Dispatch or Die

Dispatch Or Die


Captain W. C. “Mex” Watergate sat in the room’s largest chair. He was a big man. He never stirred as I entered the room. Made no attempt to rise. Just sat there looking me over.

“Jon, meet Mex Watergate.” LeAnne Beacham made the introduction.

“How do you do?” That was all he said, his frame still firmly anchored in the chair while I walked over and shook his hand.

LeAnne had clued me in on Mex earlier in the day. “Hey, c’mon over for dinner and meet an old family friend. You will enjoy getting to know this guy.” Captain Mex Watergate was retired military. More than that, he was one of the world’s foremost anti-terrorism experts. I surmised that he had served with LeAnne’s dad in the big war. To add to the intrigue, she had muttered tidbits like “last survivor of James Bond’s 007 outfit”. Mex practiced what he preached – every minute of the day. He was seated with his back to a solid wall next to the patio door commanding full view of all the room’s multiple openings. We small talked about “protecting your backside” and always “having an escape route.”

Mex stayed with the Beacham’s in their stone Main Line mansion while he carried out a “special assignment” in New York City. He was relaxed, at ease in this setting with old friends. A copy of his legendary book, “Dispatch Or Die”, which detailed the meat of his methods, lay on the coffee table in front of me. “Dispatch Or Die”: with the D O D of its ominous title prominently outlined. For all his casual ways, this was one serious hombre, I thought. I couldn’t help wonder about the depth of his experience on the subject. Had he…most likely. What was his mission?

*****

The next day Mex hopped the Bryn Mawr Local for 30th Street Station and the train to New York City. Across the aisle from him, a young philly rummaged through her backpack. Her thoroughbred moves, the shuffling of her hips and arms like a slow-motion Macarena, caught Mex’s attention. What focused his attention were her amply freckled thighs poking out of short shorts. Figure skaters had ravishing legs like hers. Although his long-practiced glances were discrete, she noticed them and smiled back.

At 30th Street Station they both headed for the Amtrak to New York. It was loading up, but would not leave for another 20 minutes. Mex pulled a “San Luis Rey Churchill” out of its aluminum sheaf, as he stood between the cars for a smoke. Holding the vibrator-shaped tube between his thumb and forefinger, he read the label: “This cigar has been made by hand in Habana, Cuba.” Ah, this is the only way to live, he thought, as his tongue caressed the cigar’s closed end momentarily before he bit it off.

The young lady from the Local was there smoking a cigarette. She looked straight at Mex and asked, “How old are you?”

Taken back by her direct question, Mex answered, “63.” The stogie remained pursed between his lips; he flicked the tube between his fingers twiddling it back and forth.

His answer must have satisfied her curiosity; she blurted out her life story in short order: she was in her junior year in the city’s Marymount College…a gymnast and cheerleader...recently broke up with her boyfriend, an NBA draftee. She had a question for Mex. “This guy I met in Central Park, a rich Arab who lives on Sutton Place, wants me to come over and see his place tonight. Think I should go?”

Mex gave her fatherly advice, the standard dose. If she couldn’t resist going to his place, she should make sure someone knew where she was. He would be at the Waldorf if she wanted to check in with him before, during or after she went to the guy’s place.

“Okie, dokie, that sounds like a plan.” By the way, I’m Scarlett…Scarlett DeSeray. What’s your name?”

“Mex Watergate. Glad to help.”

The train was on a roll. Mex and Scarlett turned, went to their cars and found their seats. So the guy is Arab, Mex pondered.

*****

Mex had work to do. His mind turned to the mission during his cross-town taxi ride to the Waldorf Astoria. By the time he was in corner Suite 13A – not being superstitious, he got a free upgrade on this one – the wheels were turning full speed. Find him…get him alone…eliminate him…”with prejudice” as the boys in “the company” called it. How do you find a Wahabi terrorist in NYC? Not many knew Wahabi from wasabi in 1986. And international terrorism was just getting its legs in the 80’s after a hiatus following WWII. This was going to be fun, Mex thought. He was tired of what he considered the “rinky dink” domestic strife of the 60’s-70’s, most of it hippies pissed off over Viet Nam. Dealing with it involved little more than sophisticated crowd control techniques. Rather than let his steel trap of a mind wander, he refocused on job one – find him. Mex’s friends would help; they knew how to find anyone.

