by J E Higgins
The Contessa rose from her chair and made her way to where the professor was busily gathering his books and papers. “Professor Raphael Patrica?” She asked as she approached with a feigned hesitancy.
The Professor cocked his head to one side perhaps attempting to place the attractive blond approaching him. “Madame? I’m afraid you have me at a loss. I don’t …” He stopped, waving his finger and widening his eyes. “I have seen you a few times. You attended some of my open speaking engagements and, yes, I believe a couple of classroom lectures too.”
His mind was working to complete the cerebral dossier he was forming in his head ─ all the while taking in the stunning beauty dressed in slacks, T-shirt, and light brown sweater vest. Even with attempts to hide behind a set of wide framed glasses, no make-up and hair tied neatly in a bun, she still was a stunning beauty. “You always sit in the far back rows…almost always in the shadows. You don’t seem to be an aspiring student.”
“I’m not, Sẽnor,” the Contessa replied, smiling. “We have a mutual acquaintance, you and I.” The Professor gave her a puzzled look. The Contessa’s gaze never wavered. “In the Basque country, more precisely. He should have contacted you about my wish to meet you.”
The Professor’s eyes suddenly widened. “Yes, he did mention someone; a woman he knew and trusted wished to discuss some things with me.”
“Well, here I am,” the Contessa raised her hand. “Please call me Reina for this occasion.”
“An alias, how intriguing,” the Professor took the young woman’s hand and gave it a gentlemanly kiss. “So how may I be of service?”
The Contessa retrieved her hand. “Our friend told me you were one who could best be consulted on some rather technical matters I’m interested in researching. They are of a particularly dangerous nature.”
The Professor said nothing, suddenly cautious. “I would not recommend we continue this conversation here. My office would be much more appropriate.”
The Contessa agreed. The Professor retrieved his documents, stuffing them into his leather case. “Shall we go?”
“Before we go,” the Contessa stopped him. “Who was that young lady you were just speaking to?”
Throwing the case strap over his shoulder, the Professor struggled to remember back through the faces of the last few minutes. “The girl who was just here?”
“Yes, the girl in the jeans and T-shirt.”
Raking through his mind, the Professor was slow to answer. “That was, that was Illana Muricia. She comes from comfortable means. Her father is a lawyer for the big shipping companies operating in Montevideo.” The Professor shook his head, “I used to have great hopes for her. Unfortunately, she reads so much garbage, such as establishment economics: Fredrick Bastiat, Milton Friedman, and the other worshippers for the Bourgeois.”
“In other words, she reads beyond what you tell her,” the Contessa replied. “At least she is not a drone who espouses beliefs devoid of any independent thought.”
He grimaced as he started out the side door. The Contessa followed quietly making a mental note to look further into the young Ms. Muricia at a later time.
The Professor’s office was well kept, but as expected, it was a museum dedicated to a heyday long since passed. The walls were awash with photos of the Professor in his much younger years adorned in olive green combat fatigues and, in most of the pictures, holding some kind of weapon in a triumphant pose. A few others showed a defiant young Patrica serving his time in prison for his revolutionary activities. The rest of the pictures were the decorations common to most committed Marxists; Che Guevara, Mao addressing the humbled masses, or Lenin delivering a speech. The bookshelves were filled with the Spanish version of various works of Socialist literature. Strangely, his academic honors were few and posted directly on the wall behind his desk. Raphael Patrica, despite his success as a respected university academic, still yearned for his glory days as a valiant revolutionary.
Which was why he continued to decry the corruption of the government despite two decades of free elections, open government, and with his old comrades holding the presidency and a controlling majority in the Parliament. His kind was stuck in a world they never wanted to end. Contessa Selena de Alvarez had picked the right person for her needs.
“You really seem to miss it.” She indicated the display of pictures on the wall.
“I feel the intended goal never came to fruition,” the Professor replied with a hint of nostalgic remorse. “Those I called brothers in the Revolution now live comfortable lives as government power brokers. They betrayed what we set out to do.”
The Contessa mentally rolled her eyes. Given the Uruguay President, Jose Mojica, himself a former Tupamaro guerrilla, personally chose to reside in a small farm raising chickens as his sole means of income made the wealthy professor seem even more disingenuous. “Yet you seem to hold onto the idea of the revolution.”
“Of course. It will come back. It is just a matter of time, of energy.”
“And of resources and support from a powerful benefactor,” the Contessa interjected.
The Professor grew wary, disbelieving, his eyes blinking.
The Contessa smoothed her voice to a hypnotic purr. “You are right. I have been in many of your lectures, heard much of your brilliance and observed the crowds of listeners. I don’t wish to be excessively flattering, but you are one of the few who legitimately keeps the flicker of life left in the ideas you still fight for. I see many in your lectures who are genuinely awakened by your teachings.” She watched as the Professor tried to hide his growing bravado at all her compliments.
“Well, I don’t know. I thank you for your perception,” he beamed slightly trying to maintain his composure.
