TS 2 Part VI Chapter 3

Chapter 3

February 17^th, 2010

Ciudad del Este, Paraguay

“My reputation will be ruined if someone sees me next to all of you,” Fedérico smirked when he saw the four Serbs coming out of the green olive Land Rover. “What the fuck is this car?” he snorted. “Do you want to get mugged?”

Goran venomously glared at the young man dressed with faded jeans, a shiny red polo shirt from a dubious Lacoste origin, trekking shoes, sunglasses and nothing else. The dusty and dirty bus station where they had agreed to meet a week ago was grating his nerves as the Argentinean didn't seem to be in a hurry to look for Guntram. He had been contacting some of his snitches and the best he had found was some new Russian gangsters activity in the triple border of Paraguay, Brazil and Argentina.

“Shit! It looks like the Blue Brothers went to Africa!” Fedérico added with a laugh when he saw the conservative beige trousers with cream or white shirts they all wore. “Panama Jack is on tour!”

“Do you have something better in mind?” Mirko growled and Fedérico looked at him in a way that made the youngest Serb feel very uncomfortable.

“I might, but you all have to try to look normal. We are not in the Balkans! This is Latin America and we are happy people. Damn, you all look as if you would have the word “Executioner” tattooed on your ass. The people we are going to visit is very sensible about their lifestyles and we are still in the peaceful and diplomatic phase, right?”

“What do you want us to do?” Goran asked very darkly but his stern expression didn't seem to affect Fedérico's demeanour.

“First, we change the car for a convertible Suzuki Grand Vitara. The dumpers are much better.”

“What? That car is for girls!” Mirko shouted and the other three men gaped at Fedérico, unable to understand the logics behind the request.
“You'd look hot as Officer Barbie,” Fedérico chortled and evilly winked at the young man who blushed from fury and embarrassment at the same time. Milan was fast enough as to catch him by the arm before he would have jumped at Fedérico's neck.

“You see, now? Your attitude is all wrong. Even if I could get you to look normal, you would still stand out in the crowd. We crack jokes all the time. Look relaxed or a bullet will relax you,” Fedérico explained them very seriously. “Come with me.”

Ciudad del Este skyline 

Ciudad del Este streets.

“What about the car?”

“One of you should follow me,” he said and decidedly walked toward a very old Ford Taunus coupé wearing a large sticker crossing all over the rear window: “My other car is a Lamborghini.”

“Is this a joke?” Milan asked, but Goran only moved his head toward the Land Rover and he went back to the car as Ratko and Mirko followed Goran to the mustard car where a smiling Fedérico was leaning his weight over his arms placed on the roof.

Without saying a word the Serbs entered in the car as the Argentinean chuckled like a child. “Five years more and this one will be a classic.”

“I thought discretion was required in your line of work, Mr. Martiarena,” said Goran.

“There are different approaches to this business, but believe me, the real James Bond is bald, fat, wears an undershirt and listens to Cumbia Music on a three thousand dollars stereo,” Fedérico sneered. “This is not posh Italy, sir.”

“I've been in places similar to this one before.”

“Really? Mixing with the natives? I don't think so. Here we have to mingle and I have to convince my friends that you are on our side too. From now onward all of you are businessmen from Serbia.”

“That's what we are,” Mirko said puzzled and Ratko hit him on the back of the head for his naïveté.

“What are we selling?”

“What you do best; weapons and you hired me as translator. It's usual we do these little extra jobs to put some fuel in these babies. The government doesn't pay much. It's logical you want to meet the Russians and get some contracts. I do the talking, is that clear?”

“Very well, but I reserve the right to intervene.”

“As you like, but I don't think you can understand this Spanish and much less Guaraní,” Fedérico said under the puzzled looks. “Yes, compliment of the Russians. The first thing they do when they reach a place is learning the locals language and most people in this area speak Guaraní at home. The Russians learned it and used the locals to establish a sound foundation for their business. On top, you have the German, Ukrainian, Polish and Russian migration to the area at the turn of the century or after World War Two, so it's not so strange to see a Nordic blonde here or hear two people talking in Russian.”