*****

Captain Watergate’s WWII book, “Dispatch Or Die”, put him on the map as a counter-terrorism expert. Trained in hand-to-hand combat by the British, Mex spent the war with the likes of Ian Fleming and led commandos of the Office of Strategic Services, OSS, behind Nazi enemy lines. Not a place for anyone who could not handle himself in life-and-death espionage.

After the war, Ian Fleming helped romanticize “cloak & dagger” with his James Bond thrillers. “From Russia With Love” was filled with OSS techniques, gadgets and ploys perpetuating the legacy of WWII commandos. The OSS became the CIA. Mex was in on the ground floor.

Mex moved down to Mexico to help authorities develop better tactics for social disturbances. They promoted him to the rank of general in the Mexican Army, although he preferred to be called captain or by his new nickname, “Mex”. After that, back home in Texas, his consulting business thrived. Police and military figures all over the world called Mex several times daily about close-in combat.

Close-quarters combat had to be simple, straightforward and brutal to be effective. It had to be easy to do on a moments notice without warning. Hand-to-hand combat was commando’s bread and butter; they were in frequent contact with Germans behind enemy lines and, therefore, could not carry weapons. Techniques drew on jujitsu emphasizing the “striking” moves as more lethal than “throws” and “locks”. The moves were “non-telegraphic”, taking the shortest route to the target. Above all, close combat stressed preemptive attack. Once an attack was imminent, commandos exploded into the target with the entire body’s momentum, threw the target off balance and finished him off. Dispatch or die.

*****

Mex propped his legs on the bed, slid the room service table next to his comfy armchair and sipped a Suntory on-the-rocks while nibbling on a Waldorf Salad along with exquisitely prepared cold salmon. His cheeks puckered in reaction to a swig of the strong amber liquid. It had been a good day. The target lived in an upscale East side flat. He and his contacts had narrowed it down to that. Looking north out of the suite’s windows, early evening Park Avenue traffic put on a light show for him. Looking right, he could see to the East River over the rooftops where wealthy Manhattanites…and Osama…lived.

The phone rang. “Hi, dude. Scarlett here. I’m in the lobby. Went over to see that guy on Sutton Place and had to get out of there quick.”

“Come on up. Glad you are ok. 13th floor, right out of the elevator, right again to 13A. Door’s open.”

He called room service again. “Captain Watergate calling for reinforcements. The salmon and salad were great. I’ll have a couple more Suntory’s on-the-rocks and a couple Mai Tai’s, too. Put a rush on it. My guests arrived early.”

Scarlett walked into the suite as he hung up the phone. The first thing he noticed was how the red hair of her pony tail swished over her shoulders; the green tie in her hair matched the tummy tie of her blouse which was draped over a hip-hugging jeans skirt. College girl look. Standing, Mex motioned her to a chair near his. “Hey, take a load off. Sounds like you needed to make a quick getaway.”

“Yeah, that creep. Comes on to me with ‘You come over and see Sama’s place’. Damn, it’s humongous…thirteen rooms overlooking the river. His hands were all over me before we got to the second room. All this guy wants is to get laid. Outta there.”

The door still open, room service arrived promptly. Scarlett looked at Mex and smiled, “How’d you know? Mai Tai’s are my favorite. Just like the islands, man. Skoal.”

She must have been thirsty. The drinks went down quickly. “Hey, I’ll be right back. The powder room over there?”

When Scarlett came back, she slipped off her flip-flops, loosened the tie on her blouse and stood looking at herself in the mirror over the marble fireplace. Mex joined her. Taking her hand, he led her toward the bed. “Let’s give you a hug.”

