by J E Higgins
Regarding the man for a moment, Surriman concluded the cab would do and promptly slid into the back seat. “Hotel Cordoza.”
The driver nodded his head maintaining his grin. “Si.” He pulled out onto the main street. As the cab driver left the curb, Surriman peered out the window for any tell-tale signs of a surveillance team. He saw none, meaning he was safe or the team watching him was very good.
As the cab headed down the street, Surriman took careful note of his surroundings. The cab was cleaner than what he expected after seeing the owner. It was still well used, but all the necessary equipment and documentation was present. Even the radio chirped continuously with the voice of a female dispatcher, who sounded like a large, middle-aged woman. At the same time, he kept close track of the cars around him watching which vehicles followed despite numerous turns and lane changes. For any potential suspects, he casually marked down the make of the vehicles and license plate numbers to have them checked out at a later time. To his relief, however, he found no patterns during the ride and was reasonably sure he was not being followed.
Twenty minutes later, the cab arrived at the front entrance of the Hotel Cordoza. Jumping out of the backseat, Surriman bent down to hand the driver his money. The driver made a comment in Spanish wishing the Arab a good time while in Paraguay and drove off. The time was 1830hrs. With thirty minutes to wait before his next call, Surriman decided it was wiser not to draw attention to himself by wandering around outside and headed inside. It was a high-class hotel that catered to the upper elite of society. The driveway was three lanes with a high volume of traffic passing through. The large, polished double doors leading inside were manned by two ushers dressed in military-like uniforms.
Inside, Surriman was happy to see a small bar. He passed polished tables surrounded by leather armchairs occupied by a diverse cast of patrons before getting to the bar. There were gauchos dressed in cowboy attire with boots and Stetson hats alongside city professionals with sports jackets, white collared shirts with the top buttons left open, and crisp light colored slacks. The bar itself was nearly deserted except for two individuals. The bartender, a tall slender woman with dark, mocha skin, was making the rounds from one patron to the next. The girl could have easily been a model with her long, shimmering black hair hanging straight down her back and the toned and well-portioned figure of an athlete. The gray slacks, black leather vest, and black leather high heeled boots added to her stylish image.
Approaching the Arab, who had moved to the far corner of the bar, she gave him a sultry look. “And what will it be for you, Sẽnor? Or should I say, Sahib?” She gave him a slight bow in a comical fashion denoting the way a woman in a Muslim harem would have addressed her master.
Surriman was amused by the gesture. “I’m afraid you have me mixed up with the North Africans and the Turks. They are the ones who took their harem customs seriously. My people were more concerned with the multiple wives.”
The woman smiled back. “Oh, I’m afraid you have me there. I’m not sure I would handle matrimony and housework as much as I would the wilder sexual life of a harem.”
“Depends on the harem and on the man,” Surriman said. “Some of those young sultans and aristocrats from the remote deserts have no imagination in that area. And some of those old farts from the cities of the Persian Gulf and Mediterranean can be really kinky.”
The woman giggled as she knelt down to fetch a bottle of Scotch from under the counter. “Well, give me the experienced old men any day. They’re more interesting than boys.” She rose back up. “So what will you break your religious rules with tonight? I’m betting a whiskey or a gin. You seem the type.”
Shaking his head, he frowned as if contemplating his choices. “I’m afraid there is no challenging my religion tonight. I just want a club soda and ice.”
The woman gave a mocking ‘tsk’ at his lack of adventurism and reached for a glass and filled it with club soda and ice. Handing it over she winked, told him it was on the house and returned to tending her other patrons. With nothing more to be said, Surriman retreated to one of the far tables. Settling into a leather chair, he gave a quick glance at his watch. The time was 1840hrs; he had twenty minutes left. Scanning the room, he made sure no one was within earshot nor was he close to anyone who looked like they would make too much noise or be some other type of distraction.
