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  The doors opened with a loud and rather eerie creaking. They were met by a tall, slender man with a crop of slicked back, heavily oiled hair and thickly lined face. In his dark black suit, the man looked like some horror movie villain. With a slight bow, the man motioned them inside. The Iranians filed in and found themselves in a large room with a long polished table in the center. Like the rest of the building, the lighting from gas lamps had been converted to use electricity. Early twentieth century paintings lined the walls. A large portrait of the former Argentine President, Juan Peron, was placed high and looked down, Godlike, on everyone in the room.

  Elloy Mendoza strolled in with a flamboyant swagger through a pair of doors from the other side of the room and joined them. Unlike his bland looking associate, the Cuban took pride in his appearance and was wearing a gray silk suit and matching vest. The shirt sported pinkish-red buttons and a red velvet tie. The silver cufflinks, that were nearly impossible to ignore, looked expensive. For an operative of the People’s Utopia, Mendoza was certainly unopposed to enjoying the higher class of living his cover provided him.

  “I know Muslims are opposed to indulging in libations. Something, I am sad to say, causes you to miss out on one of life’s greater pleasures. I hope the teachings of Mohammad do not prohibit the indulgence of fine tobacco,” Mendoza strutted over to a large, oak humidor sitting on a table at the far end of the room.

  “The Prophet was not as stringent or puritanical as some of his less enlightened followers would suggest,” Qalmini said, and joined Mendoza, leaving his guards to stand fast.

  The humidor held a vast assortment of fine cigars. The aroma of fresh, manicured tobacco filled Qalmini’s nostrils. Producing a CAO mild bullet head from the pile, Mendoza obliged his guest by clipping the end and lighting it with a polished silver lighter. It was a majestic show of wealth designed to impress his clients.

  “If we could please get down to business, Sẽnor,” Qalmini exhaled of a thick cloud of grayish-blue smoke.

  “Yes, of course,” Mendoza motioned to his assistant, the dullish figure that Qalmini mentally dubbed the ‘Mortician’. The assistant promptly stepped out of the room and returned carrying a black leather valise. Placing it on the table, he produced several packets which had been inserted in manila folders. He placed them in a neat line directly in front of the lead chair. When he had finished, the Mortician grabbed the valise and quietly backed into the corner.

  With another wave of his hand, Mendoza motioned the Persian to the table. Qalmini thought this presentation amateurish. He expected important information to be delivered on a disk or USB stick.

  Sensing the client’s disdain, Mendoza said, “We have all this information on a stick for your convenience. I just felt these packets allowed you a chance to view your merchandise immediately. After all, you paid good money for it.”

  Qalmini found the Cuban’s smug demeanor irritating but, since he already disliked the Cuban, he simply ignored him. Seizing a random folder from the table, he perused the first couple of pages before sitting down and flipping to the next page. Mendoza had taken steps to produce the information in Spanish and in Persian. “Your research and preparation are quite thorough. I am impressed.” Qalmini said with a tinge of respect.

  “I have a feeling your organization will be requiring a great deal more services in the near future. I like to keep the better-paying clients inclined to employ my resources.” Mendoza smirked.

  “A very capitalistic notion. A servant of the people’s state should be wary.” Qalmini raised an eyebrow.

  “Communism was a dead dream when it started. It is only truly supported by the elites of any society.” Mendoza rolled his Ashton Black between his fingers. “I enjoy the life of the elite, and I have no taste for the nobility,”—Mendoza’s upper lip twitched as he said the word—“of a working-class life. I enjoy the functions of capitalism as most realists in my position do.”

  Qalmini turned another page. “These people seem to have all the right backgrounds and connections for what I need. Are they approachable?”

  “Yes,” the Cuban said. “You will note their profiles explain what motivations you could use to appeal to each person. Will you need our assistance with negotiations? I’m sure you would want to reduce your organization’s exposure.”

  “Arrangements for that have already been made. My final question is regarding the land purchases.”

