The Clandestine Consultant

by Luke Bencie

  For the next twenty minutes, the girls straddle, twist, squeeze, insert, and kiss Mr. David’s naked body, and perform several other, more disgusting sexual acts using erotic toys. Like a professional photographer, I quietly direct the girls’ performance. The key is to make it look as though Mr. David is actually awake and enjoying these acts. I also shoot several videos so that no one can claim the pictures have been altered. Although the girls are having fun, I am all business. It is much harder than you can imagine to make a lifeless person appear to be enjoying a threesome on film.

  A loud knock on the door suddenly interrupts the moment.

  “Sir, it’s Michael. Is everything all right in there?”

  Shit. It is Mr. David’s campaign manager. The bodyguard must have informed him of the two girls.

  Thinking quickly, I call out a nervous, “Oui.”

  “Sir, please open the door. I would like to speak with you for a moment”

  Dammit! I can probably fool this guy with a one-word answer, but I shouldn’t try to say anything else. Thinking fast, I instruct the pretty girl to get under the covers with Mr. David. I next tell the ugly one to answer the door and tell the man and his comrades that Mr. David is busy with her friend and that he should come back in the morning. Then I quickly return to my room and watch through the monitors.

  This could be the end of me, I think. If the men barge in it won’t take them but a minute to realize that someone else probably entered through the adjoining hotel room door. I go to the window and quietly slide it open. If I have to, I can jump three stories to the ground below. But then what? I will have to make my way by foot into the town to find a taxi. No. I have been in worse situations than this before. This will be fine.

  I watch as the ugly girl opens the door for Mr. David’s campaign manager.

  “Where is Mr. David?” he sternly asks, with the bodyguard attempting to peer in over his shoulder.

  “In bed with my girlfriend,” she replies.

  “David! David! Are you alright?” the man calls into the room.

  Shit! I’m finished.

  “He can’t talk right now,” the girl says smiling as she smartly blocks the doorway.

  “Why?” the man demands.

  Looking him straight in the eyes and with a harsh, irritable tone, the clever girl replies, “Because my girlfriend is sitting on his face right now and his mouth is busy doing something else. In fact, my mouth is supposed to be doing something else instead of talking to you. Mr. David says that you need to mind your own business and come back in the morning.”

  “Okay, okay,” the manager replied. “Calm down. I will come back in the morning.”

  Before closing the door, the girl says one more thing that demonstrates her impressive street smarts.

  “What room are you staying in? My girlfriend and I will come visit you when we’re done here.”

  The campaign manager suddenly softens his demeanor and breaks into a smile. “Room 202. Yes, please come visit me when you have concluded your business with Mr. David.”

  The manager departs and the girl locks the door. She walks over to the interior door and lets me in. I tell her that she has done an outstanding job and is worthy of a nice tip. She is already aware that she is going to make more money tonight than she will all year.

  We conclude our operation with the still unconscious Mr. David flat on his back. He’ll awake in the morning with no memory of what happened. He will just think he got a massage and then passed out. I tidy up all the incriminating evidence, which includes the colorful sex toys. I give them to the girls as a keepsake.

  I hand each girl five one-hundred-dollar bills. I instruct them never to speak a word of what happened tonight. I don’t try and threaten them, because even if they did talk, no one would believe them and they would only end up hurting themselves in the long run.

  I disappear into my room through the adjoining door, while the girls exit Mr. David’s room. Standing at the peephole of my door, I hear the ugly prostitute—the one who saved my ass tonight—tell the bodyguard standing post, “Mr. David says he does not want to be disturbed until the morning.” Damn, she’s good!

  The bodyguard nods to the girl as if she is his superior giving a direct order. The girl then tells him that he shouldn’t waste his time standing outside the door. The bodyguard agrees and walks down the hallway with the girls under each arm. It seems these ladies have a lot more money to make tonight.

