by Luke Bencie
Because of that botched attempt, the Shah was exiled to Italy for his own safety. The CIA and MI6 were left scrambling to pick up the pieces from their embarrassing mess. It was at this point that an international consultant was called in to salvage the pieces. I won’t tell you the identity of the consultant, but his plan—although unorthodox—quickly and successfully rallied the citizens of Iran around their Shah and removed Mosaddegh.
Essentially, the consultant paid all the local street gangs and mafias to pose as supporters of Mosaddegh and conduct public acts of violence and disrespect to the Shah. This embarrassing, distasteful behavior was enough to outrage the Iranian population into believing that Mosaddegh and his nationalist party members were thugs. When the Shah returned from his brief exile to attempt once again to remove Mosaddegh, he easily succeeded. As a result, the Shah stayed in power for another twenty-six years until The Iranian Revolution in 1979. The CIA denied any involvement. Many years later, Kermit Roosevelt wrote a book about the coup, which was dismissed by his peers and never included the true story of the consultant who actually instigated the change in power.
If you’re too young or poorly educated to recall those events, here’s a more current example of one of my former competitors—yes, we international consultants do have our rivals to contend with.
Viktor Bout was, hands down, one of the most prolific arms dealers the world has ever known. He supplied Liberian President Charles Taylor with thousands of AK-47 assault rifles during the Sierra Leone Civil War. They even made a movie about it, Lord of War, starring Nicolas Cage. He was former Libyan dictator Muammar Gaddafi’s go-to guy for heavy weapons procurement. He even played both sides of the war in Afghanistan by supplying the Northern Alliance and the Taliban with weapons at the same time. It was even rumored that he had Osama bin Laden on his speed dial. So successful at smuggling weapons from one conflict zone to another, he was nicknamed “Merchant of Death.”
Despite his international fame, most government agencies still didn’t know Bout’s true place of birth or his background. He spoke six languages fluently and held numerous passports. Some believed he was born in Tajik, in the Soviet Union (now Tajikistan), while some intelligence services thought he was from the Ukraine. It was rumored he was previously in the KGB, yet others claimed it was the Soviet Air Force. One theory even described him as a childhood friend of Russian President Vladimir Putin.
I have my own ideas of Bout’s true origins. We once spent four hours playing poker and drinking vodka in a penthouse suite in Dubai with a gaggle of Russian hookers. He bet the pot and lost—he still owes me that $70,000. Unfortunately, I will never see the money, nor will I learn Bout’s true origins.
Viktor Bout broke the cardinal rule of being an international consultant—he got caught. The US Drug Enforcement Agency set him up in a joint sting operation. Thinking he was selling a submarine to guerillas from the Colombian Revolutionary Armed Forces (FARC), so that they could smuggle cocaine into the United States undetected, Bout was apprehended in Bangkok by the Royal Thai Police.
It was a bad day for Viktor, but a good day for me. While he rots away in a grimy Southeast Asian prison cell, it has allowed me to poach all of his clients and essentially double my annual sales. Of course, I fear the day when it could just as easily be me in that cell. But I like to think I’m different—though I’m sure everyone who has ever gotten caught has thought the exact same thing. The point, my friend, is this profession is very real. And it should come as no surprise that business is booming.
But don’t be misled. Not all of us international consultants are hiding in the shadows, avoiding the likes of Scotland Yard and the FBI. In fact, you most likely know some of my more famous colleagues. For example, since he left office in 2007, former British Prime Minister Tony Blair has provided me tough competition in both Africa and Central Europe. In fact, Mr. Blair has amassed a consulting fortune of close to 100-million pounds by providing endorsements and other good public relations efforts for a handful of unpopular world leaders, including Muammar Gaddafi, as well as some other questionable clients in Nigeria and Kazakhstan.
But the greatest international consultant of them all—the gold standard if you will—is former US President William Jefferson Clinton. “Slick Willy,” as he was known during his time in office, has set a new bar for international consultants. He has amassed well over $200 million in the past two decades, and he has done it all under a white-hot spotlight—and the world loves him for it. Fortunately for Clinton, not only does he have unfettered access to anyone on the planet, but he also has his “foundation,” where he can safely park his profits. The guy is a true genius.
Like any consultant, I have my own methodology for doing business. The secret of my success is simple. It’s also what separates me from my competition. It’s that I understand the difference between information and intelligence. Though information is something that can be easily obtained, intelligence is critical knowledge that your enemies would prefer you not to know. I have always had a knack of acquiring this critical intelligence. I am always in the know. As such, I have become a very rich man, albeit a targeted one.
My life might appear mysterious and glamorous, but I must always move with caution. Just as I have built a satisfied list of clients, I have also accumulated an equal—or even greater—list of people who blame me for their downfalls and want revenge. They are probably right. Either way, I have climbed the greasy pole of international geopolitics to get where I am today.
***
The pilot just announced that we will be touching down in thirty minutes. I will arrive at Washington Dulles International Airport as one person, but in two days I will depart the United States for Canada as someone else.