“Are there many Russians in the area?” Ratko asked.

“A few but most are third or fourth generation. There are also Mennonites around who came escaping from Stalin, but those are Germans. We are going to change you a little before we visit my friends. Don't expect they speak at once. Maybe we have to do some deals before we get some results.”

“We don't have much time, Mr. Martiarena.”

“Call me Fefo and I know it but I've been working in this area since 2006 and I know how things are done. I'm one of the oldest field agents in the area. The rest are six feet under, if they bothered to bury them at all. No one is in a hurry and if you rush things, accidents happen.”

“This is not our land,” Goran spoke slowly. “Nevertheless, the locals have learned over the past months to respect us.”

“No, most elements around here are free contractors. If I understood correctly, the local gangsters here pay you for the permission to use your own channels in Europe and that's very different. No brotherhood mambo, old traditions or respect at all. The Russians here control all the trade routes and the internet scamming and they don't answer to you. Russians have some troubles with the Chinese Mafia because they want to control all the falsifications locally produced or the labour market and that was the Russians' field until a few years ago. Being first doesn't mean you can keep the leading forever. Shortly, you're no one here.”

“Who are we seeing now?” Goran growled.

“Just old friends. Moshe is from Mossad and he's after some Palestinians training FARC people here. Mostly he wants money for the cause or information you may have on drug dealers doing business with the FARC.”

“Palestinian or Iranian? Ratko asked.

“Both, any information would be nice. His people provided you with the list of planes leaving Argentina that night. They're reliable as long as you don't mess with them and you haven't so far. Moshe is willing to meet you.”

The car parked in a dingy side street and the men descended from it and Fedérico only pointed to a larger avenue bordered by stores with signs written in Chinese, Portuguese and Spanish with the merchandise put in chaotic display.

Bravely the Serbs walked through the maze of T-shirts, electronics, sunglasses, mobile phones, watches, purses and clothes. A sense of wonder took by surprise Mirko as he began to realise the size of the commercial area, extending itself well beyond his eyesight. His eyes roamed the many names printed on the goods; Louis Vuitton, Prada, Calvin Klein, Rolex till his eyes hurt. He elbowed Ratko and pointed at him a large crocodile imitation bag on sale for less than the equivalent of five dollars.

“Keep your mouth shut. I had to pay several thousand for the original and be on a blasted waiting list for five months,” he growled. “Shit!”

“Next time, you should look here,” the young man said sympathetically.

“We'll see if you think the same once you're married, pup,” Ratko retorted adding the abhorred nickname with evident satisfaction.

Fedérico stopped in front of a store and slurred something to one of the girls standing there and she ran to the shop's interior -effectively and gracefully dodging the displayed clothes hanging from the ceiling and without touching the piles of clothes bagged from floor to the top of the room. Some minutes later she returned with several polo shirts in plastic bags in several colours. Fedérico gave her a handful of notes and tossed the shirts to the four Serbs.

“See if you can get rid of the Blues Brothers air,” he smirked

“Are you serious?” Mirko asked holding the t-shirt in his hands and looking dumbfounded at the clothes.

“Rule number one here; this is my tango and I lead, pretty face. If you don't like it, get another partner,” Fedérico smirked, eyeing how Milan and Ratko were doing their best to hide their snickering at the youth's mix of astonishment and fury.

“Do as you are told,” Goran ordered him and walked inside the store to remove his own shirt.

Mirko gaped at the Argentinean but quickly ran after his leader, taking the first polo from the pile Fedérico was holding.

“The Pup has much to learn,” Ratko smirked. “Blue. I'm a married man.”

“Do I get the pink one?” Milan whined.

“At your age, anything or anyone would do,” Ratko snarled.

Fedérico was able to catch a glimpse of Mirko's well defined muscles as he changed himself into the green polo with an overgrown pony embroidered in his chest. The golden crucifix shone for a brief instant before he closed the buttons to hide it from the public eye.

