by J E Higgins
“Just a beer, thanks,” Surriman replied, nonchalantly. Ignoring the Irishman, he focused his attention on a bowl of peanuts an arm’s length away. The Irishman’s obvious, assessing gaze was not lost on him.
Reaching for a long glass mug, the Irishman tipped it under one of the tap nozzles. The sound of the tap gurgled as the liquid poured into the glass. Seconds later, Surriman was staring at a mug filled with a gold colored brew.
Plūcker had known the man for only a few minutes and determined he was of Middle-Eastern descent and no run of the mill patron. This man had seen action and lots of it. Most likely, he was a special operations type by the way he carried himself. Not wanting to engage in any conversation with the stranger, he turned and started to walk away.
“Ah, one more thing,” the Arab, waved him down again.
The Irishman turned to face the customer. “I’m looking for work, and I was wondering who’s hiring around here?”
Nodding his head slowly, Plūcker responded. “For someone with your skills, there is not much available right now.”
“I haven’t told you my skills,” the Arab replied with a smile painted across his face.
Plūcker licked his lips. “Oh, boyo, you’ve told me plenty. I can tell by your looks, your casual demeanor, and the way you sized me up just now. You’re fresh off a battlefield. My guess, commin’ home from the war over in the desert lands, Iraq or Syria, maybe. You approached this place slow and cautious. And, you scoped this establishment out before sitting down ─ as if you wanted to see the resistance you’d be up against if there was trouble. My guess is you already have work in the field you’re lookin’ for.”
“Possibly. Then you might be a little paranoid from years fighting in the streets of Belfast, or was it Portadown? Then again, it could be from too much swimming in the pool of sharks around here,” the Arab replied a look of arrogant amusement on his face.
The Irishman was sure the Arab was no kid off the block. Just as he was equally sure he didn’t like him. Moving closer to the unwanted patron, Plūcker assumed a more intimidating pose. He also looked closely to see if he could note any potential weapons on the man. He couldn’t see any.
Surriman maintained his calm demeanor even as the barkeep neared him. Slowly reaching into his inside jacket pocket, he pulled out his cell phone. Pressing on the plastic coating, he looked to catch a text message he just received. It was from Keppa informing him that they were in position. Placing the phone back in his pocket, he looked back at the figure towering over him.
“I think you’d better leave now,” the Irishman said in a low commanding voice.
Unintimidated, the Arab glanced back at the barkeep. “I haven’t finished my drink or my business.”
At that moment, the tension was interrupted by the sound of a loud bang resonating from the back of the bar. For a few brief seconds, Plūcker was distracted. Realizing something was happening, he turned his back on the Arab. He started to unfold his arms with the intent to attack. Suddenly, he was stopped by the sound of two loud explosions going off in rapid succession. He noticed the Arab had one hand under the counter from which a plume of gray smoke began to emerge. He unexpectedly detected the smell he had become all too familiar with over the years ─ the odor that came from ignited gunpowder. Lowering his head, he saw his white apron turning red with his blood. Lifting his head, he saw the Arab slide out of his chair and step back. In his hand, he held a gun. It was a gray, Sig model .45 caliber.
Assuming that the Irishman would have noticed the weapon hidden under his jacket, Surriman had moved his weapon to his belt at the small of his back. When the Irishman’s back was turned, Surriman carefully slipped the gun in the bend of his knee to make it more accessible when the Irishman was distracted.
Coming to his senses, Plūcker realized there were gunshots going off in the back room. He began to fear for his waitress, who had been working there.
“Friends of mine,” Surriman interrupted his thoughts, “just clearing the backrooms while I keep you busy here.”
Plūcker began to feel the pain of his wounds, and they were excruciating. He looked over at the Arab and started for him. But the sight of the raised gun pointed in his direction stopped him cold.
