by J E Higgins
The Irishman unfolded his arms. “You need more to work with. That’s what needs to be done. You can’t move only knowing this guy’s involved. He is or is not the brains of this operation. And, if he’s just a middleman, then we have to know who’s on the other side.”
Dayan agreed.
The Irishman asked, “Why don’t we try to focus on the Iranians?”
Dayan perked up as he gave Plūcker a bemused look.
Plūcker continued. “I mean, it sorta dawned on me that we’re looking to chase a man on his home turf. Here’s your Mr. Straudner, who has been playing the game of intrigue and has set up a pretty secure means of transacting business. That places you on unequal footing. However, the Iranians have been here only as long as you have. As I see it, the boys pulling this off are staying clear of their government’s established networks. That means they’re operating with the same drawbacks and circumstances as you. For the time being, you might have better luck reviewing your person’s intelligence reports on the Iranians rather than on Mr. Straudner.”
Chapter 37
Qalmini rubbed his forefinger gently across his lips as he reviewed the newspaper. With a feeling of satisfaction, he read of the termination of the leftist guerrilla camp operating in northern Argentina. He was particularly elated at how the newspaper account blamed the attack on the right-wing Para militarists, who had discovered the operation and attacked in retribution for the attacks in Uruguay. It was an entirely believable story. One that alleviated any concerns about complicated inquiries.
He thought the Contessa was a true master of her trade. She had organized the operation thoroughly and disposed of it neatly.
He was even happier that the Contessa had arranged for a small force of guerrillas to be moved to Montevideo for a hypothetical new urban operation. At the final meeting with the young Contessa, he had articulated a need to ensure that a few would survive the camp liquidation so they could be eliminated by the police in a very public raid.
The Uruguay police desperately needed something to show for their aggressive tactics. They needed to promote them as being effective in their efforts to combat the terrorists and bring stability back to the country. After all, dictatorships are most popular when they prove their effectiveness against chaos and bloodshed. It wouldn’t do to say the guerrillas were stopped purely by the efforts of right-wing para-militarists.
He had received a report from Major Akim earlier in which he explained the preparation of their forces. Their equipment had arrived as planned, and their training had progressed on schedule.
Such news came at a most convenient time. That news was in conjunction with the recent meetings with Mr. Straudner, who had reported favorable results in preparing for the takeover. So far, the timeline was being met perfectly.
Sitting back in his chair, the Iranian folded his hands behind his head. Things were coming together despite the recent inconvenience of the mysterious infiltrators and Sẽnor Mendoza’s irrational antics. This was news he desperately needed.
The infiltrators had been on his mind since the incident, but nothing appeared to have compromised the operation. He was aware that there was still some shadowy force lurking, keeping tabs on his project.
Who were they? Why had they not reported his operation to the police? Why had there not been any further attacks? These questions needed answering.
So far, all he knew was a group of street thugs had clumsily tried to kill Elloy Mendoza and Guardian Angel, a private intelligence firm had been feeding information to this mystery force. And, thanks to Mendoza’s irrational response, any attempt to find out the identity of the client was now lost.
This situation was made worse by the sudden killing of some obscure Rabbi in Buenos Aires who was somehow mixed up in this. Again, finding out to what extent he was involved died when the Cuban’s henchmen killed him.
Qalmini was left with nothing but theories and assumptions and no real targets. If it was the Israelis, why had their embassies not leaked this information to force the hand of the involved countries? Was it some group of local Jewish vigilantes who somehow caught on to his operation?
No, the way the report from Major Akim read, it was clear that the camp infiltrators were too skilled and too sophisticated to be some group of amateurs. Regardless, the situation was clear. This mystery force was still at large and possessed resources that made them gravely detrimental. It was imperative that this group be neutralized. Without knowledge of who they were and how they were connected, they remained a serious threat.
Earlier, the Iranian had diplomatically explained his concerns to Mendoza. Now that Mendoza felt vindicated by his revenge, he was open to approaching the situation more rationally. The two men discussed the problem, and Mendoza concluded, after things had been explained, that mercenaries had been most likely employed to aid in this operation.
The Cuban left, promising to reach out to his contacts in the black-market world to see what he could find out. As a professional courtesy, he had offered to do this with no charge for the extra service. Had he demanded additional compensation, Qalmini would have probably killed him right in his office.
It did give the Iranian comfort to hear that some options were still available to find this threat. Although his trust in the Cuban had never been strong, after the recent fiascos, it was nearly gone. Without Mendoza, he would be forced to reach out to his country’s established intelligence network in the region. Doing so would expose Iran to the dangers of being connected to this mission.
Still, Mendoza was a problematic resource at best and a possible liability at worst. The current situation offered nothing in the way of a good option.
But he had another avenue at his disposal. When Major Akim made contact again, Qalmini requested to see Nouri al’Marak Surriman.
Solomon Gold didn’t exactly trust the Israeli spy, but he had no one else to go to for information.
