by J E Higgins
“Gentlemen and ladies,” he spoke with the firm reserved voice of a man rising above it all. Now adopting his practiced presidential presence, he took control of the room. “I empathize with you all. As much as I have tried not to believe it, I must now reluctantly admit our country is in the grip of anarchy. I fear revolution is the very next step.”
The faces in the room were an assortment of terror and anger. It was the exact combination the politician was looking for. “Whatever action that is taken must not be separate from our security forces. However, this menace is one that I feel our president is refusing to acknowledge.”
“Perhaps, it is a nostalgic sympathy, as he, himself, has a similar past. I don’t know.” He paused to let the words sink in. The looks around the room told him what he wanted to know. “But I do know our country, like so many in South America, has a history. A history of embracing extreme leftist ideologies that only drag us into degradation. These extremist ideologies have always come in the form of violent armed insurrection. It is not just the violence that I feel may be looming, but the type of government that will inevitably follow if such violence is allowed to continue.”
The room was quiet. Everyone was soaking up the words of the man who had become their de facto leader. Their mindset was such that his words were being treated with the same reverence as Holy Scripture. Determining that he had done enough, the politician gave a nod and started out the door. Further words were not needed. Those at the table lived in the world of superior education and control of large businesses. They understood that nothing more need be said. The politician had told them enough; his actions said the rest.
Micha Cohen was neither jubilant nor disappointed. His mood was one of uncertainty. He and his men had succeeded in stopping the first wave of Arab militia from crossing into the country. They had destroyed the Arab transportation. It had been a good mission exceeding the expectations of both Israelis. However, they had lost most of their force in the process. Dayan estimated he had, at best, five men left. This calculation was predicated on the idea that those remaining still wished to remain in their employ ─ a question that had not yet been answered.
Cohen wanted to know who in the hell were these mystery rescuers who had miraculously appeared at the opportune moment. He wasn’t complaining. Given his subordinate’s report, they had been the reason the Arabs were completely driven off, and the rest of the mercenary team was able to escape. Their identity and the nature of their involvement still remained a mystery. All he could ascertain from Dayan’s report was they had apparently been a group with mutual interests ─ and, obviously, mutual intelligence connections. This group had been apprised of the Arabs and were led to the scene of battle by the young peasant working in Ms. Rios’ employ.
Then there was the question of Plūcker. His recent demise had been unfortunate. What was worse; he had been the logistics coordinator and recruiter for this whole operation. What did his death mean for them going forward? Dayan had explained that Plūcker’s former assistant had stepped up to take over for her former boss. In passing, the commando had also mentioned that she had been the Irishman’s barmaid for the most part. This did not sit well with the old man. He pondered their operation and how risky he felt the situation had become.
At the moment, Cohen was beside himself as he tried to make sense of the whole thing. In all his ruminations, he could deduce nothing as he felt he was working with too much speculation and not enough hard facts. For a veteran intelligence officer, it was an appalling position to be in. The katsa wanted to investigate the matter further. The men were recuperating, and Dayan had no sooner delivered his report before he was off to meet with the Guardians of Israel.
Cohen, in Dayan’s absence, had started working with the young radicals as they collected intelligence and maintained surveillance on the Cuban intelligence man. He didn’t want to involve these young hoodlums in any of this business. However, as Dayan had pointed out, they would not go away and would only be a threat to the mission if allowed to work on their own.
The other problem was the assassination itself. Cohen had realized the need to blind the Iranians by taking out their intelligence source. What concerned Dayan was while his mercenaries would have no trouble killing a bunch of armed men illegally crossing a border, they would not be open to the idea of a cold, calculated assassination. And, after the recent battle, they would not be fit to carry it out in any case. This left the radicals as a necessary force. Provided they could be controlled and listen to orders, they were really the only solution to finding the help needed to complete this operation.
The katsa didn’t like the situation, but the idea of letting Mendoza continue to operate against them was even worse. Nursing a glass of iced tea, he sank slowly into a chair in what was serving as his office. He looked out at the skyline-defining the mountains. He was playing a dangerous game ─ but it wasn’t his first. Like so many other situations he found himself in, it was the rush of the risk…why he lived.
Ali Anwar al Qalmini rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. The news from Major Akim was distressing. Their first wave of troops had been driven back by some unknown force. The major’s report spoke of a professionally set ambush that took them by surprise. This led Qalmini to assume that it was those meddlesome Israelis. Most likely, it was this Kafka Dayan fellow who had directed it.
Then the major went on to explain in his debriefing about the sudden appearance of an unexplained army that joined the fight, overwhelmed them and drove them back across the border. In his mind, Qalmini recognized this mystery army could not have been the Israelis alone. The Major sent a small reconnaissance team to investigate a few days later. He found out it was the peasants from the local communities that had armed themselves and formed their own self-defense force. Someone had alerted them about a body of armed men secretly moving across the border, and they reacted in a most unexpected way.
