Agent Delta and his partner Phi are sent to the island of Aruba for some major “house-cleaning”. Rumors have it that the Ostrovsky Clan have invested millions on the sandy beaches of the Caribbean, precisely on Eagle Beach, where they have established a money-laundering network to filter the profits of their illegal operations from around the Globe ─ and those from the Latin-American drug cartels in the area and the Islamic terrorist groups! A SOBERING, FAST-PACED THRILLER IN THE STYLE OF IAN FLEMING'S 007 AND DONALD HAMILTON'S MATT HELM.
Agent Delta and his partner Phi are sent to the island of Aruba for some major “house-cleaning”. Rumors have it that the Ostrovsky Clan have invested millions on the sandy beaches of the Caribbean, precisely on Eagle Beach, where they have established a money-laundering network to filter the profits of their illegal operations from around the Globe ─ and those from the Latin-American drug cartels in the area and the Islamic terrorist groups! A SOBERING, FAST-PACED THRILLER IN THE STYLE OF IAN FLEMING'S 007 AND DONALD HAMILTON'S MATT HELM.
The helicopter that flew us to Aruba belonged to the commercial fleet of the Royal Sky Flying Group, Ltd., a British company operating out of the Netherlands Antilles. In truth, there was little or nothing British about Royal Sky other than its name; it was a secret electronic tracking station manned by the FBI. But since the Federal Bureau of Investigation owed us favors, having occasionally used our personnel for overly dirty missions in a hunting ground off-limits to them, my boss decided to call in on some fat cats from the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue and have them throw us a line on this operation. The pilot of the chopper was a very tall albino, with white hair, a square chin, pale pink skin, freckles, and the works; his name was Samuel Norwood, and he was a vet of the war that the Bureau had fought in Washington against KGB illegals. He was a somewhat cynical and soft-spoken fellow, yes, but very knowledgeable about his trade. Along the way, he informed us that the island of Aruba was like a gigantic cruise ship for lovers, those opulent Scandinavian liners that many couples choose to launch their honeymoon. Aruba is an island as small as it is beautiful, floating in the Caribbean Sea just off the coast of Venezuela. It’s almost nineteen and a half miles long by six miles wide and it belonged to the Netherlands Antilles until 1986, when it gained its independence. Today it has its own Royal Governor, a democratic government and a 21-member elected Parliament.
That’s all I know.
The natives are known for being affable. The waiters, for example, serve you with a genuine smile on their lips and English is a popular language there. It would have been possible for us to fly directly to the island from Miami, via a commercial airline, but we had not opted for this route because of the weapons we were lugging. Our presence in Aruba was not exactly a vacation, and the weaponry we were carrying in specially sealed black duffel bags was a perennial reminder of that.
Through the concave Plexiglas panels that walled off the flight deck, a clear blue sky was visible. The helicopter touched down on the runway appointed by the Control Tower at the Queen Beatrix International Airport, located on the southwestern tip of the island. The FBI man waited quietly for us to descend and unload our luggage, then he made the arrangements for refueling and after that he vanished.
Passing through the Customs checkpoint with the weapons was possible because Alfred Tilson, our man in Aruba, was waiting for us there. Five months ago, Director Feldman had transferred him from his original position as Liaison Officer between the OCF Directorate (which is the same as saying he, Feldman) and CI5, promoting Tilson to Regional Control Officer in the entire Caribbean basin and assigning him his own sub-section. Feldman’s move was based on sound logic, because Tilson’s experience matched the Colonel’s and now, with the Russian mobsters knocking down our doors, there was an increasing need for hardened pros in the field, executive directors capable of guiding and supporting the younger generations in their missions ─ whatever they might be.
Old Al fit that profile perfectly.
In fact, although not as senior as Tilson and the Colonel, I was also qualified for the position myself. My experience in the field and my years as an eliminator with the Quadrille, allowed me to direct and advise ─ only that aspect of the job has never interested me. Feldman could have assigned me to another post, the Hispanic Caribbean region, for instance, since I am fluent in Spanish and that area is not exempt from Russian Mafia activities. However, he never did it and I know why: a total lack of confidence in yours truly here.
