DIAMONDS ARE BRAZIL'S BEST FRIENDS.

By: Egbert Sousé

The perfect crime is normally just a wet dream for most criminals. Normally, the criminals trip up with their own greed, and human nature naturally steps in to fuck it up. For most dimwitted twits which attempt a major score, it is to be blown up by themselves. The major fuck ups are: One of the partners in a big heist, has big gop. Second screw up is they have women problems, and she spills the beans. The third trip up is they start out by heavy-duty spending. Most likely, even the most clueless cop can step and make the arrest on some major heist if these events occur quickly enough. However, this time it may have really occurred, there are perfect crimes daily, but those crimes are related to hedge fund managers or politicians. Since those crimes are done merely by bribes, and laws being tweaked by men in power. They are not listed as being perfection, as they already had the fix in. This crime was one that entailed guns,fast cars and perfect timing. The crime was a pure cinematic masterpiece, that sadly would not be caught on camera.

What sort of a person could commit a brilliant crime and disappear into the fog? It would take a person who studied crime to make off with millions undetected.

I don't have the evidence, but after three weeks, it hit me like an alimony payment to my ex-wife. This crime, like my ex-wife's, was a first-timers miracle into the big score. There were no obvious clues, but I had that sinking feeling. I had that sort of that feeling and gnawing stomach pain that the answers were right in front of me. I felt that intuition that maybe the crook was more visible than a pair of socks my ex-wife's boyfriend left in our bed.

All I had for the crime was the airport location, and a feeling that the crime was so well scripted. Think. What is that fucking telling me?

The news reports state the facts perfectly on the mastermind's brilliance.

“Great heists depend on exquisite timing, which is precisely the way an armed gang carried out the stunning diamond robbery at the Brussels airport on Monday. Just as some $50 million worth of precious stones were being transferred from an armored car to the hold of a commercial flight bound for Switzerland, what looked like a couple of black police cars with flashing blue lights drove onto the tarmac and eight men got out brandishing assault rifles. They seized 120 parcels of diamonds, got back in their cars, and were gone in less than five minutes, apparently operating out of sight of the passengers—and of the airport police. There are only so many master jewel thieves in this world, and only a handful able to carry out such rigorous preparation and execution. They popped a big hole in the airport fence and timed it perfectly, not a shot was fired during the theft of the diamonds. The cars they used were ditched not far away and burned up to destroy all the evidence. The crime was pure Hollywood of the 1970s with no mistakes.It was so Hollywood it made me think, who was behind this crime of perfection? I deduced that the criminal is a part-time crime novelist and film buff. Mostly, America films, as it seems that it, the crime mirrors the anti-hero type of the 1970s.The big score, the super bright Walter Mathew man, who thinks he is Robert Mitchum handsome and tough.

Here is my back-story: I am with the FBI's Internet

security division and a FBI Profiler.

One boring Monday, I got a call from Interpol and Scotland Yard for help. They were worried that it could be a terrorist group that was funding their organization with big heists. The Terrorist line is normally just BS to get someone else to solve your case. To be honest, they were embarrassed by this crime and really needed someone to help wipe the egg off their face. I enjoyed this as it stroked my ego and my job entailed putting the pieces together which I found to be fun, exciting and a challenge.

I started my normal searches after they left the file from the crime scene. They had pointed me toward the Russian Mob, a Frenchie, who was running a crime empire inside a prison and assorted other well-know European hustlers. Then it hit me.

It must be someone who knew crime, but didn't stand out. Most likely, it would be a man acquainted with crime. Somebody who fit the profile would have kicked around at life. At the edges, creative, but unfulfilled, almost goading himself to attempt the big heist.

My profile for the leader of this crime as a man in his forties or early fifties, who decided he wanted to get one last chance at riches. I looked at the video from the crime scene that Scotland yard had sent to me as a file. No clues, but it reminded me of a movie. The Italian Job, or maybe the Thomas Crown affair? I started searching for Movie fans and writers of scripts that mirrored the crime. Bingo! Bango! Looking for evidence, I came across a writer's short story, an idea that should have sold to Hollywood, staring the hottest male lead to play the brilliant crook. The writer Paul Brazil story paints in the sepia tones and burnt embers,of film noir. His narrative is filled it in with dark sardonic passages and hard-edged facts. As I read the story, it hit me. Son of Bitch! My god, it was the blueprint a perfect flowchart of the crime. Line by line it listed the exact method of the heist. Ironically, it was scripted on how to snatch and grab from the Belgium bungling security system at the airport.

