“Ahmed” has been annoying Gretchen with requests for an appointment since Monday, but she’s been putting him off, of course. “There’s no way,” she emphatically told me, “that running the air purification system overnight will get rid of the stench. He’s got to be the last consultation on a Friday or working Saturday, as usual, or find yourself somebody else to come in and take care of receptions the next morning. You remember what happened the last time we let him come in on a weekday that wasn’t followed by a long holiday weekend or at least a Sunday, don’t you?”
Indeed I do. A typical American would think a ripe durian fruit smells like, well, the most charitable description I have ever heard is rotting garbage on a hot day. And then there’s Surströmming, the fermented herring dish so beloved by the Norwegians, which would cause the typical American (and truth be told, also a lot of Norwegians) to run out of the room in which a single can of the stuff has been opened. Well, one might think that folks with such tastes for traditional national delicacies should be pretty sophisticated in their olfactory reactions, but one would be dead wrong when it comes to the Legendary Redolent Arab, my esteemed client who calls himself “Ahmed” and always pays me in cash. No, as it happens, their noses are no match for him, as Gretchen found out the hard way.
The one time I let “Ahmed” be my last consultation appointment on a weekday other than Friday (it was a Wednesday, in fact), the next day a petroleum economist from the Norwegian embassy and a Filipino member of the International Atomic Energy Agency were the 8:00 and 9:30 AM clients, each scheduled for their standard ninety minute consultations. Both of them became so ill from the lingering odor they couldn’t manage more than ten minutes in the reception area.
Possibly, it might have been that the sight of Gretchen sitting at her desk wearing a gas mask had some subliminal psychological effect. But be that as it may, about eight minutes after his arrival, the Norwegian politely requested to “borrow” Gretchen’s wastebasket, puking up a hearty Norwegian breakfast of smoked salmon, salami, sardines in mustard sauce, waffles and lingonberry jam, beef filet, chicken liver, whale meat jerky, hard boiled eggs, milk, cereal, blueberries, coffee, aqavit and black tea with ginger in it, subsequently beating a hasty retreat outside to the corridor and down the stairs, making for the parking garage below.
To her credit, Gretchen bore that like a soldier and calmly gathered up the sturdy plastic wastebasket liner, tied it off with a quarter inch rubber band and stoically transported it a dumpster in the basement. But when the Filipino arrived, despite his previous experience with durians, termite paste, hot pepper pickled chicken anuses and sundry other similar tropical delights, after no more than seven minutes, he became not only disgusted and nauseous, but also enraged. He confronted poor Gretchen with a gargantuan rant, in which, among other things, he demanded to know how I could charge the kind of rates I do when my office smelled worse than the pudenda of the most promiscuous streetwalkers of Mindanao; after which he covered the floor with a technicolor yawn that would be the envy of the drunkest Australian who ever lived, and then swooned dead away like an adolescent Southern Baptist minister’s daughter confronted with the crimson reality of her first menses.
Yeah, no doubt about it, I’m lucky Gretchen didn’t walk right out and never come back, and the reason I know that is she’s not shy about reminding me. Say what you want about archetypal Ugly American tourists, believe me, Dear Reader, you had better not work with foreigners in Washington DC unless you have a cast iron stomach. And dear Gretchen, who grew up Amish in Pennsylvania Dutch country, effectively living in the eighteenth century, has seen a cow expel a premature fetus infected with brucellosis, and smelled it, too. Not that any of this compares to “Ahmed,” of course. No, he’s in a league of his own, for sure.
I charged him seven times the standard rate and and as usual, he paid in cash, up front, without a peep. Maybe the man could make Satan so sick to His stomach He would consider apologizing for His sins to God Almighty, but I have to admit, no client has ever paid me more money per minute of ackenpuckey. And for that, I thank him.
So “Ahmed” was once again my last client on a Friday afternoon before a non-working weekend. And yes, once again, Gretchen had earned triple overtime preparing the office furniture by covering all fabric and upholstered surfaces in eight mil gas impermeable plastic, afterwards beating a hasty retreat for the Metro train a good half hour before his scheduled arrival. And once again I ate a sandwich snack of limburger cheese and onions, smeared generous dollops of pathologist’s camphor under each of my nostrils, and waited at my desk for his reeking arrival.
