The Clandestine Consultant

by Luke Bencie

  I decide to call attention to it.

  “Yuri, that is an impressive watch you’re wearing. What kind is it?”

  “I don’t know. I took it off a dead man,” he said, laughing.

  “No, really. Is that a Moritz Grossmann? I have never seen one before.”

  “It is. You have good taste, Mr. Noah. I see that you are also a fan of watches. I also have a Patek Philippe at home.”

  I doubt that was a subterfuge. Now I know the type of man I’m dealing with. Yuri is pretending to be a thug in order to appear as though he could kill me just for having a bad day. The whole Russian mob guy thing is just an act. He’s basically a consultant just like me, one who casually remarks about $100,000 wristwatches. His business identity is just the character that he has created. He really has no idea what I am capable of, and I’m certain he feels the same about me. This checkmate puts me at ease and we begin to talk specifics of the delivery, ordering a bottle of local Lebanese wine in the process.

  Apparently, my job is to fly on a commercial flight to Turkmenistan and link up with Yuri’s cargo pilots at a private airport. I will inspect the weapons to ensure that they are all accounted for and from there we will fly into a small airstrip in Jalalabad, Afghanistan. Once we bypass Customs—presumably with a routine bribe to the locals—and unload the weapons into a truck, we will drive them thirty minutes out into the countryside. There we will meet our contact named Ali, who shall repeat to me the secret passphrase provided by Sheik al-Gaylani. The phrase will ensure he is who he says he is, and, more importantly, confirm that Yuri is not simply handing the weapons over to one of his own contacts instead of the real buyer.

  Yuri is unaware that a passphrase has been employed. But he has been in this game long enough to know that checks and balances are always incorporated to prevent a delivery from being compromised. If the person receiving the weapons does not respond correctly to my phrase, I will report it to al-Gaylani, who I am certain will unleash holy hell against Yuri.

  Yuri and I skip lunch for only a less-than-stellar bottle of wine, which we leave half-full on the table. Neither of us wants to spend any more time with the other than we have to.

  “Thank you, Yuri. I look forward to seeing you again next week in Ashgabat.”

  “As do I, Mr. Noah.”

  With that, I turn and walk away from the table, leaving Yuri sitting alone with his cigarettes and that shitty bottle of red.

  My bad feeling about this deal lingers.

  The Lebanese hostess with the amazing rack is back behind the bar when I walk out. She shoots me a look with her deep-brown puppy eyes, but I am too focused on my concerns to give a shit.

  To ease my nerves, I go back to my hotel room, take a small bottle of Johnny Walker Black out of the mini-bar, and dump it into a glass. I throw my head back and down the Scotch in one quick shot. How the hell do I continue to find myself in these situations? I plunge backward onto the bed and throw my forearm over my eyes. I try to relax but am too tense.

  Twenty minutes later there is a soft knock at my door. I pull myself off the bed and quietly move across the room. I peer through the peephole. What the hell?

  I open the door to the attractive hostess from the restaurant. She is carrying a curved sword in a gold, metallic sheath in her right hand. A pink silk ribbon is tied around the handle, indicating that it is ceremonial item.

  “Hi,” I say, caught off guard. “What’s with the sword? Are you here to hurt me?”

  “Maybe I’m here to cut off your dick for treating me like a whore!” she snaps.

  Holding up my hands in a sign of surrender, I apologetically reply, “You’re right. I am sorry about that. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I was trying to focus on my business meeting.”

  “That’s more like it,” she smiles. “May I come in?”

  “On two conditions,” I reply. “First, you tell me your name, and second you tell me why you’re carrying that sword.”

  “My name is Fatima, and the reason I brought this is because I thought you wanted to see a belly-dancing show.”

  “In that case, come right in.”

  So the gorgeous woman slips into my room dragging the sword along the carpet beside her.

  “Fatima, my name is Noah, and I’m afraid I still don’t quite understand why you have a sword with you.”

  “Well, Noah,” she says, pushing me backwards onto to the bed, “let me show you.”

