by J E Higgins
Muricia’s focus remained on her book. “I’m a little unsure what I’m expected to do at this point? Is this the part where I’m supposed to start acting concerned about something or become angry and behave in an undignified fashion over such accusations?”
By now, the golden-haired woman was becoming quite impressed with the young woman before her. She was unflinching in her behavior. She didn’t act like a spoiled brat by shrieking and whining. Nor was she the slightest bit intimidated by the amount of knowledge the mysterious woman was displaying. “No, this is the part where I offer you a job.”
Throwing the book onto the table, an exasperated look on her face, Muricia was now looking irritatingly at the unwanted companion. “What makes you think I’m looking for a job, especially, with a woman who follows me around, sits down at my table uninvited and proceeds to try to intimidate me with my own biography?”
“I can offer you something you can’t get in your current position. A chance to break out on your own with a career and prospects for your own business.” the gold-haired woman replied.
The college student said nothing. She studied her visitor’s face looking momentarily confused. The mysterious woman continued, “You are intelligent, observant, streetwise, and worldly. But, you are a woman in a man’s world. Your father tortures you with the highest education, experience in the world of business, world travel experiences and yet, like many fathers in our world, they still see us as their little princesses being groomed to marry a prince. You know that your father, like your uncle, has given you a taste of a world you can thrive in. But in the end, they will still only let you be an intern with expectations that you become someone’s wife.”
“And what are you after?” Muricia looked both confused and interested.
“I don’t expect you to just trust a perfect stranger who is wearing a disguise and accosts you in your favorite place,” the golden-haired woman smiled. “I am the Contessa Selena de Alvarez. The name should mean nothing to you. I was able to find out a lot about you through your father and uncle’s business dealings. No doubt you have the means to vet me.
“I am looking for a right-hand man, so to speak, for my business, which at present, is expanding. I’m not in an industry that allows me to place want ads and set up interviews. I have to rely on my own recruitment.”
Muricia tapped her fingers on the table. Seeing that a response was not forthcoming, the Contessa reached into the small purse she carried with her. Producing a small paper card, she slid it across the table toward the college student.
“This is the place I’m currently staying in Montevideo,” the Contessa said pleasantly. “I will be there until tomorrow evening. If you are interested in charting your own course, I look forward to continuing this discussion in a more dignified setting. Otherwise, when I leave to catch my flight, my offer and interest in you expires.”
Rising from the table, the mysterious woman casually turned and made her way out the door.
Muricia looked at the card now in her hand. Crossing the street, the Contessa began walking away confident she had found the candidate to become her second in command.
Chapter 39
The fishing trawler bobbing pleasantly along undulated with the ocean waves that rolled against it. For the three commandos, it was quite enjoyable to be in a boat on the water soaking up the warm sun rather than having to prepare for a mission.
The same could not be said for Micha Cohen, who was concerned about receptions from the transmitter. The commandos had been outside the marina for over an hour and heard nothing from the bugs Dayan placed on Straudner’s yacht. It was equally irritating for the katza to watch his operatives lounge about in nothing but their jeans. Shirtless and barefoot, the three men rested in lawn chairs, nursed bottles of beer, and fiddled with fishing rods brought to the operation.
Earlier they had all been attentive in assisting the old fisherman who owned the boat with casting his netting into the water. As it turned out, all three found common ground in growing up with families who earned their living as fishermen.
“Just remember, this isn’t your real job,” Cohen scolded the young men who were having too much fun reliving their childhoods.
Just then, the transmitter came alive with the sound of men talking. “At least we got the right ship,” Dayan spoke up with a sense of triumph.
“Or, this is going to turn out to be a bunch of fat investor types, who we get to hear lie about their sex lives,” Cohen snapped back, as he placed his ear close to the transmitter.
The reception was good, but it was obvious the conversation was being held outside. Between the sound of the wind and the changing proximity of people walking around, it was difficult to make out what was being said or how many were present.
The fishing boat went silent as everyone strove to listen. Finally, voices became more coherent when someone, they guessed to be Straudner, announced they were taking off.
Excitedly, like a commander preparing his troops for war, Cohen leaped to his feet and began issuing orders.
First, he instructed the old fisherman to prepare to move. Then, turning his attention to his three commandos, he barked orders for them to raise the net and get their shirts on immediately. All three responded with a salute and the appropriate response expected from their navy origins.
The katza was annoyed to find himself being compared to Captain Blye in Dutch, Hebrew, and English. However, their retorts failed to deter him, as he continued issuing orders to his less than enthusiastic crew.
The old fisherman signaled to the others that he saw a large ship exiting the marina. Everyone looked to see a sleek yacht moving toward open water. It was the yacht Dayan had infiltrated only a few nights before. As the ship emerged out onto the open sea, it made a gradual turn to the left and started in a northwesterly direction.
Dayan felt vindicated when the yacht turned enough to reveal the name Sunset Glory on the back. His vindication was further strengthened by the conversation coming across the transmitter. The voices briefly broached the subject of a government takeover.