  “As you requested,” Mendoza took a puff from his cigar, “three sizable properties in the south of Brazil and two others in Argentina were purchased. All of them are in thick jungle environments far from any civilization but close enough to dirt road networks to maintain consistent supply lines and maneuverability. You’ll find all the details in the final two packets. I have purchased and reviewed the properties through an unaffiliated firm we work with from time to time. There should be no trace back to me or you.”

  Qalmini retrieved one of the last folders. Inside, deeds, recent photos, and detailed maps supported Mendoza’s claims. “How far from Uruguay is the border?”

  “The Argentine properties place you twenty kilometers from the border, and the Brazilian properties are no more than forty-five. As you can see by the maps my surveyors drew up, you will enjoy a honeycomb of trails and roads that exist through the most remote areas of the countryside and give you ample means to cross undetected.”

  “Good, I can see these people have the means to operate, but are you sure they’re approachable? Can they be recruited?”

  “Yes, they were all very carefully vetted. What you are looking at is information and histories compiled from both DGI and their various South American service records. In addition, there are personal reports from my own people who have been tracking these people just to be absolutely thorough.” Mendoza puffed out his chest, proud, a confident man.

  Content with the answers, Qalmini smiled. “I am satisfied. This is fine work, Sẽnor.” Waving his hand at his entourage, he stood. His entourage strode forward and collected the documents.

  Mendoza produced a small thumb drive from his jacket pocket and handed it to the Iranian. “This should conclude our business, I believe.”

  Taking the thumb drive, Qalmini said, “It does, for now. The rest of your money will be sent via the arranged transfer. Saleed United Real Estate & Acquisitions will be retaining the services of Bolivar Investments & Acquisitions for our purchase of the Paraguay property in Cuida de la Sol. I believe the agreed price was six million to be paid in Euros?”

  “Yes.”

  The property to which he referred was in a low-end neighborhood in one of Paraguay’s larger cities. Altogether, it was conservatively estimated at maybe a half million Euros. Still, it was a great way to make payment for Mendoza’s services without raising any serious suspicions. The Iranians had figured this tactic out years ago as the IRGC was building up a war-ravaged Iran with large, profitable business portfolios that expanded into the international markets.

  Qalmini smiled, dusted an imaginary piece of lint from the sleeve of his bespoke suit, and promptly made his exit.

  Chapter 3

  The first knock came at 9 o’clock.

  Kafka Dayan strode to the door and peered through the eye hole. He saw a short, pudgy man in a bland, brown suit, wearing glasses. The man was in his mid-fifties and appeared, from his physical shape, to avoid exercise and healthy living like a vampire avoids a garlic farm.

  Opening the door a crack, Kafka scanned the surroundings.

  “I am alone, sir. I did not bring anyone. I have no intention of attracting any unwanted attention. Now, open the blasted door and let me in!” the pudgy man snapped. “I feel like a fool standing out here like a bellhop.”

  Kafka was taken aback at the unexpected demand. He had expected to be calming a room full of edgy businessmen and attorneys, but this plump-figured person was not the slightest bit intimidated or nervous. Kafka opened the door, and the exasperated man brushed past him without hesitation, makin
g straight for the liquor. The new arrival poured himself a drink before landing in one of the armchairs.

  “Time is of the essence, my dear boy. I hope I’m not the only one you invited here,” the man said with the same disgruntled attitude.

  Kafka was too bewildered to know how to respond.

  “No sir, there are others I expect to be here.” Micha Cohen emerged from the bedroom in a dark, professionally tailored pinstriped suit. His hair was slicked back, and he looked like a CEO of some big corporation. Cohen’s strength was his ability to play to the environment he was in. “I thank you for coming,” Micha extended a hand. “May I ask how we should refer to you, and who you represent?”

  The man’s expression changed from disgruntled to satisfied, as he took a moment to scowl at the young man who had received him. The look said, ‘that’s how this is done you impertinent little bastard’. Kafka brushed it off.

  The pudgy man’s attention focused on the meeting’s presenter. Sizing Micha Cohen up, the man said, “For the purposes of this meeting and future contact, I will be ‘Mr. Greentree’, and I represent the interests of our Friends on the Island.”

