The Montevideo Game Read online

  Also by J. E. Higgins

  The Dublin Hit: Book 1 of the Sauwa Catcher Series

  The Bosnian Experience: Book 2 of the Sauwa Catcher Series

  You can find J.E. Higgins at:

  www.thehigginsreport.com

  where he writes monthly reports on international political trends.

  The Montevideo Game

  J. E. Higgins

  Mercenary Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 by J E Higgins

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Epilogue

  Cast of Characters

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The power of the orchestra mesmerized the audience. They were overwhelmed by the sheer force of the Black Swan overture at the Teatro Colón Auditorium. Even without the aid of strategically placed amplifiers, the orchestra paid respect to the music’s creator. The performing ballet troop danced with precision and beauty.

  Elloy Mendoza expressed this opinion while enjoying the evening’s festivities from his box overlooking the whole auditorium. Mendoza relished the classics. He had never held much regard for the modern genres of music ─ rock, folk, or the ghastly collection of sounds originating in the Americas like rap, country, or Latino. Unlike many of the wealthy elites who attended the evening’s performance to see and be seen, for him just listening to the classics was invigorating.

  He hated the ‘keeping up appearances’ attitude of so many of his kind. His interest in the classical lifestyle was genuine, and something that had been difficult to justify to his covert masters, the Cuban Directorate Generale Intelligensia (DGI). As CEO of the prestigious Bolivar Investments & Acquisitions, what would be even more difficult to justify was his growing side business ─ selling intelligence services to other interests for a sizable profit.

  Echoing from mid-air, a voice interrupted his hypnotic delight in the music. “I could never enjoy the noise of the old European composers,” the voice, saturated with a Middle-Eastern accent, spoke in perfect Spanish. “Maybe I have too much of a sense of personal, national sentiment to enjoy the cultural delights of others. Still, I regard this type of music as obnoxious.”

  Undeterred by the mockeries from the man sitting behind him, Mendoza said, “This is a rather unorthodox meeting. I was under the impression my agent was going to meet you to discuss the details.”

  “Your agent is a fool,” the voice stated with vehemence. “His choice of a meeting place was something out of a cheap spy novel. He wanted to meet in some low-end dive in a section of town where my colleagues and I were sure to stand out. I decided to forego dealing with him and come straight to you. An unexpected meeting at one of the most prestigious locations in Argentina would be most difficult for the authorities to maintain surveillance, especially at the spur of the moment. Low paid civil servants would be out of place among the social elite of Buenos Aries.”

  Mendoza was begrudgingly impressed with the gentleman behind him. It was a good move. The cover of a wealthy Persian in a place like the Teatro Colón Auditorium was far less conspicuous than a low-end brothel being watched by the authorities. It was a reminder that the DGI operative was not dealing with an amateur. He needed to rethink the type of people he sent to act as liaisons.

  “So now, Sẽnor, I wish to know if all is in order.”

  Mendoza leaned back in his chair and, with his hand placed over his mouth to avoid attracting attention, he answered. “I have the information you require. Everything you requested: names, contacts, more in-depth reports, and intelligence. I was able to meet all your requirements, but I have one question. Are you going to require a system for money transfers?”

  “Did we request money transfers as part of our requirements?” It was a rhetorical question. “Please do not take me for a fool. I am well aware of your intelligence connections to Cuba and that the information you are receiving and the networks you are making available are through them. The fact that you are purely a mercenary selling access to your own government’s intelligence services is not unnoticed. When can this information be made available to me?”

  “Tomorrow at a place of your choosing.”

  “It will be at your office. We have real estate issues to engage your services and payment will be made through our usual channels.”

  “Very well. I will receive you in our conference room.”

  “That will suffice,” the voice retorted. “Tell me, does it bother you collecting and selling your government’s resources in such a capitalistic fashion?”

  “Does it bother you?” Mendoza responded smugly.

  The meeting ended, and Mendoza returned his attention to the orchestra. He was slightly irritated he had lost so much of the program from an interruption of trivialities. Behind him, he heard the creaking of the chair as the shadowy figure rose to make his exit.

  Ali Anwar al Qalmini left the auditorium through the door leading to the box seats. He brushed past two of Mendoza’s bodyguards manning the entryway. The bodyguards had learned to use their judgment for when to let acquaintances through and when to bar access. An expensively dressed and well-groomed Persian flanked by a small entourage of his own protective detail who could slip into such exclusive places was certainly one not to be challenged.