Continuing to snap orders, Cohen commanded the fisherman to follow the yacht. By now, the commandos hoisted the netting back into the boat and prepared everything to move. Luckily, the fishing boat was part of a collection of five or six other such crafts and was some distance away. Fishing boats were a commonality in these waters and generally looked the same to other boaters. It made them a great choice for this type of surveillance work. However, the type of people they were pursuing was not inclined to ignore a single fishing boat if it kept showing up in the same vicinity as the yacht.
The Sunset Glory moved at a swift pace and was gaining distance quickly. Looking through his binoculars, Dayan saw the man whose picture he had studied so carefully over the last few weeks. It was the politician, Oskar Straudner, at the helm. Continuing his visual recce, Dayan was able to catch a good look at the few guests on board.
Beckoning the katza with an urgent wave, Dayan was tremendously excited. Joining Dayan, the old spy took up the binoculars and focused in the direction pointed out to him. Within seconds his eyes widened when he saw the all too familiar image of Ali Anwar al Qalmini.
Cohen promptly demanded the craft get underway. The fisherman did as ordered but grimaced ─ aggravated at being given commands on his own boat. At one point, the commandos considered how they were going to keep the two older men from killing each other as tempers flared.
With the netting and other components now aboard, the motor revved and the fishing boat started to move. Snaking its way out of the cluster of vessels used for concealment, it progressed rapidly out into the open water.
The yacht was, by this time, moving quickly, becoming a speck in the distance. Thankfully, the transmitter was still receiving fragments of the conversation not masked by the sounds of the waves crashing against the ship’s hull or the wind cutting against its aft. With Straudner steering, it was hoped that the important business was no
t being transacted at the moment, and the ship would be stopped when they finally started discussing their plans.
For an old, beaten up fishing vessel, the craft moved at a deceptively fast pace. It could not quite equal the yacht it pursued, but it managed to keep the yacht in sight.
It was almost an hour later, and the chase persisted. The yacht ahead made a few unpredictable turns ─ a clear attempt to thwart any tagalongs. Nevertheless, the old fisherman proved to be extremely adept at this business and was able to navigate well enough not to be noticed.
Some 12 miles out, the yacht came to a stop. Now, well out in international waters and better protected from prying eyes, the ship’s occupants felt safe to speak more freely. The sounds of the wind and waves had died down considerably, and the conversation coming across the transmitter was much clearer.
The fisherman cut his own engines, and the commandos immediately cast the large fishing net into the water and set up everything to appear like they were fisherman looking for a new spot.
Cohen was now glued to the transmitter while Dayan moved inside and began looking through his binoculars to try to get a better look at the ship’s occupants. The distance was too great, and he could only make out enough to know they were still monitoring the right ship.
Returning outside, Dayan caught what seemed like the beginning of a conversation. The transmitter was picking up a much better signal. The yacht’s occupants had ceased moving about and seemed to be settled around an outside table.
“We are all set,” began an accented voice they presumed was Qalmini’s. “Our forces can gradually begin moving across the border into Uruguay. They will first set up in the staging locations established in the city. Then, they will move to locations in the countryside where we presume resistance is most likely to emerge.”
“The riots on campus and in the poorer sections of the city have given the appearance of a country out of control,” a polished, more refined voice, thought to be Straudner replied. “Since the leftist guerrillas have been dispatched, they will keep the fire alive. My supporters in the wealthier areas and among the security services are already calling on me to assert authority and bring order to chaos. Since the police have been heavy-handed in dealing with rioters, it has only stoked the fires. I intend to reluctantly call for martial law and assume control of the country in the following month.”
“The first wave of your support militia will be on the road in a few days,” the accented voice added. “They’ll move across the border in numbers of fifty to a hundred. Once crossed, they’ll be met by smaller hauling trucks that can move them in numbers of ten to twenty. Slowly, we should be able to insert our people into position. But, I still don’t want my men lingering too long where the prospect of unexpected trouble becomes more real.”
Straudner’s voice took over the conversation. “Assume at the beginning of next month, I will announce my call for a military takeover, suspension of parliamentary proceedings and courts. The only problem will be Mojica, our current president. It wouldn’t do to assume control of the country while the current president is still in place. Arresting him will only erode the legitimacy of my ascension and give opposition and pesky outsiders like the UN a reason to interfere. He will have to be dealt with.”
“That can be arranged,” Qalmini replied. “Let me know when he will be at his home the evening prior, and he will meet his end at the hands of leftist radicals. It has been my experience that killing a man on his little chicken farm will produce a more beneficial reaction than killing him in his castle where he looks like a fallen king. It truly helps to erode the opposition when they have killed a true man of the people.”
