The Montevideo Game

by J E Higgins

  The situation was not lost on Straudner who patiently enjoyed his cigar in between sipping his Glenlivet. He watched in silence as the complexion on the union official’s face became whiter with each passing moment. His face was twisting with a rising degree of anxiety.

  “I always considered myself quite the political animal,” Straudner finally interjected into the uncomfortable silence. But at least I felt I had limits as to how loathsome I would be willing to go to achieve my goals. However….” The politician leaned forward, his gaze cold and serious. “I, at least, never pretended to be what I wasn’t.”

  By now the sweat covering Uraba’s face caused it to gleam. “You have to understand…. The way things were back then…. I had no choice….”

  “Save it!” the politician snapped. The union official went silent. The powerbroker of Uruguay’s union coalition was now just an image of a frightened child. Straudner continued, “All this time I watched as the common people and many of your colleagues looked to you as an icon of the labor movement sainthood. How many times have you shown off the scars on your chest that you got in street brawls with strikebreakers and police?” Straudner paused to wait for an answer. There was none ─ the union official was a statue at this point. Straudner continued, “In the end, it all goes away when everyone learns that your true rise to power came in the eighties when you were an informant for General Gregorio Alvarez Armelino’s secret police. Imagine what will happen when so many who lost loved ones to that regime find out it was your information that led to those who came to a horrible end.”

  Uraba was by now as white as a sheet with his lips quivering. Straudner continued, “I know, because of my own connections from those days, that you fabricated much of your information in order to get the secret police to eliminate rivals within your movement as well as senior officials. All this was to pave your way into seats of power. Hell, you can read further and see the notations where police didn’t believe half of what you were reporting and figured you were exploiting the situation for your own gain. But your interests were aligned with the state ─ so a win-win at least for you and the police, right?”

  The color was returning to Uraba’s face, and he began to straighten in his seat. The quiver in his lips was replaced gradually with a smirk. “But, you are not going to expose me. You want something that I can give you, or you would not have bothered with this elaborately secretive meeting.”

  Straudner cocked his eye and gave a slight nod of his head to signify a compliment for the Union official’s perceptive instincts. A few weeks before, Straudner had met with his Iranian contacts. During the meeting, he had taken great measures to impress upon them that South America was not Asia Minor where the military controlled a significant amount of their society and most of the private economy.

  To ensure a successful overthrow, several institutions outside of the security forces would have to be enlisted. The power and influence of the PIT-CNT demanded that the operation have a foothold in the hierarchy. Luckily, Straudner knew, from his access to archived information from police files, exactly who to recruit for this.

  Chapter 25

  Alyssa Rios, the CEO of Guardian Angel Intelligence, was less than enthused to see ‘Mr. Herron’ in her office. It was true he, or his ‘clients’, had paid for her services and paid well. But what she had thus far found for them was unnerving. An experienced professional in the covert world, she knew better than to raise questions. Yet, she also knew a covert operation when she saw one. Mr. Herron was hardly a political operative or journalist looking to break some rival or pick up a scoop story. Nor was he some random intelligence officer working out of an embassy and using her agency to build his local intelligence base.

  She saw an athletic frame seen on so many Special Forces soldier types. He was very direct and explicit in the information he required and suggested methods of collection she had only heard from people who were preparing for a combat mission. It was all too clear that whatever Mr. Herron needed her to do, it was would involve the potential for great risk to her and her business.

  Still, whatever risk there was, she had most likely incurred it already. Now, all she wanted was to finish her business with the Middle-Easterner and wash her hands of whatever she had gotten into.

  “Ma’am,” Mr. Herron began, “I want to thank you for your services. They have been instrumental…” Rios cut him off in mid-sentence.

  “Mr. Herron,” she spoke with a quiet yet commanding voice. “I don’t wish to know any more than I have to about your business. I feel more comfortable just knowing what information you need and nothing more. I have already, I feel, placed myself and my people at greater risk than I would have preferred.”

  Kafka Dayan, Mr. Herron, nodded in agreement. “What else do you have so far?”

  Producing a polished leather binder, she placed it on the small, glass table that separated them and pushed it toward the Middle-Easterner.

  Picking it up, Dayan opened the binder. He found in its contents a well-organized collection of photographs identifying people coming and leaving the target facility. The rest of the contents included detailed reports from her operatives observing the times and interactions of these individuals. What most captured Dayan’s attention was a report noting virtually no communication interception coming into or going out of the area.

  Staring at the woman, he had a stunned look on his face. “You tried to intercept communications?”

  “Yes,” Rios replied with a stoic expression.

  “And no radio, phone, or computer communication, at all?”

  Rios sighed. “We assumed they would have sophisticated means to mask their communications. But even then my people would still have been able to capture individual phones or, at least, tell if they were communicating with someone outside. We have heard nothing ─ as in no technological means of communication is being used.”

  “So, do we have any idea if they are communicating directly with anyone outside?” Dayan asked hoping for a positive answer.

