by Luke Bencie
“I’m up,” I say, not wishing to get further into this bullshit banter.
“I told Jack, as well as everyone at Langley who would listen, that you were a piece of garbage and that we’d be better off conducting a PSYOP campaign to oust Don Pedro rather than risk using your selfish ass. You know what he told me? He said you were nothing more than a commodity to be used and that even if you shit the bed on this operation, we’re prepared to move forward with multiple contingency plans right behind you. So my friend, just remember, you get one shot at this. If you fuck up, you’ll vanish into a dark hole, and nobody will ever hear from you again. Not your family, not your friends, not all those skanks you have scattered around the globe. No more tailored suits, no more gourmet meals. One prison uniform and oatmeal for the rest of your life.”
This was not the way I expected to wake up. Maybe I underestimated Joe. Maybe he’s a better operative than I initially thought. Either way, he’s right; this is my only shot at freedom. As much as I’d prefer not to be in this situation, failure is not an option. I must kill Don Pedro. And even then I still wouldn’t be certain I’d actually be released. I find myself in the unfamiliar situation of having to trust others. I find myself having to trust the United States government.
After Joe’s little pep talk, I walk out of the bedroom into the command center. Jack and the team of whiz kids are working away like beavers.
“Get dressed,” Jack instructs. “We’re going to meet your partner.”
“My partner?” I say, caught off guard. “We never talked about a partner. I work alone.”
“Things have changed. Headquarters doesn’t want you acting within the country without a minder.”
“A minder?” I protest. “This is what I do for a living. I’ve made millions at this job—alone—because I’m the best at this shit!”
“You’re the best at consulting for dictators,” Jack shoots back. “You’re not the best when it comes to assassinations. So we’ve brought in someone to help you through the particular challenges of the assignment.”
“Jesus H. Christ! You people are really something. I’ve worked with illiterate tribesmen in the heart of Africa who eat monkey brains for breakfast that were better organized than you.”
“Knock it off and get dressed.”
“How about letting me go out and buy some new clothes?”
“Not a chance,” Joe snaps. “We turn you loose on the streets of São Paulo and we’ll never see you again. Put on the suit we got you in Pakistan.”
“Seriously? You expect me to wear that burlap sack again? Guys, I recognize that dot-gov lifers such as yourselves do all your suit shopping at Men’s Warehouse, but in the international business community, if I show up in that polyester getup you picked out for me, I’ll be shot on sight.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Joe replies. “You can buy some clothes with your new partner before the consulate party.”
“What consulate party?”
“You and your new partner have been invited to the residence of the consul general from Don Pedro’s country tonight,” Jack says. “You’ll be attending as your partner’s escort. Once inside, you’ll cozy up the consul general—who’s Don Pedro’s half-brother—and persuade him to set a face-to-face meeting with El Presidente, which is how you’ll dispense your little gift to him.”
“This isn’t what we discussed in Afghanistan.”
Jack calmly replies, “Paul, did you really think that we would tell you the exact details of our operation that far in advance?”
“Why do I get the feeling you just made up these plans on the spot?”
Ever cool, Jack says, “Maybe we did, maybe we didn’t. What’s important now is that it’s show time. Now, go get dressed.”
***
I often say there are three things a man should never wear: Capri pants, a fanny pack, and a Speedo “banana hammock” bathing suit. But Brazilians break all three rules. They even insist on carrying those godawful selfie sticks with them when they travel. Now I have a fourth item to add to my list: a suit from Pakistan. Wearing this thing I feel like some refugee fresh off the boat.
We arrive at the Sky Bar, high atop Hotel Unique in the Jardim Paulista neighborhood. Hotel Unique is just that—unique—because it takes the shape of a giant half-watermelon.
We’re here to meet my new partner, who according to Joe and Jack, is a true professional who knows how to behave among dictators and other nefarious characters.
