by Luke Bencie
Breaking my usual protocol of not staying in the same hotel in which I take a meeting, I have booked a suite overlooking the water. My room is opulence taken to the extreme. The color scheme throughout the room is a royal blue and gold. Everything is of the finest quality—silk linens, gold trimmings, and mahogany wood finish. The marble bathroom is enormous and must have easily cost thirty thousand alone to construct. Although staying at the Burj may expose me to clandestine surveillance from the sheik’s security detail, I feel confident that my old friend Yousef wouldn’t allow me to be set up. Besides, I very much enjoy the creature comforts of the world’s finest hotel.
***
At seven forty-five the next night, I am sitting in the opulent lobby of the hotel sipping Perrier water with lime, when I easily spot the sheik. He is a mountain of a man. Although he is no more than six feet tall, he must easily weigh over 350 pounds. An older gentleman of sixty-two, it is obvious that his slicked-back hair and manicured goatee have both been dyed black. I’m not sure if he thinks this makes him look younger but it certainly makes him appear more maniacal and intimidating. He appears to be alone. However, men with his level of power are seldom alone. I am certain that he has his security team discreetly nearby.
As promised, he is wearing a bright white thwab, with matching kafia (headdress), which hangs off him like a bleached bed sheet. His fat, hairy feet are encased in tightly snug leather sandals and they remind me of hot bread rising in a bread pan. A gaudy gold watch, encrusted with diamonds around the bezel, hangs from his left wrist like a hunk of metal. On his opposite wrist is an equally thick gold bracelet. As he extends his hand to me for an introduction, I see what appears to be an American football Super Bowl ring on his ring finger.
“Hello. You must be the consultant. I am Mr. Gaylani,” he says in a surprisingly cheerful voice.
“Pleasure to meet you, sir. My name is Noah.”
“Mr. Noah. What a wonderful name. Is that your real name?”
“No.”
“Interesting. So tell me, why do you choose this name to meet with me? Is it because you are a religious man?” asks the Sheik.
“Because Noah believed in preparation. I, like him, prefer to think that I have planned out everything ahead of time. That is essential for a man in my line of work.”
This is a standard bullshit answer that I have always given to that question for years.
The sheik’s laugh echoes throughout the sprawling lobby attracting the attention of other guests and the hotel staff. The sheik seems not to care and neither does anyone else.
“How wonderful! I like you already, Mr. Noah!” he continues to beam. I think that I have found the right man for the job.”
“And what job is that, sir?” I ask.
“Ahh, one that will make both of us a lot of money,” he sheepishly replies. “Come with me up to my room and we will discuss this in greater length over a drink.”
I suddenly have a bad feeling in my gut. I make it a point never to meet someone on his or her turf, especially in his hotel room. However, because of this man’s stature in the Gulf, it is best that I simply comply.
“Why not?” I say. “But first I must ask, is that an NFL Super Bowl ring on your finger?”
“Why, yes it is,” beams the proud sheik. “It is from the last Super Bowl that the Dallas Cowboys won. My good friend, Jerry Jones (the owner of the team) had it made for me. I am very proud of it!”
This is getting better by the minute.
We move across the lobby to the bank of elevators. As the doors open to the lift, two hulking men in black suits—the official color of security—flank either side of us. They appear to be British, Australian, or South African. These must be the sheik’s bodyguards. They are not going to allow the sheik to ride alone in the elevator with a stranger for fear that I could injure him, or worse. These guys are good. It reinforces the notion that I am not dealing with amateurs.
The elevator continues and reaches the top floor. The sheik has rented the entire penthouse. The elevator doors open directly into his two-story Royale Suite. At 8,500 square feet, it dwarfs my room. I think I read in an airplane magazine once that this suite costs $20,000 per night and ranks as one of the most exclusive rooms on the planet. I am dumbfounded by the luxury of it all and am now somewhat glad that I accepted the sheik’s offer for that drink.
