by J E Higgins
Kafka found himself confused. This was an alien world Micha Cohen was introducing him to. “I don’t understand. What do you mean ‘pitch’ or evaluate our plan? What’s for them to evaluate?”
Cohen sighed gently, “You will notice that we had four different consortiums represented at this meeting.”
“I was able to gather that much, yes.”
“Well, this mission can easily be financed and supported by just one of them with no real difficulty. However, like any good businessmen, they don’t like to simply throw good money toward bad situations. In the past, Israel has pitched some rather ludicrous, if not heavily compromising ideas that might not be practical or feasible for one group but could be handled by another group. Moreover, not all our covert plans are that good. We may all be Jews fighting for our homeland, but that does not mean they are a cash cow that unquestionably bankrolls everything.
“The men you have just seen have spent years as lawyers dealing in various international affairs that give them extensive knowledge and experience in these types of missions. The consortiums they represent entrust them to act as proxies. It’s as if we were entrepreneurs looking for investments in our company ─ asking for investments for our operation. We asked several of these consortiums to this meeting understanding that some may decide against helping us. If we get even one to ‘invest’, we will be fine. However, this is more a business negotiation than anything. One may offer to finance but abstain from our other request which would be to help establish and legitimize our cover. For this, another consortium may offer to cover that portion of our operation. So we must wait and see who responds and find out what they are willing to offer.”
Kafka leaned back in his chair. “Well, this all seems to be a perfect model for chaos. What happens if two groups offer to bankroll us unbeknownst to each other?”
Cohen poured himself a small glass of gin. “These consortiums have been around much longer than Israel. They know each other and stay in regular contact. Before they speak to us, they will discuss amongst themselves our proposal and reach a conclusion.”
This was truly a remarkable situation for the young soldier. It was all so complicated and yet so simplistically organized. “When will you expect to hear an answer?”
Swirling the liquid contents in his glass, Cohen raised his eyes toward the ceiling as if expecting the answer to be there. “If we don’t hear from them in a week, I would consider this operation dead.”
“And if they contact Israel about this?” Kafka asked with a hint of concern.
“We already told them this is outside of Israel, and the consortiums are not beholden to our government. Hopefully, they won’t feel the need to spread this knowledge. However, if they do, then we will most likely see the end of our careers.”
Kafka grimaced as the old spymaster’s words sank in. Cohen began sipping his drink leaving his young comrade deep in thought.
Chapter 4
What was it about the weathered, water stained ceiling that captured Nouri al’Marak Surriman’s attention? Laying on the rickety collection of rusty springs and bent framing under a thoroughly worn mattress, he lazily stared up at the twirling blades of the creaking ceiling fan. At the moment, it was the most intriguing thing in his life.
In this cheap hotel room in Asuncion, Paraguay, his mind wandered, yet he was careful to avoid thoughts of the last few years where he had seen nothing but blood and carnage, first in Lebanon and then Syria. He also shut out images of the mysterious Iranian he had met in the battle-ridden hollows that had once been the Syrian city of Aleppo. The Iranian had sent him to a special training camp just outside of Tehran where he received extensive operational training. Now the Iranian was suddenly back in South America. Perhaps Surriman should wonder why. But, at this moment, the fan creaking, it was all inconsequential to him.
His restful bliss was interrupted by the light rapping at his door. It was a controlled knock, not fast like a friend or delivery boy but precise and well-timed, the way a businessman or a cop would knock.
The clock on the nightstand read 3:42 am. The rapping stopped and was not followed up with any voice announcing a reason for such an intrusion so early in the morning. Slowly Nouri al’Marak Surriman slid off his bed causing the rusting metal to screech, most assuredly alerting the person outside to his existence and location. Reaching for the gun he kept hidden under a newspaper next to his bed, he stepped softly over to the door.
The intruder rapped again in the same precise way. By now, Surriman was sure whoever was on the other side had no intention of barging in or deceiving him. Lowering the Para-Ordinance 45 automatic to his side, he looped his way around the small barricade of chairs he had staged in front of the door as a stopper for anyone who was not so patient or courteous. Through the small eyehole, he saw an all too familiar man. He opened the door to a bulging, middle-aged man with thinning hair, and a scruffy white beard.
“Come in,” Surriman said as he stepped out of the way to allow the man through. Surriman couldn’t help gawking at the man’s choice of apparel ─ a flowing purple flowered shirt and tan cargo pants. It was a bad attempt by a man who had never been to this city, let alone this region of the world, to try and blend in. The sight was comical to Surriman who held back the temptation to laugh.
The older man gave him a disapproving sigh as he took in the features of the room. “Your choice of lodging is highly questionable,” he opened in a gruff tone and thick Middle-Eastern accent.
Surriman shut the door and walked over to the nightstand to collect the pile of clothes he had randomly tossed there. “It was cheap. I know the neighborhood very well and, as you no doubt noticed, it is mostly inhabited by Lebanese ─ my people.” Taking another look at the pudgy, older man, Surriman added, “our people.” The older man tried to hide his disgruntlement at the statement. Surriman gathered his clothes and said, “So the likelihood of attracting attention is greatly reduced.”
