Andy McCutcheonA Wolf In Sheiks Clothing
July 5th 2007 00:22
Chapter 1
A Wolf in Sheikhs Clothing
As I unravel the extraordinary events of my life, it becomes easier to understand who and what I have become. In retrospect, I had no concept of how far removed from a “normal life” I would be taken and no amount of training could have prepared me for what I am about to reveal to you.
In November 2000 I enjoyed two consecutive days without an assignment deciding to have dinner with my friend Richard at a trendy restaurant in downtown Toronto. His penchant for expensive wines, exquisite cuisine and jazz was evidenced by his portliness - a testament to years of overindulgence.
In addition to his epicurean passion, Richard’s other mistress was golf. He was a member of The Devil’s Pulpit Golf Club considered one of the most prestigious courses in the world.
Our friendship followed an introduction by a colleague and Richard subsequently introduced me to owners Scott Abbott and Chris Haney; former journalists who had invented the board game Trivial Pursuit in 1979. Their success had turned Scott and Chris into multi- millionaires and their wealth was put to use in the construction of the course.
I stood outside Le Saint Tropez restaurant in Toronto’s entertainment district awaiting Richard’s arrival. I rubbed my hands vigorously. I recognized Richard’s silhouette in the distance and as he began walking towards me; we shook hands briefly and moved inside.
The maitre d placed us adjacent to a fireplace near the crackling warmth and as we ordered, the conversation quickly turned to work.
‘Do you know anyone with ten million dollars?’ Richard asked.
‘Do you know why the rich get richer?’ he continued…
‘Well…’ He cut me off in mid-sentence…
‘There is this client of mine in London.’ ‘He has let me in on a program.’ ‘You need ten million to get in though.’ ‘Here’s how it works.’ ‘Currencies from every country are traded.’ ‘During each fluctuation they are leveraged.’ ‘They change hands and the profit is astronomical.’ ‘At select times during the year there are “openings” when additional money is needed.’ ‘You don’t even have to physically give them the money – they just leverage the money – it stays in your account.’ ‘When the “program” ends twelve months later, they pay you “forty million.”’
‘Shit’! ‘Does it really work?’- Richard lowered his voice.
‘I have a client in the program now.’ ‘If it works I’ll let you know.’ ‘How has work been for you?’ He queried.
‘Busy, I said.
‘That’s good – isn’t it?’ I nodded. I motioned the waiter, pointing to my glass.
‘Most of my friends have no concept of what I do.’ I stated.
‘You live such a charmed life!’ Richard quipped.
‘It’s ironic really - nobody knows the “real” truth Richard – nobody!’ ‘For one thing, I’m never at home anymore and it’s starting to cause problems.’
‘Why?’ he questioned.
‘Because when it’s my weekend to have my daughter Mackenzie I’m away, when I get back, the “bitch” won’t let me see her and says it isn’t my weekend.’
‘That’s a bit harsh - can’t you do anything?’
‘I’ve tried – believe me.’
‘I still don’t understand why you can’t see her?’ he responded.
‘She works for the “Cops!”’ ‘She knows “exactly” how to manipulate the system.”’
‘Getting off topic for a moment - I recommended your services to a friend of mine.’ They’re off to Africa!’
‘What’s going on there?’ I questioned.
‘I don’t know – but here’s their number.
After leaving the restaurant I closed the door of my SUV and searched for $20 to pay for parking. The napkin Richard had scribbled the number on fell out onto the seat. As I stared at it, I wondered if it were too late to call? I decided to find out and picked up the phone.
‘Hello,’ said the voice on the other end.
‘Good evening… is “Frankie” there?’
‘I’m Frankie - can I help you?’
‘I was given this number by…’ I was briefly interrupted…
‘Oh yes,’ she said – Richard told me about you.’ I paused.
‘I’m sorry…I assumed “Frankie” was a man?’
‘It’s short for “Francine.”’ The conversation continued…
‘Can we meet?’
‘Sure.’ ‘Do you know where “Runway 66” is - near the airport?’ She asked.
‘I knew “exactly” where Runway 66 was.’ I had provided their management with a 6-month security contract. It was also one of the “gentleman’s clubs” I frequented with celebrity clients – ‘but what was she doing there?’
45 minutes later I arrived and as I entered, it was dark and smoky. I made my way to the VIP lounge upstairs sitting alone in the corner. Moments later the figure of a woman emerged from the hazy darkness and sat beside me. She could have easily been a “supermodel.”