She must have been horny. Scarlett hadn’t done it for a while. Her boyfriend was into pounding the pretty 20 year-old often, sometimes five times a day. She missed it. Mex could not believe his good fortune as he rode her long into the evening. Looking down on the fruits of her youth, he thought: guys like me don’t get girls like this.

“Hey, we’re good at this, aren’t we, bucko?” Scarlett’s comment surprised Mex again, waking him from a snooze. He caught her stunning profile as she slipped back under the covers and snuggled on his hairy chest. Unbelievable, he thought.

“How’d I do?” Mex replied, borrowing a line from Mayor Koch. “I worked hard to get you there…did I?

“Never gotten there. Just got used to doing it a lot. It felt good. No problem.”

“We’ll have to work on that. You deserve that totally good feeling.”

Scarlett was off for spring break later in the week. They would definitely hookup when she got back. They could work on taking her to new places, sexually, that is. As Scarlett readjusted shoulder pads under her bra straps and swung her bag over them, Mex refocused. “That Sama guy – don’t piss him off. Stay in touch with him. You can help me here. No big deal, but top secret. OK?”

“Sure thing. Hugs and kisses. Bye.” Scarlett was out the door.

*****

Later that week, Mex shuffled CIA documents in his room. Nice of these Waldorf folks to give me lots of space to spread out, he thought. What were the target’s patterns? He was a frail-looking freak of a kid. Saudi. Saudi Wahabi. Top schools. Perfect English. Hell, his dad helped us build ports during the war, Mex thought. “Osama bin Laden, bin Laden’s kid. Damn.” For all his charming ways, he had become a hardened terrorist. “We don’t like little pricks threatening to blow up the World Trade Center Towers and then coming over here to take pictures of them.” Mex shouted it out loud to an empty room, his sound waves reverberating off the room’s walls. Ok. Enough for now, he thought; time to hit the bar for a drink.

Downstairs in Sir Harry’s off the lobby, Eli, the bartender, set him up with a couple Suntory’s. Eli wore his Greek straight face while Mex girl watched. He enjoyed girl watching, particularly working girl watching. He had to be careful though; look too long and girl joined you for a chat. The scene was circumspect, so as not to offend international executives, some of them with wives or staff in tow.

Mex played a game as he surveyed the bar. Could he figure out who exactly the working girls were? Sometimes he glanced at Eli to get eye contact, then, glanced quickly at a girl and back to Eli. Eli nodded yea or nay. Yea’s brought a smile to Mex’s face; he had guessed right.

That night, a comely blonde sat down at the far end of the bar seemingly minding her own business. Mex did not have to check with Eli on this one. He knew. Younger than most of the girls he watched, she was stunning. She was also working.

The next day, Mex headed for Penn Station and the 2 o’clock Metroliner to Philly. As he turned left off the down escalator to walk the length of the train, there she was, the blonde from the Waldorf sitting alone in one of the train’s empty cars. Mex hustled past, entered the car from the back and worked his way toward her seat. Adjacent to the seat, he looked over at her, then, did a double take as if he recognized her. She looked up at Mex. He looked vaguely familiar. She filled the void of silence with a question suspending what had become an awkward moment.

“Did we…?”

“You mean you don’t recognize me with my clothes on?” Mex’s reply came so quick, not even he could believe it.

“Sit down.” She was grinning ear to ear. Mex’s face broke out in smiles, too. He matter of factly explained that he had seen her in the Waldorf. No need for pretense.

The Metroliner sped through not-so-pretty parts of Jersey. With the car all to themselves, they chatted the entire trip to Philadelphia. She was thirty…lived in an Upper East Side flat…had a personal trainer. It was the good life. By the time they approached Philly, Mex knew that she took home over 150 large, tax-free, of course. Pulling into the station, she held out her card to let Mex know she was available to help him any way she could. Without making a comment, Mex stuffed it in his pocket.

Then, she stood up and said, “You go out the back door. I go out the front door. I’ve got a new boyfriend picking me up and escorting me to my sister’s wedding. I don’t mix business with family. Comprendo?”

