by Luke Bencie
Bruce W. Lee has been my go-to guy for logistical support for years in Brazil. It’s absolutely amazing what this little turd can acquire: anything from guns, to drugs, to girls. Even radioactive material, Mr. Lee can get it for you. He was named after the martial arts legend Bruce Lee, though he’s much more dangerous with his Rolodex, not his fists. Also, he will never admit to anyone what his middle initial W stands for. He usually tells everyone to just call him “BW,” which he likes to claim that the ladies say stands for “Big Wang.” I have always called him Mr. Lee and he—because I have never given him my name—just calls me Mr. Mister.
In addition to Portuguese, Chinese, and broken English, Mr. Lee speaks flawless Arabic and Farsi. This makes him a regular buyer and seller in the vaunted Tri-Border Area, South America’s equivalent to Afghanistan’s FATA, the no-man’s land where illegal goods—anything from weapons to knock-off hand bags—are manufactured and traded between the borders of Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay.
Don’t let his small size and large smile fool you; Mr. Lee is a very dangerous and deals with some of the world’s most heinous scoundrels. Maybe it should concern me that we get along so well.
“Lee, I need a favor,” I begin. “But first, I have a feeling the room might be bugged.”
“Ha! Not to worry,” he tells me reaching into his jacket.
He pulls out a black device that resembles a 1980s cell phone, the kind Gordon Gekko used in the movie Wall Street.
With a big smile, he continues. “This jam all audio and video frequencies. Even your television no work with this thing running. Go on, try it.”
I grab the television remote and hit the power button. Nothing but static appears on every channel. I then notice that the numbers on the digital alarm clock have begun blinking frantically. Mr. Lee strikes again.
“Lee, you’re a genius. But I also think there’s a team that’s conducting physical surveillance on me at the moment, too.”
“Not to worry,” he assures me again. “When I got your signal to meet, I assumed you want our traditional cover story. Therefore, I tell people at front desk I your tailor and that you request me to measure you for suits. I bring couple of Brionis in your size here in garment bag. Some shoes, too.”
“Good man!”
“Okay, tell me what I can do for you this time.”
“I have someone I need you to follow so I can figure out if I’m being set up.”
“No problem. Hopefully, she pretty,” he jokes.
“Don’t worry, she is.”
“Need usual stuff?”
“Yes, and I need it within forty-eight hours. But there’s something else. I don’t have access to my bank account right now. So I’m gonna pay you double as soon as I can break free from this surveillance team.”
“No problem, Mr. Mister. Your credit always good with me. I come back in forty-eight hours with new suits and the information you need.”
“You’re the best, Lee. So, now will you tell me what the hell the W stands for?”
He breaks out in a big smile and says, “When you tell me your real name.”
“I guess it’s gonna be a long time, then.”
Yet another knock on the door. My breakfast has arrived but I suspect it’s one of the surveillance team members trying to figure out why they lost audio and video reception. Lee quickly unzips the garment bag and throws a few suits on the bed. He then wraps a measuring tape around his neck, as if he has been measuring my inseam, which would be kind of awkward since I’m still in my towel. I open the door to see what appears to be a hotel employee replete in white, button-down shirt and black vest, and with a nametag that reads, Carlos.
For a guy pushing a room-service cart he seems awfully fit. I estimate he could bench press at least 300 pounds. I notice a tattoo on his wrist: a sword and shield. I decide to give him a tip of fifty reais (about fifteen dollars) just to gauge his reaction. He takes the money like a robot, says “obrigado,” and then departs.
Lee looks at me and says, “You give him 50 reais and he not even smile. He definitely surveillance team.”
This isn’t good, I think to myself.
“Lee, I really need you to deliver on this one. Otherwise, you might see me on CNN someday hanging by my neck on the front lawn of the White House.”
Lee laughs and tells me, “Mr. Mister, I don’t know who you really are, but you have one crazy job!”
