The Clandestine Consultant

by Luke Bencie

  The boy then says the words to me that will set my plan in motion. “Sir, if there is anything you need at all, please don’t hesitate to call me. My name is Dominique.”

  “Tell me, Dominique,” I respond, “is it possible to get a girl to come up to my room and give me a massage?”

  “Of course, sir. I can easily arrange for that.”

  “What about two girls?” I continue.

  The teenager replies, “Sir, I can get you four girls. Any age you want.”

  I reach into my wallet, pull out a fifty-dollar bill and hand it to the boy.

  “Dominique, tonight I want you to send two girls, around age twenty, up to my room at ten o’clock . . . for a massage. Do you understand?”

  “No problem, sir.”

  “There is one catch, Dominique; you cannot tell anyone about this. Not even the manager at the desk. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir. The owner leaves at eight each night. Then it is just me and the night manager on duty. It is easy to sneak the girls past him because he stays in the office and watches television.”

  “Good,” I say. “It is important that only you, me, and the two girls know about the massage. Yes?”

  “Of course, sir. I will bring them both up here at ten.”

  With that, the entrepreneurial bellboy disappears out the door and into the dark hallway.

  I throw my suitcase on the bed and unzip it. Removing my clothes, I slide my fingers along the inside edges of the bag. I feel for a minor groove and pull up on it. A loud tearing of Velcro reveals a secret panel in the bottom of my bag. Concealed within the space are my special electronic gear, including several wireless covert cameras, a lock-picking set, and medical supplies.

  It is time to perform an assessment on the room and set my trap for Mr. David.

  I spend two hours setting the stage for his upcoming performance. I install the wireless pinhole cameras throughout the room. These mini devices, no larger than a coin, are covertly placed in the smoke alarm, air-conditioning vent, headboard of the bed, and desk. I also install one in the bathroom ceiling. I can monitor them remotely from my laptop in my room next door. I am halfway there with my preparations. Theoretically, these are my fishing poles. Now I just have to bait my hook. That will come in the form of the two girls.

  I hear a knock at my door at around ten. I open it to find Dominique with his teenage arms around two slutty females. One is cute, around twenty years of age, and built like an Olympic sprinter. The other one looks to be in her late twenties, perhaps a big sister to the other one, and although fit, she is ugly as sin. Both are wearing red velvet mini-skirts with bright red lipstick and spike-heeled shoes. Not only do they look ridiculous they also look as if they could be carrying a plethora of venereal diseases.

  They are exactly what I had hoped for.

  I thank Dominique and tell him that he may go. He hurries away obediently. I invite the girls into the room and they head straight to the edge of the bed. They are both anxious to negotiate a price from this white man who must be wealthy, since he is staying in this “luxury” penthouse suite. I ask the girls if they would like a glass of Scotch. Their eyes light up and they both nod yes while smiling. Very good, I think. It is important that these girls are drinkers as well. Handing them their drinks, I inform them that although they will be getting well compensated this evening and, to their surprise, “no sex will be taking place.” They look back at me and simply tell me that they will do whatever I request. This is excellent. For the next sixty minutes, I walk them through their role for the following evening.

  The girls are under the impression that my very good friend Mr. David will be coming to the hotel tomorrow to celebrate his birthday. I am going to surprise him with these two sexy ladies as his present. All they have to do is dress in white clothes, knock on his door, and say that they are “complimentary massage girls,” courtesy of the hotel for staying in the penthouse suite. They should then provide him with a glass of complimentary champagne, which I will have specially prepared with a date-rape drug, in order to help him relax. Once he falls asleep during his “massage,” they should unlock the connecting door between our two rooms and let me in. It is all very straightforward.

