by J E Higgins
Don stared out over the view he enjoyed. He thought carefully as he processed the young woman’s proposal.
“In truth,” the Countess searched for the hole that would allow the Don to accept the risks, “while I fully anticipate violence across the country for quite some time, I don’t see it going anywhere or gaining any real traction with the people.”
“Then why bother with them at all? You have never struck me as the political type.”
“Because they are very well funded and will be for a considerable amount of time,” she said. “I’m not a supporter. I’m a business agent who can obtain what they don’t have access to. I intend to be well paid for it. Even hardened communists respect the need to engage in capitalism in order to achieve their goals.”
The Don studied the young Contessa. He could sense she was not telling him the whole truth. However, he believed she had given him enough information to be satisfied that his participation would be safe enough. “Good. The risk sounds right. I don’t see any uncontrollable repercussions for me. What will you require?”
“Mostly small arms and explosives, an assortment for both urban and rural operations. I need equipment that is functional and generic. For rural areas, I would need a compliment of AKM types, preferably North Korea 68 models. They are loosely distributed by the People’s Republic and are largely untraceable because they’ve been used in various revolutions. The assumption would be that any Western intelligence service would look to either Cuba or another rebel group to act as a benefactor for my clients ─ possibly even the Koreans themselves. After all, appearances this early are everything.
“If this is not achievable, I would settle for Eastern European stock that can also be easily explained, such as Romanian WASR models or Ukrainian brands. However, the North Korean brands can fire rockets without the aid of an added grenade launcher. I also need a sizable consignment of hand grenades; specifically, western military grade, not the Chinese or Eastern European products you generally offer.”
“Hand grenades?” Don Meduriso asked. “My dear little Contessa, I can easily provide the proper grenade launchers for more upgraded weapons, and I can offer a consignment of RPGs still fresh in their case.”
The Contessa hesitated for a moment as she mentally ran through her shopping list. “I will need both. They will be conducting both urban and rural operations. And I am anticipating that while the countryside will be impossible for security forces to lock up, movement of weapons can flow more easily. The urban strategy will require greater emphasis on smaller, more concealable weapons.”
The Contessa’s strategic logic was sound. But her intentions were focused on her real mission. She had to plan for the dual wishes of her employer ─ first set up a threatening left-wing terror network to create the havoc and panic required for the desired environment, then ensure that the network could be easily eliminated upon completion of their service. That meant limiting their access to heavier weapons systems that might make the second part of her mission needlessly complicated.
“For urban operations, the requirements will be more specific: AKM-74, short or collapsible stock, and close quarter weapons like the Russian and Ukrainian naval infantry use. Again, we don’t want to use weapons that would be hard to explain. If Uzi 9mm’s are easier to obtain, I would accept those. I will also need a consignment of close proximity weapons, preferably Scorpion Cz’s, .22 and .32 caliber, for assassinations and operations that can be easily dispatched afterward, plus a variety of explosives with a minimal amount of Semtex. This type would be more explainable as something obtained from another terrorist group.”
Impressed, the Don listened quietly as the Contessa rounded out her requirements with sound knowledge of her subject. When she finished, he sighed, “I will have to look into what arrangements I’ll need to make to meet these requirements. I will be in touch within the week with a price. We will then discuss a negotiated route.”
Contessa leaned closer, close enough for her light perfume to drift into the Don’s personal space. “Thank you, Don Meduriso. I appreciate doing business with you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Contessa Selena de Alvarez.” He gently took her hand and kissed it again.
She rose from her seat and started to walk away, then turned back to the old Don. “Before I go, I have one more request of you.”
Chapter 11
Buenos Aires was cool for this time of year. An uncomfortable chill permeated the air. Now able to wear his thicker, black coat, Micha Cohen found it the weather beneficial, as it allowed him to conceal the Makarov pistol tucked in his waist. It wasn’t his preferred firearm, but it was cheap and easily disposable if used.
The Jewish Community Center was something right out of the middle-ages. A three-story building consisting of gray stone and mortar with menacing looking windows protected by thick steel bars. Cohen thought the only thing missing from this picture was a moat and an invading army of Vikings. Looking around, he half expected to see archers posted on the roof.
Ascending the concrete steps, Cohen pushed through the large steel doors guarding the entrance. He found himself in an entryway with light red carpeting and beaten wood paneling. There was a mixed aroma of traditional Jewish cooking, burned cigar tobacco, and aftershave. Down the hall, he could hear singing.
Leaving his coat and Fedora on, Cohen moved carefully down the hall. He entered a spacious main room filled with several circular tables on one side and rows of chairs on the other. The chairs were filled with people whose attention was focused on a round, elderly man belting out an opera-like tune in a deep baritone. He wasn’t Pavarotti, but for this local group, he was good.
It wasn’t long before the old spy was approached by two young men who eyed him suspiciously. They were in their early twenties, both well-built and athletic. They were dressed identically in tan slacks and black T-shirts and wore red armbands on their right biceps, indicating they were part of some Jewish youth defense group.
