I rarely visit New York jazz clubs, but it’s always an amazing event. I visited the legendary club The Iridium in Manhattan. It was the genre’s turn; Latin jazz. The brilliant Pablo Ziegler Trio performed the Jazz Tango Official Trailer Vol.2. Tango, the symbol of Argentina, was a dance of fiery temperament, sensuality, and romance.
In my book “Cruel Dance in Argentina,” all that beauty is gone. Only the worst remained; betrayal! A dark cycle of evil always leads to murder, revenge, and blood. In that cruel game in Argentina, a CIA agent (pseudonym; Roger Corley) found himself on the brink of death.
We didn’t know each other because he worked in Dx, the Special Purpose Department, where the identities of all the members were hidden. We met in the Myanmar forests at the ultimate-fight tournament. We got to the last fight. I lost the match, but I made a friend.
We met a few times. He told me the true story of the greedy Argentine generals and the secret negotiations on the sale of weapons. Based on this information from my new friend from Department Dx, this book was written.
The agent in the robe impatiently accepted the briefcase and opened it. A narrow battery beam pointed at the contents. He stared intently at the large, pointed handwriting. A few drops of rain fell on the paper. He closed the bag.
“OK. The manuscript is original,” the agent MI6 stated briefly.
The handcuffs clicked as he fastened the briefcase to his left hand. He turned and walked without saying goodbye to the black Bently waiting for him a little further in the deep shadow.
A silent car slid into the night. The wet asphalt reflected the yellow, hazy light. It rained for days, and moisture seeped into the bones. There was almost no traffic at this time of night.
“Albert, drive to Haller Court,” the agent said.
The black car crossed the Vauxhall Bridge and continued on Harleyford Road at a speed limit of fifty miles per hour. A dashed, white line in mid-August disappeared from the right side of the car. The windshield wipers moved monotonously left and right.
The driver noticed the headlights in the rearview mirror, but he paid no attention to them. He concluded that the driver behind him was driving well above the speed limit when he looked again. The headlights came abruptly closer.Then the two cars found themselves side by side on the road. The driver looked to the right and recognized the brand: Cadillac!
It all happened fast. The attacks on the road took place according to a well-known scheme. The Cadillac turned left and slammed hard into the side of the Bentley. The black limousine lost direction and crashed into a fence. The water curtain of rain muffled the sounds so that the brakes’ collision and squeak could not be heard far away. The Cadillac scratched the wheels in reverse. He stepped back about fifty yards and headed for the Bentley again. Three and a half tons of iron struck once more on the black limousine, which stood helplessly by the fence. The armored glass of the Bentley shattered into a thousand pieces. A chrome Cadillac bumper ripped through the sheet metal and pierced the door.
Two dark opportunities got out of the Cadillac. AK 47 Kalashnikov machine guns were in their hands. The attackers opened fire on the black car.
There was no answer. The attack was carried out suddenly and quickly so that the black car’s people did not manage. They did not take the opportunity to open the door after the first blow and escape into the darkness. They seemed to be relying on the armored glass that didn’t crack in the first crash when the Bentley flew into the fence.
Two more came out of the Cadillac. One carried an iron rod in his hand and the other giant scissors for cutting bushes. Everything happened in an atmosphere muffled by rain, in silence, without words. The action was well prepared. The attacker, who had a lever in his hand, jumped on the broken car door and broke it with several deft movements. All four in the Bentley were dead. Two Kalashnikovs erupted a multitude of lead balls in a matter of seconds and prevented any surprise.
The agent in the raincoat was dragged out onto the wet asphalt. The blood mixed with the rainwater. The attacker, who was carrying scissors to cut the bushes, accepted the hand on which the briefcase was handcuffed. He brought the scissors and placed them on the wrist of the dead man’s hand. The soft bones and tendons in the joint gave way, and the steel blades joined. The agent’s left fist rolled beneath the Bentley wreck.
The attacker accepted the briefcase.