A picture emerged from all the Internet fluff. It was black-and-white back lit photo, that smoky dark film noir style. The author hunched over a bar with drink and a smoke spiral into the dark shadows, in the style of Bogart the author sat. The name listed Paul Brazil, a crime writer who just happens to be a film devotee. Somehow, my senses are telling this is the guy. I know it is just hunch, but we have no other evidence, not a fingerprint, nor a photo, or even a reliable witness. I read on about this man seeing if my intuition is correct.

Paul Brazil, a man who floats around Europe, a man who writes crime novels, a film buff. I started reading his stories and found them to be a little to realistic for his own good. He knew the underworld, the seedy part of Europe, especially the United Kingdom, Warsaw, and Amsterdam. It took some official prodding from the FBI, but Interpol eventually looked at the cell-phone records of Brazil, which just happened to show up at Belgium cell-phone tower the day of the robbery, but then went silent.

When I did his background check, I found he had a furtive past. Jesus Christ,the man's rap sheet had so many names. They are pointing out some sort of weird pattern. Paul has been: Larson E. Whipsnade, Ambrose Wolfinger, Harold Bissonette, Professor Henry R. Quail, Egbert Sousé .

All these names seemed very familiar to me, but where have I heard them before? Paul's file was full of some minor crimes, some funny crimes, but nothing with guns or ultra violent. Paul was a creative type: musician, writer, photographer. This is also a man, who attained no big money for his talent, just a grinder hoping to hit it big.

I focused on Brazil, as a man like myself plagued by the working class boat anchor that left him queued up for the morsels of life. I could tell he was trying to go straight. Stay away from the snatch and grab of teenage fiefdom.

However, those straight methods of writing just didn't cut the monetary mustard. His current method of scribbling, typing and yammering for teenagers was not making Brazil a rich man. It must have been like an itch you can't fucking scratch; another book sold a mere pittance and no movie deal.

In this age of the self-publishing pyramid scheme, everybody pushing an Ebook feels the surge of creativity and the hope of the big-time.

One motive for going back to crime is the poverty due to the fact that your E-book percentage of ninety-nine cents doesn't even buy you a Starbucks frappo. I was thinking, that if I was Brazil, the thoughts of fame will still be driving me forward even if it is off a pyramid of shit. Just like lust forces us into doing some risky things. Bad habits and failures are hard-wired into our genes.

Man's brains are a mix of chimp and reptile cast-offs. That part of gray matter is what makes us fuck, fight, flee, steal, lie, make kids and sometimes even make such things as tools or scrawl or paint something. Of course, Paul Brazil's brain dreamed of the big time. Paul's teenage brain had tried it before, to make it big in the Music business. Paul's file says he attempted a music career. If you can call punk music, Music? Rock and roll is only three chords, but punk is not even bothering to tune the fucking guitar. Kids who only knew one sort of chord along with a lot untrained bashing about was a trend that didn't end quick enough for me.

I laughed when I read about his first adult crime.It was when Paul, then Paulie Decibel, jumped into the UK music scene. The poor bastard was the bass player in a friggin Punk band, the infamous loud and obnoxious band named: Grannies Dirty Knickers.

Paul's only success as a bass player, was the night, he shared the bill with an unknown band called STRONTIUM 90. Immediately, Paul took an instant dislike to the pompous Bass Player in Strontium who criticized Paul's style of playing. Brazil then got drunk when Strontium took the stage. The review stated that it was then Brazil decided after Strontium's debut song “Da Do, Do, dumb” to give him his critique. So Brazil jumped on stage and proceeded to beat the snot out of the bass player, a guy named Gordon Sumner. Yes, Sting then pre-blonde, pre-famous, but always a pompous a-hole.

“NO WANKER LIKE THAT IS GOING TO CRITICIZE MY BASS PLAYING!”