“Guntram had also one like this. Is it something from the Order?” he asked him and Mirko remained silent and brooding.

“It's a crenel cross, also called embattled Christian cross. Only the families whose members battled against the heathens or the Executioners have the right to carry them. Guntram descends from a very old line. The legend says his ancestors were Merovingian. Not many people have the right to wear this cross any longer,” Goran explained very seriously. “We are warriors, not monks.”

“I see, but don't let it get into your heads. Follow me.”

The men walked the small and crowded streets, doing their best to evade the persistent street vendors, almost tripping with them. Mirko was looking in awe at the poor shops literally filled up with counterfeit goods and groups of people led there by tourist guides, also collecting money from the shop owners. Fedérico stopped in front of a dusty electronic goods shop and only nodded to the teenager guarding the entrance.

The small local was also filled up with radios, stereos, video cameras, TV sets, DVD players and many other items, all of them still boxed and with only a few battered samples. An old fat man sat behind a crystal counter reading a magazine, surrounded by tablets that looked suspiciously similar to the iPads.

Fedérico took one of them from the shelves and chortled. “Guangzhou?”

“No, Manaos. Chinese are killing me with the prices. Don't touch if you're not going to buy,” the man said with a smirk.

“Is this not supposed to be in display for your customers?”

“Yes, for my customers. You're nothing but a penniless goy,” the man laughed openly as he rose from his chair and offered his hand to Fedérico who effusively shook it.

“This is my good friend Moshe Dayan,” he introduced the man to the Serbs as he huffed at the joke without being truly offended.

“Moshe Goldberg,” he said extending his hand to Goran. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Pavicevic.”

“Likewise, Mr. Goldberg,” Goran answered curtly.

“Let's go inside and leave the dogs out, shall we?” the old man asked.

“Very well,” Goran agreed ready to follow the Mossad agent. “You too, Martiarena.”

When Fedérico opened his mouth to protest, Milan and Mirko threateningly cut his way to Goran. “Fine,” he mumbled

* * *

“Do you want a coffee? This thing solved my life,” Moshe asked lovingly patting a Nespresso machine.

“Is it original?” Goran asked playfully.

“What do you think?” the old man laughed and placed one capsule inside the machine.

“I'll take a black coffee.” He sat in front of the small wooden table and waited for the man to finish to prepare another one for himself.

“For some strange reason, people believe that these capsules can't be manipulated,” the agent said with a tired smile. “They come here for business but before this invention, they were never taking anything and becoming more and more aggressive with the passing hours. One good coffee and people are nice again. Sugar?”

“Are the drugs in there?” Goran smiled.

“No, we have developed a highly sophisticated method for putting them in the hot water,” Moshe joked placing a small sugar pot. Goran add two spoonfuls in his coffee and muttered “thank you”.

“I understand you want to do business with the Russians here. That's a bit odd, don't you think?”

“I want to meet the new players, that's all,” Goran answered.

“Bronstein says you lost something and we provided all the information we had. Your presence here could hinder our own operations in the area. You drove and drive many people nervous.”

“We have new evidence we would like to check.”

“Your Duke's grandfather helped many of our people to escape Germany without charging them. This is why we are cooperating now. We are people who like to pay their debts.”

“And collect old ones,” Goran said. “I can negotiate on the Duke's behalf.”

“Yes, there are some rumours about your real position in his bank.”

“Rumours are only old wives talk, Mr. Goldberg. Let's say our interests converge. We prefer the Jewish People to be in sacred land and we helped you when you still were not a recognised state.”

“It is our land,” Moshe clarified very sternly. “For thousands of years, but you're right. You are with us.”

“Martiarena told us that the Russians keep a strong hold of this area.”

“Yes, but there are also many other groups who are against our own people. They are supported by the local governments.”

“They're fools who don't know who are their true friends or what the heretics will do to them once they're finished with them.”

“Do you know that Hezbollah trains here? They recruit Indians from the jungle, feed them, convert them into Islam and prepare them for who knows what. Those poor devils have no idea of where the Mecca is, but they're willing to die for it.”