  As the door shut, Qalmini found himself alone in a rather narrow hallway. His guard detail had taken up strategic positions at either end of the hall. Far from burly, muscled thugs who knew little more than bar fighting, these men were solid professionals. Qalmini had known them from when he commanded the Quds teams supporting the resistance movements in Iraq against the American aggressors years earlier. He had shed blood and survived several combat engagements with these men and, more than anyone, he trusted them with his life. As he rose through the echelons of the officer corps of the Pasdaran—the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps—he had brought them along.

  Saying nothing, Qalmini made his way down
the hallway toward an exit point. The two guards controlling the exit point moved ahead and repositioned themselves outside. A quick nod to Qalmini as he approached alerted him that the outside area was clear of any threats. Behind him, as he was about to enter the outer room, the two other guards withdrew from their positions on the other side of the hall and followed their charge.

  Qalmini’s dislike for the music of the old composers was partly because he had no personal taste and partly because it was a continuation of his all-encompassing hatred toward the western world. Still, appearances had to be maintained and leaving the concert early after much difficulty getting in would create suspicion. Besides, he had another pressing engagement he had yet to attend.

  Qalmini was no Islamic puritan like so many in his government or his organization. He relished his pleasures: good food, occasional tobacco products, and the enjoyment of high-class living. But like many of his breed and generation, he saw Iran as the only viable challenge to the US and European imperialism in the Islamic world.

  Qalmini and his escorts navigated the marble stairs leading to the main hall. They crossed the velvet carpet and ascended up an adjacent flight of stairs. Within minutes, he was at the door to the private box seats he had reserved for the evening. There, he was met by three more men who completed his security detail.

  One of the men stepped forward. “The lady has been waiting for you, sir,” the guard said in a rough Persian dialect used by many of his men from desert and village lineage.

  “Is she upset?” Qalmini inquired.

  “No, but she asked when you would arrive.”

  Qalmini stepped through the door into the box with two of his guards in tow. Inside he found a stunning woman sitting in one of the plush velvet seats. She was elegantly dressed in a satin gown of shimmering silver that draped all the way from her milky white shoulders, across her large, firm bosom, and ended just below her feet. A slit along the side of her gown allowed a perfect view of her long toned legs encased in black silk stockings and gleaming black leather heels. Her golden hair was tied up in a well-sculpted knot atop her head with strands strategically freed alongside the circumference of her face. This was all held together by a few jeweled ornaments and strategically placed combs. She was a beautiful woman with sensual looks and an athletic figure.

  Taking his seat next to her, Qalmini said, “Did the Contessa feel neglected?”

  With a crooked smile from her full cherry lips, she said, “I was concerned I would look jilted. I was also concerned your meeting might have turned out badly given my understanding of your contact.”

  Qalmini focused on the orchestra, aware of her gaze on him. “I maintain my reservations about him. Reservations I may be forced to act upon.”

  The Contessa shifted her gaze toward the orchestra. “I do hope if such action becomes necessary, it will be discrete. I wouldn’t want you to think you are still in southern Lebanon or Syria.”

  Qalmini snickered. “You think me so primitive as to not understand the difference?”

  “Buenos Aires, you will find, is not nearly so accommodating or understanding of the methods you might employ.”

  “I would assume not. Now, my dear, to our business.”

  “I have covered my end,” she said with the same self-assured smile on her face. “You will find I have those you need for this operation.”

  Content with her answer and with the business of the evening, Qalmini prepared himself to endure the evening’s attraction. Begrudgingly, he found himself somewhat impressed with the presentation, but his deep loyalties to his own culture would never allow him to admit it.

  The muggy, tropical climate was different than what Micha Cohen was accustomed to. He had lived his adult life in the dry desert world of the Middle-East and, before that, spent his childhood in the harsh coldness of the Soviet Union. Looking over the balcony of his penthouse suite, he took time to enjoy the serene view. The glistening waters of the Pacific Ocean provided an excellent backdrop for the luscious, vegetated land. Perhaps the Zionists should have made the Jewish nation in South America, he thought as he took in the picturesque scene.

