The Montevideo Game

by J E Higgins

  “Are you saying you don’t want us to be in on this?” Ripley asked.

  Dayan sighed, “I’m saying, a while back I resolved myself to the reality that this was going to end with me dead or as a hunted man with a very large target painted across my back and, eventually, I will die. I accepted this because I’m doing this for my country. I won’t ask you to take such a risk when you don’t have the same stake in this operation.”

  “You’re gonna try and to do this all on your own?” Perez interjected ─ a puzzled look on his face.

  “No,” Dayan shrugged. “But, I also feel we need to get this issue resolved before we go any further. We’ve lost a lot of men so far, Vanderhook and the others. They died taking the risk expected of hired soldiers. Up until now, you’ve done only what a hired soldier would do ─ fight battles. When the war is over you can go home or seek similar employment elsewhere. I accept the deaths of the others as a professional soldier in the world in which I live. If you do this, it will not be something you can simply walk away from. I don’t want to lie and tell you we have a plan for the aftermath.”

  Cohen stepped forward. “I agree. This is not going to simply be a normal act of soldiering. And, as my compatriot has pointed out, we have no real plan for what we’ll do once we’ve carried out this operation. That said, I will authorize Dayan to pay any member who carries this out and survives a bonus of one million dollars in U.S. currency in addition to the remainder of what’s now owed you.”

  “I’ll need time to think about this,” Ripley said, as he leaned over the table glancing at the documents as if the answer to the decision he needed to make lay somewhere within the pages before him.

  “Me to,” replied Perez. “We also need to talk this over with the others and get their opinion.”

  The explosion was powerful. It was a loud, earth-shattering thunder that echoed for miles in all directions. It culminated in a large towering inferno that finally transformed into a giant, gray cloud of smoke and dirt that covered the vicinity like a thick blanket. In an instant, the Cathedral Basílica de San Juan Bautista ─ The Cathedral Basilica of Saint John the Baptist ─ went from a structure of majestic architecture that headquartered the Diocese of Salto to a smoking pile of rubble.

  In the street, the destroyed church was now littered with the corpses and screaming casualties of those, who only moments before, had come to hear the new Archbishop of Salto make a press announcement denouncing the violence plaguing the country and asking for the government to show restraint in its handling of the matter. Instead, it had become the scene of a grisly massacre in the streets of Uruguay’s second largest city. A small truck bound for an open pit mining site and packed with more than a ton of dynamite had been stolen.

  The truck had been innocently parked against the gate of the church. To anyone paying attention, it was the type of truck used by the maintenance workers the church employed. No one thought anything about it sitting by the gate. The recent violence had been centered around the capital city clear on the other side of the country. For this reason, no one seriously considered any possibility of the violence from so far away affecting them.

  There were no intelligence reports indicating their village was in any danger. Nor was any security seriously considered for an event hosted by the church. After the attack, this had all changed. The chaos that followed had been captured by hordes of news cameras and watched by the city’s population on their televisions at home. At that moment, the largest city on the west side of the country, and the second largest city nationally, was thrown into the violence they had previously only heard about.

  Once again, the handy work of Oskar Straudner’s agent had proven effective. Ulbrict Laudman had reasoned that the west side of the country was still mentally disconnected from the violence. They had witnessed the chaos plaguing Montevideo through whatever media outlets they were paying attention to, but they had been only passingly exposed to any attacks in the countryside. This, Straudner felt, left an essential portion of the country in an ambiguous position. If they were not directly affected, they would be more ambivalent toward accepting a powerful military response, namely his planned coup. Another consideration was that security in Montevideo was becoming tighter. Any further attacks would prove too risky to undertake.

  At the politician’s behest, the old Stasi operative orchestrated the robbery of the dynamite with the help of contacts he had developed over the years. Finding out about the press announcement from the city’s diocese, he figured it would be the perfect target. It would serve to create mass panic in the primary population center in Western Uruguay. It would, the politician calculated, further help by enraging the base of ardent Catholics throughout the country who would no doubt consider a violent act against the Papal church as unforgivable heresy.

  They smuggled the explosives into the city. At an unused warehouse, they packed it all into the battered maintenance truck. Laudman opted for a timed detonator instead of a remote activation system that could be triggered with a cellular phone ─ with all the electronic devices that attendees would likely be using, rogue frequency waves might prematurely activate the bomb.

  In the early morning, on the day of the press conference, one of Laudman’s accomplices drove the vehicle up to the iron gates closest to the church. Leaving an assortment of weathered-looking tools in both the front seat and against the windows of the hatch, it would appear to any onlooker that the vehicle was owned by a laborer doing work for the church.

  The detonator was set to go off shortly after noon when the conference was expected to start and have the highest number of people present. Straudner had demanded a high casualty rate for maximum effect. It was his plan that within a few days of the attack, his covert online underground news site for the revolutionaries would give credit to the left-wing radicals for the bombing. In the articles posted, the terrorists would state that they were taking the battle to the church, which they considered a protector of and conspirator with the corrupt regime.