KINGS
I
THE CLIENT
Location: 360 Restaurant, CN Tower, Toronto
Time: 2057 hours
Canada is a wonderful country. Even more wonderful is the freedom that a Canadian passport provides its owner. The document is the ultimate all-access pass for those wishing to travel the world without concern of visa restrictions or too many questions from local authorities. After a lovely dinner last night at the famous Café Milano in Washington’s upscale Georgetown neighborhood, where I convinced an executive from the World Bank why he needed to provide my client—a struggling Central American country—with a $500 million loan, I jetted up to Toronto on my Canadian alias for a meeting at the 360 Restaurant atop the CN Tower.
You might think that in my business, meeting a prospective client at a public restaurant is a bad idea. Especially one located 116 stories above ground with only one way in and one way out. You might be right. But I’m a cautious man, so I have already considered the possibilities. I’ve been tracking the movements of my new prospect for the past forty-eight hours, both physically and electronically, and for several reasons I have chosen to meet him face-to-face at the revolving restaurant, which sits high atop the Toronto skyline.
First, anyone entering the tower must pass through extensive security—metal detectors complete with air puffers to detect explosive residue—designed to keep out anyone with weapons. Likewise, canine teams, undercover officers trained in body-language profiling methods, and a myriad of CCTV cameras ensure that if my client has brought a surreptitious backup team, those gentlemen will have to wait outside rather than risk being detected.
Second, hundreds of tourists move in and out of the tower daily, giving me cover in case I need to make a fast exit. I could even insert my own counter-surveillance professionals into the crowd. I wouldn’t, because I always operate alone. But my prospect doesn’t know that, so it gives him something to worry about.
I take comfort in that my lack of visibility creates worry among existing and potential clients. It gives me an edge—and in my line of work even the smallest advantage has value.
As Sun Tzu (actual name Sun Woo) said, “All warfare is based on deception.”
Third, I entered the country on
my handy Canadian passport. As a citizen of Canada—whether I am truly a citizen or not—I’ll be able, if I have to, to quickly exit back across the border.
My prospect emailed me seventy-two hours ago to request a meeting. He found me via one of my previously satisfied customers, a wealthy and prominent Indian businessman whose son I had saved from going to prison. I helped bury an investigation after a Hungarian prostitute hired by the son mysteriously fell from the side of the father’s yacht in the Bay of Bengal and drowned. But that’s a story for another time.
His email was short and sweet:
Tall Man,
I am in urgent need of your consulting services. You come highly recommended by The Indian. Can we meet as soon as possible? It will be worth your time.
M.
My reply was equally simple:
M,
Three days from now . . . 360 Restaurant, Toronto, at 2100 hrs. Come alone. Cash expected upfront. No tricks.
Abraham
I’ll let you in on a little secret. The email address I give out for others to reach me contains a clandestine sniffer program. With it, I can trace the source of incoming messages. True, most of those wishing to contact a man like me use a sterile or untraceable computer or IP address. But some don’t, including this prospective client. You’d think the chief of staff for an African ruler would know better than to use his personal Gmail account to contact “Tall Man.” But common sense is not always so common. His lapse in judgment allowed me to begin my due diligence before the meeting.
I quickly discovered that the chief of staff was also the half-brother of the king. I won’t mention the name of the African country in question, because doing so could reveal some of the sources and methods of my work. In Africa, monarchies often teeter on the brink of revolution. And this so-called royal family was fighting for its survival.
After I hacked into the chief-of-staff’s email, I learned he had booked his flight to Toronto via Paris. He had landed the previous night and was traveling with his twenty-two-year-old secretary, who was also his mistress. I filed away this information—along with the naked “selfies” they share with each other over Skype—for possible future use. More importantly, he had exchanged no communiqués with anyone suggesting logistical or security support while he was in Canada. So there was a good chance he was planning to meet me alone—something I demand for all first-time encounters.
My research further revealed that this fifty-three-year-old highly obese chief of staff, and his voluptuous young secretary, were staying at the opulent Fairmont Royal York. I surveilled them when they left the hotel and toured the nearby heart of town on foot. After several hours of shopping, strolling through the snow-lined parks, and lunching at a busy café, the couple returned to their room two hours before our dinner meeting.
The chief of staff departed the hotel at eight-thirty that night, alone in a taxi and headed for the restaurant. I knew that because I followed him in a chase vehicle, in this case a local taxi. He entered the CN Tower and proceeded through security.
I followed with my date, a savvy working girl I’d engaged from an upscale but very discreet escort service. We lingered roughly fifty meters behind him. I was using the girl as cover. If the chief of staff was using a counter-surveillance team to determine if he was being followed, or if I was being set up by Canadian law enforcement, most likely they’d be looking for a lone male that evening, instead of a well-dressed couple on their way to dinner. My female companion had no idea, of course, that I was tracking a quarry. As far as she was concerned, I was probably a married businessman looking for some excitement.