A butler dressed in a tuxedo greets us and asks if he can get us anything. I order a Johnny Walker Blue on the rocks. So much for me not drinking hard liquor. The sheik requests a Dom Perignon with fresh strawberry juice. The security guards separate to opposite sides of the room and stand against the walls like disciplined sentries. These two are obviously privy to sensitive conversations and it strikes me how valuable it would be for a foreign intelligence service to recruit one of these guys to spy on the sheik for them. I hope that hasn’t happened yet. Otherwise, I may have just exposed myself to the authorities.
“Come, sit down,” says the sheik.
We move into the living room with large picture windows with a panorama overlooking the bright blue waters of the Gulf. On a massive white leather sofa are two voluptuous blonde girls in their twenties watching a rerun of the television show Friends on the largest flat-screen TV I’ve ever seen. They appear to be Scandinavian—judging by their accents they are either Swedish or Danish. They are wearing matching blue bikinis with silk tropical wraps around their waists and sandals on their feet. Stunning is the only word that can describe their beauty.
The sheik waves his hands as if he is shooing a cat off the furniture, and the two girls quickly move from the couch to the bedroom. Not a word is exchanged and the expression on the girls’ faces is definitely one of annoyance. I wonder how much the sheik is paying these two to sleep with his fat ass. For their sake, I hope it is at least a six-figure sum. The sheik turns off the television with the universal remote that controls virtually everything from the lights to the curtains in the suite. The butler brings our cocktails on a silver serving tray and sets them down on the expensive wood coffee table in front of us. I thank the butler but the sheik does not bother.
“Now, Mr. Noah, let’s discuss business.”
“Of course.”
“I was told by General Yousef that you are a man that can get things done. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“Excellent! Then I have a job for you.”
I sit calmly as he continues.
“As you know, the security situation in Afghanistan is rather abhorrent. Since the Americans have officially pulled their troops out, all the innocent Muslims who supported the coalition—and a more civilized and peaceful way of life—have been slaughtered by the brutal, resurgent Taliban regime. I am afraid that all of the hard work, billions of dollars spent, and lives lost over the past decade will be for nothing if the Taliban is able to take control of the entire country once again. I, as a loyal servant of Allah, cannot in good conscience allow this to happen. We, Mr. Noah, cannot allow this happen. Therefore, in order to help the innocent Muslims protect themselves, we must arm the local tribes with weapons so that they can protect themselves from the invading Taliban attackers.”
“Sheik,” I begin, “with all due respect to you and all those needlessly suffering in Afghanistan, isn’t this a job more suited for the international community rather than a lone man such as yourself? I mean, this is something that the coalition, the United Nations, the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC), and all these other organizations should already be doing. Right?”
“Should, being the operative word, Mr. Noah. Allow me to explain. Since the time of Alexander the Great, Afghanistan has been more than a pile of rocks in Central Asia. Afghanistan’s significance is that it simply cannot be tamed. Afghanistan is like a beautiful woman that every man wants but cannot have. A seductress. When she ignores their advances, men want her even more, and inevitably they will try to take her. The British learned this, as did the Soviets. Unfortunately, now too, have the Ame
ricans. Apparently, the Chinese will be the next to learn this painful lesson the hard way. And just like a woman, Afghanistan holds a secret. You see, she actually wants to you to try and take her. This is how she springs her trap. She feeds off the men who pump money and resources into her borders. She pretends that it will make things better; all the while she is playing both sides of the fence, disrupting progress and impeding development so that even more money and resources become necessary. Unfortunately, her cruel game brings with it death.”
“Forgive me, sheik. If you are admitting that the situation in Afghanistan is essentially hopeless, won’t it be counterproductive to inject even more weapons into the country?”
