The Buenos Aires Affair - Part I

Chance is fast becoming a formidable Wingman. However, sometimes the lines get blurred. Find out about the mission that Chance does not want to accept, but has to...

 

“Why did you ask me to meet you here, Hermano? Why are you alone?”

 

“Ahh, Ernesto, I did not see you come in, my friend. Please sit. Camarero, dos más cervezas."

 

“Carlos, what is it that makes a man like you venture outside of B.A. to get drunk in this stained and dingy shithole of a cantina?”

 

“She has left me, Ernesto. Fatima is gone.”

 

The bottoms of two bottles of Quilnes tactlessly hit the coasterless bar in front of the two men. Carlos draws his in as if it gives him some comfort.

 

“Fatima has left you? I’m astonished. What is it that happened?”

 

“It is the greatest humiliation. I do not even think that I can tell you.”

 

“This is a woman, Carlos. You are one of the most powerful men in Argentina since Peron. Tell me what happened and then we will just go and get her back. It is a simple matter."

 

Carlos took a long pull of the amber elixir from the brown glass bottle.

 

“I do not care about the woman. She is a w***e. She can have that peon.”

 

“Ahhh, then you wish to punish your rival? Tell me his name and I will bring him to you.”

 

“No, to pursue vengeance against a cockroach like him would be an even greater humiliation. Well…maybe in time.”

 

Ernesto was confused. Carlos had always treated him as an equal – a brother, but he also knew his place. He knew his “brother" was agitated. He called for two shots of premium tequila. The bartender smirked and delivered some low grade swill in two mismatched shot glasses. 

 

“Let us toast your success, and then I want you to tell me exactly what needs to be done.” There was conviction in Ernesto’s eyes. He knew that Carlos had complete trust in him.

 

“He had help. I cannot prove it, but I believe there was someone assisting him.”

 

“I don’t require proof, mi amigo. Just a name.”

 

“I don’t know his name, but I think he was an Americano.”

 

Carefully, in measured tones, Ernesto replied, “Interesting. What else are you able to tell me about him?”

 

“He dresses well and always wears a coat and hat…”

 

________________________________________________________________________

 

I’m not really sure why I took the Buenos Aires job. I had been on a training junket in Macau with a group of Japanese businessmen about two weeks prior. They didn’t hire me on as a Wingman. I would never accept multiple clients at once. It’s unprofessional and a tremendous pain. This was different. They were bored with paying for companionship and wanted to find Western girlfriends. For that they needed skills which a lifetime of business education did not provide. La Confrerie approved this kind of training because the fees they offered were astronomical. Bubble economy and all.

 

When I got back to my suite at the Royal Crown, the phone light was flashing. I called down to the desk and was told that I had a message. The bellhop would bring it up at once, I was told.

 

Return to Marseilles. Your replacement is already in Macau.

 

Kind of an unusually long message for la Confrerie and a bit reckless in the mode of delivery. They didn’t observe the protocol of using a la Confrerie messenger. Probably because there was not a station office in Macau. My first thought was that I had fouled something up, but I couldn’t think of what. The Japanese had seemed happy. They had even bought me a new hat.

 

I thought I would have to find the next flight to Paris and connect to Marseilles, but when I went to check out, the clerk handed me an envelope containing a first class one-way ticket. Very reckless.

 

I won’t burden you with stories of my white knuckle, anxiety-ridden air-travel experience, but suffice it to say that it would have been a normal trip for most travelers. Well, as normal as a flight with purpose unknown can be, but the flying was competent.

 

When I arrived in Marseilles, I hired a cab to take me to the approximate location of headquarters. Don’t confuse this with the training campus. Headquarters changed every year or so to maintain its anonymity. The names on the doors changed as well.

 

It was Remy’s Beret Company in the warehouse district…or Michaud and Freret Investments in a suite of offices in the financial district… or Henri’s Couture in the mall…that was the worst secret location ever, but I could always stop off for an Orange Julius on the way in. This year, headquarters was in a building next to a fishmonger’s by the wharf. La Confrerie never lost their sense of humor. Those odiferous b******s.

