by Vince Milam
“You said you knew about me.” My eyes remained on the surrounding area. People wandered along both sides of the street; several vehicles rolled past. “Then maybe you understand stabbing me in the back isn’t a wise course of action.”
I shot him a quick glance, locked eyes again.
“You are upset. I understand,” he said. “Now get over it. And let’s talk about what happens if you find Dr. Amsler. As I have mentioned, the smart move is handing her over. At such point, you are no longer involved. And in no danger.”
I wasn’t paying any more attention to this asshat alongside me. A search and rescue and deliver gig. Now warped and shredded with deadly espionage maneuvers. At least in Manaus. Once in the bush, I stood on home turf. My turf. And my rules. Screw Uri. Screw MOIS. And screw the fresh-painted target on my back.
Did this guy really think I’d hand over Dr. Amsler? Moron. But my immediate concern focused on the next ten hours. The time between right now and when I crawled into Bernie’s plane. I could retreat to the room, shove a chair under the door handle, wait till dawn. An option, but one seldom pulled from my playbook.
“I’ll take a stroll. Don’t try and follow me. My sincerest hope is I never see you again.”
I stood, adjusted the Glock for easy reach while walking.
“Do you believe that wise? You would be safer in your room. I say this as your new friend, a fact you will come to understand.”
And there stood the vast chasm between spooks and Delta. Faced with my situation, they would lie low, focus on their next clandestine steps. Survive until daylight. Delta training pushed for the specific acknowledgement and recognition of the enemy. And an opportunity to hunt them down.
“Leave me the hell alone, Hirsch.” I locked eyes one last time. “And I’ll do the same.”
I walked away, headed for an opportunistic arena. A place, a stage, for the opening night of the killing floor.
Chapter 6
The distinct likelihood this would become violent perched over my movements like a vulture. I had no desire for engagement. None. This was geopolitical kabuki theater between two lower-level sworn enemies. Iran versus Israel. Lethal jousts across the tournament field of a nebulous rumor. The big players weren’t involved. I would have smelled them by now. The Company, for sure. They would have contacted me given our recent and semi-acrimonious relationship. The Russian FSB—still mightily pissed at me—hadn’t triggered any personal alarms. The Chinese MSS, always a behind-the-scenes player, were a no-show. The Brits, MI6, were exceptional pros and would sniff around if wafted aromas of legitimacy floated past. But nothing. Nada. Another wild rumor on their radar, lost among sea clutter.
Just an appearance by the Iranians. Which prompted—as per the Mossad agent—an Israeli presence. And nothing either MOIS or Mossad would say fell into the truth-be-told slot. They hated each other, plain and simple. Which left Case Lee—or anyone else—a pawn or tool or handy leverage for operational advantage.
I strolled the Manaus streets, window-shopped, and observed reflections. If I was being trailed, it didn’t show. In a city of half a million, evening foot traffic afforded plenty of nighttime cover for any tails. So I employed a well-honed tactic that would nail anyone ghosting me. It held risk, upped the odds of confrontation. But I didn’t have time for this mess, and my involvement irritated me big time. It both diverted from the mission and layered a patina of two-bit intrigue that held no coin in my personal realm. I knew the perfect place to find some simple answers. Teatro Amazonas. The Manaus Opera House.
In the late 1800s, the rubber barons of Manaus considered a grand expenditure for their newfound wealth. They decided what the backwater jungle town needed was an opera house. A sky’s-the-limit decision in favor of conspicuous consumption. So they imported artists, designers, and materials from across Europe. Roof tiles from the Alsace region, fixtures from Paris, marble from Italy. Sure. Smack dab in the middle of the Amazon wilderness. Why not?
Twenty years later it shut down. The invention of synthetic rubber doomed the natural rubber market. The building, ornate as a wedding cake, sat idle for a century. In the early 2000s, Manaus—now a large city—fixed it up, cleaned it up, and reopened the place. It would be closed this time of night, but an on-duty guard or two would open a discreet door for an earnest tourist with a few Benjamins in hand. If I was being followed, my trackers would join me on the inside, an enclosed space where their intent and mission and threat level could be discerned.
