This Desert Life
Michael glared out into the ice-coated tundra that surrounded their transport vehicle. He took a pull from his bottle of warm coffee as he half-listened to his commanding officer reeled off the list of things he needed to do to complete his mission.
"Under no circumstances," General Kauffman informed him, "should you look the Commissar directly in the eyes," he said, pointing at a line on the document he held. "NEVER. Under any circumstances! Is that clear Westen?"
Michael nodded his head, glancing out onto the dust storm kicking up outside. "Where's the encampment?"
"A few miles north," he tossed Michael his briefcase. "Your cover ID is Michael Deangelis. You're an American nuevo riche playboy who's looking to own a nuclear warhead of your own. Your target is Alexasder Krazmanovich, known as the Commissar, an expatriate living an opulent life as a migrant sheilk figure in the Arabian Desert. He has several connections in nuclear arms, and we think he has a stash of dirty bomb material. The goal is to get the Commissar to agree to an exchange - your money for his nukes. When you've got him on the hook, say 'and I hear it's pretty in Kabul this spring.' That's the signal for our tactical forces, got it?"
"I've been debriefed twice," Michael said. The material was ingrained upon his brain, and would likely remain there no matter what happened to the rest of his body.
"If you hear the signal, you get out of there," he replied, opening the hatch door to the Sherman tank. "Good luck, Westen."
Michael returned his C.O's worry with an easy smile. "Keep a little for yourself. I won't need it."
There was a bark of laugher from the man just as Michael landed upon the hot sands before him. Pushing his shades into place, he strode confidently into the storm, the compass in his hand leading him in the correct direction.
He had been born for this moment, perhaps - trained for it, certainly, after a couple of years among spies and government officials at West Point. He had climbed to this height - earned it - through sheer will, by being the best at everything he did, by making himself noticeable among the elite and the wealthy.
He smirked as the tent came into view. Perfect coordinates, as always, and he knew the guys they had in the Commissar's employ would be ready to back him up. When he finally made it to the Commissar's tent, in a fully-pressed suit still unbesmirched, he had a full plan right on the tip of his tongue.
Unfortunately, the sight of the guy's bodyguards proved tongue-freezingly paralyzing.
The men glared up at Michael and, for a good four seconds, he stared up at them. Then, abruptly, came the words. "Dengellis, here to see Commissar Stravosi."
He was ushered into the body of the tent, where voluptuous women lounged among palm fronds and splashed in a small artificial pool. The well-muscled bodyguards eyed Michael's tailored suit as they walked to a squat man resting peacefully upon a pile of pillows.
His voice comes out in a low-pitched Valley accent. "Dengellis."
The Commissar gives him a handshake so firm that Michael lets out a muffled sound of pain - an intentional action on his part, Michael knew. He immediately exaggerated the whine; his drunken mama's boy needed to seem more vulnerable and weak if he were to get the deal he wanted.
"Oww!" His eyes clouded over with tears (which was absolutely not an act). "That hurt!" He complained.
"Comrade, you are cracking my spine up!" proclaimed The Commissar, who slapped Michael on the back. "But first, we party!"
Michael had expected this and, as per his usual training, took two sips to every five of the Commissar's. That was followed by a performance by several very young and attractive belly dancers, all of whom competed for Michael's affection. He put on a good show of giving them the Spoiled Playboy Aesthetic - inappropriate slapping of buttocks included. Then he lay out lines of Aspartame "cocaine" and snorted them off the ass of one of the girls, carefully presenting the Commissar with the genuine article.
They were almost immediately dear friends.
"You are one hell of party man!" he says approvingly, smacking Michael one more time before calling for another round of drinks. Michael keeps an impressively clear head while appearing to be completely wasted, which is quite a feat considering how much booze is being passed around the table.
At the end of the night, they have a tentative plan to meet for lunch and Michael ends up receiving the services of a well-endowed redheaded adventuress. "I left life in the convent. It bored me," she tells him, as she toes off his pants (he finds out later that she's the Commissar's fifth wife).
Having sex undercover (not under the covers) is a new task for him. Somehow, he pulls it off and leaves the girl smiling and half-dressed among the damask-covered pillows of the guest tent.
****
Michael sleeps on another lot of pillows, right beside the Commissar's favored brother. At the end of the day they hunt wild horses for meat with long-range rifles and he has to fake his experience with the thing (not that he actually wants to shoot wild horses). The Commissar - transplanted wannabe sheik that he was - served a traditional Moroccan dinner to the entire company.
Finally, at last, during a dinner of rosewater almonds and lean horse meat, Michael mentioned in he might be interested in selling nukes across the border.
His target stared at him, hard-eyed. "Even a man such as you has enemies?"
"A couple," he said dismissively. Somehow, he dragged the topic of discussion back on the nukes, and where he might be able to get one.
The man had dirty bomb making materials in storage in Kabul. They might be able to make a deal, but that's only if Michael was willing to make a deal with him. Of course he was.
The Comissar leaned in. "You must use this wisely," he said. "Against a true enemy."
Michael looked him straight in the eye and agreed. A bundle of green cash was exchanged for a key to a stronghold in the desert, and Michael knew that his superiors would be thrilled with it. "I'm glad it's in Kabul. I heart it's pretty there in the spring."
Dead silence.
"It's...very pretty there." He struggled, his face wearing a parody of a grin. The Commissar barely noticed, as high as he was. Then the right words clicked in Michael's head. "I hear it's pretty in Kabul in the spring!"
The entry of his men - dressed as guards - didn't have a dramatic impact, but they invaded at just the right time. They found Michael sitting on the ground, picking his teeth with a leftover skewer, confident he'd end up with a commendation for this.
What he ended up with was a firm reaming from his CO.
Michael would go on to other missions, some of undeniable greatness, others fools ' errands that any man with his determination could have completed. But the older he got the more often he would look back on that day and hear the Commissar's voice telling him to use his force against a true enemy.