  She leans the sword against her tanned thighs and proceeds to lift her tank top over her head, exposing a black silk lingerie bra. Without wasting a second, she reaches behind her back and unclasps the garment, which drops to the floor. Her breasts are even more spectacular than I could have imagined. She lifts the sword delicately above her shoulders and balances the curved blade carefully on top of her head. Slowly lowering her arms out to the side, the sword miraculously manages to stay in place. She begins to sway her hips in a rhythmic fashion, the white skirt hanging loosely around her waist rising and falling with each athletic snap of her lower body.

  “Perhaps you’ve never seen this kind of belly-dancing show,” she says, smiling.

  Lying on my back and leaning up on my elbows, I become mesmerized by the gyrations of Fatima’s stomach, hips, and breasts. The dance lasts for roughly thirty seconds before I lean forward and grab one of her wrists. When I pull her forward on top of me the sword falls innocently backward on the floor. We are now face-to-face and, without a word, we begin to kiss passionately. Then a circuit breaker goes off in my head. I am violating one of my cardinal rules. I push Fatima away gently, wondering now if hidden cameras are doing their work.

  She grabs the sword and raises it as if to attack.

  “Twice you insult me she says. Most men die after one insult.”

  She storms from my room. I lay on the bed aroused and disturbed. For the next few hours, I forget about Yuri, the sheik, and the incredibly bad deal I just agreed to. Right now, all I can think of is Fatima.

  MR. WINGTIPS

  Location: Ashgabat International Airport, Turkmenistan

  Time: 0145 hours

  I flew from Beirut back to Europe and then on to Ashgabat, the capital city of Turkmenistan. I was the only person sitting in business class on the small, virtually empty, Lufthansa flight to the former Soviet republic. As a result, I was showered with attention by the two lovely young German flight attendants unfortunate enough to pull this thankless flight route.

  The two women, Cecelia and Franziska, were both in their late twenties and adventurous spirits. In fact, at some point during the journey, each took a turn sitting down next to me and sneaking a glass of champagne, while the other one stood watch for anyone who might venture through the curtain up into the business class cabin. We joked about the liberal attitude toward sex in Germany and how it differed from other countries. If I weren’t about to walk into a shit storm, I would have arranged to meet up with the two while they were on their layover. But there is a time and a place for everything.

  When the plane landed, I wished the girls well and handed them a business card with an untraceable email address and one of my alias names. Maybe, if I get through this consulting engagement without getting chopped into little pieces by Yuri, I will take the girls to dinner on my way back through Frankfurt.

  Going through Ashgabat International Airport is like stepping into a time machine; everything is outdated by decades. Although it is freezing outside with a foot of snow on the ground, there is no heat inside the airport. All of the employees are wearing parkas with fur hats in order to keep warm. Many of them sip hot coffee, which I have no doubt contains a nip of vodka.

  I successfully navigate through the immigration counter on a fraudulent Swiss passport, despite receiving harsh questioning from some knuckle-dragging meathead of an officer appropriately named Boris, as identified by his name tag. I stand by the lone baggage carousel, which slowly squeaks around in circles until my $6,500 black Brioni Leather Trolley—the ultimate sui
tcase crafted from a single piece of leather—tumbles onto the rubber belt from behind a set of dusty plastic flaps. My once-gorgeous bag is now filthy. I’m sure that it has already been examined and pilfered through by the special police before being sent out to me. I don’t know if I’m more upset that they opened it or that they scuffed its exterior. Either way, I will buy a new one after this job is done.

  Nobody is manning the Customs counter—another clue that my bag has already been searched—so I pass through the sliding doors into the arrivals area. The airport terminal is deserted. Only a janitor is seen sweeping the floors. It now is two in the morning. I walk outside and the parking lot is empty except for a lone taxi driver staying warm in his old Russian Lada. The rusted automobile is smaller than a Mini Cooper and had to have been built in the late 1970s or early ’80s. I have no choice but to request his services. Because of the Mongolian influence of Genghis Khan and his horde centuries earlier, many of the locals display Asian features, though it appears that my driver is a mix between Russian and traditional Turkmen—a truly unique look if you are not used to seeing it every day.

