“You called me here today. Do you have a proposal?”
“My thoughts are like the wind, you understand, and I am only thinking out loud. My thought is to do little to inflame them.”
“The sanctions?”
“No, no. The sanctions are civil enough and I applaud you for being so forthright about it. I think they would expect it and that helps to balance the situation. To do nothing is to show weakness and invite aggression. However, our vote to join you would inflame them. They view us as an ally that they would eventually turn on when we had served our purpose. You heard my statements earlier, quite the contrary to your impassioned words.”
“Well yes, we all heard you.” His brow furrowed with the memory.
“Believe not a word. It is what I needed to say to appear friendly to their cause. I would suggest that you do not press the UN for a vote as the Chinese would vote against it and I would need to do the same. I suppose that you imagined this and simply used the UN platform today to get out your message.”
Landenberger remained silent as the Russian leader continued. This is a very intelligent politician.
“I propose a secret alliance known only to the four of us; something that cannot be spoken of to others.”
“An alliance?” I sense something important — urgent…. His heart pounded wildly against his chest.
“Quite simply we would back you up in every way we could without bringing a lot of attention to it. Our oil production is at its peak and we have found new fields in Siberia. We could, for example, provide oil to you in an emergency. If the Supreme Leader decides to retaliate by cutting off oil to you and your allies, we could fill the gap and no one would ever be the wiser. We know Ayatollah will continue to sell the oil as their economy depends upon it. We could begin reducing our shipments to those on the other side, make slight adjustments here and there, all favorable to you and the Western World. We would choose to look neutral while secretly not so much so.”
“And what would you ask in return?”
“Nothing comes to mind however when among friends one can expect that favors run in both directions. You could think of it as being good business to make this offer to you. We would make money off the transactions.
Of course oil can be sold anywhere in the world without any problem. If you want to think of it as a business transaction, which is, we choose to sell it to our friends — our best customers — rather than those who are, shall we say, less friendly.”
“What of the EIS?” You have always wanted that to be dismantled? Would that be a favor?”
He grinned, leaned forward and whispered. “Yesterday that may have been true.”
He fell back in the leather chair and bellowed. “Today is another matter! We are now allies by circumstance. Neither of us has chosen this. We are now bedfellows. This is another ploy to confuse the world. It is best that we appear as unfriendly to one another — at odds — with every turn. It is a chess game with onlookers whom we wish to remain perplexed.”
“I don’t know what to say. You are proposing that we are now best of friends. You can’t blame me for being somewhat leery of this proposal.”
“It is too much to ask for your response today as this comes from, how you say in USA, from left field. I expect you to be suspicious and would anticipate nothing less. Think it over and get back to me in a few days. Use the hot line and let’s call today’s discussion Operation Checkmate.”
Chapter Three
Robinson found his way across Caracas having taken a taxi to the front gate of the Mirafores Palace where a pair of armed guards eyed him suspiciously. The usual entourage was left behind as President Santiago trusted no one. Robinson was led through a central patio featuring lush flowering plants and a pair of shading palm trees that towered over a bubbling fountain perched in the center.
He was escorted to the Joaquín Crespo Salon where thirty-six ornate carved dark mahogany chairs surrounded the largest table he had ever seen other than the one in the queen’s palace in England. Every aspect of the décor from the parquet polished floor, the French baroque chandelier, and the oiled art that hung discreetly announced that the room existed as a monument to aristocratic refinement.
Hidden in the shadows stood Alejandro Santiago a figure of modest stature; a slightly disheveled man with jet black hair, thick eyebrows, and a champagne glass held in his hand. He dressed in a dark green military uniform with a plethora of pins and patches laid across his chest.
“Care for a glass of wine?” He held up a bottle of Chateau Margaux.
“That is very kind of you, Mr. President.” He accepted the wine and took a sip while they strolled back to the patio where a cockatoo eyed them suspiciously.
“Your country is most disturbed with the recent test in Iran?” he began.
“We are concerned.”
“You should have stopped it long before it came to this you know. I always figured Israel would put a stop to it. It was your county’s fault this happened as the Jews did not feel that you would back them up properly.”
“We always backed them…. ”
“You always said you would, however invisible lines were drawn as to how far you would go. The precious oil, of course, is behind the whole of it. You gave them military hardware and let them build up their defenses. It is like sending a child into the playground with a weapon and everyone expects him to hold off the school bully without the support of his friends. ‘Who will help me when the bully attacks? I really don’t want to use the weapon. Perhaps I can run?’ All these things go through his mind. In the end he will put it off until the bully is pummeling him senseless.”
“You are right of course. Our support should have been clearly laid out so that everyone would know where they stand. However, it is the nature of politics to maintain uncertain relationships that often dissolve in the sand.”
The crack of gunfire sounded nearby.
“Did you hear that?”
“It could be gunfire I suppose.”
Santiago grabbed Robinson by the sleeve and led him back to the salon.
One of the guards ran into the room. “RUN FOR YOUR LIFE! We are being overrun by revolucionarios!”
Behind him several khaki-green figures armed with machine-guns sprayed the room with bullets and shot the guard in the back. Riddled with bullets he died before he hit the floor. Robinson and president Santiago dove to the floor as the bullets buzzed like crazed hornets over their heads. The pair crawled under the table while the room disintegrated in clouds of splintering smoke, plaster raining down around them, most of it landing on the table.
More revolucionarios filled the room and grabbed Robinson and Santiago from under the table and slammed them against the wall. The squad leader talked into a headphone. “We have the president! We are secure. Repeat, Red Dog III to Red Dog II, we are secure.”
Shortly, the Red Dog II unit broke into the room and a cocky leader with an ugly crimson scar on his left cheek swaggered up to the president and slapped him across the face, knocking him to the tiled floor. “Say your prayers Santiago. In one minute you and your amigo are going to die!”
He pulled a 9mm Walther P38 from his holster, pulled back the hammer and placed it to Robinson’s temple.