Those words were shouted as a war cry according to the newspaper review. The article states that,Brazil like a mad bull head butted the future star. He also knocked him out with three punches, while Sting's band-mates went to the bar to get a drink. He might have done it with one with punch, but

Brazil's drinking threw his timing off that night. I guess Paul can't be all bad. Paul's file states that Sting filed charges, but they were dropped as he realized that it would ruin the macho image he was working on. His band had just been renamed the Police and didn't like the fact that a mere slip of a man, like Brazil trounced the newly blonde sex symbol lead singer. I was starting to really like this guy, Brazil.

Of course, I read on and found all the names Paul used in his past, even Paul Brazil was a fake name. It seemed he tried many things in life, all that led to scam, a broad and a bottle.His current life seemed to fit his creative side, but of course, all his endeavors one would call shady.

Wow, he sold time shares to unsuspecting tourist in Mexico. Not a crime officially, but he did overbook the one timeshare for an entire month of December, so when all the chumps showed up, there were forty families showing up for the same house. Before charges could be brought up, the Time-share company went out of business. Conveniently, the office caught fire just before any evidence had been collected.

Paul then left Mexico on a cruise ship where he then sold fake masterpieces during his travels during the art boom of the 1980s.The pitch was simply, you too, can own a Picasso for a mere two thousand dollars,signed by the artist. Pick up a Matisse for a mere thousand. The erstwhile masterpieces were enhanced with Mexican frames bought on the cheap. The man was set to introduce modern art to the masses for their edification, while fleecing their pockets.

Since the people of the middle-class means, are always trying to ape the rich, it was a very easy sale, a slam dunk, or more aptly put, taking advantage of the drunks. The cruise-ships passengers were mostly middle-age, and seniors drunk on cruise ship booze, pretending to be richer than that actually were. Brazil was working from the cruise-ship's bar with ease of a Houdini slipping out of a cheap pair of cuffs. He racked up sales of forty thousands dollars the first week and stopped only because he ran out of art. This could be listed as his first near perfect crime.

It took about a month, before some of the customers who had taken the work home noticed that these framed masterpieces had a slight problem. One Mrs. Derpshire, a woman with OCD was cleaning her walls for the thirtieth time that day. When she moved her wondrous Matisse, she turned the picture over to dust it. This is when Brazil should have been busted.

Ops! The truth was revealed about the Brazil's masterpiece. All the artwork came out of art books, as the page number and info were on the back of the picture. It was a copy from a copy that she had spent her hard-earned cash on.

Brazil as a student had pillaged his grammar school library by removing the masterpieces from their art-books, easily removed with his duco knife. (grammar school in England is the equivalent of America's high-school.)

Since kids no longer check out art-books his grammar school crime went unnoticed, until today. He should have now been convicted of a fraud, but somehow Brazil always seemed to have an out. With the technical brilliance of a Fortune 500 Corporate lawyer, Brazil designed the receipt to clear him of any major crime. The receipt indicated that the work had the artist's signature, but never claimed to be the original lithographic. This was an example of pure capitalism and pure legalistic brilliance, the con is in the fucking fine print. Just look at your own credit card statement, you would go fucking blind trying to read the fine print.

Paul's next shady business involved his love of women, which led him to run an adult web-cam dirty girl service from Amsterdam. Lonely men, some lonely women, and some who were both men and women now trolled the Internet for virtual love.

This new technology prayed on the lonely, but did fulfill the promise of seeing naked people to the normally shunned, and ascetically challenged multitudes that are doomed to being dateless. However, this was not done just to end loneliness but to turn a profit. Holy naked people, did it turn a profit. Moving and talking naked people may have been the

sole purpose to this Internet craze? Those naked people with all those vaulted credit card subscribers became a cash cow for Brazil. Brazil never saw so much cash in his entire life. Brazil was golden or so he thought. It later turned out to be a golden shower, as the Russian Mob moved in two doors down. They got wind of the same cash cow and gotten into the same milking business. The Moscow bulls now became his major competitor. It was looking like it was going to be a violent takeover, but since Brazil loved his kneecaps, and other body parts; he turned over the keys and left, very pissed off, but still alive.

According to one of the girls, they all decided to save Paul, since he paid better than most in the naked lonely hearts' business. The girls put on an impromptu show to distract Mobsters, while Paul left out the back with a satchel of cash and his knees and balls still intact.

