The Montevideo Game

by J E Higgins

  He reached inside and immediately felt the first step in a staircase. Carefully sliding through the space between the door and the jam, he felt his way from one stair step to another. At about the fifth step, his hand touched what he determined to be solid ground. By then his body was completely through the entrance.

  Continuing down until his body was on the floor, Dayan slipped on his night optics from his waterproof bag. Turning them on, they illuminated a lavish dining room. One side hosted what looked like a well-stocked mini-bar with a neat seating arrangement. The other side offered a long, plush couch and a couple of equally comfortable-looking chairs. A long glass dining table in the center could seat a half dozen people.

  This was the best place to discuss business. Deciding the mini bar would presumably be the natural gathering point, he started for it. To his dismay, a potentially loud hardwood floor stretched the distance between himself and the bar. To prevent any sound from creaking boards, he decided he would make less noise if he slid slowly across the floor. It was a tedious process, deliberate, one hand after the other. He felt like a trained seal in an aquatic show. He even entertained the thought that if he was discovered, the humiliation would be worse than the bullets fired at him.

  At the edge of the bar, he reached into his bag and pulled a small plastic container from a side pocket. Unclicking it, he produced a small rectangular object. Removing the adhesive strip, he felt the underlining of the bar and stuck it in just underneath the lip.

  Deciding it was in the best place he was going to find quickly, he began sliding back toward the staircase. Then he moved to the door, removed his optics, and returned them to his bag.

  He could hear the guards still moving around on the docks and he waited, breathing in controlled, consistent intervals until the footsteps receded.

  Confident he was safe, he slid back through the door. Removing the cloth, he closed it cautiously. His heart raced, but he was able to maintain control by switching to a succession of short, quick breaths.

  Dayan glanced quickly at his watch. It was 0030hrs. His men had instructions to move back to the fishing boat at 0045hrs if they didn’t hear any shooting.

  Continuing toward the table outside, he stayed close to the deck. He was still shielded from the guards by a declining bulkhead that lined up with the outside ladder well. The wall lowered as it neared the deck causing greater exposure from the docks. Only the shadows presented the Israeli any protection. At the base of the table, Dayan clutched one of the small listening devices in one hand. Carefully he felt around until he found the lip of the table, but the table was made of glass. Useless. His only other option was to reach for the nearest chair. Finding it made of a hard plastic, he felt around until he had an area that might work. He slipped the object in place.

  Sliding back the way he had come, Dayan kept his eyes fixed in the direction of the guards. When he was back behind the wall and moving along the walkway surrounding the yacht, he rose to his feet. Feeling for the railing he took hold and slowly went over the side, dropping very quietly into the water. Once completely submerged, he released his hands and slid into the murky darkness.

  He was relieved. With all the luck he must have used tonight, he could see this all ending with a shark attacking him on the way back.

  Chapter 38

  The rebels were anxious as they roamed about the confines of the warehouse-like caged animals captured from the wild. Given their situation, their actions were entirely justifiable. Some paced as others loaded magazines, looked over weapons, and studied maps of the city and pictures of future targets.

  The urban force of the leftist-guerrillas had been on edge following recent attacks. In the last three weeks, they had successfully bombed a post-office, two banks, assassinated a police commander, and nearly succeeded in killing the mayor of the upscale Pocitos barrio.

  As predicted, the police responded with a heavy hand aimed at the working-class areas and college campuses. The results had been as expected. The campuses had been set ablaze with student protests turning into all-out gang brawls against riot police.

  Several poorer barrios had exploded into violence as police came in with more heavy-handed tactics aimed at flushing out supporters. However, given the rebels’ selective recruitment and their already established networks of logistical support, the police found nothing. It was as if they were dealing with ghosts.

  Both the police and the military had suffered devastating losses and public embarrassment. Powerful elements from among the country’s elite demanded some type of response. In desperation and anger, government security forces lashed out at the most likely suspects, the colleges and the poor.

  The country was on fire.

  The young radicals felt the fervor of revolution. Their excitement was further fueled by the recent instructions they had received. Their IRA advisor and strategist had called together the various teams operating around Montevideo.

  This was a strange departure from the established policies of keeping operational teams compartmentalized. The operatives complied but were somewhat confused. Everyone stopped questioning this change after being told there would be a meeting to readjust their police response strategy.

  Now, gathered collectively in a dismal warehouse, they waited in anticipation. Only an hour ago, they had received a message that their instructor would be running late. He had been detained by last minute complications and would be present shortly. By now, the entire facility was in a tense state and on heightened alert.

  The Irishman, Martin Derry, had still not shown up. Police were setting up surprise roadblocks to conduct vehicle checks. Many wanted to go, but they were held back by the more disciplined adherents who insisted that they all remain together. Documents and caches of weapons were everywhere, and everyone had taken a serious risk to be here. The concern was if they left now, when would they have a chance to meet again?

  BOOM!

