by Luke Bencie
Many political think tanks have concluded that issues of governance and legitimacy, coupled with organized protests via social media, will begin to reshape the world’s political landscape in the coming years—although, as someone who operates “down in the mud” in most of these places, I have a different perspective than the academics. This is bad news for the corrupt leaders of the world, but it is good news for my competitors and me. Still, just as the door is shutting on some of the most ruthless dictators in the world, my time in their employ is also closing. This might be one of my last opportunities to cash in, and I planned on laughing all the way to the bank with Mohammed’s money.
***
To solve the African’s problem, I needed a plan. But I also needed look no further than the worn, torn, leather-bound book in my briefcase. The Art of War, the ancient treatise on strategy written around 500 B.C. by an unknown author, details the teachings of Chinese General Sun Tzu, and has been a constant companion of mine. I had received this particular copy several years earlier as a gift from a highly satisfied client in Singapore. I stole the data for a new technology that his largest competitor was about to release. My duplicated concept quickly beat his competitor to market—thus making billions in profits. You probably own the device yourself.
The point is, to an international consultant, The Art of War is our version of a playbook. It serves as a reminder of how human beings are predictable and can be manipulated. Its lessons are literally timeless, such as one of my favorite passages within those dog-eared pages:
“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of 100 battles. If you know yourself, but not your enemy, for every victory gained, you will suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.”
I never take on an assignment without knowing my opponent’s next move before he does.
I looked across the table and noticed that Mohammed was eyeing me cautiously. I knew he was trying to figure out what I was thinking. I was certain that if we sat down together at a poker table, I would quickly discover his “tell”—that unconscious, reflexive behavioral sign everyone displays when he or she is lying. I just shot him a smile. One thing I have learned, and trained myself to practice to perfection, is never to let on what I am thinking, particularly to a client. I tried to put him at ease.
“Why don’t we order that champagne now, Mohammed?”
“Does this mean that you will take the assignment, Mr. Abraham?”
I paused for a moment then leaned closer to him. “Two million dollars wired to an account of my choice within 24 hours and another two million after the job is done,” I said softly.
Mohammed laughed. “Deal, Mr. Abraham, deal . . . but I’ll have you know that I was prepared to pay double that.”
“Don’t worry, you will. Once I perform this first miracle, your government will want to keep me on retainer. And that will cost one million dollars, US, per year, just to have immediate access to my services. This does not include the individual project cost, nor my expenses. It only permits you to contact me at any time and guarantees I will respond within twenty-four hours.”
“You are a very confident man, Mr. Abraham. I like that about you.”
I stared at Mohammed stoically.
“Très bien . . . yes, let’s order that champagne,” he cheerfully bellowed, summoning the sommelier to our table.
“Good evening, sir,” the man said in polished diction. “How may I assist you?”
“Please bring us a bottle of your finest champagne,” Mohammed replied.
“Of course, sir. That would be our 1985 Dom Pérignon. It is fifteen-hundred dollars a bottle.”
“Wonderful!” Mohammed said.
“Excellent choice, sir! I will be right back.” The sommelier hustled away to fetch the bottle, and I could see a slight grin appear. He knew he had just earned a nice commission, plus tip, for doing next to nothing.
Meanwhile, Mohammed continued. “Tell me, Mr. Abraham, how did you get into this line of work? You must have a military or intelligence background—or perhaps law enforcement at the most critical level. I want to know all about your history in the profession.”
“I don’t talk about myself,” I replied.
Mohammed suddenly appeared irritated.
“That is not a good marketing strategy, Mr. Abraham. How do you expect to earn new business if you do not talk about yourself?”
“For the same reason we are enjoying this dinner together right now. When you are good, other people will do your bragging for you.”
Mohammed threw his head back and laughed again, loudly, the way only a corrupt high official could. He apparently liked my answer. People at nearby tables began to stare.
The sommelier arrived with the fifteen-hundred-dollar-a-bottle champagne and displayed the label to his customer.
“Dom Pérignon, ’85, sir,” he said.
“Wonderful,” Mohammed repeated, “and please have another one chilled for us to enjoy after our entrées.”
I felt pleased, thinking of how many times I had been in this same situation over the years. Talking a client into a four-million-dollar deal over Dom Pérignon had become second nature.
IN TRANSIT
Location: Hyatt Regency London – The Churchill, Portman Square
Time: 1400 hours
I stood in the Hyatt Regency’s lobby, staring eye-to-eye with a bust of Winston Churchill. I could almost imagine the old man saying to me, “What in bloody hell are you getting yourself into with these ruffians?” Then I noticed the doorman waving that my taxi was ready. I glanced back at Churchill and whispered under my breath, “You always said if you’re going through hell—keep going.”
I had flown to London from Toronto three days earlier, arriving at Heathrow on that same Canadian passport, after agreeing to take the job for Mohammed and his brother the king. I would need at least a week to collect intelligence and cover my tracks. After checking into my hotel, I showered and paid a visit to Savile Row and my eighty-two-year-old tailor, Nigel—or “Sir Nigel,” as he is lovingly referred to by his loyal customers.