Surriman took a quick glance over at the two pensioners. They were cowering in the corner, their heads turned, hoping not to be seen as potential witnesses to the violence. Confident they were no threat, he focused on the barkeep, who was hunched over in pain. “Alright, I had hoped not to involve you in this business. But I’m pressed for time. I need to know who you have been recruiting mercenaries for.”
“I-I don’t know…,” Plūcker tried to speak but he was cut off.
“Please don’t give me that shit,” the Arab said calmly. “If I believed that, I wouldn’t be here. Start again.”
“Go to hell!!! Argh,” Plūcker attempted to speak.
His tough words this time met with another explosive sound of a gunshot. This time the bullet was fired through his shoulder.
“This macho shit is getting old,” Surriman said, still keeping a cool demeanor. “While I have never enjoyed torture or needless killing, I honestly can’t say that I feel too guilty about torturing you. My understanding is that you were with Billy Wright and his Loyalist Volunteer Force when they broke with their parent UVF.”
Plūcker grunted bitterly but gave no response. Surriman continued, “I wouldn’t speak with pride either. Your concept of war was to unleash unbridled terror upon Irish Catholics in the hopes they’d come forward and give up the local IRA in your area. How many innocents died because of your mere suspicions? People who just wanted to live their lives in peace, and you sucked them into your violence?”
“We were soldiers fighting a war!” The Irishman growled bitterly.
Surriman smirked. “That’s what they all say in the end, isn’t it? It was a war, you wouldn’t understand. Well, I have seen war and a lot of it. I still saw my enemy by what they did on the battlefield, not what religious or ethnic group they belonged to. I never deliberately killed those who were simply caught in a conflict they’d rather not be a part of.”
The pain was faster in coming as the Irishman’s shoulder was now feeling like it was on fire. Surriman moved up against the wall to prevent anyone from sneaking up on him or getting a view of his victim. He also had a better view of the room and a clear view to the outside. He heard the movement of his men as they made their way to him.
“Again, who were you recruiting for a few months ago?” Surriman asked. “And your tough guy shit is going to make things worse for you, I promise.”
Plūcker was no longer replying to his tormentor. He began to heave deep breaths in between gritting his teeth in agony. At that moment, the back doors flew open and out came Avi with one of his Colombians in tow.
“We found some stuff,” Avi said as he met eyes with his boss. “They have documents and dossiers on some of our people. These guys have definitely been investigating us. What’s more, they have documents that were clearly stolen from us ─ reports, timelines.”
“Anything giving us a clue to who it is we’re dealing with?” Surriman asked somberly.
Avi shrugged. “We haven’t had a chance to look through everything thoroughly.”
Surriman said nothing. He pointed his finger at the Irishman where he knelt on the floor. With a nod, Avi waved at the Colombian to deal with the barkeep. As ordered, the Colombian walked over to the injured man. Producing a menacing looking knife, he wasted no time as he jabbed it deep into the Irishman’s cheek.
Plūcker howled in pain, as he fought to remove the painful object from the side of his face. With one arm wounded and his strength greatly diminished from loss of blood, he was too weak to fight. The Colombian easily overpowered him while continuing to dig the knife ever deeper.
Surriman watched the event before him with a look of indifference. His experience had taught him that torture could lead to praying on the conscience or be
easily enjoyed as payback if not regarded entirely as a tool. He had seen so much barbarity in Iraq and Syria. It had not been lost on him how easily men could get out of control wanting to exact vengeance for their friends and comrades. In doing so, they became embroiled in their own personal affairs and forgot the purpose of the exercise. He had also seen the same thing with those of a supposed more timid nature decrying humanitarian morality when information was desperately needed. How many had Surriman seen die because civil methods of interrogation were ineffective and untimely? No, for him torture had to be a tool with a purpose. That purpose must be at the forefront of the mission at all times.
“Alright. Alright. I’ll talk,” Plūcker gasped out. Blood was oozing from the side of his face like a red waterfall. “It was some joker named Mujeeb. Don’t think that’s his real name, but he’s the one who hired me. Said he was lookin’ for some top-notch soldiers for hire. The way he was talkin’, I figured it was some revolution lookin’ to flare up somewhere,” Plūcker looked up to see a stoic face from the Arab looking back at him. The expression sent a message of nonbelief.
