“Guerrilla Filmmaking – a True Story” Part V

By Alex Ceppi

August 9th, 2017

Walking into Diab Fattah’s store would be suicide – not only were we faced with three oversized Arab security agents on the lookout, but we were surrounded by some of Chavez’ goons as well – not far from the street corner we were parked at, were two unmarked vehicles from Venezuela’s DISIP… waiting… their engines idling. The agents inside were straight out of central casting, packing heat and ready to go at a moment’s notice.

 

“We’re gonna have to wait” – I said.

 

I heard the sound of relief in the background almost immediately…

 

“This doesn’t feel right”

 

Getting a nice photo of Fattah proved to be more difficult than anticipated. He was out in the open, yes, but his security detail was tight. I was anxious to get this over with, mostly because I knew the longer we stayed on the island the harder it would be for us to leave without incident. But my anxiety was also my gut’s way of telling me that I needed to be more careful; that my team members’ lives rested on my shoulders and that I needed to take this slowly.

 

I heard thundering in the background and sat back as Fattah’s bodyguards turned around and disappeared inside the store once again. It was an electric storm; I looked up and saw it crawl its way right over us, blowing trashcans over and down the street and spreading spider web-like lightning across the sky. Everything slowed down for me as the sound of rain hitting the windshield calmed me down… I knew Diab Fattah was inside and less than fifty feet away from us; but I also knew there would other opportunities.

 

“We’ll get him somewhere else” – I said trying to sound like I knew what I was doing.

 

“That’s right” – said Anton as he turned around and looked right at me – “I know just the place; we’ll get him tonight”

 

*          *          *

 

The apart-hotel we stayed at was plagued with Colombian and Brazilian prostitutes who made up more than eighty-five percent of the guests in the joint. The lobby was shabby and it smelled like cheap disinfectant. I turned to Anton who noticing my reaction felt compelled to explain it was the perfect place to hide; that DISIP officers would never come into that hotel. I did not know what to believe, but just as I pondered that, I spotted an unmarked white Ford Econoline van pull over outside the hotel – I kept my eyes on it as the passenger door slid open and a large group of Brazilian transsexuals stormed out of it and tore right through the lobby. I watched them as they stumbled across space and one of them said “hi” to Anton.

 

I turned back to Anton and he simply smiled back – “They’ll never find us here”

 

*          *          *

 

Located on the second floor of a small building in Porlamar’s business center, was the strip joint Anton claimed Diab Fattah’s girlfriend danced at; the place where he expected we’d come face-to-face with the terrorist. The space was small, well-appointed, and swarming with absolutely beautiful girls. We sat, ordered drinks and tried our best to blend in with the crowd. It worked for a while – the alcohol helped ease the tension while we waited, but it wasn’t long before reality would sink in again. See, letting down your guard could be the difference between success and ending up dead in a Venezuelan alleyway. And I saw it happen… I saw Anton lower his guard and ask one of the dancers about Diab Fattah's girlfriend; it was a rookie mistake and I could feel my stomach tightening as I saw him do it.

 

I sat next to Anton but before I could even warn him, I spotted Fattah’s bodyguards walk into the joint. That’s right – the same three Arabs we spotted back at his shop; they were packing and looking around the club. I saw the dancer Anton was talking to approach them and point directly in our direction. I knew we had only seconds to move into safety so I waved a few hundred dollars in front of the dancer sitting on my lap and cutting through the crowd, had her escort us to the VIP room in the back of the joint. She was excited and probably thought X-mas had arrived early that night; but it did not. We left her begging behind and proceeded to exit through the fire exit in the rear of the building.

 

I watched Anton call Chucho who had been waiting in our SUV in front of the club – he came screeching around the corner to pick us up when I too saw a black SUV follow him into the alleyway. I knew we were in deep shit now and jumping in our vehicle asked everyone to take cover.

 

Shots were fired and bullets started hitting the side of our car. We were not incognito anymore. We were on the run.

 

For more on “Guerrilla Filmmaking – A True Story”, and the hunt for DIAB FATTAH, come back to storyrocket.com next week.

 

See you then,