We make our way through the fashionable crowd, which can only be described as São Paulo’s sexiest people. Jack and Joe sport their $199 government suits with scuffed up loafers resembling orthopedic shoes, while I follow in tow in my Borat costume. You don’t have to be fluent in Portuguese to know that the ever-so-hip Paulistanos are rolling their eyes and muttering “stupid gringos” under their breath. If I were here alone, I would be able to blend in as a local. Right now, we might as well be wearing WE’RE WITH THE US GOVERNMENT signs around our necks.
We head through the bar towards the glass balcony, which overlooks the immense city skyline. At our feet is a narrow swimming pool, sunk into the balcony floor, lined with bright red tiles and illuminated by underwater lights. I’ve been here at 3 a.m. sometimes when beautiful young Brazilian girls strip down to their lingerie and drunkenly dive in. May we’ll be lucky like that tonight. It sure would break up the monotony of hanging out with these two tools.
The bright lights of the tall buildings in the distance immediately remind me of New York City, and suddenly I wish I were in the Big Apple instead of São Paulo. Then something—rather someone—changes my mind. Standing alone along the glass railing is one of the most stunning women I have ever seen. She is so indescribably gorgeous I gasp as if a boxer has punched me in the gut and momentarily deprived me of oxygen. She is tall and tan, young and lovely—the Girl from Ipanema in the flesh—and is wearing a sequined red dress. Her curly brunette hair hangs down over her exposed and toned back and shoulders. Her long legs seem to go on for days. For the first time in my life, I finally understand when people talk about love at first sight.
Joe is apparently saying something to me. I see his lips moving in my peripheral vision, but I have completely tuned him out. I can’t stop gawking at this gorgeous woman.
“Asshole. Hey, asshole!” Joe barks.
“What?” I bark back.
“It’s time to meet your partner, dipshit.”
The two men from the government begin to walk towards this goddess. Holy shit! They’re actually going to talk to her. Suddenly I feel like a teenager again, and my chums are going to tell the most popular girl in the school that I like her. What the fuck is happening?
Jack, the ever coolheaded intelligence chief, begins to speak. “Paul Ward, I would like you to meet your new partner, Mariana Ribeiro Motta.”
Extending my hand, I try to play it cool. On the inside I think I was less nervous when the Taliban had a knife to my neck.
“Muito prazer, Senhorita Motta,” I say nervously.
The amazing woman’s full lips open as she smiles wide. Her exposed teeth are equally perfect.
“Muito bom, Senhor Ward. You speak Portuguese! It is a pleasure to meet you as well. Please call me Mariana,” she says in the most sensual of accents.
It’s official. I’m in love. I even start to feel an erection building in my ridiculous, made-in-Islamabad trousers. Now I really feel like I’m in high school.
Joe chimes in, just to ensure that I don’t get too friendly.
“Mariana, don’t let this professional bullshit artist fool you. He’s a manipulative bastard who’s also a traitor to his country.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say with a scowl.
“I’m a big girl, Joe,” Mariana responds. “I can handle myself, thank you.”
Joe appears embarrassed, as if he regrets his last words, while I find myself even more smitten.
“Maybe we should find a table and order some dri
nks?” Jack says.
Soon thereafter, the four of us are sitting at a corner table in the bar, away from the blaring lounge music. We each order a caipirinha, the traditional Brazilian rum-like drink made of cachaça, sugar, and muddled limes. Mariana orders a slight variation by ordering a caipiroska, in which vodka replaces the cachaça. When the waiter asks her what kind of vodka she prefers, she says “Grey Goose.” Using this as a chance to be charming, I throw out an old joke.
“Grey Goose,” I say, “good choice.”
“Thank you,” Mariana replies.
“You know why Hitler never drank vodka, don’t you?”
“Here it comes,” interrupts Joe.
“No,” Mariana replies, leaning in closer to me, enough for me to catch the fragrance of her hair. “Why did Hitler never drink vodka?”
I move in ever closer to her face and say in a soft voice, “Because it made him mean.”
“God, you’re such a loser!” Joe snaps. “It’s amazing that you’ve ever gotten laid in your life.”
