by J E Higgins
“Yes,” Qalmini replied. “These are all the possible candidates for the next phase of our operation.”
Akim looked closer at the material. There were dossiers filled with facts and reviews with recent photographs attached. From what he could tell, the information suggested that all the dossiers were for men who were sitting members of the Uruguay Parliament. “What do you see so far?”
Qalmini rubbed his eyes. “So far I have narrowed the focus down to these three men as suitable contenders for our purpose.” He reached down and scooped up a collection of documents spread-out like a fan and handed them to Akim.
Akim browsed the information. There were dossiers of three senior politicians ─ all members of the opposition right-wing National Party. “These men?” Akim nodded at the papers in his hand.
Qalmini nodded. “Those three have the position, the notoriety, and the right connections to make them the most viable candidates for our purpose.”
Akim pursed his lips. “And our other purpose?”
Qalmini sat in the closest chair. “That was a somewhat greater challenge, but I think I have a suitable candidate.”
Akim dropped the dossiers in his hand as his commander handed him another one. It was only one person. Akim didn’t browse but instead carefully read the information. Finally, dropping the papers back onto the desk, he looked back at his commander. “You’re right, he could possibly do. He could also be a threat.”
Qalmini agreed. “For what we are asking, the necessary qualifications make our choices slim. Either way, we only have the ability to approach someone once before we become compromised.”
Akim looked down at the dossier he had just discarded and sighed. He read the name at the top of the file very carefully ─ Oskar Vlak Straudner.
Chapter 13
The Ronin Establishment was everything a regular guy not looking for a fight or a lot of flash could enjoy. Situated on the corner between two main streets of Bogotá, Colombia, it was a mid-level operation that catered to revisiting foreigners and expats who appreciated a quiet night of drinking and socializing. Given its low profile and conservative setting, it was also the best hub for someone to conduct business of a mercenary kind.
The proprietor was a man by the name of Ian ‘Plucker’ Ferry, known for his extensive friendships among the soldiering world and, to a lesser extent, his previous affiliations in the Loyalist Volunteer Force in Northern Ireland. This was where one went if he was looking to buy weapons or find men for a privatized war or operation.
Kafka Dayan stepped through the glass and wood double doors and entered the main corridor. It was interesting to the Israeli that the glass doors offered a distorted image to anyone looking from the outside in but, from the inside, one had an unhindered view of what was going on in the streets.
In the main room, Dayan casually assessed his situation. The outside of the bar had been misleading; it looked like a small corner establishment between two larger buildings. Once inside, the bar expanded to include two large areas for drinking that was cut into the space of two other buildings. A two-step drop led to these areas from the main room. This arrangement further hindered anyone trying to gain information from loitering outside. It was obvious the bar was designed to be an assassin’s nightmare and to weather attacks should another revolution or drug war break out.
Moving to the bar, Kafka sat in an unoccupied seat along the wall. It was only seconds before a dark-skinned Negress with braided locks and ornamental jewelry approached him to take his order. The tiny gold ring protruding from her nose was impossible for him to ignore.
“Sẽnor!” she called abruptly breaking the Israeli from his semi-trance. “Your drink?” She looked at him in exasperation.
“Beer, please…anything German,” Kafka said, caught off guard. The woman turned and walked away.
Rubbing his forehead and cursing himself for the awkward moment, Kafka decided to focus on a different subject. The crowd was an assorted yet expected ensemble of people for a place like this. Several customers wore crumpled suits ─ businessmen nursing a high-end glass of bourbon, rum or American whiskey while they chatted among themselves about the day’s business. A few foreign expatriates mixed with this group sporting tall mugs of beer. By the brands, Kafka could only assume most of the expats were from Eastern Europe. The remainder of the patrons consisted of a few leather-jacketed motorcycle types and some retirees.
The Negress returned with a tall bottle and a decorative coaster. Placing it in front of him she stepped back. “Anything else, Sẽnor?”