“I could give you several account numbers. You should investigate them.”

“About?”

“Money laundering from the FARC. If you wipe out the locals involved with them, the Muslins will loose an important support in the area. You spoke of the rulers of this land. Get rid of them by exposing their dirty laundry and all the Iranians will go away. They're still a furuncle we can uproot before it becomes a cancer. We are willing to give you all what we have in exchange for your cooperation,” Goran said as he took a small pendrive out of his trousers pocket. “Check it,” he said placing the item in front of the man's eyes.

Moshe took the pendrive and connected it to a laptop he had in a safe box. He intensively read and browsed through the files for over twenty minutes before he closed it with a dry thump.

“Looks fine,” he said nonchalantly, “but incomplete.”

“It's much better than you ever had. We are speaking of top people here. A coup d'état kind of material. The rest will be yours once we have what we want.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I'm looking for a man, Constantin Repin. Your people have access to facial identification databases in the area. I need that you check those bases for me. We believe he's behind the kidnapping.”

“Who's he? This you can tell me.”

“A Russian mobster. Top of the tops. He retired a year ago. We think he may be hiding in Latin America. Speak with the Americans.”

“Mobsters operate their faces when they “retire”.”

“I know, but I want that you also check some people from his own entourage. We don't think his soldiers would have also changed their faces. I also need information on the Russian groups you know that are operating here. Any newcomers?”

“No, the “original” Russians protect their territory like lions. They don't like newcomers and frankly we have seen nothing out of the ordinary so far. No one is buying weapons like crazy or selling them. I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” said Goran and rose from the table.

* * *

March 1^st, 2010

“Nos vamos de putas,” an exultant Fedérico told the men miserably sitting in the dingy hotel room they had been forced to share for several days.

“What?” Milan croaked.

“Tonight we go to an exclusive gentlemen's club in the outskirts of the city and perhaps find a nice wife for you, Milan,” Fedérico answered with a smile and the Serb chuckled, understanding their destination.

Mirko gaped again at the Argentinean and notoriously blinked once more. “Maybe we even make a man out of Mirko,” he said and the Serbs, except Goran laughed making the young man blush like a tomato.

“Where're we going?” he blurted.

“A place where you leave your credit card home and take ultra resistant condoms with you,” Milan said with a chuckle. “Uncle Ratko will look after you.”

“Is there any reason for us to go there?” Goran asked very seriously.

“Just a hunch. I've been speaking with people and one of the girls working there remembered that there was a Russian who was coming to visit one of the younger girls twice or four times in the past year. He was hiring her for the whole night and giving her a very generous tip.”

“So?”

“It's looks to me like someone who had nothing for a long time and is stocking up,” Fedérico said with a smirk as he served himself a glass of what the Serbs had been drinking.

“Stocking up what?” Mirko inquired feeling completely lost in the coded conversation and Ratko just hit him on the head. “Ah... I see,” he said very embarrassed at his own slip. Fedérico only looked at him and warmly smiled remembering that those were the kind of remarks Guntram could make in the middle of a double meaning conversation.

“We don't know the man's name but he works for other Russians. He's nothing but a legal bodyguard of a businessman who has forests for wood cutting. They don't carry weapons or have contact with the other Russians.”

“What's so strange about that?”

“The whore I spoke with thinks he lives in Bahia Negra. That's in the north of Paraguay, next to the Negro River and the border with Brazil. It's the Pantanal region and honestly, even the Indians want to move out. It's a thousand three hundred kilometres away from here.”

“That's too far from here,” Goran mused, an idea forming in his mind.

“No if you have a plane,” Fedérico retorted. “It's like the end of the world because that area gets flooded during most part of the year. Some parts are like a thick jungle, perfect for hiding. No Google Earth or any other shit the Americans may have. No reason to have surveillance on the place as there's no way you can plant coca or anything else. The roads are blocked during the rainy season and the place is completely forgotten by the authorities. Only Chamacocos live there. There is also a huge natural reserve.”

“That's a real long shot, boy,” Milan said. “Why not going to Asunción if you want some fun?”

