Tsunami Connection (11 page)

"Get one of your goons to do it. I don't do children.
God Bless, an' the top of the
marning
to ya," said MacAuley,
chuckling to himself as he left a flabbergasted Rostov on the fourth green. The
doctor was literally blue in the face when his cart, caddy, and goon arrived.

March 2, 2012

Plaza Dorado bustled on weekends.
Kefira watched the crowd mingling amongst the hundreds of antique dealers'
temporary concession stands from her balcony, adjacently overlooking the
square, one of the main tourist centers of the San Telmo district of Buenos
Aires. Her apartment was about one hundred meters down a lane and shielded from
night-time noise. She had come to Argentina for two main reasons. Primarily,
she came to verify her suspicions about Shafiq, to respond to her intuition
that MacAuley would be near his sister. On a more personal level, Kefira needed
closure about the death of her parents in a bomb attack on the Israeli Embassy
in Buenos Aires back in 1992.

Shafiq was on the Mossad's payroll and Yochana trusted him
with her life, but something just did not fit with his involvement in the death
of more than half of Kefira's team in the Sinai. The Mossad operative was sure
that her time in Argentina would expose what she believed was Shafiq's
treachery. She needed to test Shafiq. His file said he was involved in the
tango community in the city. According to his reports, his stipend was
inadequate to support his lifestyle needs, so he had branched out. The report,
filed several months ago, stated that he was running a kind of escort business,
providing foreign women with taxi and dance partner services for one hundred
dollars an evening.

Due to a combination of the ever-increasing popularity of
tango and the dearth of male partners for the large numbers of foreign women
flocking to Buenos Aires to learn the dance, he was quite successful.
Apparently, according to his control's intelligence, Shafiq was a very
competent and charming partner.

Since he had no knowledge of Kefira, it would be easy to
become one of his clients, but first she had to apply her years of being a
dancer to learn tango quickly. She was certain her looks and skill would
quickly make her popular in the dance world in the city.

Today she would have her first private lesson with an older
Italian man she had met by chance last evening. His name was Fripo Firipini,
and a quick perusal of YouTube had produced enough professional videos to leave
her certain of her inkling about him. It also did not hurt that he was
charismatic as well as talented, if a bit over the hill.

While sitting on the Plaza last evening, enjoying the sound
of live rock guitar, Fripo had stopped beside her chair with his daughter, a
nine-year-old beauty. The girl talked a blue streak about nothing and
everything and, for no apparent reason, had taken a shine to Kefira. Fripo was
surprisingly reticent for a man who radiated love of womankind in a warm way.
Because his daughter Roxanna had insisted, he had asked if he and his daughter
might share the table with Kefira. Kefira was glad for the company, flattered
by the young girl's attentions, and tired of the advances of young Argentinian
men hitting on her. Fripo's warmth was contagious, and she found herself
opening up and talking about things she probably should not have discussed.

"Why are you here?" he asked, toying with the
lapel of his linen jacket.

"I am a dancer and I wanted to have some private
lessons from a not too expensive professional with the depth of experience that
only arrives in the twilight of a career."

"Here's my card. I fit the bill to a tee. Now, tell me
why you are really here."

His question startled her a bit.
Have I lapsed in my
tradecraft?
Impossible,
she thought,
I am just being paranoid
.
Then, out of the blue, she admitted something dangerous.

"My parents died here. I can't go into details, but I
had to come to Buenos Aires to get over it. I had to see the places they told
me about. I need closure. I need to forgive them for leaving me alone in my
early life."

"This is strange," said Fripo.

"What do you mean?" 

"I wouldn't have told you this, but you look exactly
like my ex-wife. That is why my daughter has reacted so strongly to you.
Yolanda, my wife, died last year. Roxanna was devastated. You wouldn't believe
how much you resemble her."

At that moment, tears flowed from Kefira's eyes. Years of
hiding pain escaped her control mechanisms. Fripo put his arm around her,
holding her close to him. It was then he noticed the perfume. It filled him
with energy and desire. Roxanna interrupted their embrace. She was crying as
well. The three of them, an hour ago strangers, were closer now than some
people manage to become in a lifetime, but then Argentinians are unquestionably
warm people. Kefira had come to the right place for closure.