I smiled and laughed. The girls saved him from the mob, and he left Amsterdam, alive and willing to head to the land of cheap eats and booze. The poor little country known as Poland, that tortured land of the many times conquered folks with an inferiority complex. Paul seemed to want to start a more traditional lifestyle. Hmm... Now Professor Paul Brazil, of Warsaw.

Even those professions were not truly gotten honestly, as he had faked his resume from the Internet by searching for dead professor who matched his age. With the help of a high-quality printer, he faked all the documents, the passport, the degrees and letters of introduction.

In reality, Paul had been born in Hartlepool, England, a town that long ago had lost its sheen, and steel power.

It was like America's Cleveland only worse, for you Yanks. A town that was a port and steel town, now humbled into a quaint tourist trap; especially if you have low standards on quaintness. What Karl Marx predicted for the Brits had certainly come true, “ a nation of bloody shop keepers," selling crap made in one of their lost empires is what the town is. It was no wonder why our mastermind of this story left this place. The last time he arrived home for a visit; he did cause a stir.

Paul of course like most criminals occasionally goes home to brag about his new-found success.He arrived to his hometown drunk, which was his normal state when going back to the place of his birth. Son of a Bitch, Paul almost gets arrested again in his friggin home town. I stare at the file.

One of Brazil's known alias is featured in an article in the Hartlepoolmail:

William Claude Dukenfield is being held in custody until a charge can be laid. Pages of law books and Hartlepool by laws are being perused but, after two weeks, no one has been able to come across anything like this ever happening before.

The man, one William Dukenfield was apparently feeling thirsty. He wandered around the merchants' stalls and tents looking for somewhere to purchase a refreshing drink. He came across a tent with a huge sign hanging from the canvas reading: Please Come Inside to Breastfeed.

Mr. Dukenfield went inside and took a seat and waited his turn. When asked if he was a 'father' of one of the babies, he answered honestly, “No, I just came in for a drink!”

Security was called, and Mr. Dukenfield was taken to the local police station where he remains until a charge can be laid. (or indeed 'found')

Mr. Dukenfield was then released as he threatened to call his barrister.

I laughed and compiled my report for my meeting with Interpol and Scotland Yard. This would most likely be my last case, as my age and out of the box, thinking was making me a kidney stone to the new improved FBI organ of official guidelines...The new agents greeted me with such things as: “Hey Gramps, when are you retiring.”

I was now on my way to Warsaw with my new sidekick an Interpol agent named Ronnie James.Lucky for me my new partner spoke Polish since James was a shorten version of his true name Jamiwoski. My Polish consisted of only Dzien Dobry, Gene Autry, and Pergios. This would have been a very big Polish joke on me. We departed on a commercial flight from London to Warsaw, the glory day of flying around on an agency jet was a myth. For now, the accountants run the show, and we are flying tight ass budget class. “Where do you think this guy is going to be?” Ronnie, although a newbie got to the meat of the problem.

My reply was to trust my faith in humans following their vices right into the grave.

“His profile seems to indicate his love of booze and women of questionable morals.

We head to the seedy side of Warsaw.” “It is most likely somebody he got drunk with will let us know if he was planning anything big?” “If he really did this job, then we can suppose that he has the headache of managing his crew.” “We are going to hope that one of his crews gets antsy. Hopefully, one of those guy's screws up, otherwise he likely split before we have any information to convict him.”

After the flight touches down, we get a rental car and head into Warsaw's city night lights. Peering from the car's window; I take in rows and rows of dreadful gray housing complexes sadly lumped into Polish practically. Deeper into the city, I spy those sleazy kiosks. Next the night crawlers appear like floating images out of a Roman Polanski's version of Taxi driver.

There is the macho pompous Stanleys, who seem perfectly cast for a Street Car Named Desire fit into the literature of Brazil. They are steeping right out of Brazil's short story. Angry Polish is shouted out about life being a piece of shit is unmistakably Brazil's dialogue. The sounds are bouncing around are rental car killing the radio station chatter. The loud louts are getting drunk and pissing on themselves outside the bar.