COLD SHOULDER
Location: Aboard a Private Jet
Time: 1230 hours
Mariana and I are sitting in uncomfortable silence as our Gulfstream IV silently races above the Amazon rainforest at 600 miles per hour. Since meeting at the airport less than four hours ago, we have not really spoken much, other than trading a couple of “bom dias” on the tarmac. She has been busy pretending to be reading the contents of a government manila folder, and I have remained thoroughly engaged with stirring my Old Fashioned on the rocks. At least the plush Italian leather swivel chair I’m sitting in is amazingly comfortable.
The dark-skinned stewardess with the thick carioca accent who prepared my drink, despite putting in too many drops of bitters, is wearing the tightest black pants, which perfectly accentuate her lovely Brazilian butt. What is it with Latin women and tight black pants? In order to not upset Mariana, I attempt to conceal my ogling. I then try to gauge which one of them has a better rear end, Mariana or this stewardess? Actually, it’s no contest. The stewardess is undeniably attractive, but Mariana is legendary. I’m discouraged over the idea that I may never see her naked again. It’s time for me to break the ice.
“Mariana, may I tell you how incredible you look today?”
“Tell it to the stewardess. You’ve been removing her slacks with your eyes since we boarded.” Ouch!
“Actually, I’ve been undressing both of you, and you can’t believe what else I have you two doing.”
“You want her? Go get her,” she says, without even looking up from her papers.
“Do I detect a hint of jealousy?” I say, trying to sound playful.
Now she looks up and checks to see if the stewardess is out of earshot.
“You need to understand something, Mr. Ward.”
Really? She just called me Mr. Ward?
“We’re on our way to conduct a very important operation, one that is going to change a country’s history—one that could get us both killed. You need to take this seriously.”
“First of all,” I shoot back, “my name is Paul. Or, if you prefer, you can call me ‘gostoso’ (Portuguese for tasty). Next, I’m always serious about my work. How the hell do you think I’ve been able to operate right under the noses of every intelligence service and law-enforcement agency across the globe for the past twenty years? And lastly, I’m a professional consultant, not a hit man, which makes this ridiculous plan of yours all the more fucked up. I mean, come on, you send a team of Navy SEALs into Pakistan to kill Osama bin Laden, but you’re sending me to off this dictator? The whole thing makes zero sense. If anyone needs to get serious, it’s you guys.”
“You have no idea what it takes to preserve democracy,” she snaps.
“Preserve democracy? That’s your justification? Who the hell is pulling your strings, lady?”
“This isn’t up for debate—Paul. Remember, just do the job and you walk. Don’t do the job and spend the rest of your life in prison—or worse. End of discussion.”
“Fine!” I bark.
“Yes, fine!” she counters.
The stewardess hears us and emerges from the galley.
“Dá licença, que a gente tá conversando aqui. . . vaca!” Mariana yells. “Pode voltar pra copa!” The unsuspecting stewardess retreats in stunned silence.
“Jesus, was that really necessary?”
She slams the manila folder on her tray in front of her.
“I’m sorry,” she says in a quivering voice, “You’re right, this plan doesn’t make any sense at all. I can’t believe I agreed to this shit.”
Her eyes tear up, ever so slightly.
“I should apologize to that girl,” she says remorsefully, and rises to walk toward the galley.
“Hey,” I say in a soft voice.
“Yes?” She stops, turns and looks tenderly at me for the first time today.
“Tell her to bring me another Old Fashioned, but go easy on the bitters this time.”
Mariana frowns at me with a look that says, “You’re an asshole.”
You might think I’m being unfair to Mariana, and I probably am. But there’s a good reason for it. When Mr. Lee returned to my hotel room after forty-eight hours, as he promised, he once again used his cover as my tailor to bring me my new suits and, more importantly, new information. Mr. Lee had put Mariana under surveillance and hacked into her personal emails. Not an easy task, with Mariana being a trained intelligence officer who’s accustomed to detecting surveillance and practicing good OPSEC—operational security.