Mex took the local to Bryn Mawr. LeAnne called me: “Hey, Jon, you up for dinner with Mex?” Dinner with the Beachams was always a treat. Dinner with Mex back in town would be even better. When I walked in the Beacham’s door, Mex, his whole big-bear-of-a-man self, rose up, clenched my hand in a vice grip and was more animated than the first time I met him. “Howdy do, Jon?” Turning to LeAnne, he said, “Hey kiddo, when is that dad of yours getting home? I want him to mix me up one of his cocktail specials…not the kind we drink…the kind only he can make over at that company of his.” Mr. Beacham ran a specialty chemical company. I caught on that they did most of their work for the government. They called it “black badge” work; that’s code in “the company” for clearances higher than top secret.

*****

Osama bin Laden was the 7th son of over 50 children. His training was strict Wahabi Muslimism, but not overzealous and, certainly not terrorist. His PBS profile in the mid ‘80’s, a time when he had moved to Afghanistan follows:

“Bin Laden was brought up with good manners. He matured as extremely humble and very generous person. He insists to join his comrades in every act. Very frequently he cooks for them and serves them. He lives a simple life in a small flat in Jeddah or in a shed in Afghanistan and insists on his family to eat simple and to dress simple.
He is known to be strictly truthful and would never lie, but he is politically conscious and believes there is a room for political maneuver even if you are devoted person. Despite being shy he has dominating personality. He speaks very little and looks serious most of the time. He would appear with a soft smile but he seldom laughs. His followers see a lot of aura on him and show great voluntary respect to him. For some reason that falls short of a proper charisma. He is not known for giving distinguished speeches, and there are almost no audio or video recordings of him.
He is widely educated and spends a good deal of time reading. He is fond of media monitoring and information gathering and research. There was always a data management team with him wherever he went.
Among the outstanding features is his courage. He will not show a flicker even if a bomb exploded near him. He was exposed to more than 40 incidents of heavy bombardment; three of them were full of death and flesh around him. A Scud missile exploded 17 meters distance from him. At one time he was almost the victim of chemical weapons. More than once he needed treatment in hospital for body injuries. Despite this courage he is very cautious person. He would not keep any electronic instrument close to his vicinity. Some times he even avoids any device even if it is a simple watch near him because he believes this might help in targeting him.
He is intelligent and has reasonable strategic thinking, but he downgrades himself in the presence of Islamic scholars. He always admires Shiekh Safar al-Hawali and would have not gone through his current controversial path if al-Hawali was free. Some people saw him as a man with vision; others doubt it. They think that he never had clear long term plan. They see the last fatwah as evidence of that.
In the eighties bin Laden was seen as a star of the Afghan Jihad. He was very much admired and respected for his sacrifice but he was not seen as a potential leader. Almost nobody saw leadership ambitions in him at that period…”

Mex Watergate knew this and more about Osama bin Laden. What was missing from this profile was that Osama occasionally snuck out of Afghanistan. Osama occasionally snuck over to New York City to work on his pet project, a secret plan of terror and destruction. Men whose net worth was in the vicinity of one billion dollars had a way of getting around to do their dirty work. Quietly. Secretly.

Mex and his associates had pinpointed Osama’s whereabouts. His base – the Arab word for it was “Al Queada” – was on Sutton Place.

*****

Back in New York, Mex had dinner date with Scarlett at “Julie’s”, a fashionable West-side bistro. She showed up early at his suite wearing a basic black shift, looking the part of a young professional New Yorker.

Scarlett ran over to Mex, jumped into his waiting arms and lifted her feet in tune to the swing music on the radio as they twirled around the room finally collapsing on the king-size bed. “Now I’ve got you, young lady.” Mex murmured, kissing her neck, ear lobes and cheek.

“Oh yeah! You think you’re up to it right now?”

Reaching down, Mex moved his hand under her dress sliding it up over her hips and pulled her panties to the side revealing her hot and wet. She spread her legs to accommodate his approach. It was a relaxed ride, more like foreplay before dinner than all-out sex. As she squeezed him in rhythm with the rock and roll, he stopped momentarily to say, “Better cool it so that we don’t mess up this pretty dress before we go out.”