The Contessa slid into one of the smaller chairs on the other side of his desk. “The issue is when discussing a movement of any real consequence, the essential elements are access to steady resources, protection, and a flow of solid recruits committed to the cause.”
Leaning over with his elbows firmly on the table, the Professor collapsed his hands under his chin. “What are you getting at?”
She crossed her legs in a feminine yet authoritative pose. “I am getting at the rebirth of your revolution, only I have the means for it to be more than a simple annoyance. To actually have the force to deliver the changes this country needs.”
The Professor listened intently as she drew him in. “You of all people have your thumb in all the right places. Places to revive the movement and build the army you need. What I am offering is access to the resources to make it all a reality.”
“This is a lot to take in,” he sat back in his chair wiping at the light perspiration gathering on his face. “How do I know that you are genuine and can deliver what is needed? How do I know you are not security police?”
The Contessa lifted her hand to interject. “I can show you the land already exists that can be used for your base camp and training facilities. It will be developed for both rural and urban warfare. I am able to obtain seasoned military advisors who can give your recruits practical first-hand military training. In addition, I can offer a near limitless supply of armaments to wage the fight.”
Shaking his head nervously, the Professor raised his finger. “No, no, this is too much; it is too easy. I need to know who this benefactor is: Cuba, Venezuela, perhaps even Argentina or maybe even Nicaragua. I need to know who you are representing and more so, why they feel the need to be so benevolent.”
“My dear Professor Patrica,” the Contessa said gently. “Do not make such foolish requests. You have been in the game long enough to know that such requests are not possible to honor. You must not know those details for your protection and the protection of those I represent. All you need to know is that I can offer you the revolution you have always dreamed of, and this offer is being made by those who still feel a kinship to the Tupamaros and the cause you support. I can show you the land, the money, and the armaments already on site for your
use. All you need is to recruit and organize a movement.”
The Professor balled his hand into a tight fist as he pondered everything the woman said. Though he didn’t want to admit it, what she was offering had been his life’s ambition. He missed the heroic days of his youth ─ fighting the junta establishment for the peasants and the lower class. This was what she was offering. “I want to see this land and equipment you are offering first. I also want to know who you are offering as these advisors.”
With a bow of her head and humble lowering of her eyes, the Contessa softly replied, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Chapter 7
Kafka Dayan had never been one to participate in the greater pleasures of life. His rugged existence on the Kabutz followed by the tough conditioning by the Defense Force had made such luxuries an unrealistic and alien concept. Customarily, his mind was focused on the mission at hand. Sitting at the coffee table, that only a few days before had hosted the meeting of four shadowy figures, he pored over the collection of reports and dossiers he had scattered in front of him.
As part of his responsibility, Cohen had sought his counsel regarding the establishment of a virtual team of mercenaries to operate clandestinely for this mission. Obligingly, Dayan had discussed the talents, training, and experience that would be required given the circumstances. Strangely, the old man had discussed this basic question hypothetically months before in Haifa over drinks in a bar. But it was a complete surprise when Dayan arrived at the hotel suite, after receiving a cryptic message from his old friend, and found a memory stick containing the professional histories of people that generally fit the requirements he had outlined.
In preparation, mostly to keep himself busy, the veteran commando carefully reviewed the documents. He saw several impressive resumes accompanied by classified intelligence reports from various intelligence services discussing their assessments. In the week he spent reviewing the information, he found six potential recruits for this operation.
Off to his side, he kept a small notepad in which he wrote down questions and notes on any thoughts that came to him pertaining to the operation. He was careful to write all the information in Hebrew to ensure any curious eyes would find it difficult to decipher. Taking further steps, he intermixed his notes with a cooking recipe and made his notes cryptic enough that an initial translation would conclude the writing was purely innocent. Using this system, he could keep the notebook handy without worrying about a security breach if it was stolen.
Cohen entered the room. He was ecstatic and acted as if he had just won a fortune at the gambling tables. Sinking down on the couch directly across from his young comrade, he placed his black leather satchel on the coffee table. With an excited look, he regarded Dayan. “We have an investor.”
Kafka returned Cohen’s and asked, “Who? How much?”
Producing a laptop from his satchel, Cohen turned it on, connected to his WIFI access and began typing. Moments later he looked up. “Apparently, Mr. Lupon was in favor of our plan. I received this message from Leohem & Cohel finance house.”
Twisting the laptop in Dayan’s direction, Cohen pointed to the screen that showed an official-looking email from this Leohem & Cohen:
To the board of Las Creveous:
We have reviewed your plan and proposal for establishing your operation. After our evaluation, we have concluded that you are a sound investment and would like to offer up to $20,000,000 financing of your operation to be paid to you in US dollars and converted to whatever alternative currency your firm finds necessary to properly establish your business.
Sincerely,
L. U. Pon
Treasury Investment Officer
Kafka read the note. It fascinated him to see how this whole operation was right out in the open. It was a far cry from spy novels and movies where things were done in offshore accounts or passing a suitcase full of money across the table. Instead, the money transfer was entirely public between international finance houses and businesses that by all accounts legally existed.
