The Clandestine Consultant
Page 20
I booked a suite at the Fontainebleau, the same hotel where James Bond first matched wits against his nemesis Auric Goldfinger in the third James Bond movie. Every night since, I have been eating and drinking too much and partying with a different Latina girl, each of which has been cosmetically enhanced and is nothing but trouble. I must have dropped at least fifty grand since I’ve been here. I have put my business, and my thoughts of retribution against Yuri, on indefinite hold. Right now, just like Phil Collins, I guess I don’t care.
A loud annoying beeping noise snaps me back into reality.
“Aha!” yells the old man with the metal detector, which is now squawking even louder and quicker.
I look over to see him bent over, his fat ass sprouting from the thong staring back at me, digging something out of the sand. He stands up straight and holds before him what appears to be a gold wedding band.
“Success!” he declares triumphantly.
“Congratulations,” I offer.
“Gracias,” he replies.
“Is it valuable?”
“Who cares?” he shrugs.
His response confuses me, so I decide to follow up.
“Why bother to waste your time coming out here if you don’t care about the value of what you find?”
“My friend,” smiles the old man, “as you get older, you realize that life is more about the search for something rather than the discovery. Hell, I’ve been out here every morning for the past two weeks and haven’t found anything. I was about ready to throw this thing in the ocean. However, this silly piece of jewelry has just given me a shot of adrenaline and the will to keep searching again tomorrow. Life is good right now.”
The old man is so proud of himself that all I can say back to him is, “Good hunting.”
I start walking back to my hotel.
After a quick shower in my room, I throw on a pair of tan linen pants, a navy-blue polo, and Havaianas flip-flops. I head down to breakfast and take a seat at a small table near the hotel’s massive swimming pool. My morning run has inspired me, and I decide it’s time to start eating healthier again. A pretty young Hispanic waitress, whom I assume to be a college student, takes my order. I request an egg-white omelet, a bowl of granola with fruit, a tall orange juice, and a double espresso. Before she leaves, the waitress asks me if I’d like a newspaper. Being out of the media loop for the past few weeks, I simply reply with a nod to indicate yes.
A minute later, the girl returns with a copy of the Miami Herald. She sets it down in front of me, and the first thing I see is the bold headline, Latin America Dictator Dies Suddenly—Foreign Minister Assumes Control of Country.
I can feel the bump in my heart rate. So, it’s done. The slow poison I discreetly dumped into Don Pedro’s drink worked. I read deeper into the article, as beads of sweat form on my forehead:
According to the statement put out by the president’s office, the leader known as Don Pedro died of complications believed to be the result of pneumonia. He had taken power of the country twenty years ago as part of a bloody coup. Ever since, the country has suffered massive economic hardship, human rights violations, and corruption scandals. The Foreign Minister, his half-brother, Rodrigo Hernandez, was named successor on a temporary basis. No word on when or if elections will be held to confirm Mr. Hernandez’s claim to the presidency.
***
Time to come clean. Back at the party at the consulate in São Paulo, I cut a secret deal with Rodrigo. I promised him that I could cleanly kill his brother, using the special poison provided by the Americans, so he could take control of the country unopposed. As part of the deal, Rodrigo would have to tell Don Pedro the USG was planning to kill him. This would free me from the agency, via the clean passport, private jet, and cash provided by El Presidente.
Once I secured those details, it was easy for me to get close enough to Don Pedro and administer the poison. The most important part of the plan was that Mariana could not know about the deal. Therefore, Rodrigo had to promise me that when he ratted out Mariana to Don Pedro, she would not be harmed and would be returned safely to Brazil as soon as he took power.
It was the only part of the plan that worried me. I still had no idea what had become of Mariana. For all I knew she could be sitting in a prison cell, or worse, being raped and tortured daily by prison guards.
***
The waitress returns with my double espresso and orange juice. I tell her to cancel the rest of my order and bring me my check immediately. I’ve essentially come to my senses. I can’t spend any more time in the United States. I slug down the coffee and juice, and twenty minutes later I’ve packed my suitcase and grab a taxi headed for Miami International Airport. I am checking flight schedules on my phone en route.
***
A few hours have passed and I am now sitting in upper class on a Virgin Atlantic flight to London’s Heathrow Airport. When I land, I will send Mariana an email from the business lounge, which I am drafting on my laptop at the moment. It reads:
Mariana,
By now you and your colleagues have figured out that Rodrigo and I had a deal in place, which was slightly different from our deal. Either way, in the end, you got what you wanted and I got what I wanted. I just hope that you were not in any way harmed during the process. If so, please accept my deepest apologies. I would tell you not to look for me, but I know that will not be the case. Sadly, for both of us, you will never see me again. But I hope the search will be more rewarding than the discovery. I truly wish things had worked out differently between us.
Paul
In a few hours I will touch down in Europe. From there, I will vanish, never to see Mariana, or the US government’s covert operations team, again.
. . . NOW YOU DON’T
Location: Somewhere in Spain
Time: Unknown
So, here we are, at the end of our time together. This is where my story ends for you, but not for me—and certainly not for Yuri. My hunt for him will not be concluded until I find him and exact my revenge. Once I have made him suffer for what he did to me, I will set my sites on my next target: the sheik.
By the way, I am an expert marksman with both handguns and rifles. I could have easily shot that peacock—or wounded it—if I wanted.
I am taking the Alta Velocidad Española across Spain, from Madrid to Seville in business class. I learned from a trusted source that Yuri might be visiting one of his many girlfriends there, a flamenco dancer named Olivia who is giving a performance this week.
As for Mariana, I never heard back from her. She might still be in Rodrigo’s custody, or she might be back in Brazil, suffering through her marriage to Joe Sparty. Maybe she’s divorced now and out of the government. I am laughing just thinking of the idea of someday reconnecting with her. For two people living in a world so different from ordinary men and women, the idea is ludicrous—but still intriguing. Even more so is that most people have no idea that the world I inhabit even exists. Ignorance is not bliss—it is just ignorant.
***
This is my life. I am a consultant to some of the world’s worst actors.
My name is Paul . . . or is it Marcus? Perhaps Noah, or Abraham?
I won’t tell you because I don’t know you, which means I don’t trust you. And don’t try to find out. If you—or my former American friends —try, for example, to find the transcripts of a Paul Ward who graduated from the University of Michigan Law School, there will be little to no record of him. A little further digging will reveal that a Paul Ward died in a car crash two weeks after his graduation, nearly twenty years ago. I assumed his identity as a precautionary measure, just in case I was ever detained by the authorities. I had rehearsed everything I told my handlers, continually in private for the past decade.
I confess that I have lied to you about many of the names, dates, and locations of my exploits. Did you really think that I would allow you enough clues to piece together my true identity? I’m not six feet four inches tall; that�
�s too specific information. Hell, I don’t even quote Sun Tzu. Rather, I prefer the teachings of Thucydides from his book, The Peloponnesian War. It’s been said that General Colin Powell kept the following quote from Thucydides on his desk throughout his military and diplomatic career: “Of all manifestations of power, restraint impresses men most.”
You see, anonymity is my most valuable—and marketable—asset.
Who knows, you may have had a conversation with me in an airport. Or, I could be sitting next to you right now. But if you want to know what I’ve been up to, just to turn on the television, log onto the internet, or pick up a newspaper. Search the headlines of what is going on with a king, sheik, warlord, or dictator, and you might start reading about the results of my handiwork.
Such is my life as a clandestine consultant and this is where I leave you.
Acknowledgments
My sincerest thanks to all clandestine consultants who shared their stories with me and continue to shape world events . . . you know who you are, even though I may not know your true identities.