One thing was now clear. This wasn’t a miracle cure Amsler might have discovered. No sir. To suck MOIS operatives into the middle of Amazonia—and have them pursue a rumor with such intensity—required the discovery of something nasty, deadly. Something—a plant or a bug—that delivered toxic death. Even the head moron at Case Lee Inc. could figure that out. And I’d researched enough about bio-prospectors to know remarkable compounds and drugs had been derived from nature’s toxic grab bag. With a bit of tweaking, potent toxins could be altered. Save lives. A new anticoagulant from the saw-scaled viper’s venom in Africa. And promising research into treatments derived from other examples of nature’s nasties. Good stuff.
But conversion from toxic to life-saving took time and investment and concerted lab effort. Iran wasn’t headed down that path. The world’s leading backer of terrorist activities smelled an opportunity. Smelled an opportunity to develop a new tool for terror. A new tool against the West.
And Mossad may or may not have arrived because of the Iranians. Never trust a spook. Uri Hirsch could have been sent to snatch the discovery for Israel, which had an uber-fortress mentality and would leverage any advantage.
Either way, I donned no caped crusader attitude and kept my focus on the prime mission, aware that wild rumors were just that. So find Ana Amsler. Get her to Switzerland. And haul ass away from the entire mess. Let others figure it out. You gotta keep it real, or the weirdness affects you. And not in a good way. First, ascertain hindrances, threats to the mission. The here and now. Did MOIS actors threaten the key component of the mission—me?
The opera house was washed with minimal light. Sufficient for viewing the ornate pinkish exterior. Double grand steps led upward toward the building, the tiled dome displaying the Brazilian flag’s colors. I stopped at the plaza in front of the building and surveyed my backtrack. There was no production, no opera or show or event this night. A somewhat thinned crowd for this part of town, but sufficient foot traffic and darkness could hide a decent tracker. Fine. Let’s get up close and personal.
“Boa noite.” Good evening. Addressed toward the cluster of three unarmed security folks relaxing at the main entrance. I continued in Portuguese. “I just arrived in Manaus, and I’m flying out early in the morning. But I can’t miss the opportunity to see the famous opera house.”
“It is quite grand, is it not?” one replied.
“Magnificent.” It was too elaborate, too fussy for my taste. But I wasn’t here to critique architecture. “Truly magnificent. I would like to see the inside if I may.”
“It is closed.”
“Yes. Closed. I understand. But I could not forgive myself if I missed this opportunity for a view of such a wonder.”
“It is closed,” said another. His chest swelled with official finality.
“But I have tickets for this evening.”
They looked at each other, and back to me.
“There is no performance tonight,” said another.
“This is true. Yet I have tickets. Allow me to show you.”
I pulled three Benjamins and handed over one each.
“For a short time. A view, an appreciation of such an amazing creation. Nothing more.”
They each produced a flashlight and inspected the banknotes. Each bill then disappeared into pockets, and one of the guards head-signaled a “follow me.”
We strolled alongside the building, passing several entrances. At the back, a tucked-in door—perhaps a performers’ entrance—stood shadowed
and quiet. A key ring jangled, the door unlocked, and I passed inside.
The guard delivered a closing remark. “Vinte minutos.” Twenty minutes. Which meant up to an hour. Fair enough.
Musty, thick, dark—an enclosed fetid staleness. The century-long hiatus hadn’t done this structure any favors. A performers’ entrance, backstage. Through doorway curtains on the right, dim lights cast long hazy shadows. I entered into the theater seating. The low illumination highlighted elaborate frescoes and detailed fixtures with an aura of another time, long past. Four layer-cake tiers with private boxes overlooked a stage. For all its grand exterior, the actual theater wasn’t large. It would seat maybe six, seven hundred patrons.
The grand chandeliers overhead remained off, but several tiered patron box seats were subtly backlit. Stage illumination was provided through a semicircle of low-intensity floor lights. A grand and glorious anachronistic setting with a tawdry touch. Rug runners along the seating aisles covered exotic flooring—mahogany, rosewood, and a rare timber I’d never identify.