At dinner, the Monday evening crowd was sparse. Only one other couple, two women, was there. New Yorkers pretty much minded their own business, which wasn’t hard to do in usually crowded, noisy restaurants. However, Mex could tell that the women seemed interested in their “older man/younger woman” situation. He decided to have a little fun, winking at Scarlett as he described an instant replay of her arrival at the hotel throwing out tidbits like “Fucking before dinner is definitely the way to go.” Scarlett giggled. The two women were now locked in on the conversation, riveted to every word. Mex went on to detail his plans for Scarlett later that evening. He was sure that it would give the eavesdroppers something to talk about for days.

Leaving “Julie’s”, cabs were nowhere in sight. They walked up a quiet side street toward busy 8th Avenue. Three young, rough-looking guys headed them off – would-be thugs. With his left arm, Mex whisked Scarlett into a doorway. Singling out his biggest opponent, the guy in the middle, Mex delivered an “edge-of-the-hand” to his throat followed by a “tigers claw” blow to his face with the full momentum of his 275 pounds behind it sending the young tough reeling on his back, gasping for air and further separating the other two thugs. Wheeling left toward the guy nearest Scarlett, Mex delivered a knee upward through the man’s groin leaving him leaning forward as if begging for mercy. The third guy ran. It was classic offensive defense. Overwhelm your assailants before they get in the first shot. In New York, you never know what’s around the next corner, Mex thought. The police incident report mentioned that three thugs tried to attack a “defenseless old man.”

During their cab ride back to the hotel, Scarlett said, “Mex, I don’t know what you do, but you must be very good at it. With a name like Watergate, I guess you work for the government.”

“Nah, Watergate is an old family name, not a government agency. But I did get the name “Mex” working with the Mexican government.” Mex was amused.

Once they were in the suite, her appetite heightened by the close call, Scarlett got her own “tigers claws” into Mex. He was determined to “take her there” tonight, although the movement of her hips synchronized with his together with the harmonics of her inner muscular moves – Prince coined the term “P control” to describe it - threatened premature emissions.

“Girl, where’d you get that muscle control?” The question could have been prefaced with “Amazing”.

‘Gymnasts have complete muscular control. We can do anything. Tehehe.”

Mex worked it slow and easy and rhythmically until he sensed Scarlett had reached a plateau. She closed her eyes and moved with new purpose as if to say, “Hmmm, this is nice.” She was close. Scarlett began to murmur, biting her lip and sighing quietly in the first of her mini-climaxes. Mex breathed deeply the sweet perfumes of Scarlett’s newfound womanhood. Her skin’s sheen gave off a fragrance – an aphrodisiac - that Mex had experienced only once before. Musky. They lay there embracing each other listening to “The Most Beautiful Girl In The World” in the background.

Later, on the “Tonight Show”, Johnnie Carson excitedly announced that Jack Paar, the show’s original host who was doing the rounds at Rockefeller Center, would be on the following night after a long hiatus. It triggered an idea. Mex went into action, looked at Scarlett and said, “Babe, I need you to do something for me. Get in touch with ‘Sama. Meet him tomorrow night under the clock in the Waldorf lobby. Walk him down 49th Street alongside St. Patrick’s Cathedral toward the skating rink at Rockefeller Center. When you see me, get out the way. I will handle it from there. Ok? Good girl.”

*****

Mex waited behind tall, leafy rhododendrons where the wrought-iron fence indents alongside the back of St Patrick’s. Few people walked this side street at night; the crowds were gathered a block away around the Rockefeller Center’s sunken ice skating rink watching skaters and hoping to get a glimpse of Jack Paar, who was somewhere in the complex.

He saw Scarlett along with a tall gangly Arab walking toward him. It was Osama bin Laden. They appeared to be alone with the exception of a burly guy following some distance behind. Did Osama have a bodyguard?