  Before they leave the room for the night, I hand each girl a wad of cash and instruct them that should they tell anybody at all about our plan that they will not be paid a thing tomorrow night. However, if they keep their mouths absolutely shut and not speak a word of the plan to anyone, they will be compensated with more money than they have ever seen. Discretion equals cash. In a poor country like this, I feel confident that the girls will not talk. It is now a waiting game until Mr. David arrives tomorrow morning. Both his reputation and mine are in jeopardy depending upon the outcome of the plan. We—and the citizens of this nation—are theoretically at the mercy of two cheap prostitutes.

  SHOW TIME

  Location: The Hotel Restaurant

  Time: 0830 hours

  I barely slept last night. I must have checked and re-checked the camera surveillance equipment thirty times. I then placed a lubricant from my shaving kit on the hinges of the inner door connecting the two rooms to eliminate any squeaking when I sneak into Mr. David’s room. To calm my nerves I took a couple drinks of the Scotch to help me sleep. In the morning, I sat in the simple four-table restaurant of the hotel slugging down instant coffee. There was also a dirty glass of instant orange juice powder staring at me, which is making my stomach turn. My breakfast isn’t much better—stale French bread with marmalade, two undercooked fried eggs, and a cup of spoiled yogurt. I opt to just eat the bread and drink the coffee. Of all the food laid out in front of me, those two items provide the least chance of giving me food poisoning. I can’t afford to get sick right now.

  After three cups of coffee, along with a banana that I talked the teenage waitress, who is probably the manager’s granddaughter, into hunting down from the kitchen, I make my way back to my room. I need a hot shower. As I am walking through the tiny lobby I hear a car pull up the gravel driveway. I immediately feel a surge of adrenaline shoot through my body. I peer through the lobby window and my fear is confirmed—it’s Mr. David. What the fuck is he doing here so early? I suddenly realize that my suitcase and clothes are in his soon-to-be Presidential Suite. I have also set up a monitoring station in the adjoining room, which currently resembles something from a NASA control center. I need to get my things moved from the suite into the other room as quickly as possible.

  Mr. David looks road weary from the drive and is dressed in a tan, wrinkled, safari suit. He also is sporting a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. Some things in Africa never change.

  Shit! He cannot be allowed to recognize me! I must get up to my room and hide! I pick up the pace and head towards the staircase. I take the stairs two at a time back to my room. In my confused and dehydrated hung-over state, I miss a step and come crashing down on the stairwell landing. My hands and chest catch just as my forehead bounces off the concrete like a basketball. The pain is immense and I see stars. I try to hold in a muffled scream. This is not the time for self-pity. I pick myself up and keep moving.

  Entering my hotel room door, I jump over the bed and make my way to the window. I am just in time see through the curtain and spot Mr. David standing behind a decades old, copper-colored, Mercedes four-door sedan, instructing his driver on which bags to collect from the trunk. Also with Mr. David are two more giant bodyguards. Each of them must be at least two meters tall and weigh well over 110 kilos. They both wear undersized black suits, which don’t look to have been dry cleaned in weeks. For a country with so many hungry citizens, I apparently keep discovering bodyguards who seemed to have never missed a meal. A gun holster reveals itself when one of the bodyguards lifts a bag from the trunk. This man is packing a nickel-plated Smith and Wesson .45 caliber handgun. These two could be a problem; I was only planning on one bodyguard.

  Suddenly, I see a fifth man emerge from the back of the Mercedes. He
is about Mr. David’s age, with bright white hair against his dark African skin, and appears to be more polished than the two muscle heads. His navy blue suit looks to have been bought in Europe. I guess he is a political adviser or campaign manager. Maybe my plan is not going to be as easy as I thought. A bead of salty sweat drips from my forehead and I curse myself under my breath for drinking too much the night before. No time to feel sorry for myself, I have an operation to conduct.

  I open the door between the two rooms and quickly begin to throw my clothes from the Presidential Suite into the command center located in the room next door. The blaring loud ring of the telephone startles me. I calm my breathing and answer the receiver like a man in full control. It is the old man from the front desk asking me if I could please move out of the Presidential Suite, as tonight’s VIPs have arrived early. No shit, I think.

