The Montevideo Game

by J E Higgins

  A person can be threatened to give up a password with a gun to their head. Trying to warn a person under such circumstances is difficult, but the code is crucial to protecting the other side.

  The man going by the name Keppa leaned over to embrace the shorter Hezbollah operative. “Nouri, I have heard many good things about your exploits in the Holy Land.”

  “Thank you,” Surriman replied. “I actually miss home and, believe it or not, these fucking mountains.”

  Waving his hand at the man with curly hair, Keppa said excitedly, “Let me introduce you to Avi, my cousin.”

  Avi was reserved but pleasant as he extended a nod to the man he only knew as Nouri. Surriman returned the acknowledgment with a nod of his own.

  By now Akim had emerged from the shadows at the beckoning of his Arab cohort. The burly figure lumbered through the foliage like an animal. He finally came up to the road to join the others with his M-4 held loosely at his side. Pleasantries were kept to a minimum as Surriman made quick introductions. People working in covert operations were safer knowing no more than is necessary.

  Surriman and Akim hurried back to their vehicle. With a click of the ignition, the engine roared to life. Keppa swung a U-turn facing the road in the direction he had come. Soon both vehicles were hurrying down the road at a swift but acceptable speed careful not to attract attention. After driving about five kilometers, the Land Rover pulled onto a partially overgrown trail. Surriman slowly navigated the car through the shrubbery and grass fields. It seemed to take forever, although it had only been a few minutes when Surriman and Akim entered a clearing. The Land Rover stopped directly in front of a long semi-circle of headlights.

  Driving until he came head on to the center vehicle Surriman’s pickup came to a halt. With the engine running and the headlights on, both men stepped out of the car. The collection of headlights from the other vehicles outlined a sizeable group of silhouettes gathered around the other vehicles.

  They were joined by Keppa and Avi. Even in the darkness, Surriman could make out the toothy grin of the taller man.

  “We had a pretty good stroke of luck in our recruitment,” Keppa opened in his excited way. “All are from the Lebanese villages in the areas of Argentina and Paraguay so language shouldn’t be a problem. They are all hard, rugged types who exist in the backcountry and are accustomed to hard living and, when necessary, will break the law.”

  Akim said nothing as he tried to size up the collection of bodies around him, but it was nearly impossible to do this in the darkness.

  “How many were you able to recruit?” Surriman asked rubbing his chin.

  “Nearly five hundred,” Avi replied in almost a whisper. “It is what you asked for but, again, we tried to meet our standards while being discrete. In this lot we have a hundred; next week we will have a hundred more. Not so few you can’t begin working with them, but not so many we can’t manage the transport.”

  “Well, let’s collect them and move them to the base camp,” Akim interjected. “With the darkness, we should be able to move as one single convoy. Surriman will divide forces with your friends here. You lead, and I’ll ride with the others taking the rear position so we don’t lose anyone. We can’t afford to have a bunch of Spanish speaking Arabs wandering up and down the roads here.”

  The three Arabs nodded in agreement. Soon everyone piled into vehicles ─ Surriman and Avi in the lead pickup with Keppa and Major Akim following in the Land Rover. The convoy rolled out through the darkened trails.

  In the ghost-like quiet of the night, the convoy’s passing had been a secret except for one person ─ a young man dressed in the clothes of a local peasant. He was crouched down and peering at everything through a powerful camera with an infrared lens that allowed him to take clear pictures without flashes that could bring unwanted attention. Next to him was a small collection of goats watched over by a small but attentive Australian sheepdog. If noticed or approached, he could quickly explain that he had been tracking down strays from his herd.

  When the convoy had completely disappeared behind a security gate, the trucks came to a halt in one long line just outside a small make-shift campsite. The drivers took their direction from Surriman who had leaped from his car and began directing traffic. When he was finished, a row of ten large military-style hauling trucks stood parked in front of him.

  He was soon joined by Major Akim and Keppa.

  “Assemble your men,” Akim commanded.

  At once Keppa reached under his shirt and produced a small radio. Speaking into the transmitter, he uttered a few short commands. Moments later the back of several of the trucks began to shake. Within seconds more silhouettes emerged from the back and scrambled to the front of the vehicle.

  Like drill sergeants, Keppa and Avi started shouting commands loudly as they began directing the shadows into a formation. Their verbiage was a strange variation between Spanish and Arabic, but the figures were soon arranged into a recognizable organization.

  Akim and Surriman approached the formation. Keppa turned giving them a nod and stepped to the side. Acknowledging he now had the floor, Surriman stood before the shadows and began speaking in the Spanish flavored Arabic adopted in the South American Lebanese communities. His discussion centered on a rough plan for seizing control from anti-religious communists and creating a place in the Western Hemisphere that would be friendly to the Arab cause. In addition to fighting for God and their freedom, they stood to earn a lot of money at the completion of this crusade. For men raised in the world of black markets, the latter raised a special excitement.