“Good,” Straudner was again speaking. “My people, whom I have gathered into my inner circle, have already begun moving into place. The military and police barracks in and around the city will be placed on alert upon my speech to the populace. Regarding political opponents and other individuals who could be perceived as threats, I would prefer the militia you are furnishing deal with them. Arresting legitimate politicians and journalists would not endear our cause to the greater numbers in the country. It would be better if they were rounded up and eliminated by non-government entities. I will have the military attending to the riots and restoring order.”
Qalmini responded, “That is reasonable. With the president gone, and our combined forces firmly controlling the city and the countryside, how long do you think it will take to quell the opposition?”
“Quell, is not the word I would use,” Straudner spoke up. “The opposition I was concerned about is gone, and the rabble I’m dealing with now is so disorganized they will not be much of a threat once dealt with properly. We just need to apply pressure and move quickly to make sure no base exists for a resistance to form. My concern will be what else this patriotic militia is going to take control of.”
Cohen and the commandos listened in near shock as the plan was being unfolded. The coup was moving faster than they had anticipated. As the transmitter continued relaying the plans of Straudner and Qalmini, Cohen ruminated, Dayan bit his lip, and the fishing boat began to feel like a mortuary.
After an hour, the conversation finally ended. The two men were heard leaving the table and a few minutes later they heard the sound of the yacht’s engine purring to life. In the distance, they could see the yacht begin to move.
At first, Ripley wanted to catch up with them on the open water and eliminate them when they were the most vulnerable. Dayan cautioned against this plan, pointing out they didn’t have the necessary equipment. Plus, they may have heard more than two voices originally and hadn’t gotten a good look at who all was actually on board the yacht. It would have been a dangerous gamble to try something with so many variables working against them.
Ripley reluctantly agreed, as did Cohen and Vanderhook. They had what they’d come for. Oskar Straudner was their target, and he was the key figure in the Iranian’s plan. The question now was what was their next step?
Chapter 40
The Ronin Club looked deserted. Obviously, mid-afternoon was not the best time for the establishment. All the better, thought Nouri al’Marak Surriman as he watched from an alley across the way. On orders from Qalmini, he had been sent to Bogota to check up on a private intelligence firm that had been spying on them. The firm, through some debacle not explained to him, had gone up in smoke. The question of who they were working for still lingered.
Surriman figured that someone wouldn’t pay for that kind of intelligence unless they were planning something in response. He also believed that if they were using the resources of a private intelligence agency as opposed to a government intelligence organization, they were working outside of any government authority. It was a safe assumption that they were working through the black market to operate.
With nothing else to go on, he also assumed it was a safe guess that the people who had attacked the training camp a few weeks ago were, most likely, the same people who hired the intelligence firm. Since the attack and infiltration were done by people with extensive military training, this was an easy deduction for the Arab. These mysterious people threatening their operation had to have used mercenaries. Since this was not the type of business for legitimate private companies, the only possible avenue one could use to recruit such professionals was through an old-fashioned merc broker.
Prevailing upon his friends to tap into their contacts around the city, it wasn’t long before one name came to his attention ─ Ian Ferry or ‘Plūcker’ as he was called. Talking up several freelancers, Surriman learned that the Irishman had indeed been doing some recruiting only a few months earlier for some undisclosed job. Ian had been tight-lipped about who he was recruiting for, but the rumor was he had been working for some Middle-Eastern type. Several of the young guys looking for some exciting work hoped the Arab/Israeli stuff was finding its way to Colombia and would provide employment in an upcoming covert war. Surriman was sure he had found his avenue to locate their secret
enemy.
Surriman found that such Middle-Eastern types had been seen coming and going quite often over the last few months and were taken directly to the back rooms upon arrival. It was too coincidental ─ he had to be on the right track. Realizing this Irishman was no kid off the block and would likely be cognizant of any suspicious looking characters, the Arab chose to bide his time for a few days and watch the man’s establishment from a distance. His hopes were to catch sight of the types of men coming in or going out. After several days of watching without any luck, he decided to apply more direct means.
Keppa and Avi joined him for this expedition. He sent them to hire some local muscle for assistance. With their connections to the Bogota underworld, they soon returned with a couple of guys who were known to do freelance assassinations for the cartels. Directing them to case the place, Surriman was impressed when they returned with good, viable intelligence regarding the overlay of the premise. Their detail was exceptional, and their assessment of the Irishman and his staff was quite well done. They even noted that their target seemed to catch onto them relatively early. Both men cautioned their current employer not to send them in again unless the intention was more than reconnaissance.
Reviewing the information from the Colombians and from his own observations, Surriman hashed out his plan of attack. Standing across the street, the Arab casually sauntered toward the doors of the Ronin Club. Opening the door carefully, he stepped inside. Just as it had been described by his Colombians, the place looked like something out a spy novel. Aside from a few elderly looking pensioner types sitting at a table in a far-off corner, the bar was deserted. Taking a seat at the edge of the bar, he waited. It wasn’t long before the Irishman walked over to him. An immediate glare denoted the barkeep’s suspicions.
“What will ya have, sir?” Plūcker asked in his deep Fenian brogue.