by Luke Bencie
“I will do my best to hold down my food, Mohammed. Please just assure me that we will come back soon. As you know, I am working hard for His Majesty.”
“That is precisely what we need to talk about, Mr. Abraham.”
The food is served: cheese crepes, fruit, and chocolate croissants. The good news is that I have lost my appetite out of fear, which reinforces my cover story that I’m supposed to be getting seasick. I pick at it just to be polite.
Once we clear the breakwater at the marina, the boat begins to accelerate. We are heading out to sea at around thirty knots, an impressive speed for a craft this large. Fortunately, the ocean is calm. In the back of my mind, I begin to contemplate the need to jump overboard and swim back to shore. I try to stay cool in front of Mohammed.
“Now, Mr. Abraham. I understand that you had breakfast with Mr. David yesterday. I will need to know what you talked about.” Mohammed says in a very direct tone.
I decide to be straight up with him. “You are correct. We did have breakfast yesterday. I was trying to elicit information from him so I could possibly use it against him.”
“And did you succeed in your objective?”
“I believe I did,” I respond confidently.
“Good, because I would hate to think that we are paying you all of this money for nothing.” He lets out a bellowing laugh.
“I’m worth every penny,” I calmly reply.
His mood suddenly turns dark, almost evil.
“Mr. Abraham. Please know that both of our reputations are on the line here. If you succeed, then I look good. If you don’t succeed . . . well, let’s just say you had better succeed.”
He turns abruptly in his chair and claps his hands again. From out of the cabin comes the waiter again. However, this time that waiter is aggressively leading a man—who looks like a prisoner with his arms tied behind his back—through the sliding doorway. Although his face is bruised and beaten and he has silver duct tape across his mouth, I recognize him. It is the manager from the tennis club who greeted me upon my arrival the other day.
“You see Mr. Abraham, this man here did not succeed,” Mohammed explains.
The restrained man is sweating and nervous. There is fresh blood around his nose, as well as a fresh urine stain on his pants. It is all too apparent that he understands his pending fate.
Mohammed continues his lecture.
“I told this man that you would be visiting the Royal Tennis Club as my guest. He was instructed to keep your visit very quiet. It has come to my attention that he has shared the news of your visit into this country with the local French Intelligence officers working out of the French Embassy. He is. . . what is the word? He is an ‘asset’ for the DGSE.”
“What?” I utter.
Just great! I think to myself. Now the French Intel service probably has me under surveillance and they are probably in my hotel room right now going through my things.
“This man was recruited by the French to report on the VIPs who are members of the tennis club. It makes sense, of course. They pay him a few hundred dollars per month and he provides them with information about the discussions that take place between our country’s elite. Such is how intelligence gets passed. However, this fool thought that our own internal security service would not find out about it. Little does he know that I oversee all internal security here in the kingdom. He was also working as my own asset and he didn’t even know it. Now, he must pay for his crime of treason.”
With just a nod of his head, the young first mate appears at the back of the boat with a large plastic bucket. With a scoop of some sort, he begins scooping out a thick red substance and tossing it into the water. He is throwing chum—basically chopped up fish—and blood into the water. The only time you would do this is when you are fishing for sharks. The hostage also sees this and releases a muffled scream from underneath his duct-taped mouth.
“Mohammed,” I object, “far be it from me to tell you how to run your country, but you cannot do this! If this man has broken the law, then he must be tried in a court. Either way, I don’t want any part of it. That’s not what I’m being paid for.”
“Be quiet, Mr. Abraham! Your weakness severely disappoints me. I thought you knew how Africa worked. Perhaps I need to throw you over the side of the boat as well.”
“I understand how things get done in Africa better than anyone,” I strongly respond. “But this is only going to draw unnecessary negative attention to you and His Majesty. You don’t need another investigation, another scandal, prior to the election. Killing this man only serves as another distraction from all of the positive things that the king has accomplished. By putting this man in prison instead, you can make the claim in the media that he is working for the French Intelligence Service to bring down the monarchy on behalf of Mr. David. Hell, I can spin this so that it appears Mr. David is selling out his own people in order to turn the country over to the French for colonization. I can paint a picture that says the citizens will be slaves and Mr. David will be nothing but a puppet of the French! I can use this man as what we call a patsy—a tool for our political bidding. Keeping him alive is actually good for us right now.”
Mohammed takes a moment to comprehend everything I just said. This could definitely be used as leverage against Mr. David. For someone like me, it is an opportunity to paint the king’s political opponent as working for the French spy agency. It would make a delicious story that could be picked up by the worldwide cable networks. I begin to formulate a media strategy in my head that would make Karl Rove—President George W. Bush’s chief political architect—smile with envy.
“Perhaps you are right, Mr. Abraham. After all, you are our expert consultant. This is why you get paid the big bucks.” He begins to laugh again at his own joke.
The manager of the tennis club is beginning to sob. Sharks have been attracted by the scent of the blood in the water. At least three dorsal fins are circling behind the boat.
