The Clandestine Consultant
Page 17
We continue into a grand foyer lined with marble walls and exotic silk tapestries, probably Persian. I never would have guessed from the exterior that the interior would be so impressive. The furniture consists of contemporary polished metal and fine Italian leather, while the artwork is a blend of traditional paintings from the Afro-inspired northeastern Bahia area of Brazil and the ultramodern capital city of Brasilia. Positioned in the center of all these interesting paintings is an oversized portrait of Don Pedro himself. Like a bad movie villain, Don Pedro is portrayed in a white military uniform, adorned with an abundance of colorful medals, and a red sash that reads, “El Presidente.” I couldn’t make this up if I tried.
I look at Mariana and sarcastically remark, “El Presidente? Seriously?”
She just shakes her head. At least we both agree that Don Pedro is a buffoon.
A young waiter in a slim-fitting tuxedo approaches with a tray of champagne. We each take a glass and in an attempt to make Mariana relax a bit, I make a toast.
“To an enchanted evening.”
“You really try hard, don’t you?” she responds.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You must have had a lot of empty relationships with women.”
“As a matter of fact, Mariana, I have. And if you read my file, you’ll know why. You weren’t the only one to lose a spouse.”
At that moment, a short man with a beard interrupts our conversation with a boisterous declaration.
“Mariana, my dear, it is so wonderful to see you here!”
It is Consul General Rodrigo Hernandez.
“Rodrigo, you lovely man,” she replies, “I wouldn’t miss your parties for the world.”
It’s immediately obvious that Rodrigo is a dirty old man, probably in his late sixties, who wants to fuck Mariana.
Get in line, pal.
“And who is this? Your driver?” Hernandez smugly asks, as he looks me up and down.
“Oh, Rodrigo,” Mariana covers for me, “I insist that you and the president meet with this gentleman. His name is Mr. Ward.”
It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hernandez,” I say, extending my hand to him.
“Buenas noches,” he dryly replies in his native Spanish.
“Please forgive my attire. I just landed a few hours ago, and the airline lost my luggage. I had to purchase a suit on the way over here and this was the only thing I could find on such short notice. I assure you that when I am invited to meet with a man of your stature, I come appropriately dressed. I think that tonight there is a baggage handler in Campinas enjoying my Brioni suits.”
Hernandez says nothing for what feels like forever then breaks out in laughter that grabs the attention of everyone at the party.
“I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Ward, but that is a hilarious story. I hope you find your luggage soon.”
With that, Hernandez puts his arm around Mariana’s waist and begins to walk her away from me. Realizing that my window of opportunity to make a first impression is closing quickly, I throw out one last line.
“I also find it hilarious, Mr. Hernandez, and oddly ironic. Suits were not the only items in my luggage. I also had an important gift in there for your brother, El Presidente.”
Hernandez stops suddenly and turns back to look at me, still holding Mariana’s waist.
“Really? What might that have been?”
I walk up close to him and whisper in his ear, “A very special pen.”
Hernandez leans back from me. “A pen?”
“Not just any pen,” I say in a low voice, careful not to let anyone but Mariana overhear. “But a magical pen that allows your brother to sign his name, just one time, and in return he will be rewarded with an abundance of cash, cheap oil for his country’s citizens, and, most important, acceptance from the OAS, the United Nations, and even the US government. I guarantee this pen will make your brother’s “President for Life” declaration completely legitimate in the eyes of the international community. But again, it’s in my lost luggage. However, I’m sure that a man of your stature could help me find it. In return, I would be very grateful. And of course, so would El Presidente.”
Hernandez stands quietly before me, never breaking eye contact. He is pondering what I just said. Either he is considering my offer or he is going to have security toss me out. After a few seconds, he drops his hand from around Mariana’s waist and steps closer to me. With that same hand, he reaches up and places his palm on my shoulder.
“Señor Ward, is it? I think you and I should have a talk about your lost luggage in my office. I really want to help you find that pen.”
“That would be fine. Thank you, Mr. Hernandez.”
“Please call me Rodrigo.”
He leads me across the foyer toward two large mahogany doors. Turning one of the polished brass doorknobs, he opens one of the doors and invites me to go in. Mariana trails two steps behind us. As Hernandez moves through the door, he turns back to face Mariana.
“I’m sorry, my dear, but Señor Ward and I must man-talk right now. I am sure you understand. Please don’t go anywhere. I want to dance with you later.”
With that, he closes the door on my partner’s face. For the next forty-five minutes, I lay out a strategic overview for El Presidente’s half-brother. I explain how my contacts will facilitate the transfer of oil via cargo ships from Brazil to other end-user countries but will make unscheduled refueling stops at one of his country’s seaports. Then, some of the oil—which will not have been accounted for beforehand—will be secretly offloaded for Don Pedro’s private use. He can sell it for profit, to buyers I can provide, or he can supplement the fuel used by his people.
I continue, explaining how I can help forge cargo manifests and circumvent customs inspections. Fortunately, Hernandez is not the smartest of men, and I find I can confuse him with an abundance of bullshit consulting jargon. I can tell he doesn’t understand but is too proud to say so. This assures me he will recommend that I explain the plan to Don Pedro in person.
