by Luke Bencie
I take my food to a small table as Ice Man sits across from me, gripping a tall black coffee in a white Styrofoam cup.
“Paul, huh? Do you have a last name?”
“Ward. Paul A. Ward,” I confess.
“And I guess the “A” stands for Asshole?” he jokes.
“Actually, it stands for Alastair. My father’s name. He emigrated from Edinburg to the Polish/Scottish neighborhood of Hamtramck, Michigan, right outside Detroit, when he was just a boy.
“Interesting,” he says with a skeptical look. “But I have to ask, what the heck were you doing in the FATA?”
Shit, I haven’t even had one bite of my burger and the interrogation has already started.
“Well, Ice Man—actually, would you mind if I called you by a different name?”
This movie code-name thing is starting to irritate me.
“Sure, call me Val.”
Val Kilmer, the actor who played Ice Man in Top Gun? Is this guy for real?
“Okay, Val, it’s like this . . . ”
For the next three hours I give Val/Ice Man the same data dump I had given Mr. Lincoln and his rescue team in the truck. I hold nothing back. How could I? These guys basically snatched me from certain death, and I’ll be indebted to them for the rest of my life. Whatever they ask, I will not refuse. Besides, with every truthful statement I make, the more I realize what a huge prick I’ve been these past several years. My conscience is coming clean and I feel like repenting for all that I’ve done wrong.
Val looks at his watch and said, “You’d better get some rest. You’ve pretty much had both the worst day and best day of your life today. You’ve got to be tired.”
“I am. But first, thank you for everything you and your men did for me today. I will never forget it.”
“Hey, we gotta look out for our own over here in the hinterlands.”
“And who exactly are we?” I ask.
“Come on, Paul, someone in your line of work? You know exactly who we are. We saved your ass today—just like we do every day. The difference is you’re one of the few who get to see behind the curtain.”
Damn, he’s good! I know exactly who they are. I conclude that Val might make a successful international consultant himself one day. But in the meantime I thank my lucky stars he’s on Uncle Sam’s payroll.
He shows me out the door to a metal shipping container located directly opposite the chow hall. Inside are a simple bed and a small bathroom with toilet and shower. He instructs me to get as much sleep as I can. I thank him once again and within five minutes of my head hitting the pillow, it’s lights out.
My mind churns and I start to dream . . .
Your life was a waste. What did you accomplish? Lousy husband. Lousy father. Only the scoundrels of the underworld know of my disgraceful legacy. And now you’re dead. You must be in the afterlife. But the place you find yourself in at this moment is not some heavenly utopia. Look around. All you see is pain and suffering. Evil is everywhere. You’re in hell!
I wake up sweating. It was just a nightmare, but I am still surrounded by darkness. I can’t see a thing. Then I realize where I am; that windowless cargo container somewhere in the mountains of Afghanistan. I roll out of the bed and search for the door.
Sunlight immediately engulfs the room as the metal door creaks open. I have to shield my eyes from the bright intensity of day. It must be the middle of the afternoon.
How long was I asleep?
I’m still wearing the GWU sweats as I walk toward the chow hall. It’s the only place I know to go. As my ridiculous-looking Crocs crunch across the gravel, I hear heavy metal music blaring off to my left. I look to see a half-dozen chiseled athletes training in a makeshift fitness center to AC/DC’s 80’s hit, “Thunder Struck.” The gym is basically a covered airplane hangar packed with chin-up stations, rowing machines, medicine balls, and rusted-out barbells. One giant of a man is slamming a sledgehammer repeatedly down on a massive truck tire. I have seen this type of training before on 60 Minutes. The men—and at least two women—are doing a cross-fit workout. This insane type of training is a combination of Olympic-style lifts coupled with gymnastics, and all performed for time. Workouts rarely last thirty minutes, yet participants easily burn 1,000 calories in that short time.
