Akin to a modern-day Robin Hood, Central American Ernesto Alvarez leads the one-hundred-member organization of the Enlightened Way; they're not a terrorist group, but they are extremist in promoting the rights of the underprivileged to better themselves at the expense of the wealthy. With the help of his private army, Alvarez robs the rich to support the poor-taking a generous cut for himself, of course. Greed prevails when Alvarez teams with American expatriate Arnold Fleischer, a man known for his skills in "creative" accounting. Their target is the forty-five-square-mile island of Jersey, one of the Channel Islands in northwestern France. This innocuous little island, home to many multi-millionaires, ranks as one of the wealthiest enclaves in the world. As wealthy as it is, Jersey is a soft target, virtually defenseless. Alvarez and Fleischer plan to exploit this vulnerability by holding the island hostage for sixty-five million dollars. As the strategy takes shape for a May Day conflict, outside forces play a key role. But in the end, who will really benefit from the coup of this beautiful island?

The Croesus Tithe

By F.W. Lane

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2010 F.W. Lane
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4269-4365-2

Contents

Chapter 1 An Eye for an Eye......................................................1Chapter 2 An unholy Alliance comes together......................................11Chapter 3 So vulnerable, the Goose that lays the Golden Eggs.....................21Chapter 4 The Audacious plan is disclosed........................................27Chapter 5 Target : Jersey........................................................36Chapter 6 Polisario's lofty sanctuary............................................47Chapter 7 The stage is set for a 'Go' from Agadir................................56Chapter 8 The countdown begins...................................................67Chapter 9 Everything's set ....as an island slumbers.............................80Chapter 10 The upcoming clash of the Titans.......................................97Chapter 11 An incoming tide.......of Humanity.....................................116Chapter 12 Between a rock and a hard place!.......................................135Chapter 13 Arrivederci.......ROMA!................................................156Chapter 14 Liberation Day....again!...............................................176Chapter 15 If you play with fire, expect..........................................193Chapter 16 Those who live by the sword............................................211

Chapter One

An Eye for an Eye......

It was just past 3.15 am that morning and everything was at rest, as it should be, two hours before daybreak. From the top of the hill overlooking Managua, Nicaragua's capital city, the urban sprawl was lit like a giant diadem enclosing the metropolis which squatted along the shore of the lake which bears its name. The city was more brightly lit than its surroundings, like a huge diamond occupying the centrepiece of the tiara of shimmering neon light.

There was a bright, full moon, with only a few clouds to be seen; otherwise the pale lit, night sky, comprised solely a myriad of twinkling stars from a billion or more miles away, making for a heavenly backdrop to the tranquility below.

Nothing stirred. Well, almost nothing; a solitary pair of tiny lights were on the move, along the road, heading south, out of the city towards Diriamba. The car was travelling along within the speed limit for that part of the town; well below the 80 kmph restriction, in fact.

The vehicle was motoring along at a steady 50kmph, as if the driver was lost or looking for something. To the casual observer, it could be construed the subdued pace was attention - worthy, suspicious even, especially at that time of the morning, with no other road users around.

The car ambled its way up the slight gradient, maintaining the same speed, almost certainly governed by a cruise control fitment and when it got to the top of the hill, its lights were extinguished and the engine switched off. The dark coloured saloon ran silently alongside the kerb for a few more yards and came to a stop between a couple of street lights, some one hundred yards apart. The time was now 3.25am. Nothing further occurred for a full five minutes: very suspicious!

Then, at precisely 3.30am, the driver got out, closing the door quietly and went to the rear of the vehicle. He looked around furtively, and then opened the boot, depositing a few things onto the pavement.

The man was dressed all in black, wearing a sort of jump suit, with a tight fitting hood attached. He looked around again and then picked up a large backpack, pulled it on and slung a couple of smaller items over his shoulder. He closed the boot lid, again quietly and after a final look-see, he jogged away from the vehicle towards a metal fence bordering the road.