The story he had gotten from the older man seemed reasonable, especially since it coincided with the young man’s concept of typical Middle Eastern plots. He expected a bombing of some sort or possibly an assassination ─ this was close enough.
Micha Cohen was used to being in complex situations. Being accosted on the streets by some group of hostiles was nothing particularly new to him. It didn’t, however, negate the fact that he was surrounded by a group of toughs demanding answers and threatening to bring unnecessary exposure. Since it appeared these young men already had a certain degree of understanding regarding the situation, it made them a dangerous liability. He wasn’t about to give a group of wild hoodlums the truth and risk them going off on a tangent creating further complications. They had already caused problems with their initial botched assassination attempt. And it was clear they wanted revenge for the Rabbi and the young girl.
Treading lightly, Cohen explained that the Cuban was in the business of selling guns to Arab radicals residing in the communities of Paraguay, Argentina, and Brazil. He told them Iran was recruiting for an Arab network within the Lebanon communities and were Shia in their religious affiliations.
It wasn’t the complete truth, but it was close enough to at least track with whatever information these young hoodlums might already have. He kept Uruguay and the possible coup plot out of the discussion. It was better to give the young men something that they could act on without raising any further problems, especially if it meant taking a swipe at some of the local Arabs who tended to side with Iran or hated Israel. It was much better if they terrorized local shop vendors than try to get involved way over their heads.
Despite his rookie introduction into the world of intrigue, Gold was certain the Israeli spy was not being completely forthcoming. He sensed the older man was trying to placate him and his group. Still, the explanation given did match the scant bit of information they had been able to gain from Myra and the Rabbi.
It didn’t matter. The young radicals demanded they be part of whatever the Israeli and his team were doing against this menace. It was no l
onger just about helping the Jewish cause. These boys had greatly respected the Rabbi, they had all grown up with the girl, and both had just perished brutally in this secret war. They had the right to exact their own justice.
It placed Cohen in a terrible position given they were ready to expose his presence. The meeting ended with the katsa being permitted to leave, and Gold feeling dubious about the whole matter.
In the end, both parties agreed to meet in three days at a location of the Israelis choosing. Here they would jointly prepare for the next operation.
Leaving the meeting feeling anxious, Cohen wondered if he could have played the situation any better. At some personal level, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. If these young men were itching for a fight, perhaps they could prove useful within a limited scope. In either case, they were involved in his mission now, or they would compromise it further.
It was better to keep them close.
It was called the Sunset Glory ─ a sizable yacht of three levels and nearly forty feet in length. It was one of two yachts Straudner owned. The other was a hundred and fifty feet resembling a small cruise ship. The Sunset Glory was capable of being controlled by a single man. For someone like the secretive Mr. Straudner, it was his choice for discrete meetings with guests.
Normally, there were numerous places the politician used to avoid undue attention. In this case, he let slip that he had to suddenly cancel a regular golf game because of a call from his government office. That phone had been successfully bugged by Rios’s people.
The golf game was a usual gathering of some very important people. It was not something a man like Straudner liked to miss. To suddenly decide to go boating seemed out of character.
Rios had passed this information on to Dayan with a notation explaining her suspicions. Dayan liked that Rios had caught this change. In the absence of direct information, this was a break that could possibly pan out.
Taking a trip to the marina where the yacht was anchored, Dayan, Darren Ripley, and Klaas Vanderhook meandered about as tourists enjoying the coastal scenery. It was no surprise to any of them to find the Sunset Glory located in an isolated area offering greater privacy for those willing to pay for it.
They were also not at all surprised to find that the yacht maintained a full-time security detail. The guards were casually dressed, though obviously in tactical clothing, and their muscular physiques indicated they were ex-military or police. The way they carried themselves made it easy to peg them as having served in special tactical units.
After a quick reconnaissance, the three decided the only way to get aboard the ship was through the water. The difficulty was working in the daylight giving them a very narrow timeline. The only positive they had was that the politician was casting off sometime early the next day.
That evening, three men along with Oskar Perez, found themselves intently waiting in a small boat piloted by an elderly fisherman just outside the waters of the marina.
The old man, distantly related to Perez, navigated the craft. He stayed vigilant in the darkness just outside the waters of the marina. The small boat looked like it was something out of the last century and was easy to justify using a bare minimum of working lights. This allowed ample darkness to mask the tactically dressed commandos riding in the bow. The old man proved a skilled sailor, maneuvering the waterways purely by instinct.
When they came to the point they estimated to be parallel with the yacht’s location, the three commandos donned their scuba gear and dropped into the water. Once again they had foregone their tanks in favor of snorkels. With no serious security on the water aside from a boat watchman, there was no need to bring more gear than necessary.
The real problem would be on the docks where the professional security team was on guard.