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Greentree. I promise your client’s time will not be wasted by indulging me.” Cohen’s voice was soft but professional. Mr. Greentree was anything but a novice at such meetings. By the way, the two older men spoke to each other, it appeared that they both had considerable experience in this arena.

  Moments later there was another knock at the door. Taking his previous security precautions, Kafka slowly opened the door and stood like a warrior preparing for a fight.

  “Dear Lord!” Mr. Greentree exclaimed. “This one is a damned commando! We’re not in a blasted war zone. Anyone who would want to do people of our caliber harm would have the resources to know who we are. Which means, they would be better served attacking us on the street or sneaking a bomb up here. They certainly wouldn’t stack up against the door of a penthouse in a well-secured hotel with state of the art security systems and cameras everywhere.”

  Kafka bit his tongue and thanked himself for holding his temper. He decided he did not like the little man referred to as Mr. Greentree. As he opened the door, he found himself facing another sullen figure. With ghoulish features and pale white skin, this man might never have seen sunlight a day in his life. A thickly lined face, sagging jowl, puffy eyes, and a thinning crop of salt-n-pepper hair gave him an air of the recently deceased. His black pinstriped suit added to this unnerving appearance. Kafka labeled this man ‘Boris Karlov’.

  Without a word to Kafka, the ghoulish figure crossed the room to where Micha Cohen was standing. The sullen Mr. Karlov cracked a smile as he and Cohen hugged each other exuberantly.

  “Good to see you!” Cohen said as he relaxed his embrace.

  “It has been a long time, sir,” Karlov replied somberly.

  “Too long,” Cohen agreed warmly. “Am I referring to you as Cincade again?”

  “I see no need to change.” Karlov shrugged his pin-stripped shoulders. “And in the spirit of expediting things, I am representing the ‘Morning Coffee Club.”

  “That will suffice, my old friend,” Cohen replied.

  Karlov — who was now Mr. Cincade — slipped into a seat across from Mr. Greentree and acknowledged Kafka pleasantly.

  There were two more knocks within the next twenty minutes. The first yielded a middle-aged man of Nubian linage hosting a distinct but well-polished French accent. He was introduced as ‘Mr. Lupon’, a representative from the ‘Investor’s Party’. The final guest was a sharp contrast to the others. He was tall, athletically built with a well-proportioned body, well-groomed, and sporting a conservative gray suit. Unlike his colleagues, who looked to have a history going back to the first Israeli War, this young man was in his mid-thirties.

  Shooting past Kafka, the latest guest cracked a grin. “No weapons here mate, and I certainly didn’t bring friends with me.”

  Kafka stood his ground, but the young man waltzed his way into the room to Cohen. He grabbed his host’s hand. “For this operation, I’ll be ‘Mr. Comfort.’” Mr. Comfort took a moment to scan the other occupants, who eyed him and his flamboyant behavior disdainfully.

  Kafka presumed that Mr. Comfort was a new addition to this informal social club of intrigue. Mr. Comfort released Cohen’s hand and said, “I speak for the ‘Chess Players’.”

  Mr. Comfort helped himself to a glass of bourbon before taking his seat next to Mr. Greentree. Greentree offered a scowl of disapproval. For this reason alone, Kafka couldn’t help liking Mr. Comfort.

  With all the guests accounted for, Micha Cohen moved to the center of the room to begin the meeting. Taking his cue, Kafka locked the front door, closed all the windows and glass doors and pulled the curtains closed, leaving the room darkened. He finished his security precautions by turning on a small machine located in the corner of the room. Kafka signaled the premise was secure. Then he went to the study and picked up a black leather satchel and brought it into the main room, placing the satchel on the coffee table.

  Micha Cohen began his presentation.

  “I wish to thank all of you and whom you represent for coming.” Micha stopped for a moment to observe his audience. “I realize my request is entirely unorthodox and outside the typical procedure. However, I promise this is of the utmost importance and, after my briefing, you will understand the need for concern.”

