The Clandestine Consultant

by Luke Bencie

  “Yuri, why are you doing this? We are both professionals who are just doing our jobs. I mean you no harm. Just give these guys their weapons and let’s get out of here.”

  “Oh, Noah. You still don’t get it, do you? Yuri begins. “You see, I have been following behind you, around the globe, for years. I have lost repeated consulting jobs because of you. Always coming in second for a multimillion-dollar project. Our clients are the same—kings, sheiks, warlords, and dictators. Unfortunately, these nefarious clients are becoming scarcer as the world becomes smaller, thanks to the internet and 24-7 media reporting. There is no room for men like us to compete anymore. Therefore, it is time for you to officially retire and allow me my turn as the number one adviser to the world’s worst leaders.

  “This is insane!” is all I can muster.

  “Oh shut up, already. With every word you say the more upset I become for losing any projects to a weaker man like you in the first place.”

  I finally get to my feet and try to regain my composure.

  “Listen to me, Yuri. I never claimed to be the best in the business. In fact, you and I are in totally different lines of business, with different clients.”

  “Don’t talk to me as if I am an idiot! Or I swear that I will gut you right here and leave you for the vultures to pick at your sun-cooked corpse!”

  “Yuri, listen to me please. If we join forces, we can become the most powerful consultants in history. We will double our profits and it will allow us to enter into all new markets. Not only that, you have my word that once we have built our empire, I will bow out and turn it all over to you.”

  “And why would you do that?”

  “Because my goal was to retire to the Caribbean and spend the rest of my days fishing, drinking rum, and fucking exotic island women. I don’t give a shit about being a consultant anymore. I’ve made tens of millions; I don’t need more money . . . So, what do you say? Let’s join forces. Hell, I will even give you all of my existing clients right now, with glowing referrals!”

  I stand quietly in anticipation, waiting for Yuri’s reply. The warlord studies me then looks at Yuri. I don’t think he understands what is going on. For this, he is losing patience. If there isn’t resolution soon between Yuri and I, violence could ensue. A mule gives out a loud hawing sound, and some of the Taliban fighters can be heard questioning each other in Pashtun.

  “Noah, your bullshit doesn’t work with me as it did with those bumbling idiots in Africa,” Yuri finally retorts. “Oh, you didn’t know that you stole the job of slandering Jing Ping from me? I wanted that project for months and I lost out to your pathetic ass. You apparently convinced Mohammed that you were the best man for the job. For that reason alone I am going to leave you in the good hands of my friend here, Whalid bin Talibani—a warlord regarded as the nastiest sonofabitch in the entire FATA.”

  The old warlord hears his name being mentioned and puffs his chest out with pride. His men also let out a chant of “Whalid!” in unison.

  I realize it now. I’m fucked.

  Talibani approaches me and stands inches from my face. I can smell his breath, which apparently has never experienced a toothbrush or mouthwash. It smells like a cat shit in his mouth and then proceeded to follow it in there to die. I try to keep my composure. Talibani stands over six feet tall and is built like a steel worker. Although his face is tanned and covered with deep creases, putting his age at around sixty, his physique has been chiseled from a lifetime of hiking through these treacherous Afghan mountains and killing countless enemies on the battlefield. I can see bloodstains on the large curved knife tucked into his belt.

  The intimidating Talibani looks me up and down and decides I would be an easy person to kill. I am hoping that he just kills me quickly with a bullet between the eyes. The horrific alternative would most assuredly include me being ass-raped by this filthy behemoth, along with a group of his men. Raping a male combatant in the FATA is done to humiliate and injure their enemies. Right now I must look like fresh meat in my Western blue jeans and turtleneck.

  At that moment, I hear the steady buzz of the ramp of the airplane being lowered. The pilot is ready to unload the weapons for the mountain fighters.

  “Well, Noah, your last job as a consultant was to observe delivery of these weapons for the sheik. Perhaps you should get to work.” Yuri laughs.

  “And what about the sheik? Was he in on this deal?”

