The Clandestine Consultant

by Luke Bencie

  “What are you a homo or something?” she barks.

  “No. But to be honest, I wouldn’t mind knowing Sully Sullenburger was sitting at the controls right now.”

  “Who?”

  I look down at this lovely, healthy woman kneeling between my legs. Eva’s beautiful face is shooting me an inquisitive look. She is absolutely gorgeous, and I suddenly forget about the possibility of a midair collision.

  Just as she starts pulling down my boxer shorts, my training and experience kicks in. This is a total set-up by the sheik. I grab Eva’s strong shoulders and push her back before she can seduce me any further.

  “I’m sorry, Eva,” I say in a less-than-apologetic voice. “You are incredibly attractive, but I cannot do this right now. I have to concentrate on my business.”

  Eva stands up without saying a word and walks back to the galley. I can tell she is humiliated. I lean back in my luxurious chair and look up at the ceiling. There are ridiculous neon blue lights up there, which slowly fade in and out, I assume in an attempt to provide some kind of calming effect. I am also certain that the sheik has plenty of hidden cameras installed up there, as well. There’s no doubt that he—and Eva—have captured many frequent fliers on video. The purpose of the evidence could be blackmail or some other perverted reason (maybe the sheik just likes to watch!) The French Intelligence Service has repeatedly been rumored to have installed audio and video devices in the business class cabin of Air France flights for decades. Their intention was to overhear and identify targets of opportunity for economic espionage collection. Apparently, the sheik has taken things one step further on his own aircraft.

  I take a moment to reflect. Damn, who am I? What am I doing here?

  I look over and see that my drink hasn’t spilled. This must be my lucky day. I slam back the glass of bourbon and walk up towards the galley. Eva isn’t there. She must have gone back into the cockpit. I get the impression that I won’t see her again until we land. I decide to pour myself another drink.

  I plunk back down into my seat and put the noise-canceling headphones, connected within the armrest, over my ears. Ironically, the ‘80s hit, “I Want Your Sex,” by the late George Michael, is playing. Now I am certain that Eva’s proposition was a set up. I pat myself on the back for my intuition. However, before I give myself too much credit, I remember that I—like millions of other people—thought that George Michael was once straight. Maybe I’m not the infallible judge of character I thought I was. Soon thereafter I drift off to sleep.

  ***

  I awake to Eva’s voice over the intercom system.

  “We will be landing in ten minutes, please fasten your seat beat.”

  Her announcement sounds as if she is addressing a group of elderly passengers on a chartered plane bound for a Las Vegas gambling trip, instead of the guy she just tried to seduce into having oral sex. Damn! This is getting weirder by the minute.

  The plane touches down and quickly roars to a stop. Since a private jet is so much smaller than a commercial aircraft, it feels as if we just landed on the deck of an aircraft carrier. Eva walks out of the cockpit as if nothing had happened between us a couple of hours earlier. She unlocks the aircraft door and gestures for me to depart. As I walk past her, she tells me with a big—yet fake—smile on her face, “I hope you enjoyed your flight. Please come again.”

  “With service like this, how could I not?”

  It’s the only clever response I can think of. I thought it would sound like something Sean Connery would say in a James Bond film. But when it comes out of my mouth, I just feel like an idiot.

  That whole flight was strange. But now I have more pressing matters to attend to. As I pop my head out the jet’s door, I immediately hear the sound of waves crashing along the shore of the Mediterranean Sea. Even though it is still dark outside, there is no doubt that we are in Beirut. This is one of my favorite cities in the world. Once known as the “Paris of the Middle East,” it is a liberal Arab country, where taboo topics such as alcohol, sex, and Western culture can freely coexist with conservative Muslim traditions, despite years of civil war and confusing political party agendas.

  I walk away from the jet toward the private VIP terminal. I don’t bother looking back at Eva. I’m sure we both prefer it that way. Once inside the single-room brick building, a lone, beautiful Lebanese girl in a low-cut blouse greets me from behind a metallic arrivals desk. She has glitter fashionably sprinkled across her ample cleavage, and her eye shadow is painted on like that of Cleopatra. Lebanese women are among the most gorgeous in the world and this young lady is certainly doing nothing to tarnish that reputation. The sheik really knows how to do the whole private travel thing right.