Next, I spot the naïve college student trying to cure his blue balls with the hooker or wanna be hooker bleached blonde. This place is pure Brazil. This is the place of shadows and shame, crimes, the musky smells of booze and smoke. Among the bars, dives, dance clubs is the home to the horny, the drunk, the con-artist, the lover, the loser, the lonely.

“That's the place, stop here at Klub Zodiak, a place that screamed dive bar, and home of zitty boys reeky of cheap Cologne and Mom's home cooked garlic sausage in search of Ms. Easy.

“Ok, Ronnie, remember we are agents for Pinewood studios looking forward to purchasing the rights tof Mr. Brazil's short story Thicker Than Blood.” “Tell um, we are planning to film this in Poland and looking for actors and extras. Somebody should give us the location of Brazil quicker than a perverts in one of these strip clubs shoots his wad.”

As we enter the club, we get the stare from the locals, the stare of who the fuck are these tourists.

European dance music is thumping through the dump at Yoko Ono ear splitting volume. Thump, Thump is the bass with Polish girls whispering against the cheesy synthesizer to horny admirers.

Ronnie and I saddle up to the beer stained oak bar. Crowded and hot with sweaty bodies. We try to blend in and order drinks first. Ronnie goes right into his native tongue: “Chcialbym zamowic wódka “ The barman throws out two dirty glasses and pours light shots. Sullen customers are now giving us the evil eye. “Eyze speak English," the barman hisses

I think he was just tired of Ronnie's Polish screw-ups and cockeyed accent. “We are from Pinewood Studios and looking for a Mr. Paul Brazil, has he been in lately?”

“No, he owes me money! Paul not been here for a month.” The barman grunted out his displeasure in just the name Brazil. Now we look around and see a younger crowd, the college kids. “Ronnie, let's check with the kiddies to see if they know anything about Brazil.” “Alright, I give it a shot.”

We approach them and my English perks the Polish girls hopes of getting out of Poland and finding an American chump. “Hi ladies, do you speak English?” Most of the girls nod their heads like robots.

“We are from Pinewood Studio in England, and we are hoping to find Paul Brazil to purchase a short story for a script. We are also trying to cast the movie for extras here in Poland?”

The last part gets their attention, because in most cases, people only care about themselves.

Some of the girls look around, somewhat in a confused state. “Well, he is my professor, but he is currently on leave for a family emergency.”

“Is he still here, in Poland?” The girls now turn a little red about the face.

“Oh no, he went back to England; you just missed him.” Ronnie and I looked at each knowing that we had caught them in a lie. Very strange indeed.

We both checked out the rest of the crowd. Nobody stood out. No one bragging about a new-found wealth or showing off diamonds. If Brazil is our guy, he is controlling his crew well. The girls went back to flirty and dancing, but moved to the corners, trying to avoid us.We would try to monitor them, but we could have reached a dead end? There was one drunken troll of a man sitting and almost living inside his stein of beer. He seemed to have been there since they built the place, maybe they built the place around him. Something said that he would have seen everybody coming and going.

“Ronnie, let's buy this old guy a drink and see if he has seen the wonderful Brazil around town.”

“ Try speaking Polish like a native this time.” Ronnie taps the troll on the shoulder, as his head sinking lower almost into his stein.“Witaj możemy kupić ci piwo i porozmawiać trochę ““ na pewno “ The troll grunted his reply.

The barman drops him, another beer blitz and the Troll smiles. I pull out a photo of Paul Brazil and give to Ronnie, elbowing him to show it to the troll, before the

Troll falls asleep into his beer. Ronnie pushes the picture in front of our drunken friend, and starts the basic questions.

“Czy kiedykolwiek widziałeś tego mężczyznę? “

The troll stares and tries to focus his old eyes.“Tak, na Pet Shop” The troll then immediately pass out onto the bar, but not spilling a drop.

Ronnie looks on and sighs. “What did he say?” “Just that he had seen Brazil in a pet-shop.” “A PET SHOP?”

We decided to leave and check the Pet-shop leads in the morning. As we drove back to our hotel, we just got a text message from Interpol headquarters. “Come back tomorrow, turned problem over to the insurance company, come back for further instructions.”

“Ronnie, we are on to something, but of course, the agency is going to move off this case for budget cuts.”

