The Clandestine Consultant

by Luke Bencie

  “Who’s there?” I ask.

  I peek inside the bedroom to see the king’s secretary sitting up in my plush bed watching a movie. She is still in the same dress she was wearing early in the day, but her shoes are kicked off and she is obviously making herself comfortable.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “His majesty informed me that you did not bring a secretary with you and that you may be in need of my services.”

  I stand in the doorframe of the bedroom with a perplexed look on my face. I wasn’t sure of what to make of the king’s offer. He was either being completely serious or completely ironic. The girl was obviously sent to be a welcoming gift for me, but more importantly, as insurance for the king by putting me in a compromising position at a later date.

  “Destiny,” I respond, “I am flattered by the king’s generous offer. However, I don’t think that I will be requiring your services during my visit here. Please tell His Majesty that he is too kind. Perhaps I will call you if I need a memo typed up.”

  The girl looks disappointed, but she’s also smart enough to know what is happening here. Just for good measure, I say the following line for the hidden cameras installed in at least three places in my room.

  “The king is a good man whom I have great respect for. I am sure that he would never do anything that wasn’t for the greater good of his people and his nation. May he serve the kingdom for many years to come.”

  I turn sideways in the doorway to demonstrate that it is time for her to leave. Like a well-trained actress, she picks up her shoes and exits the stage on cue. Her performance is over and I am even more cautious of his majesty than ever. It reminds again why guys like this hold power. I know plenty of businessmen, politicians, and military officers who have been blackmailed for their sexual improprieties. As attractive as Destiny is, there would be a good chance that pictures—or videos—of us together could later be used against me. I have no doubt that the king has a database of people that he has compromised.

  After a hot shower I climb into the king-size bed and kick the numerous throw pillows onto the floor from underneath the comforter. I turn off the light on the nightstand and lay on my back staring at the ceiling in the dark. If I don’t come through for the king, there is a good chance that I won’t leave this shitty country alive. I close my eyes and smell Destiny’s perfume on my pillow. Maybe I shouldn’t have passed up her offer. If I don’t succeed in my assignment, that might have been my last opportunity to enjoy intimacy with a woman.

  MEMBERS ONLY

  Location: The Royal Tennis Club

  Time: 0735 hours

  I wake up early the next day with a plan to finally meet Mr. David. I had to see what this man was all about. It’s well known that he enjoys a game of tennis each morning at the members only Royal Tennis Club located in the upscale diplomatic quarter. Of course, the club is gated behind a three-meter-high wall adorned with razor wire. Amin dutifully drives me through the gate in the Land Rover and along a palm tree lined gravel driveway. The grounds are freshly manicured and the smell of cut grass is in the air. It reminds me of the pitch you might find at a famous football club, such as AC Milan or Manchester United. The car drops me off in front of a bright white colonial-style clubhouse. I feel like I have been transported back in time fifty years.

  A valet dressed in a gold jacket and very Moroccan-looking fez cap opens my door for me. He greets me with, “Good Morning, Mr. Abraham. Welcome to the RTC.” The manager of the club has obviously been notified of my visit today. This could be a problem and I hope that he has not informed any of his staff about me.

  After a double espresso in the bar, I make my way to the locker room in order to change into my athletic wear. Tipping the towel boy for information, I learn that Mr. David has a match scheduled with the Ambassador from Côte de Ivory on the exclusive clay court, which is isolated far from the other courts in a discrete section of the grounds. Apparently, many high-level meetings take place here. Since the country is absent of any golf courses, it suddenly makes sense that this is the place where sportsmen come to conduct business. I decide to wander over.