Stairs to my right led upward. I took them two at a time. If MOIS heavies followed me, they’d enter through the same now-unlocked door. They’d avoid interaction with the guards out front who now, without doubt, were huddled and discussing how best to invest their hundred dollar bills.
Third tier, and I circled. Wall murals, ornate wainscoting, an overabundance of decoration. I had the weird sense of moving through a baroque dollhouse. Passed through a curtained divide and settled in a private box overlooking the stage. Drew the Glock and waited as my eyes adjusted to the dim and shadowed environment. It didn’t take long.
Sounds of the actor’s entrance door pulled open. The curtain divider rustled. Leading with a drawn pistol, the first MOIS operative eased through the heavy material. His two cohorts followed. The same three who’d watched our little chat at the river bar. They huddled and shared low mumbles. These goons represented muscle more than finesse. Their tradecraft relied on intimidation and force and killing. And, given their current state of indecision, not the brightest bulbs in the basket. One of them pulled a cell phone and made a call. Not a challenge figuring the call’s recipient. Their boss. Farid Kirmani, according to Uri Hirsch.
Call made, they waited, wavering on the correct course of action. Better wait for the boss’s directives than make a move that could run counter to Kirmani’s desires. Five minutes, then ten. I remained still, watched and listened. The stage’s curtain backdrop displayed a scene from ancient Egypt, faded and blurred. The three continued their low mumbling, aware I had entered. Entered and now shared this strange quiet space with them. The silhouette of a decent-sized lizard moseyed along my personal opera box’s top rail, unalarmed. High overhead, several bats flicked about, hunting. The back door sounded again, and doorway curtains parted. Kirmani strode in as if he owned the place, surveyed the situation, and lit a smoke. The flick of his lighter was audible three levels up.
“Anvil salesman. I have researched this word. You are a funny man,” he said, his voice echoing across the enclosed and layered space. “And now, funny man, you and I will talk.”
With a low voice he conveyed instructions to his three henchmen. My ears strained in the vain hope of understanding a word or two. No such luck. His men, pistols drawn, spread out. One crossed through the floor seating, headed for a stairway. Headed for me. Another slid along an outside wall, hunted toward the back of the theater. The third returned through the heavy curtains across the near-stage doorway we’d all entered through. He’d check behind the stage’s backdrop and search backstage nooks and crannies.
“You should have told me you were a partner with the Israelis. This is important information.”
He flicked ash on the carpet, took another drag, and stroked his goatee—all the while scanning the theater’s upper levels. Well, that laid out his interpretation of my sit-down with the Mossad agent. Partners with the Israelis. Thanks again, Hirsch.
“So we will talk,” he continued, climbing the five side steps onto the stage. “And you will provide answers. Then we are all happy. Do you understand?”
He shifted from near center stage and strode toward the stage-right exit. Leaned against a pillar, feet crossed, smoked. Not a care in the world, figuring he had me on high ground, surrounded. Advantage MOIS. Wrong, asshole.
“You Americans have an expression I most enjoy,” he said, wandering back toward center stage. He spoke toward the tiers of private box seating. “We can do this the hard way, or we can do this the easy way.” He shrugged, took a drag, and tilted his head back to exhale smoke upward, smiling. “Either way, funny man, we will talk.”
My threat meter pegged. All signs pointed toward something other than a tense discussion. I’d seen the aftermath of MOIS’s work in Lebanon during Delta Force days. Ugly stuff. Beyond ugly. These clowns intended capture—either through intimidation or a crippling gunshot. Then Kirmani would guide his men. Produce knives and begin removing body parts while he asked questions. I had no doubts about their intention, driven by gory Lebanon flashbacks.
Well, now I understood who and what I was dealing with. But they damn sure didn’t. So welcome to the terminal world of Delta, you SOBs. Welcome to my world.
Chapter 7
A puffed-cheek slow exhale and momentary slide into the Big Lost—resigned to the inevitable, acceptance of a stand-alone position. But no questions, no remorse or hesitancy. A brief mental collection spot for well-honed skills and appropriate attitude. Into the breach. Not my call, not my preference. But yet again, my reality.
