As a local ship, the trawler would be more inconspicuous coming into port. The very transfer of personnel from ships had been timed to coincide with the normal route patterns of the local fishing craft to ensure that nothing would seem out of the ordinary. In the distance, they could see other boats miles away going about their usual business.
Halting gradually, the trawler angled itself until it was parallel to the retrieval ship. A smaller boat ferried the mercenaries to their new mode of transportation. The captain and crew looked extremely relieved at the departure of the mercenaries. The new ship was not a great deal different from their previous transportation. It was a rusty old sea craft that had certainly seen better days. Upon arrival, the combat soldiers were overwhelmed by the smell of the recently caught fish. The reception from the new crew was no different than what they had incurred for the last several days from the salvage crew. They were cold and guarded, and the captain made no secret of his reluctance to have them on board.
Soon the ship was moving at a rapid speed toward shore. It was sundown when the trawler made it into port. As planned, it arrived along with all the other fishing craft, drawing no attention and looking no different from all the other ships coming in for the night. Aside from the remaining sunlight, there was little illumination making Limassol look rather sinister for those entering it. The buildings behind the port were a disorganized pattern of warehouses, local businesses, and small apartment houses.
The ship was steered slowly toward the harbor until it was parked against the docks. In the light of the diminishing sun, it was easy for the mercenaries to disembark and blend in with the crowds of sailors and dockworkers out on the pier. Two men came aboard. The first man was a pale fellow with wire-rimmed glasses and a white suit. He walked straight up to Carzona and shook the Filipino by the hand enthusiastically. It was clear they were well acquainted. The second man was short and dumpy with a thick bald head surrounded by a forest of remaining hair. He wore a cheap brown suit that was crumpled, probably from a long day of sitting.
Carzona turned from his colleagues to the mercenaries. “If you will all follow me into the captain’s office.” The mercenaries followed the pale figure and the dumpy man through a small circular door on the highest floor of the ship. Inside, they were squeezed into what looked like a makeshift office. After a few words with Carzona, Tarkov took over. “Everyone, because we are here for business that we can’t divulge, it is necessary that we don’t go through any customs office to be checked through legally. So, our employers have arranged the means for us to mitigate this complication.” He turned his attention toward the dumpy man. “This gentleman’s services have been retained to compensate for the difficulty of not having a stamp on our passports should they need to be checked.”
Carzona’s mysterious pale comrade spoke in a language the dumpy man apparently seemed to understand. The dumpy man immediately placed his briefcase on the folding table that functioned as the captain’s desk. Opening it, he produced a small plastic stamp and an ink pad. One by one the mercenaries stepped up, held out their passports, and received a stamp that officially brought them into Cyprus.
The captain led the way off the ship with Carzona, the mercenaries, and Carzona’s two friends following him. Once on land, the captain nodded a hasty goodbye to the people he obviously hoped never to see again and slipped back onto his vessel. Carzona’s friend took the lead and directed the group through the maze-like walkways of the pier.
It wasn’t long until they were on concrete heading for a blue Volkswagen van housed in a parking lot. Another man was standing by guarding over it, a brawny fellow with a glazed shin. The Dumpy man bid his goodbyes and departed with the same haste as the captain had. Led by the two men, the mercenaries continued toward the van where they were hastily piled tightly into the back seats. Carzona’s acquaintance and the vehicle guard slipped comfortably into the front seats and soon they were on their way down the street.
The drive lasted for a time
as it slithered through a series of streets until coming to a small warehouse in a remote part of the neighborhood. Pulling through the opening of a weakening chain link fence the van drove around a large concrete area until it arrived at the far side of the building near a small exit door. Carzona threw open the side door of the van. No one waited for his order to start getting out. They had been squeezed tightly together and were anxious for some breathing room.
After a brief time to stretch out and take some deep breaths, they were led inside. The lights flashed on creating a gloomy interior that made Sauwa feel like she was in a horror movie. As her eyes adjusted, she was able to get a better look.
The warehouse was a large open cavity that had been stocked with equipment and some basic living accommodations. Narrow military style cots supplied with small thin pillows and rolled up sleeping bags were set up. It wasn’t much, but it was what one could expect in the field. Metal and wood folding tables with a series of folding chairs placed around them formed a half circle a little further down the room. Across from the tables was a long, white plastic sheet draped over one of the large garage doors. It was easy to deduce that she was looking at the operations and briefing area.
In the back corner, something resembling a workout area complete with assorted dumbbells, some weight stations for various forms of bench presses, and a few medicine balls had been put together. She was happy to see that her employers were aware of the importance of keeping athletically fit. Sauwa had learned early in her commando operations career how quickly even the fittest athletes could see their bodies atrophy with no physical exercise. The South African Naval Recce forces had discovered this problem in the late seventies. Commandos crammed on a small submarine for less than a week with no means to keep fit were too out of shape to carry out their mission. Sauwa had seen similar problems happen to operatives in her own unit who neglected their exercise and couldn’t operate in the field.