In short, Feldman’s move was coherent and most convenient for him, considering the rivalry between the director of the OCF and my chief, Col. Berkowitz. But after the strange attitude Tilson had shown towards me during Operation Scorpion Tail*, to find old Al there, waiting for us instead of my chief, kind of upset me. I tried to hide my displeasure by forcing myself not to think much of it, I had enough to worry about with Pavenko and Nina Tetriak, the Russian bankers in Aruba and the boyeviks** in charge of protecting the clan’s interests in the island, to add more fuel to the fire....
In just a matter of minutes, Tilson worked his magic and got us a rental: a sports convertible. Once we were in the car, with all our luggage safely locked in the trunk, we lowered the rooftop to allow the coastal air to cool the cabin. While Phi joyfully steered our dashing red Mustang, I kept track of the GPS indications that guided us to our destination.
During the trip I reflected that this was not the ideal car to be associated with a couple of secret agents on a mission, as it attracted a lot of attention. It’s only in Hollywood productions that clandestine operators like us are seen scurrying around in ostentatious Aston-Martins or those incredible Porsches driven by Tom Cruise in his Mission Impossible films. I was very surprised that an old pro with Tilson’s background would have supplied us with such a flashy vehicle. No experienced field executive would have settled for it. But I consoled myself with the thought that perhaps that was the purpose that prevailed in our case. To give the opposition’s watchdogs the impression that neither Jessica nor I had anything to hide and that we had only traveled to Aruba for a great time on our fake honeymoon. Taking this into consideration reassured me ─ well, not entirely.
“This really is a beautiful location, Pat,” commented my partner, interrupting my train of thought. “It’s such a pity that we have come on a mission!”
She was right, of course, I reflected grimly; it truly was a shame.
Our destination’s address was No. 43 at J. E. Irausquin Boulevard, and it was one of the most opulent time-share condo complexes rising on the oceanfront in the entire Eagle Beach area. The large sign carved on a marble pedestal at the entrance identified it as La Hacienda Beach Resort & Casino. It was a four-story building, designed to look like a horseshoe, that sprawled around a fishing and water sports emporium, an Olympic size swimming pool with an outdoor bar, a European style bistro with outdoor tables and multi-colored parasols. There was also a man-made cataract.
La Hacienda has eight hundred rooms, four luxury restaurants, three taverns, a two-story ice cream parlor, and a salon dedicated to the enhancement of feminine beauty. There were also three outdoor Jacuzzis, a collective Turkish bath, and a fitness club with masseuses as part of the staff.
At the time, the Eagle Beach hotels had attracted the attention of the OCF because of rumors pointing to the area as the latest acquisition by a shady group of Eastern European investors. In the years following the fall of the Soviet Union, the Russian Mafia had managed to establish numerous fronts in the Caribbean region. Their motive in penetrating the world of global finance was to weave a financial network to launder all the money generated in the business dealings of the Ostrovsky clan. It was the largest and most powerful of all the criminal syndicates to emerge from Eastern Europe.
It could not be proved, of course. As I said before, they were only rumors, but the rumors were supported by sightings of some of their men in the area. Specifically, Yuri Pavenko, whose trail ─ I found out later ─ an American agent named Jackson Bull had followed to Aruba, after spotting him and losing him again in Miami.
Since the Colonel had convinced Yuri to become our informant, it was always my responsibility to neutralize those who approached him with intentions of taking him out of the game. The main objective of Operation Parasol (according to both, Tilson and Feldman) was the physical elimination of a man named Mikhail Goriainov, the clan’s top enforcer in the island. He was supposed to be the most dangerous man the Ostrovsky brothers had in the shire; but not the only one. There was another character as sinister and brutal as Big Mike, Tiger Kuzekh, who had been sentenced to twenty years in a Miami prison for murder but had managed to escape.
To the list of sentences that my boss had given me during the briefing, other names were added that did not belong to the group of hardliners in charge of protecting the operation. These were the administrators of the complicated laundering network themselves: Vyacheslav Krakov, Nikolai Bronsoski, and Emil Ismailova.
As can be seen, we really had our hands full.
Prior to leaving Miami, we’d undergone a slight change of appearance, in case Pavenko had passed on our descriptions to his associates on the island. Jessica had changed the color of her reddish mane by dyeing her hair blonde; she’d also managed to get a bit of a tan; the sun doesn’t get on her easily because she has very delicate skin. I also dyed my hair blond and grew a mustache. So, we became Mr. and Mrs. Peter Jensen, a “lovely couple” of Scandinavian tourists.