But Mariana has never met the likes of someone as devious as Lee. When he discovered that she jogged near her apartment every morning at around six-thirty, and always ran along the same route while listening to her iPod shuffle, he devised a simple plan. Lee assumed that Mariana was too smart to fall for the old trick of simply clicking on a dummy email, which would allow a hacker to gain access to her computer. He also assumed she maintained updated antivirus software.
Not to worry, as he says. He quickly found another way into her email inbox.
Before one of her morning jogs, Lee left a bright-blue iPod Shuffle on the sidewalk along her chosen path. The idea was that another runner had accidently dropped the iPod and kept on running. When Mariana spotted the device, she picked it up—while Lee watched from the bushes to confirm the pickup. She then dutifully asked all the other runners she came across if they had lost it, but no one claimed it. So Mariana took the iPod home and plugged it into her laptop to see if there was any evidence of its owner.
To Mariana’s surprise, the iPod was filled with close to one hundred hit songs, in both English and Portuguese. Impressed by the playlist, Mariana began dragging some of the songs from the iPod onto to her computer’s playlist. As she transferred the files, she also unknowingly allowed Mr. Lee’s virus to infect her email inbox. As a result, Mr. Lee gained access to all of Mariana’s personal emails, which he then printed out and brought to me at my hotel room, concealed in the garment bag with the Brioni suits.
The content of those emails made me rethink the entire operation.
Mariana returns from the jet’s galley and walks toward me. She has apparently apologized to the stewardess, given the relieved look on her face. She is also carrying my fresh drink.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yes, everything is okay. I apologized to the girl and told her I was upset because you were staring at her ass. She apparently seemed flattered by that and then asked if you and I were a couple.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, yes, we are, and invited her for a threesome tonight.”
“Really?” I ask, suddenly intrigued.
“No, dumbass. I told her that you were some loser pervert, and now she’s too scared to even come back out here again.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“It’s better this way. Now we have complete privacy,” she says in a seductive voice, straddling my legs while handing me my drink.
“Wait a minute. Two minutes ago you hated me. Now you’re sitting on my lap? Why the sudden change of heart?”
“Doesn’t a woman have the right to change her mind? Besides, I just realized that whether this operation is total success of a complete failure, I’m probably never going to see you again. So, I might as well enjoy myself.”
She starts to unbutton my shirt. After an hour or so of enjoying each other’s company on the leather sofa in the jet’s cabin, Mariana has returned to her seat, once again reading through her government folder. It’s apparent to me she was nervous about the operation and needed a way to release some stress. I, of course, was happy to oblige. What is it about private jets that turn women on so much?
I’m in no way complaining about my current situation. I recognize when I’m being played for a fool. Mariana still doesn’t know I’ve read her personal emails and understand the full scope of her plans for me. I also know her other secret—that she and Joe are in a relationship.
GOLDEN GOOSE
Location: El Presidente’s VVIP Terminal
Time: 1605 hours
The Gulfstream’s wheels gently touch down on the runway as we arrive in Don Pedro’s homeland. Outside the windows is a lush, tropical landscape filled with bright colors set against a stunning, mountainous backdrop. Steam is rising off the plant life, a result of a recent rainstorm. It’s hard to believe this jungle paradise is in such disarray. Why can’t Disney run Latin America, instead of corrupt dictators and politicians?
It has always bothered me that these countries are so full of natural resources yet maintain such poor infrastructure, high unemployment, and low wages, and are unnecessarily reliant on loans from the International Monetary Fund. I would be willing to bet that if you brought in a local city council from any small town in Nebraska, those ethical, God-fearing patriots who believe in earning your keep and maintaining a smart fiscal budget, you could improve the management of most Latin American countries tenfold.
Forget calling in a bunch of Harvard MBAs from consulting firms such as McKinsey or Bain. Just clean out all the jefes in power and replace them with people with common sense. Then perhaps Latin America would become the economic powerhouse it should be. Maybe that’s what my current employers are intending to do.