Having a suit made to measure is not only one of the finer pleasures in a man’s life, but it also serves as the perfect cover for visiting a country briefly. A refined gentleman may fly into a city for only twenty-four hours to have a fitting. Immigration and Customs officials usually accept this justification for a quick layover. It provides a further excuse when the gentleman returns to pick up the garment—and possibly for a third time should alterations be needed.
After Sir Nigel measured me for a three-piece, navy-blue herringbone, super-150 wool suit, I headed to celebrity chef Jamie Oliver’s Fifteen restaurant on Westland Place. I enjoyed a hearty lunch of mushroom ravioli and burrata cheese. I washed down my meal with only one glass of Chilean Carmenère wine, because I needed to keep my wits sharp. The British MI5 internal security service surveillance capabilities were becoming dangerous for me.
I returned to my room and spent the remainder of the evening conducting, via an encrypted router meant to disguise my IP address, open-source research about my new client and his kingdom. I quickly discovered that I would be dealing with a butcher. The king, like his father before him, was a heavy-handed leader who controlled through fear and intimidation. There were numerous occasions where his regime was accused of brutality by international human-rights organizations. Yet, somehow the king was always able to circumvent those allegations when a key witness suddenly went missing or, worse, turned up dead from an apparent “suicide.”
The king’s rival, Mr. David, appeared to be squeaky clean. He was an Oxford-educated human-rights advocate who previously served in a senior position with a UN-sponsored program in Africa. He left his home country to pursue higher education and promote agricultural initiatives and HIV/AIDS awareness across the continent. His address to the United Nations two years earlier made him the poster child for a more progressive Africa.<
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Meanwhile, the man in whose employ I agreed to enter has three wives, one of whom just turned seventeen. He is notorious for making absurd statements to the media—such as claiming to have eaten the hearts of his former enemies in order to make him stronger. And he is usually drunk or stoned twelve hours per day.
This assignment would not be easy—though I admit I like it that way.
The taxi ride from the hotel to the train station takes almost thirty minutes. It gives me time to reflect on my next move. I am taking the high-speed train—the TGV—and crossing the Chunnel on the Eurostar. I have swapped out my passports and will now travel as an Italian citizen into France. In addition to a new nationality, I will also be using a new name.
Upon arriving in Paris, I take a taxi to the famous Notre Dame Cathedral. With my rolling carry-on bag in tow, I might be any Western tourist being dropped in the heart of the City of Lights.
I snap a few touristy pictures to reinforce my cover and head across the Seine River towards the St. Germain section of town. I even shoot a few of those God-awful “selfies” that Brazilian tourists are always taking of themselves. Could there be a more undignified act? It’s like masturbating in public. You might as well wear a sign that says: I’m a loser!
I walk up the block of each street in a stair-stepping fashion, which is to say that I am climbing up one and over one with each intersection. This allows me to look back and see if anyone is following. I stop at a crepe stand on the street for ten minutes and enjoy a banana and nutella crepe from a vendor. We chat about the weather in French, as well as the ugly American tourists roaming the monuments snapping pictures and asking stupid questions. I am soon back on my way. Exactly twenty-two minutes later I reach my destination.
The traditional seven-story French architecture building is adorned with gargoyle statues on the roof. Constructed in the time before elevators and air-conditioning, I climb five flights of stairs to a dark hallway. I knock on a nondescript door and am greeted by a striking, middle-aged woman with short, dark, silky hair. She is wearing only a black bra and matching panties. A lit cigarette is dangling from her full lips. How French, I think. She slaps my face hard without saying a word. How very French. She then immediately grabs my shirt and pulls me in for an even harder kiss. I love European women!
Lola is a flight attendant that I met several years ago en route to Hong Kong. She served me dirty martinis until I worked up the courage to ask her to dinner. Since then I have paid her several visits. However, my last visit was well over a year ago.
When she is not traveling the world catering to wealthy businessmen, Lola keeps an apartment in Paris. I will need to hide out for the night in her small studio, as I have chosen not to stay in a hotel for fear of being monitored by the French authorities. The French intelligence service—the vaunted DGSE—is extremely good at keeping tabs on foreigners in their hotels. Right now, I need to remain under the radar. I am sure that I’m not the first man to spend the night at Lola’s apartment and I certainly won’t be the last. Tonight she is providing me cover in more ways than one.
I wake up at five-fifteen the next morning. Lola is still fast asleep from all the wine and other activities we enjoyed last night. I take a shower and fix myself an espresso in her incredibly tiny kitchen. Why is everything so damn small in Europe? My carry-on bag is already packed and I sneak out the door without so much as a kiss on her forehead. Lola is still asleep and I leave her no note. We both prefer it this way. She will forget about me by lunchtime and I will forget about her the moment I step out onto the street from her building.