Ronnie grimaces as he thinks, his job could be cut. The European budget is the model of the austerity. A plan that tells the unlucky victims of the dole; welcome to crackers being your main course for dinner tonight.Ronnie and I depressed decidedly chose to get drunk now, and we hit some of the Polish Jazz clubs on the way back to the Hotel.

The morning arrived with a headache and a white light streaming through the blinds. Holy Christ, a sunny day in Warsaw. God's eyes are shining down on Brazil. Rap, rap, on my door. It is Ronnie who like me is hungover for our plane ride.He is white as a sheet, with puffy eyes. Ronnie looks guilty, like he is hiding something, and then he blurts out.

“Shit, I got the lowdown. We both got canned. Interpol sacked me for budget cuts and my friend at the FBI, said they are forcing you out to early retirement for the new Sequestration.”

“Crap.” “That mean's my pension is now halved.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“Another fucking kick in the crotch.”

Hung over and now depressed, the trip was a bust. I never got to track Brazil, but in a way, fuck them all. The insurance company can try to find Mr. Brazil.

We get packed with aplomb of a drunken monkey, dirty clothes shoved with disgust into our carry-on bags. Some mini bottles of vodka stashed among our socks. Silently, hungover and depressed, we drove the rental car back to the Warsaw airport. Both Ronnie are facing the unknown of being a grinder. To break the silence of the I try to look on the bright side. “You know; I hope Brazil does get away with it.”

“I hope the insurance company takes a bath on the diamonds.” We arrive at the Warsaw airport, which is not flashy but better than most America airports.Poland's version of high-tech is chrome and a Holiday Inn express, but it clean and Polish functional.Dropping off the rental car, we enter the lobby to catch our flight back to London.

Checking in is slightly confusing with Polish and English fighting each other in weird moments, but we get ready to clear security. We both sit down waiting for our planes boarding. Maybe it was old habits of being an FBI agent but out of the corner of my eye, I spot him. No, it can't be?

Is it? There is a guy. The Priest with seven Nuns in tow?

Man that Priest looks like Brazil. I look harder and try to focus my bloodshot eyes. “Hey, Ronnie's look over there.” I elbow Ronnie as he tries to see the crowd.

The Priest is laughing and joking with the Catholics in the crowd, speaking Polish and being the life of the party for the spiritually inclined. Ronnie is stunned, but they then announce are boarding of the plane.

“It looks like him, and those nuns look wrong.”

Ronnie now ex-employee of Interpol is torn, but he states the obvious, the same problem that I see.

“Those nuns are all young and great looking, and when is the last time you saw a beautiful nun in her twenties.” “THAT'S the Brazil gang!”

“Should we question him.” “Well, since we are both been terminated, it would be silly.”

I look at Brazil in his Priests outfit and realize how he will smuggle the diamonds out. The Pet-shop was the big clue. My mind tested theories of smugglers known techniques. Maybe he inserted the diamonds in cat-liter, the liter that is a crystal type liter,box the liter up in a shipping container and bingo your golden. Alternatively, get certain pets to swallow the diamonds, snakes even dogs or cats would make great smugglers.

Then you just ship it to your location. Next step fence it with profession and you have committed the perfect crime.

Well there you have it. I am waiting to hear back from the Insurance company to hire me and Ronnie as consultants. If they do hire us, we can track down Mr. Brazil and his lovely nuns, but they had better a call quick before the diamonds are sliced and diced and sold.

Yep, Brazil did it. So far, the perfect crime. Diamonds are now Brazil's best friend.

Postscript: We never got a callback from the insurance company, but it was reported that the diamonds were never found, except for a strange sighting in Rome. A stray cat outside the Vatican threw up outside the gates of Saint Peters. The hairball was picked up by a toddler and in the hairball was a diamond.

Those worshipers took is as a sign from god. I know that it wasn't a god, but a sign from Brazil, wherever he is.

Happy and depressed at the same time, I saunter to my local Bar, in the USA. Arriving there like W.C. Fields, I am now a habitual inhabitant of the dark wonderland of booze and a sexy Polish immigrant barmaid who resides at my hangout, Sam's Place.

Kinga, let us toast to the greatest criminal ever:

“Here's to Paul Brazil and the perfect crime. Here's to seven sex'y nuns and diamonds worth Fifty Million.”