Kafka said, “No thank you.” She left the Israeli to his own thoughts.
Cohen had told him that the Ronin Establishment was one of the few places still catering to the old-fashioned world of private market intrigues. The soldiers-for-hire, ex-spies ─ now rogue operatives ─ and black-market business types who twenty years ago were so common among the capital cities of Europe and North America were now an endangered species. They were known to view this place as their last refuge.
Cohen, deciding that the veteran commando would be better in this element, had dispatched Kafka to fulfill the next phase of the operation. The first sip of beer was smooth with a strong taste. He usually enjoyed his libations after the completion of a mission. Under these circumstances, that seemed out of place.
A small, well-built, muscular man appeared from a doorway behind the counter. His mustache was neat and well-trimmed which mixed nicely with his gleaming, bald head and milk-white complexion. It was Ian Ferry ─ or ‘Plūcker’ to his old comrades in Northern Ireland or ‘Ulster’, which he preferred. The Israeli reminded himself to remember he was addressing a former Loyalist.
Plūcker greeted the men around the counter like a politician addressing his constituents. Making the rounds, the Irishman shook hands with some whom he addressed by their first name, a couple others were apprised of the latest bits of news from previous business or discussions they had had with the proprietor. Finally, at the end of the counter, Plūcker found himself eye to eye with a dark-skinned man of Arab extraction. “Long way from Israel ain’t ya boyo.” He spoke in English as opposed to the Spanish he had been using with the other patrons.
In his own accented tone, Kafka responded. “What makes you think I’m from Israel?”
Plücker looked amusement. “Well, you’re hardly Spanish, and the way you treat that beer ─ like it’s perfectly normal ─ an Arab Muslim would have acted like he was committing a sin. A less religious type would have acted like it was his first time out and was doing something exciting because of the sinfulness and criminality of it all. So, you’re not Muslim. I’d wager you are Jewish, which likely means Israeli.”
Kafka was impressed with the Irishman’s deductive abilities. “You would be right. You are either a first-rate psychic or your skills no doubt would serve well in espionage work.”
“I imagine so,” the barkeep laughed, “but that’s not really my bag. I’m assuming it’s not yours either. You strike me more like the operational type.”
“I’m sorry?” Kafka was taken aback by the Irishman’s statement.
Plūcker Ferry turned to attend to his inventory, but he leaned toward the Israeli ready to further the discussion or end it based on the patron’s wishes. Kafka chose to pursue the subject. “What are you talking about?”
Plūcker faced the Israeli bending down to meet him at eye level. “Don’t play me for a fool, boy. I see the toned physique of someone who exercises long and hard on a near-daily basis. Before walking in here you moved around outside. You were casing the place like a professional operator planning a mission, and you’ve been scanning the folks in my establishment either collecting intelligence, sizing up the threat level, or pursuing a target.”
Plūcker was good. “Oh, I admit your skills are first-rate; no one really caught ya. I only noticed because I’ve been around the game long enough to observe the pros. You have too many tells of a seasoned soldier, one who has seen action ─ a
good deal of it. But you could hardly be mistaken for a professional spy. That said, you must be here on business for the state and someone here is the intended target or you’re here to hire out on the free circuit, in which case I’m assuming it’s your first time.”
Kafka’s jaw might have dropped had he had less self control. Was he that obvious? He did not know how to respond. The Irishman had him completely figured out. “Wonderful fantasy, my friend.” Kafka tried to downplay the bartender’s assessment. “You’re partially right. I am Israeli, and I did a few years of military service. But I hardly think I would qualify for the professional soldier type with my administration skills.”
A sly look appeared on Plücker’s face. He didn’t believe the Israeli but had no wish to expose him. Kafka only wanted to maintain his cover. “All right, me boy,” the Irishman met the Israeli’s eyes. “So, I’ll let ya go with that bullshit story. And, I’ll put the word out you’re a fucking spy looking to collect on those working the market.”