“My dear friend Tom,” he sighed as he sank into the couch in front of the picture window overlooking the White House, “this has not been a good week for Ahmed.”
“How so?” I politely ventured.
“My new friends, the Saudis,” he morosely replied, “have much undeserved troubles.”
“Such as what?” I pressed.
“Prince Abdul Mohsen bin Walid bin Abdul Aziz al-Saud,” he solemnly intoned, “was arrested in Lebanon this week.”
“Oh, yes,” I dryly responded, “he was caught at Beirut-Rafik Hariri International Airport, his private jet stuffed with two tons of speed.”
My guest’s eyebrows shot up as he adopted a quizzical countenance. “Speed?”
“Amphetamines,” I clarified. “Specifically, (RS)-1,3-dimethyl- 7-[2-(1-phenylpropan-2-ylamino)ethyl]purine- 2,6-dione, or amphetaminoethyltheophylline, otherwise known as phenethylline or Captagon. When orally ingested, enzymatic action decomposes it into equimolar moieties of methamphetamine and 1,3-dimethylxanthine, a structural analog of caffeine and theobromine. Although very few Europeans, Asians, Africans or Americans like the stuff, or have even heard of it, for that matter, Captagon is the drug of choice in the Gulf region. Something about it seems to appeal to Arabian sensibilities – I’ve been told the high is akin to going through a hand full of old fashioned Benzedrine tablets accompanied by sipping eight or ten cups of strong black coffee.”
“Always Ahmed is waiting when he comes to visit his good friend Tom,” he replied, “to hear such long words. Ahmed does not understand them, but he knows his good friend Tom does, and that is why Ahmed comes.”
“And the Arabs go for it in a big way, too,” I continued. “Captagon presently accounts for over half of the drug addiction cases in Saudi Arabia, for example.”
“If Ahmed’s friend Tom says these things,” he nodded, “then they must be true.”
“Okay,” I continued, “so it’s not exactly a secret that every side in the Syrian conflict uses Captagon to keep their troops alert, aggressive and fearless, just like every combatant nation in World War II used the amphetamines of that era for the same purposes. And it’s likewise pretty generally known that the Saudis have been backing Sunni combatants pretty much everywhere in the Middle East, no matter what side of which fight they’re on.”
“Yes, yes,” he agreed, “my friends the Saudis, they love their Sunni brothers and help them in many, many ways.”
“Such as supplying them with two tons of Captagon” I noted. “Let’s see – if each pill containing a fifty milligram dose is ten percent active ingredient and therefore weighs five hundred milligrams, that’s… about three million, six hundred thousand doses, which would work out to one hundred and eighty one kilograms, or about four hundred pounds of pure Captagon. I’d say that most drug smugglers caught with that kind of weight would be up for several years in prison, at the very least, no matter where they got busted. And actually, in many countries, including Malaysia, which, last time I checked was a very pious Sunni Muslim nation, such a criminal would be executed. But I don’t suppose your Saudi Prince is worried about anything like that. I would suppose that the punishment he receives will serve as an object lesson to the entire world as to what the Saudis can get away with.”
“My friends, the Saudis,” he objected, “do much and give much, helping the Sunnis in many, many places. They are very, very generous.”
“So,” I surmised, “you’re suggesting that this Saudi prince and his accomplices be excused for smuggling and their involvement in what the Lebanese are calling the largest drug bust in the history of the Beirut-Rafik airport?”
“The prince was only trying to help,” he asserted.
“You realize,” I pointed out, “that being arrested in the biggest drug bust in the history of the Beirut-Rafik airport is pretty damn significant, right? I mean, we’re not exactly talking about the biggest drug bust in the history of the Moose Jaw Saskatchewan airport here, are we? Considering the amount of drugs that have been smuggled through the Beirut-Rafik airport, we’re discussing things at a Guinness Book of World Records level, now aren’t we?”