He was up and over it in a couple of swift movements and then started a quick walk up the hillside beyond. Two minutes more and he was out of sight of the road. A few clouds passed across the face of the moon, temporarily obscuring the pale lunar light but soon the moon-glow was restored.

The lone figure moved stealthily up to the top of the hill and, after a brief look back from whence he came, he moved beyond the crest of it and was gone. He walked purposefully down part of the far slope of the hill and, finding a flat piece of ground overlooking a large property some one hundred feet below his vantage point, he stopped. He man-handled the heavy rucksack off his shoulders and put it down, along with the other items he was carrying. He stooped towards the edge of the hillside, took out a small telescope from the breast pocket of his jump suit, squatted down and surveyed the scene below him.

Through his spyglass, equipped with 'night-site' optics, the isolated property he was interested in was lit up in green 'daylight,' as he slowly traversed the target area. The building was a ranch-style, two storey, eight bedroomed, house he'd been told beforehand by his boss, Ernesto Alvarez. He concentrated on the flat roof area towards the rear of the substantial construction and its proximity to the walled garden surrounding the place. It was clearly well guarded, with a few figures walking about, some with dogs, even at that time of the morning.

He counted three security guards slowly patrolling the outside of the premises, all with dogs on leashes, those that he could see, at any rate and two more standing either side of the large front door.

His scan revealed an inner fence, some twenty five yards back from the garden wall and he counted half a dozen dogs wandering around or lying down in the space between the fence and the wall.

"Hopping over the garden wall is no option with this place," he whispered to himself, as he continued to consider the scene. A few moments later, he lowered his spyglass, collapsed it into a quarter of its viewing size and put it back into his breast pocket. He looked at his watch, just as the moon clouded over again but the luminous dial clearly showed it was 3.42am.

He left his observation position and returned to the flat area where his equipment was located. He opened the large rucksack and pulled out the contents; an assembly kit for a paraglide. It took Manuel Cortez, Ernesto's Guatemalan 'retributionist,' (he hated the term 'assassin', considering it to be a cowardly description of him and his work) about fifteen minutes to erect the triangular gliding apparatus.

Having satisfied himself that all the fittings were firmly secured, he picked up the smaller satchel he had with him, slung it over his shoulder and moved, with the glider, back to his reconnaissance point.

Taking out his spyglass once more, he re-surveyed the scene below him. All seemed set; everything appeared as tranquil as before and even the clouds obliged him. A large expanse of darker clouds was following behind the pale clouds now passing in front of the lunar body.

"Time to go, I think - I won' t get a better opportunity for it," he said to himself, as he held up the black linen apparatus above his head, adjusted his grip on the paraglide and, having taken a few backward steps, ran towards the observation point with it. Within a foot of the edge of the hillside, he launched himself into the air and was immediately aloft, with little noise from the 'lift off,' he determined.

A few seconds later, he'd steadied himself into a comfortable position, as the craft glided silently in a circle, while he got his bearings. Everything seemed set for a noiseless landing onto that flat roof which he was aiming for.

There was only a mild breeze that morning and he'd calculated he was downwind of it anyway, so any slight noise he might make on his approach to the flat roof shouldn't betray his presence. With a slight adjustment to the glider's rudder and a gentle downwards pressure on his 'handlebar' he began to descend to his dropping zone.

Like the dinner jacketed suitor of a gal who adored a particular brand of chocolates by a famous manufacturer featured in the TV ads of the early nineties, Manuel approached the roof of the building. He wasn't carrying a box of scrumptious chocolates with him, though; six sticks of gelignite were his 'present' for the owner of this property!

A few feet above his chosen landing spot, he jerked up the 'handlebar' of his glider, which instantly 'killed' his modest speed and he stepped onto the roof, taking only two forward steps on the asphalt to stop himself.