  “Of course, he was! I told him that I would give him a thirty-percent discount if he made up that story about you needing to observe delivery of weapons. In fact, I even fronted the down payment he gave you. I hope you spent that money already because I am afraid that you won’t have another opportunity.”

  “Yuri, I had no idea that I made you feel so insecure. Perhaps, you had issues with your mother when you were a child. Or maybe you just have a small dick.” I say it sarcastically, trying not to allow him the satisfaction of knowing that I’m scared shitless.

  Yuri smirks at me.

  Then I think of one more lie as a last-ditch effort to keep him from leaving me with the warlord and his men.

  “Yuri, you should know that a man like me always has a contingency plan. Should I not return home, a hit squad will be activated to hunt you down and torture you. An enormous sum of money will be automatically wired to them when I don’t return and another sum will be wired when you are killed.”

  “You’re full of shit until your last breath, Noah,” says Yuri. “Even if you are telling the truth, I’ll take my chances.”

  “You really want to take that risk? Cut me loose, and you have my word that you’ll never see me again. Otherwise, you will spend the remainder of your short life looking over your shoulder for a hit team to snatch you off the street or from your bed.”

  “You must be a remarkable poker player, Noah.” Yuri laughs. “Even when you clearly hold no cards, you still like to bluff. You were a worthy adversary until the end. But, I have finally proven to you, and the rest of the people in our tiny consulting universe, that I am the best. Goodbye, Noah.”

  Talibani is still standing inches from my face with a stare that could kill. He opens his mouth into a smile to reveal his few remaining brown teeth. His hot breath smells even worse.

  I give a slight smile back.

  The last thing I recall is Talibani leaning his head backwards before furiously slamming his solid forehead into mine.

  For a split second I see a white flash of light. Then everything goes dark.

  DIRTY TOENAILS

  Location: Somewhere within the FATA, along the Afghanistan-Pakistan border

  Time: Unknown

  So here I am, prepared to die. I am on my knees before a machete-wielding warlord in what I can only assume is a hut somewhere in the FATA. I am bound and dressed in an orange jumpsuit with piss running down my leg. Yuri and the sheik have sold me out to eliminate business competition. My remaining moments on Earth are now at the sanction of the merciless Whalid Talibani. My soul is filled with loneliness, regret, and, yes—terror—even for a guy like me who has thrived in life and death situations.

  I see the warlord’s equally imposing tribesmen eyeing me from either side of his massive frame with fiendish grins. I think of a horror worse than death—being raped by these filthy savages.

  I try to hold it together, but eventually I hang my head and cry. Not for fear of death, but rather the disappointment of living such a selfish and unfulfilled existence. I certainly had talents, but I used them for only the most worthless of purposes. I could have done so much better with my life. What happened to that nice kid that I used to be just thirty years ago? Where did my normal life get off track?

  Then something snaps inside, and my fear turns to anger. Fuck these assholes! If I can somehow get them to cut me loose, I will kill each one of them with my bare hands. I have enough left in me to break each of their necks.

  “Cut me loose and kill me like a man!” I shout at the warlord. “You call yourself
a fighter? Cut me loose and fight me!”

  The men are surprised by my sudden outburst. It is apparent that they do not understand English but do, in fact, comprehend my demand. Talibani just laughs. The butt of the rifle slams into the back of my head. The warlord raises his knife and screams at me in his native Pashtun, while the other two take turns kicking my sides.

  “Cut me loose and fight me like a man!” I repeatedly scream, while being flogged and beaten.

  It is no use. My adrenaline rush is fading and I am starting to lose my small burst of strength. The kicks continue and a squarely placed kick across the jaw finally silences me. I’m on my side and can only see one of the men’s sharp and dirty toenails in their worn-out sandals in front of my nose. In one last determined effort, I crawl up on my knees with my hands still behind my back. I look up at the warlord directly in his eyes.

  “Just shoot me, for God’s sake,” I mumble. “Put a bullet between my eyes. Get it over with!”

  For the first time in my life I am completely unafraid and fully prepared to die.

  I hang my head and close my eyes. I whisper one last prayer asking for forgiveness and begging for a quick bullet rather than a slow knife.