  It is in my best interest to gather up my equipment and get out of town. I call down to the bellboy and instruct him to have a reliable taxi—fully fueled for a long trip—waiting for me in front of the hotel in ten minutes. I then make my way down the stairwell with my luggage, careful to avoid being seen or heard by anyone. I reach the lobby to find the bellboy waiting for me alone by the reception desk. My taxi has already arrived. I hand the boy four hundred-dollar bills and tell him it’s for the cost of my room. I then hand him four more and remind him that I was never there.

  Five minutes later, I sit in the back of the taxi, an old man behind the wheel, driving me back toward the capital. My job in this country is done. There is a flight to Europe that leaves in exactly six hours. I already have a first-class seat reserved.

  SHEIKS

  II

  DOWN TIME

  Location: Lake Como, Italy

  Time: 0726 hours

  It is a beautiful spring morning as I sit at a tiny round bistro table on the wrought-iron balcony of my 400-year-old rented villa in the hills overlooking Lake Como. I have been coming to this serene section of Northern Italy for over two decades, typically to unwind after my more strenuous consulting engagements. The picturesque, snowcapped mountains, reflecting in the serene lake below, calm my nerves and allow me to forget about the constant state of vigilance that I’m required to maintain while on assignment.

  I’m enjoying a double espresso in my Turkish cotton bathrobe, while leisurely flipping through the pages of the Financial Times. I look back into the bedroom to see that my date from last night, a strikingly attractive Italian woman in her mid-thirties, is still asleep naked in my bed. For years, this equally successful international beauty and I have occasionally met up in different parts of the globe to share dinner and swap stories, among other things. Last night we spent three hours experiencing a culinary masterpiece of lamb chops and risotto in the private dining room of Il Gatto Nero restaurant in the hills of Cernobbio. Famous resident George Clooney was also known to regularly reserve this small room, with an amazing view of Lago di Como, whenever he wanted to impress his latest supermodel or Hollywood starlet girlfriend. That gets me to thinking; if George Clooney can eventually settle down with one woman, maybe it’s time for me to do the same. Still staring at this lovely, olive-skinned brunette in my bed, I wonder if she and I are eventually supposed to be married. Maybe we will have three small kids and a golden retriever, live in a two-story brick house in the suburbs, and drive our SUV to Disney World during the holiday season. The thought makes me laugh and I return to my newspaper.

  It’s been almost three weeks since I snuck out of Africa in the early morning hours. A lot has happened since then. When I returned to Europe, I sent Mr. David a few samples of the incriminating photos from an anonymous email address. I essentially told him that unless he dropped out of the presidential race and threw his support behind the king, these photos and several others—plus videos—would not only go out to his wife, supporters, and church members, but would also be sent to international media networks such as CNN, BBC, as well as all the international newspapers. However, if he did comply with this demand, he would be rewarded with an ambassadorship to one of the lovely island nations off the coast of Africa—perhaps even the Seychelles. It was an easy, albeit painful, decision for him. It also allowed the king to control and keep tabs on his future activities. Like Vito Corleone, I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  As for me, Mohammed actually lived up to his end of the bargain. Once Mr. Da
vid officially bowed out of the presidential race and publically pronounced that the king should be “leader for life,” three million euros were deposited into my account in Switzerland. For a while I thought that he might try to stiff me out of payment. However, both Mohammed and the king were smart enough to know that if I could deliver results this fast, they would be smart to keep me happy in case they needed my services once more in the future. Although I never plan to enter their country again, they could be a good referral for future business. Let’s face it, men like Mohammed and the king have equally needy friends who are also willing to pay top dollar to make their headaches go away. But enough about business. Right now I just want to take it easy and decide on how I want to spend my money.

  After another session in bed, followed by breakfast on the balcony, I kiss my friend goodbye. I watch her as she drives away in her red Alfa Romeo convertible, her dark Italian hair blowing in the wind. Who knows how long it will be before we see each other again—if ever? She disappears out of my sight, heading down the hillsides of Como.