“The prince is a big man,” he vouched, “with a big heart. He cares very much about his Sunni brothers. This is the world record he should get.”
“That’s a very interesting perspective on the situation,” I allowed. “But what’s all this to you, anyway? What makes all this a big deal as far as you are concerned?”
“It is a big deal to Ahmed,” he revealed, “because Ahmed has a friend who was the one that sold the Captagon to the prince.”
“You have… a friend… who sold the prince two tons of speed?” I gingerly sought to confirm.
“Yes, yes, as my good friend Toms says, ‘speed’ – and two tons of it; the four hundred pounds of pure Captagon in three and one half million pills.”
“And,” I cautiously inquired, “you want me to tell you what your… friend… should do now that the Saudi prince to whom he sold the drugs has been apprehended with them?”
“Ahmed’s good friend Tom is right,” he answered. “Ahmed cares very much about his friend, who has made this big mistake.”
“You and he are… very close, then?” I probed.
“Yes, yes, very, very close” he insisted, “we are like cousins… like brothers. Yes, that is it – he his like my young brother, like my son.”
“I don’t suppose,” I ventured, “that this… friend… of yours discussed this... arrangement with you prior to the exchange of… merchandise and funds?”
“Oh, no, no,” he assured me, “Ahmed knew nothing! Nothing! Only after the big arrest at the airport, does this friend come to Ahmed and tell everything!”
“Including,” I asked, “how much money he made?”
“Not much, not much,” he insisted. “My friend, like the prince, is also Sunni and wants to help. So he did not take too much baksheesh – five million seven hundred fifty-two thousand only.”
“Your friend,” I observed, “is quite the philanthropist. Where is he now?”
“He… he is in United States,” Ahmed divulged. “But not here in Washington. He is… somewhere else. California, maybe; or Alaska. Maybe Florida.”
“Of course he is,” I concurred. “It seems to me, however, that under these circumstances, your… friend… needs a lawyer. But I’m not a lawyer, I’m a policy consultant. Has your… friend… spoken with an attorney about his… predicament?”
“Ahmed’s friend,” he told me, “does not want to talk to a lawyer before Ahmed talks to Ahmed’s good friend Tom and finds out what to do first.”
“Okay, well,” I recommended, “the first thing your… friend… needs to do is retain an attorney who can advise him on which actions he can take with respect to this situation that are legal and which actions are not.”
“Ahmed will tell him this today,” he promised. “But Ahmed’s friend does not want to be put in jail. He knows the prince will not go to jail, so why should he?”
“Understood,” I replied. “But I can’t give you any advice on an actual situation involving real people and real crimes without running the risk of becoming your friend’s accomplice.”
A long moment of silence passed as “Ahmed” considered my statement. “Then what can Ahmed do?” he finally beseeched.
“Well,” I hinted, “I’m always open to hypothetical questions.”
“Hypo… hypo… hypo…. thetical?” he stammered.
“That’s right,” I confirmed. “We could sit here until midnight if we felt like it, talking about what might be done in various possible circumstances. We’d be discussing hypothetical problems and hypothetical solutions. There would be no danger that either of us would inadvertently do something illegal then.”
“Oh,” he exclaimed as his eyes lit up, “Ahmed understands now. So, my good friend Tom, Ahmed has a friend who has made a big mistake…”
“No,” I corrected, “Ahmed asks, hypothetically, what someone would do to stay out of jail if that person made a big mistake, such as selling a huge shipment of contraband to a rich idiot who gets caught with it afterward.”
“Okay, my friend Tom,” he responded with a sly smile, “Make believe Ahmed asks this question.”
“In that case, hypothetically speaking,” I continued, “my suggestion would be that this person should go to a country which has no extradition treaties with any of the nations involved in the contraband smuggling incident.”
“And where, hypothetically speaking,” he parroted, doing his best to follow my example, “would this person get a list of places like that?”
“Such a list could be prepared,” I stated, “provided it were to be used for informational purposes only.”