  I hear the crack of a rifle being fired. My prayer was apparently answered. But I feel no pain. Has death come so quickly I didn’t even feel it? Then I hear two more shots. Could they have missed me the first time? What the hell is happening?

  I open my eyes and lift my head. The three men are all crumpled on the ground in front of me. It appears that the two masked men, who were just seconds before disguising their faces, have had their skulls blown open. Whalid Talibani, the feared warlord, is motionless on his back, staring upwards into eternity. Bright red blood clashes against the color of white brain matter and bone fragments, as it leaks onto the dirty ground and pools into a brownish puddle around my knees. Am I dreaming? More gunshots erupt and my vision is obstructed by white smoke. My eardrums ring from the deafening crack of gunfire.

  Suddenly, a voice calls out to me. “Sir, are you alright?”

  I look up to see a large man dressed in all black staring down at me. He is wearing a helmet and night-vision goggles. His shirtsleeves are pulled up to his elbows, and I see a tattoo of Abraham Lincoln on one of his massive forearms. He has brought others with him. There must be ten of these men.

  “Sir, can you walk? We need to move. Right now!”

  Before I can answer, two of the others pick me up by my arms and lift me to my feet. They cut off the ropes binding my hands and legs. I have an arm over each man’s shoulders and we are quickly scurrying out a door, leaving the corpses of six men and one goat. There is a line of eight massive armored trucks waiting outside in the cold night air. They are all painted black. Half are pickups with large-caliber machine guns mounted on their beds, each manned by one of these mysterious soldiers. It reminds me again of something from a Mad Max film.

  I pause for a second to look up at the bright starry sky. The full moon as it sits above the snowcapped mountains around us. I can see my breath in the moonlight. I think, This place is beautiful. Life is beautiful.

  One of the men carrying me barks in my ear, “Hey asshole, wake up! We’re not out of this yet!”

  I quickly rejoin reality and nod in agreement.

  My escorts throw me into the back of what I can only assume is an armored SUV and box me in, one sitting on each side. The line of vehicles begins to move rapidly as we traverse the incredibly bumpy mountain roads. I feel myself leaning forward, so we must obviously be moving downhill. “Abraham Lincoln” is, I think, the team leader. He asks me questions while the other man—probably a medic—inspects me for bullet holes and other injuries.

  “What’s your name?” asks Lincoln.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I automatically reply as I’ve done thousands of times before.

  “Pull your head out of your ass and tell me your goddamn name or I’ll throw you out onto the road!” Now I’m certain he’s the team leader.

  For the first time in almost ten years I tell someone—a stranger—my real name.

  “It’s Paul.”

  It feels good to tell the truth.

  “Okay, Paul. What else can you tell me about yourself?”

  Maybe it’s finally time to come clean about my past. Mr. Lincoln, still wearing his black helmet and sporting a thick scraggly beard, is in for an interesting tale. I hold nothing back.

  “I was born in Detroit to Scottish immigrants. I turned forty-five last week. I got my law degree from the University of Michigan. I have an ex-wife and two children I haven’t seen or heard from in over a decade. Many years ago I was well on my way to becoming a successful lawyer, specializing in international trade negotiations. While at a symposium in Geneva, I met a man who claimed to be a headhunter for a strategic management firm. He asked me if I might be interested in a part-time job as an international consultant . . . ” I blather on, the words slurring from my swollen face.

  ICE MAN

  Location: Undisclosed military base, Afghanistan

  Time: Unknown

  I tell Abraham and his other three colleagues in the armored SUV pretty much everything I could think of about my various adventures across the globe. At one point the medic jokingly asks if my company is currently hiring. He says he’s never flown first class before. I tell him that after this experience I suspect there will be a consulting position opening up in the near future.

  Considering what I have just gone through, I feel completely at ease with my rescuers, though I still don’t know who exactly they are. They certainly sound American and I clearly notice an American velcro flag patch on to the left shoulder of the guy in the passenger seat. Eventually the driver turns on some music. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Southern-fried rock ’n roll ballad, “Simple Man,” blares from the speakers. Now I’m certain they’re from the United States.