  Twisting the Ashton mild cigar burning between his teeth, he swirled the brandy in the glass snifter. The brownish red liquid twirled like a whirlpool in the ocean. His life and current career had been spent in the rough living of refugee camps, third world locations, and a childhood in the squalor of Soviet working-class accommodations. His past had given him a deep appreciation for the finer things in life, and he never missed an opportunity to enjoy them.

  His moment of contentment was interrupted by the simulated sound of a throat clearing behind him. The sound had become all too familiar. He didn’t have to turn to know it was Kafka Dayan. Without breaking his pose, Micha said, “All is well, I assume?”

  “The meeting is still a go,” the young man said with a slight twinge of concern. “The respective invitees have all confirmed their attendance for nine o’clock here in your hotel room.”

  “You still have reservations about this, Kafka?” It was a rhetorical question. Cohen already knew the answer. He turned to find himself looking at a tall, slender man fitted into a tailored gray business suit worn with casual disdain. With his rough Middle-Eastern features and a scraggly crop of black hair, Kafka looked more like some Arab rascal than an Israeli special operations soldier. Still, such things were what made Kafka Dayan so good at his work.

  Kafka spoke bluntly. “I think you are playing a dangerous game, one you may not win.”

  Cohen knew his young protégé was right. He was about to embark on something that could very possibly get the community of the world’s powerful intelligence agencies in an uproar. Yet, what he was about to do needed to be done. If his own people would not support him, he had made his peace with God and would do it on his own.

  He looked at Kafka ─ the young man he had known since he was a boy from a North Israeli Kibbutz. Micha had watched him grow up to become a strong and determined man. Kafka had joined the Israeli Defense Force, graduated, and served with distinction in the elite anti-terrorism unit, Shayetet-13 ─ the navy’s seaborne comparison to the IDF’s better known Sayeret Matkal. It was Micha Cohen who recruited the young soldier for this special operation and introduced him to the shadowy world of espionage and clandestine warfare.

  Kafka was no fool. He understood the risk when his old mentor recruited him for this particular mission. However, he had a deep loyalty to the old man that would not let him walk away. “I just feel we need to tread lightly,” Kafka confessed.

  “Normally, I would agree. But, in this case, time is something we don’t have and that means taking risks that otherwise would not be considered.”

  Kafka folded his arms and tapped his finger against his bicep, a nervous action.

  Cohen wanted to offer words of assurance, but he had none. Kafka was too astute to believe them if he did. Finishing the last small gulp of his drink, Micha Cohen placed the glass on a nearby table and gave his complete attention to the remainder of his cigar.

  The clock off to the side read 8:15 AM.

  Chapter 2

  The offices of the Buenos Aires branch of Bolivar Investments & Acquisitions were an interesting attempt to mix modern architecture and a professional infrastructure while trying to stay consistent with a turn of the century colonial design. The building was constructed with a traditional gray brick exterior and polished mahogany: doors, window frames, paneling, and designer flooring. Over the years, great care had been taken not to destroy too much of the existing infrastructure when modernizing such problems as old wiring and plumbing. The hallways and general offices had kept their historical integrity by maintaining the gas-powered lights lining them and keeping the original railing and floors.

  The artwork was well chosen with several copied pieces from well-known Spanish and French artists who had been in Argentina during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Interspersed with the artwork was a well-sequenced
pattern of framed photographs from 1905 through 1940 depicting the city. The city was proud of their advancements into a modern society.

  After his previous dealings with Sẽnor Mendoza, Ali Anwar al Qalmini had lowered his expectations for future encounters, but the professional cover of the building intrigued him. The offices were tasteful, low key and conservative, redeeming the Cuban somewhat.

  Arriving on the top floor, Qalmini and his entourage walked down a dark corridor illuminated only by antique gas lamps. He reached a set of ominous looking, heavy double doors, stopped, and took a moment to study the ghastly looking carvings on the door, which seemed to be inspired by medieval Christian art. In this case, the theme was the fiery bowels of Hell with a sculpting of skeletal demons devouring the souls of unrepentant sinners.

  One of his men snickered. “Maybe they’re keeping holy crusaders with swords and armor behind the door.”

  “If so,” Qalmini said smoothly, “I promise the ‘infidels’ will not find the Holy Land so easily conquered this time around.” His remark earned him a collection of chuckles as they waited.