I walk two blocks from the apartment just to ensure some separation between Lola and myself. I don’t need to be running into her should she suddenly arise and make her way out the door. I find a twenty-four-hour café and order a croissant and café au lait. I recognize that my French is a bit rusty—all that wine last night didn’t help either—but no matter, because I’m going to fly to Africa today on my Italian passport anyway. My Italian is flawless. Feeling energized by the caffeine, I hail a cab and head to Charles de Gaulle Airport.
Flying out of CDG is a nightmare for travelers, but it is also a great way to hide in plain sight from prying intelligence services and law enforcement agencies. I once drew their attention when I traveled into Copenhagen using my Bahamian passport. Apparently, a fellow passenger thought that I was a narcotics trafficker and reported me to the authorities. Needless to say, I have never used that identity again. And for the record, I was moving diamonds—not narcotics. Being a drug mule is beneath a man of my skills.
I easily collect my first-class ticket from the Air France counter and make my way through the security check. I have no doubt that the inspectors can smell the red wine in my pores as they give me the cursory pat down, after my Patek Philippe watch sets off the magnetometer. These foolish men are so concerned about finding a weapon that they are oblivious to the fact that the gentleman, whose testicles they are currently cupping, can topple a nation with just a few phone calls and the swipe of a pen. I think to myself, Sir, if you really wanted to slow me down you should be confiscating my rollerball Mont Blanc, not my eight-ounce Evian water bottle.
I have passed security, and now it is time to stock up on a few tricks of the trade. I stop in the duty-free store and collect three bottles of Johnny Walker Blue off the shelf, three boxes of Cohiba Robusto cigars from the humidor, and three tubes of Toblerone chocolate (in case I need some help from children) from the candy aisle. I may need these as gifts in order to bypass some traditional African red tape. No one during my extensive travels has ever said no to the ultimate door opener—a wad of crisp Benjamin Franklins—which are always wrapped in a tight rubber band simply for effect.
Boarding the aircraft first, even before the elderly and parents with small children, I nestle into my usual preferred seat, 1A. I call this the power seat because everyone else has to walk past you while you drink champagne and most likely think, Who is this dick?
The flight to my client’s country will take several hours. Therefore, I will take this opportunity to catch up on some much needed sleep. Unfortunately, since the plane’s manufacturer is Airbus instead of Boeing, they do not have those little air jets above each individual chair. This means that the cabin, as is typical of all Air France flights, will be uncomfortably warm. Couple that with the fact that half the Frenchmen on the plane probably did not shower this morning. Perhaps I can take a sleeping pill with a glass of wine? No. That might leave me feeling too groggy to make a good first impression when I land. My best bet is to focus on the task at hand.
***
I start to rework my initial hypothesis of how I should handle this consulting situation in my head. Until I am able to ask more questions and get a feel for the situation on the ground, my game plan is still uncertain. I go back to my fundamentals of international consulting and prepare a list of clever buzzwords that I will use to impress the king and his immediate staff.
I will walk them through the steps of my consulting philosophy in order to educate them to the reality of the situation. My patented, yet unscientific, methodology consists of the following process:
Identify the problem.
Clarify the scope of work.
Conduct due-diligence and intelligence gathering.
Perform assessments and analysis.
Form a hypothesis for a possible solution.
Integrate the proposed solution.
Test and verify the proposed solution.
Solve the problem.
Perform ongoing maintenance.
If all else fails, bribe, extort, or eliminate the problem.
I smile as I think of how many times this simple process has made me a millionaire so many times over. It’s really just common sense. Although I recognize that others may not think it’s easy, it really is all about consistency and performing under pressure. Shooting a free throw in basketball is easy. But, not everyone can make two in a row when the championship
is on the line and thousands of people are wildly screaming. Not every Harvard Law or Wharton MBA graduate can successfully negotiate the release of a hostage with radical terrorists wielding a gun to the victim’s head, under a hard deadline. Not many international consultants can work in this particular business for twenty years and still be around to talk about it.
I crack open The Art of War to a random page and read the passage:
To defeat your enemy, first offer him help so that he slackens his vigilance; to take, one must first give.
Suddenly an idea pops into my head and I have to smile.
Fuck it, I tell myself.
I make eye contact with the long-legged flight attendant to get her attention.
“Could you please bring me an Old Fashioned on the rocks?” I coolly say to her.
It is time for me to meet the king and go to work. Mr. David is history!
AFRICA
Location: His Majesty’s International Airport, The Capital City of an Undisclosed African Nation
Time: 1815 hours
As the plane goes wheels down at this typical African airfield, the first thing I notice out the window is an old farmer standing in shin-high water on the wet grass just off the runway. He is leaning himself up on a homemade walking stick, as a shaggy goat stands attentively at his side. Apparently, the land around the asphalt landing strip is where he grows his crops—rice probably. It is an unimaginable sight for most people not accustomed to the third world. Shouldn’t there be a security fence to keep the peasants and wild animals out of the way? Are there not international regulations about these things? The old man seems immune to the deafening roar of the massive engines less than thirty meters from where he stands. However, the jet wash is too severe and he is blown over like a lawn chair in a strong wind. He is quick to bounce back up as though this is not his first time it has happened to him. The goat stands unfazed chewing on grass.