  As we drive along the dimly lit, unplowed, snow-covered streets, Ashgabat looks like a city frozen in time. One of the last cities to break free of the Soviet influence, its former leader and self-declared President for Life Saparmurat Niyazov—better known as Turkmenbashi—ruled from 1991 until his death in 2006. Typical of a Stalinist dictator, Turkmenbashi, which means “Leader of the Turkmens,” had earned the distinction from the diplomatic community as creating the third-largest cult of personality in the world—surpassed only by Saddam Hussein and Kim Jong Il, measured by the number of his images displayed throughout the country.

  The highly eccentric ruler had even constructed a life-sized golden statue of himself, arms extending to the sky, which tracked the path of the sun. He also commissioned a massive concrete statue of a bull to be placed in the center of the city, with a solid-gold statue of a baby riding on its shoulders. The baby was said to symbolize Turkmenbashi as an infant, who through divine intervention survived one of the country’s worst earthquakes as a toddler, proof that he was “the chosen one” from birth.

  Even after Turkmenbashi’s death, not much changed in Ashgabat. His successor, President Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedow, only minimally opened up the country to outsiders, and it still ranks as having one of the worst human rights records on Earth.

  A landlocked country wedged between Iran, Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, and Turkmenistan, sits in a tough geographical neighborhood. The terrain is a combination of jagged mountains and a harsh, black-sand desert. The weather has two seasons: extremely hot and miserable and extremely cold and miserable. The architecture is still that of the drab communist influence, and small, boxy Ladas still drive up and down the poorly maintained streets. Only now the nouveau-riche Russian mafia types rule this desolate nation, which has become a hub for gray arms dealers, narcotraffickers, and modern day slave traders. It is truly one of the last great, untamed regions of the world—a land that time forgot, much like the American Wild West of the mid-1800s.

  For a guy like me, though, it’s that Frank Sinatra line, “My kind of town.”

  I booked a room at a lesser-known hotel in order to stay under the government’s radar. The nicer hotels are owned by the local intelligence service. As a result, all of the rooms are wired with audio and video surveillance that keep tabs on foreign visitors. I check in to a four-story concrete cube of a hotel and pay with US dollars—the preferred currency in this part of the world. The old man behind the desk, who reminds me of Doctor Zhivago, smiles when I hand him the wad of cash.

  A bellboy, who insists on carrying my Brioni trolley, accompanies me to my room on the top floor. There is no elevator, and we walk up the four flights in an unlit stairwell that reeks of urine. I can hear the sounds of people moaning from sex as we ascend the stairs. There are probably plenty of prostitutes on duty in this shady establishment tonight.

  The bellboy inserts a large brass key, which looks better suited for a lock from medieval times, into the room door. My temporary dwelling can only be described as Spartan at best. There is one twin bed, one dresser, and one chair. No desk or TV. A radiator under the window provides the only semblance of heat. The view is of the dank streets below. The bathroom is not much better. The cracked white tiles are stained with rust and water spots, and the once-transparent shower curtain is now nearly opaque from black mold. At least nobody would expect to find me here. Then again, it would also be the perfect place for someone to leave me for dead. The things a whore consultant like me will do for $2 million.

  I decide to take a shower and try to relax. But there is only cold, dirty water flowing through the pipes. I shiver as the brownish liquid washes over me. I lather up using my Tom Ford body wash, as opposed to the tiny, unwrapped bar of soap, which has been conveniently provided for me in the tub and has a dark hair prominently displayed on it—evidence that I am not its first customer. For sanitary reasons, I use my own towel to dry off. Over the past ten years I have made it a habit to always pack my lucky “Gatorade” towel—the one with multiple Gatorade logos, just like the one seen on television and used on the sidelines at various sporting events by athletes such as Michael Jordan, Lionel Messi, and Peyton Manning. Whether I’m in a jungle, a war zone, or a seven-star hotel, my Gatorade towel is always at the ready. It is one of the last remaining items of my past life—a life I do not speak of anymore.