“Mr. Noah, I am disappointed. I thought you were smarter than that. Winning in Afghanistan is not my objective. Winning in Afghanistan is impossible. Making money in Afghanistan, on the other hand, is what I am after. Right now, there are more guns than people in Afghanistan—and goats for that matter. It is the one thing the country cannot get enough of. Surprisingly, cash is also readily abundant. All of these warlords have millions of dollars stashed away in bank accounts throughout the UAE and Switzerland—much of it given to them by foreign benefactors trying to garner their support. But guns are the real currency in Afghanistan. The warlord with the most guns wins. It is that simple. And it is our job is to fill that demand. If the Taliban are allowed to take over the country again completely, the demand will fall. Therefore, we must keep the chaos in just the proper balance. Guns keep this balance in check.
“I understand.” (I lie.) “What is it you need me to do?”
“You will go to Beirut and meet with Yuri Berezovsky, a Russian arms dealer who helped get Putin elected. There he will escort you to Turkmenistan, where you will take delivery of a cargo plan full of AK-47 assault rifles, rocket-propelled grenade launchers (RPGs) and enough ammunition to invade Kuwait. You will fly with this plane into the Federally Administered Territory of Afghanistan—otherwise known as the FATA—and deliver these weapons to Whalid bin Talibani, the country’s next great warlord. The entire job should take you two weeks. You will be compensated with two million US dollars.”
“Why do you need me to do it? Why can’t Yuri deliver these weapons for you himself?”
“Because I do not trust Russians,” he says candidly. “I need someone whom I can trust to ensure that my shipment is not compromised. Yousef trusts you, which means that I trust you. You simply need to babysit the weapons while they are in transit to make sure that they reach their final destination. For this I will give you two million dollars—one million now and one million upon delivery. Do we have a deal?”
I sit quietly on the couch for a moment thinking to myself. This is suicide. I know a bad deal when I hear one.
“Mr. Noah, do we have a deal?”
I pause a moment and then say, “Five million.”
“You insult me, Mr. Noah!”
“Your offer insults me, sir!”
The sheik smiles and bursts into his booming laugh again.
“Now I see why Yousef thinks so highly of you. None of my men would ever challenge what I offer them. You are different. Very well, Mr. Noah. You win. Five million dollars it is. Besides, I already have a helicopter waiting outside to take you to the airport, so I guess I have no choice.”
I look out the picture window to see a black jet helicopter, with tinted black windows, hovering in the distance, its single large blade whirling and thumping.
“Gather your belongings and meet the helicopter on the helipad,” the sheik instructs me. “It will take you to the airport where my private jet will fly you to Beirut. Check into Le Gray Hotel and wait for Yuri to contact you. To verify his identity, he will have a newspaper in his left hand when he first greets you. If he does not, it means that it is not him.”
With that, we both get up from the couch and the sheik extends his fat hand to me once more.
“Good luck, Mr. Noah.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The sheik smiles, turns, and walks towards his bedroom. As the door closes behind him I see the two blonde girls lying on the oversized bed. I don’t know whom I feel more sorry for at the moment—them or me.
FLYING SOLO
Location: Burj al-Arab Hotel
Time: 2205 hours
I hustle down to my room and gather my belongings. Luckily, I have always made it a point to have my luggage pre-packed at all times. Within two minutes I am ready to depart. I notify the lovely young lady sitting at the reception desk located at the end of my floor’s hallway—for at the Burj al-Arab Hotel every floor has its own concierge desk—that I am checking out and to just charge everything to my credit card on file. I make a mental note to destroy that credit card after this trip and to never use this particular identity again.
I take the elevator up to the HELIPAD level. Sitting 650 feet up, the circular helipad of the Burj is as recognizable as the hotel itself. It was on this pad that Roger Federer and Andre Agassi played a friendly tennis match, Tiger Woods smacked golf balls into the desert below, and a Formula One racecar burned its tires performing a death-defying spinning stunt. Right now, however, the pad is fulfilling its primary role as landing zone for my air taxi.
