LHR

Diplomats are the most voracious and beguiling smugglers of all. The diplomatic pouch, protected by treaties, mystery, and tamper-proof seals, is the corrupt personal shipping tool of the political gangs that run the world. Our Winston Churchill used it to get his Cuban cigars during the War. I scurry through the back rooms and hallways of the beast that is Heathrow, like the spy ramp rat that I am, poking and prodding with the latest technology to help my gang stay on top of all the other dirty, filthy, tricky gangs that lead the peoples of our planet.

Tamara Nikolaevna is my current LHR subject of fascination. She comes through almost monthly. I know her color lipstick, what tampons she prefers, that she rarely enjoys shagging her husband, and that she is un-overcome-ably disappointed in her teenage son. From my catwalks, I have watched her swan through the airport on many occasions, impeccably dressed, with her entourage of thugs, not acknowledging a single person she passes. Always jetting from here to there, approaching or leaving the jetway with the gait that only comes from a confidence that nothing can touch her. Our illusions define all of us.

I saw earlier today as she had her arm pressed close against her waist holding her hand carry - a black, Birkin Cargo Bag. With dips, we rarely touch dip hand carry. At the airport anyway. We do when we absolutely have to but it starts a pissy scene of explosive threats and yelling and endless debriefs and memo writing afterwards. I did not need that today. I already have copies of the keys she carries, copies of the most recent pages of her little elastic - wrapped, leather covered, black notebook, and a mirror of her cellphone data, from other touchless frictions our team has had with her in country away from the airport.

I pulled her singular piece of accompanying luggage to a tiny dark room close to the belt, abutting the runway, floors underneath the luxury lounge where she was now sipping steamy espresso – her preferred drug, where I was breathing jet fumes, my preferred drug. Wrapped in amateurishly applied layers of cellophane, affixed with a large fluorescent tangerine sticker reading “Diplomatic Pouch” in English, French, and Cyrillic, the suitcase was again taped around the entire opening and locked with a newfangled contraption. With the majestic glory of the Olympian training I regularly receive at the very ignorant taxpayer expense, I removed everything and opened the valise without breaking any seals.

I smile. Playful, teasing, confident Tamara winked at me. She (and her team) had further vacuum and heat sealed all contents of the bag in individual opaque plastic casings. The chosen color of the sealant was an unusual chartreuse. Foxy motherfucker, I knew her. As usual, I was ready for her. I used a box cutter to open every single packed item. I copied the stack of signed documents, I licked her toothbrush, photographed the pieces of fantastical antique jewelry, copied the multiple, no doubt nabbed, pages of historical manuscripts, and didn’t do anything with the boutique packaged Chinese Kaluga Queen caviar – a kick in the teeth to her own people. Fish, like some spooks, don’t recognize invisible lines on maps outlining sovereign nations.

And then, in contrast with Humpty Dumpty, and with all due respect to the Vienna Convention which prohibits border searches of diplomats, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, put every fucking thing back together again in all its chartreusity…perfectly. Fucking magic. Except for 20,0000 USD in hundreds which are standing in formation in the large pockets of my coat as I swagger back to my car – my work for the day done. That, my dear, is for me (not my team) when I hit Las Vegas during my annual sojourn to the states next summer. Snake eyes and a wink right back at you dolly.