Read Tsunami Connection Online

Authors: Michael James Gallagher

Tags: #Jewish, #Mystery, #Teen, #Spy, #Historical, #Conspiracy, #Thriller, #Politics, #Terrorism, #Assassination, #Young Adult, #Military, #Suspense

Tsunami Connection (12 page)

BOOK: Tsunami Connection
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"I didn't think Argentinians liked things
American," said Kefira, testing the waters.

"Let's keep the politics at bay. I am an incurable
romantic and Ingrid Bergman was my first childhood crush."

"I do know that one. I remember my parents talking
about it. Doesn't it happen in occupied Vichy France and North Africa?"

"That's pretty good for someone your age. Ingrid
Bergman makes me think of you."

"You take your compliments too far, Fripo. We look
nothing alike."

"No, but you give off the same kind of energy."

Kefira stood up impulsively and walked around the small
table, taking his hand up as she moved. Her tongue caressed his inner wrist,
and then she rolled her left leg between the table and Fripo, ending up on his
lap. After placing her arms delicately around his neck, she then kicked her
right leg straight up into the air and placed it down carefully between the
legs of the folding table under the white tablecloth. Kefira shifted her weight
over his knees and brought her left leg in closer, to end up sitting cabaret
style, with her back now stretched over his chest, her head lolled over his
right shoulder. The effort warmed her unwashed skin, letting the smell of her
oil rise to his nostrils. Fripo sighed deeply.

"I'm speechless," said Fripo.

She stood, spun around between his legs, flexed her knees,
used his shoulders as a springboard, and landed weightlessly in his lap again.
Their lips met and tongues hungrily explored each other. She could feel his
manhood pressing against her thong. Just as abruptly as she had started,
feeling a slight pang for teasing him, she sprang to her feet and was all
business again.

"That's the kind of energy I want to be able to project
from the technical expertise you will demonstrate for me of tango. How long
will it take?"

"Let's get started."

They worked on the basics and quickly advanced as Kefira
demonstrated exceptional ability. The two-hour period passed pleasantly. Fripo
noticed that Kefira did not even break a sweat in almost two hours. He was
still strong, but tired as they stopped, having been interrupted by the polite
knock of the next teacher using room 203. Fripo gathered his music and quickly
straightened up the lunch stuff, saying he would get it from the closet later,
while thirty people of all ages and nationalities filed into the room. Some
acknowledged Fripo with discreet nods. Most occupied themselves with getting
into dance practice shoes.

"Dinner," he said as he stood beside the Ducati,
shaking his head somewhat.

"I am busy tonight, but tomorrow is fine."

"You really expect me to sit on the back seat of
that."

"I ride like I dance. I gave myself to you in the
dance. Pay me the same respect. You won't regret it."

"I guess you're right. Regret is a waste of energy.
Pick me up at the address on the back of the card I gave you. I can give you
directions."

"I have great GPS, and anyway, I've never gotten lost
in any city in the world," she said, slipping her short, jet-black hair
into the helmet.

Fripo watched as she sped into traffic, wondering what he
had gotten himself into. He double clicked his heels together and then strolled
down the street and to the right, onto Calle Florida. He had parked his moped near
the branch of Bank of America, in front of the
Galerías Pacífico
, a
large and trendy indoor shopping mall.

Kefira showed up at Fripo's dance studio again the next day,
in the early afternoon. She watched Fripo going through the motions in his
class through the small square window in the door, until Katerina poked her
ribs from behind and laughed when Kefira turned, looking hostile.

"Take it easy there, girl. I just couldn't resist
interrupting your little spying game," said Katerina, harmlessly referring
to Kefira's line of work without knowing.

"Sorry. I've just been beating off a lot of Argentinian
men recently."

"I can't say I'm surprised, looking at you."

"It's really nice to see you. Do you have time for an
espresso?"

"Why not? Fripo is busy for the next half hour, anyway.
Where should we go?"

"I'm mad about
alfajores
," said Kefira,
talking about the Argentinian chocolate covered sandwich made with cake and
dulce
de leche
filling inside, sold at Havanna Café, a coffee shop and franchised
chain, with outlets all over Buenos Aires and Argentina. There was one Havanna
Café just outside the Borges Centre for the Performing Arts, on Calle Florida.