  Rios shook her head. “The best assumption my people have is that any communication is being made away from this installation. And if it is being done the way I think it is, that works in your favor.”

  The Israeli perked up.

  Rios continued. “We see general vehicle traffic going into and out of the installation at odd times throughout the day. My guess is they keep their schedules vague and unpredictable to complicate any planned ambush. I’m also certain many of these runs are decoys specifically to throw off any potential threats. Your targets are not stupid.”

  The Israeli nodded, a distraught look on his face.

  Rios continued, “Assuming that, we then tried to identify someone going in and out on a daily basis. None of this seems part of the logistics operation.”

  “And?” Dayan finally spoke.

  “So far, we have been unable to complete this. They also vary the types of vehicles they use as well as dressing in plain civilian clothes that obscure any means to identify authority and position. So, trying to assess who would be someone in authority is most difficult. Again, I stress your targets of interest are not fools.”

  “I agree they are not fools, but they have to communicate somewhere,” the Israeli ruminated. “And that somewhere is not located in the security of their compound.”

  “Stop right there!” Rios cut him off. “Whatever you’re thinking, I don’t want any part of it. I have been inclined to help you so long as you only wanted information. If we’re discussing possibly involving someone’s abduction or death then you and I are done right now.”

  Realizing his mistake, Dayan lifted his arms in a slightly defensive posture. “Ms. Rios, I promise you that is not my intention. I have understood the rules of our arrangement the entire time and continued to abide by them. You are not being made into an accomplice to any crime. However, I need to know what these people are doing and within the scope of our agreement, I am thinking of a way to identify them and, hopefully,
determine their plans and to whom they are reporting.”

  Rios sat back in her chair. She looked the Middle-Easterner up and down while quietly pondering her next move. After what seemed like an eternity, she responded. “Alright, I’ll keep my people on it. But Mr. Herron, if I get this information for you, and it results in some operation where one of these people gets assassinated or kidnapped then assume our business is at an end.”

  Dayan nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Rios.”

  Solomon Gold wasn’t sure which issue was of more concern. His group, the Guardians of Israel, had messed up so badly and proved their complete incompetence by bungling the first chance they had to prove themselves. Not to mention that Rabbi Kovinski was in a tirade, yelling at him about the jeopardy he may have caused an Israeli intelligence mission thanks to their failed stunt.

  The police were currently combing the streets with a fury following up on the trail of clues the group had left behind. He looked at all the members who suffered injuries and were now being treated by some of the ladies who had medical training. He felt a true sense of humiliation.

  Despite the first two situations, Gold realized the latter stung the most. He had always considered himself a soldier for Israel, and now he had proven a liability to their mission. Leaning back in the metal folding chair, the words being screamed at him by the irate Rabbi had become a blur over the inner voice calling himself a failure.

  “Are you listening, Solomon?” The Rabbi’s growl shook him out of his self-absorption.

  “Ah, yes…yes of course I am,” the young man grasped for words as he saw the reddened face of his mentor staring angrily back at him. “I...I mean we only wanted to help the cause. If Israel couldn’t...”

  “Israel,” the Rabbi growled “has been fighting this war longer than you have years on this Earth. I think they know what they’re doing when they operate in the shadows, which is something I cannot say about you.”

  “Rabbi, please. We wanted to help,” Solomon pleaded.

  “You don’t help the Jewish cause like this,” Kovinski stated more calmly. “You aren’t helping by going off like a bunch of vigilantes. You have the police looking for you, and now some of your friends are badly injured. The Cuban is going to figure out how you know about him. If anything was left behind that gave you away that will place our friends in more danger because they will have lost the element of surprise.”

  Solomon groaned and leaned back in his chair. Kovinski realized he had said enough. These boys had done their damage and were completely demoralized. Now it was time to try and clean up the tracks that might lead the police back to them. It was also paramount that he contact his old spy friend and inform him of this problem. He stood up to leave.

  As he walked out, Solomon’s eyes followed him. All that was going through his mind was, you have to make this right. The Rabbi disappeared down the hall to his office. Once he was out of the room, Solomon Gold quickly caught the eye of Myra, his earlier informant. Catching her attention, he waved her over. Carefully, the small girl approached him. In a nervous, quiet manner, she asked, “Yes, Solomon. What is it?”

  “I need you to see what the old Rabbi is up to,” Gold replied softly.

  Myra looked around nervously. “I hate it when you bring me into these things. I’ll get into trouble.”

  The blond, Jewish boy gently patted her hip. “Please, Myra. Friends of both of ours were killed today because of me. Now I need to do something so they will not have died for nothing.”

  Myra stood silently for several moments looking her friend in the eye. It was clear he was riddled with guilt. Reluctantly, she lowered her eyes and nodded. Then turning away, she made for the hallway leading to the Rabbi’s office leaving Solomon Gold with the possibility of another chance.

  The state of the meeting was one of near riot. Manuel Culvera, the Uruguay Minister of Interior, rubbed his head with his forefinger as he tried to conceal his exasperation. Senior ranking officers of both the military and the police were called to discuss the recent waves of terrorist violence that had seemingly risen from out of nowhere and now threatened the entire country.

