by J E Higgins
Their attention was diverted by a sudden flash of lights. In the distance, the double glare of headlights was visible as a vehicle crested the rise on the dirt road leading toward the camp. The first vehicle was immediately followed by another set of headlights and another in what seemed like an endless pattern.
Zamora’s jaw tightened, which the Contessa noticed even in the darkness.
“I took the liberty of making alternative arrangements, so you and your men won’t have to do the act yourself,” the Contessa spoke calmly.
The mercenary shook his head. He wasn’t thankful for the surprise he was witnessing. He was happy that his employer didn’t feel the need to press the issue or assume any gratitude from him. She, instead, remained quietly sipping her water.
The vehicles were now passing by in rapid succession. They were hauling trucks, not unlike the ones commonly seen on the roads loaded with goods from some farmer or local merchant. There were about ten in all by the mercenary’s rough count. They continued past the Contessa and Zamora heading toward the campsite.
“You should take your men and go now,” the Contessa said. Her continually calm demeanor was proving somewhat unnerving to Zamora.
“Who are they?” he asked looking at the trucks driving by.
“A word of advice. If you have any future prospects in this business,” the Contessa responded, “don’t ask questions you don’t need the answer to.”
Acknowledging her advice, the mercenary gave her a nod and headed back into the bushes. He and his men had staged themselves across the foliage along a weeded jeep trail that led into the interior and eventually to a collection of roads that would take them to their extraction point. Before he left, the mercenary turned to view the darkened silhouette of his now-former employer. “I’m still interested in future employment should you have need of me.”
The Contessa didn’t reply, and Zamora, having nothing further to say, disappeared into the bushes. She didn’t have to say it. She would have a use for his services in her later dealings. He was worth the money paid to him.
Emil Zacha had been a long time operative of Argentina’s feared Intelligence Secretariat (SI), the dreaded secret police. They conducted extensive surveillance domestically and, at times, took more direct action against the government’s more troublesome dissidents. This was a responsibility that Zacha had carried out on numerous occasions. President Christina Kirchner had decided to disband the SI and replace it in 2015 with a more accountable organization. The intelligence officer found himself, one of many who had served the more shadowy missions of the state, completely unemployed and out on the streets.
He put himself on the open market to ply the skills he had honed so well for his government. When he was approached by a refined young woman of foreign origins about a job eliminating a group of left-wing terrorists operating in the northern Argentina countryside, his answer was an immediate yes.
Flush with a sizable amount of seed money, Zacha reached out to connections he had established long ago among the feared Los Monos (The Monkeys). It was a gang that virtually ruled the underworld of the major city of Rosario. Through their stranglehold on the drug trade, they maintained extensive connections with criminal networks throughout the country. It wasn’t long before the old protector of the state had assembled a small army of experienced killers from various rural gangs near the target training camp. Armed with grid coordinates, a well-documented pictorial biography, mapping of the camp, and a sizable force, Zacha, set out to combat the terrorists he had spent his career protecting.
Arriving at the predetermined location, the trucks pulled into a loose line. The vehicles were barely stopped before the covers in the back flew open and menacing-looking men were leaping out onto the ground. Their weapons were an assortment of old M-16s and AK-47s mixed with newer MP models and a few HK sub-machine guns. It was easy to assume the gangs were using their personal arsenals for this job.
Following at a distance was a small unobtrusive little white Toyota pickup. It stopped some distance from the collection of criminals. The passenger door was flung open and out stepped a figure of medium build, approaching middle-age, dressed in a pair of white cotton slacks and matching jacket. Emil Zacha looked around and within seconds caught sight of a figure waiting just at the edge of the tree line.
Seeing her operative in the distance, the Contessa moved into the open and caught his attention. Understanding her need for discretion, the intelligence officer waved to his driver to stay in the truck as he approached his employer.
“Everything is set?” The Contessa opened the conversation.
Zacha nodded, as he removed his straw hat showing his receding hairline. “The men are grouping up now and will begin within the next ten minutes.” The intelligence officer acted with the reserved professionalism of one all too familiar with these sorts of activities.
“Good. Everyone is gathered down there and are totally unsuspecting of anything,” the Contessa replied quietly. “Now, if you will forgive me, I will take my leave. A woman shouldn’t be around the type of men you’ve brought.”
That wasn’t her real reason, and Zacha knew it. She had organized the dirty work to be done, and he was here to do it. But she was also right. The men he had with him were criminals who enjoyed violence and were completely indiscriminate in the way they carried it out. She was wise not to be present. With a nod of approval, the young woman took her leave, vanishing into the shrubbery.
Returning to the pickup, Zacha met the driver who was exiting the vehicle. Felix Augusto had cut his teeth as a tough and efficient street soldier for Los Monos. He had, at one time, been a trusted lieutenant of Claudio ‘El Pajaro’ Contero, before Claudio was assassinated in a bar in 2013. Zacha needed to ensure his collected gunmen would be well led and controlled for this attack. He thought no one would be better than the tall, wiry gunman with a thick mane of long, curly black hair.