  His speech served as a motivator to enliven the men who had traveled several miles through jungle backroads. He stood back and Akim took the stage. In his gruff deep baritone, he began explaining the order of operation. His oration was quick, to the point, and clear to all those listening. When he was finished, he turned back to Surriman who gave orders directing everyone to the locations that would serve as their barracks.

  Micha Cohen leaned back in his seat. He could feel the cool leather of the armchair through the material of his cotton slacks and a buttoned shirt. He watched while the young commando paced endlessly across the Oriental rug. He had spent the last hour reviewing documents and allowing Kafka to give him an update on his recruitment efforts. Now the old katsa listened as the young operative detailed his assessment of the situation.

  “So far we seem to have the makings of what we need. However, I’m still not sure what our target is,” Kafka said as he waved his hands to further emphasize his point. “Do we take out this Surriman character? Do we want to kidnap the Iranian and get him to talk to this Cuban intelligence asshole still in play or is he inconsequential? I mean right now it seems like we are in limbo. If we make a wrong move, we will tip our hand and the enemy will be onto us. If we don’t move and try to figure out their operation, everything we are working toward could go for nothing, and they will accomplish what they’re after…whatever the fuck that is.”

  Cohen folded his hands together and rubbed his chin with his thumbs. “I don’t believe our situation is dire. Whatever they are planning, it is elaborate and going to take some time to accomplish. From what we have on their timeline, it is unlikely it will come to fruition anytime in the next month or so.”

  Kafka stopped pacing and was looking intensely at the old man. Cohen continued. “Right now, they are still building their plan like we are. So focus on that. We already know the locations they are likely preparing. As for intelligence, you’re right. If we move too fast, we risk being discovered and exposed. So, we will gather intelligence slowly through the sources we have cultivated. When the time is right, we will consider riskier options. In the meantime, we shouldn’t be impatient.”

  Kafka knew the old spy was correct. Realizing the point had been made, the katsa resumed reviewing the list sitting in his lap. “This is the estimated equipment you require?”

  “Based on what I can make of the current situation, yes. Howev
er, if the situation changes, how hard or long would it take to obtain additional equipment?”

  Cohen considered the list. “Until I fill this order and test the available contacts, I cannot say for sure. However, from what I see on this list, I assume you foresee eventually attacking these base camps?”

  “Right now, that is where I see the focus of the mission,” Kafka replied. “However, we are still planning around several unknown variables. The best thing to do right now is to get a close-up of what they are doing.”

  “Well, just make sure you understand this operation may change considerably as information comes in. Don’t get too focused on bush wars for this.” The katsa waved his finger in a warning gesture.

  The young commando shook his head. “I have no intention of doing anything like that. But I do believe we need to consider a reconnaissance.” Placing his finger on the map he directed his superior to a thin blue squiggly line. “Everything else is too risky. The fences are well covered by surveillance cameras, and I can tell you that these boys are professionals and smart enough to be running regular patrols. We would almost certainly engage with them and in doing so ruin any element of surprise.” Kafka looked up to see that Cohen was following him intently. Kafka continued, “However, the river that runs alongside their camp is largely outside their camp area; therefore, they are more limited in the security they can place on it. I can have my team move up from there and infiltrate more easily.”

  The katsa wanted to tell his subordinate that he was thinking as if he was in the West Bank or Lebanon, but his own evaluation determined that Kafka was right. It was their only option at this stage.

  Chapter 21

  Oskar Straudner basked in the moment. Resting on the sumptuous couch at the elite Excalibur Club, he watched news reports of the recent wave of terrorist attacks across Montevideo, the capital city of Uruguay. The anchorman, a polished looking young man, explained the horrors of the situation with a controlled reverence.

  Nursing a glass of Kentucky bourbon, a delighted Straudner listened as a police commander spoke of a new age of radicalism sweeping across the country. Communist menace was the term repeatedly used by the police commander and parroted by every supposed expert commentator who could get in front of a camera. All excitedly recounted the radicalism while trying to downplay concerns about a return to the old days of the Tupamaros’ right-wing vigilantism.

  Straudner eyed the men he had gathered for evening drinks. They bore expressions of deep concern. It was exactly the response he had hoped for. He had strategically gathered representatives from the various agencies and organizations that comprised the Uruguay security and intelligence community. The older, seasoned veterans weren’t quite agency directors or department heads, but they were high ranking members who knew how the system worked and had considerable influence.

  It was Straudner’s plan to have them gathered at this moment in an informal setting. It was a setting in which he was able to make casual overtures to test his assessments and the mood of the very people he would need for his power bid. As he predicted, they all grimaced nervously as they listened to the continued reports, following up with comments reminding each other about the violence of the old days and those dreaded horrors.

  When he felt the mood was right, Straudner casually interjected, “If this proves to be a long-term trend, will it lead to a possible right-wing backlash?”

  His question had been appropriately timed, and the looks on the faces of his guests grew even graver. One colonel with Ejencino National, the Uruguay army, gently bit his thumb as he pondered the politician’s question. “I don’t know. I-I don’t think it’s as serious as the old days when Soviet and Cuban support greatly heightened the dangers.” The colonel was trying to convince himself that this was not a return to the beginnings of another bloody surge of political radicalism ─ a return to the Tupamaros, the urban violence, and to equally violent military responses from overzealous commanders.