  Cohen turned back to Kafka. His assistant responded by moving to the table, removing a gray laptop from the satchel, and logging into the system. As he worked, Micha went on. “Last year, as part of another mission we were conducting in the Beka Valley in Lebanon, our intelligence picked up a collection of sensitive documents. Many of these documents were communiques with the Pasdaran, more commonly known as the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps, and the Hezbollah military strategist, Amir Walli Akman. In one of the dispatches, a high-ranking officer in the Pasdaran was requesting a meeting to discuss Hezbollah’s ability to augment ‘high level’ operations Iran might wish to undertake in the Western Hemisphere, particularly in the region of South America.”

  “This isn’t new or revealing,” Mr. Greentree snorted. “We are all well aware of Hezbollah’s extensive network throughout the world. In South America, they have been carrying out terrorist operations targeting the Jewish community.”

  “I agree,” Mr. Lupon concurred softly. “This is not something unusual.”

  Around the room, the other members agreed.

  “Normally, I would reach the same conclusion, however, we chose to investigate this matter a little more closely. If you please?” Cohen said facing his young assistant.

  The laptop came to life and displayed an image on the far wall. The audience was now looking at the photograph of a man dressed in a combination of olive green military fatigues and traditional Islamic robes. His crop of bushy salt-n-pepper hair and snarled, unkempt, graying beard suggested the photo was taken in a hostile environment.

  Cohen put a name to the picture. “Amir Walli Akman is currently wanted in Argentina for the bombing of a Jewish community center in Buenos Aires. He is also wanted for questioning in Brazil for his role in the assassination of a well-known detractor to the late Venezuelan dictator, Hugo Chavez, and by extension the outright killing of two Mossad Katza in the same timeframe. This picture was taken six months ago in Syria where he is commanding a Shia Lebanese unit in support of the Assad regime in the Syrian civil war.”

  He paused. “I wish to add, as part of this secret briefing, he is a target of opportunity for Israeli intelligence.”

  Micha Cohen now had the complete attention of the audience. “The significant thing about this man is he was for many years assistant to the late Imad Mughnivah who is helping to establish Hezbollah’s tentacles into South America. After Magniya’s assassination in 2008, this man stayed on managing the organization of the South American branch before repatriating back to Lebanon. Several agencies of the Is
raeli intelligence community have determined he currently maintains the strongest contacts of any Hezbollah leader to South America, their South American base, and the Lebanese communities scattered throughout the countries of Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay.”

  The audience was waiting for more. Cohen took special note of the young Mr. Comfort, who seemed proud of his importance at being at such a sensitive meeting. In his mind, the veteran Israeli operative guessed Comfort would be difficult to manage, intoxicated as his ego was on the power he currently wielded. Still, it was all part of the game. Cohen signaled to Kafka, who promptly changed to the next picture. “The other person of interest is this man.”

  This was a more polished figure, mid-fifties with neatly cut, shiny black hair and a thick mustache that complimented his well-manicured features. Unlike the previous figure, this man looked like a corporate CEO wearing a sleek, black business suit minus the traditional Iranian necktie. “He is Ali Anwar al Qalmini, a Colonel in the Pasdaran Quds element. He was the senior Iranian officer reaching out to Walli Akmann. Considered one of the major operatives of covert operations, he is credited with such activities as masterminding the training and logistical support for several of the Shia militias in Iraq during the American occupation and, more recently, was one of the senior figures directing a special behind the line's campaign in Syria against the anti-Assad forces. I say more recent because four months ago he completely dropped out of all operations both in Syria and Iraq.”

  Again, Cohen paused, observed. He knew his audience was waiting for more. “I realize this action, on its own, is not conclusive. However, eight months ago we did receive another interesting communique from the Iranian embassy in Buenos Aires, Argentina. It was in response to a requested study regarding various countries in South America, the stability of their governments, and the potential for a possible coup d’état from any dissident elements within the government or from outside. From what could be gathered, this was not isolated to their embassy in Venezuela but was part of a larger study encompassing all their South American diplomatic missions.