  In a flirtatious manner, “Cleopatra” asks if she can summon a car for me. There is no talk of clearing any sort of Immigration or Customs procedures. Apparently, this flight never officially happened.

  I tell the girl I need a ride to Le Gray Hotel. She escorts me out front where a white Bentley Flying Spur, with a chauffeur, is ready to whisk me away. Once again, I am impressed by the sheik’s style. I check an email on my phone and learn that the initial funds for this consulting engagement have been transferred to my account in Liechtenstein. Life seems surreal right now.

  It has been less than seventy-two hours since I received the phone call from the sheik, while being fitted for a suit in Milan. In just that short time I have traveled to Dubai to meet with one of the most powerful men in the Middle East at the Royale Suite in the Burj al-Arab, had $2 million wired to my bank account, flew on a private helicopter, then on a private jet, had turned down getting head from a Bavarian beauty at 30,000 feet, and now I am riding in the back of a Bentley in the middle of the night in Beirut. Yet, instead of feeling proud of my accomplishments, I have a pit in the bottom of my stomach. Something doesn’t feel right about this job.

  We’re driving to the Le Gray, one of the premier hotels in Beirut. Located in the downtown area, it sits along the famous waterfront known as the Corniche and overlooks the historic St. George Beach Club and the recently-built Rafik Hariri Mosque, named in honor the late prime minister who was assassinated by a massive car bomb in 2005.

  I’ve been traveling to Lebanon since the end of the brutal Civil War, which lasted from 1975-1985. I used to stay in the Phoenician Hotel, another popular five-star accommodation, but once I tried Le Gray, it has been my hotel of choice ever since. It is also intensely discreet, which means you would be hard pressed to ever find a record of me, or any other prior guest.

  Its exterior matches the traditional French-inspired façade that is common in the neighborhood, while the interior is a combination of sleek modern architecture and tasteful luxurious furnishings. Another great selling point is that the staff never asks too many questions. Wealthy Gulf Arabs frequently use Le Gray as a rendezvous point to meet their mistresses, while the wives of politicians stay here because it allows them close proximity to Beirut’s many high-end shops, such as Cartier, Gucci, and Van Cleef and Arpels.

  It’s been a long day and I’m looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

  THE RUSSIAN

  Location: Le Gray Hotel

  Time: 0530 hours

  I have awoken early this morning. The familiar moan of the Muslim call to prayer is reverberating outside my window from a nearby mosque. The call to prayer happens five times a day in the Middle East, reminding those of the Islamic faith of their duty to pray to Allah. It is still dark outside, and because I am a light sleeper, I have used this first call as my alarm clock on more than one occasion.

  I am anxious to take a walk along the Corniche to get some fresh air and clear my head. So much has happened so quickly that I need to collect my thoughts and formulate a plan for my meeting with Yuri, my Russian contact, later today. The Mediterranean is calm and especially blue as I head out of the lobby. The air is crisp and I can clearly see snowcapped Mount Lebanon off in the distance. One of the more interesting things about Lebanon i
s that you can actually snow ski in the morning up on the mountaintop and then drive 90 minutes down to the beach and lay out in the sand by lunchtime.

  As I walk along the boardwalk, I am surprised to see so many people already out and about. Men are jogging in athletic tracksuits, the ones with the three white stripes down the side. There are numerous fishermen casting long poles, over the rocky coast and out into the sea. Young couples in their teens and early twenties walk hand-in-hand, while at the same time there are women covered from head-to-toe in black burqas, shuffling a few steps behind their husbands. Beirut certainly has something for everyone.

  This project has me worried. Sheik al-Gaylani has made it sound as though this should be a very simple assignment—just accompany the weapons to the buyer in Afghanistan. I have learned from my past experience that nothing is simple when the country you are traveling to ends in the word “Stan.” Plus, I don’t trust Russians. I have known too many other consultants who have been burned by their Mafioso way of conducting business. They can be ruthless operators and won’t hesitate to cut your throat just to save a few extra dollars, or to eliminate a trail of possible witnesses.

