by J E Higgins
The Israeli frowned. “Until I speak to Mr. Cohen and get instructions, a timeline is out of the question. In the meantime, I can already see from the information I have what the mission is going to look like, so I can draw up a list tonight of what I’ll need. Look to obtain high grade but keep an eye out for more immediate supplies in case we have to move faster than anticipated. In any case, we need to be as discreet as possible, so try to balance quality with equipment commonly used in this region. We have to bear in mind that whatever we use has to be hard to trace if any are captured. If the equipment is too sophisticated, it will be easy for our enemy to track it back to our supplier and then back to us.”
“Right.” Plūcker went to handle the trouble outside as Dayan quietly deliberated in private. He had a lot to prepare and had only passed the first hurdle.
Chapter 19
Martin Derry slid his finger across the skin of his other hand. It was a calming technique he had learned years ago ─ something to do against the tension when out on a mission. Observing the majestic lights of the Hotel Castrana Casino from afar, the Irish mercenary leaned back against his seat. He conducted a series of actions from licking his lips to cracking his jaw to feeling his teeth clacking together. These actions were all very annoying to the Colombian sitting in the driver’s seat trying hard to ignore his passenger.
Parked off the road, the two men waited. Derry had wanted to ensure mass attendance before the next phase of the operation. The Colombian, a professional of the mercenary craft himself, could appreciate the Irishman’s concept, however, the litany of nervous habits was difficult to ignore. Keeping his eyes fixed on the lavish hotel, he could only think to himself, if his cohort began whistling Oh Danny Boy, this operation would be over.
Derry scanned the parking lot of the hotel through a pair of binoculars, then followed up surveilling the entrance. The long line of well-dressed businessmen accompanied by their female companions and flanked by assistants and, in some cases, bodyguards walked in a parade-like fashion toward the main doors.
“It’s time,” Derry said to his driver who responded with a nod and turned the ignition. The car, a sleek black BMW, glided forward pulling onto the main street. The vehicle rode somewhat low in the back leaving the Colombian to wonder if it was perhaps attracting too much attention. The Irishman seemed wholly unconcerned and stoic.
Luckily, the roads this hour were only mildly busy ─ not enough to make driving difficult but enough to not become a spectacle. Turning into the long driveway leading to the hotel, the Colombian skillfully maneuvered the car around the large lagoon-like fountain in front. He kept the car slow but fast enough to avoid suspicion. Rounding the fountain, the car edged off into the turn leading to the parking lot. The lot was packed with expensive cars ─ everything from high fashion Lamborghinis and Porches to classic American vehicles like vintage Camaros, Mustangs, and GTOs.
Even though he considered himself a committed soldier of the people and the working class, the Colombian couldn’t help but feel a sense of remorse at the crime he was about to commit against these beautiful vehicles ─ their wealthy owners were a different matter entirely.
“How much time do we have?” the driver asked as he cruised through the parking lot pretending to look for a parking space.
“Our ride will be here in ten minutes,” Derry said checking his cheap imitation watch.
At the edge of the parking lot closest to the building, the Colombian turned and proceeded to back the BMW toward the hotel. As expected there were no attendants managing the parking operation, and the only security was focused on the casino. Derry smiled at how easy it had been. Exiting the car, the two men casually looked around to ensure there were no potential witnesses or alarm sounders nearby. Confident they went unnoticed, the Irishman gave his accomplice a nod.
Once in the driver’s seat, the Colombian took hold of a small transistor and, after punching in a few numbers, pressed a button for activation. Tucking it under the driver’s seat he closed the door after manually locking it. He dared not press the electrical lock.
It wasn’t long before a small, white van pulled up next to them and came to a halt. Recognizing the two men in front, Derry and the Colombian walked over to the slider door and quickly hopped in. The door was barely shut when the van took off. Both men nearly fell over from the jerk of the vehicle. The van driver was not as cautious about attracting attention as Derry and the Colombian had been. Circling the fountain, the van nearly hit a couple of hotel ushers standing on the road. At the end of the circular drive, the van screamed out onto the main road almost crashing into a delivery truck in the process.