The older man grimaced. He was accustomed to a far higher standard of living and looked upon this room as a most disagreeable arrangement.
Ignoring the older man’s displeasure, Surriman asked, “So what is the situation, Maruk?”
Maruk inspected the young man before him. Surriman was bare except for a pair of gray boxers and a black string necklace. Maruk took note of the collection of battle scars on the young man’s body. Shrapnel wounds and patched over bullet holes were a memoir of the Surriman’s past couple of years serving Hezbollah in the various conflicts in the Persian Gulf. His lean, toned body was a testament to his athletic prowess. It was easy to see why the IRGC al Quds unit chose him for this mission.
Sweeping back the thick mane of long, curly black hair framing his oval-shaped face, Surriman looked back at the older man who was still staring at his markings. “They’re just battle scars, my old friend. Nothing many of our countrymen don’t have as well.”
That he was so nonchalant only embarrassed Maruk who came quickly to the point. “I have your instructions and necessary information.” Producing a thick, white envelope from under his shirt, he tossed it on the bed. “The colonel will be personally assuming command of this operation if that is any indication of the significance placed on it.”
Picking up the envelope, Surriman’s eyes widened, his only response to the news he had just been given. “Well then, this should be history-making,” he said in his usual casual manner as he calmly got dressed.
Maruk, a lifelong administrator and political hack, found such behavior from the younger man almost insulting. “Your role in this will be made clear by him when he and his team arrive in Paraguay.”
Slipping into a pair of jeans, Surriman fastened his brown leather belt. “What cover will we be operating under?”
“You’ll be taking your instructions from Saleed United Real-Estate and Acquisitions. You will be contacted by that company when they are ready to use you.”
“How involved will you be in this operation?”
Ma
ruk took a breath as he raised his eyes. “Oh, I leave tonight for Oman. My only involvement was to make the necessary arrangements.”
Surriman threw on a wrinkled cowboy shirt and buttoned up the front. “Off to work with the Syrian expats in preparation for the Assad regime reassuming control of the country?”
“Something like that,” Maruk muttered, looking around the room. “Either way, I’ll be back in the real fight.” He stopped when he caught Surriman’s gaze. “I mean I’ll be back on the battlefield I know best.” He tried to recoup himself. He tended to forget that his young cohort was not necessarily a son of the Holy Land but had been raised in the deep jungles of this very continent.
Surriman maintained his sullen look. “Then you’ve delivered your information. Anything else I should know before you leave?”
Maruk paced within the tight confines of the room. “Your code name for this job will be ‘Rascal’. You will initiate contact with one who will go by the name Porthos. Are there any issues with this?”
“No.” The younger man pulled on his socks. “Who will initiate contact, me or them?”
“You will go to the park the day after tomorrow but not before noon.” Maruk said waving his finger to emphasize the point. “At the park, you will find a park bench that has Farsi writing carved on the side of it. From there you will go to the nearest tree. At its base, you will find a box containing a disposable cellular phone. You will be called at 1800hrs that night. You will answer the cell phone using your code name. They will answer with theirs. From there, you will be given further instructions. Are you clear on this?”
“Yes.” Surriman slipped on his hiking boots.
Such indifferent behavior only worked to annoy the older man. “I can only assume you think of me as some money pusher who rubs shoulders with wealthy donors. I must emphasize the importance of this mission. It’s not a game. We have intelligence that the enemy has already gained knowledge of this operation and have deployed operatives to disrupt it.”
Leaning his head to one side, Nouri Surriman looked off into the distance for a moment as he reached for a bottle of water. “To the contrary. I remember hearing a sermon from some Christian missionary years back when he said ever so loudly, ‘Death comes unexpectedly!’ A few years later I was in a club in Europe having a drink with a Palestinian contact, a lawyer. The old boy had never been active in this whole affair other than the protests he took part in while at the university. He had lived the straight-and-narrow life and had only occasionally done favors for the ‘cause’. As he left and crossed the street to get into his car, he got hit by a drunk driver and died after three hours of excruciating pain. This was no different from what you would see on any battlefield. It also taught me that death really does come unexpectedly.
“So, my good friend, this plan will either work or fail. I will either live or die, and that is all that can come of it.”
Satisfied he’d communicated all instructions, Maruk said his last goodbye before leaving the young operative to finish getting dressed.
Surriman remained seated gazing up at the ceiling. At that moment, all was quiet, and his mind was free to ponder. He thought back to where his life had changed paths, and where he would have been had he been a fruit grower instead.
Chapter 5
Qalmini took a moment to enjoy the view out the window of the Andes Mountain range set against the clouded sky. If nothing else, this beautiful scene was worth the trip for this meeting.
Feeling a presence behind him, he stepped back from the window. One of his men quietly informed him that all the meeting’s attendees had arrived. Helping himself to one last glimpse of the mountain range, Qalmini sighed and faced his man. With a nod, the two strolled out of his room.