“Keep trying,” Surriman replied. His voice was calm and reserved. “You chose a foreign name. That means you already know that we did not find you randomly. We have a pretty good idea who hired you. Let’s try again.”
The Colombian began twisting the knife, creating excruciating pain for the Irishman. With teeth gritted, Plūcker remained still.
“I understand the professional courtesy,” the Arab spoke up. “You’re a broker of troops on the black market. Men, professional soldiers, trust you and your word in this murky business you’re enmeshed in. I’m not asking for their names. I am asking just for the names of those who are employing them. If you’re hoping that you’ll bleed out before we get really nasty, understand something. I’ve worked with all sorts of battle wounds under much worse conditions than here. I can and will keep you alive, if necessary.”
Surriman walked over to where the barkeep was kept kneeling. Extending his hand, he gripped the man’s wounded shoulder. The additional pain was too much for the Irishman, and he began to wail loudly.
“I don’t relish this, the Arab said softly. “I don’t see this as your war. But, you have become involved in it, and I will do what I must for my side. Please know this. Even if I have to extend these methods to that young waitress who does so much for you, I will.”
“Micha Cohen!!” Plūcker finally cried out ─ his weakness now discovered.
“Good,” Surriman replied. “I believe you; keep talking.”
Pale-faced, with bullets of sweat running down his forehead mixing with the reddish pool of blood forming across his shirt, the Irishman conceded defeat. “He’s a rogue Israeli spy who’s mounting a war against the Iranians here in South America.”
“Not good enough,” Surriman countered. “If that were true, he has much bigger and more visible targets that would debilitate Iran’s overall presence in this region. No, he targeted our mission specifically.”
“He knows about Uruguay,” Plūcker managed to hiss out, as he felt himself getting colder. “They know about the overthrow.”
Surriman gnashed his teeth. “This Micha Cohen. If he is a spy, he wouldn’t have had the commando training that infiltrated the camp. Who is leading his assault operations?”
“Kafka Dayan,” the Irishman said. This time with genuine tears in his eyes. The weight of his betrayal was heavy on him. “He’s an Israeli soldier; a commando Cohen uses for missions. He leads the mercenary force they have.”
Surriman maintained his composure. “How do you contact them?”
Taking another deep breath, Plūcker fought to get the words out. “He shows up and works out of here when he’s in town.”
The Arab thought to ask more questions. But, looking at the pale figure slowly sinking to the floor, he concluded that further interrogation was pointless. Reaching into the Irishman’s clothes, Surriman eventually found the man’s phone. Handing it to Avi, he instructed him to have all the numbers checked and go into the office to search for any disposable phones. Pulling the knife from the Irishman’s cheek, Surriman rolled the weakened man’s head over and, with precision, launched the sharpened steel directly into the man’s brain stem. A quick jerk and the Irishman was dead.
Standing up, the Arab looked over at the two pensioners. They had stayed true to their unspoken deal keeping their attention averted from the violent business. Deciding to keep his part of the deal, Surriman left the same way he had come in. It was not a professional move, but killing innocents was not something he liked doing.
Meeting Keppa and the other Colombian in one back room, the group quickly debriefed each other before progressing to the other backroom offices. There, they grabbed all the documents they could lay their hands on. Exiting out their initial entry point, it was only a few minutes before they returned to the bar, each carrying fuel containers. The original plan had been to blow up this enemy headquarters with explosives. However, it was deemed too risky moving around Bogota with an explosive device. Not to mention, it was an unnecessary risk trying to obtain a device in such unfamiliar waters as Colombia. Burning the place to the ground would accomplish the same results with fewer complications.