  Glancing around the room it was clear to Straudner that all his guests were harboring similar attempts of diluted rationalization.

  “But what if it is?” The politician again calmly interjected the question as he sipped his drink.

  His comment was well placed. The collection of guests were again taken aback, their latent fears gradually resurging.

  “We can’t be sure this is not some random chain of events,” a long-serving deputy in the Ministry of Interior interrupted. “We are definitely being hasty.”

  As if playing a game of chess, Straudner, ever the master politician, made his move. “One of the country’s most noted hotels was just blown up killing several and wounding several more of our most important citizenry.” The politician was now looking around the room with a cold, discerning eye toward everyone in his little circle. “They just assassinated a long-term political figure right outside his office in an obviously planned attack.”

  His gaze focused on one of the men in deep thought. “I can only wonder what is in store since we are obviously dealing with what is a well-organized and equipped movement. Or maybe, just maybe, it is a series of actions by individuals who all in a single moment in time decided to carry out well planned and resourced attacks.”

  When Straudner was sure he had tempered the mood well enough, he made the key move that would either solidify a base of support for his future plans or end his campaign right there. “I’m curious. Has the president called any emergency meetings over this?”

  The men unanimously shook their heads. A look of both revelation and concern was written across their faces. The politician continued, “Umm, I certainly hope he’s not having romantic reminiscences of his youth as a revolutionary ─ and that it isn’t clouding his judgment.” The comment was voiced as sarcasm, but it had its intended impact.

  Venzuelo Zamora could hardly contain the exuberance elicited by the pools of recruits. The combination of being on the verge of graduation from the rough training camp and the news of the strikes made by the revolution had instilled the camp with a powerful surge of jubilation.

  The recruits were further energized by the arrival of their equipment. Over the course of their training, they had been furnished with an assortment of cold war era weapons: antiquated well used Kalashnikov 47 and FN FAL assault rifles for the field portion, Makarov automatic pistols and Uzi compact sub-machine guns for the urban fighting, plus German PZF-44 grenade launchers and Soviet RGD-5 grenades. The grenades had come from a stash of Chinese armaments.

  To her delight, Don Meduriso had filled most of the Contessa’s requests. However, to her dismay, the grenades were cold war Chinese stock instead of American which caused a few complications. For instance, simply pulling the string that fell from the bottom of the throwing stick after being unscrewed would be easier to master than the more complex models. However, Zamora, ever the natural soldier, quickly rejected them because of their short and often unreliable fuses. That they could explode anywhere between a second to five seconds after string activation made them more dangerous than beneficial.

  The arrival of crates by trucks hauling machine parts bound for a factory in a nearby city created quite a stir. A quick detour to drop off the additional cargo filled everyone with excitement and a sense of true accomplishment. Breaking open the crates generated a loud cheer.

  The Contessa had proven her logistical brilliance. The trick was negotiating the line between equipment needed to be effective in their operations and not providing equipment so sophisticated that outside patronage from another nation-state became obvious. The equipment was better than the antiquated material the students had been using but were still old and dated enough that any intelligence agency would assume some black-market dealer or guerrilla band in need of money was peddling the arms from some crooked military or paramilitary outfit in South America.

  Don Diego Francisco del’ Meduriso had proven most discriminating in the collection of weapons he had made available for this operation. He had delivered the North
Korean military grade AK-47 68 models she had asked for initially. The Don had also obtained short stock Rumanian WASR model AKMs as opposed to the Russian and Ukrainian models originally sought. Though not as well designed as the AK-47, the Rumanian models were highly regarded on the world market. They were also more easily explained in the hands of South American terrorists. Rumanian laxity for arms exports and controls and the long-established black market in the Baltics was convenient for countries to disavow any direct involvement. This left the door open for suspicions and conjectures that would never amount to any real verifiable facts.

  The arsenal also included a small consignment of Semtex plastic explosives and some reasonably modern era Russian made detonator charges. The rest of the shipment was comprised of palenite nitroglycerine ─ a much more easily obtainable explosive that would raise fewer questions and be less easily traced. Czech made Scorpion CZ .32 caliber and Israeli made Uzis, still somewhat popular among drug cartel shooters, were included. The old model CZ had proven an effective killing device on numerous occasions throughout its history, so the Contessa and her employers figured they didn’t need to mess with the proven classics.

  Almost like children opening presents on Christmas, the newly trained recruits looked on excitedly as the boxes produced the brand new equipment. If at any time they had thought they were playing a game, it all vanished at that moment. The training was nearly over, and they were about to become revolutionaries. They would surely be remembered in the mold of the gallant, passionate fighters they had only read about in the history books. For good measure, Zamora had taken the step of lining the walls of the students’ barracks with pictures of such memorable icons as Che Guevara, Manuel Marlunda, and Mono Jojoy along with others famous for peasant revolts in the area. The result had the psychological effect of conditioning the mindset. They were about to fight a passionate revolution they had only heard or read about.