“Because that is too central. Here is perfect. No one cares a thing. Bahia Negra has a small airport, ideal for Cessnas and there's another private one nearby in Corumbá, if you want to have privacy from the CIA. A rich guy like Repin can have his own helicopter or plane and not depend on cars.”

“It still doesn't make sense to me,” Milan retorted, shaking his head negatively.

“It's a hunch. Let's try it. The Mossad has nothing so far and they really checked all airports tapes.”

* * *

Mirko's stomach churned of disgust when he took a look at the prostitutes aligned against the bar, scantly dressed, wearing heavy make ups and strange hairdos. 'Shit! Those three can't be more than fourteen years old! What kind of pervert comes here?' he thought carefully watching the very young and skinny girls huddling together and pretending to be much older and experienced than they were.

Fedérico walked in a beeline to the one who looked the youngest and whispered a few words in her ear, making her smile before she followed him to the rooms upstairs. Mirko contemplated the scene with mixed feelings; disgust, horror, fury and an odd sense of longing of which he couldn't understand its origins.

Ratko gave him a strong shove and he walked like a zombie to the bar to choose one of the more mature women. If he had to work, he would do it, just for appearances sake. 'I hate this part of the job,' he thought once more. 'I hate to do this with a woman.'

* * *

Fedérico sat on the dingy bed, wondering once more why prostitutes used to put colourful scarves over the light screens to make an ambiance.

“You're very pretty,” he said nonchalantly to the girl standing in front of him. 'And you should be in school or fucking with a boyfriend of your age,' he thought bitterly. 'How many of the ones did we use to fuck in school are still doing it?'

“Really?” she asked a bit puzzled.

“Sure, but all men must tell you that,” he said with a shallow smile. 'Probably not, but a courteous lie hurts no one.'

With a childish grin, she started to remove her top and Fedérico caught her hands fighting with the bow that held the blouse together. “No, in fact, I wanted to speak with you. Alone.”

“Are you a cop?” She asked wondering how one could have entered in the local. “Look, I have nothing to tell. I'm legal.”

“I'm not a cop, relax. I will pay you for the whole night, but I need some information.”

“I know nothing,” she said.

“I work for a woman. She married a Russian, one of your clients and the motherfucker is not paying her alimony. She has three children and wants to catch him. Nothing else. I'm not with the social services.”

“Really?” she asked dubious. “Will you pay the full fee?”

“Here you have the money,” Fedérico answered, getting two hundred dollars out of his wallet. “And a little something for you, too,” he added flashing the money in front of her surprised face. “We are speaking of a big alimony.”

She sat on the bed next to him and he couldn't help notice that her feet were not reaching well the floor. She changed her position and crouched her legs like a little girl. 'If she's fourteen, I'm a teapot. They must have picked her up from one of the Indian villages in the Chaco. Looks like one of them. Probably she doesn't even know how old she is.'

“Are they real?” she asked looking at the notes.

“Yes, I don't want to be killed by your pimp,” Fedérico sneered. 'But your pimp is going to be in troubles with the Justice very soon once I contact some people.' “What do you do here?”

“That's a strange question,” she said defensively. “Russians are big bosses here. I don't want troubles with them.”

“I mean, what do you do when you're not working? Do you listen to music?” Fedérico asked, ignoring her last sentence.

“Sometimes.”

Fedérico took a white iPod from his pocket and gave it to her. “It's a real one. Take it, if you want,” he said and waited for her small hand to take the devise. “The Russian I'm looking for works for a hacienda. He's not involved in anything. All legal. Marita, told me he was visiting you twice. I'm only looking him for his wife and she only wants money from him.”

“I have many customers, five or six per night.”

“Russians don't come around here much. They prefer the Sunflowers. Marita saw him here twice and thought it was odd. I know her very well, ask her about me, Joaquín Castellanos,” Fedérico said with a kind smile. 'Old worthless haggard.'

“I remember one Russian from the north. He could speak Guaraní,” she spoke with a nervous giggle. “He was hiring me for the night and left good tips too.”