  I change into a pair of running shorts and T-shirt and settle onto the lumpy bed. I’m sure these same sheets have been frequently stained with bodily fluids over the years, but I try not to think about it. I pull a large bottle of Evian water from my travel bag, along with a bar of Toblerone chocolates I had picked up at the duty free shop. This will be my dinner tonight. I also retrieve the copy of the latest book I’m reading, Leadership, by legendary UCLA college basketball coach, John Wooden. I like to study the mindset of winners, regardless of their chosen field. My efforts have included the philosophies of generals, politicians, religious leaders, businessmen, and sports coaches. I am always hungry to understand what guiding principles helped them to achieve success. Unfortunately, I am doubtful Coach Wooden ever had to deal with corrupt Arab sheiks or Russian mobsters during his career. Within an hour, I am asleep with the book on my chest and all of the lights on in the room.

  I awake to a knock at my door. My heart is racing and for a moment I don’t know where I am. This is actually quite common for me, considering my frequent crisscrossing of time zones. I spring out of bed and quietly move across the room toward the door. Whoever is on the other side, I don’t want them to know I am in the room. I carefully put my eye to the peephole and am surprised to see two female figures standing within the concave image. Is that Cecilia and Franziska, the two flight attendants with whom I was flirting just a few hours earlier? How in the world did they find me?

  I cautiously open the door and discover that instead of the two German girls, I am actually standing face-to-face with two Russian prostitutes replete in high heels and low-cut evening dresses—one in a bright-red sequined gown and the other in a piece made of thin white silk and virtually see-through. The cleavage on each of these two blonde bombshells is so astounding I have trouble looking either of them in the eyes. They are both tall and very pretty, but I can’t make out their ages.

  My mind is still in a fog. Why are they here? Why are they dressed like they are about to attend a black-tie gala in Moscow?

  “Good evening, darling,” says one of the women in a thick accent. “We thought you might like some company.”

  “I’m sorry, but I think that you have the wrong room.” I attempt to close the door, but the woman quickly presses her hand against it, preventing it from shutting.

  “You don’t understand. We saw you check in, and we want to party with you.”

  “I’m busy,” I rudely reply.

  “Come on, darling, don’t you want to play with us?
I have cocaine and we are both so horny.”

  “I want to do line of coke off your dick,” the other girl chimes in with a sultry accent.

  “Sorry,” I repeat, as I abruptly close the door in their faces.

  This was certainly not a coincidence. Yuri knows where I’m staying. I must be under surveillance by him and his men right now. He must have contacts at the airport, or the old man at the desk was obligated to report any guests to the local intelligence service—a service which no doubt is on the take to a wealthy man like Yuri.

  Shit! I have seen this movie before. I ran the same scam in Africa on Mr. David. Only this time I am the mark, and Yuri is playing out my role. I try to go back to bed, but my mind is racing. I stare at the alarm clock until it reaches 6 a.m. and decide to head down to breakfast.

  I descend the four flights of stairs to the lobby. Because of near-freezing temperatures, I am wearing a gray wool turtleneck sweater, a pair of Levi’s jeans, wool athletic socks, and black leather Armani boots. I’m still cold but my mind is preoccupied with other things—namely, why Yuri had tried to set me up last night.

  The lobby is empty and quiet. I am not surprised to see no one manning the reception desk. Doctor Zhivago must still be asleep. There is, however, a fire burning strongly in the fireplace. I am suddenly startled to see a man in an overcoat and dark suit sitting in a chair next to the fire. He looks like he’s been there for hours. He’s reading the newspaper and our eyes meet as if he was expecting me. He appears to be a guest at the hotel, but I am also wondering if he was the one who built the fire. I can tell he is sizing me up.

  After two very long seconds, his eyes revert back to his paper. He is in his mid-to late fifties—and has a black mustache peppered with gray hairs. He looks very serious and possibly important. His body language is clearing communicating, “Fuck off.”