The air temperature is pushing 100 degrees and sweat is pouring off the athletes as they compete against each other in clean-and-jerk exercises with their makeshift equipment. A shirtless, bearded warrior slams down a straight bar, loaded with ungodly weight, from over his head and runs to the nearest trashcan. His head disappears beneath the rim of the can and despite the blaring music I can hear him puke. Now I know why the America has the toughest military in the world. I am intimidated just watching these guys train.
I enter the chow hall. It’s packed with unshaven, tattooed heroes. They look up from their lunches and give me a disapproving stare, almost as if to say, “This is the guy who was doing business with warlords? We should have just left him.”
I find the coffee machine and pour myself a large cup.
“Paul,” I hear someone call.
I turn to see Abraham Lincoln sitting at a table full of his fellow warriors.
“Come here, man.” He waves me over. “I want you to meet the rest of the guys.”
I feel like an idiot in my outfit as I apprehensively walk over and pull up a chair.
Abraham Lincoln begins. “To start off, my real name is Pete—but you can call me Dallas.” Then he points around the table and introduces me to the rest of his team, more than a dozen guys with handles like “Joker,” “Outlaw,” “Lumberjack,” “Taco,” and “Meat Loaf.” I thank and shake hands with each one.
Suddenly, a large paw comes down on my shoulder. It’s Val—Ice Man. He tells me I’ve been asleep for twelve hours and I should grab some food. I gladly oblige. For the next forty-five minutes I eat and chat with my new friends, talking about everything from their lives as special operatives to mine as a businessman.
After my meal, I follow Val into yet another shipping container. This one seems to be reinforced to withstand attack and is covered with antennas. I assume it’s their command center. Once inside, he escorts me into a small conference room and tells me to wait. Within a few minutes, a young man in his early thirties enters.
This guy’s different from the others. He doesn’t look like a killer. Rather, he seems like someone you might stand behind in line at Starbucks. He has no visible tattoos, nor does he look like a much of an athlete. He’s the first clean-shaven person I’ve seen at the compound. I conclude he’s either an analyst or one of those elite case officers the intelligence community is always boasting about on the websites of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA), or some other three-letter alphabet soup organization.
He stands across from where I’m sitting and drops a thick manila folder on the table—just like in a bad cop show.
“So, you’re a Michigan man.”
“That’s right. Go Blue!”
“Go fuck yourself,” he coldly replies. “I went to Michigan State.”
Great! An MSU Spartan. Michigan’s in-state rival. Michigan State is that institution of higher learning that Playboy once ranked as the best party school in America. The super-secret, covert operations squad must have had an opening on their party-planning committee. I’m sure this clown tells some great stories around the bonfire about funneling beer and banging sorority girls.
“So, that’s how you got assigned here instead of Rome?” I joke, trying to keep things civilized.
“No, I’m here because I want to make a difference.”
“Sure,” I respond smugly. “And I bet your call sign is Spartan,” I quip, citing the MSU mascot.
“As matter of fact, it is. But that’s not important. What’s important is your future.”
Oh shit! Here it comes. “Sparty” here is about to threaten me.
“You see, Mr. Ward, you’ve broken the la
w of just about every country on Earth. But what really pisses me off is that you conspired against the United States of America.”
“Wait a second!” I fire back. “I did nothing of the kind!”
“Bullshit! You’re a traitor, and if I can prove it I’m gonna see you hanged for it.”
“Listen to me. You may despise who and what I am. And that’s fine. But you and I have two very important things in common. One, we deal with shit bags for a living, and two, we both love our country. I just happen to make a lot more money at it.”
“Save the speech for your attorney, tough guy.”
“What, you think I just got off the boat? You and I are alone in this room right now. No Ice Man around. You’re trying to play the bad cop with your ridiculous folder, your insults, and your threats. So, cut the shit. What’s the real story here?”
“Are you willing to help your country in return for your freedom?”
I stare at him for a moment. “Let’s say for the moment that I am willing. What do I have to do?”