We were assigned a honeymooners’ suite on the second floor, with a wonderful view of the sea. It was very spacious and decorated to please the most discerning of tastes. When we finally arrived, I hung my wardrobe in the closet while Jessica prepared some drinks. She poured Scotch on the rocks for me, and three fingers of Vodka, mixed with orange juice and some ice cubes for herself. Stripping off my blazer, I loosened the knot of my tie and approached her to receive my drink.
“To your health, Carrots,” I toasted.
“To yours, as well.”
On the balcony I leaned over the railing and let my eyes roam the landscape. From there you could easily take in a lot of Eagle Beach, a peaceful view of extraordinary natural beauty.
“What are our chances of wrapping up the mission quickly, Pat?” my partner asked.
I shrugged. “No idea, Carrots, what’s the hurry? I’d like to give us a little time in these parts.”
“It’s a wonderful place. Look at the ocean... Such limpid waters! It relaxes me to watch the way the waves break on the cliff.”
The sun was setting, but there were still a good couple of hours of light left. I felt the impulse to warn her to watch her words, as we had not yet combed the room for hidden mikes, but I restrained myself. Jessica knew as well as I did that the hotel complex was controlled by ex-Soviet KGB people and those guys, they always were, are very conscious about security.
Despite my morbid musings, I moved closer to my fake blonde wife and embraced her. First, we kissed sensually, and she allowed me to hold her splendid derriere in both hands. As on many other occasions, I felt the immense desire to take her to bed replace all my phobias while continuing to kiss her like this, clinging to her buttocks. Finally, Jessica pulled away from me and took me by the hand.
“Come on, partner”, she whispered with bated breath that smelled of Vodka. “Let’s get to bed.”
*Refer to the third volume in the series, entitled One Deadly Souk. (Author’s Note) **Russian term given to Mafia enforcers who handle “wet affairs” and other related issues. (Author’s Note)
“Floating in the Caribbean Sea just off the coast of Venezuela,” Aruba is an island of beauty, where you should sit back, relax, enjoy, and admire the view. Where to have a honeymoon, even. Patrick and Jessica are in Aruba, though they’ll not be indulging themselves in all the fun this island is known for. Why? Because some big boys with big guns and money have turned the place into a hub of illegal activities, so much so that Operation Parasol has just kicked off. Though both Patrick and Jessica have an admirable record as the best spies there are, becoming more like Mr and Mrs. James bond in their business, this is the most dangerous mission ever and not one to easily pull off. They’d find themselves in circumstances that lead to questioning the mission’s objective and the people involved, especially their bosses, and they’d even question their roles in the entire mission.
The Caribbean Sedition is a fast-paced, action-packed spy thriller that follows the adventures—misadventures, too—of Patrick Coonan, a.k.a. Agent Delta, as he battles criminals, finding himself caught up in the intricate web of espionage, where trust is a rare commodity and not everything is as they seem. Patrick appears to be a romantic type, but his job gets in the way. On the other hand, Jessica is strong, brave, intelligent, and the epitome of beauty.
Does The Caribbean Sedition earn its place among the best spy thriller novels ever written? Absolutely. The writing is simple yet evocative, creating a voice that perfectly suits the genre. With Patrick as our protagonist, the people, places, and situations are vividly described, often with a touch of humor. The dialogue is clever and feels natural, infused with emotion, and reveals much about the characters. When Patrick and Jessica talk, the chemistry is undeniable, and the romance simmers just below the surface, only kept in check by their need to complete the mission safely. In one scene they’re discussing how to neutralize a target, one they’ve established as “an inveterate womanizer who is always chasing femmes in the gym.” The tension in the room thickens, as does the elephant, and reaches a climax when Jessica says, “What are you going to do, find an AIDS-infected hooker and throw her to the Tiger?”
The other thing that makes this book relatable and fun to read is Ortiz’s in-depth knowledge of the security agencies and what a spy’s life is all about. He emphatically demonstrated that he did his homework right regarding how these secrecy agencies operate.
In summary, I recommend Oscar Ortiz’s The Caribbean Sedition to fans of spy thrillers. It is a brief, engaging read, and the ending leaves you wanting more of Agent Delta, especially regarding his relationship with Jessica and the next mission.