  He had tried to bring the meeting to order several times in the hour since it had begun but without success. Representatives of various agencies of Uruguay’s security apparatus were in a state of near hysteria. The public wanted results and, so far, no one had been arrested. The major problem with the raids was they did not even know who their target was. The government was at a low point looking completely impotent in the face of this threat.

  Culvera was at an impasse. Each time the issue was raised to impose some form of martial law, President Mojica had made it very clear the government would do no such thing. That said, the sixty-five-year-old former lawyer found himself trying to navigate between the unwavering wishes of the president and the fervent demands of his security heads.

  “If the government doesn’t act now, how long will it be before the forces of the political right respond with their own retaliation? It will be against whoever they blame for this.” “We don’t know who is to blame, and the retaliation will be against those living in the poorer area ─ the peasants and the unionists,” cried one officer with the national police.

  “Worse it will gain momentum amongst the working class, and then it will be a full-blown revolution,” growled one of the senior army officers who wore the tabs of the Special Forces unit. “Does the president wish to see that happen?”

  “Gentlemen, please,” Culvera implored. “Of course, the president does not wish for further violence. However, we must be calm. We cannot take our country back to the dark days of dictators and secret…”

  The room was in an uproar. Again, he found himself rubbing his forehead in exasperation. The military believed they needed to intercede, and the police believed they needed to be allowed to conduct blanket roundups of known left-wing radicals. This last request was easily quelled by the minister’s question: Do we have any evidence these leftists even know who’s doing it, let alone if they are doing it themselves?

  The meeting ended much as it had been conducted ─ loudly and without much resolved ─ since the president was not about to suspend liberties or declare martial law. The officers exited the meeting clearly disgruntled with the results. One commander, Ernesto Guevero, a long-time commander in the army, drifted slowly along the corridor. His mind was awash with concern that the situation was deteriorating. This is the danger of too much democracy; he thought to himself. Going through the military ranks, many of his most memorable mentors, like his father, had been supporters of the old regime. A regime of strong leadership serving the country that gave no quarter to the radical and chaotic ideologies of the ignorant masses. Raised on Benito Mussolini’s concept that the masses seldom educated themselves properly on issues of significance and were prone to follow the loudest most erratic leaders as opposed to the most logical, Guevero saw vindication of his beliefs in the chaos sweeping the country.

  Outside the building, the commander reached for his phone. He didn’t bother to dial as the number needed was already in his caller history. With a press of his finger, it began to ring. A voice on the other end answered. “I assume by this call, the meeting did not go as you had hoped?”

  Guevero hesitated for a few seconds before replying coldly. “No, it did not. I fear you may be right after all, Sẽnor Straudner.”

  Chapter 26

  For Darren Ripley, the idea of infiltrating into this secret compound didn’t bother him as much as the idea of doing so via a river of pitch black water. In a way, it reminded him of the treacherous waters he endured at Loch Long in Greenock, Scotland during his selection course for the Special Boat Service. The blackened waters of the eerie looking canal brought up bad memories of the ordeals he faced during that period.

  Dayan, Oskar Perez, and Klaas Vanderhook could only sympathize. Despite the real-life action these seasoned operators had seen in their lives, it was always the selection course that seemed
to produce the most profound memories. Three miles from where the mysterious compound was located, the team had pulled a Land Rover near the bank of the canal. Dressed initially in jeans and T-shirts, they could have easily been just a group of guys out enjoying the summer. For good measure, they even took care to bring lawn chairs and a couple of ice chests ─ one full of brews ─ to give that appearance.

  The Land Rover came to a stop and immediately everyone jumped out. Two more Land Rovers followed closely carrying the rest of their force. The two vehicles stopped just in front of the first vehicle, as men dressed in similar attire exited from them. They quickly joined the operators near the first vehicle.

  With everyone assembled, Dayan wasted no time. Pulling a large map from the passenger side of the front seat, he spread it out over the Land Rover’s hood. Everyone was attentive as Dayan outlined the plan. It was now late-afternoon. He calculated timelines and hours of light for this time of the year. Dusk would be settling into night as everyone reached their positions.

  Dayan, Ripley, and Vanderhook would move up the canal in the Klepper Aerius canoe toward the entrance of the camp. At the same time, Perez would move around to the other side of the perimeter where the vegetation was much thicker. Perez would divide the rest of the force into two more groups to move toward the camp from different angles.

  The purpose of the mission was to conduct their own recce of the site. The information received from Alyssa Rios and her agency had been of critical importance. However, deeper intelligence collection was needed. The plan was that Dayan and the other two, being experienced combat divers, would slide in under cover of night and attempt to recce inside the compound. Meanwhile, Perez and the others would stage themselves at the opposite side of the camp perimeter. The recce, as Dayan saw it, could last no more than a half hour. If it exceeded the time or if shooting and alarms were activated, Perez and the others, being more seasoned jungle fighters, would initiate a decoy attack to provide a diversion to confuse the enemy.