Sparty reaches into the manila folder and pulls out a photo.
“The French Intelligence service recruited a woman about a year ago to help catch one of her boyfriends, a known arms smuggler. Turns out you stumbled across their radar instead.”
He drops the photo on the table, a full-color picture of Lola going into her apartment building in Paris.
“Shit!” I say under my breath.
“When they discovered you were using multiple passports, they decided they’d sit back and watch what exactly you were up to. After your escapades in Africa and the Middle East, they shared the information with us.”
“But you didn’t know my true identity.”
“Correct. We weren’t really sure of your actual name or real nationality. It’s just a nice coincidence you’re American. In fact, when you showed up in Dubai on your Italian passport, we were ready to turn the case over to the Carabinieri. But then you received a phone call from the arms dealer known as the Sheik, who we had under surveillance. That’s how you came across my desk. Hell, I even sat right next to you on the flight from Rome to Dubai—not that you noticed. We then tracked your cell phone by overhead drone and that led us right to you in that Afghan cave.”
Holy shit, this guy was the idiot who was sitting right next to me on the plane a few days ago!
I feel like I have been played for a complete fool. It is the first time this has ever happened in my career. Damn it! I can’t let on that he played me.
“Impressive, but couldn’t you guys have shown up a little bit sooner? I was seconds away from being a head shorter.”
“You’re alive, aren’t you?” he said flatly. “And now you have nice GWU sweat suit to show for it, Michigan man.”
“What about Yuri?” I ask.
“Who’s Yuri?”
I start to laugh. Unless this guy is lying to me, which in all likelihood is possible, Yuri isn’t on the USG’s radar.
“Sparty, you’re an alright guy, and I do remember you from the airplane. Although, you do play a forgettable seatmate well. And, all kidding aside, thank you for saving my ass. You don’t have to threaten me with anything. I’m in your debt. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
He takes out another picture from the folder and slaps it down in front me. It is a familiar face, which I recognize immediately.
“Mr. Ward, we need you to go to South America and kill a dictator.”
DICTATORS
IV
ASSASSINATE
Location: Dubai, UAE
Time: 2133 hours
I’m trying to relax in the Emirates Business Lounge at Dubai International Airport. The Michigan State Spartan, whom I’ve learned calls himself Joe, is sitting across from me and pretending we’re not traveling together. We’ve just flown in from Islamabad, Pakistan, after a connecting flight through Kabul. We took a helicopter from our undisclosed location to Afghanistan’s capital city. Joe is apparently keeping tabs on me. He said others are watching me too and that I should simply play the part of a businessman and “not do anything stupid, like to try make a run for it.”
I have no intention of testing him. Besides, I’m back in my element. I’m in an airport business lounge, and Joe even managed to provide me with a fitted suit from Pakistan—though it’s made of cheap fabric and hangs on me like cardboard.
The last three weeks have been a blur. I’ve essentially spent every waking hour being briefed by various intelligence community operatives about my new assignment for the US Intelligence Community—killing a dictator.
Each of the men and women with whom I’ve been in contact specializes in a different field of expertise. Some excel at understanding Latin American politics, while others know terrorism and narco-trafficking better than anyone I’ve ever met. A handful of them are analysts with PhDs. Some of the technical guys remind me of the jack-of-all-trade character MacGyver from the ’80s television series. I also met a psychiatrist and a chemist. All of them have served the same purpose, which is to educate me about my target—the Latin American tyrant I will refer to only as “Don Pedro.”
Dictators are an interesting breed. I should know. I’ve worked with quite a few over the years. The late Kim Jung Il, and now his son Kim Jong Un, are undoubtedly the reigning champs of dictatorships. Fortunately, I never had to do business with either of them. Saddam Hussein was a helluva dictator as well. He ruled Iraq with an iron fist; killing some thirty thousand of his people every year, apparently just to keep everyone in check. Nevertheless, I’m sure many people—even in the United States—wish we could turn back the clock to return Saddam to power, thereby avoiding the chaos that has ensued following the 2003 invasion.