Sitting in his office, Qalmini was beside himself. He was pleased that his initial reservation about their politician, Oskar Straudner, betraying them had proven false. That meant the operation could still move forward. He was, however, dismayed over the unforeseen problem the local militiamen presented ─ it was a dangerous new complication.
“I had planned to have to deal with security forces, issues with destabilizing the government, the possibility of that creep Straudner fucking us over,” he said half chuckling, as he looked at Surriman standing quietly in the corner. “But I could not have anticipated a bunch of farmers being such a pain in the ass in this plan.” The Iranian lowered his head and began to breathe deeply.
“So, what’s the next step?” Surriman asked, emerging from the corner of the office to approach the Iranian.
Raising his head, Qalmini looked over at the young Arab now standing directly in front of his desk. “The problem right now is this fucking peasant militia is in our way. But…” the Iranian waved his finger. “We can deal with them in the future. Our vehicles are shot up, and even if our men had gotten across the border, our transportation plan is ruined. We need new vehicles right now! That is our priority.”
“Well,” Surriman spoke up. “Do we obtain more the same way we did last time?”
The Iranian nodded his head, “We have to.”
Chapter 50
The street housing Bolivar Investments & Acquisitions was eerily deserted at 0400hrs. Dayan and Solomon Gold casually watched from across the street on the far side of the coffee shop. Standing in the shadows, the two looked as if they were having a smoke after a night out before going home and sleeping it all off. They had drenched themselves with whiskey to add to the effect. Dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and wearing baseball caps, neither man looked at all out of the ordinary.
Solomon Gold leaned against the wall next to Dayan. They patiently watched the Bolivar building searching for irregularities that might give them an indication of a trap or change in pattern from what they had been able to track. After twenty minutes Solomon
nodded signaling that everything was good. Pulling a small disposable lighter from his coat pocket, he ignited a small flame that he passed his hand over. It was the rehearsed signal to the rest of his group waiting several meters down the street hidden in the darkness.
“Well, are you ready?” Dayan asked casually.
Gold took a deep breath and nodded trying to play it cool. He had promised himself he would be a professional for this. Not only because he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of the veteran Special Forces soldier, but because he couldn’t fail again. Too much was at stake.
“Are they ready?” the Israeli asked nodding toward the assembled team down the street.
Gold nodded again. “They know what’s at stake.”
With no more words to be said, the two men began sauntering across the street. The cameras from the investment office covering the street would only show two drunkards on a binge. The road remained empty, no vehicles approached from either direction. The two men took their time. They just completed crossing the street when the rest of their team, a group of four young men, began to follow. Like the two ahead of them, the quartet moved as though they were friends enjoying the last vestiges of the night.
Gold led the way as he and Dayan pretended to stumble along. Having looked at the intelligence gained from Gold and his people, Dayan developed a plan. For over a week, he and these men had rehearsed this operation. The radicals were highly impressed with the Israeli, who quickly caused them to realize they really were novices. Dayan was equally impressed by the sincerity and commitment the radicals displayed during training and learning how to collect intelligence. Both Gold and the men he chose readily absorbed all the training tips and advice Dayan and Cohen had offered. Now, they were performing with discipline and sticking to the plan as rehearsed.
Approaching the back-alley Gold had recced a few weeks earlier, the two men sauntered in slowly maintaining their drunkard persona. Gold directed the way as the two traversed the alley. Even in the darkness, as the two men pretended to joke with each other, Dayan could feel the growing tension in the young man. It had felt like hours, even though it was but a few minutes when they finally reached the back door Gold had previously tested. Knowing that a camera was observing them, the two went about as planned. Gold leaned up against the wall, while Dayan pretended to start urinating.
As expected, it was only seconds before the door flew open and a large man burst outside to confront them. “What the hell do you think you are doing?” he growled, walking over to confront the Israeli.
Dayan continued facing the wall, his hands held down by his crotch. Gold approached the man trying to intervene. “Hey man, my friend suddenly had to empty his tank, ya know.”
The large man turned his attention to the younger man now standing close to him. As he was about to speak, Dayan pulled a small, double-bladed knife from under his belt. Turning slightly, he took a few steps toward the large man now completely occupied with the young radical. When he was within arms distance, in one move that only lasted a second, the commando grabbed the man’s head with one hand, while driving the knife blade deep into his brain stem. The man died instantly and silently.
Gold, nearly petrified, stood as he watched the Israeli’s cold precision. However, he quickly regained his composure and continued trying to explain himself to the now deceased guard. As he did so, he slowly stumbled back until he had a clear view of the inside of the building.
At the same time, Dayan quietly lowered the body to the ground. He rose up looking at the radical who was now clumsily raising his hand to his chin and extending his index finger pointing half-heartedly to the left. Gold then lowered his hand to his chest in an equally clumsy way, whereupon he extended his index and middle fingers in a scratching motion. It was the code the two had worked out. Pointing to the left with his index finger told the group following them to go left upon entering the building. The two fingers across the chest meant there were two more guards.