In the black, the three kept their heads above water as they swam a hundred meters into the marina. The plan was to navigate by the string of lights outlining the marina and submerge just before reaching the docks keeping all movements below water to prevent making any noise. In a pool, a hundred meters would have been easy, but the current and waves were strong enough to cause difficulty as they fought to stay on course. Making it even more taxing was the need to keep their strokes entirely underwater.
Arriving at the edge of the docks felt like a grand achievement. Tired, muscles aching, they once again resisted the urge to verbally express their aggravation. The professional instincts that came with years of performing such duties prevailed.
Only a few feet ahead, lights adorning the dock’s perimeter glimmered across the water in a beautiful display. It also revealed everything to anyone observing the water.
Dayan broke off from his companions heading for the yacht while Ripley and Vanderhook circled the far end. If there was trouble, they were his response team. Submerging himself just below the surface, Dayan kicked with his fins and began moving forward.
The isolation of the craft protected it from surface-based infiltration but made it easier to penetrate from the water. Spared the virtual maze found at most marinas, it was not difficult for Dayan to estimate the direction and distance to his target. He had completed many night operations during his days with Shayret 13 that were vastly more complex.
Nearing his target location, Dayan slowly lifted his head from the water just high enough to see. The yacht was a short distance away. Luckily, it rode low in the water presenting several access points from which to sneak on board.
There were three men attentively patrolling the docks. Mr. Straudner must have been deeply concerned about security and those threatening him, and even more concerned about having anyone on board that could witness his activities. There were no cameras and no patrolling guards on the yacht, so it was also clear that Straudner never thought about the possibility of a threat approaching from the sea.
Swimming to the bow of the ship, Dayan held onto an available railing and waited. This time the confines of the marina controlled the degree of force that he had felt out on the open sea. In the darkness, he could make out the illuminated watch hands and ticks denoting the time was 2330hrs. His men had ten more minutes before they would execute the next phase of this mission.
From his position, Dayan could hear the guards on the other side. They spoke very little, but from what he could make out, the discussion was all business related. The guards definitely were professionals. It was now 0000hrs and time was getting close.
The Israeli prepared himself accordingly. He would have a limited window of time and couldn’t afford to hesitate.
Suddenly a loud high-pitched scream whistled loudly in the air. On cue, Dayan quickly pulled himself onto the ship.
Listening for the guards, he could tell they were acting as intended. They didn’t move to investigate the noise ─ they remained at their post. But the scream had fulfilled its purpose by masking the sound of Dayan sliding onto the yacht. His prearranged route placed him on the opposite side of the dock and allowed the higher structure of the craft to conceal him from the security team on the other side.
The scream stopped; silence returned.
As planned, Vanderhook and Ripley were on the far end of the docks. At the prescribed time, they would detonate a whistling firecracker to mask their comrade’s activity. Anyone would presume a firecracker would be just an innocent bit of fun by the less mature members of the marina’s yachting club. It could be easily explained and would prevent concern of something nefarious.
The guards discussed what they had heard. As predicted, they expressed irritation as opposed to alarm. They concluded it was some idiot rich kids messing around and returned to their posts.
Keeping low and cognizant of the shadows, Dayan slipped around the base of the ladder well leading up to the bridge. Having no plans to work from, Dayan navigated slowly in the dark, feeling his way. He had brought a pair of night vision optics but wanted to wait until he was below deck and away from the guards before turning them on. Once past the ladder well, he moved slowly toward w
hat he presumed would be the entrance to the lower deck.
He was dressed in his black wet-suit. It was not his first choice of apparel for a highly delicate mission. Normally, he would have chosen the more practical fatigues that allowed greater mobility. However, under the circumstances, fatigues would have taken too long to dry and would be noisy as he moved.
His hand felt the brass doorknob, then the wood, and finally the space between door and door jam. Taking a minute, the Israeli looked around. His natural night vision had, by now, adjusted enough that he could make out the general outline of his surroundings.
The outside patio had a small table with some chairs and looked like a spot where one would spend a great deal of time if they were lounging. The easy answer would be any business conducted would probably be done there.
Dayan hoped he was guessing correctly since he had no wish to remain on the yacht any longer than necessary. However, logic dictated that with so little prior intelligence regarding Mr. Straudner’s habits and routine on board, it was a serious gamble to assume.
The possibility of creating any noise loud enough to alert the guards didn’t sit well with an intruder armed only with a small .22 caliber Berretta. He needed to check the entirety of the ship and place bugs in all areas that might be used for discussing business. Dayan clinched his teeth and slowly proceeded to turn the knob. He actually hoped the door would be locked, and he would have to make do with the outside table area. Somewhat to his dismay, the door opened. Gently, he widened the opening while he silently prayed to God there wouldn’t be any loud creaking.
God was listening as the wooden door opened almost without a sound. Not wanting to press his luck, the Israeli opened it only a few inches before he attempted to slowly slide his way inside. Jamming a small wedge of cloth between the door and frame to keep it in place, he began moving. His wet-suit was restrictive and did not aid his gymnastic-like movements, but it did allow him to move with a degree of silence.