“Sir, may we help you?” The larger of the two youths asked as they came within a few feet of Cohen.
Behind them, Cohen saw another three group members similarly dressed watching from a distance, ready to come to the aid of their comrades if needed. Cohen suspected he was being screened.
“I’m looking for your Rabbi,” Micha said, showing his hands. “That is, of course, if Abraham Kovinski is still the local Rabbi here.”
The two front youths looked at each other. The smaller one walked away. As he left, one of the three holding back moved up to take his place.
Situations like this were never good as far as the old spy was concerned. Young toughs like these were the type to punch first and think rationally later. Worse yet, if they searched him and found the illegal gun he was carrying, the beating would be the least of his worries.
“What is all this?” a gravelly, accented voice called out and broke the growing tension. A large, heavyset man with a long, thick beard waddled slowly across the floor, followed closely by the youth who had been sent to find him.
“Rabbi, do you know this man?” the large, young guard asked in refined Spanish.
The old man sighed, “Yes, unfortunately, I do know him. And as much as I would enjoy watching him die, he is one of us.”
The old man’s Spanish was broken, but passable. His features and accent were unmistakably Eastern European. He took his time closing the distance to Cohen, then took more time to look Cohen up and down a few times before speaking. “I know you are not here at the behest of the Homeland, so don’t try to fool me.”
Cohen stared back at the Rabbi. “Good to see you too, Abraham.”
By now the other youths, who were maintaining their distance, stepped forward to join the discussion. The bigger one, the one that had initiated contact, was quick to pick up on the Rabbi’s statement about the Homeland. His interest was sparked. “Homeland, Rabbi? Do you mean he works for Israel?”
Abraham Kovinski turned to the young gentlemen now gath
ered around him. “Thank you for your diligence, but he is no threat to us. Now, I need to speak to him privately, if you please.”
The young men had been ready to kill their unknown guest and drop his body in a dumpster moments before, now they were now beaming, believing they were looking at a real Israeli katsa. Cohen felt like Mick Jagger at a rock concert.
Rabbi Kovinski shook his head at the whole scene. He took Cohen by the arm, mumbled something about ‘youth being too easily impressed these days,’ and led his visitor away from the gathering crowd. “Come, you old kike!” he growled as he pushed clear of the bodies. “We’ll talk in my office,”
The young men followed them like a pack of mesmerized groupies chasing a celebrity. Kovinski managed to evade them with well-practiced skills pushing the Israeli into an office down the hall and slamming the door shut. Outside, they heard moans and protests, and the old Rabbi waved his hand in exasperation.
“Start talking,” the Rabbi turned to Cohen in irritation. “And don’t give me any of your nonsensical spy jargon and broken explanations.”
Cohen placed his Fedora at the edge of the Rabbi’s beaten, metal desk and leaned back in an equally weathered, tweed cushioned chair that creaked under his weight. “I’m here on the Holy Land’s business...”
“Don’t!” Kovinski said coldly. “I know that’s untrue. Try again and this time, my friend, if there is any slight-of-hand, you’re leaving.”
The determined look on the old Rabbi’s face was unmistakable. “All right, I am initiating a mission of my own, and I need your help.”
Kovinski changed his demeanor as he sunk slowly onto the small tweed, cushioned sofa. “Hmph,” he scowled.
Cohen updated the Rabbi on the Iranians, the possible threat in South America, and the lack of support from the Mossad. When he finished the briefing, the old Rabbi chewed his lip, absorbing the information.
“I know we’ve had our differences, Abraham, even going back to being kids in Russia. Though I have no official status, I need help.”
Kovinski folded his hands, let out a raspy breath. “What, exactly, do you require?”
Cohen felt a sense of relief. “I know you are connected to the Jewish vigilante and criminal groups in Argentina and other parts of South America. I need to know if you have gotten wind of any suspicious activities or persons who have shown up mysteriously. You also keep tabs on the local Lebanese population in the Triangle up in the border areas.”
Kovinski gently ran his finger across his lip brushing his gnarled mustache. “Give me a few days. I have a few sources that might know something.”
“Thank you, Abraham,” Cohen said as he rose.
The Rabbi rose with him. “I will need to be discrete. If some of these young Jewish radicals find out about this, they will insist on taking matters into their own hands and start their own rampage.”
“You’re right,” Cohen agreed. “Those young men outside seem a little too eager for a fight.”
“Them? They call themselves the Guardians of Israel. I figure it keeps them off the streets and out of gangs but, as you point out, they would love to start the Arab-Israeli war over here if they could. I would ask that you don’t encourage them in their endeavors. They may start attacking the homes and businesses of the local Lebanese community thinking they're helping or striking a blow for the cause.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Again, thank you, Abraham.” Cohen caught the Rabbi’s bicep.
“Take care of yourself Micha.”
Micha nodded and the two men parted.
