The Montevideo Game

by J E Higgins

  The Contessa put her finger on her chin. “How fast?”

  “Within the next week at the latest,” Qalmini replied, trying to mask his nervous desperation.

  “It was a slow and methodical process under normal circumstances,” the Contessa said, assessing the problem. “With everything going on right now, sudden moves of this sort will definitely attract a lot of attention.”

  The Iranian pursed his lips. “I’m aware of the risks and difficulties involved. I’m willing to be quite liberal with expenses and fees to procure your services.”

  Bringing her hand to rest against her cheek, the Contessa pondered the Iranian’s proposal. Finally, she turned to face him. “It won’t be easy, and I won’t make any guarantees.”

  Qalmini nodded.

  She continued. “If I’m entirely successful, my price will be a million in U.S. currency. In addition to all incurred expenses.”

  “If not entirely successful?” The Iranian asked suspiciously.

  “I’m a free market businesswoman,” the Contessa smiled. “The million is contingent upon meeting all your needs. If I fall short, we will discuss, any discounts you’ll be entitled to then.”

  The Iranian knew he was in a tight position, with little room to negotiate. He nodded his head. “Under the circumstances, it’s fair. But please understand, time is of the essence.” Sliding his hand toward the Contessa, he raised it to reveal a small disposable phone. “I don’t want to waste time with the usual communication methods. This phone is from the location of interest. It has a pre-dialed number already in it. Call it, if you should have any problems, or when you have what I need.”

  With that, the Iranian slowly rose to his feet and walked to the other end of the pew. His security detail rose one or two at a time and casually followed their master out of the church.

  Lowering her small white purse next to the phone, she slipped the small device into it. Then, with the Iranians gone, both she and Illana slipped out of their pews and started toward the large double doors at the front of the church.

  “It just so happens I may have the means of obtaining what we need very quickly,” Illana quietly whispered as she followed her employer.

  “Good,” the Contessa replied. “I’m interested in your ideas.”

  Oskar Straudner didn’t have to guess who it was once he heard the reports from the police commander. A few nights before, an unidentified group of armed men attempted to sneak across the border. They were seemingly stopped by another equally anonymous group of armed locals who gathered quickly, confronted them in a remote location, and fought them off. What the police found were the bodies of what appeared to be individuals of Arab extraction. The police commander is working on the theory they were either terrorists or bandits from the lawless borderlands. Clearly, they were attempting to take advantage of the country’s chaotic situation to loot the local communities.

  The politician knew all too well who the unidentified invaders were. He fumed angrily over the news. His Iranian allies had been stopped at the border by a few local peasants. It didn’t speak very highly of their army that was supposed to help seize an entire country when they couldn’t even defeat farmers with guns. What was more disconcerting was that the militia augmentation he was counting on to secure his position was not moving into place as planned.

  Straudner thanked the commander for the informal briefing as he cordially ushered him out the door. Now, alone in his office, he began to pace nervously. What did all this mean? Was the operation now quashed? Was his Iranian support gone? Why had they not made contact to inform him of this setback? Disaster? What was he to make of this? Worse yet, if these additional forces weren’t in the country after all that had been arranged, would he be on his own to carry out the takeover?

  Nervously deliberating, the politician paced about his office trying to analyze the facts in an attempt to formulate his next move. Slowly and deliberately placing one foot in front of the other as he walked along the rich green carpet and blue Oriental rug, he found himself assessing the various contents of his office. The vase dating back to the Italian Renaissance, the polished oak table he used for meetings off to the side. It was as if his mind was determined to think of anything except the matter at hand.

  Finally, after considering the issue, he concluded only one option remained. He needed to reach out for help to determine the disposition of the Iranians. It was not lost on the politician that even if he made contact, anything his Middle-Eastern backers explained would be, at best, dubious. What was important, at this point, was that they were still approachable. They had left a number, presumably to a burner phone, to be reached in Buenos Aires in case of an emergency. If he used the number and contact, he knew the operation was still a go. If the number was dead with no answer at all, it would tell him the Iranians had aborted the operation, and he was now on his own.

  Knowing Ulbrict Laudman was still in Montevideo, Straudner reached for his phone and proceeded to call a number he had been given to an emergency disposable phone. The deep voice on the other end barely had a chance to answer ‘hello’ before the politician cut in. Straudner wasted no time with pleasantries before ordering the German to take the next flight out to Buenos Aires. Laudman already had the number for the Iranian contact as well as the code words and phrases worked out to establish identity. It was understood early on that he was to be the politician’s buffer.

  The phone conversation lasted less than a minute with Laudman promising to be on a plane within the next hour. Alone in his office, Straudner took a seat, not at his desk, but the seat at the far end of his oak meeting table. Reaching for the large wooden humidor placed in the center of the table, he opened the lid and brought out a short tipped Meduro wrap Robusto cigar. It was an Aging Room brand. Clipping the tip, he lit the end with the gold lighter he kept in the inside pocket of his jacket. The first exhale released a thick, fluffy cloud that danced innocently before rising in the atmosphere.