 

At this point in time, they didn’t even have the place fully set up for business. I walked into the Director’s office and saw that there was no place to sit except for a few rusted metal crates. The Director gestured for me to sit down, but I had just purchased a new Jean Paul Gaultier raincoat that I wanted neither checkered with rust nor emanating the catch o’ the day’s odor.

 

“If you do not mind, Monsieur Director, I will stand.”

 

“As you wish. Chance, I need to get right to my point. I have been reviewing your file and it is exemplary. You are ahead of the curve…”  Modesty prohibits me from continuing with his praise.

 

“You are too kind, Monsieur Director.”

 

“You may not think so in time. I want to offer you an assignment.” A few things were wrong with this. I received my assignments in the field and never from the Director himself.

 

I wanted to proceed carefully, but instead this came out: “I’m in!” Okay, I was a little reckless.  “What is the assignment?”

 

“That’s the thing, Chance. I can’t tell you any of the details, unless you accept.  Did you say you were in?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh….oh. I really thought you’d ask me first and I would have to tempt you to take the assignment before telling you anything.” He looked at his watch as if I had freed up some time for him and now he was looking for something to do.

“Chance, this is not your normal type of assignment where you hang out with someone and try to help their life by finding them women. This one is a bit more dangerous.”

 

In all honesty, this business did not usually tend to be all that perilous, so the Director’s statement peaked my curiosity. As he progressed through a detailed briefing, I began to think that I should have stayed in Macau. When I suggested I might go back, I was assured that it was no longer an option.

 

“We will be sending Larson to watch your back.”

 

“I want the Frenchman, Monsieur Director. It’s non-negotiable.”

 

“I was expecting you to say that. It is impossible. He is on assignment elsewhere. There can be no more discussion on this matter.”

 

With that I was handed an envelope with cash, credentials, and a series of photographs and was ushered to a car. This was going to be a learn-as-you-go-type job.

 

The car took me to an airport and my queasiness returned. Marseilles to Paris, I sedate myself with a double vodka. Paris to New York, shares of Pfizer rise on news of my increased Dramamine utilization. New York to Miami, I passed out from the combination of commercial drug and alcohol consumption and emotional exhaustion. Miami to Buenos Aires: pure hell. I have to be lucid when I hit the ground so there is no medication. There is no alcohol. There is just turbulence and will.

 

When I hit the ground, Larson meets me at the airport. He is a tall Swede. He has a reputation as one of the best. He is known for pulling off dramatic wins for his principals. If you are an old Texas oil tycoon wanting to marry a countess because you care about that kind of superficiality, Larson is your man. At that time, he was considered to be every bit the equal of Edgar the Frenchman…but he wasn’t the Frenchman.

 

“Ransom.”

 

“Larson.”

 

“Let’s get over to the hotel and check you in. I’ve swept the room. I can brief you there,” Larson whispered.

 

After arriving at the hotel, Larson filled me in on what the Director hadn’t.

 

My principal was to be a 25-year-old drycleaner who was a native of Buenos Aires: Jose Garcia. My target was his 22-year-old cousin, Fatima Rojas.

 

“His cousin? That doesn’t sound right.”

 

“Third cousin, Ransom. I do not make these jobs.”

 

The obstacle was that Fatima had been seduced by a “community business leader” and had essentially been his not-so-secretive mistress for the past three years. Jose was in love with her and he wanted her back.

 

“Why does the la Confrerie care about this case, Larson?”

 

“I’m supposed to tell you that it’s pro bono work and that the kid is just really sincere…blah, blah, blah.”

 

“…but really?”

 

“But really, the man that seduced Fatima is a very bad person. La Confrerie wants him neutralized.” Each word was delivered cautiously, like he was testing pool water.

 

He went on to explain that along with legitimate business interests, Carlos Valdez was a drug lord, human trafficker, extortionist, arms dealer, pimp, and child molester/pornographer.

 

“No one told me that I was going to have to kill anyone.” Not that the last item on Valdez’s resume didn’t make me consider it.

 

“No, Ransom. You are going to be a Wingman like always. Garcia has agreed to help us get close to Valdez if we can deliver Fatima to him.”

 

“And then who kills Valdez?” I knew the answer before I got to the “k” in kill. Larson just gave me a stony stare.