I ignore Joe and continue to look into Mariana’s eyes. She is giggling, though I don’t know if she’s laughing at the joke or at me. Either way, I’m starting to feel more confident. I also want her more than ever.
My joke has also fallen flat on Jack, so he decides it’s time to get down to business.
“Paul, let’s get serious. As I told you back at the safe house, your assignment is to attend the party tonight with Mariana at the home of the consul general. Your objective is to meet with him, whose name is Rodrigo Hernandez. He’s the half-brother of Don Pedro, and should he like you, he’ll recommend that you have an audience with the President. Hernandez has a bit of a crush on Mariana, so it should be easy to get close to him.”
“Who wouldn’t have a crush on Mariana?” I say.
“Idiot,” Joe snaps. I’m detecting a whiff of jealousy.
Mariana smiles and Jack continues. “Mariana, whose cover is that of a corrupt, chief political strategist within the Brazilian presidential administration, is going to offer Hernandez a deal to take to his brother. Essentially, Brazil will provide millions of gallons worth of free oil, which Don Pedro can sell for profit any way he sees fit. In return, Don Pedro agrees to support some bullshit Organization of American States resolution about protecting the Amazon Rainforest.
“This is a no-brainer for Don Pedro. Mariana, you’ll introduce Paul as the middleman who’ll handle the logistics of the deal and provide the necessary protection from media and international scrutiny. For this reason, it is imperative that Paul—and Paul alone—be allowed to have dinner with Don Pedro in order to explain the proper cover mechanisms that are needed. Because Paul is technically an international consultant, there will be nothing suspicious about him meeting privately with Don Pedro to discuss the political strategy. While Paul is alone with Don Pedro, he must find a way to drop the poison into his drink or onto his food. If all goes to plan, Don Pedro will be dead within two weeks, and the cause of death will be found to have been a brain aneurysm. If and when that happens, we’ll let Paul get on an airplane and disappear back into his life.”
“Sounds like a clean and easy plan to me,” Joe says.
“Bullshit! There’s no such thing as a clean and easy plan,” I counter.
“Then just don’t fuck up,” Joe huffs.
“That’s enough,” Jack snaps. “Everyone just put your personal feelings aside and do your job. All of our necks are on the line, not just Paul’s. If this thing goes south, it’ll be a media shit storm and then we’ll all be hung out to dry. It’s an all or nothing game. That’s why we brought Paul into this. In twenty years, he’s always come through.”
“Except in Afghanistan—just saying,” Joe cracks.
“Regardless, this plan must succeed. Failure is not an option,” Jack says.
“Jack is correct,” Mariana says, jumping in. “If word of this gets out, it won’t just be Don Pedro’s country that the US will have to worry about. The relationship between the United States and Brazil will also be damaged for years to come.”
“So that’s it, then,” I calmly say. “Failure is not an option.”
The waiter returns to our table with our drinks. He flirts with Mariana as he sets her drink down first. As the waiter leaves, I note that hint of jealousy in Joe again. No question, he’s got a thing for her as well.
Jack lifts his glass in a toast and says, “To Operation Consultor.”
The rest of us clink our glasses and repeat, “To Operation Consultor.”
The samba music is getting louder, and the bar is filling up with more attractive Brazilians. Little do any of these people know that the four individuals sitting in the corner—three bland-looking men and one gorgeous woman—have just kicked off a plot to assassinate a South American dictator.
THE RECEPTION
Location: The Consulate
Time: 2110 hours
I’m riding with Mariana as she drives her silver, armored Ford Fusion to the consulate and our anticipated meeting with the consul general, Rodrigo Hernandez. We said goodbye to Jack and Sparty at the bar. They are headed back to the safe house to anxiously await our report later in the evening. As Mariana negotiates the insane São Paulo traffic, I focus on how to talk to this stunningly beautiful woman alone.
“So, Mariana,” I begin, “How did you come to work with these guys?”
“My husband,” she replies. Those two words immediately deflate me. She’s married. Shit!
“Does your husband work for them, too?”
“No,” she replies. “My husband is dead.”