It’s funny; Saddam was a slow-paying client of mine before the second Gulf War. Surprised? Who do you think brokered all those oil-for-money deals on the black market? Then, after the US Army swept into Baghdad and deposed Saddam, I amassed a small fortune in commissions by hiding money in Swiss bank accounts for the newly installed—and thoroughly corrupt—post-Saddam government. That puppet administration skimmed money faster than a bartender at strip club.
To be honest, it was some of the easiest money I ever made. I feel guilty about it now, but compared to the billions of dollars that large defense contractors and logistics supply companies earned from Operation Enduring Freedom, it just proved how prophetic President Dwight D. Eisenhower was when he warned of the dangers of the military-industrial complex.
This time I’m getting paid with my freedom in exchange for doing a dirty job. I kill Don Pedro and they let me walk away. Despite the assurances, I’ve got a pit in my stomach telling me somehow this new engagement isn’t going to turn out well.
I won’t reveal the true identity of Don Pedro, or the country in Latin America over which he presides. But I will tell you this: the man deserves to die. As Clint Eastwood famously said in the movie Unforgiven, “We all have it coming.”
Don Pedro assumed power in a military coup several years ago. He quickly installed a military junta, which he claimed was a “socialist movement meant to bring equality to all men and women, particularly by lifting the poor up into the middle class.” By seizing control of the country’s natural resources and nationalizing all private utilities—including foreign-owned companies—Don Pedro ended up controlling 90 percent of the nation’s GDP. As one of his first official presidential acts, he declared himself President for Life. He also immediately installed his military cronies in cabinet positions, and he executed—without trial—all of the members of the previous government.
To make matters worse, the new government’s lack of understanding of economics and foreign policy thrust the country deeply into debt with the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund. Don Pedro’s increasingly poor human rights record isolated him further. The country has been suspended numerous times by the Organization of American States.
Despite these setbacks, Don Pedro has become one of the wealthiest
men in the hemisphere, second only to Mexican telecom tycoon Carlos Slim. His net worth is believed to be in the billions, though most of it is hidden in offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands and other tax havens. Don Pedro is married with children, but his sexual appetite is renowned throughout Latin America. It is reputed that he has slept with at least one different woman each week since he took power. If so, only the late Wilt Chamberlain existed in more rarified territory.
To further enhance his already devious resume, Don Pedro also sells weapons on the black market to countries sanctioned by the United Nations for supporting terrorism. There are two daily, direct flights from the capital of his country to Tehran. The cargo and passenger manifests are unknown. Most analysts think he is moving a combination of military weapons, kidnapped Latin women to be used as sex slaves, gold, and possibly even uranium extracted from his country’s mines. No wonder the US government wants him dead. Although I find it disheartening, I recognize that I’m their most viable option to achieve that goal.
You might not believe this, but I’ve killed people before. I didn’t like doing it, and I’m certainly not a professional killer. But there have been times when the wrong person crossed my path and had to be eliminated. Who they were or how I did it isn’t important. I admit I’m not proud of it, but I’ve never lost any sleep over it, either. It was part of the job. So, I will feel no remorse killing a man notorious for repressing and torturing thousands of his own citizens for his own personal gain.
My method of assassination will be slow-acting poison. My handlers—Joe in particular—have provided me with a quick-dissolving powder concealed inside a pair of silver cufflinks. The pearl in the center of each cufflink swings open and will allow me to drop the powder into Don Pedro’s drinking glass as I reach above it. With two cufflinks come two chances. As the covert operations community wholeheartedly believes, two is one and one is none. Joe’s medical colleagues also claim the powder will leave no evidence. Any doctor performing the autopsy will be convinced the cause of death was a brain aneurism. It also doesn’t take effect until forty-eight hours after consumption, allowing me plenty of time to escape.