After ninety minutes, Hernandez and I emerge from his office laughing and smoking Partagas Robustos, fine Cuban cigars. The man has good taste in tobacco. Mariana is slumped at the bar alone stirring a Caipiroska. When she sees us, she snaps back into character and hurries across the room to give Hernandez a hug.
“Rodrigo, you two were in there forever. I was about to give up on your offer to dance with me.”
“Ah, my darling Mariana. I was having a wonderful talk with my new friend here. I think I helped Paul find his lost luggage.”
“That’s wonderful, Rodrigo. I am so glad you two hit it off. I knew you would. Now how about that dance?”
“My sweet Mariana, I so want to dance with you right now, but alas my duty as Consul General calls. I must phone El Presidente right away about Paul’s generous offer to consult for us. Hopefully, you will not hold this against me. May I take you to dinner tomorrow night to make it up to you? I promise, we shall dance the night away afterwards.”
“I am busy tomorrow, Rodrigo,” she demurs. “But I will take you up on your dinner invitation very soon. That is my promise.”
Rodrigo turns to me and says, “Paul, it was a pleasure. I will be in touch.”
“Thank you, Rodrigo, I look forward to speaking with El Presidente about his consulting needs.”
With that, he disappears back into his office, a trail of cigar smoke floating in his wake.
“Sounds like you guys are new BFFs,” Mariana jokes. “Before you know it you’re going to start going on gay cruises together.”
“Let’s just hope he arranges this meeting with his brother soon so I don’t have to work with you people anymore.”
“I’m sorry about what I said earlier about your relationships. I didn’t know you have lost people in your life, too.”
“It’s fine. At the end of the day, you’re still a good person trying to do the right thing for your country, and I’m still some shitbag consultant.”
“Would you like to dance?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“Don’t you think Rodrigo would get jealous?” she replies, sounding a bit startled by my question.
“Fuck him. We’re gonna poison his half-brother, anyway, which probably means he’ll eventually get taken out himself. Being jealous is the least of his concerns.”
“In that case, I’m all yours tonight. I hope you’re good on your feet!”
“I’m better on my back.”
“I’ll ignore that.”
“Yeah, but I’ll bet you dig it.”
“Sadly, I think I’m starting to. I really need to get out of this business.”
I extend my arm out to her again and lead Mariana to the dance floor. The live band begins to play Gilberto Gil’s timeless hit “Aquele Abraço” (That Embrace). I put my left hand around Mariana’s waist and take her hand with my right. Her back is more toned than I had imagined, and my chest brushes up against her firm breasts. They’re so perfect that for a second I wonder if they’re fake. I try to maintain eye contact with her and avoid staring at her cleavage. I can’t believe this is the same woman who said that she was going to shoot me in the head earlier in the evening. I realize this is the reason I love Latin women: their extreme swings of passion.
We begin to samba seductively. Like most true Brazilian women, she is instinctively talented on the dance floor. I have to focus to keep up with her amazing rhythm. But the pleasure is all mine. For the first time, I see her smile.
The song ends, and the crowd applauds. The band changes its tune and begins playing a slower, even more seductive number, Antonio Carlos Jobim’s romantic classic, “Wave.” I wonder if it’s appropriate to dance to a slow song with her, but Mariana seems fine with it. Therefore, so am I. We are now dancing with our faces just inches apart. She smells as incredible as she looks. I study her perfect face and think about the reality of embracing such a gorgeous woman.
“You know,” I begin, “sometimes I forget what it was like back when I was a normal person. It’s funny how one or two decisions can send your life down a totally different path.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” she agrees, looking into my eyes.
“If I had never run into my future mentor at a party,” I continue, “the person who got me involved in this crazy line of work, I would probably be coaching high school football in the Midwest, driving a used Acura, and taking my wife and kids to Disney World every summer—kind of like Clark Griswold in Vacation.”
She looks puzzled for a moment, and I realize that such an exotic creature has probably never heard of that silly movie. “No you wouldn’t,” she says. “You don’t choose this life; it chooses you.”
“You’re saying it’s fate that you and I are here dancing together right now?”
“Maybe it is,” she says, smiling.
“In that case, I’m very grateful with the gods of fate for designing this moment.”
“They didn’t allow it. I did.”
“That’s good, because I think I would have more fun worshiping you than some pagan gods.”
“Let’s go home, Mr. Ward.” Mariana says in a sexy voice.
“Absolutely,” I respond.
With my arm around her, we quickly head out towards the front door. From the corner of my eye, I can see Rodrigo casting a disapproving look.
THE MORNING AFTER
Location: Emiliano Hotel
Time: 0907 hours
I wake up in my king-sized bed with the light of the morning sun attempting to pry open my eyelids. Damn sunlight! I should have invested in one of those ridiculous sleep masks that frequent fliers wear. Despite my irritation, I open my eyes to the blinding white light of the São Paulo sunshine.