  It was the cold, sour feeling of vulnerability. The politician was at a moment feeling very exposed. He wasn’t sure what his next move should be. Nor was he exactly sure what he had to work with. It was a position he had spent his entire life trying to avoid. He had always been so careful, taking only risks that were perfectly calculated and necessary for his gain ─ either financially or politically. He had always ensured to have something, a strategy, a proverbial back door to escape through, or some form of insurance to guarantee his protection. Not this time. This time he had gambled in a dangerous game of intrigue and treason ─ a game in which he had been assured of an ally with a great deal invested, an investment that insured they would have a strong commitment to this endeavor. It was too late to go back now.

  In his mind, he began to consider alternatives. Somewhere, lazily gazing at another bluish-grey cloud of smoke, he realized another option. If his Iranian backers withdrew, would his wealthy supporters among the country’s now terrified elite fill the void? After all, many people already believed there was a vigilante force in existence engaged in combating the leftist terrorists. If Laudman could find mercenaries fast enough to build at least the image of a group, it would give the elite a cause to help finance. It would also serve to head off the security forces from any perceived power grab of their own.

  Straudner ran several scenarios through his head. His conclusion was that none could even be initiated until he heard from the Iranians. Sitting back in the hardwood chair, he puffed quietly on his cigar, the next move was uncertain.

  Chapter 53

  Kafka Dayan’s eyes darted from picture to picture. He stood before the assorted collection of surveillance photographs spread before him across a long folding table. They were all of Saratoga Manor ─ the location where Oskar Straudner would be meeting with the leaders of his conspiracy. Alyssa Rios had come through one last time before she and her assistant vanished completely. A professional, who was clearly no stranger to planning commando operations, she had managed to capture precise ph
otos of every aspect of the surrounding grounds and every angle of the building itself. The Israeli marveled at the detail and could only wonder how she had managed to pull off this job off.

  In addition to the photographs, she had also provided a virtual treasure trove of supporting documents detailing the makeup and behaviors of the local populace. The report covered everything from police patrol schedules and habits to information on a pair of nearby busybodies who kept suspicious watch over all abnormal elements in their neighborhood. Several sketches and official city maps depicting the greater neighborhood area and transit system had also been provided. There were biographies of the owner of the estate, Colonel Juan Rega and his family, as well as the tiny staff that maintained his premises.

  “It all looks good,” Darren Ripley commented as he viewed the photographs from the other side of the table. “From what I’m seeing, there is no security aside from the normal police patrols. Plus, we have quite a few exit and entry points leading to the target that we can exploit to our benefit.”

  “What we don’t know,” Dayan replied, picking up one of the photos, “is whether or not they’ll have additional security on this particular night?”

  “Even if they do, they’ll have too much ground to cover,” Oskar Perez spoke up as he walked up next to Dayan. “I mean, the neighboring estates seem to be equally unguarded. This gives us the opportunity to approach our targets from multiple directions.”

  “Possibly,” the Israeli ruminated. “They don’t have armed guards. But,” he walked around the table to a small refrigerator to retrieve a can of beer. “They do have a homogenous and tight community. People who could decide to call the police. They could even call their neighbor directly to let him know he’s got strange people running around outside his home. But that also means we aren’t focused on armed security. We’re mostly worried about neighbors whose actions could create unknown problems that could throw off our plans.”

  Since Plūcker’s bar, the Ronin Club, was no longer habitable, Riazza had succeeded in finding an alternative location, a small warehouse on the Montevideo pier. The owner was willing to take cash and the simple explanation that some importers needed a temporary space to house merchandise they were bringing from another country. The property owner found the answer sufficient after she handed him a considerable amount of cash he happily didn’t have to report. Even if he was suspicious, the police were too busy with the rash of political unrest in the city to care about a petty smuggling operation.

  Bursting into the room, Micha Cohen interrupted their planning. He had a grim look on his face. “Kafka!” the katsa snapped. “I need to speak with you privately.”

  With a disinterested shrug, the commando casually followed his commander. The calm subtlety of Dayan’s demeanor only served to infuriate the already agitated Cohen. “I have just finished following the aftermath of your little excursion,” were the first words out of the katsa’s mouth once they were out of earshot of the others. “The Argentinian press is exploding with stories about your mass assassination. They are referring to the horrid act of terror you unleashed!”

  Dayan looked around the room. The rest of the team was busily going over the intelligence documents spread across the table. “Do they have any definite conclusions yet? Or is it all just a massive uproar?”

  Cohen pursed his lips. “So far, they are just discussing your actions as an egregious act of terrorism, which is what they think it amounts to.” The katsa shook his head with his face full of concern. “However, that’s only what the official reports are saying. I haven’t heard anything regarding what the police actually know. Since the loss of Rabbi Kovinski, I haven’t any source that can get inside their security forces.”

  Dayan shook his head. “So, they could just as well speculate this is the beginning of left-wing political violence pouring over from neighboring Uruguay. Then again, they could be hot on the trail of our Jewish radical friends. We knew when we carried this out it was going to be loud, and it was going to get a lot of attention. The hope is that our young friends don’t make any mistakes and expose themselves while the country is up in arms.”