‘Hi – I’m “Francine.”’
‘Frankie?’ I retorted, laughing.
‘Shhh,’ she continued, placing her index finger on my lips. ‘Nobody here knows my real name.’ ‘My stage name is “Jennifer.”’
I got right to the point. ‘Why do you need a bodyguard?’ I asked her in a low voice.
‘Nairobi is a very dangerous place,’ she whispered; ‘I don’t want anything to happen to me’
‘Why are you going to Africa?’
‘For business – I’m going there for business.’ It was all I could pry from her.
‘And who is going to pay for my expenses?’ It seemed awkward, but I tried being upfront.
She responded, ‘”Sheikh Ahmed” - he is paying for everything.’
Our conversation left me feeling strangely uneasy. ‘Did she know what she was getting into?’ ‘Was I being seduced as a patsy?’ ‘East Africa is consumed with “warlords” and other infidels. Every second Muslim in Nairobi is named “Sheikh Ahmed,” including “Sheikh Ahmed Salim Swedan,” a Kenyan national who tops the FBI’s list of “most wanted” terrorists.
The next few days were business as usual and I gave little credence to Francine’s proposal until discovering a missed call and a USD$25,000.00 deposit into my bank account.
The Department of Foreign Affairs advised that visits to East Africa were not recommended. According to the Department of Health, if I stayed in Nairobi, perched 2,500’ above sea level, I was told the risk of contracting “Yellow Fever” was minimal. I couldn’t be certain of her itinerary? I needed the shot! I have a phobia of needles – but took to the immunization like a “heroin addict.”
I have found through experience, that there is no substitute for local intelligence. In light of the travel advisories and Francine’s ambiguity, my instincts told me I would need as much information as I could gather.
The day we left, my driver picked me up and then took us both to the airport. The flight to Amsterdam was the shorter of two legs that concluded a 24- hour travel day.
When we arrived in Nairobi, we were met by a thin Negro man holding a placard that read “Andy & Francine”. He introduced himself as “Simon” and said he would be our driver while we were there.
‘Where’s David Kambe?’ Francine asked.
‘He was unable to make it.’ ‘Quick, get in – I’ll take you to your hotel.’
As we followed the winding suburban roads, I studied the landscape for recognizable signs; any indication that we were actually being taken to the hotel. Opening the window provided temporary relief from the stifling heat of the Serengeti.
Once stopped, I noticed a group of youths no older than nine or ten. They were filthy and unkempt, many of them without shoes or clothing, their bodies crawling with insects. They crowded our vehicle with hands outstretched, peering at us with their ghastly hollow faces, chanting something in Swahili.
‘Keep your hands in the car and do up the window’ I was told. ‘They will cut off your arm for that ring you are wearing,’ staring at me while glancing in the rear view mirror.
Our destination, The Silver Springs Hotel, was rated as a “five-star” property. Almost instantly however, I became aware of the widening gap in foreign standards. We checked in and gathered our luggage.
‘Where are “my” room keys?’ I asked Francine from the hallway.
‘These are the only one’s they gave me?’ she questioned, looking at them.
‘Ok.’ I’ll sort the accommodations out later – right now, I need a shower. ‘Do you want to shower first?’ I asked.
‘No I’ll unpack - you shower’ she said.
I adjusted the spigot to accommodate for my stature and waited - a trickle of lukewarm water was all it produced. ‘This “piece of shit,”’ I murmured.
By this time, naively unaware, Francine was wrapped in a towel and ready to replace me in the shower.
‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ I warned.
As Francine closed the door, I towelled off just outside. The sound of the water cascading off her body onto the shower floor was like a “mantra.” My eyes felt heavy. I thought I would lie on the bed momentarily and found myself drifting between states of consciousness.
I awoke suddenly – startled, feeling the sensation of warm wet kisses on my chest. I opened my eyes and saw that Francine had positioned herself over me; I had been oblivious to her actions. My body tingled. I felt the ends of her long blonde hair dancing on my shoulders as she pressed herself against me. Her scent was intoxicating.
When I first established this business, I had made a pact to remain professional at all times, which included never sleeping with a client! Turning her away however, proved difficult.
The phone rang sometime later. It was strangely disorienting, ‘Did I dream the whole thing?’ ‘Had our obvious physical attraction manifested itself?’
‘Did I break my own code of honour?’ I mumbled. I looked around for evidence. Francine was gone? The phone continued ringing – I answered. It was David Kambe.