To his relief, no one entering after him made any attempt to seat themselves within his proximity. If he was being tailed, it was a given that an operative from a surveillance team would try to interject themselves within listening distance. For the next several minutes he sipped his drink and casually looked about the area. At 1853hrs he stood up, leaving his drink.
At 1857hrs Surriman strode straight out the hotel onto the main walkway. He patiently watched the wider surroundings by pretending he was taking in the scenery. He was confident no one was watching him.
His phone rang. Flipping it open he spoke quietly into the receiver, “Porthos?”
“You are at the hotel?” the voice asked.
“Yes, and I don’t believe I am being followed,” Surriman replied.
“Leave the hotel and walk three blocks to Mangata Street, turn left and continue walking until you come to a small deli. Wait at the corner for my next call.”
He was aware of what was going on. His new masters weren’t going to take his word that he was not compromised. He was going to be sent on a goose chase. Pre-staged operatives watching from fixed locations could observe for themselves if a detail was tracking him. If this went according to his previous experience, he would go to three or four arbitrary locations. If at any time someone was spotted shadowing him, he would either receive a call with only a single spoken word ‘abort’, or he would get to his next ordered location and, after an hour or two of waiting, conclude he had been compromised, and his handlers had simply left.
Surriman began on foot toward his next location. He walked down the sidewalk enjoying the mildly warm evening and the scenery offered by the city. He appreciated seeing the small number of passersby: mostly young couples enjoying the evening as young girls walked by held in the arms of their lovers. The few sketch artists and street performers lining the sidewalk added nicely to the picture. It had been a long time since he had been to such a pleasant city. Even longer since he had been to a place that wasn’t a war zone. It was refreshing to just enjoy the serenity of the moment.
Arriving at Mangata Street, Surriman turned left. The small deli was in plain view. The street was less populated and, judging by the small family shops and a consistent clientele of older looking people lining the street, it wasn’t likely to be a highly frequented area. It would be much harder for a surveillance detail to follow him and maintain cover.
This proved his handlers were not novices. Surriman got to the porch of the deli and waited. There was a group of old men congregated around a small table in the center of the establishment drinking beer. He dropped onto a small stool and opened a newspaper he had picked up earlier.
He caught the sight of two men out of the corner of his eye watching him. They were rough looking and certainly of Mestizo ethnicity. They stood back in the shadows partially hidden inside a nearby alleyway.
Surriman instantly dismissed the possibility that they would be part of the Iranian’s surveillance detail. He was well aware their intelligence service was inclined to use hired operatives from the local talent to augment their network. They would, however, use professionals who knew how to be discrete, staying hidden, not a couple of low-life men like these two. Tattoo laden, greasy and completely out of place for the neighborhood, they made no secret of their existence. Surriman concluded they were most likely muggers looking for a potential score.
He was not concerned with being mugged. Assessing the two men, Surriman knew he could make short work of them. The problem was they were close enough that they could close in on him before he could make his escape. That meant he would have to fight them in public a
nd draw unwanted attention to himself ─ something his handlers would definitely not appreciate.
Making the decision to test the hoodlum’s resolve Surriman rose to his feet and began walking. He could see the two men emerge from the alley and move in a direction loosely paralleling his own. Still, not wanting to make a scene he casually turned and started in a different direction.
Seeing a pile of garbage stacked against the wall, he found a long metal rod nestled under the trash. He brought it up and held it in his hands as if he were examining it. He looked up to see the two men. They had stopped and were watching him. Surriman met their gaze with a look of indifference as he tapped the metallic rod against the wall. The loud clanking sound and his sly inviting look daring the two men to venture further stopped both of them cold. They paused several seconds shifting their gaze from Surriman’s facial expression to the potentially lethal weapon he held ready. Finally, they made the decision to withdraw back into the alley.
His phone rang. Whoever was monitoring him was obviously being thorough. Flipping open the phone he placed it to his ear.
“Rascal.” It was the same voice.
“Porthos.”