"Two beautiful women crying's too much for me,"
said Fripo as he handed her his ascot, a pressed silk scarf, to dry her eyes.

"You're too kind," Kefira replied.

"As for you, my love, come and sit on Pepito's knee.
There, there. Don't you like ice cream?"

"
Si
, Papa."

"Here's some money. You can see the ice cream store
just across the square. Go and get yourself one. We can see you from here. Hurry
now. It's near closing time."

Kefira recovered her composure. She looked again at this man
in front of her. His smile lit up his face as she reassessed him.

"What was it you said? At the twilight of his career!
I'm in my fifties, late fifties, and I am raising my daughter by myself after
having lost your twin last year. That settles it. Tomorrow afternoon, you will
come to my studio and I will introduce you to the land of tango."

"I couldn't impose, really."

"The address is on the card. Here is my cell number. I
will be very disappointed if you do not come. Besides, I am a maestro. You
can't lose. What did you have?"

"Just coffee."

"Fine," he said, leaving some money on the table
as they got up.

Kefira and he strolled towards the child walking in their
direction. Roxanna was engrossed in her large cone. Life was beautiful and
Kefira linked her arm with Fripo's arm. The gesture seemed natural. She knew
she would go to his studio the next day.

In the light of day, on her balcony drinking a strong espresso
that she had prepared in her kitchen, Kefira was less sure of her earlier
convictions about taking Fripo up on his offer. The success of her mission was
paramount, but she had a good gut feeling about Fripo, and she now realized
that, with Fripo's assistance, she might be able to get Shafiq to come to her
instead of going after him.

What the hell, caution to the wind
, she thought as
she dialed Fripo's cell phone number.

He answered after three rings, apparently out of breath. She
could hear the sound of a studio piano plunking through a fast milonga-style
tango.

"I am very pleased you called," he said, before
she could speak.

"I didn't say anything and you did not know my number.
How did you know it was me?"

"I didn't. I always answer the phone like that."

"Is that a milonga I hear in the background?"

"You have been doing your homework. Yes it is. When
will you be here?"

"Is two o'clock okay?"

"I usually don't teach from 2:00 to 4:00, but if you
can eat with me in the studio at 2:00, it would be perfect to start dancing
around 2:45."

"Until then, ciao," said Kefira, shifting from the
Spanish they had been using to Italian, another of her languages.

"Multi-lingual … any more surprises for me?"
continued Fripo in Italian.

"Actually, I am a professional dancer."

"Yes, you told me last night," he said as the
music in the background picked up.

"Who is that composer?"

"His name's Rodolfo Biagi. You like it?"

"The tempo is pressing, interesting."

"I really have to go. Ciao, bella."

Kefira wondered why she was coy with this man. Though it was
not out of character for her to flirt, she usually displayed her charms
exclusively to advance a mission's objectives, not just for the fun of it.

The Mossad operative got up to leave, knowing she had just
enough time to get to the corner of Niceto Vega and Calle Armenia before her
dance appointment. She double-checked the safety on the ceramic pistol Aden had
provided for her and stashed it under her mattress. She went downstairs, helmet
in hand, and jumped onto a Ducati Streetfighter S motorcycle that she had
rented for two weeks.

The GPS she had purchased in Boston operated flawlessly,
thanks to Aden's loading of a connection to an Israeli military satellite, all
behind an impenetrable firewall. The Armenian section of town was far away, but
distances seemed shorter on the Ducati Streetfighter S. Her expertise allowed
her to slip through traffic.

Finding Shafiq's residence was easy. She had the exact
location from his Mossad file. Establishing a one-person surveillance was
another story. She got off her motorcycle, locked it with a very serious
looking device, and pulled off her helmet to the shocked surprise of several
men sitting at a cafe opposite the building where Shafiq lived. She decided to
have a coffee and see if the Mossad surveillance of Shafiq was accurate. They
said he got up and sat on his balcony overlooking the street at exactly 11:00
every morning. It was a third floor balcony, just to the right of the front
door.