  With my racquet in hand as if to say, “I have winner of the next match,” I sit on a spectators’ bench across the court and watch as Mr. David and the Ambassador begin their game. Mr. David is highly competitive. Although he is twenty years younger in age to the senior diplomat, he shows no respect or mercy. He is determined to win every point possible. To Mr. David, this is not just a random game or simple form of exercise between two friends. He is attempting to dominate. He purposefully makes the less mobile ambassador unnecessarily chase the ball from side-to-side. It is almost like watching a cat play with a mouse before he kills it. I have seen men like this before. His weakness is his arrogance and ambition, which really translates into a hidden insecurity. The thought of this discovery makes me smile.

  After thirty minutes, the ambassador mercifully begs for no more and the match is finished. He is sweating and wheezing profusely, as if five more minutes of this onslaught might trigger a heart attack. The ambassador walks toward the net to shake Mr. David’s hand. Mr. David is not interested in sportsmanship and instead makes his way towards the court’s exit off to the side. This guy is an even bigger prick than I thought. He is just the kind of opposition I enjoy bringing down.

  As David exits the court, I approach.

  “Mr. David?”

  He looks me up and down cautiously.

  “My name is Michael Douglas,” I lie.

  I’ve always liked the name Michael Douglas for two reasons. One, it is so generic that it returns literally thousands of search hits when you perform an internet query; and, two, I enjoy the actor Michael Douglas and his portrayal of Gordon Gekko in the movie Wall Street. I often draw inspiration from the fictitious Gekko character when I’m performing my international negotiations.

  “I‘m a correspondent for the International Herald Tribune. “What a nice coincidence to run into you like this,” I continue.

  “Hello,” he responds, even more cautiously.

  “If I had known you were a member of this club, I would have asked to meet you. My paper and I are big proponents of what you are trying to achieve in this country. In fact, I am doing a story entitled ‘Is an African Spring Coming?’ I would love to interview you.”

  A wave of confidence comes over Mr. David and his demeanor changes from one of caution to opportunity.

  “Of course. I would be happy to speak with you. How about over breakfast inside the club?”

  Trapping Mr. David is easier than spearfishing in a barrel.

  “That would be wonderful,” I reply.

  Thirty minutes later we are seated at a table on the second floor of the club, which overlooks the many tennis courts below. Mr. David and I have both showered and dressed for the day ahead. He is wearing an Italian custom-tailored suit and sporting a gold Rolex, while I am dressed as an international reporter, which means jeans with a button-down oxford shirt, a navy blazer, and alligator loafers with no socks. Even though I don’t require glasses, I am wearing rimmed tortoise frames. I easily look the part of the liberal newspaper do-gooder ready to concoct a propaganda piece on this future political hero. I even have my MacBook open and ready to take notes.

  Mr. David begins like an old pro who is very familiar with dealing with the press.

  “Mr. Douglas, before we begin, would you please mind showing me your media credentials? One can never be too careful as to who he gives an interview to.”

  “Of course, Mr. David. I respect your thoroughness. In fact, most world leaders that I interview make it a point to do the same.”

  I reach into my wallet and pull out a counterfeit ID card for the International Herald Tribune, which Mr. David pretends to inspect as if he knows what an IHT ID card looks like. He hands it back satisfied.

  “Very well, Mr. Douglas. What would you like to know?”

  “Well,” I begin. “Would you please tell our readers why you think
the time is right for the monarchy in this country to be disbanded?”

  Mr. David begins to pontificate on his political position. I pretend as if I am enthralled by every word he says. In some way I am, because it is a window into unlocking this man’s personality and true intentions. However, I fully recognize that with each sentence he spits out, he is only repeating the same rehearsed talking points that he has bloviated several hundred times before. Nonetheless, I am supposed to be an objective journalist who is going to win international recognition for bringing these revolutionary ideas to the masses. I continue to play along until he finally looks at his expensive watch and decides the interview is over.

  “Thank you, Mr. David,” I say with false sincerity.

  “No, no . . . thank you, sir. And I do hope that you don’t misquote me or twist my words for your own personal gain,” he says, with the sternness of a man who has been burned before by the press.

  I see this as an opening for my true intentions.