“We’ll get started soon,” the young man said quietly. “You’ll probably want to wait here.”
Zacha said nothing, a nod of approval was his only reply. The young man hardly looked like a professional killer. He wore a simple T-shirt and a pair of jeans with cowboy boots. At a glance, he was the image of a typical gaucho one would see working a ranch ─ not the man, who by age thirty, had killed well over a dozen people.
The intelligence operative leaned against the hood of the truck and started to fan himself with his hat. The young gunman began walking toward the trucks to the awaiting gunman now assembled for action. Like his employer, Zacha wanted no witnesses to his involvement when the killings occurred. Felix was the only one who knew of his participation and even he only knew the intelligence officer by the name Eduardo. It would be easy to disappear after the attack, which would look like right-wing thugs retaliating against communist guerrillas. It was an all too common story in this part of the world.
Zacha watched as the young gunman took control of the motley group. Within minutes, they were organized into teams that were quickly fanning out into the tree lines encompassing the perimeter of the camp. It was only minutes, but the tension made it feel like hours, if not years. Zacha could only chuckle at the thought that no matter how many times he carried out such actions, the tension building in anticipation always happened.
His thoughts were soon interrupted by the sudden loud thunderous barrage of gunfire going off in a coordinated chorus. It was soon followed by the responding choir of terrified, curdling screams of both men and women. The tension now eased as the attack continued to be executed with violent precision. It wasn’t the killing that bothered the intelligence operative. He had done his fair share in his time and had a strong disdain for leftist radicals of all types. He felt more of a sense of justice than remorse. His concern was the same as all those who operated in such service for the state ─ the fear of one day being held to account by those he once hunted. Of course, there were also those who, in safer times, felt a need to question the actions of those prot
ecting the society they enjoyed.
The gunfire was now becoming sporadic, and Zacha realized they had moved from the tree line and were now entering the camp. Despite the powerful echoing of the gunfire, the occasional desperate screams could still be heard very clearly.
Felix Augusto directed his men like a general commanding troops on a battlefield. He kept half his force hunkered in the cover of the tree line to protect the high ground overlooking the campsite. The rest of his force had moved from the bush line into the camp. Under the cover of their comrades above, they began moving from building to building, clearing out any survivors. The first two structures, a two-story building, and an office hut remained silent as the assassins moved in and later came out without incident. But the third structure, an extended wooden building, was entered for only a second before it was ablaze with gunfire.
From inside, the deep, growling voices of his men were calling for back-up. They had apparently come across survivors who had obtained weapons and were now mounting a defense. More men from the ground team were about to enter when Augusto, from the hill, called for them to fall back. The command was repeated and soon his men were pouring from the building out into the yard. Augusto commanded them to take positions surrounding the structure and motioned one of the men to his side to take a small metal box sitting next to him.
Grabbing the box, the underling raced down the hill to where the other attackers were positioning themselves. The men quickly opened the box to see a neatly packed collection of grenades. “Give them hell!” cried Augusto to the men who had received the parcel. Soon, men from the ground forces were running up and lobbing the small round explosives through every window opening in the building. It was only seconds before the walls of the wooden building were torn apart by the fury of grenade blasts that exploded in rapid succession.
It wasn’t long before surviving people were running frantically out of the building. The shock of the blasts and the heavy smoke and debris had taken the terrorists by surprise. A few fired wildly in all directions trying to mount some sort of defense. The trained gunfire from the assassins swiftly cut them down.
Satisfied they had killed the last of the resistance, the gunmen rushed into the remnants of the building. With no more complications, they set about clearing the rest of the buildings. They found no survivors.
Chapter 36
Was it luck or just good intelligence analysis?
Dayan looked over the collection of documents and pictures scattered around the table. Alyssa Rios and her organization had proven their abilities yet again. The information before him was both thorough and well documented.
The old man had, apparently, been right on his first guess. Oskar Vlak Straudner was proving to be the most likely suspect for Iran’s operation. The documents were a series of detailed reports discussing the man who, as Dayan was coming to realize, was proving to be an ever-greater mystery. On the surface, he was a politician, who publicly appeared to be unassertive about his career. He didn’t hold any official leadership titles in the Chambers and, for the most part, didn’t seem to enjoy any serious popularity among the large base of the populace or political movements. Yet, behind closed doors, he was known to be quite the powerbroker within the halls of Uruguay’s legislative institutions.
According to reports marked, off the record, he was his party’s chief negotiator when it came to backroom deal-making. Known to be ruthless, maniacal, and calculating, Straudner often proved to be the decisive factor in pushing his party’s agenda. Many senior ranking political leaders owed their positions to his shrewd tactics. Yet somehow, he was able to operate in a way that kept him out of the spotlight, allowing him to move freely without garnering much attention.