  I inform the old man that I am already packed and ready to move next door. He sounds relieved and tells me that a maid will be up in a few moments to clean the suite and provide me with the key. I pretend that I will be waiting for the maid to bring me the new room key. I simply request from the old man that the new guests wait before coming up, as I am embarrassed that I may have left the room a little messy and I don’t want them to notice the person before them. The old man simply responds, “Oui, monsieur.”

  After two minutes, the maid arrives with the key to the adjoining room. I hold an empty suitcase as she knocks on the door. She is ready to clean and I am not going to stand in her way. I retrieve the new key and disappear into the room located immediately next to this one. I breathe a sigh of relief, as I am now safe in my new room. I boot up the computer monitors and watch the maid as she prepares the Presidential Suite for Mr. David. I test the microphones and can easily hear her singing to herself while she changes the bed sheets. When she transitions into the bathroom I switch on that camera at my makeshift command post and listen as she complains to herself, in her native tribal language, about having to scrub the toilet. The devices are well hidden. Thank God all of the equipment is working.

  Another twenty minutes and the room is ready. The maid walks to the phone next to the bed and calls down to the front desk. Informing the old man at the reception that the room is clean, she takes one last look around and exits the room. It’s show time. I look at myself in the mirror above the desk in my room and notice that a swollen red lump has appeared on my forehead.

  A few moments later, I hear Mr. David and his crew walking down the hallway. I peer out through the peephole on my door and see the curved shapes of four men directly on the opposite side. I watch as Mr. David inserts his key, while his adviser and two bodyguards look over his shoulder. One of the bodyguards suddenly turns to look at the peephole on my door.

  Shit! Can he see me? Am I leaving a shadow under the door?

  I freeze. After a few seconds that feel like hours, he looks away as if it were nothing. The four men enter the Presidential Suite. Trying to move as quietly as a cat, I spring on my tiptoes over to the electronic surveillance monitoring station.

  “You two, wait outside,” Mr. David orders the bodyguards in his eloquent French accent. The two giants comply without saying a word. They turn and head out into the hallway. I curse myself again for not installing a hidden camera in the hallway as well. Now I will have to rely solely on my peephole to be able to see them stand guard outside Mr. David’s door, which unfortunately does not provide me with the best viewing angle.

  Turning my attention back to the monitor, I see that Mr. David is now sitting on the bed, while his adviser is standing by the window.

  The adviser speaks and I clearly pick up the conversation. “I’m glad we finally made it here. Your speech tomorrow will be the turning point of the election. You should focus on getting some good rest tonight.”

  “Don’t I know it? My friend, I may appear on the surface as calm as a duck swimming across a pond, but underneath the water, my feet are churning nonstop. I don’t know how much more of this stress I can take,” responds David.

  I have just the thing to soothe your nerves, Mr. David. Two lovely young ladies will surprise you later this evening.

  “Why don’t you take a nap now and then just stay in and order some room service tonight?” the adviser suggested.

  “That’s a good idea,” Mr. David acknowledged. “Bringing about change through a free and fair election is never an easy task—particularly in this part of the world where corruption and evil are rampant. May my words tomorrow change this country for the better. God knows that these good people deserve more.”

  Mr. David’s honest words bring me a twinge of guilt.

  The adviser puts his hand on Mr. David’s shoulder and tells him that he will be back in a few hours to wake him for lunch. Afterwards, they will practice the speech together. David nods and the adviser exits the room. Returning to my peephole, I see the adviser move down the hallway with one of the bodyguards in tow. Hopefully, he is staying on another floor. The other security guard remains outside of the Presidential Suite. Like a sentry standing post, this mountain of a man is going to keep me trapped in my room. I wonder how many hours he is going to remain there. He can’t stand all day. The other guard will probably come to relieve him at lunchtime. Well, at least I only have to contend with one man outside Mr. David’s door and not two.