  After a long, hot shower in my marble-enclosed bathroom, I decide to take the train into Milan to have another suit made. It is time to visit with my tailor Enzo at the Brioni store located across from the Four Seasons, where I once witnessed Sophia Loren step out of a white Rolls Royce in an equally blazing white fur coat, while I was being fitted. I will also make it a point to stop by Luini Panzerotti, located near Milano’s famous Duomo, for a fried panzerotti, essentially the most delicious pizza snack in all of Italy.

  I’m sipping a glass of prosecco from a crystal flute, as Enzo lays a sampling of silk neckties out before me to match the suit I was just fitted for. One is a checkered white and red, while the others are a stripped blue and solid blue. Each tie costs three-hundred euros. He smiles when I say that I will take them all. My cell phone begins to vibrate. Very few people have this number and it may go weeks without activity. Therefore, I immediately know that it signifies a new consulting opportunity.

  “Yes,” I simply say into the phone.

  “Yes, sir. I was told that if I called this number I would be able to speak to a consultant,” says the deep accented voice on the other end of the line.

  “I am the consultant. May I ask who gave you this number?”

  “Of course. It was Yousef Azzam in Riyadh.”

  I immediately recognize the name. He is a wealthy businessman in Saudi Arabia who previously served in the Saudi Ministry of Interior as an intelligence officer. Yousef and I have been friends for over a decade and I helped him import sensitive radar technology into the kingdom, bypassing international trade regulations. He made millions off the deal and became a nonstop referral machine for my practice. This was sure to be another lucrative engagement.

  “Ah yes, Mr. Azzam. How is he these days?”

  “He is very well,” says the voice. “He tells me that you are the man I should speak to regarding assistance in acquiring some information.”

  “That depends upon the information you are in need of.”

  “I understand. Why don’t we meet the day after tomorrow in Dubai? Say the lobby of the Burj al Arab Hotel at noon to discuss the particulars?”

  “I’m sure Mr. Azzam has told you that I am a rather busy man and that my services do not come cheap.”

  “You need not worry about money, my friend. You will be adequately compensated merely for taking a meeting with me. Just be in the lobby of the Burj in two days at noon sharp. I promise that it will be worth your while.”

  “Very well,” I reply.

  “Excellent. I will be very easy to spot. I will be the large Arab man wearing a white thawb, the traditional long robe. My name is Sheik Omar al-Gaylani. See you then.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” I say.

  Sheik Omar Gaylani. I know of this man. He is the owner of many telecom companies throughout the Middle East. He is easily worth billions. He is also someone you don’t want to offend, as he has a nasty reputation as a vindictive bully. He makes Vladimir Putin look like a frightened wimp.

  I tell Enzo that I that I’m not sure when I will be able to come back and collect my new suit. Therefore, he should just keep it on hold for me. Enzo is used to this from me. He tells me that it is no trouble at all, since I am one of his most loyal customers. I hand him 5,000 euros in cash and walk out into the bustling streets of Milano. I need to grab the train back to Lake Como to pack a suitcase. This evening I must fly to Dubai to meet a sheik.

  BUSINESS CLASS

  Location: Aboard Turkish Airways

  Time: 2330 hours

  I travel in business class to Dubai on an airline I don’t typically use. It’s important that I vary airlines to avoid a pattern. Enemies could easily learn whether I am enrolled in a frequent flier program, which could assist them in tracking my movements. I have an American diplomat sitting next to me on the plane. I spotted his black passport when he sat down and we struck up a mundane conversation about the weather. As I’m traveling on my Italian passport, I am careful not to reveal too much information about myself. Although the chances are remote, he could be working with the American CIA or FBI. When he asks me what I do, I simply tell him that I work for a private investment group that specializes in distressed assets. That comment seems to bore him into putting on his headphones and watching a video.

  Typical government bureaucrat: one simple business term and he is lost. It seems that no matter what country you live in, the best and brightest never work for the government. Those individuals usually start enterprises that change the world. I laugh at the thought of Steve Jobs or Bill Gates trapped in a government cubicle in a civil servant job doing the bare minimum. My mind is now more at ease. It has always been my belief that the US Department of State only exists to provide cover for CIA officers working overseas and to issue visas to foreigners. This guy obviously does the latter. Poor fellow.