Kafka was beside himself. The Irish barman had him cornered again. He needed to recruit mercenaries, and this guy was looking to wreck his chances. With few options, Kafka tried to play out his hand. “Well, do what you like, but why is this such a big deal to you?”
Plūcker leaned back and let his eyes wander toward the ceiling as he searched for his next words. “Well, let me just say I have a few years in the game myself, and I’ve seen your type many times before. Either you’re lookin’ to get into trouble, or you’re trouble lookin’ for a place to land. I’ll not have you interfering with friends of mine.”
Kafka lowered his gaze toward his drink. “Or, I am exactly as advertised, as my cousin in the US loves to say, and your tough guy routine should be practiced on someone else.”
The Irishman leaned in closer, a twinkle in his eye. “Well, there’s one more reason I’d be inclined to assume ya are a professional in these matters. Mr. Cohen told me an athletic-looking Israeli would be coming through my doors in the next few days. Said the fella would go by the name Kafka Dayan.”
Kafka’s eyes widened. The Irishman pulled away and chuckled. “Micha and I go back a ways to my earlier less mindful days. He had a problem and asked if I could help. Wants me to facilitate a few meetings and help get the word out to some folks you be thinkin’ about for your mission.”
Still bewildered by what just happened, Kafka composed himself before answering. “Ya-yes, I would like that very much.”
Plūcker stood up and surveyed the room to see how his Negress was managing things on the floor. When he was satisfied she was in control, and there were no obvious issues, he turned his focus back to Kafka. “Make your way slowly to the washroom and from there go where you’re told.” Plūcker sauntered into his backroom.
Following his instructions, Kafka drained the last of his beer, dropped some pesos on the counter, and rose from his seat to head to the toilet. Looping around the bar, he managed to snake his way through a small corridor that led to a narrow hallway. He was less than a meter from the door marked Men’s Room when he was stopped by a young man who emerged from a steel door on the opposite side. “Sẽnor Jew?” The young man asked.
A little put off by the cover name, Kafka nodded his head. The boy motioned for him to follow. The Israeli followed him through the steel door. The young man navigated through a labyrinth of hallways and storerooms of various expensive liquors and finally into an office. Plūcker Ferry sat behind an aged desk covered in piles of papers and ornaments.
The room was large, doubling as a conference room for meetings as well as the boss’s office. The lights were assorted lamps, wall lights, and overhead tracks. The conference room consisted of several long tables and rolling office chairs that could be rearranged to fit the occasion. It was a room where one could discuss business of a private nature with relative security.
“I figure you can conduct your business in here,” the Irishman said. He rose from his desk to meet the Israeli. “I have the place swept for bugs before every meeting; it’s done by a very reputable specialist in this field. I also have the walls lined with metal and wiring that ensures someone trying to listen from outside will have a bloody hard time getting anything viable, especially since I pay some of the local brawlers to keep the back streets clear for me.”
“Thank you,” the Israeli replied.
“Micha said you would have a list of specific qualifications you worked up as to what you will be needin’ for this mission.”
“I have some names that I’d like to run by you to see if they’re active and still worthwhile.”
The Irishman rubbed his thumb against his chin. “I’ll put the word out in the next few days through the barkeeps and message takers. In my experience, it will take two or three weeks for the professionals to start comin’ around.”
“That’s faster than what I expected.” Kafka looked back at Plūcker. “What do you mean, before the professionals come around?”
Plūcker grinned, “I’ve been at this game awhile me boy. The talkers will jump on any rumor or offer of a job without question. The truly experienced vets will wait, check it out, and ask around before they venture forward. They’ll make contact with me informally to see what you’re goin’ on about and what you’re offering pay-wise for the work. I would recommend five thousand a week. Anything less and you’re turning off the professionals.”
The Israeli didn’t like being involved in something he knew little about. “So, in the meantime…we wait.”