His light footfall seemed as unobtrusive as his flight thus far, which encouraged him to gently lay his glider alongside one of the large chimneys near him. With little wind and the moonlight still subdued by the dark clouds obscuring the moon, he took off his small backpack and took out the 'present' for the householder.

On the top landing of the house, however, a snoozing Doberman pricked up its ears, making a muffled grunt, as it got up to listen intently for any further sound. It wandered along the landing, back and forth, straining to hear any further tell-tale noise of a possible intruder.

Cortez, although unaware of the dog's alertness some fifteen feet below him, was a thorough practitioner of his craft and had left little to chance. He'd put on some socks over his trainers before he'd set off with his glider, knowing that these would soften his footsteps all the more on the rooftop. He was right and this small safeguard could well have prevented the animal giving his presence away. It slumped down again to slumber once more but remained alert.

The Guatemalan 'retributionist' worked quickly but quietly. He stuck an I.C. timer, set to detonate at 6.30am, into one of the sticks of explosive, attached a nylon cord to the bundle of them and lowered it down the lounge chimney to within eight feet of the fireplace floor. He used a laser measuring device to determine the precise distance it was from it and then tied off the bundle around the chimney stack to suspend it at that point.

He knew the owner of the house, Ronaldo Martin, was a creature of habit and he always liked his lounge log fire to be lit when he was at home. His housemaid, having cleared the grate the night before and set up the kindling for the next morning's lighting up, would attend to it around six o'clock, later that morning.

He'd arranged for the 'gelly' to explode some thirty minutes after the fire was lit as Ronaldo, being an early riser, was most likely to be drinking his early morning coffee in the lounge at that time.

Having attended to his 'suspended present' for the unsuspecting Ronaldo, a feared drug baron operating in and around Managua, he satisfied himself everything was set up properly. He then, deftly, put on his empty rucksack and picked up the paraglide once more.

A slight breeze got up, though and he almost lost control of it, with the right wing strut scraping the glass on a nearby skylight, making a light screeching noise. At this, the dog was up again and barked loudly, looking up towards the loft trap door and Manuel heard the bark and cussed under his breath.

As he prepared to leap off the roof to make his escape, the two guards by the front door burst into the hall and the Doberman looked down at them, barking again. The security guys bounded up the stairs, pistols drawn and proceeded to search all the upstairs rooms. Sadly, for them, neither took any notice of the dog, which resumed its upward stare but didn't bark any more, probably confused by all the sudden, lateral, activity around it.

Unbeknown to Cortez, this was a stroke of luck for him, since his exit trajectory was not as lofty as he'd hoped for and his flight path could have been spotted from the front of the house, had the door guards still been in position there. Fortunately, the moonlight remained dimmed by dark clouds and he was swiftly over the boundary of the property, looking to land near his parked car.

The street below him was still deserted at that time of the early morning, so he made a beeline for his vehicle, in case the dog bark had prompted a full scale alert and search for an intruder back at the hillside property.

It hadn't, since nothing untoward was found back at the house, no forced windows or broken glass indicating an entry, were evident and the dog was chastised verbally for waking up the household! It slunk off to the far end of the landing and slumped down again to snooze with a rather dejected expression on its face!

Meanwhile, the black-clad 'retributionist' landed safely and quietly next to his car. He quickly wrestled the rucksack off his back and stowed it in the boot and then only took a minute or so more to collapse his flying apparatus and stuffed it in there, too.

He got into the car, taking off his Velcro attached hood, as he started the engine and then drew smoothly away from the kerb, turned around and drove back down the hill towards the City. It was 4.10 am by his watch, as he settled down for the twenty minute ride back into town.

He arrived at his small flat around 4.30am and once inside, telephoned his boss, Ernesto Alvarez, the leader of 'The Enlightened Way,' to tell him that everything had gone according to plan.