  The sudden explosion was devastating. The thunderous blast shook the whole structure. The noise and concussive shock debilitated everyone, putting them in a near paralyzed state. It was worsened by the thick cloud of smoke that quickly filled the room. The blinding fog caused a powerful burning sensation. Even though everyone’s ears were still ringing, the sound of the big steel door being smashed open was all too clear. The breaching of the door was followed by the sound of boots running across the floor.

  Instantly, everyone knew what had happened. The Policía Nacional de Uruguay, Uruguay’s national police swarmed into the warehouse decked out in black tactical fatigues, body armor, and gas masks. With M-4 carbines held in the tactical ready position, they moved to engage the radicals.

  The paralytic state of the guerrillas lasted only a few seconds. Quickly their defensive senses kicked in, and they were running for their weapons. The smoke still clogging the air made it nearly impossible to see.

  Choking and blinded, the guerrillas somehow managed to mount a resistance. Many of the radicals grabbed weapons, firing in the general direction of the black swarm rushing through the door.

  Receiving fire, the already tense police returned their own well-aimed fusillade of fire as they moved across the room, engaging their quarry. The building erupted into a wild gunfight as the two elements clashed with each other. The guerrillas continued to put up a fight, but smoke, shock, and surprise had taken their toll.

  The police fanned out in line with the men alternating shooters to create cover as they approached the guerrillas. Aside from the Spartan collection of tables and chairs provided for the evening’s meeting, the warehouse was empty, offering no cover. Well aimed shots by the police led to one radical after another being cut down.

  Fueled by a toxic mixture of adrenaline and anger, the police were in no mood to show mercy to the animals who had murdered their friends and colleagues while terrorizing their country.

  Army commander Ernesto Guevero had received intelligence from a source only hours earlier. An individual, unknown but possessing det
ailed information about the guerrillas, made contact with his office. Describing himself as a concerned citizen, this individual had in-depth knowledge of the guerrilla operation.

  Normally, Guevero would have demanded a thorough vetting of such a source, but the desperation and the utter lack of any other information on the guerrillas forced Guevero’s hand. He forwarded the information to the police who, desperate for a break on the terrorists, wasted no time assembling and mobilizing their forces.

  Finding themselves embroiled in an all-out gun battle with a well-armed group, the police could only presume they had finally caught the leftist-phantoms who had been terrorizing the entire country. Outside, the police leadership gathered around the hastily erected command post. They listened nervously to the massive exchange of gunfire and the erratic yelling of the engaged police screaming over the radio. One of the senior officers dutifully monitored a phone set up to go directly to the presidential palace. He continually briefed members at the highest levels of authority who were anxiously standing by for every detail of the operation.

  In back of the nominal perimeter, crowds of onlookers formed. Behind them, the vans and trucks carrying the logos of the various news stations appeared.

  It was apparent to everyone huddled within the makeshift command center that this was going to be a highly contentious situation. It wasn’t long before the media vehicles parked, and the area was littered with cameramen followed by polished looking reporters. Other onlookers were a mixture of excited gawkers and angry protesters. All of them were intent on being as difficult as possible.

  Inside, the operation turned into an all-out war as the two sides fired a hail of bullets at each other. Even though the radicals fought with AK models that carried the larger caliber 7.62 rounds, and the police were using M-4 models with much smaller 5.56 rounds, the radicals were quickly being routed by the better trained, better-prepared police.

  With literally nothing to use for cover, the radicals fell in large numbers. The operation turned into a bloodbath.

  The police were in no mood to be merciful. The bewildered guerrillas were frantic and, although they were intoxicated with adrenaline, they could only fall back and keep shooting as the black-suited figures quickly overran their ranks.

  In a last desperate act, one of the guerrillas dropped to the ground and turned over. Fumbling with her jacket pocket, she managed to produce one of the grenades she had been given at the training camp. Unscrewing the cap from the bottom of the wooden stick, she let the cap drop as a string slithered across the palm of her hand.

  She could feel the steps of the advancing tactical figures as they pounded toward her. Holding the string tightly, she curled up until she felt a powerful hand grabbing her shoulder. With a hard tug, she rolled over to face a masked figure kneeling over her. The figure didn’t notice the object clutched in her hand. Within a second the sound of gunfire was muted by the thunderous blast.

  Fragments of the grenade fired off in all directions. Those not caught in the immediate blast were caught in the following blanket of sharp fragments that tore into their bodies like so many throwing knives.

  Martin Derry could hear the gunfire in the distance. Rubbing his head, he sighed quietly as he listened. His absence at the warehouse meeting had been by design. The young Spanish Contessa, who retained his services, had explained that it was time for the operation to end. His instructions were to gather the remaining members of the group ─ those who had been dispatched to operate in the city and have them housed collectively in a location that would prove easy for the police to raid.

  She also explained that the meeting was to be a break from protocol and have both an assortment of weapons and documents that the police could obtain. Knowing the whole time this was the inevitable end, the Irishman had planned this moment well.