I board the sleek, black jet copter and strap in tight to one of the tan Corinthian leather seats. Almost immediately, the cool Arab pilot, sporting a three-day beard stubble and leather bomber jacket, quickly takes us high into the dark desert sky. Below us the city of Dubai is lit up brighter than the Las Vegas strip. We take off quickly, and within ten minutes are descending upon the private airfield at Dubai International Airport.
The wheels of the helicopter touch down and the pilot gives me the thumbs up. The door opens and I am greeted by yet another oafish–looking bodyguard who points across the tarmac to a white Gulfstream V jet parked just a few hundred feet away. It is the sheik’s private jet, and it is easily worth $40 million. I quickly make my way towards it as if I own it.
I’ve flown on plenty of private jets before, but this one is by far the most impressive. The runway lights reflecting off the shiny wax on the fuselage seem to make the white paint sparkle in the darkness. The cabin door is open and the stairs leading into the plane are adorned with a blood red carpet. At the top of the steps is a curvaceous Swedish-looking woman in a neatly pressed navy blue suit. Her bleached blond hair is tied up tight in a bun under a small cap. As I get closer to her, I noticed that her skin is flawless. She must be around thirty-five, but she could easily pass for ten years younger. I conclude that the sheik definitely has a proclivity for bouncy blondes.
“Guten tag. I am Eva. Welcome aboard Mr. Gaylani’s plane.”
“Guten tag, Eva. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Ah! So she’s German and not Swedish. Close enough. She’s still ridiculously attractive. I’m going to enjoy this flight even more.
Eva invites me on board and gives me a quick tour of the cabin. Each of the eight swivel seats is made of the finest handcrafted Italian leather. Chestnut wood trim runs along the interior. Flat screen monitors are everywhere. The white shag carpet is what the ultra-rich call walking-around money, meaning they are so rich that they can pull off having a white shag carpet on a private jet. The bathroom is made up entirely of polished gold. Eva shows me into the oversized bedroom with its more than accommodating bed. My mind immediately begins to wonder if she and the sheik have been in there together before, while airborne.
“Can I get you a drink before takeoff?” she asks.
“It depends, will you have a drink with me?” I reply.
She smirks disapprovingly and explains that she is not allowed to drink while on duty. How very German of her.
I act disappointed—which I am—and tell her that I would like a bourbon on the rocks.
Like a Bavarian robot, Eva mechanically hurries into the galley to prepare my drink. She must have done this a hundred times before. When she returns, she instructs me to fasten my seat belt
, as we’ll be airborne shortly. She then disappears into the cockpit. I determine that she probably sees me as just the next jerk, in a long line of jerks, to fly on her boss’s jet. Hell, she’s probably up there giving hand jobs to both the pilot and co-pilot right now. I don’t need a woman like that. What’s the matter with me? I’m already getting jealous—and I haven’t even started drinking yet.
Twenty minutes after takeoff, Eva reemerges from behind the cockpit door and asks if I need a refill.
“Why not?” I say, shaking the cubes in the glass in front of her.
She refreshes my drink and says to me in her strict German accent, “What else can I do for you?”
“What else is there?” I ask.
“I could suck your dick if you’d like.”
I nearly spit out my drink.
“Excuse me?” I say, startled. Did I just hear this beautiful woman correctly?
With a straight face and stern voice she boldly states, “I give a great blowjob. Would you like one?”
“What if one of the pilots comes out and sees us?” I stupidly ask.
“The plane is on autopilot,” she calmly explains.
“Autopilot?” I say
“Yes, autopilot.”
At this point, Eva kneels down before me and undoes my seat belt.
“Wait, where the fuck are the pilots?”
“I am the pilot,” she says, unzipping my trousers.
“Hold on. You’re the pilot? It’s just you and me on this plane right now?
“Yes, darling. Now shut up and relax.”
I try, but I take her hands in mine, stopping her. “What if another airplane is flying in the same airspace?”