 

“Well, at least it’s not me,” not really comfortable at all with my involvement in the whole ordeal.

 

They were called “sanctions,” sanctioned assassinations on undesirable key individuals. They used to be called “hits,” until Trevanian wrote his best seller The Eiger Sanction in ’72 and la Confrerie essentially stole the term. We aren’t always the most original lot, but I can’t take the blame for this one. It was before my time. Larson would be doing the sanction.

 

Larson had done his homework. Valdez could never be touched at his house, his places of business, or at any event on which he had his fingerprints. December provided a unique opportunity. Valdez always attended the annual Precipitación Fuera del Antrax

(Stampede Out Anthrax) fundraiser in Buenos Aires. This was run by a multi-national non-profit organization that went to cattle countries around the world raising awareness and cash to help fight the spread of anthrax. It was a black tie event that ended up being a who’s who in the Argentinian social scene. Valdez never attended the affair without his prized mistress on his arm.

 

The plan was to be simple. Garcia and I would have invitations. There didn’t seem to be a lot of security around the event, but Valdez always brought his own. I was a financier from Brussels. I could do a passable Belgium-French accent. We would infiltrate. I would distract. Garcia would give Fatima a compact disk with evidence of Valdez’s darker deeds. At this point she leaves him and Garcia picks up the pieces. I know it’s a little Oceans 11, but this happened before the movie came out so it’s either a coincidence or it was stolen from us. Let’s just call it a coincidence and let the lawyers starve.

 

Oh, and at some point in all of this, Valdez was supposed to die. I didn’t know when or how. Larson and I both preferred it that way for our own reasons. Garcia did not know anything about the sanction.

 

“Sounds good,” I said to Larson.

 

“One more thing, Ransom.”

 

“What?”

 

“Didn’t anyone tell you that December in B.A. was the middle of summer? What’s with the overcoat and the hat?”

 

I silently left the room and went to men’s shop in the hotel and purchased a linen suit and a Morocca fitted straw hat. I felt like Panama Jack.

 

With the Precipitación Fuera del Antrax still two weeks away, I was going to be spending a lot of time with a certain dry cleaner. We had to be on the same page. Scratch that. We had to be the same person. We trained until 2 or 3 a.m. every night. He stayed in the connecting hotel room or I stayed at his house.

 

The kid was motivated, I will give him that. The night before the Cow Ball (as we had started to call it), I had him sit in a chair in my hotel room. I sat on the edge of my bed and I asked him the one-worded question that had been on my mind since that day at HQ:

 

“Why?”

 

“I used to think that I knew,” he replied. “At first I knew that I loved her. Then I wondered why she chose him, so it became a rescue mission, save my cousin from this monster.  But whatever his other deeds, Fatima’s mother says that he treats her quite well.”

 

“It's not too late. You can hang this up and find another Fatima.”

 

“Senor Ransom, all of my family have been ranch hands. I am the first person to ever own a business. My dry cleaning feeds and clothes my nine nieces and nephews. I hate dry cleaning, but I do it well. I pay extortion to Valdez’s men. I have to worry about the little ones in the family getting hooked on his s**t or getting exploited for his internet businesses. It is no longer about Fatima. What kind of a world is this when my family comes home smelling like cow manure and I clean his clothes?”

 

“Get some sleep, kid. Tomorrow is a big day.”

 

To Be Continued

 

http://www.myspace.com/chanceransom

 

 

Author's Note

This is the first of three parts. Please, let me know of any issues with this or the other two parts.

Reviews

[desertraven]

I rather enjoyed this story. It intrigued me.
Sandra♥

[TL Boehm]

Great pace to this story and I agree - Chance is a very intriguing character. Love the snippets of humor in this one interspersed with what must be a very tense plot line. Great writing. I want to see more. I am curious, very curious.

[None]

Michael,
Your story is both interesting and entertaining. I saw this is part one. When I arrived at the end, it was like watching a movie that is to be continued and I did not want it to end. So I'll be waiting with baited breath for part two.
Chances' appeal is pleasantly infectious. Loved it. Write faster, Michael...faster!

[Deborah Leah Krempa]

Very good writing of this adventure.