"That's good, Manuel, very good. Call around later and we'll have breakfast together and watch the early morning TV news, eh? There should be something worth watching, I hope, if there's any justice in this world. I hate that man's activities and he deserves all he gets, especially after killing some of our people, too!"

Ernesto's reputation was rather akin to a modern day 'Robin Hood' - robbing the rich to give to the poor; ninety per cent of his haul from them, anyway.

He'd long harboured a grudge against the very wealthy who'd refused to give to the poor, even a smidgen of what they had, after he'd requested a 'donation' from them.

He'd only failed twice on their behalf; the first time, because a millionaire ship-owner simply sailed away with his family, after Ernesto threatened to foreshorten their lives on this planet, if they didn't accede to his request for a donation and they didn't. And then this guy, Ronaldo Martin. He was something quite different!

Because of Ernesto's growing reputation, with a private army behind him of some one hundred fighters, the drug lord seemed genuinely agreeable to a discussion about matters, or so he'd thought. However, Ernesto's emissaries had been ambushed by Martin's men on their way to see him and their bodies returned to him in pieces. A note pinned to the chest of one of them, stating that:-

"No-one threatens Ronaldo Martin in this City - so beware of upsetting me again!" hadn't really impressed Ernesto Alvarez in the way it was intended to. Quite the opposite, in fact; it had spurred him on to vengeful thoughts, before the drug dealer really moved against him.

A demonstration of who Ernesto was and what he could do, was clearly called for; hence Manuel's retaliatory visit to the man's house, early that morning.

Manuel called around to his boss's flat, as invited, just after 6.40am for breakfast and to watch the early morning news on TV with him. He was sure he'd heard a distant rumble on the way over to him and hoped the news bulletin they were anticipating would confirm a successful operation for them.

They sat down to watch an outside reporter interviewing the infamous drug baron, though, with a smouldering house in the background. Ronaldo Martin was putting the explosion down to a freak gas leak at the property which had, unfortunately, led to the death of his housekeeper, Maria Sanchez.

Apparently, she'd started the fire in the lounge, as usual but as the wood for it was a little damp that morning, she'd applied the gas poker to the kindling, to get it going in time for him. Before she'd finished tidying the room, as usual, the fireplace exploded and she died a few minutes later. The blast must have been due to a build up of gas, he suggested, since it took out two supporting walls, as well as destroying the lounge, dining room and most of the hall area.

Ernesto, however, looked at the expression on the man's face and turned to his 'retributionist' and said, flatly, to him,

"He knows, Manuel, he knows it was us. Don't believe all the rubbish about him thinking it was a gas explosion; once the reporters have gone away, he'll send a squad after us. Come on, we'd better go, back to our village, while we've still got time."

Cortez didn't argue with his boss. They packed up while the interviews were still going on and they got away from the City and headed for their homes in Guatemala, a few hundred miles away.

On the way there, Ernesto realised he'd made the classic mistake of underestimating his adversary, albeit through a lucky break for Ronaldo; he should have ensured he'd finish him off in one go. Now, he had a 'wounded tiger' to contend with and an injured one is a far more dangerous animal to confront!

It was, indeed, a lucky break for Ronaldo Martin that morning. He'd completed his ablutions by 6.25am, rather later than usual and was straightening his tie, when Maria was downstairs trying to get the lounge fire going with the poker.

He was combing his moustache and admiring himself in the full-length mirror a few minutes later when she wiggled the poker, quite vigorously, to get the fire really going this time. Although her effort sent a mass of sparks and flame up the chimney, it was 6.30am. The detonation shook the building with devastating results.

Ronaldo was thrown against the wall of his bedroom and was temporarily stunned by the blast but he finally got up and once the dust had cleared somewhat, he gingerly went downstairs. His lounge looked as if a bomb had hit it and, of course, one had! He tried to revive poor Maria but she passed away in his arms, having suffered terrible lacerations to her face and torso.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Croesus Titheby F.W. Lane Copyright © 2010 by F.W. Lane. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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