“Was he called Georg?” Fedérico tested her.

“People don't tell names here,” she answered with a genuine smile. “No, I think it was Valery, No! It was Vania, he told me to call him like that.”

“That's true. What else can you tell me?”

“He lived in Alto Paraguay and his boss had a lot of money. Another Russian too but he was into crops and cows. I thought it was funny because everyone knows the land there is worthless after two or three harvests. He said he liked girls like me, sweet and brunettes.”

“Do you know something about his employer or where he worked?”

“Only that he was also Russian, ill tempered and gay. He told me several times he hated to work under a faggot but he was paying him a lot of money and it was very bad to be on his wrong side. He told me gays have the most twisted minds you can imagine. Ah, there were also Isir Indians around and he didn't like them.”

“Yeah, I can imagine what a shit is to be in the middle of nowhere, with no women and surrounded by Indians,” Fedérico chortled. “Did the boss have a boyfriend on top?” he asked casually.

“Didn't say.”

“Great, that's all,” Fedérico said and rose from the bed.

“Wait! If you leave now, I have to go back to work,” she said with a pleading voice. “I could really use a night off.”

“I see,” he answered with a smile. “How long do I have to stay?”

“Till 2 a.m. We have no more customers later than this on a week day.”

“Fine. Order a bottle of champagne but the good one,” he answered with a smile. 'I'll be delighted to charge it on Lintorff's tab.'

* * *

At three in the morning, Fedérico left the small bedroom and walked the stairs down to join the sombre Serbs drinking at the bar with the patrons carefully keeping distance from them. 'These guys are real executioners. Never a smile.' He leaned on the bar and ordered a whiskey before he told the others that it was time to go back to he hotel.

“How could you? Is this also work for you?” Mirko said with his voice deeply laced with disgust once they were in the dusty street. “She must have been fourteen years old!”

“I got a lot out,” Fedérico growled, furious at the suggestion that he could have been having sex with a little girl. “Maybe even you could satisfy one of the girls,” he sneered.

“You're a pervert,” Mirko spat furiously.

Fedérico simply exploded at the implication of the young Serb's words and launched himself against Mirko, punching him on the face. “Do you think I fucked her? Do you really think that? Get your head examined!” he bellowed while Milan trapped his arms and Goran firmly held Mirko before he would have tore the Argentinean into pieces.

“Hey, don't be so upset. We don't think you did anything with her,” Milan said with a conciliatory tone. “Sometimes Mirko speaks before he thinks. Let's forget all this.”

Fedérico threw a dirty look at the young Serb, not truly understanding why he was so furious with him. 'What's his problem? They live from the money the pimps make out of those wretches.' He took a deep breath to calm himself down. “I paid her the night and gave her an iPod. We talked and waited till now so she wouldn't be sent back to work. Is that OK for you?” he said dryly, wondering why he was giving an explanation to the Serb. 'Fuck, he's not Father Guntram to make me feel uncomfortable for going out fishing!'

Once more, Fedérico decided to ignore the odd feeling assaulting him every time Mirko fixed his dark eyes onto him and turned around to face Goran. “She told me about this Russian man. His name was Ivan and he was speaking a bit of Spanish. She was surprised he could speak well Guaraní and he told her that that was because of the Isir living in the area. The Indians speak very little Spanish and some of them provide fresh food for this large new estancia. Also, the owner is gay. This is worth checking.”

“We are not going to travel a thousand kilometres without sound evidence that this is Repin,” Ratko protested outraged.

“No, of course not. We are going to travel some hundred metres to an internet-café and check with the land registry who has purchased lands in Alto Paraguay recently. From 2001 onward,” Fedérico retorted rising his eyes to the starry night.

“We have internet at the hotel.”

“Your IP's are well known by now. You're pissing my own government off with your attacks on the poor defenceless FARC people and their mentors,” Fedérico said ironically. “Do I have to remind you of a certain body you left hanging from a lamppost? To your information, they have already found the pieces of those FARC guys you used as fertilizer.”

“Our computers are well protected.”