“You had a little trouble, did you?” The voice asked in a way that suggested they already knew the answer.
“Nothing serious.”
“We appreciate the discrete way you handled the matter,” Porthos replied.
“No problem.”
“Take a cab and go to the Plaza de’ Condon. The small water fountain is quite beautiful, and the statue of the little girl has something for you.” Click.
Pocketing his phone and rolling up his paper, Surriman casually made his way back to the main road hailing a taxi.
Another beaten blue cab pulled up alongside the curb. An elderly man poked his head out and asked, “Where to?”
Surriman thought for a moment before answering. He directed the driver to a building complex a few blocks from the Plaza. If he was being followed, he wanted to add a few more complications. Slipping into the back seat directly behind the driver, Surriman leaned back. If this was a game orchestrated by his handlers, he decided he was going to take a break from his normal vigilance and simply enjoy the ride.
The cab pulled into a parking lot directly across from the building complex. If the driver was an informant, Surriman would give him the wrong impression as to his destination. He leaped from the cab and walked across the street to the complex before the cab driver pulled away with another fair.
He headed toward the Plaza. The Plaza was in a quiet setting with a few old men leaning against the giant marble fountain and some young lovers enjoying the romantic scenery. With one hand in his pocket and the other clutching the newspaper, Surriman walked casually across the walkway looking like a sightseer. When he reached the statue of a small girl wearing a sundress and chasing butterflies, Surriman did not approach it immediately. He took a seat on a nearby bench scanning the area a few times to see if anyone was paying him any attention. When he was satisfied no one was watching, he slowly stood and walked to the statue. Lowering himself as if to get a better look at the architecture, he slid his hand across her stone arm down to her leg and finally noticed a small crack just at the base of the copper disk she stood upon. Sliding his fingers into the crack, he felt paper. With the smooth, slow finesse of a seasoned pickpocket, he removed the object. Placing the object between the sheets of his folded paper, he stood and walked away.
He was reasonably sure he was out of anyone’s view. Taking a knee, he grabbed the package and began unraveling the paper. After retrieving the new phone, he threw his old phone in the bushes. There was a phone number taped to the new phone. What caught his eye was the small triangular shape written just over the first number pointing up and another triangle pointing down. This was a simple code. The first number after the international and local code was to be counted two digits up from the one written; the next number was to be counted one down from what was written. This pattern was to be used to decode this number.
Dialing the number he decoded, he waited. It was less than two rings before he heard someone answer. Soon he heard the familiar voice. “Good, you found the phone; so far you have not been followed by anyone as far we can tell.”
Surriman rubbed his forehead. “By that, I am assuming that my test for the evening has come to an end?”
He heard a sigh, then said, “One more. Walk across the street, turn south and start walking until you come to the end of the road.” Click.
Surriman stood up. Turning south he walked down the street enjoying the sites as the benefit he gained from this evening's little romp. A collection of small shops and street vendors dominated the landscape, artful, in contrast to the marble structures and stone buildings housing the financial and political power in the country. Though he hated admitting it to himself, South America was his home. Home was not the deserts of the Persian Gulf or the Mediterranean as he had been told his whole life.
At the end of the street, a trio of young men huddled loosely around a blue sedan, wild, young Latino men out on the town taking a moment to smoke and enjoy a drink. Surriman, not wanting to look suspicious, leaned against the corner of a nearby building and read his paper. Within minutes, one of the young Latinos approached and uttered the word ‘Rascal’. The young man kept his distance but took note of any reaction. When their eyes met, and it was clear that the ‘Rascal’ comment was meant for him, Surriman responded with a softly asked ‘Porthos?’
The Latino produced a pack of cigarettes which he offered to the Arab. Surriman motioned with his hand, declining the offer but beckoned the Latino to join him. Sliding into a neighboring chair, the Latino turned to his compatriots and gave them a nod indicating he had found their contact.
“Rascal?” The Latino asked again, one last request for confirmation.