  It would be the perfect way to ensure the whole country would be paralyzed by both fear and desperate anger. The politician would exploit the situation to strengthen and energize his support for the upcoming takeover. He would now have the security forces, the backing of the wealthy elites and, soon thereafter if all went well, the profound backing of the Roman Catholic Church if all went well.

  Chapter 54

  Illana Muricia had no trouble convincing the old man, she knew only as Alonzo, that her need for ten used, but in good condition, hauling trucks were for a smuggling operation she was putting together. Alonzo was a longtime black-market operator. He had come in and out of her life over the years as a man her father worked with when he needed things to conduct his less than legal business endeavors. If something was required ─ vehicles, essential documents, or even facilitating introductions with other individuals who could assist in such dealings ─ Alonzo had always come through.

  When the question of obtaining several short trucks came up, the young college student understood the problem immediately. With all the unrest, trying to buy numerous vehicles for hauling would create suspicion, especially without a compelling reason to justify the need. Nor would they have time to create the illusion of a business. The police might normally overlook something like this, but at a time when the police were incredibly distrustful, everything was subject to close scrutiny.

  Alonzo knew the young lady from his years dealing with her father. He remembered her playing as a child while they conducted business. Later, as she matured, the play sessions stopped, and she accompanied her father as an assistant with full knowledge of their dealings. He didn’t even think it strange that she was now conducting her own business with him. It was as if she had been groomed to do this her entire life.

  Likewise, Muricia had grown up watching such deals and studying the men her father did business with. She wasn’t naïve, she knew how easily betrayals occurred in the backrooms of such places. Alonzo wasn’t
a man she approached without careful thought. She knew his family was Armenian; that they had been driven out in the early 1990s during the war between Armenia and Muslim Azerbaijan.

  A longtime black marketer and follower of the Armenian Orthodox Church, Alonzo and his family had seen the very ugly side of law enforcement, having been persecuted by the Soviet secret police ─ the KGB. He got his start in the criminal world smuggling weapons from South America to help his people in the conflict. Murcia’s father had been instrumental in helping Alonzo. Alonzo proved himself to be smart, savvy, and highly unlikely to cooperate with any police. For these reasons, she chose to enlist his services for this particular task.

  Sitting across from a weathered folding table in the backroom of a grungy auto mechanic shop, she nursed the coffee offered to her in a small ceramic cup. Alonzo, a thin, frail-looking man with salt and pepper hair and a thickly lined face, sat on the other side of the table looking over a collection of documents. Peering through his thick, bifocals, he reviewed the work very carefully. “This registration,” he said in a heavily accented and gravelly voice, “will suffice for any policeman that might stop you. It will have all the necessary registration information and ownership under the name and company you requested.”

  “Thank you,” Muricia replied quietly. She used few words, there was no reason for small talk.

  “Your business is a small startup shipping company that deals in selling wool wholesale,” he continued. “That will give you enough of an explanation for being out in farm country. It will also justify the reason for your carrying cargo. Wool has a powerful odor when taken from the farms directly. It should both mask the smells and effectively conceal what it is you are really transporting. Your trucks ─ I assume you have seen them. Do they meet your requirements?” She nodded in reply.

  Muricia could only wonder how the ardent Armenian nationalist might respond if he knew the cargo she was smuggling were armed Muslim Arabs working for Iran. Then again, Iran did back Armenia over Azerbaijan in the post-Soviet hostilities. It wasn’t a subject he wanted to know about, nor one she wanted to broach.

  Handing over the documents along with a bag full of keys, the old man smiled through his thin lips. She returned his pleasantry with one of her own. “I always thought your father was a lucky man having you as a daughter,” he said, the look in his eyes was one of a man enjoying the nostalgia. “Strangely, I find myself happier to see you here now conducting business, much like your father did, than if you had chosen a more traditional life. You were never meant to be a soldier’s wife, having children and hosting parties. This is the world I always knew you were meant to have.”

  Muricia slowly rose to her feet. In her hand was a large purse. “My father always respected you, as do I.” Reaching over the table, she lowered the bag before the elderly man. Taking it in his hands, he looked inside to see a large quantity of cash. “Your payment in full. You have delivered flawlessly.” Her choice of a large woman’s handbag was strategic. No one questioned a female carrying one, and men seldom paid attention to how often it changed hands. If she walked into a garage carrying one, it was because she, being a typical young lady, had several accessories she constantly needed. If she walked out without it, the obvious assumption would be she had forgotten it. Women were always leaving their purses somewhere.

  The old man didn’t bother to count the money. In one look he knew she had paid more than agreed upon. He smiled and nodded. “Welcome to the life you were always meant to have.”