‘Good morning – is this Andy?’
‘Yes.’ ‘David?’
‘Did I wake you?’ He asked.
‘Yeah kind of, what time is it?’
‘It’s 7:00am.’ He said.
I heard a knock at the door - ‘Hold on a minute David, there’s someone at the door – it was Francine. I covered the receiver.
‘C’mon, we have to meet David, we don’t have much time.’ I urged.
As one of only a few Caucasian guests, anonymity would be difficult. I spotted our driver Simon at the front doors with a man fitting David’s description. I introduced myself and once seated, I let Francine know I had made contact.
David revealed to us, that a meeting with “Sheikh Ahmed” would not be scheduled for today. Allegedly he was in Tanzania. In conversation, we learned Mr. Ahmed is the son of a former Zairian government Minister who had been assassinated in a coup in 1993. As the eldest son, according to Muslim tradition, he assumed responsibility for the family’s affairs. The Ahmed’s owned gold and diamonds mines and were allegedly, one of the wealthiest families in Africa.
Francine I discovered, intended on brokering the sale of a hotel located in Niagara Falls, valued at over USD$10,000,000.00. Buying the hotel gave the Ahmed’s the impetus to move money out of Africa, safe from war and strife in their own country, while providing Francine a vehicle to buy her way out of the sex trade.
Later, on our way into Nairobi, Simon recommended staying away from banks if we wanted the best exchange on our money into Kenyan Schillings. Simon reassured us that he “knew someone” who would facilitate the exchange if we kept quiet. The “black market” in Nairobi is rampant, in epidemic proportions.
We drove down a narrow laneway and stopped short. There were corrugated tin shacks on one side and what looked like a market on the other.
‘Give me the money you want exchanged,’ prompted Simon.
‘Here’s $300.00.’
As Simon disappeared I opened the window looking towards the market. The stench was appalling. I have a weak stomach for “off” smells and started “dry reaching.” I was sickened to learn that it wasn’t a market at all, yet people picked through it confident of what they could find. Shrouded in flies, they searched through piles of rotting fish carcasses and decaying produce.
Simon returned a short while later handing me KES$21,000.00. We spent the remainder of the day shopping for artefacts at the local Westland’s Market in suburban Nairobi.
As the sun dipped below the Serengeti Plains, David Kambe treated us to an exotic meal at “Carnivore’s,” bordering the Nairobi National Park. We dined under the stars on local specialties including “crocodile” “antelope” and “zebra,” prepared on a unique outdoor BBQ.
Several days passed, before word of “Sheikh Ahmed’s” impending return to Kenya and as word of his arrival reached us, we were on a game drive in a safari camp to the north, in “Masai Mara.” Quietly, I doubted that a meeting would even eventuate.
Upon our return from Masai Mara, I had been dying to try the hotel’s spa facility and stood there anticipating what lie beyond their doors. I undressed, making my way into the steam room. It felt as though I had walked into a volcano. I was called by the attendant moments later and left, beaded in sweat. I entered the massage room and was startled to discover a young Negro woman standing in front of me. I felt self-conscious for perhaps the first time in my life?
‘Get undressed and lay on the table’ she ordered. I disrobed and positioned myself “face down” on the table and she began working the oily elixir into my every muscle. When she paused sometime later, I assumed the massage had finished and scanned the room for my towel to cover myself.
‘Roll over,’ she remarked. I was mortified!
My instinctive thought was, ‘Please don’t get a hard-on now.’ My pulse quickened, forcing even more blood to my extremities.
As I left the spa David Kambe rang, indicating a meeting with “Sheikh Ahmed” was imminent. Simon picked us up, driving us to David’s residence. A large steel gate embellished in razor wire greeted us. David met us at the door.
‘What kind of place is this?’ I remember thinking to myself. ‘Barb wired gates – steel bars on the windows?’
‘Please – sit down’ he insisted. ‘Mr. Ahmed will be here shortly.’ Suddenly - a knock at the door.
I had no pre-conceptions of whom I was about to meet. Instinctively I knew that everyone is affected differently by wealth. The “Sheikh,” who was capable of owning a small country was no exception. He was tall maybe 6’4” with defined facial features. He was soft spoken and apologized for his absence, while introducing “Daniel.”
‘Why is a “Chemist” here?’ I pondered. My mind raced wildly in search of a plausible answer. ‘Is there a hidden agenda?’ ‘Maybe this really is a “front” for something else?’
