The Montevideo Game

by J E Higgins

  The Contessa had finished explaining the broad plan and the role of placing Straudner at the head of an authoritarian regime. For several minutes the room remained silent as Straudner pondered the information. He picked up his drink and, finishing the last drops of the golden liquid, rose from his chair and turned squarely to look at the two other gentlemen who had remained conveniently quiet throughout the meeting. “Who exactly wishes to do this?”

  The two Iranians rose from their seats. Essouri remained silent as Qalmini now took the lead. The Contessa slowly took a seat off to the side. “We are a consortium if you will. A consortium that represents the Islamic State of Iran.”

  “So this is an Iranian backed operation,” Straudner said. “I didn’t think it could be al Qaeda or ISIS.”

  “No,” replied Qalmini. “We are not involved with either. What we are is a country that desperately needs allies in the Western Hemisphere. If it means we have to create one, then that is what we must do.”

  Straudner was now pacing. “What would this ally be expected to do for Iran?”

  “We would like to expand our trade and private sector investments for the most part. Also, a strong pact allowing for a military partnership, training, and operations would be ideal,” Qalmini chose his words carefully.

  “Military?” The young politician looked back at the Iranian. “That is one issue I’m most concerned with. Military alliances with America’s chief adversary these days have a way of making one’s presidency short-lived and unpopular.”

  “This is why we work so much behind the scenes,” Qalmini interjected. “We understand the risk of raising the American’s wrath. That is exactly why we are tailoring this to look like an entirely organic regime change within Uruguay with no real outside help.”

  “The Americans are hardly concerned with the politics of most of South America when their hands are full dealing with the Middle East, Russia, and China,” the Contessa interjected. “As long as all is done discretely, you should have no difficulties. Given the high echelons of power in Washington DC are littered with old men nostalgic for the Cold War days, the idea that you’re ridding them of a communist menace would endear you to them.”

  “So what military arrangement would you be looking for?” Straudner asked.

  Qalmini again took the floor. “To have some security in having a base of operation in South America would be of great value ─ some bases, military advisors, and logistics support.”

  Straudner said nothing for several minutes. He had been given a serious offer to consider. He didn’t like the idea of having military ties to such a country as Iran, but the idea of having a lifetime presidency over Uruguay was enticing.

  “To further sweeten the pot,” the Contessa spoke again. “I would point out that Iran has strong economic ties to the emerging and established economies of the Middle-East and the former Soviet Union. Such ties could help establish your popularity among the economic powers in your country after such a culture shock.”

  Straudner thought the offer was appealing while at the same time dangerous. If this was a trick or if the plan failed in any way, he alone was left to answer for all of it. Still, the idea of assuming the presidency for life without any challenge seemed impossible to pass up.

  “Why would I not assume you’re lying? More importantly, what would you expect of me in orchestrating this little operation? As I see it, my involvement in any way leaves me open to great risk, a risk you may choose to exploit. I would like to hear what role I would play in executing this coup of yours. In the end, if I don’t feel comfortable with the plan, you may assume my participation will not happen.”

  Essouri was incredulous, as he tried to use his eyes to protest such a notion. Qalmini faced his subordinate and allowed his eyes to drift in the direction of the politician. His meaning was clear. They had no choice. Straudner had proven to be more astute than they had assumed.

  The Contessa was fixing herself a drink. She realized the Iranians had decided to acquiesce to Straudner’s demand, and she gave them a nod.

  Qalmini turned to face the politician. “When the time comes, you will present the face of legitimacy to our cause. When the wave of left-wing terrorism becomes too ominous, you will call for law and order. At which point, a faction from the security forces will rise to heed your call and take to the streets imposing order. At the same time, a right-wing militia will emerge to support your cause. They will pour into the countryside and cities attacking the terrorist strongholds and eliminating the menace.”

  “Militia?” Straudner perked. “Do elaborate on that.”

  “We are in the process of building a force designed to augment your military in securing the country.” Qalmini explained. “It will also provide a good scapegoat for you when accusations of murder and mayhem arise from the activist community. As a militia, you have deniability when they eliminate the guerrillas and their bases leaving no real loose ends. You can point out that you have no control over marauders who will just as quickly disappear once the threat subsides.”

  Straudner rotated his glass slowly between his fingers. “You mentioned support from security forces. You have recruited officers within the police, military, and intelligence worlds?”

  “No, that is also where your services come in,” Qalmini moved slowly toward Straudner. “You see part of our concern is our inability to independently recruit from these circles without taking a serious risk. It would be more advantageous for all of us if you recruited those elements.”

  Straudner chuckled lightly. “You really are investing a lot in the notion that I will be a party to your plan. You want me to recruit fellow conspirators and risk exposure to myself?”

  “Think of it as mutual security,” the Contessa added. “As my colleagues have observed, they would be at grave risk of discovery if they attempted to build the coup from inside the security ranks. However, you not taking the lead at this level leads you open to equal threat. If you do not secure your own base of power for this operation, then you will be entrusting the entirety of your position to those loyal and beholden to a foreign power. This would reduce you to a puppet. If you recruit from the police, military, and intelligence community, this will secure your position.”