"I know. Those cookies are amazing. I remember when I
lived in the States in the '90s, I was so disappointed that you couldn't buy
them anywhere."

The two of them walked, arm in arm, through the temporary
art exhibits on the second floor and down the long, wide spiral staircase
towards the ticket office, and out on to Viamonte. It was just a short walk to
Calle Florida. On Florida, a trendy, pedestrian-only shopping street, they
turned right and walked a short distance to Havanna Café. On the way, Kefira
stopped beside an elderly couple playing classical music on the street. The two
women listened intently until the music stopped and the gentleman musician in
his mid-seventies nodded to them. Kefira dropped some pesos into the hat in
front of the two violinists, but could not resist asking some questions.

"
Con respecto, señor,"
started Kefira,
"your Vivaldi is very impressive. My father always played that piece for
us near Christmas. Thank you for refreshing such a lovely memory."

A Cheshire smile filled his face as he reached out and bent
forward to kiss Kefira's hand. He went on to say that an audience as attentive
and beautiful as Kefira and her young lady friend made the effort worthwhile.

"I hope I will have the energy to perform as long as
you have," continued Kefira, this time in unison with Katerina.

"
Lastima, qué lastima!
" said the older
gentleman.

"I'm sorry. I don't understand. What is a shame?"
asked Kefira.

"I do play from love of music, but as our government
has been playing with our pensions, I also play out of necessity. My pension is
practically worthless, but alas,
hasta la vista
. It has given me great
pleasure to feel your energy as you listened to our music. Now, we really must
get back to playing."

The gentleman clicked his heels together, bent slightly at
the hip and glanced downward towards the right. He then nodded to his partner
and placed his violin against a cloth on his shoulder. The two violins broke
into a mournful rendition of
Adios Nonino
, by Astor Piazzolla. Kefira
and Katerina walked silently, listening as the music faded away. They entered
Havanna Café feeling subdued by the reality presented to them by the retired
musicians. Kefira struggled to keep her compassion from turning to pity. They
both ordered double espressos and
alfajores
sweets. Katerina spoke
first.

"Politics is dirty, but I want to know about you."

"Not much to say, really. I'm on vacation here in
Buenos Aires, learning the tango because I want to start teaching it at my
school in LA."

"I'd be honoured to come and give some workshops
sometime," said Katerina.

"That sounds amazing, especially if you could talk the
maestro into coming with you."

"His eyes sparkle when he looks at you. I don't think
there would be any problem there."

"No disrespect intended, but Fripo's eyes twinkle for
whatever woman is in front of him. He's charming, but I am too busy for serious
relationships," continued Kefira.

"From experience several years ago, he's very
attentive, not only when dancing," said Katerina with a wink of the eye
and a nudge of the elbow.

They both laughed, changing from the somber mood of their
arrival in the coffee shop. A tall, handsome waiter brought their sweets and
espressos. He seemed unable to decide which beautiful woman to compliment and
blushed as a result. Katerina and Kefira burst into delight again, only
deepening this sensitive macho's indecision. Exaggerating some undisclosed,
inside joke, the women brought a throaty sigh to the waiter's lips.

"You make my day. The smiles and laughter of two
exceptionally beautiful women will inspire me," said the waiter as he
turned snappily on the ball of one foot.

As they sipped their coffee and munched the cakes, Fripo
came into the cafeteria. He embraced Katerina first, then Kefira, with a long
hug. Stealing the last bite of Kefira's
alfajor
, he offered to give her
a lesson right away as he had an hour and a half of free time. They said their
goodbyes and the maestro led his student back to the dance school.

"We're going to work on teaching you how to listen
today," said Fripo.

"I think I listen well to the music and I don't have a
lot of time to learn figures. Maybe we should practice some complex
sequences," interjected Kefira.

"Tango is different than other dances. The connection
between partners, expressed by the manipulation of the chest as an indicator of
future movements, is essential for the woman to master. We are like a single
four-legged animal, and like a Siamese twin glued together in the upper body,
we must learn how to respond to the needs of our other half," explained
Fripo.