On the main street, Derry pulled a phone from his jacket. It was a cheap throw away that flipped open, however, it served his purpose well enough. Punching in a few numbers, the Irishman took a breath before he pressed the send button. He looked across at his accomplice ─ the Colombian’s eyes were indifferent.
A second the sound of the explosion was thunderous. Even from their distance, the rumble from the ground was powerful. “Oh shit!” one of the men sitting up front exclaimed. “There’s a big fucking smoke cloud in the air from that bomb of yours.”
“It’s a start,” the Irishman shrugged as he righted himself and settled into his seat. “I don’t normally like using ™-500, but it’s what my old friends in the CIRA were willing to sell. It’s really a hell of an effective plastic explosive.”
“Rich fagots,” the Colombian murmured with a morbid joy.
Ramon Caldoza never had a moment’s rest in his job. As head of the research staff for the Partido National in the Chamber of Deputies, his phone was always ringing, or he was rushing from one dire meeting to another handling financial issues. The sight of his car in the parking lot was an image he equated to the light guiding him to heaven. It was a symbol that his day was finally over. There were no last-minute meetings, no emergency projects, and no political intrigue he had to circumnavigate. His day was done.
With his briefcase in hand, his tie loosened, and the top button of his shirt undone, he only wondered what meal his cook had prepared for his evening dinner, or what new home design project his wife now wished him to undertake. He had had a day full of the same erratic debacles he would again have to traverse tomorrow. But for now, he was free.
He had just managed to get the door of his car open when a voice caught his attention, “Sẽnor Caldoza.”
Spinning around, the bureaucrat found himself staring at a small masked figure dressed in dark clothes. It took Caldoza only moments to realize he was in danger. But it was too late. A loud crack echoed in the evening silence. The bureaucrat felt a sharp pain in his stomach. He lowered his chin and saw blood splattering his white shirt. Stepping back, he gasped as his mind raced to understand what was going on. A loud collection of clicking sounds caused him to refocus on his assailant who was now joined by two other masked and blackened figures. They were all armed with small machine guns.
Not an expert in the field of weapons, he was unaware the guns were Vz Scorpions, a Yugoslavian made compact sub-machine gun, and a choice weapon of European terrorist groups for several decades. Now lined up in a de facto-like firing squad, the terrorists aimed their weapons toward the bureaucrat.
“Wh-Why are you doing this?” Caldoza cried with a full measure of confusion and terror.
“Because you are an enemy of the people,” one of the masked figures replied, almost nonchalantly, a point that further terrified Caldoza, who realized his life was about to end.
The 32 caliber gunshots sounded like so many small firecrackers going off in rapid succession. Caldoza’s body nearly exploded with all the metal penetrating his flesh at once. It was only a few seconds, but the execution seemed like hours to both the victim and the killers.
With the weapons emptied and the night now silent, the old bureaucrat choked up a pool of blood and gasped a few more breaths before his lifeless corpse slid to the ground.
The Legislat
ive Palace was the house of the Uruguay Chamber of Deputies and the center of the country’s national politics. It was a rather unassuming compound of brick in a somewhat grayish brown color. It lay atop a slight hill giving a hint of authority to all who passed by. Yet, like so many countries with little significance in the world, this structure was lightly guarded with only a few watchmen present to dissuade trespassers.
A small van slowed just a little way down the road from the palace. Pulling off to the side of the road, the van came to a stop as the driver turned off the lights but allowing the engine to run. To those passing by, it looked like a parked vehicle. Only a slight amount of exhaust and the dull rhythm of the engine indicated otherwise.