  The Contessa was appealing and articulate as she addressed the politician. If anything, she had spoken the words that firmly captured him. Turning his attention back on the Iranian, Straudner sipped his drink before speaking. “So, if I do this, you put the operation together, and I recruit the force to ensure my control of this country after you eliminate all those who could pose a threat. What, then, is to stop me from simply reneging on our arrangement? Severing ties with North America’s number one enemy could only serve my greater interest?”

  Qalmini slowly dropped into a chair sitting across from him. He looked the politician in the eye. “You could do that. It would be the politically logical thing to do. Yet, please remember that the force that removed your terrorist menace will have been put together and directed by us. In addition, the Hezbollah network, which we have extremely good relations with, has quite an extensive network here in South America. It would be bad for Uruguay’s savior from left-wing terrorism to suddenly be caught between right-wing extremists and Islamic radicals who are both well trained and well supported.”

  Straudner smiled. A begrudging look of admiration crossed his face. The Iranian was no fool or amateur. Satisfied that the plan was good, the politician rose to his feet and raised his glass, “Well gentlemen, and my lady, I’m in.”

  “Good,” Qalmini smiled. A sense of relief rushed through his body. “We will begin the preparations at once. Expect the first phase of our operation to commence within the next two weeks. They will be directed at politically strategic targets. This should help eliminate any threats to you and give you a legitimate concern to begin recruiting.”

  “I can accept that,” Straudner said coolly.

  The trio filed out the door with Qalmini leading and the Contes
sa in the rear. Straudner returned to his seat contemplating what had just transpired when Laudman entered.

  “It looks as though I have made a deal,” Straudner announced. He watched the old man.

  “I assume risk mitigation will be unnecessary, sir?” The watchmaker asked, remaining stoic.

  “You are correct,” Straudner replied. “It looks as though I have found the moment that secures my contributions to my family’s greatness.” Lowering his glass to a table, the politician stared out across the room.

  Chapter 18

  Ian ‘Plūcker’ Ferry had stayed true to his word. The men meeting in the room at the back of the Ronin Club looked every bit like the tough professionals with the years of hardened experience he promised. The muscle-bound action seekers adorned in military-like tattoos were absent. The individuals present were low key types ─ intent on not drawing attention to themselves ─ staying cognizant of the world around them. Almost everyone on his invitation list was present. Kafka was pleasantly surprised as he looked at the filled seats. Plūcker stood off to the side and allowed the Israeli time to observe the applicants.

  Finally, turning to the big Irishman, Kafka spoke. “So, can I get your opinion? Are these men solid?”

  Plūcker nodded. “I’ve known these boys for a long time. I know their histories, their personalities, and their aptitudes. I filtered out the lads who might prove questionable. Every man in here is trustworthy. They’ll respect the secrecy of this operation even if they don’t get hired. The question now is: what do you need, and who meets those requirements?”

  Kafka shook his head, “Well, let’s begin.”

  “You can use my office for privacy,” Plūcker ventured.

  The Israeli waved his hand in a thankful gesture and started for the office. Behind him, he heard the Irishman bark out instructions to the applicants, preparing them for the recruitment process.

  Rabbi Abraham Kovinski sat directly across from his old childhood friend. Micha Cohen looked sullen. It was obvious neither man was bearing any pleasant news. Kovinski started first. “Well, I went off the assumption that if the Iranians were trying to carry out an operation of any sizeable proportion, it would be a sure bet they would try to enlist the aid of the local population. By that I mean the Shia Muslim communities, primarily the Lebanese conclaves in the Triangle region who spill across Brazil, Argentina, and Paraguay. It would give them the best flexibility to operate.

  Since the death of Imad Mughnivah, the Hezbollah and by extension Iran, have lost their contact here. Which means, they would need someone from this region, someone who is a native of these Lebanese communities, to bridge that gap. So, we started focusing on young men who had left home to go fight in the Syrian conflict against the Sunnis.

  We were looking to see who was coming home under mysterious circumstances. After we ruled out severe injuries, we focused on those who just came home. Many returned to their families and seemed to have no further movement outside their normal work routine, so we discarded them. Then we followed those who came home and seemed to be holding off returning to their previous lives. From there we examined these individuals closer, tapping our contacts in the Middle East for information. What we found boiled down to these three names.”

  The Rabbi pulled a folder from his desk and extended his arm to hand the list to the old spy. Cohen took the folder and opened it to see the photographs and hastily typed dossiers on three individuals.

  Kovinski continued, “These three not only served in Syria fighting for the Assad regime, they also served with distinction. Each had been selected by Iranian intelligence at various times to be flown to Tehran where they presumably received advanced Special Forces training. When they returned to Syria, after several months of having simply disappeared, they were assigned to special operations units focusing on clandestine warfare behind enemy lines. If anyone would be approached to carry out this mission, it would have to be one of these three.”

  Flipping through the photographs, Cohen only glanced at the reports figuring he had heard all he needed to know from the Rabbi. He raised his head to face the Rabbi when he finished with the last name on the list, Nouri al’Marak Surriman. “What are they doing now?”