  As my walk along the Corniche continues, I see a large vacant lot overgrown with weeds behind a rusted razor wire fence. This is a prime piece of waterfront real estate that is just sitting empty. Then it strikes me what this is—or rather what it was. This used to be the location of the US Embassy that was blown up by terrorists, presumably the group Hezbollah, in the 1980s. It is easy to forget that Beirut was home to some of the bloodiest urban street battles prior to the modern street wars that we later saw, and continue to see, in Bosnia, the Congo, Iraq, Syria, and Libya.

  Beirut remains divided by its ironically named “Green Line,” a no-man’s land right down the middle of the city that once separated warring factions. Today, several pockmarked buildings still stand empty in that zone, painful scars that remind of a time, not too long ago, that saw cousins fighting cousins.

  I stop for a strong shot of espresso at a coffee stand, which hangs precariously over the rocky seawall. I immediately feel the caffeine take hold, and my mind finally begins to work. I realize I need to formulate some ground rules for my discussion with Yuri later today. I am an international consultant who is in high demand to some of the world’s most notorious political leaders, not a so-called mule who simply accompanies illegal shipments of arms like a DHL driver delivering a package. I will have to make it abundantly clear to Yuri that I have leverage in this deal and I am acting as the sheik’s personal representative, not his courier. I am being paid five million dollars for this job for a reason. It will not be a walk in the park, and the sheik—and Yuri—are already keenly aware of this.

  I return to my hotel room and call down for some room service. I opt for the traditional Lebanese breakfast of sweet pastries and fruit, accompanied by more coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice. I also request that a local newspaper be provided with the meal. Before the food is delivered, I take a hot shower and then shave. I throw on a comfortable tan, super-150 thread count, wool Brioni suit. I opt for a light-blue button-down oxford shirt from Brooks Brothers and slip on a pair of brown Ferragamo loafers without socks. I want to be comfortable today. By the time my food arrives, I already feel completely refreshed. I instruct the delivery boy that I would like to have my breakfast out on the balcony overlooking the water. He places the serving tray on the outdoor table and I provide him with a handsome tip.

  I open the front page of the newspaper and nearly fall out of my chair as I read the headline: AMBASSADOR AND FORMER PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE FOUND DEAD IN SEYCHELLES HOTEL ROOM.

  My old friend Mr. David has apparently been found hanged by a belt in a luxury resort on the island of Seychelles. According to the article, he was seen entering the hotel the night before with a young woman. He was found by housekeeping with a belt around his neck hanging in his closet. He was completely naked, and it was assumed that he accidentally died of affixation while performing a sexual act. The story continued to report that at least 500 accidental deaths occur each year when individuals choke either themselves, or their partner, while attempting orgasm. This appeared to be the case. The woman who accompanied him the night before was not seen leaving the hotel. An anonymous quote from the ambassador’s foreign affairs office read, “We are all shocked by this recent tragedy, as well as by the immoral behavior that led to the Ambassador’s death.”

  I have a pretty good idea who the anonymous source was who added that last little insult to injury for Mr. David. It had to have been Mohammed. I am certain Mr. David’s death was no accident. I’m also certain it was Mohammed and his brother, the king, simply tying up some loose ends just as precaution. I find myself hoping they don’t consider me a loose end, as well. But I can’t worry about this now. I have to focus on preparing for my meeting with Yuri.

  At exactly one o’clock that afternoon I head up to The Blue Restaurant, conveniently located on the rooftop of the hotel. It is an elegant outdoor setting, which offers some of the finest French cuisine in the country. I was told that Yuri would be easy to spot. He has blond hair, blue eyes, a tall muscular build, and always wears a white suit. It sounded as if I was supposed to meet a Bond villain.

  As soon as I walked out to the restaurant, a stunning Lebanese girl, with a low-cut black tank top, greets me at the door. Her surgically enhanced breasts are magnificent and she knows it. She is wearing a white leather skirt, which is just short enough to accentuate her long tanned legs, which look even longer in her four-inch heels. I am instantly smitten with her.