  “Hey, you guys SEALs?”

  “Not exactly,” says Lincoln.

  At that moment we pull up to a steel gate with massive concrete walls, dirt barriers, sand bags, and razor wire all around. It looks like a fortress that it meant to keep out zombies. The gate slides open ever so slightly and another one of these ninja warriors, dressed completely in black and armed to the teeth, steps out from behind. He blinds us through the windshield with a large flashlight. He wants to be sure that the bad guys are not coming through the gate Trojan horse style. Once our identities are confirmed, we pass through the barrier only to be stopped by another gate. We are now boxed in on both the front and the back of the SUV. A four-man team begins to examine the exterior and underneath our truck. I can only assume that they are looking for magnetic IEDs that have been affixed to the armor. I suddenly realize that I have no idea where the other vehicles in our convoy have gone.

  We clear our final safety inspection and I am driven into a courtyard.

  “We’re here,” says a relaxed team leader Lincoln.

  “Holy shit, I didn’t thank you guys!” I suddenly blurt out, realizing I’m a bigger idiot than before.

  “Don’t mention it. It’s what we do.”

  “No, seriously. You guys risked your life to save a worthless piece of shit like me! Thank you!”

  “When you put it that way, we should have just stayed home and played Halo on the Xbox,” Mr. Lincoln sheepishly replies.

  At that moment, an older gentleman approaches in the darkness. I can hear the crunch of gravel under his boots as he moves nearer. He is tall and burly, at least my height, but probably weighs close to 275 pounds. He has a bright white beard, is dressed in cargo pants and a short-sleeved, buttoned down fishing shirt, and is wearing a baseball cap from The George Washington University. What’s with all the presidential references? At least it confirms I’m on a US base of some sort.

  He extends his hand and speaks. “Sir, welcome back to Afghanistan. My name is Ice Man.”

  Ice Man? Seriously? This guy’s a fan of Top Gun?

  “Thank you,
” I mutter.

  “Why don’t we get you into our medical room so the doc can check you out. Then we’ll get you a hot shower and a home-cooked meal. Sound good?”

  “Sure!” is all I can think to respond.

  After a thorough medical exam and two bags of intravenous saline solution to rehydrate me, I am allowed to take a hot shower. Water has never felt so good against my skin. I have grit and sand uncomfortably stuck in all my crevasses. I reek of body odor. An Afghan goat probably smells better right now. To make matters worse, I feel humiliated as I wash off the dried urine between my legs. I can’t believe I pissed myself.

  I turn off the water in the shower, which is in some sort of makeshift locker room facility. Ice Man is standing outside the curtain when I step through in a towel. He offers me a set of his clothes, a GWU sweatshirt and sweatpants, plus an oversized pair of Crocs. So much for my designer Tom Ford suit and Ferragamo shoes.

  “Now, let’s get you some chow.”

  “Sure,” I say again.

  We walk twenty meters across the compound to another trailer. This one is slightly bigger than the others. Inside, the place smells delicious. That’s when I remember I haven’t had anything to eat in two days. Hunger washes over me and I might as well be in a Michelin star-rated restaurant in Luxembourg. I am famished. But the thin Afghan boy preparing the food behind the stainless steel buffet counter makes me recoil in a moment of pause.

  Jesus! I think. Just a couple of hours ago I was about ready to get my head cut off at the hands of probably this guy’s uncle. Now I am standing here in a baggy GWU sweat suit about to eat a hamburger and fries. How fucked up is my world?

  “Everything okay?” asks Ice Man.

  “Fine,” I reply.

  I fill my tray with two burgers, two chicken breasts, and some mashed potatoes and gravy. There are plenty of other options to choose from, including a salad bar, pasta bar, baked potato station complete with every imaginable topping, and a dessert table with a chocolate fondue flowing fountain. This is definitely not your father’s Vietnam. The fact that the food is this impressive, and I have yet to see anyone in a military uniform, makes me conclude that I must be on one of those secret Special Operations/Intelligence Community bases you only read about in The New York Times.