Mohammed points at the waiter to move the captive towards the stern. The captive resists. He is punched in the stomach by the waiter and doubles over.
Dragged to the back of the boat and now on his knees, the desperate man tries to plead for mercy through his gagged mouth.
Mohammed picks up the bucket of chum and dumps the remaining blood and guts over the condemned man’s head.
“Stand him up.” Mohammed instructs the waiter, whose white serving outfit is now smeared with fish blood.
“Today is your lucky day, my friend. If it were not for Mr. Abraham here, I would certainly throw you over the boat right now and watch these sharks feed on you while you scream. However, I am going to see you become a patsy in an international spy scandal instead, which will bring great shame to Mr. David. Although I promise you, when it’s over, you will have preferred that I simply threw you to the sharks.”
The man breathes a sigh of relief from under his duct tape. I, too, catch my breath for the first time in minutes.
“Mr. Abraham, you just saved this man’s life.”
“No sir, you did,” I reply.
Mohammed looks at me, looks at the girls, who seem unfazed, and looks back at the relieved victim.
“I trusted you like a brother,” he says under his breath to the still frightened man.
Suddenly, Mohammed raises his thick leg and kicks the man over the back of the boat. Everyone else is shocked stiff. One of the girls screams.
The man tumbles backwards into the sea. A few seconds later he bobs to the surface, fighting to get some air into his nostrils. The sharks begin to circle. Shrieks of intense fear are heard for just a few seconds. Then he vanishes for good under the reddish water.
“What the fuck was that?” I yell.
“I changed my mind.” Mohammed says casually. “Besides, I know that you already have a plan to destroy Mr. David. Why don’t we just stick with that idea?”
With that, Mohammed walks back to the breakfast table and collects the three girls to go ins
ide with him.
He turns to me and asks with a smile, “How is your stomach doing?”
The four of them vanish into the cabin.
The young boy starts mopping up the fish blood. The waiter begins to clear the dishes from the table. I am left standing on the back of the boat, watching the recently choppy water begin to settle. The reddish color of blood begins to dissipate and the shark fins have vanished.
The metaphor for my job is obvious. On the surface, everything appears calm. However, just below the water, there is suffering and cruel death from sharks looking to feed on the helpless. I am contemplating why I took this job in the first place and recognize that failure is not an option.
CHEAP DATES
Location: My hotel room
Time: 1300 hours
After my eventful morning watching a man being eaten alive by sharks, I am back in my hotel room plotting how to save my own skin. If I don’t succeed in my operation against Mr. David, that could just as easily be me—a chewed corpse sinking 500 meters to the bottom of the ocean.
I boot up my laptop and am greeted by some wonderful news—Mr. David has taken the bait. He has plugged the thumb drive into his computer. I now have full access into his files. The towel boy at the tennis club came through for me. Too bad he won’t be able to collect on the other forty dollars I promised him. When, not if, I pull off this little caper, the king will forever be in my debt. I will have a lifetime membership to the Royal Tennis Club. On second thought, once I am done with this consulting engagement, I will never step foot in this shithole again.
Perusing Mr. David’s files, I am disappointed that I am not finding the usual patterns of activity commonly typically concealed on a man’s computer. I have yet to find porn. There are no emails from mistresses. No shady bank transfers. After two hours of searching, I am frustrated to discover that this man is relatively clean and ethical. No, I’m not looking hard enough. If there is one thing that I’ve learned over all these years of navigating the underworld of geopolitics, it is that every man has at least one skeleton in his closet. Since I skipped breakfast, I order a club sandwich and Coke from room service to give me some energy. I cannot stop until I find what I am looking for. Four hours later, I do.
In two days Mr. David will be giving a speech in the country’s third largest city. What’s more important is that, because he is a “man of the people,” he is going to be staying in a very simple hotel. This is my opportunity.
I Google the hotel where he will be staying and conduct my basic due diligence. The hotel website isn’t bad and gives a decent overview of the property and rooms. I look at some overhead satellite imagery and study the roads leading in and out. I call the reception desk of the hotel and, using my unique social engineering skills, ask what appear to be very routine questions. The young lady on the other end of the phone is unwittingly giving me a ton of useful information to help destroy the next would-be leader of her country. It never ceases to amaze me how people who try to be helpful can do their organizations more harm than good. I’m sure the hotel’s security director would be extremely suspicious if he were to overhear our conversation. But who am I kidding? This is a small hotel in Africa. Any problems I encounter can easily be swept under the rug with a few rolls of cash.
I work through the night to finalize my plan. The next morning I am up bright and early to travel to the new city. I do not let Amin know of my travels. This will no doubt upset him, but I cannot have interference from him or Mohammed. They would only draw needless attention should I request their assistance.
I walk six blocks from the hotel in the early morning light and find a taxi driver sitting in his car, reading a newspaper. He is a local African man in his early twenties.
Pretending not to have good English, I say to him, “Excuse . . . you speak English?”
“Oui . . . a little.”