As Dayan rose to an erect position, he carefully reached under his oversized leather jacket as if straightening out his belt. Lowering his hands to his sides, he held a small Beretta 32 caliber pistol with a silencer. Slowly, he brought the weapon up under his arms as he leaned down pretending to be hung over. Shuffling toward the door, he saw two suited figures standing several meters away talking to each other. Both were holding coffee cups, neither one was paying the slightest attention to the door or the man now stumbling through it. It was early in the morning, near the end of their shift as Dayan had anticipated. Besides, the guards spent so many weeks on the job with no action, their attention was elsewhere.
It took a second for one of the guards to realize the man in the doorway was not his comrade. He waved wildly attempting to alert his partner who was walking over to escort the drunkard out. That guard was completely surprised when he took the ‘drunk’s’ arm and found himself staring at a small pistol. Tucking the barrel of the weapon tightly under the guard’s chin, the Israeli fired two shots in rapid succession. Both rounds exploded out the back of the guard’s head painting the wall behind him with a large splatter of blood. The first guard watched his comrade fall not feeling two rounds entering into his own skull.
The whole action seemed to be frozen in time but had actually only taking a few seconds. Gold was again taken aback by the cold precision of the Israeli, as he so rapidly executed all three guards in what felt like the blink of an eye.
Turning back to Gold, Dayan saw that the young man was in a state of shock. It was clear he had never seen someone killed so cavalierly or efficiently.
“Call your friends,” the Israeli said calmly. Despite having killed the first guard in front of the surveillance camera, no alarm had been sounded. Dayan assumed they had just seen the totality of the building’s security force.
His wits returning, Gold pulled his lighter from his pocket and proceeded as if lighting a cigarette. Moments later, the other four men in the alley joined them. Dayan stood beside the building standing watch as the rest of the team moved inside.
The other four members came in carrying large knapsacks. They joined the Israeli now standing over the bodies of the two guards. They took up positions next to him while Gold dragged the body of the third guard farther into the building, shutting the door behind him. The other four team members were aghast as they took in all the blood and corpses. Dayan snapped his fingers loudly to get everyone’s attention. “We don’t have time for this!” he barked.
With everyone inside, the team moved to another door. They found themselves in a well-appointed hallway lined with expensive leather furniture and collectible works of art. Continuing through the seemingly endless hallway, they reached the main reception area of the building.
Lowering their shoulder bags, they each pulled out a compact Uru model, 9mm caliber, submachine gun. They were additional stock Raizza was able to get her hands on when acquiring weapons in Brazil. They were acquired from a well-stocked inventory on a farm whose owner was a former army officer. That officer had taken part in Operation Condor back in the eighties. With no current fear of a communist revolution in sight, the old officer was quite willing to part with the weapons for a decent price.
Dayan was planning both the border and Mendoza operations. The weapons would be useful in one or both of the other raids. Hiding them in crates of machine parts, Raizza arranged to have them moved onto a cargo ship bound for a maintenance company Plūcker had occasionally worked in Buenos Aires. On this occasion, the company owner received a large number of machine parts at a very favorable discount. In return, he asked no questions nor made any protests when unexplained figures showed up and snagged one of the crates conveniently left detached from the others.
The men placed their weapons on the floor before digging back into their bags. For magazines and ammunition, Raizza had tried to follow her current clients’ wishes in procuring a sizable quantity of hollow point 9x19m Parabellum subsonic ammunition and suppressors. But not un
derstanding the complexities involved with matching suppressors to weapons, she had gotten a smaller size of suppressor than what was required. Although disappointed, Dayan was pleased with hollow point ammo.
Gold sat at the security station around a large, polished mahogany desk. Checking video feeds from cameras throughout the building, he concluded the building was unoccupied. The other four men finished loading magazines. They handed weapons to Gold and Dayan along with three additional magazines which the two men quickly placed in their coat pockets. It was for that reason that Dayan ordered all members of the assassination team to wear oversized jackets with large exterior pockets. That way they could better conceal weapons while moving about the streets and have space for additional ammunition.
The Israeli checked to ensure the back door had been shut. He tested it to guarantee it wouldn’t jam at an inopportune moment. He had seen too many well-planned operations fall apart because of missing small details. He was adamant that they had a good escape route established. Immediate exfiltration was a critical point. The prospect of a calm escape after completing a mission was vastly different than trying to escape under extremely close fire.
Meanwhile, two of the bodies were dragged down the hall and placed in upright sitting positions. Dayan’s plans called for this to be the first thing Mendoza and his security detail would see. If it worked, it would give the assassination team an edge. It was also to their advantage that the front doors of the building were solid oak, limiting visibility into the hallway.
Due to the inexperience of his operatives in actual combat, the Israeli was taking no chances. From the intelligence acquired, the men surrounding the Cuban were all former members of Argentinian security services. His team was a bunch of angry young men barely out of boyhood.