  “Mr. David, you have my word as a professional. I would never do that to you. In fact, why don’t I do this: Why don’t I let you see the article before it goes to print? Does that sound fair?”

  This is an untraditional consideration provided by a journalist for sure. It certainly has never been offered to Mr. David before. However, how could he refuse? I inform him that if he would provide me with his email address I will email him the article for his approval prior to its submission to my editor. Mr. David provides me with his email address and I agree to send it over within twenty-four hours. The trap has been set, now I just need him to step his foot inside of it.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon at the RTC. It is by far one of the nicest establishments in the country. There is no need to venture outside and experience the reality of extreme poverty that exists just outside the club’s fortress-like walls. I find a comfortable couch with a coffee table in the corner of the lounge and begin to compose my fake news story about Mr. David. It isn’t exactly my best work, but then again it will never be published anyway. Ninety minutes later, the article is complete. Time for a drink.

  I attempt to get the bartender’s attention, but he is too fixated on a televised women’s tennis match between Maria Sharapova and Serena Williams. These professional women are something of an enigma. Women in this conservative country would never play tennis; much less show off that much skin. I briefly think that I may be supporting the wrong side. Maybe I should allow Mr. David to open this country up to more modern viewpoints and freedoms. Then I think about how much the king is paying me and I quickly shake that thought from my mind. I instruct the bartender to fix me a Manhattan on the rocks.

  My one drink in the bar ends up being four. After a generous tip, I ask the bartender to call me a cab back to my hotel. I still have more work to do tonight.

  I am back in my hotel room and have my computer booted up once more. Using a special USB drive, I save my new document to it. I then send Mr. David an email to the address he provided:

  Mr. David,

  It was an absolute pleasure to meet you this morning. Thank you for your time. You are truly a man of great vision. As promised, I have just completed the article and attached it for your review. Perhaps we can meet for breakfast again to discuss?

  Best regards,

  Michael

  I do not attach the real document but rather a blank one. I then head down to the hotel restaurant to enjoy dinner and a bottle of wine.

  When I return to my room, there is a response from Mr. David waiting for me.

  Michael

  It was a pleasure meeting you as well. However, the attachment you sent was blank. Could you please resend?

  Thank you

  David

  Laughing, I reply:

  Hmmm. . . ? My apologies. Not sure why you can’t open it. Perhaps I can just pass it to you tomorrow morning at the club?

  Thanks!

  Mr. David responds with a simple:

  Sounds good.

  My operation is moving forward as planned.

  ***

  The next morning, I arrive at the club extra early to seek out my towel boy from the previous day. I don’t want Mr. David to see me. He may have done his homework and discovered that I don’t actually work for the International Herald Tribune. He may have also asked the manager about me and was told that my name is Abraham and not Douglas. Therefore, it would be dangerous if I had to confront him again.

  Once I find the towel boy, I instruct him to simply walk up to Mr. David and tell him that I had to leave early this morning. He will also hand Mr. David an envelope. Inside the envelope is the USB thumb drive with the news article. I give the towel boy twenty American dollars and tell him that he will get another twenty the next morning from me, provided he does his job today. If the boy does his job correctly, and Mr. David takes the bait, I will never return to this club again.

  I wait in the parking lot in the SUV with Amin. A short time later, I watch as Mr. David’s car pulls through the front gate. The fate of this nation, and its king, now hangs in the balance of a towel boy.

  OVERBOARD

  Location: The Royal Marina

  Time: 0907 hours

  With Mr. David at the club playing his morning tennis match against yet another lesser opponent, Amin drops me at the Royal Marina to have breakfast with Mohammed. The fact that the king dismissed Mohammed from our meeting the other day obviously has him worried. As chief of staff, it may be that his ego is bruised, but also he wants in on the plan for Mr. David. He unfortunately is going to be disappointed. In Africa, you are either in the loop or out of the loop. And it can be perilous for those who are excluded from knowing secrets.