Leaning back against his seat to avoid a silhouette, the driver casually observed the legislative structure. His eyes were fixed and stoic. He was a professional who had developed a strong ability to maintain complete indifference while in the field. In the back seat, two other members of his team were quietly preparing themselves. A man and a woman both dressed in black tactical military attire were opening a set of cases. Within seconds they were holding Rocket Propelled Grenade Launcher 7D caliber ─ a common weapon used by insurgents against US forces in Iraq. The driver, seeing the weapon, thought to himself, “If it’s good enough to kill Yankee soldiers it’s good enough for this.”
His attention was diverted from the weapon by the approach of two figures walking down the sidewalk toward the car. To anyone else, they were a normal couple coming home from the local bar. The driver knew them as anything but. Nearing the vehicle on the passenger side, the man and woman came up to a door. The window was already rolled down. The driver was waiting for them.
The meeting was quick. The driver asked for their report. The couple responded with the results of their reconnaissance of the facility and the immediate surroundings. They finished with an equally fast report on the status of the most likely escape routes. The couple then strolled down the road, as if they’d just been asked for the time, a light for a cigarette, or directions.
“Get ready,” the driver said to his cohorts with a quiet but firm voice. Hearing the sound of the rocket being screwed into the launcher tube, the female confirmed they were ready. The driver thrust the vehicle into drive and turned on his lights. As he pulled the van onto the road, he heard the woman curse as she unlatched the back doors. Now, held shut by only her hands, they were ready. The roads were largely empty except for a few late night drivers ─ perfect for an easy escape.
Arriving at the target area, the driver began to slow the van. “Be ready,” he ordered. A few feet farther he gave the command to attack. The male subordinate, armed with the RPG, bolted out the back doors past his female partner. The driver didn’t stop, he only took his foot off the gas and allowed the van to idle forward to clear the distance between him and his operative. The backblast from the weapon would be intense and far-reaching. The vehicle needed to be a good distance away to avoid getting scorched. Jogging a few paces, the operative stopped and took a stance positioning himself and his weapon. With stone cold calm, the man took aim at the parliamentary structure, drew a quick breath and pulled the trigger. The rocket fired from its launching tube with tremendous force. The backblast was powerful and intense.
The shooter was another experienced professional ─ he didn’t stop or freeze to watch the results. He dashed for the van with all the speed of an Olympic sprinter. He quickly handed the firing tube to his female accomplice and jumped into the back of the moving vehicle. The doors were barely shut behind him before the driver pressed the gas and the vehicle sped down the road. From his side view mirror, the driver took note of the thunderous fireball and gigantic cloud of smoke. The mission was a success.
Chapter 20
Nouri al’Marak Surriman stood quietly by the small black pickup parked off the side of the road outside a small Brazilian village a few miles from the Uruguay border. At a glance from any passerby, he was just a guy enjoying the pleasant night with the aid of a cold beer. This would only work in Surriman’s interest this evening. He couldn’t afford to have any nosey countryside police pulling over to ask questions ─ it would be hard to respond convincingly.
Major Rashid al’ Akim remained in the bushes. An obvious foreigner with limited Spanish, the objective was to keep his exposure in the operation limited. He preferred to let the young Hezbollah operative engage with any potential troublemakers, but they agreed he should be armed. In the event Surriman was approached by someone who was intent on being difficult, the Major could take more direct action. For that possibility, he cradled an American military-grade M-4 short stocked carbine rifle fixed with a silencer. This was a replica from Surriman’s family village that would help create confusion if killing became necessary.
Strangely, in the few hours the two men had been working with each other, they had managed to develop a bizarre symmetry of respect and disdain. The seasoned soldier of the Revolutionary Guard had observed the young Lebanese operative and determined he was skilled in the art of espionage and the shadow world of covert operations. However, he also saw a contemptable disciple of the religion ─ comfortable living in big cities, a cosmopolitan life filled with sinful decadence. It was somewhat irritating to hear the young Muslim so easily discuss the selections of wine and the all too frequent sexual liaisons with women.