I explain to him that I need to travel to this other city but am too afraid to drive a car myself. I immediately see dollar signs in his eyes. He has found the dumb white tourist who he can substantially overcharge. We agree on a ridiculously expensive price, since I have to stick to my role as an inexperienced foreigner. I jump in the back of his beat up taxi, which is bad even by Africa standards.
The drive in the smelly, un-air-conditioned car takes us about two hours along a cracked asphalt highway. The view is mostly heavy bush in either direction. There are occasional baboons and other exotic wildlife in the trees. When we do pass other vehicles, they are mostly diesel Mercedes trucks hauling propane tanks or fruit. It is uncomfortably hot and we speak very little during the trip. I spend most of it hiding my face behind the newspaper. The driver just listens to the local news on the radio. Most of it has to deal with Mr. David’s upcoming speech and how he could be the new leader of the country.
There is no road sign that indicates arrival into our destination city. We merely begin to encounter more evidence of civilization. First an auto parts shop, which is nothing more than a mud hut with rusted engine parts and spare tires scattered out in front of it, followed by one wooden fruit or Coca-Cola stand after another. This city is even poorer than the capital. Sickly thin people squat in the shade lining the muddy street. One would be hard-pressed to find a Wi-Fi signal, much less cell phone reception, in this part of the country. It dawns on me that the driver could easily kill me right now and leave me for dead, and no one would ever find my body.
As we grow closer to the main part of the city, I instruct the driver to drop me at the hotel. This is the same hotel that Mr. David will be staying in tomorrow night. The dilapidated building is a three-story remnant of the colonial days. It must have been built in the 1940s. Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear to have been kept up much since then. I give the driver a one hundred dollar American bill. He smiles widely, exposing his stained yellow and brown teeth. I then instruct him to give me his name and cell phone number should I need him again. His name is François.
I pull out another Ben Franklin and hold it front of François’ face. I tell him to drive back to the capital and wait for my call. If he promises to keep his mouth shut, and not mention that he drove a white man to this location today, I will give him this other $100. He gladly complies.
However, as I go to place the currency in his hand I quickly snatch it back and in an intimidating voice say, “François, I now know your name, your phone number, and your taxi. If you keep your mouth shut, I will continue to use your services and pay you good money. If you tell anyone about me, I will be sure that it is the worst decision you ever make. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”
François nods his head in compliance. A taxi driver in this part of the world knows full well how the game is played. Staying silent means repeat business. Talking means certain death. It is a simple negotiation. Plus, I only need François to keep his mouth shut for another few days until my plan is finished and I can vacate the country. I hand him the bill and he speeds away a happy man. He has just earned $200, enough to probably feed his family for six months.
I walk into the stuffy hotel only to find an empty lobby covered in dust. They must not get a lot of visitors. There is no doorman, but there is a teenage bellboy in a colorful African shirt that attempts to take my one carry-on suitcase. I may need his help later, so I let him take it from me. I ask an old man behind the reception desk, who most probably is the owner of this dive, if the best room is available for two nights. As I had hoped, he tells me that it is available tonight, but tomorrow it has already been reserved. That guest is obviously going to be Mr. David. I inform the old man that I would be happy to stay in that room tonight and then move in the morning to a lesser room, preferably on the same floor.
Without giving me a quizzical look or other indication of my suspicious behavior, the old man tells me that the room adjacent to the “suite” is available for both nights and is just as nice. I explain that I prefer to stay in the best room for just one night, and then will be happy to move first thing in
the morning so housekeeping can have it nice and ready for the next guest. My luck then really improves. The old man tells me that it will be an easy move, as there is a door that connects the two rooms together. Bingo! Not only will I have one night in Mr. David’s room ahead of time, I will also be in the adjoining room when he arrives. My plan just got that much easier.
The old man asks for a copy of my passport, to which I simply slide another one hundred dollar bill across the counter.
“My name is Benjamin Franklin. That should be enough identification.”
The old man nods in acceptance and quickly collects the bill off the reception desk.
I am handed an old brass key and told my room number. The teenage bellboy leads the way with my rolling carry-on suitcase in tow. We ride up a creaky, tiny elevator, which barely accommodates the two of us, plus my suitcase. Stepping out of the rusty metal box, the boy leads me down a dank corridor to the hotel’s executive suite. The carpets must have been red when the hotel was originally built, but are now brownish. I see no evidence of any CCTV cameras. Even if there were some, I doubt they would function. We finally reach the entry door at the end of the hall. I have reached ground zero. This is where my grand consulting operation will unfold, an operation that will ruin one man, keep another in power, and earn me a seven-figure paycheck.
I unlock the room door and the bellboy leads the way into the executive suite. What a dump, I think. Although the space is big, the carpet is filthy and the bed looks like it was bought used from an African whorehouse. The furniture is old and stained with some unrecognizable fluids, which I prefer not to know about. The window overlooks an impoverished shantytown. For my purposes, the room is perfect.
The bellboy gives me a brief tour of the amenities and educates me on how to use the air conditioning unit, which is nothing more than a loud aluminum box underneath the windowsill.