I led my date closer to the chief of staff as he walked into the restaurant. Then I turned to the young lady and slipped 200 Canadian dollars into her hand. I instructed her to wait by the elevators for ten minutes. If I didn’t return to fetch her by then, she was free to depart. But if I did return, it meant I needed her services a bit longer. She probably thought I meant having dinner together followed by sex. But I’d be using her for a quick escape from the tower as a couple followed by crossing back into the United States alone by car.
As the chief of staff approached the maître d’s stand, he spoke apprehensively. “Reservation for Abraham, party of two.”
“Is your dinner companion here?” the maître d’ asked.
“I am,” I confidently said, sneaking up behind my would-be client.
“Ah, Mr. Abraham!” bellowed the round African man with a bright, toothy smile.
“That’s me. But I regret I don’t yet know your name.” I lied; I had already established a detailed dossier on him and his family.
“I am Mohammed, and we have a great deal to discuss. I am so glad you decided to join me for this meeting on such short notice.”
“I hope I can say the same by the time we’re finished.”
The maître d’ showed us to a table along the edge of the grand window. The restaurant was slowly rotating to capture a magnificent, 360-degree vista of Toronto. The African grinned with delight. I wasn’t sure if it was because he had managed to secure an audience with me or because he had never been this high up in a building before, especially one that moves.
“Shall we order champagne to celebrate this occasion?” he asked.
“I only drink champagne after I’ve completed a deal,” I replied. “This is just a preliminary meeting. Nothing yet to celebrate.” I found myself becoming irritated with this obvious buffoon.
“We are going to celebrate my brother staying in power and you becoming a rich man. What else?” He could not stop smiling at me.
“Speaking of rich,” I remind him, “I am charging a retainer just for this meeting.”
“So you wrote in your email,” his voice suddenly changing to a deeper, less pleasant tone. “But you did not state how much you charge.”
I looked him straight in the eyes. “You obviously have a serious problem, or you would not have reached out to me. How much is it worth to you to have that problem resolved quickly and discreetly? That’s how much I’m going to charge you. I don’t charge by the hour, the day, or even the month—I charge by the crisis. How much did you bring? If it’s the correct amount, I will stay and listen. If not, you’re welcome to order champagne for yourself.”
The chief of staff sat silent for a moment. Then he leaned toward me. “The Indian told me you were a serious man. . . and expensive.” He reached into his suit pocket and retrieved a white envelope from the Fairmont Royal York. He slid it across the table.
Damn, dumb amateur! I thought to myself. You don’t slide cash envelopes across restaurant tables in full view of customers and staff—including possible law-enforcement or intelligence operatives!
As if Providence was reinforcing my judgment, just then the waiter approached us. “Uh ... please let me know when you are ready to order your drinks, gentlemen.”
I quickly collected the envelope and put it in my suit pocket.
“How much?” I asked curtly.
“So much that I promise you won’t have to open it until you get to your bank. And there will be so much more to come that I insist we do order that bottle of champagne.”
I gave him a nod, but inside I knew I didn’t trust this guy any more than I could throw his fat ass.
“Tell me,” he said. “I know your name is not really Abraham. Perhaps you think you are like Abraham Lincoln? Or maybe it is Abraham after the father of the three great religions—Islam, Christianity, and Judaism?”
His question was meant to disarm. But I knew I hadn’t misjudged this character. He, like his brother, was in power for a reason. He might not be the most cultured person, but guys like this know what it takes to survive.
“It’s just a name I use. . . no particular reason.” In fact, I had a reason. But for now I’ll keep it to myself.
Mohammed described the fragile situation in his country. Due to the proliferation of the internet and underground free-speech newspapers, along with movements for fair
elections springing up in neighboring African countries, his brother’s monarchy was suddenly in jeopardy. The idea of an African Spring, in which the masses would rise up to overthrow their corrupt and repressive governments, could be much more dangerous than the Arab Spring was to the rulers of the countries in the northern part of the continent.
Mohammed explained to me that the current situation could be quelled by silencing the leader of the opposition. A gentleman to whom he referred as “David” had been stoking the passion of the citizens by claiming it was time for democracy in the kingdom. David wanted to run against the king in an open election at the end of the year. His popularity was gaining momentum. He was an educated man with powerful friends in the West. He had given interviews to the global news networks and garnered the attention of Hollywood celebrities, some of whom began championing David’s cause. The monarchy, rife with corruption scandals, human rights abuses, and severe wealth discrepancies between the royal family and average citizens earning less than two dollars a day, had fallen within the world’s crosshairs.
This is exactly the kind of crisis calling for someone with my particular skills. In today’s ever-changing geopolitical environment, many sitting government leaders and their political parties face threats to their stability. Declining public opinion, elite support from well-funded opponents, and the power of social media to sway mass opinion, all have led to the overnight demise of leaders, some of whom had held power for decades. Given such environments, it was inevitable that more Arab Spring-type uprisings would emerge throughout the Middle East, Africa, South America, and elsewhere.