A hard blink, lips tight, a slow deep inhale. A quick head roll and loosened neck muscles. Full and absolute commitment, the kill switch thrown. All right. Let’s rock and roll. Four armed MOIS agents against one former Delta operator. Man, were they screwed.
“You should know my men are quite prepared to kill you.” He ground his smoke against the polished wooden stage floor and lit another. Cleared his throat and continued. “But know also I do not wish this. I wish to talk. Nothing more.”
My thoughts went briefly to outside interference, outside actors. Gunshots—booming pistol shots—would blare cacophonous inside the opera house. But the sound would be muted, obscure, anywhere on the wide plaza surrounding the building. And the only plaza occupants were three unarmed Brazilian guards. Extra players in this situation added unwanted complexity. But it was my firm belief that the guards would acknowledge the muted booms among themselves and wander farther away. Edge toward the nearby street and sidewalks. Acknowledge but ignore. An hour or so from now, relock the back door. Say nothing. Allow the next day’s tour guides to make the discovery and claim total ignorance of nefarious activities. Clean hands.
Kirmani barked a command for his men and continued to address me. “Show yourself, my friend. Show yourself, and allow my men to bring you here. Then we talk. Simple, no?”
He’d keep one man on the ground floor, watching for movement toward any of the multiple exits. The other two he sent up into the box seats. After me. The best hunting tactic was bait the vignette. Bait with the sound of my location. I picked the preferred spot for subsequent action. The opening act.
I scooted along the third tier hallway at the back of the seating boxes toward the hallway’s end, stage right. Cracked the last box’s curtain and kept an eye on the hallway.
“Well, here’s the deal, my friend.” The place had great acoustics, my voice carrying across the cavernous space. “I have nothing to discuss with you.”
Not a Bard-worthy delivery, but it would draw the killers he’d sent upstairs.
“And there, my friend, you are most mistaken. I am certain you have much to tell me.”
Kirmani paced center stage, barked more orders toward his men. I considered and rejected a long pistol shot. Always sound policy—take out the leader. But I calculated a hundred-fifty-foot distance, the target in motion, the light poor at best. Oh, I’d hit him alright, but a kill shot wasn’t assured. And a wounded bos
s would trigger his three men into a full-on assault. I planned on one at a time. Better odds.
“I’m just not feeling the love, buddy. Sorry. So why don’t you go piss up a rope?”
Enough. At least two, and perhaps three men would arrive at my spot soon enough. A quick move away from the box seat, a silent sprint, after which I assumed a one-knee position in a dark corner at the end of the hallway. Used the wall as a stabilizer, alongside a heavy split curtain that hid descending stairs toward the second level. I cracked a fold of the material pressed against the opening’s side and glanced downward. Another curtain draped the stairway entrance below. A dark, dark tunnel.
On the right, the long curved hallway was in deep shadow. Anyone from that direction would creep along the inside wall, searching. By the time we saw each other, the split-second response boiled down to who was the better shot. I was more than okay with that.
“How long have you worked with Mossad, Jew-lover?” His voice indicated a move toward a protected position. Perhaps tight against stage right’s exit. “How many of my people have you killed?”
None to date, bud. A number subject to immediate change. Then movement, slight, dimly perceptible. The center split of the downstairs curtain. A small opening, performed either with a finger or a pistol’s barrel. This guy wasn’t half-bad. He stood back from the minute opening. Viewed up the stairs while hidden in near-blackness. I couldn’t make his position. A half-dozen lead-induced holes in the curtain was an option, but a poor one. Amateurish. I’d wait. I continued a focus downward from my protected kneeling position, as well as cast quick glances toward the right, in anticipation of a wall-crawler any second. Breath steady, adrenaline controlled, confidence sky-high.
A full minute, and another, as the cautious downstairs MOIS agent and I stared at each other, unseeing. Soon enough he’d opt to slide through the curtain and ascend the stairs. And take his last steps on this good earth.