It seemed a mockery, the Iranian thought as he walked through the halls and various rooms of the sizable ranch house. The variety of expensive European art, the priceless artifacts on the walls, and the polished mahogany tables contrasted greatly with a like number of icons to the communist years ─ pictures of the known leaders like Lenin, Mao, Fidel Castro, and the ever-popular Che Guevara, plus a few lesser-known people such as Fusako Shigenobu of the Japanese Red Army days and Abnel Guzman of the homegrown Shining Path.
As a rule, Qalmini despised Marxists, not just because of their bad history in the Holy Land, but because he found their supporters to be a combination of professional sycophants who believed in their sense of undeserved entitlement. These disingenuous elites, such as the owner of this very home, espoused the virtuous working-class revolution so long as they didn’t ever have to get their own hands dirty or actually associate with the ‘unwashed’ field hands.
Perhaps it was the experience of his youth in the early years of the Islamic regime when Khomeini established the Association of Radical Mullahs as a socialist/Marxist front. It was a fictional counter-challenge against the more right-wing Society of Radical Mullahs that existed as the spectrum to appease the pro-business Iranian faction of society. It gave the illusion of existing political competition. Instead, they were both organized and secretly led by the same powers under Khomeini. In the end, those that espoused the evils of wealth and the virtue of humble living for others never denied themselves such ostentatious sinfulness.
Arriving at a large dining hall decorated with gorgeous chandeliers and stained-glass windows depicting the medieval themes seen at Mendoza’s office, Qalmini joined a large group of men gathered loosely around the long dining table in the center of the room. While a few of the party were undeniably of Latin American lineage, the majority were his own countrymen representing the various departments of the IRGC, military and VEVAK operations functioning in South America. He was aware they had all been contacted by their respective superiors in Tehran and mysteriously ordered to attend or send high ranking subordinates to this ranch deep in the mountains of Peru. They had been told little except that they would be briefed in detail at the meeting and given further instructions.
The Iranian Revolutionary Guard shared a complicated history with VEVAK. Known also as the Ministry of Intelligence and Security (MOIS), VEVAK enjoyed the position of being the primary internal and external intelligence agency in service to the Iranian State. However, the IRGC, better known as Pasdaran, was the organization with the mission of safeguarding the revolution and as such, reported directly to the Supreme Leader himself. Though both organizations often operated in cooperation to fulfill co-assigned operations and responsibilities, the IRGC was typically given an operational ranking. This had led to some unfavorable rivalries between the two organizations.
Walking into the room, Qalmini noticed sealed packets lined up across the table in front of each seat. He was happy to see that his men were attentively watching the table to ensure the packets were not disturbed by unauthorized parties. Before taking his seat, Qalmini took another moment to observe his guests. As expected, they were dispersed informally into groups of their respective agencies with the military ‘advisors’ congregating in one corner and the VEVAK operatives adjacent to them. His own IRGC colleagues stood the furthest away ─ on the opposite side of the table. This was a reminder that despite the same country and similar mission, the relationship between the revolution’s protectors and the country’s regular intelligence and military forces remained cool at best. The few Latins in the room represented intelligence agencies of friendly regional powers: Cuba and Venezuela. It would not do to carry out such an operation without their knowledge and, certainly, their unofficial blessing even though Qalmini would tactfully omit from his briefing any mention of Mendoza’s l involvement.
“Gentlemen, if you would please take your seats,” announced his aid. All the guests responded by slowly migrating to the table. As with their social associations, the attendees took their seats maintaining their agency allegiances.
Sitting at the head of the table, Qalmini was flanked on either side by two of his aides: Majors Rashid al’ Akim and Semir Ali Essouri. Both men had served with him for
years in the al’ Quds unit in various campaigns and had contributed significantly to the planning and development of this operation. Always the consummate bureaucrat, Major Essouri, a small mousy man with wire-rim spectacles and receding hairline, sat hunched over a stack of papers taking care to review all the details ─ like an actor reviewing a script.
With everyone seated, all eyes were now on Qalmini. Taking his time, He thought out his words carefully. Silence had now descended upon the room with the final sounds of the security detail shutting the doors to the outside world.
Placing his hands on the table in preparation, Qalmini looked to his aide, Essouri, who looked up and nodded slightly indicating he was ready. With a deep breath, Qalmini began. “I thank you all for attending this meeting. I know you have all been given vague explanations as to why you are at this meeting and the high importance Tehran has placed on it.”
The room was silent, all eyes were fixed on Qalmini in anticipation. He continued. “We are about to embark on perhaps the most audacious and radical endeavor in the Western Hemisphere. This plan is part of a new strategy by which we, the Islamic Republic, intend to significantly change the geographic strata of the world’s balance of power.”
The buildup was proving successful, as the audience was still attentive. “The intention is to bring the conflict to our enemy, the United States, by creating hostility directly in their own backyard ─ here in their own part of the world, if you will.”
As expected, the last statement was met with a diminished sense of interest, and grumblings across the table. Qalmini gave the audience some time.
“What is so new about this idea?” growled one of the VEVAK operatives at the far end of the table. “We already are fighting the battle over here.”