By contrast, Surriman saw the elder Iranian operative as a wise, resourceful operator who could size up a situation and adapt accordingly. He was also, by the Hezbollah operator’s assessment, rough and largely unsophisticated. The Iranian was a field soldier who was definitely more at home in a war zone base camp than a metropolitan community and would have a heart attack if he missed evening prayers.
Neither man spoke as they waited patiently in the dark. Surriman leaned up against the hood of the pickup as he took a deep breath of the jungle atmosphere. Behind him, he could hear the bear-like Iranian as he nestled down into the grass resting his large frame against the truck. It had been nearly two hours since they had parked. The timeframe had been left wide to compensate for any complications.
In the distance, the Hezbollah soldier caught sight of what could only be headlights. Major Akim must have recognized something, too. Surriman could feel the shifting of the big man’s body against the truck as he struggled to stand up. Not wishing to be hasty both men maintained their positions; Surriman coolly leaned against the hood of his truck pretending to nurse a beer; Akim hunkered in the shadows with his weapon aimed and ready for action.
They had only practiced this routine twice this evening with previous vehicles. First, a local priest asking if the young Arab was having any trouble. Next, a couple of attractive Brazilian girls tried to pick up the handsome, athletic figure nursing his beer. Both were easily dismissed with a few polite words.
The headlights became brighter as a vehicle approached. Surriman continued to roll the head of the small glass bottle between his fingers. Though it didn’t look like it, he had stabilized himself in preparation. As rehearsed, if they ran into any hostiles, Surriman would simply fall to the ground where he would retrieve an automatic pistol taped under the vehicle clearing a path to allow the Major to initiate an engagement.
A few meters away the shadowy vehicle began to slow. The Arab held steady as he waited. The car slowed further. It was almost idling when it came up to the pickup. The driver of a weathered gray Land Rover gradually maneuvered his vehicle until the side was less than a meter from the man nursing his beer. The window was already rolled down as the Land Rover came to a halt. From the shadows a voice spoke up, “Pardon Sẽnor, do you have any cigarettes?”
The question caught Surriman’s attention as well as the attention of the Iranian in the shadows. Gripping his weapon firmly, Surriman replied, “I have Marlboros, will that suffice?”
The shadow on the driver’s side was silent for a few seconds. Surriman prepared to fall onto his back. Then, “I’m sorry, but I like Turkish brands and would only
smoke Camels if you only have American types.”
Surriman’s eyes lit up and he coolly responded, “Then I’m afraid I cannot help you. We are at an impasse.”
There were another few seconds of silence. Then the driver’s door opened followed by the passenger door. Surriman was soon confronting a tall, slender figure with a long, bushy beard. The passenger came around and the Arab was looking at a slightly younger man with a crop of curly hair and a few days’ facial growth that was barely noticeable in the darkness.
“Keppa?” Surriman asked addressing his question to the taller man.
“I am,” the taller man replied. “And you are Nouri?”
Surriman nodded and answered, “Correct.”
The conversation that took place between the two men over cigarettes was obviously a pre-designated code. However, the significant pieces of the conversation were particular word choices. Passwords could be obtained by hostiles who kidnap or try to impersonate an operative. They threaten one operative to give up his end of the password or, alternatively, accompany the operative to the meeting threatening to kill him if he does not comply.
The initial request for cigarettes opened the exchange of signals. The reply that he only had Marlboros was the instigation. Surriman’s specific use of the word suffice was the alert for the other side that a code had been initiated. If Surriman had ended his sentence with any other word than suffice, the driver would have realized his contact had been compromised or was the wrong man.
The driver responding to the initial statement about liking Turkish brands stated he recognized the code initiation. Had he opened his response with a sentence about camels, Surriman would know the driver was an imposter. He was listening for word placement about Camel cigarettes. Had the driver not specified American types rather than brands, the passenger would be identified as hostile.