“I am,” Surriman replied looking directly at the Latino. “And I, again, presume you are Porthos.”
The young man looked relieved. Surriman took a minute to study him. His face was almost heart-shaped topped by a well-groomed crop of short, oily black hair combed back tightly into a knot affixed at the nape of his neck with the sides of his head shaved. His white collared shirt hung loosely over an athletic frame and was draped over a pair of faded blue jeans, and he was wearing Timberland boots.
Surriman took a breath, “So now what?”
The young man said, “I take you to the one to whom you are to report.”
“What is your role in this?”
“You know the answer to that question,” the Latino replied. “I am nothing more than a hired man who does jobs like this for those who pay for it.”
Surriman rolled up his paper. “So, do we go now, or do you wish to continue with further pleasantries for appearance sake?”
The Latino looked around again. “I think the pleasantries are unnecessary. No one is watching or seems to care. So let us get off the street and to business.”
This was clearly not the young man’s first time handling such an operation. Together Surriman and his guide rose from their seats and crossed to the waiting car. By now the Latino’s two compatriots were in the front seat with the engine running. Jumping into the back, Surriman and his new friend settled in as the car pulled from the curb and started down the street.
Chapter 8
Major Semir Ali Essouri found himself continually rubbing his face as he poured over the documents in front of him. He was an administrator with a penchant for bookkeeping and records. His colleagues affectionately referred to him as the “man of details”. He didn’t look at all the professional soldier when he was dressed in his casual business attire ─ tan slacks and a sports jacket with a loosely opened collared shirt. He wore this attire with disdain in contrast to his military fatigues in which he felt the most comfortable. It would be hard for anyone to imagine that this little bookkeeper had seen combat in Bosnia after the fall of Yugoslavia, both episodes of the Chechen war against the Russians, an
d an acting participant in the most recent Lebanese-Israeli war of 2006.
His concentration was broken by the sound of a knock at his office door. “Yes?” he tried not to growl.
A voice, muffled by the partially opened door, replied, “A car pulled up, sir. It is our men returning with your contact.”
Essouri collected his thoughts which were still focused on his volumes of paperwork. “Have him brought directly to my office when they get here.”
“Yes, sir,” the voice replied.
Returning his attention to the documents scattered about his desk, Essouri nearly lost track of time when he heard another knock at the door. “Come in!” The door opened and a man of medium build and thinning hair entered. Behind him was a tall, athletic young man. The first man, whose sweat soaked, vanilla shirt reeked of body odor and cigarettes, motioned to the young man behind him intending to make an introduction. He was stopped by the young man who opened with a single word, ‘Porthos?’ His eye contact and focus was directed at the small man behind the desk. Essouri fixed his attention on the young man. He leaned back in his chair and responded with a single word, ‘Rascal?’
The young man nodded. Essouri waved his hand signaling the subordinate to leave. The man slowly moved past the young man and slid out the door leaving the men only known as Rascal and Porthos alone.
Neither spoke for a moment as the Major took his time eyeing the young Arab as if making some last minute observations for a final decision. Then, with a single hand gesture, he motioned the young man to sit. The young man slipped into a small metal chair directly across from the older man who continued his assessment.
“So you are the man chosen for this assignment,” Essouri finally spoke. Pulling a small laptop from a locked drawer, he began to read. “Nouri al’Marak Surriman, born in a remote area of Northern Argentina, a swath of rather lawless territories involving Paraguay and Brazil known as the Iron Triangle. Recruited at eighteen into the Hezbollah, first in their political wing and later into the military wing. You volunteered for action in 2006 when Israel invaded Lebanon and later stayed with a unit from the Beka Valley carrying out across border insertion raids into Israel. When the civil war broke out in Syria, you went in with volunteer units to support the Assad regime. Your skill at small war commando operations eventually led to you being recruited into a special program run jointly by Pasdaran and VEVAK for enhanced external covert and intelligence operations against enemies of the true Islamic path.”