“Like Guntram in Buenos Aires? Suit yourself. I prefer to use an old, virus infected PC from a crowded internet-café than one of yours,” Fedérico huffed. “I'm going out.”

“It's 3 a.m!” Mirko protested.

“The perfect hour for browsing the net for some hardcore porn.” Fedérico turned around and walked toward his old car, leaving the Serbs behind.

* * *

“I found something but it doesn't ring a bell to me. Perhaps you know better,” Fedérico said that same morning to Goran who only nodded encouragingly as he served more coffee for the young man, taking a seat in front of the table still containing the leftovers from breakfast.

“I've searched through the official databases and there was nothing about Russians purchasing lands in the region. Then I started to look at all the real estate operations in the Alto Paraguay county and I found three transactions that look promising.” Fedérico took one of the dry croissants and bit it.

“I'm listening to you,”

“First, an Italian bought 4.500 hectares of jungle, but the man intends to start a hotel for birdwatchers. He's a well known ornithologist and wants to save the Matto Grosso.”

“What's strange about it?”

“He has built nothing so far or asked for the permissions to do so,” Fedérico considered. “It could be a very good cover for Repin.”

“Go on.”

“Then, some Canadians from an ecological foundation bought lands too but they're real “let's save the world” people,” Fedérico sneered. “With webpage and all.”

“Not him,”

“And finally we have one society built up in the Bahamas in 2005 which purchased “only” 10.000 hectares in the region. Nothing else is known about it. They cut some trees down but nothing more. They asked for a building permission in 2006 for a house but there's nothing else about it. No blueprints, tax declarations or even exports permits as this was supposed to be a timber exploitation. The company sold the land in 2007 to a Colombian, Juan Carlos Estévez Prieto. The Colombian intelligence has nothing on him.”

“I don't know who this man could be.”

“We should go there.”

“We can't do it in the moment. Moshe has something we can follow. A new group of Russians working with Colombians drug dealers in the Meta region. We must try there first.”

“That's too far away! Repin wouldn't be so stupid as to move to the middle of the FARC lands! If they double cross him, he's dead and he knows it! Let's try the Bahia Negra place.”

“In a week, after we have finished checking the other lead,” Goran decided after a brief internal consideration. “You should return to Uruguay now, Fedérico. This we will do by ourselves. ”

* * *

March 24^th, 2010

Montevideo

“By your face I can say there was no veni, vidi, vici in your case,” Fedérico smirked at the man taking a seat in front of him at the small café. He motioned to the waiter and asked for a black coffee and folded his hands over the marble table.

“It was a fiasco, like you said. We only wasted time,” the Serb admitted very slowly. “Mossad had nothing real, but at least they will do our dirty job against the local government.”

“Are you going to listen to me now, Goran?”

“I have nothing else in the moment.”

“Good,” Fedérico grunted. “This Estévez Prieto, the man who purchased the property has no criminal record but a cousin of his was linked to some people in the Medellín Cartel in the late eighties. Maybe he's clean, but his family is not. We should check this lead. There must be a reason for your “Colombian customers” to get into this war. What if they had trouble in the internal front and you were not aware? Something like an old boss who wants to recover his land. Some kind of Pablo Escobar returning. That would explain why they started to fight for the trade routes with your people in Europe.”

“The Masons pitied them against us. That's very clear for me,” Goran rejected the idea.

“Yes, maybe, but why would Masons speak with the FARC? Why getting them in the middle? We all know their main job is to baby sit coca crops, airfields and laboratories. Nothing else. This looks more like a contract to me. Someone paid or even funded somebody in the Cartels to start a war. One of the first targets was not one of your commanders? The one in Spain?”

“Yes.”

“This look more like a Mafia war than a war between crusades and heretics. We already know Repin is behind all this. It's logical to assume he has some friends helping him. What if he offered his “expertise” in such mullets? You have been tumbling down from one diversion to the next.”

“I see your point. Very well, we'll go to this place.”

“Excellent. We leave tomorrow. I can get a plane but you pay the tab.”