  “Well, the first one has seemingly been inactive. He took up work at a small bakery in Montevideo and hasn’t broken his pattern in several weeks. My people concluded he’s clean as near as they can tell.”

  The Rabbi looked at the katsa waiting for a response. There was none. “The second man has been a little more interesting in that he has been making contact with some known radicals and Hezbollah types, but it seems he’s having trouble adjusting to civilian life and trying to get back to the war in Syria. He is a suspect, but it seems unlikely he is the man you are looking for.”

  The Rabbi paused waiting to further elaborate if needed. Again, the katsa remained silent, his eyes focused on the documents in his hand. “This brings us to the final and most likely suspect, Nouri al’Marak Surriman.”

  Cohen’s gaze focused on the picture of the young Lebanese expat, and Kovinski took it as a sign to continue. “Again, all things considered, he has had a most interesting life. Since returning from Syria, he has been making a series of trips all around the region: Montevideo, Paraguay and, most recently, a trip into the Arab Triangle where we lost him. However, the Lebanese villages in those parts are known for surviving on illicit activity including smuggling and arms trafficking.”

  At that point, Micha Cohen lifted his eyes from the documents and stared directly at the old Rabbi, his attention now undivided. Kovinski continued, “We weren’t able to verify who exactly he saw or on what business. Yet everything seems to point to him being the person laying the groundwork for whatever operation the Iranians have planned.”

  “He is making all the right moves,” Cohen concurred. “What do you have on his contacts in the cities?”

  “Nothing yet,” the Rabbi replied. “Whoever his contact is, he has apparently been given his marching orders already and has been carrying them out. Don’t worry though, he’s on my watch, and my people are keeping close tabs on him. When he comes down the mountain, we’ll be on him and anyone he attempts to meet.”

  Not knowing how to take the Rabbi’s words, the katsa handed a folder to the Rabbi. “I would also appreciate your input on this man, Elloy Mendoza.” Cohen said. “Somehow he plays an essential part in this. From what my sources tell me, he’s Cuban Intelligence.”

  Kovinski frowned. “That means it could get extremely tricky if we should have to deal with him. Neither you nor Israel can have any part in any action against him.”

  “Exactly, but he’s still a player in this operation, and we may need your assistance.”

  Kovinski checked the file. “We will, I promise you.”

  “Thank you.” Micha was humbled by the risk the Rabbi was taking, especially with the tenuous history the two had shared.

  As the two men talked, both were unaware of the young girl quietly hovering against the door, her broom tilted against the door frame beside her. She listened patiently as the conversation inside the office progressed. On a small piece of paper, she scribbled notes. Her last scribble was the name, Elloy Mendoza.

  The conversation came to an end. Deciding she had what she had been sent to get, she quickly stuffed the note paper under her sweater, reclaimed her broom and swept unobtrusively toward an exit. To her relief, she had cleared the main corridor just in time for Rabbi Kovinski and the other man to walk out.

  Kafka Dayan’s head swam. It had been a long day of interviews, and he felt his instincts slipping as he listened to one applicant after another. Luckily, Plūcker had already filtered out the obvious undesirables and idiots, leaving a cast of experienced professionals to choose from. It had been hours and his applicants ranged from former commandos from the Royal British Marines, former French Legionnaires slumming, members of various South American rebel and counter-rebel groups looking to branch out on their own and enjoy
a paying gig and, surprisingly, some former soldiers from regional militaries looking for better than what they had gotten in their previous organizations.

  Fortunately, most of the men met his criteria and pay scale. The few who didn’t seem disinterested in work that was more focused on commando operations than a long-term war. The prospect of better job security that comes with a long-term campaign was more appealing to professional guerrillas and guerrilla fighters. Commando jobs usually lasted for only a few weeks to a few months. These jobs did not appeal to those who lived with the uncertainty of going from conflict by conflict. This preference saved the Israeli a lot of awkward dismissals. Those who stayed had a reasonable balance of urban and rural battlefields experience.

  His new force consisted of nine men, mostly former soldiers from various parts of the world with a few coming from Latin American guerrilla groups. He wrote all their names down in his notebook along with his remarks regarding stated experience and abilities that caught his attention as well as any personal observations. For Kafka, being a soldier with considerable experience with militaries around the world, it was relatively easy to separate fact from fiction when it came to those who tried to puff up their resumes or lie outright about their experience.

  Dispatching the recruits, Dayan directed them to meet back at Plūcker’s office in three days. He figured this would be long enough to brief Cohen, obtain instructions, and not go so long that his newly recruited team would get bored and start looking for work elsewhere. It also would give him time to figure out how he was going to organize them. The men departed with promises to return at the end of the week.

  Plūcker and Dayan were left alone in the backroom. Their privacy was short lived as the young Negress cracked open the side door to alert her employer that one of his rowdier patrons was picking a fight with some people. Promising to be out quickly, the burly Irishman dismissed the girl with a wave before turning to Dayan. “I can work on gettin’ ya equipment and arms but, unless you’re willin’ to settle, it will be a few weeks before I can get quality goods.”