  “Did you make sure to cover your tracks?” Cohen sighed showing signs of exhaustion.

  “The weapons were carved up into pieces and scattered all over a scrapyard. The remaining ammunition is in the ocean, and the vehicles and any clothing used in the attack were burned, then buried in a remote location,” Dayan replied as he fired a questioning look at the katsa. “Whatever you may think, we did have missions like this back in the unit.”

  Slowly exhaling, the katsa nodded slightly. “I know,” he looked up at the commando and met his eyes with a proud, fatherly look. “It is just that we are playing a dangerous game with a dangerous adversary at our heels. This attack brings a great deal of unwanted attention from all the wrong places.”

  “I agree,” Dayan replied, his eyes revealing the soul of a man tired from all the action and intrigue. “But, Mendoza was the reason for that danger, and we had to eliminate him if we wanted to cripple our adversary’s intelligence network. Otherwise, how long would it have been until they found us? Now, they either move blindly, or they approach Iran’s formal intelligence network and risk alerting the western powers to their activities.”

  “It’s doubtful they’ll do that. It would mean exposing Iran’s connection to this whole affair.” Cohen folded his arms as he pondered the situation carefully. “The concern is those young hoodlums you used. They’re not professionals. They haven’t been trained for this and have no real experience in our world. I worry it will only be a matter of time before the police catch up with them ─ then we’re exposed.”

  Sensing the conversation had hit its end, Dayan waved the katsa over to the planning table. “We’re planning the assault on our good friend Straudner right now. We need to maintain our focus on that.”

  Walking back to the table, the two Israelis rejoined their team. Perez and Ripley were riveted on the documents before them. Dayan reached for a photograph of the front of the house. It showed a modest looking two-story complex sitting comfortably in the middle of land surrounded by a manicured grass lawn dotted with oasis-like clusters of plants and trees.

  The katsa rubbed his chin as he looked the photograph over. Dayan allowed his commander a few moments to study the document. When Cohen looked up, the commando spoke. “It has its benefits and weaknesses,” he stated to the katsa, who obviously was still a novice at planning commando raids. “We are going over all the documents now. We’re lucky. Our focus on this location is timing and surprise, not on defeating security. Our study indicates they will have limited security.”

  “But,” Perez interjected, “we do have a couple of major obstacles: they have a community where everyone knows everyone, and we will be storming a location populated by police and military officers who may or may not be carrying weapons.”

  “If so, we have to presume they’ll have experience using those weapons, and they won’t hesitate,” Dayan took control of the conversation.

  “We also have to worry about the number of noncombatants,” Ripley spoke up. “After all, we’ll have family members who will be there. That presents a problem.”

  Dayan sighed, “We can’t use explosives, that’s for sure. Bad enough we’ll probably not have much of a chance to hit these guys at a time when they’re away from their families. Even if we just use guns, we risk hitting a lot of innocent victims.”

  Cohen scowled, “I certainly don’t want a massacre.” He tapped his fingers on his shoulder. “We can’t, however, let that deter us. Straudner and most of the conspirators have to die to ensure the Iranians have no one to use as an alternative.”

  “Whoa now,” Ripley interrupted as he waved his hands. “I understand knockin’ off these conspirator types. They’re soldiers, and they wear a uniform where killing and dying comes with the territory. I draw the fucking line at killing a bunch of innocent bystanders just because they’re in the
wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I agree,” Perez spoke up. “Your cause is not that vital to me to justify doing this and walk away. I’m not undertaking some killing field operation.”

  The faces of the mercenaries were grim. Cohen looked at Dayan as if seeking an answer that told him he was not wrong in his logic. He read the look in his commando’s eyes that said he felt the same way as his men but he, like the katsa, understood the hard choices such operations sometimes demanded.

  “If this were Northern Ireland, you’d understand Darren,” Dayan said not taking his gaze from Cohen. “If this were a mission in North Africa, you’d have a different perspective, Oskar.” The commando turned so he could face both mercenaries at once. “But, those were in wars where you were soldiers fighting for a country you served against an enemy you saw as a direct threat. It’s easier to accept fighting such complicated battles under those circumstances. You don’t have those clear lines here. Even more, I feel now is the time to recognize a problem that we have yet to discuss. Fighting the Arabs, when they tried to cross the border was warfare. It was a bush war plain and simple. We didn’t see an aftermath of fighting other soldiers in the middle of nowhere.”

  Dayan turned, once again, to the katsa, whose facial expression explained he knew where the commando was about to go with this discussion. “This will be an assassination. An assassination that even done cleanly with no innocent casualties will still result in the massive killing of several high-ranking military and police officials of this country. Not to mention, the guaranteed killing of a civilian politician in a democratic society.

  In the end no matter why this happened, in the eyes of the world, this will be an egregious act of terrorism. We can easily predict this action will gain serious world attention. Anyone involved will not just suffer the wrath of a global force like Iran, the world will see us as fanatics or gangsters.” He looked around the room with a stern, serious expression coldly displayed on his face. “We will not be walking away from this and simply go back to our old lives.”