The money to finance the operation would be legally transferred from a known smaller finance house in Europe, North America or wherever to some ‘emerging business’ or one that already officially existed on paper. The infinite means by which money circulates into different currencies across borders and into businesses where prices change and fluctuate based on negotiations between parties made it virtually impossible to determine a legitimate financial transaction from a transaction with a more nefarious purpose.
“So we have our money and our cover, my dear boy.” Cohen retrieved his laptop. “How are we coming with our potential recruits?”
Bobbing his head, Kafka looked at the collection of papers in his hands. “I have certainly got to congratulate you. These are some of the most thoroughly prepared dossiers I have ever seen. The addition of classified reports from all these foreign intelligence agencies is a feat you’re gonna have to tell me about one day.”
“Tools of the trade and years of experience,” Cohen replied with a smirk and twinkle in his eyes.
Kafka chuckled. “Well, I have found some pretty good applicants. You have quite a few well-qualified people and several have extensive histories in this region that guarantee they’ll attract attention.” Dayan grimaced. “For others you have here, what I’m reading suggests they’re questionable applicants who would be inevitable liabilities.”
“So what then?” Cohen leaned back on the couch waiting for an answer he hoped would be some kind of good news.
Kafka did not disappoint. “I have about six applicants here that meet all the key requirements and have a low enough profile they should not attract unwanted attention. In addition, and this is important, they don’t have rap sheets that make me nervous about questionable loyalties or security breaches.”
“We’re probably going to need more than six,” Cohen said with a quiver of nervousness in his voice.
“I agree. Luckily, I think I have some operators in mind who can cover our bases.” Kafka rose from the floor and walked around the room to pour himself some water. “I have some guys I know from the American army, and a few more I know from back home who are no longer with the IDF and won’t compromise Israel. I have worked with these guys in the past and trust them for the more dangerous field work.”
Cohen nodded, “If you have them, I have no objections as long as they don’t compromise the mission.”
Nouri al’Marak Surriman ambled along the walkway in the park. He admired the Paraguayan artistic senses when it came to architecture and land sculpting as he saw the well-carved marble structures, the flowing, brightly colored flower gardens and lush islands of trees carved throughout the ocean of grassy fields. Not wishing to attract attention, Surriman chose conservative apparel ─ tan slacks, white collared shirt, and a brown sports coat. In a place frequented by young lovers and tourists, it wouldn’t be practical to be running about in jogging clothes or anything that denoted a man from the lower class of society.
Exactly as instructed, he discovered a small wooden bench with a Farsi inscription carved into it. Comically, the inscription read a quote from Ishmali Hassan, the founding leader of the ancient order of Islamic killers known as the Hashishins. The inscription read: Any problem can be solved through education or assassination. Looking about carefully he took solace that his handlers had chosen a location in the more secluded part of the park ─ a promise of fewer people and more privacy. It was a comforting sign that he was working with professionals. In the past he had endured the dangers brought about by those ignorant of the espionage world. It was something that made him grateful for such luxuries.
Taking his camera with a telephoto lens, he placed it up to his eye to look as if he were photographing the area. In reality, he was surveying the area for any onlookers possibly interested in his activities. His cover in Paraguay was that of a professional photographer representing a magazine that covered the beauty of South America. It provided him with a
great cover story and enabled him to move freely about with few questions asked.
Moving a few steps every couple of seconds, he nonchalantly managed to scan the entire circumference of his location. He found such powerful optics enabled him to catch the teams trying to hide far off amongst the bushes waiting for him to make a move. When he was comfortable that he was not under the scope of any prying eyes, he coolly walked from the bench to the nearest tree. Again, true to his instructions, he noticed an area of disturbed dirt just under the bushes next to the tree. A few seconds of digging with his hand had uncovered a black plastic bag which contained a small disposable cell phone.
It was precisely 1800hrs when the phone rang. Flipping it open, Surriman answered, “Am I speaking to Porthos?”
For a second, there was no one on the other end of the phone, then a deep, slow voice responded. “I presume that I am speaking to Rascal?”
By the sound of the man’s accent, he was Iranian. Surriman realized this was not a Hezbollah mission; it was Iranian intelligence. “You are,” he responded.
There was a deep sigh that was easily heard over the phone. “You have followed your first instructions well.”
“Thank you,” Surriman’s reply was somewhat ambivalent.
“Good. From where you are, proceed to the Hotel Cordoza and wait. We will call you again at precisely 1900hrs.” The man didn’t wait for Surriman to reply before the phone went silent.
Surriman pocketed the phone and stepped onto the sidewalk to hail a cab. A small blue cab pulled up to the curb. A plump driver with a pear-shaped head and curly, black wig poked his head out the window. “Where to, Sẽnor?” The cab driver shot the Arab a big grin revealing a disgusting view of missing teeth and the yellow, decaying remnants of what did remain.