“Sheikh Ahmed” produced some official looking papers and handed them to me; I in turn handed them to Francine. Another knock was heard at the door! My heart pounded.
I wasn’t expecting anyone and strained to peer through the curtains. It was dark, but I was able to make out a group of men, armed with AK-47 assault rifles. The signage on their vehicle was barely legible – “Securicor.”
“I know Securicor.” I thought. They are a multi-national security company with a broad range of cash in transit services and offices all over the world. ‘What are they doing here?’ I thought silently. As the front door was pushed open, several Negro males entered the house. Two brandished weapons and the other four carried two large steel cases.
Sheikh Ahmed simultaneously produced two keys that were dangling on his gold neck chain. Walking over he inserted the keys. As he raised the lid of the case, I was taken aback.
Each case was filled with crisp USD$100.00 bills, bundled into $10,000.00 denominations. The cases contained over USD$10,000,000.00 in “cash!”
The Sheikh handed several bills to Daniel, who was busy measuring something in a bowl.
‘Put these on,’ he said, handing us each a protective breathing apparatus.
Once each of the bills had been soaked in the chemical solution, he dried them using a clothes iron. It was surreal. “Sheikh Ahmed” began explaining Daniels actions.
‘Banks in this country are very unstable,’ he said. ‘If you have a lot of money, you would never keep it in a bank, that’s why I use Securicor’s services.’
‘Why is Daniel using a chemical?’ I asked.
‘Each bill is marked with a ten-digit security code.’ He continued… ‘The code identifies the owner - the money cannot be spent while the security code is intact.’ ‘Daniel has prepared a formula that dissolves the code’s ink – but not the ink on the currency.’
My first instinct was that the money was counterfeit, but on closer inspection the bills displayed all of the known identifiers.
‘Those are for you to keep,’ he said, handing us the pressed $100 bills. ‘Now,’ ‘let’s get down to business.’ He paused. ‘I have reviewed the materials’ ‘I think the hotel is a good investment.’ He continued… ‘As you can see, I have the money to buy it; here is payment in full.’ ‘This is the way I do business!’ ‘When do you fly back to Canada?’ He queried.
‘Tomorrow night.’ Francine answered.
‘My money has to be “cleaned” first.’ ‘Unfortunately, there is only one company that has a machine - it’s in London.’ He turned to face David. ‘David, call them and see if they can do it immediately.’ ‘Andy – will you fly on my jet and take the money to London – to have it cleaned?’ I hesitated… ‘I will pay your expenses – of course.’ He said confidently. ‘I have to return to Tanzania tomorrow to my family’s mining operations.’
You could’ve heard a pin drop as Simon returned us to the hotel. Francine was fraught with anxiety knowing she had inadvertently involved me in something I wanted no part of.
‘Are you out of your mind Francine?’ ‘Please tell me you aren’t thinking about transporting, or worse still, asking “me” to transport over $10,000,000.00 across the borders of three different countries?’ ‘Do you know you could go to prison for doing that? ‘
‘I should talk to Richard – maybe he can put me in the “program?”’
‘You know about that?’ I asked.
‘Certainly,’ she replied coyly.
The next morning we ordered a cab and headed to the airport. It’s illegal to remove money from Kenya and we changed our remaining schillings at the terminal to avoid any risk of foreign prosecution.
We had a scheduled eight-hour layover in Amsterdam and decided to wile away the hours by taking a sightseeing tour of the city. On our return to the airport we were informed our layover was going to be prolonged due to a massive explosion in Terminal 3.
The airport was evacuated and immediately closed, amidst speculation of a terrorist bombing. There were emergency crews everywhere. We were temporarily relocated to the lobby of a nearby hotel, requiring us to obtain regular news updates on Dutch television.
When flights resumed, ours was one of the first scheduled to go.
‘Grab your shit and get on the plane.’ I urged Francine.
As we got airborne and the gear came up on the B-747, I heard the flaps retract. I looked across the horizon and reflected on the events of the past 10 days. As I did, a few pressing thoughts emerged.
‘For the past 15 years I have hurled my life into harms way more times than I care to remember.’ ‘It seems insane really - a willingness to take a bullet for someone?’ ‘Why do I keep doing it? - Going from place to place, private jet to exclusive hotel, limousine to exotic restaurant – while living in a world of unimaginable luxury that others can only dream of?’ It all appears so simple when you look at it like that – so why has my life become so complex?
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