Plūcker nodded. “Give me your names and let me do some reachin’ out. I’ll let you know when we start to get some responses. For the most part, these boys stay tuned to the mercenary community and, knowin’ their fitness for duty, will be pretty easy to find. As a precaution, assume if I have six names for you, figure that three won’t be viable. Factor in guys who are retired, fallen to the drink, or burnt out.
“I’ll make the first contact. The less you’re seen by the first prospects, the less of a security breach you risk. After all, I can shake these boys pretty easily if they don’t make the grade. You only make a target for yourself and bring unwanted exposure. A word of advice. In addition to informants and criminals, this world you’re about to enter collects a lot of intrigue junkies. They come in the form of journalists who love to rub shoulders with your type and are always lookin’ for some secret war or covert operation they can expose and report on. Know that they’ll be a bigger problem than the local security boys around here.”
“What will you tell them?” Kafka asked.
“They’ll know they’re being recruited but not what for.” The Irishman looked at the Israeli before continuing. “They’ll be briefed as needed. They know the money is real and the job adventurous and quite possibly illegal. Again, the true professionals will ask the right questions to know if the job is being run by pros, or if it’s just a bunch of wankers slumming in the merc world for kicks.”
Kafka realized nothing more was going to be accomplished. He handed the number of one of his disposable phones to the Irishman and bid him goodbye.
Chapter 14
The first busload of recruits was inspiring.
The Contessa Selena de Alvarez watched from a distance the collection of would-be revolutionaries descending the warped steps at the back of the old school buses. To her amazement, they were far above her expectations. She assumed she was going to see an assortment of misfits, wishful adventurers, and psychopaths. Instead, she saw a cast of clean-cut kids, nicely, though not expensively dressed, with a look of true believers sold on an idea of social revolution. The professor turned out to be a wise choice as a recruiter.
Alvarez had arranged with the professor to collect the recruits at a farmer’s market near the Argentina border. They were dressed as if on a camping trip enjoying the woods. Any policeman or onlooker would assume the kids were exploring the countryside. The villagers, happy for the business this number of college kids brought, would assume the same. That they all gathe
red into a caravan of buses solidified this answer in their minds.
Checkpoints were avoided by using a honeycomb of pre-reconnoitered roadways that were hardly ever secured by the overstretched border patrol of either country. With the help of Argentinian gauchos, who on occasion smuggled people and product into and out of Uruguay, the recruits disembarked from their buses when the roads became impassable. The large number of recruits were able to bypass security surveillance and any record of their movement across borders by trekking several miles through seldom used goat trails known only to the wild-living gauchos. The Contessa had ensured the gauchos provided plenty of pack animals and water for the hike. After all, the urban rich kids were not hardened cowmen and probably not as resilient to the rugged conditions.
Crossing into Argentina, the recruits were brought to a designated assembly point where a convoy of buses waited ready to pick up the much-relieved recruits. Finally, arriving midday at the training camp, they disembarked. Carefully, they adjusted their eyes to the brightness of the sun.
It took them only a few minutes before they were acclimated to their new surroundings; the thick forest, the abandoned mining camp, and deserted mining town were seen in the distance. Most of their attention was focused on the rough looking figures clad in military battle dress standing off to the side. Their expressions were hard and unmoving. If any one of the recent arrivals thought they were going to summer camp or something fun, it vanished with the sight of those men. This bit of intimidation was designed to get the young radicals in the right frame of mind.
The Contessa had recruited her trainers from the ranks of the Colombian National Liberation Army ─ better known in the southern world as the ELN. The ELN is a Communist rebel group residing in the shadow of the larger, better known Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia or FARC, and certainly as capable and just as lethal. They were perfect for training a raw army of guerrillas. Unlike the FARC, which was founded by and comprised almost exclusively of impoverished rural peasants and Indians with poor education, the ELN was an organization composed of leftist clergymen and intellectuals of both higher education and certainly higher breeding.