Like a roaring lion or a charging bear is a wicked man ruling over a helpless people (Proverbs 28:15).

I'm a spook, a phantom, an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States of America.  But you'd never be able to tell from looking at me or listening to me speak.  Thanks to my immigrant upbringing, my accent is perfect, and my skin is just the right shade of brown to grant me access to the Dictator's circle of friends.  I've spent seven years paying my dues, building trust, surviving long enough to make myself familiar -- with only the occasional encoded report back to Washington -- and it seems that I've finally been granted access to the inner sanctum.  I'm now one of the Nine, who may sit at the Table of Justice, together with the Dictator.  My cover is perfect, and of course I would never do anything to betray my position, but I cannot deny that deep inside of me there is a sense of awe and excitement to finally learn what turns the wheels of this government:  who had provided the most critical information that allowed the Revolution to succeed ten years ago, how the decisions were made to cultivate or cut off diplomatic relations with countries seemingly at random, why the genocide was initiated... These questions had eluded me and my covert colleagues for years -- but now they were finally ripe for the picking.  After my first evening of war-room strategizing, the Dictator offers me to stay afterwards for drinks.

The silence is absolute, following the departure of our "comrades."  The darkened chambers are large and intimidating.  But the Dictator flashes me a warm smile as he pours us drinks from a heavy crystal caraffe.

"Please, be seated, my brother," he motions towards large, wing-backed leather chairs by the windows looking out over the Plaza of Triumph.  "Would you like to have a cigar as well?"

"No thank you, my father," I reply with a vague smile and slight bow of my head.

"No, no -- you must not forget:  We are now brothers," he chuckles, more at ease than I have ever seen him before.  "I will have no more of this 'father' business from you."  As he hands me my drink and settles into his own chair, he pulls out a cigar for himself and lights it with a match.  The hollows of his cheeks deepen as he draws air into the cigar.  He puffs out a happy cloud of rich gray smoke.  We sit in silence for two minutes, maybe three, while we enjoy our drinks and look out over the Plaza of Triumph.  I don't know what I'm supposed to say -- if anything at all -- so I simply gaze out the window.  The Plaza of Triumph is quiet, mostly empty except for a few guards.  But beyond the plaza, across the street, men run from shadow to shadow.  The ground is littered with garbage.  In the distance, orange flames can be spotted from dozens of small camp-fires.

"These are our people, my brother," the Dictator finally breaks the silence.  "They are children who depend upon us for their protection."  His tone is suddenly heavy, serious.  He sighs like a worried parent.  "Can you see that they are helpless?  Can you see that they draw their very sustenance from my hand?  It is a heavy burden, my brother.  It is not a responsibility to be taken lightly.  You understand this, do you not?"

"Yes, fa -- I mean, brother."  I nod and take another sip of my drink.

"Poverty is a heavy stone to carry.  And the oppression of the world's governments... It cannot be.  I cannot bear the thought of what would happen to the people, if I were to die."  I can hear the Dictator's vocal cords tightening, knotting up against the onslaught of emotion.  "It makes me angry.  It makes me furious.  What can the President of the United States of America expect?!?  Are we to beg at his table for food?  Are we to die of malnutrition?  They think they would help us by stealing our children away and corrupting them with Hollywood sex and rock 'n roll.  But I will not have it!"  Suddenly he is standing, shouting, shaking his fist at the window.  These are my people!  I am their Papa Bear, and I will fight the oppressors with every ounce of my strength.  I am the King of the Jungle, and I will rip out the throats of any attackers!"  The cigar drops from his lips to the thick carpet, and the Dictator crushes the stub beneath his foot.  He opens his mouth in a primal roar, a savage scream of terror and tyranny.  The sound reverberates from every surface in the room.

And then he turns to face me, spittle hanging from his chin, his voice suddenly lowered to a growl:  "I will rip out the throat of any attackers.  I will destroy any traitors.  I will protect my people."

"You mean, 'our people,' yes, my brother?"  I laugh in a nervous way, trying to restore some degree of levity in what's suddenly become a very volatile situation, as only the Dictator is capable of creating.

"No, my 'brother,'" his voice now drips with sarcasm.  I mean my people."  And only in that split second after he pulls the revolver from his jacket do I realize that I was never part of the Nine, I was never sufficiently camouflaged.  The Papa Bear had seen right through me, and I am finished.