  Per his adviser’s nap suggestion, Mr. David takes a hot shower and then crawls into bed. Soon he is fast asleep. I use this opportunity to take a hot shower myself and review my plan once again. I feel that there is nothing more I can do for now, so I pull the curtains close and sit in the stained chair next to the window. I lean my thumping head back. I might as well grab a nap myself until Mr. David wakes up for lunch.

  CONDUCTING THE OPERATION

  Location: The Hotel Room

  Time: 2004 hours

  I dream of my childhood. I am twelve years old again and playing basketball with my father in the driveway of our simple home. Life then felt free and easy. How did I go from that upbringing to this crazy life I lead now? What if I had made one or two different decisions several decades ago? Would I still be doing this crazy job, living this crazy lifestyle? I am certain the answer is “no.” More importantly, do I regret those decisions?

  I awake to the sound of knocking and girls giggling. I open my eyes but everything is black. Where the hell am I right now? I take a deep breath and realize that I am still in the chair of my hotel room. Night has fallen. My head is still leaned back and I am staring straight at the ceiling in the dark. I pull my head down to my chin and I feel a twinge in my neck. It is completely stiff and has a painful kink on the right side. What time is it?

  The monitors on the desk across from me are in sleep mode. I straighten up in the chair and tap the space bar on my computer keyboard. Three monitors suddenly come to life and flood the darkened room with a bright white light. The clock on the screen reads 10:04.

  “Noooo!” I whisper.

  I’ve been asleep for over nine hours. It is time for the operation to begin.

  Focusing on the computer screens, I see that Mr. David is answering his hotel room door. The two girls have just knocked and are still standing in the hallway with one of the bodyguards giving them a suspicious stare.

  “Oui?” asks Mr. David.

  His bodyguard informs him that these two girls have been sent up with compliments of the hotel manager to provide him with a massage and a basket of fruit and champagne. He says it is included with all guests who stay in the Presidential Suite.

  I bite my bottom lip and pray that Mr. David accepts the bait.

  “Certainly, come in, ladies.”

  Yes, let the games begin.

  Mr. David leads the two young women into his room. The ugly one begins to take charge. She informs him to lie on the bed in his boxer shorts, while the other girl opens the bottle of champagne for the three of them to enjoy together. Mr. David quickly complies by sliding off his shirt and pants and sitting upright on
the side of the bed.

  Politicians are such easy prey.

  I am amazed at how naturally the girls slip into their roles and carry out their assignments. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. These are working girls in a third-world country, where the average person earns a few dollars per day. This is the only way they know how to survive.

  While Mr. David is taking direction from the ugly prostitute, the more attractive girl discreetly reaches into her purse for one of the knockout drugs. Through the monitors I see her crush a pill into a powder. She then slips it into his glass of champagne like a professional magician performing a sleight-of-hand trick. The three of them have a toast to Mr. David’s speech tomorrow, and within a few seconds, his glass is empty. I’m smiling.

  A few minutes later, Mr. David is face down on the bed with his arms and legs spread. The two girls are topless and on their knees above him, rubbing his shoulders and hamstrings with some lotion they found in the bathroom. It is obvious to me that the sleeping pills were not necessary. In fact, they are now probably counterproductive, as I have a strong suspicion that Mr. David would freely have had sex with the girls—which would have made for a more compelling video. I can see a corner of a smile from Mr. David’s face, which is buried in a pillow. I imagine he is thinking that this will be a nightly event when he becomes the next president of this tiny nation. Soon, however, that smile relaxes as he slips into a drug-induced stupor. He begins to snore loudly. Now it’s my turn.

  I move up from my monitoring station to the connecting door in my room. I open it and knock twice softly on the other one. The attractive girl dutifully opens it. The two prostitutes stand before me topless and smiling ear to ear. They are so proud of their work and recognize that they are going to earn a big payday.

  But our work is not done. I pop back in my room for just a second to grab my camera. We must now take pictures of Mr. David in all sorts of compromising and certainly unflattering positions.