The Negress watched from the small opening in the rafters as the assailants drenched the back office of the establishment with gasoline. Having worked in various capacities for her boss, she had developed and rehearsed an escape plan that one day would become necessary. She watched as they set a room ablaze and made their exit. When she was sure they were gone for good, she quickly slid out from her hiding place and made her way to the floor. The flames were spreading wildly through the lake of fuel that floated around the office.
Leaping from one table to the next and inching along the walls, she choked as the smoke grew thicker and more suffocating. Fumbling clumsily, she felt around until she felt the edge of the door jam. Sliding further, she almost missed the steel door knobs. With a turn, she flung open the doors and quickly slipped through to what she hoped was the outside.
Her first needed gulp of air was refreshing ─ like water to a parched man. There was still smoke in the air, but the fire had not yet completely spread. Quickly, the Negress raced down the hall to where a decrepit looking door lay partially hidden behind a pile of boxes. The boxes appeared full and heavy, but she threw them off to the side with ease. Reaching into her pocket, she produced a set of keys. Frantically, she sorted through them until she found a small, round one. Sliding it into the lock, she turned the key and flung the door wide open.
The room was a little cubbyhole of storage space. At a glance, it looked like nothing more than accumulated junk. However, a small metallic box neatly tucked between a box of forgotten clothes and some old bar equipment caught her eye. Grabbing it, she wasted no time as she darted back toward the bar. Already the smoke in the room was becoming thicker. In the brief time it had taken her to retrieve the box, the temperature of the room had risen dramatically.
She was relieved to see the entire place was now deserted. At that point, she knew it was too early to come out of hiding. It was certainly too dangerous to go outside ─ not knowing if the killers might still be in the vicinity. But the fire was rapidly gaining. She could feel the heat, smell the choking odor, and hear the crackly sound of the flames that were turning the building into a hellish inferno.
Tucking the box under her arm she made for the most direct escape route ─ main doors. Thrusting the thick barriers open, her instincts warned her to prepare for danger on the other side. These killers were professionals, from what she had seen. They were not the type to be easily intimidated or inclined to leave loose ends. The feeling of the afternoon sun coupled with the relief of fresh air was welcome. Her eyes darted from side to side as she scanned the streets and buildings around her. She did not stop to collect herself or assess her surroundings. Her legs kept moving swiftly as she continued to run. At that point, all she knew was that pr
ofessionals had attacked her place of work and now she needed to be somewhere to hide and get off the streets.
Surriman stood on the street just out of sight. He watched as the young Negress ran the opposite way down. Behind him were the rest of his team waiting for his next order. No one said anything. When she had gone some distance, he dispatched the two Colombians to follow her. They took off at a fast-paced walk keeping their distance but keeping her in sight.
From his previous reconnaissance of the bar, Surriman knew the Negress was inside. Given other gathered information, he presumed she was much more than a barmaid. She had skillfully hidden from them during the attack, and it was obvious she was well versed in her employer’s business affairs. When it became apparent Plūcker wasn’t going to cooperate, his plan was to coax the barmaid out and see who she went running to. The Arab assumed that if these Israeli’s were important enough for Plūcker to suffer severe torture, it would be likely his assistant would try to make contact with them.
Instructing Avi to report back to their base camp with the retrieved documents and an account of what happened, Surriman sent Keppa to recruit more men. He cautioned Keppa to prepare for the men who were likely to be professionals and be sure to recruit only the best, most experienced men he could find and offer them $250,000 apiece. It was expensive, but the work was guaranteed to be dangerous.
The Arab was confident that, if his assumptions proved right, the results would be an inevitable bloodbath.
Chapter 41
Dayan didn’t like it. Even though he had expressed this opinion several times, he was expressing it again. He knew it was fractious to continue arguing, but the situation went against all his professional instincts and training. Now, he and Micha Cohen were sitting on a bench in a barn-like structure in the middle of a park just outside of Buenos Aires.
“Cheer up,” Cohen ordered. “Initially they wanted to have this meeting in the back corner of some low lit bar.”