  The explosion of the grenade, a sound he had heard so many times before, seemed to paralyze the people around him. He was not surprised to see the younger people stopped cold by the frightening sound and shock. The older generation, those who remembered the horrible violence of the 1970s, remained indomitable, displaying only a look of disappointment. Their displeasure was not for the fighting going on just a few blocks away. It was the worry that the brief decades they enjoyed peace and safety was about to vanish.

  It was the same look he had seen when he was an operator in Ireland. The younger crowds, not used to fighting, jumped in fear at the sounds of gunfire and occasional bombs. The older generations, who had lived so long with the violence, merely responded as they had been conditioned, going about their day’s business as if nothing had happened.

  His watch read 2330hrs; the shooting was dying down. The shots still being heard were overwhelmingly 5.56’s, the caliber used by the police. One could only surmise that the guerrillas were losing and dying in large numbers. The heavy firefight that lasted for so long told the Irishman enough. He had been in several such fights over the years, and he was all too familiar with how they ended. The Contessa’s demands were being carried out exactly as she wished. What was once the fearsome guerrilla army waging war against the capitalist oppressors was now a bloody pile of corpses.

  Derry waited silently to board a cargo freighter that would take him home. He had mixed feelings. He had set up his own students ─ kids he had spent months training. Kids he had led in several operations against the police and the powers that be. Now he was standing by listening to the final shots of their last stand.

  His other feelings, those of the professional mercenary, were that it wasn’t his war. His only reason for being associated with these people was that he was being paid.

  Either way, the point was moot. This was his last thought on the matter.

  He snapped up his P-coat and walked the gangplank onto the vessel. His job was completed, and he had confirmation of the payment made to his bank account.

  Illana Muricia had made it a practice to enjoy her afternoons at the coffee shop. Unlike many of her college associates, she had no patience for the big trendy places catering to the latest fads. She found tranquility and peace in a small little shop that was frequented by old retirees. Old men, who had served out their careers in the police force or the military and had not succumbed to an over-fondness for adult beverages. She found comfort in dealing with men who approached her with a fatherly, paternalistic demeanor and seemed at home with a natural manliness. The younger men seemed too caught up with being tortured artists and whining about being misunderstood which she considered nothing more than annoying bullshit.

  However, this afternoon, Muricia had found the shop nearly empty except for the shopkeeper and a couple of his close friends. It was not unusual, given it was a time when most of the men went off to enjoy some fishing. She expected they would wander in later, either with tales of catching the big one or muttering about their bait betraying them. In any case, she found their stories amusing.

  The quiet shop gave her time to enjoy reading. Settling into a small table with her coffee and lime cake, she peered out a large glass window overlooking the street, as she reached into her canvass bag to pull out a beaten paperback. It was a Spanish copy of Jack Kerouac’s Dharma. She began reading while enjoying sips of her coffee.

  She became aware of a young woman who casually entered the establishment and stared at the counter. Even though she continued reading her book, she kept an eye on unfamiliar people moving about. When the woman took a seat opposite from her, Illana Muricia didn’t bother to raise her head or exert even the slightest curiosity.

  “Illana Muricia, I presume?” The woman opened with a somewhat friendly but still direct tone.

  Muricia lifted her eyes slightly to meet the woman’s own gaze. She could see the woman was beautiful and had a great figure. Despite the fact she hid her golden hair by tying it up and covered her body with a loose-fitting T-shirt under an even looser sweater, it was obvious this was not the woman’s natural look or choice of apparel. However, she did wear it well, and a casual obs
erver would assume she was a college student.

  The woman waited for a response; there was none. Muricia just continued watching the stranger before her. The woman cracked a smile of satisfaction.

  Muricia finally responded in an unamused tone. “You came here to find me.”

  “Yes, I did,” the golden-haired woman responded, her smile growing wider. “I’ve been watching you for a while.”

  Muricia lowered her eyes to focus back on her book. “I know. I saw you observing me from across the street. You waited until I sat down to come in here. What I find so interesting is that you could have caught me on the street. Instead, you chose to follow me to this place. Then you come in here to make your presence known. I was assuming you would have ordered a drink and found some excuse to casually talk to me as if we were characters in some spy movie or something.”

  The golden-haired woman was impressed. Especially since the young lady before her continued to seem unamused by all the intrigues. “Illana Muricia, you are the daughter of a very successful and wealthy corporate lawyer who deals with an international clientele. You currently attend an Uruguay university but have graduated from elite boarding schools in France and Spain. You are intending to transfer to the London School of Economics. In between semesters you clerk for your father and accompany him on his business trips around the world.”

  The college student maintained her stoic expression, still unmoved by the woman before her. The gold-haired lady continued, “What I find most intriguing about you is the relationship you have with your uncle. Your father’s brother has enjoyed a rather illustrious career in the army. He has, in his own right, developed quite the international resume with missions all around the world. In fact, he and your father have on occasions worked together in the service of not so legitimate clients for not so legal business.”