Yes, yes, yes! “My God, I’m sorry, Mariana.”
“You should be,” she bites back.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“My husband was in the military. He fought in Afghanistan with the Army’s 82nd Airborne. He was killed by a roadside bomb, eight years ago, by the Taliban.”
As she pauses, I know what’s coming.
“The same Taliban you were doing business with, you bastard! The same Taliban you supplied with weapons to kill US troops!”
Her eyes begin to tear up, ever so slightly, but she gracefully maintains her composure, while I feel like a total heel.
“Mariana, I’m sorry. Please know, I wasn’t the one selling weapons to the Taliban. It was the Russians. I was just there to monitor the delivery man.”
“Sure. You know what, I should pull out my gun right now and stick a bullet in your head!”
Shit! No, no, no. Mariana despises me—though I wonder if she’s really concealing a handgun.
“You’re right; I am guilty,” I said quietly. “But Mariana, if I could undo my mistakes, I would. I don’t expect you to understand, much less forgive me, but know that I am sorry for my actions. Maybe by killing Don Pedro I can redeem some of my past actions.”
A few moments of silence. Then Mariana, perhaps trying to put me in my place or just get it off her chest, continues.
“I met my husband on Ipanema Beach. He was backpacking through Brazil after college. I had just finished with my university studies in São Paulo and was in Rio on holiday. We fell in love immediately. A year later, I moved up to Miami with him. We married a year later. Then September 11th happened. My husband, being a patriotic American, volunteered for the military and did multiple tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan. He promised me he was going to quit, but he kept going back, because he couldn’t stop until the job was finished. Then he was killed instantly when his Humvee drove over an IED in Kandahar.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and this time I mean it.
“I felt sorry for myself for about a year. Then I decided I needed to do something that would make my husband proud and preserve his memory. So, I found my way into these covert operations.”
She unexpectedly starts laughing. “I renounced my Brazilian citizenship and tried to pick up where my husband left off. I wanted to be posted in the Middle East or Central Asia, but my language
skills and area knowledge of South America landed me in the Latin America Division. Now, here I am, working with you to kill this slimy dictator. Some legacy to keep for my husband.”
“Jesus, Mariana, you’re an amazing woman.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re right,” I say. “Fuck me, indeed.”
At that moment, Mariana jerks the steering wheel hard to the left, jumping the median. All four of the vehicle’s wheels leave the pavement. When the car slams back to the ground, she turns a hard right and jumps us back into our original lane. The car never slows down for a second.
“What the hell was that?” I sputter.
“Sorry about that. Two men on a motorcycle on our left side were about to carjack us,” she says calmly.
“What?”
“It happens all the time here. One guy drives the motorcycle while the guy on the back points a gun and demands you to pull over. As soon as I saw the gun, I ran them off the road. We’re safe now.”
“Are we?”
Mariana smiles. I think she’s enjoyed that moment of excitement to take her mind off her husband.
We continue driving in silence for another twenty minutes until we pull up to the front gate of the consulate.
“We’re here,” is all she says to me.
Brandishing our gold-foiled invitation to a security guard, we make our way through a large wrought-iron gate onto a beautiful driveway lined with gray brick pavers. The consulate itself is an old-fashioned, Portuguese-inspired townhouse that looks over 200 years old. Small white bulbs, resembling Christmas lights, are strung throughout the many palm trees and illuminate the well-manicured lawn. Two Afro-descendent valets in bright red jackets simultaneously open our doors. I briefly take a look at the left side of the car and notice that there is no evidence of any damage from our encounter with the carjackers. Then again, why would there be? The vehicle is armored.
Getting into character, I hold out my arm for Mariana to take. Like a good actress who hates her costar, she places her hand softly on my forearm as if we were the closest of companions. We walk through the front door of the consulate, a striking couple. I secretly wish we really were a couple. But I know my past sins have forever condemned me in her eyes. Our appearance now is merely a well-planned charade and a prelude to the murder of a nation’s corrupt and murderous leader.