Sure enough, at 11:02, the balcony door opened, and a
fit-looking man, in his early fifties of Middle Eastern extraction, stepped
out. He had a white porcelain coffee cup in his right hand and a morning paper
under his arm. He was reading the paper, but Kefira could see that his
movements revealed that he was using the reading as a pretext to peruse the
street below him. From just under the awning to the left of the cafe, she was
invisible to him, but using her make-up mirror, she could see Shafiq. He did a
double take on the Ducati, just as she wanted. Before he finished his paper,
she let him see her putting on her helmet and take in the sundress as she
exposed her upper thigh while getting on the bike. She was off like a light,
pulling a small wheelie to the renewed amazement of the men in the shop and
Shafiq as well.
I'll pique his interest with that
, she thought.

The road back to Calle Florida and the Borges Center for the
Performing Arts zipped by as driving gave Kefira an adrenalin rush. Parking in
the center of town, where police protected tourists' interests, was relatively
safe. Still, Kefira wanted to be able to see her bike from the dance studio
windows. She went upstairs, passed the ticket office, and followed the signs
for
Escuela Nacional
del
Tango
. Her short, light summer
dress rode up with every step, hinting at the frilly tops of her footless
leotard stockings.

As she got closer, passing through modern art exhibitions, a
cacophony ranging from the breezy sound of a tango waltz was replaced by the
syncopated punch of a 'tres pieds' milonga. Fripo had said room 203. She found
it easily. Kefira knocked and then squeaked the door open. A young woman in her
late twenties swooned when she saw Kefira in the mirror. Fripo had his arms
around her and was instructing a
hiro
, or turn, while the dancer's back
was to him. The music was a quiet, melodious tango waltz,
Lagrimas y
Sonorisas
, originally composed by Eduardo Arolas, but popularized by
Rodolfo Biagi in 1941.

"Fripo, hold me up. My knees feel weak. I wouldn't have
believed it if you hadn't told me. She's back from the dead," said Fripo's
partner in rapid Spanish. She turned to Kefira and slowed down her Spanish.
"Forgive me. My manners are terrible. I am Katerina. Fripo and I are
working on a number we will be performing later this month. I can't believe
it."

"I hope it's not troublesome to see a ghost. I am
Kefira. Pleased to meet you."

"Believe me, the pleasure is all mine, or should I say,
ours," said Katerina as she sashayed to the left and bowed slightly in
deference to Fripo. "I'll leave you two to your lunch."

Katerina stepped forward and kissed Kefira warmly, while
taking her into her arms and embracing her strongly. She leaned into the
helmet-carrying dancer, whispering gently in Kefira's ear:

"He's more fragile than he lets on."

Katerina ran from the room and Kefira noticed that Fripo was
fussing with a table that he had pulled out of a closet. There was half a
bottle of Argentinian red, already breathing, a plate of antipasto, some crusty
but very plain white bread, and two plates with utensils. Lastly, a yellow rose
decorated the center of the placemats. With an easy flourish, Fripo snapped
open the two folding chairs, a white cloth folded over his arm.

"
Signorina
, our humblest welcome. Please be
seated," he continued as he slid her chair under her, bending forward,
hoping for a whiff of the same perfume from last evening.

Her scent was not fresh, but the sensuousness of her perfume
created a surge in his feelings as he caught a hint of the same fragrance that
had rejuvenated him at their last meeting.

"What were you looking for outside?"

"I need to be able see my motorcycle because it might
disappear, even here in this neighborhood."

"I have a moped, too. We should do some sightseeing
together."

"Sounds great," she said, "but my
Streetfighter has a special attachment for a second seat. I can't abide letting
someone else drive and a moped is too slow for my character."

"Streetfighter?"

"It's a Ducati."

"Wonders never cease. A Ducati Streetfighter. Forgive
me if I say you don't look strong enough to hold up a large motorcycle."

"As many people have found out in the past, looks can
be deceiving."

"Anyway," said Fripo, "here's to looking at
you, kid."

"That's from a movie, isn't it?"

"I dated myself, but yes, it is. It is from my favorite
American film, Casablanca."