  “Marhaba,” she greets me.

  “Marhaba,” I respond.

  “Just one for lunch?” she asks.

  “No, I’m meeting someone.”

  “Too bad,” she sighs, pouting like a beautiful woman who knows how to get what she wants from men. “The restaurant is empty and I am looking for someone to chat with. You seem like an interesting man.”

  “You have no idea,” I coolly reply.

  “Perhaps later then?”

  “What time do you get off work?”

  “In a few hours.”

  “Then why don’t you swing by my room on your way out? We can go for a drink by the water. I heard there’s an amazing belly-dancing show on the beach.”

  I’m usually not this forward with women, but I conclude that this girl is full of confidence and I want to match her charisma. More pertinently, I suspect she’s a plant—by Yuri, perhaps?

  “I’m afraid I’d get in trouble if I did that. We are not supposed to fraternize with guests in the hotel. I would get fired if they saw me go into your room,” she blushes.

  “Don’t worry. I am very discreet.”

  Suddenly I see the infamous Yuri Berezovsky sitting at a table along the railing, which immediately strengthens my suspicions. Holding a newspaper in his left hand and wearing a bright red tie, which contrasts with his white linen suit, he gestures for me to join him.

  I glance at the marvelous Lebanese girl, but the pleasure part of my brain shuts down and I turn my attention to the job at hand. I sit next to Yuri, all business. Our eyes connect as we quickly size each other up. The adjectives that immediately go through my head to describe him are cruel, deceptive, untrustworthy, cunning, and deadly. Shit, he could be a Bond villain!

  “Hello, Yuri.”

  “Hello, Noah,” he replies. “Pleasure to meet you. Please sit down.”

  His Russian accent is thick and he smiles at me with yellow, cigarette-stained teeth. His aftershave is tremendously overpowering, as if he used half a bottle on his face. At least it will repel insects while we have our lunch.

  “How do you like, Beirut?” he asks.

  “I love Beirut. It is one of my favorite cities.” I decide to play along with his small talk.

  “The women here are beautiful, no?”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Ha! Then perhaps after our meeting we can go find women out on t
he beach to take back to our rooms for some fun—nonstop!” It has always amazed me how often Russian English speakers use the word “nonstop” to describe how extreme something can be.

  Yuri smiles, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, and offers me one. I wave my hand to refuse.

  “So, the sheik wants you to babysit my delivery? I say, fuck the sheik. What do you think about that?”

  Keeping calm, I respond. “I think we’re both being paid a lot of money to do a job. You do yours and I do mine, and everybody wins. I don’t see why that should be an issue.”

  “It is an issue because the sheik does not trust me, apparently. He thinks I am going to screw him. So he sends you to observe me. But really, what can you do, Mr. Noah? Can you actually prevent me from fucking him over?”

  “Do you plan on fucking him over?” I ask.

  “No, of course not. It is bad business. Plus, I have, how you say, reputation.”

  “Good. Then none of us has anything to worry about.”

  Yuri lights a cigarette from a nondescript pack covered with Arabic writing. He takes in a heavy breath and then blows the smoke out hard through the corner of his mouth. This is immediately followed by a hacking cough that lasts several seconds. Loudly gathering a mouthful of phlegm in his throat, he then spits a yellowish blob over the side of the railing. It is not a very appealing sight before lunch, and I hope nobody is walking along the street below. I have found that Russian table manners essentially don’t exist. But I have dealt with Russians before, and many times they act crudely to look tough or to intimidate.

  “Ah, sorry. I ate too much pussy last night.”

  Despite his vulgarity, I notice that Yuri is wearing a Moritz Grossmann Benu wristwatch. The rare German timepiece must have set him back at least $35,000. It certainly isn’t something your typical gangster might be educated about. I am starting to believe Yuri might be merely pretending to be a thuggish Russian arms dealer. I recall back to my encounters with Viktor Bout. He would often behave the same way, attempting to conceal his polished, and cultured, business persona, because it might have been perceived as a sign of softness by those less educated.