“Good friend Tom,” he grinned, “Ahmed would appreciate such information, for informational purposes only. But what if, hypothetically speaking, such a person did not wish to leave where they are?”
“You mean,” I sought to clarify, “what if they wanted to stay in their home country?”
“Or maybe in a country where their friends in the Gulf have made them welcome,” he elaborated. “Either one.”
“In that case,” I said, “hypothetically speaking, this person we are discussing would probably find it most expedient to frame somebody else for the crime.”
“Frame?” he repeated with a puzzled tone.
“Make it appear that another individual arranged the sale of contraband,” I explained. “And make sure the local authorities arrest and prosecute them for it.”
“This is a ‘frame?’” he asked.
“Yes,” I confirmed, “that is the figure of speech used in English – pick out a patsy and frame them for the crime.”
“Patsy?” he implored. “What kind of person is that? Like a pansy, maybe?”
“No, no,” I replied, “not like a pansy – a patsy is a person who can be used to take the blame for something bad.”
“Oh,” he nodded, “you mean like a chump, a sucker.”
“Yes,” I confirmed. “If the hypothetical contraband transaction involved any low-level accomplices, such as drivers, runners, bag men – that’s a guy who delivers cash for the conspirators involved, by the way – or even bodyguards, they could, hypothetically, serve as patsies to be framed for the crime. And if the patsy has a record with the local authorities, then so much the better.”
“And what… hypothetically,” “Ahmed” inquired, putting the newest addition to his English vocabulary through its paces, “would this…. hypothetical… person do to frame this… hypothetical patsy?”
“Hypothetically,” I said, “he would cause a large amount of money and a large amount of hypothetical contraband to be placed in some location under the hypothetical patsy’s control, such as the patsy’s home, vehicle or office. Then he would anonymously contact the local authorities and tell them that the hypothetical patsy is the one who sold the contraband to the hypothetical rich idiot, and let them know where to find the evidence.”
“But the prince would know this is not true,” he objected. “The prince would know who really sold him the Captagon.”
“The prince,” I assured him, “will claim that he thought those boxes on his private jet contained nothing but legitimate cargo. Therefore, he would never say who sold him the Captagon, nor even admit that he ever bought any Captagon from anyone, much less place it aboard his private jet and attempt to fly it out of Lebanon. Therefore, our hypothetical drug dealer’s identity would be safe from disclosure.”
“Yes, yes,” he chortled, “Ahmed understands now. He will tell his friend about this… hypothetical talk. But how much money? How much Captagon? How does the hypothetical man contact the hypothetical local authorities… ah, how say… anonymously… and not get caught? What if hypothetical Interpol is hypothetically watching? What if hypothetical prince is bigger hypothetical idiot than Ahmed or Tom can imagine and has already told police in Lebanon everything? How can hypothetical man get inside Lebanon drug police to find out? How much hypothetical baksheesh will hypothetical man have to pay and to who? Can hypothetical man pay baksheesh to Lebanon drug policeman to search patsy’s house for the money and Captagon? Or maybe, can hypothetical man pay baksheesh to have Lebanon drug policeman take money and Captagon from police warehouse, take to patsy’s house and have policeman say he found them there? What is most cheap and safe way for hypothetical man to frame hypothetical patsy?”
“Hypothetically,” I observed, “a detailed hypothetical plan could be prepared which answers all of those questions, and more.”
“For informational purposes only!” “Ahmed” shouted as he leapt up, ran around the back of my desk and gave me a crushing hug. “Hypothetical for informational purposes only!”
“Correct,” I sputtered, gently pushing him away as his fumes overcame the last defenses of my pathologist’s camphor. “Hypothetically, it could be completed within six hours and transmitted to a hypothetical recipient in an encrypted form immediately thereafter.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” he chortled as he made for the oak doors leading to the reception area. “Hypothetically, Ahmed would like that very much! Thank you, good friend Tom!”
“Hypothetically, of course,” I reminded him as he grabbed a door knob.
“Yes, yes,” he grinned, “Very much hypothetically!”