  Since this is a social get together, I came bearing gifts—a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label and a box of the Cuban cigars. Although it is probably pretty easy for Mohammed to obtain these items himself, it demonstrates that I come in peace and acknowledges his refined tastes.

  I walk along the pier of the small marina in my tan Brioni linen suit with just a T-shirt underneath. I am not wearing socks with my alligator skin loafers. I feel like a Don Johnson wannabe from the old Miami Vice television show.

  There cannot be more than three-dozen boats stored here—mostly fishing boats belonging to the various embassies for recreational use. However, at the end of the dock is, without a doubt, the mega-yacht belonging to the king. I won’t reveal to you the name of 150-plus foot vessel, but I will tell you it refers to a famous Arabic poem. Tied up directly beside the king’s mega-yacht is Mohammed’s boat. It is far smaller in comparison—probably seventy-five feet—but still very respectful and very expensive. I estimate that it costs at least USD 3 million. Unlike the king, who christened his ship with an honorable title from traditional Muslim lore, Mohammed’s yacht is named Tits.

  “Permission to come aboard?” I call out.

  Mohammed appears from behind a sliding glass door at the stern of the boat. He is wearing a tight white polo shirt, which accentuates his large belly, and white Bermuda shorts. The bright white clashes against his dark skin. He has cheap plastic flip-flops.

  “Ah, Mr. Abraham!” He bellows in his deep African voice. “Welcome, welcome! I am so happy that you could join me for breakfast.”

  I walk over a floating plank and onto the impressive yacht.

  “I brought you these, but it may be too early to enjoy them,” I say, as I hand him the Scotch and cigars.

  “Nonsense! The finer things in life should be enjoyed anytime.”

  Just as Mohammed speaks, three beautiful African girls appear in bikinis from inside the cabin. Each one is prettier than the next. They are not the same volleyball girls from the other day. I notice that one of them is the girl from the Skype selfies I pulled off Mohammed’s computer. Mohammed must have teams of women on his payroll.

  “I believe in three things: fine food, fine wine, and fine women, but not necessarily in that order,” Mohammed says.

  He laughs at h
is own joke. The girls, who didn’t seem to understand what he just said, also giggle along like they have been trained.

  Mohammed invites me to sit around a teakwood table for breakfast. He takes a chair across from me and the girls fill in the remaining seats. I now have one lovely young lady on each side of me and I can smell their cocoa-butter sunscreen lotion. The place settings are over the top. The utensils are gold-plated and the china has the name of the yacht engraved in gold script. The gaudy extravagance of African leaders never ceases to amaze me.

  “Let’s have some coffee,” Mohammed says casually.

  He claps his chubby hands together and a waiter in a white outfit appears with a golden coffeepot to fill our cups. Just as the hot coffee is pouring out, I hear a roar of the massive engines. The boat is starting up. Surely we cannot be going out to sea?

  “Mohammed,” I say nervously, “We are not going out on the water now, are we?”

  “But of course, Mr. Abraham. What good is a boat if it only sits in the harbor?”

  This is upsetting news. In my experience, being in the middle of the ocean with a corrupt and devious African leader is never a good scenario. Bad things always happen!

  I quickly think up a lie.

  “I am so sorry to tell you this, but I get painfully seasick on boats. It is taking all my strength right now just to sit here tied up at the dock. I am afraid that I must leave you. My apologies.”

  “I’m sorry, too, Mr. Abraham. But we have a meeting scheduled this morning and we are going to have it out on the water for security reasons. You of all people should surely understand this concept. Now just relax. I’m sure the ladies here can help take your mind off your maritime issues.”

  The girls give me a collective look that translates to, “You’re pathetic.” I could not care less about them.

  Before I can object any further, the first mate—a boy no older than fifteen—unties the heavy ropes for the dock’s pylons. We are moving. I think about trying to jump back on the dock, but it would be too dangerous of a leap. Besides, there’s no telling what Mohammed might do out of surprise or retaliation. I decide to play it cool.