I am alone, feeling relaxed to the point of laziness—and am completely naked. My lack of clothing quickly reminds me of what an unforgettable night I just had. Mariana had driven me back to my hotel after we left the consulate and accepted my invitation to come up to my room for a drink—one reason why I always insist that my room has a stocked minibar.
Before we had even made it completely through the hotel room door, Mariana had me pushed up against the doorframe and began kissing my mouth hard—in that special way Brazilian girls are known for. I’ve always loved it when the woman takes the initiative. Then I took charge and tossed her down on the bed, after which we engaged in a competition to see who could undress the other first. We were both naked in record time and proceeded to make love like animals, void of romance and acting on purely carnal instinct. That was how we both wanted it, and neither of us said much. Our selfish intimacy seemed to go on repeatedly until we both feel asleep, exhausted at some unknown point during the early morning hours. Now, after that amazing experience, I find myself alone once more.
As I replay the highlights of the evening over and over in my head, I see something on the nightstand. It’s a note from Mariana, written on hotel stationary and in her decidedly feminine hand. It reads: Last night was a mistake. Forget it ever happened. Let’s just finish the job. The next time I see you will be at the airport. M
Suddenly I feel like a silly schoolboy who’s been betrayed by his girlfriend for the first time. It’s a complete role-reversal for me. I’m usually the one who leaves a note. Come to think of it, I usually just leave. But at the moment, I’m the one feeling used. I’ve never known what it feels like.
I hear a knock at the door and walk naked from the bed and look through the peephole. Shit! It’s Joe. I run to the bathroom, wrap myself in a towel, and return to the door, opening it reluctantly.
“Rise and shine, dickhead,” he says.
“Could you come back in an hour and bring me some fresh towels and an extra roll of toilet paper?” I respond sarcastically.
“Cut the jokes. I need a full debriefing on everything that happened last night,” he barges past me into the room.
Joe seems all business this morning. He looks at the rolled up comforter on the bed and then scans the room as if he’s searching for something—or someone. I decide to play dumb and avoid giving him any details.
“Didn’t Mariana give you a report after we left the consulate?” I ask.
“I’m interested in your report right now,” he snaps.
“Sure,” I say. “It was very productive meeting, and Rodrigo has agreed to set a dinner with us and Don Pedro at El Presidente’s private estate, just outside the capital, in three days. Everything’s going exactly to plan.”
“I understand you had a private conversation with Rodrigo.”
“I did. He wouldn’t let Mariana into the room with us. What could I do?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Ward,” he snaps. Joe has never called me by my last name before. It’s apparent I shouldn’t test him right now.
“I’m not,” I respond respectfully.
Shit! I suddenly notice Mariana’s note on the nightstand. I move around the bed and block Sparty’s view of it. I reach down and pick up the telephone. As I do, I discreetly grab the note. Turning back around, I say, “I was gonna order some coffee. You want some?”
“Watch your ass and don’t try any games with me. You’re not off the hook yet. I can still put you in a deep hole that makes Gitmo look like a fuckin’ Sandals Resort!”
I just nod. I feel silly standing there still in my towel holding the telephone receiver in one hand and Mariana’s note behind me with the other.
“Jesus Christ!” Sparty says, shaking his head in disgust. “I still can’t believe the boys in DC think this shitty plan is gonna work. It’s the Fidel Castro debacle all over again.” A reference to the CIA’s repeated failed assassination attempts against the Cuban dictator back in the ’60s.
Joe’s snarkiness seems to have cranked up a notch. I’m guessing h
e’s pissed that I left with Mariana last night and suspects that I got what he’s been craving.
“Go buy yourself some new clothes and await further instructions. You and Mariana will take a private jet from Guarulhos in three days, and we’ll need to use all the time between now and then to prep for the operation. Stay close to the cell phone I gave you.”
“You got it,” I say like a good soldier.
Joe looks at me one more time suspiciously—as if he does not trust me, which of course he does not—and heads toward the door. Before stepping out, he gives me one final piece of advice.
“Oh, if you have any thoughts of trying to slip away to some other country instead of living up to your end of the bargain, just know that there’s a highly specialized surveillance team watching your every move. You do anything out of the ordinary and it would be my pleasure to cancel this fucked-up operation and have you hanged for treason.”
As he slams the door behind him, I consider the thought of being public enemy number one. It is sobering.
Is there really a surveillance team? If so, then Joe must know about Mariana and me. In fact, wouldn’t there be cameras in the room, as well? Too many thoughts are now racing through my head too early in the morning. I decide to order some breakfast to help me focus. I call room service and request two eggs over easy, pão na chapa (traditional Brazilian bread grilled with butter), fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a triple espresso. As I hang up the phone, there is another knock at the door. What now?
I open the door to see a five-foot-two Chinese man. He has a big smile on his face and is wearing a light-blue seersucker suit with a white Panama hat. He carries a garment bag over his shoulder.
“Hey, Mr. Mister. Long time, no see!”
“Bruce W. Lee, my man!”
Still standing in my towel, I give the little man a bro’ hug in the doorway.
“Get your Chairman Mao-looking ass in here!” I instruct him.