  I am on my fourth glass of Argentinian Malbec, yet instead of relaxing I am becoming more restless. The man that I will meet in thirty-six hours is unlike the last buffoon I dealt with. I always like to be smarter than my clients. This next job may not be as easy.

  ***

  Sheik Omar al-Gaylani was born into a wealthy Saudi family that made its fortune in laying the original telephone lines in the kingdom, when the Americans and British first discovered oil in the desert back in the 1930s. Unlike most Saudi elites, his family originally came from Yemen and over time ascended to wealthier and wealthier rungs along the social ladder. Interestingly enough, Osama bin Laden’s family also began with similar origins from Yemen. However, they made their money in construction, primarily of roads and mosques. Aside from the major “black sheep” in their family, Osama, the bin Laden name remains one of the most respected construction companies throughout the Middle East, a fact that I’m sure troubles most Americans. There’s a running joke that the name “bin Laden” is as recognizable in the Saudi construction world as the name “Trump” is in the United States.

  The sheik is now the patriarch of the al-Gaylani family, and has branched out from telephone lines into cell phone towers. In fact, the majority of the communications that occurs within in the kingdom must pass through his network. He’s worth billions, although it still is just a fraction of the Saudi Royal family’s wealth from oil revenues. Despite the financial discrepancy between the sheik and the king, it is safe to say that without his assistance in controlling all the airwaves, the Saudi Royal family would be helpless. Therefore, he garners much respect from the monarchy.

  I ponder why the sheik requires my services. He mentioned that he needed me to provide him with some information. Could that mean he wants me to find a person for him? Perhaps it means that I need to get some dirt on a competitor? Maybe one of his sons has gotten himself into a legal mess and needs a “fixer” to make the problem disappear. Whatever it is, it must be important enough that the sheik himself is calling my cell phone.

  A Turkish male flight attendant pushes
a cart full of cheeses and aperitifs down the aisle and stops alongside of me. I opt for a plate of Brie and seasonal grapes but pass on the offer of a brandy snifter filled with cognac. I decided to go easy on the hard liquor and just stick to wine.

  My American seatmate is fully engaged with an episode of the Simpsons. While he laughs out loud at Homer’s antics, I laugh inside at the idea of this clown working as a covert operative. He is probably just another civil servant charged with some bullshit international outreach program, a “do-gooder” who could never make it in the private sector where success is gauged by one’s ability to compete in business and relentlessly deliver results. Flying business class is another fine example of how American taxpayer dollars are wasted. In twenty years he will probably be retired and living on his meager government pension in a gated community in Florida.

  After the flight attendant clears the empty wine glass and cheese plate from my tray table, I recline. I might as well try to relax and grab a nap. I put on my headphones and tune to the music channel. I select The Essential Dean Martin playlist and close my eyes while Dino sings Volare. The idiot next to me is still laughing hysterically at the Simpsons, as I slip into a dream.

  TO ARMS

  Location: Burj al-Arab Hotel, Dubai

  Time: 1201 hours

  The Burj al-Arab is an icon in the Middle East. Shaped in the form of a towering glass ship with its sails filled with gusting winds, it was one of the original landmarks when Dubai was transitioning from a sleepy little outpost in the desert into a top international tourist destination and financial hub. It now serves as one of the finest hotels in the world, the first to be rated seven stars—out of a possible five. It sits on its own mini-island off the coast of Dubai in the Arabian Gulf (or Persian Gulf, depending upon who you are having dinner with). It is the place to see and be seen when visiting the United Arab Emirates. Interestingly enough, when the hotel was first being constructed, the mast for the ship’s main sail of the structure was the first thing to be erected. As an ironic result, the metal spine of the building gave the appearance of a huge Christian crucifix towering over the predominantly Muslim country. Rumor has it that the Emir demanded that the builders work around the clock until the visual representation of a cross was concealed.