  With nothing more needing to be said, Muricia collected the documents, turned and walked out leaving the old man watching after her.

  The trucks were found in a lot a few streets over. Alonzo had several pickup places that separated his garage from his more illicit business. It was great for her given that a group of Arab looking drivers might cause issues. Based on her specifications, the trucks were in good shape but had the look of vehicles that had seen much use over the years. These trucks would be less conspicuous driving along the country roadways.

  Muricia walked down the line as she had done before meeting the old man. This time, she walked past each truck matching the paperwork to each license plate. Looking through the bag, she meticulously studied the keys as she matched the numbers on them to the license plates of the trucks. All had to be in order. There could be no mistakes ─ no hang-ups or discrepancies. When she had verified all the paperwork and the trucks, she called the Contessa to inform her the mission was a go. She was told the new drivers had entered the country that morning.

  The Contessa took the report from her young assistant with professional delight and contacted her client with the location. Afterword, she instructed Muricia to wait until the client’s drivers arrived and ensure a smooth transition.

  The young college student waited down the road across the street in the safety of a car she had obtained for this mission. She parked in an inconspicuous spot near the street concealed behind a large, steel dumpster and a collection of abandoned cars. The dumpster’s shadow matched the olive-green color of the car providing fairly good concealment. To anyone surveilling the vicinity, she would not stand out. She was also careful to maintain a close distance to the driveway leading to a side road, allowing for a speedy escape.

  With no idea what to expect, Illana Muricia was taking no chances. If anything went wrong or looked suspicious, she didn’t want to be near the trucks with no means of escape. The danger of what she was doing and who she was dealing with was not lost on her. It had been nearly six hours when she spotted a large, white van pulling in from the main street onto the side road. It idled slowly past the parking lot housing the trucks. The van continued the length of the lot then suddenly sped up to a normal speed and continued down the road.

  Muricia watched this activity, but she didn’t know quite what to make of it. The van could have been anybody; her contacts, someone lost, or possibly the very real danger of someone intending her harm. Making the decision to stay in place, she leaned back in her car seat and waited. A few minutes later the same van returned from the direction it had just left. Again, it slowed to an idle as it passed the lot. This time, the van made a sharp turn into the parking lot. Minutes later, two men exited the van moving carefully but with obvious uncertainty.

  Muricia decided they must be the men she was to make contact with. Pulling her car onto the road, she drove adjacent to the lot. She stopped several feet from the two men. Keeping the engine running and her foot on the brake was her precaution for a fast getaway in the event of a problem.

  The two men stood still as they studied the green car with a single occupant in it that had so mysteriously appeared and remained idling. Determining all was well, the two men approached. The first man displayed an innocent demeanor. The second man moved more cautiously. His hand was stuffed in his jacket ─ presumably gripping a gun in case of trouble. Muricia could understand their concern; she made similar arrangements of her own.

  She watched as the first man approached her door, bending slightly to see her. His features were not of Spanish or mestizo ancestry, but more Middle-Eastern. The rough lines and contours of his face revealed a life spent in harsh living conditions. “Pantheon?” was all he said in a low gruff voice.

  It was the code word she had been given before she embarked on this operation. Nodding slightly, the college student replied, “Yojimbo.” Her voice was cold and stern, in the tone of a person neither intimidated nor unprofessional. Mindful of the behavior of the second man, she slowly turned the wheel of her car in his direction. It was apparent to her that he was only concerned about a gun being drawn. He stood in front of her car several feet away to enable a clear shot through her windshield. If he went for what she was sure was a gun, he was going to feel the hard steel of her car as she ran him down.

  “You are the contact?” The first man asked, his voice still gruff.

  Handing the packets of paper through the window, Muricia placed them in the first man’s hands. “
These are the documents you will need if the police or anyone else should stop you.” The first man gathered the papers in his hands. She continued, “The packets are in the same order as the trucks in the lot ─ start with the first truck on the left.”

  The first man stood up and looked at the trucks to get oriented. “Thank you,” he replied coldly.

  Muricia passed a bag out the window to the man. “These are the keys. Each key is marked with the license plate number of the respective vehicle.”

  Taking the bag, the first man nodded. “Thank you. Do you have anything else for me?”

  “No, do you have anything for me?”

  The first man shook his head, turned and walked away. The second man held his ground until his compatriot was halfway across the road before he backed up and followed. Deciding her business was finished, Muricia drove away. Several blocks later, employing a series of evasive moves, she was comfortable that she had not been followed. Pulling out the phone she had been given, she called the Contessa. Her message was quick. “All has been accomplished.”

  Qalmini’s mood was grim. He had just heard about the demise of Mendoza when Straudner’s people contacted him. Straudner had heard about the incident at the border and was now demanding a meeting. The only good news he had received was that the Contessa had solved his transportation dilemma. He relaxed a little at the knowledge his people had taken control of the vehicles, all was in order, and they were on the road.