Chapter 12
Ali Anwar al Qalmini looked out from the windowed terrace of the coastal estate house he had retained as his headquarters. At the moment, the spectacular view from this location was a much-needed distraction from the hours he had spent scrutinizing the records bought from the Cuban. It had all started to become a blur of ink and paper. A glass of water and a cool breeze from outside came as a godsend. The spectacle of glistening water glowing from the reflection of the city’s evening lights illuminated the coastline and made a hauntingly beautiful scene.
His serenity was interrupted by a voice coming from inside the room. Turning, Qalmini found himself confronted his subordinates ─ Majors Rashid al’ Akim and Semir Ali Essouri. Qalmini nodded before gulping down the last of his water. Both men looked where their commander had established a workspace for himself on the wide, granite coffee table in front of the couch. A collection of papers were grouped in a series of folders meant to serve as de facto dividers for their commander’s strange organizational process.
If the estate was not so well guarded with elite al Quds soldiers patrolling the area, tech agents on loan from the Iranian Ministry of State Security conducting regular electronic sweeps, and the three-member household staff from Qalmini’s personal household in Iran, one would view the display as a flagrant security violation.
“Sir, we just came to brief you on our latest progress,” Major Essouri began.
Qalmini stepped off the terrace and returned to the living room. “What is our status?”
Essouri looked at his commander. “We have our man. He has been briefed and activated for this mission.”
“You have met him directly?” Qalmini asked.
“Yes sir,” Essouri responded.
Qalmini placed his empty glass on a nearby counter. “Will he be up to the task you defined for him?”
Essouri nodded. “His name is Nouri al’Marak Surriman. He not only meets all our requirements, but he has a very keen mind. He actually brought up a few key points we should strongly consider.”
Qalmini’s eyes peaked at his subordinate’s statement. “Such as?”
Essouri watched his commander and Akim, who was off to the side, and they were both returning looks of strong interest. “He points out the lack of adequate facilities to train for urban maneuvers despite this being an urban-oriented operation.”
Essouri stopped and observed the facial responses from his colleagues as they processed what he said. After a few seconds, they looked back at the small major. “This is very revealing.” Qalmini checked with Akim who nodded in agreement.
Feeling he had a receptive audience, Essouri proceeded. “I have done some research to resolve this problem.” He reached into his leather satchel. By now the other two men had sunk into adjacent chairs. Producing a manila folder, Essouri continued. “Only a few kilometers south of our recently purchased property in Brazil lay an abandoned mining town. It was well established before the mine went broke and everyone moved out. A thorough reconnaissance of the location revealed a developed infrastructure with several on-site buildings and other facilities that mimic our target location fairly well.” Essouri opened his folder which contained blueprints, sketches, and both aerial and on-site photographs. As usual, the little major had been quite thorough in his research.
Qalmini looked over the documents presented to him. Assessing the information, he looked back at his subordinate. “I see the benefit, however, can we sustain a force of trainees for a period of time with the current internal infrastructure, or will we have to plan for additional logistical support?”
“We can use the existing infrastructure,” Essouri answered. “The water still functions. It ties into a nearby lake and river as its source. For electrical, our needs can be met with the use of a decent sized generator. Together it should greatly minimize our outside logistical concerns.”
Qalmini rubbed his finger over his lips as he pondered the information from his subordinate. Looking over at Akim, he found him giving a slight shoulder shrug. Qalmini conceded that Essouri was right, and he had come up with a good and thorough remedy. “Good, your solution is sound, Major. However, use our established methods of obtaining the land and for any services needed to establish it. Contact our Cuban friend and work the deal through Bolivar Investments.”
Both majors gave a slight groan at the order. “Sir, Mendoza is a mercenary, and I consider him an utter security risk
,” Essouri said.
“He’s right,” Akim ventured. “That man could easily compromise the whole mission if someone offered him the right price.”
Qalmini sighed as he studied both of his men. “This mission is a waltz across a tightrope any way we look at it. As much as I’m inclined to agree with your opinion, I see the only alternative is to have an Iranian company assume the part of purchasing land and services which would leave us open to greater exposure and risk.”
“Of course, you’re right,” Essouri sighed as he considered his commander’s comments.
“At this point, he already knows more than I’m comfortable with but eliminating him would bring the Cubans down on us which would be even more dangerous,” Qalmini continued. “So realizing the stakes, I am assessing every move, taking only the most necessary actions and using the most feasible precautions to mitigate our exposure.” Checking to see that both his men were in agreement, Qalmini placed reassuring hands on both their shoulders. “Make contact and secure the land, time is of the essence.”
Reaching for his cellular phone inside his coat, Essouri dialed a number and began speaking in Spanish to the contact on the other end of the line. Mendoza never spoke directly to his contacts in these matters but inserted an intermediary to deal with the Iranians. When a deal or instructions were discussed, Mendoza presided over the business affairs that provided the official cover.
While the conversation was taking place, Qalmini returned to his workspace where his collection of papers was scattered about. Akim followed closely to observe for himself. “These are the files the Cuban gave you?” the large Persian asked as he eyed the piles.