As the jet rolls to a stop, Mariana and I get up and walk to the front of plane. As we do, the sexy stewardess, who has remained tucked away in her galley, shoots me a look of disdain. I haven’t seen her since Mariana told her to give us privacy. Her scowl makes me think Mariana told her something pretty awful about me. That, coupled with the fact that she probably snuck a peek at Mariana and me fooling around on the back couch, must make her dislike me even more.
But then, I’m not here to make friends but to kill a president.
The jet’s door opens and the staircase unfolds. I let Mariana go first and step out into a wave of humidity comparable to a steam room. We immediately begin sweating through our shirts, and beads of perspiration erupt on our foreheads. I am dehydrated, and immediately regret drinking those glasses of bourbon on the flight.
A black Mercedes slowly pulls up on the tarmac and stops a few feet from us. A young man in his early twenties, wearing a white chauffeur’s uniform, pops out and hurries around to open the rear door facing us. Our good buddy Rodrigo from the São Paulo consulate emerges with a smile.
“Ah, Mariana my love, how are you? You look more beautiful than ever!”
“I’m wonderful, Rodrigo. It’s so nice to see you here. What a pleasant surprise.”
Mariana’s response is in her best actress voice.
Rodrigo turns to me and says, “And Señor Ward, it is great to see you, my friend. Welcome to our humble country.”
“Thank you, Rodrigo. It is a pleasure to be here,” I lie.
The three of us get into the Mercedes. Mariana and Rodrigo sit in the back and I sit in the front. I can’t help but notice that Rodrigo has placed his hand on Mariana’s knee. She allows him to do so—it’s part of the job. How is it that Mariana can go through life using her female powers of persuasion to accomplish her goals? I find it sad. But who am I to make moral judgments?
“El Presidente is incredibly busy these days. Therefore we are going to see him right away while his schedule has an opening,” Rodrigo informs us.
“All the better,” Mariana responds.
We drive from the VVIP (Very Very Important Person) terminal at the airport out onto the highway. As we navigate the potholed road, we can see shantytowns on both sides. Once again, I think there is no reason for all this poverty.
“As you can see, Señor Ward, we have many poor people in our country. That is why we need your help to find increased streams of revenue to lift them out of misery.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” I dryly reply, now looking out the windshield.
After forty minutes of what seems like aimless driving through the countryside, we approach the decadent presidential mansion of Don Pedro. Its strange design is part antebellum Southern plantation, part medieval castle, and part Mediterranean villa. I’m not really sure what the architect was going for. The only thing that seems to pull the structure together is its coat of bright white paint, which is accentuated even more against the tropical foliage.
The Mercedes pulls up the driveway as numerous guards, lining the pavement in their military fatigues, snap to attention. We come to a stop and disembark toward the ornate front door complemented with a golden lion’s head to intimidate visitors. As we walk up the few marble steps onto the front porch, the lion’s head retracts inward when the front door opens. Then the man himself, El Presidente, emerges in its place. He is wearing a popular white guayabera dress shirt, with tan linen pants and woven leather shoes. What few hairs he has on his head are slicked back and dyed a jet-black color to match his bushy mustache. A cigar juts out of his breast pocket, and his accessories include a diamond encrusted gold Rolex, thick gold chain with a crucifix pendant, and set of gaudy rings—complete with turquoise and emerald stones—that would have made Liberace jealous. He is every bad stereotype of a South American dictator personified. The best way to describe him is as a cross between former Brazilian President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, whom the North America media deemed “Brazil’s outgoing and lovable buffoon,” and a bad druglord from an old episode of the ’80s TV show Miami Vice.
“Bienvenidos, my friends!” he proclaims, walking toward us with arms opened wide. He of course makes a beeline for Mariana. Wrapping his arms around her, he squeezes her close then kisses her on the cheek, delivering a line that would make even Bill Clinton cringe.