The instruction continued, using just plain walking as the
medium of communication. As they walked around the room, torsos together and
legs free to disassociate and respond to any direction intimated by the leader,
Fripo explained how the tango had evolved over hundreds of years of history.

In the beginning, tango grew from an interweaving of the
movements of freed African slaves who had escaped from North America or the
plantations of Brazil. Later, European immigrants, principally though not
exclusively from Italy and Eastern Europe, contributed their folkloric dances
and the bandoneon, altering the flow of the dance. Early on in tango's history,
pairs of men, in Montevideo and Argentina, tested their abilities to attract
the one woman in a sea of a thousand men, across the blades of two extended
knives, without any bodily connections.

Later, all of these influences suffused as the bourgeoisie
of Argentina adopted the dance. At that time, in the grand ballrooms outside
the city, the dance evolved into the formalized militaristic tango salon
movement, while inner-city dancers strutted around tiny dance halls, obliging
them to use the close embrace
Apilado
, coming from 'piled up' in
Spanish, or
Milonguero
style. The
Tango Nuevo
began at the turn
of this century. The maestro's historical lesson deepened Kefira's
understanding of the progression of tango music and movements. At the end of
the lesson, Fripo congratulated her.

"Now you are listening. You are ready to respond to the
directions of any leader. Tomorrow we will work on some figures that require a
special kind of attentiveness from you."

"It was a wonderful lesson. I never would've imagined
that just walking around a room could be so appealing to do. Thank you."

"What about dinner? I'll pick you up at your hotel
around 10 p.m. How does that sound?" asked Fripo.

"I have some things I have to do this evening. Could we
meet at the restaurant around ten thirty?"

"Whatever pleases you. Adios."

"
Kalispera
."

"You speak Greek as well," said Fripo, a surprised
expression on his face.

"I was brought up in the Greek Islands, but that's a
long story. Until later."

After leaving Fripo, Kefira made her way, via her hotel
where she armed herself and pocketed her lock picks, to the Armenian section of
Buenos Aires. She took her Ducati to an indoor parking lot with security for
her motorcycle and went onto the street to flag a taxi about two blocks from
Shafiq's home. For a small bribe, she negotiated the use of the cab without the
driver. She borrowed the driver's cap as well. On the street, with a clear view
of Shafiq's balcony and front door, Kefira scrunched down and waited. One hour
and a half later, she was rewarded for her tedium. The Middle Eastern
gentleman's lights went off in his apartment windows and he left by the street
level door on Calle Armenia. She made herself as invisible as possible and
watched him leaving, all the while formulating a plan.

Kefira pressed the buzzer for an apartment on the floor
above Shafiq's home. Using her recently acquired, Argentinian-accented Spanish,
she intimated a recent assignation with the ex-GIS man to his neighbor.
Luckily, the woman who answered was trusting and rather unexpectedly at ease
about potential robberies. The neighbor buzzed the entrance door open for
Kefira. The Mossad agent had concocted a story about wanting to leave a note
for Shafiq directly under his door. Likely due to everyone in the building
knowing all about Shafiq's line of work, the account seemed plausible. Just in
case the upstairs tenant appeared to confirm the looks of the person who had
rung the bell, Kefira donned a blond wig that she had in her purse. Discretion
being the better part of valor, especially in matters between men and women in
Argentina, the upstairs neighbor did not come out to check up on Kefira.

Once inside his home, after a thirty second bout of lock
picking, having noticed the clear tape across the top right of the door, Kefira
proceeded directly to Shafiq's computer on a table facing the wall just to her
right. It was password protected, which the agent bypassed by rebooting and
opening the computer in set-up mode. She then scrolled around until she found
'enable password', disabled it and then left set-up mode to reboot the
computer.

When the computer opened this time, the password demand was
repeated, but Kefira simply pressed the spacebar and the computer operating
system opened. Entering Shafiq's email was as simple as typing a short macro
made by Mossad that accessed a cookie inside Shafiq's browser, which in turn
hacked directly into all email accounts on the machine. There were two accounts
listed. The first account dealt with Shafiq's customers on Gmail. The other one
was encrypted. The agent attached a small USB key, containing a decryption key.
The program started churning through the possibilities.

BOOK: Tsunami Connection
11.63Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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