The reports went on to discuss Straudner’s long-established relations with components of the country’s intelligence and security elements. Much like his political dealings, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. The politician held memberships at exclusive clubs that catered to the elite of the government power base, including high ranking officers of the police and military. However, beyond the innocent veneer was a litany of reports of shadowy dealings. Straudner had forged strong unofficial relations with the country’s security forces. He helped them gain more beneficial concessions when struggling with the staunchly anti-military leftist elements of the legislature. In return, the intelligence institutions were quite helpful in keeping close tabs and collecting information on his enemies. The reports further documented informed rumors that suggested elements within the security services may have provided more direct services for the politician.
Regarding his financial disposition, Straudner presided over a vast fortune of old money that was spread out in both formal and shadowy business dealings throughout the continent. He owned plantations and held silent ownership in a series of financial investment firms that catered to handling large sums of foreign capital being invested in South America. He also seemed to have his hands in international shipping as well as silent ventures in real-estate. In all, he controlled a large, wide-spread organization that he kept very secretive.
Straudner was also known to be active in an equally diverse array of less legitimate business ventures. Outside of Uruguay, his name had come up in dealings involving smuggling. Those activities embraced various resources including oil bought from Islamic radicals, timber illegally harvested, and the occasional selling of weapon components and machine parts to UN-sanctioned countries. Personality traits the Iranians would appreciate for their plans.
What proved the most decisive factor was the shared interest the politician had with a small watchmaker’s shop in Buenos Aries. It had come up in the course of research that Mr. Straudner was accustomed to conducting a lot of business in the Argentinian city. He often found time to visit the little shop. At first, it was a location documented by the agent tailing him. Then when the excessive number of hours spent there was revealed, the surveillance team took a greater interest in the shop. When an agent ventured inside to see what was of such interest, he was quick to discover that the politician was nowhere to be found.
A more elaborate surveillance mission was set up to monitor his dealings in the place. It became more interesting when the surveillance team attempted to break into the shop one evening to wire it for audio. Coming in through the back they found the door was secured with an expensive security lock that was nearly impossible to breach. Trying to go through the front, they were shocked to find a camera surveillance system hidden along the outline of the storefront. On closer observation, they found it was a system more often seen in highly secured facilities.
Attempting to enter the building during working hours, they slipped surreptitiously into the back areas to plant listening devices in a couple of offices. When they tried to activate the receivers, they were listening to static that seemed to originate from a strong jamming device. As documented in the report, they found themselves fighting through a state of the art security system seen only in well-protected government facilities or used by large private intelligence firms. The surveillance team eventually had to reduce their operation to photographs taken from outside the building.
The photos offered in Ms. Rios’ report contained images of both Straudner and the Iranian operations commander, Ali Anwar al Qalmini, arriving in this obscure place at roughly the same time. The two men were photographed entering and leaving the premises, during which time it was noted they were in the shop at the same time for a period of three hours. This information was provided by Rios who had meticulously documented times of people entering and leaving the establishment. She reviewed the report before sending it to her client, and knowing of the Iranian, she had filtered out all other photographs of obvious customers on legitimate business.
Not much more was discovered regarding the politician’s activities inside. A note on the report explained that the windows were of a fine tint that obscured any visual observation. Even using high definition cameras, the tint prevented them from
capturing anything inside the premise. It was an interesting discovery seeming like a very costly and unnecessary security addition for a simple watchmaker’s shop. It caught Dayan’s attention as it had captured the attention of the surveillance team. It was enough to solidify the politician as Iran’s agent. But it still didn’t offer any crucial details needed for planning. However, it was definitely clear the little watch shop was something more than it purported to be. It also solidified Straudner as their target.
Dayan finished reading the report. Plūcker had been sitting by quietly listening. “He could be your man, or he could be the go-between for the man you really want, as I see it.”
“He has to be our man.”
“Everything you just read to me says he’s a man who hides in the shadows,” the Irishman pointed out. “Doesn’t seem like the type to risk himself on such things.”
“True,” Dayan ran his tongue across his teeth. “But, he does crave power. And in a case where he can assume complete control and not have to work with the bureaucracy, he would jump at the chance. Besides, given the degree this man goes to for secrecy, he operates like a trained spy. The way he covers his tracks and shields himself ─ I mean for God sakes, a highly protected watch shop? You do all sorts of business, like me, and you don’t have nearly the sophisticated security this place has. And, by all accounts, he doesn’t even seem to have any ownership of it at all. He is a virtual ghost.”
Plūcker folded his arms, deep in thought. “Well, that leaves us two scenarios. Either Mr. Straudner is the man that has been selected by Iran for their little takeover, or he is the man Iran recruited to prop someone else up to take over power. In any case, you’re right, the man seems to be deeply involved in this.”
“The question to answer: What’s to be done about it?”