Operation Condor is the story of a secret, coordinated campaign of repression that crossed borders, shattered families, and left a legacy that still shapes South America today. In the 1970s and early 1980s, military regimes across the Southern Cone built a shared system to track, capture, transfer, and eliminate political opponents beyond their own frontiers. Exile, once a route to safety, became another hunting ground. People who believed they had escaped found that the net could follow them, because the states pursuing them were no longer acting alone. This book follows how Condor emerged from the Cold War climate, where fear of revolution, ideological warfare, and "national security" thinking gave dictatorships both cover and confidence. It explains how coups hardened into security states, how intelligence services professionalised their brutality, and how cooperation turned repression into an efficient machine. Condor is often described in bureaucratic language, but its reality was intimate and physical: surveillance, informants, unmarked cars, midnight raids, blindfolds, secret transfers, and black-site detention. It was the sound of a door closing and the knowledge that law would not intervene, because the people breaking it were the ones in charge. At the centre of this history is the chilling term "the disappeared". Disappearance was not an accident of chaos, but a deliberate technique. It removed records, denied families any certainty, and weaponised waiting. A murder ends in grief. A disappearance traps people in permanent uncertainty, forcing them to live inside unanswered questions. Condor multiplied this cruelty by scrambling geography. Victims could be abducted in one country and held, interrogated, or killed in another, often with no trace left behind except fear and rumour. For families, that meant searching without borders, mourning without bodies, and living with the possibility of hope for years. Miles Dunsford's account examines the tradecraft of the system: target lists, coded files, infiltration, cross-border renditions, and the routine use of torture to produce forced confessions that justified further arrests. It explores how regimes maintained plausible deniability through paperwork, euphemism, and denial, even as survivors carried the truth in their bodies. The book also confronts the wider international context-diplomatic silence, intelligence relationships, and the quiet compromises that allowed Condor to operate in the shadows. Finally, this is a book about what came after. The end of dictatorships did not end the consequences. The absence remained, embedded in families, communities, and national memory. Truth commissions, court cases, and survivor testimony became battles of their own, fought against fear, forgetting, and political convenience. Operation Condor traces that long arc from terror to accountability, showing why remembrance is not sentimentality but resistance, and why justice, even delayed, matters. Operation Condor: The Story of the Disappeared and the Regimes That Coordinated It is a factual, step-by-step history of how a region became a transnational hunting ground-and how survivors and families have fought to reclaim names, lives, and truth from the machinery that tried to erase them.