Scarlett pealed off in the direction of 5th Avenue when she saw Mex step from the bushes. Osama instantly knew the drill. He deflected Mex’s frontal attack, whose exclamation point was the yelp “Osama!!!” Osama’s side kick, designed to dislocate Mex’s knee, wobbled him. Jesus, he would go for my weak knee – that bastard, Mex thought. Then he realized that this early takedown move was low percentage – it left his attacker vulnerable to countermoves. Osama, for all his Mujahedeen training, had made a tactical error early in the fight. Mex was hurt, but not down.

Favoring his knee from a crouched position, Mex punched upward releasing a chin blow on Osama. With adequate momentum, this blow could relocate a jaw full of teeth to the vicinity of the eye sockets. Not this time. Osama’s only reaction was to bring his hands to his face. He smirked at Tex as the bodyguard joined the fray. Mex had his hands full now; Osama saw his chance and broke for the holiday crowds on 5th Avenue.

It looked like a Charlie Chaplin movie watching the tall string pole followed by the aging military man followed by the young bodyguard, all of them scooting across 5th Avenue, down the promenade, through the crowds and, finally, down steep stairways to the sunken skating rink. Scarlett stood in amazement looking down on the trio, who were now center stage in the middle of the rink, all skaters having abandoned the ice for the sidelines.

Close-in combat on ice was new for all of them. Mex planted his feet firmly watching each of his foes as they prepared to go on the attack. The crowd, skaters and onlookers alike, circled closer and closer reducing the size of the ring. Their murmurs turned to shouts and then cheering alerting the dinner and dancing crowd in the Rainbow Room some 66 floors above; they pressed their noses to the windows for a glimpse. Saturday Night Live’s Lorne Michaels caught wind of melee in NBC’s studios and alerted Bob Smigel to get down to the ice rink to gather material for an upcoming cartoon segment. It was a happening. Mex realized that the crowd thought that NBC had presented them with an evening of surprise entertainment. What the hell am I doing here, was all the Mex could make of the surreal moment.

Osama and his bodyguard charged Mex on his left and on his right. He grabbed their arms and swung them clockwise in a move that looked choreographed for the Bolshoi Ballet. The bodyguard slipped out of Mex’s grasp, sliding harmlessly across the ice into the crowd. Mex and Osama were now one-on-one. Back to basics, Mex tried his patented “edge of the hand” blow to Osama’s prodigious nose just as the bodyguard dove under his legs from behind sending Mex sprawling. Osama scampered into the crowd and into the night. Mex made fast work of the bodyguard twirling him over his head like a rag doll and up into the waiting arms of Prometheus, the giant golden statue overlooking the ice rink. It was over; the crowd cheered wildly, giving Mex a resounding applause. Caught in the spirit of the moment, Mex took a deep bow. The mission was over, too. For Now. Osama had gotten away.

*****

Back at the Beacham’s in Bryn Mawr, Mex took stock of the last few days’ adventures. He opened a note Scarlett had slid under his door of his suite.

Mex,
Oh, baby, what a roller coaster ride. The moves you showed me will be
a challenge to mimic, but I will try to work them into my gymnast routines. That nice man, Lorne Michaels, from Saturday Night Live wants me to join Robert Smigel on the new “Mex Watergate” series. That’s so crazy. Let’s definitely do lunch when you get back to the city.

Hugs and kisses,
Scarlett

Mike Wallace of CBS got to Mex first. He wanted to do a “60 Minutes” exclusive on the story, but NBC, who owned Rockefeller Center, was unlikely to cooperate.

“Saturday Night Live” wanted Mex to appear as soon as they were ready to start the new “Mex Watergate” series. Would Mex consider hosting the show?

Osama bin Laden had made his way to Cedars of Lebanon’s emergency room, where doctor’s reconstructed his nose. It was now more pronounced than before. By the time CIA operatives arrived at the hospital, Osama had been spirited away by his handlers. No doubt, he had been jetted back to Afghanistan.

The next time I saw LeAnne, she told me that Mex had taken a break from his “mission”. He was back in Mexico for another round of crowd control. “Que’ circunda, viene alrededor”.

*****

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