CHAOS

I'm Agent Rick Martinez.

Let me be the first to welcome you to the CIA.

And this is the story of America's great house of spies.

You've heard of office politics?

Ours come with poison pills and guns.

Spy trap.

I knew this was going to be a fiasco.

I've been assigned to a special covert unit,

conceived to go where others can't,

and to do what others won't,

whether the mission's authorized or not.

We each have our own special skill, Martinez.

I lead, Billy charms people,

Casey hurts people, and you translate.

We are the ODS, last of the old-school spies.

This is a hospital?

It's more like a Ritz-Carlton.

It's a hospital for billionaires.

Two bodyguards outside Mehrak's room.

Did you get his room service order?

Ten minutes ago.

He ordered mung bean porridge.

He's looted billions from his national treasury

yet he chooses to order mung bean porridge.

He was a man of simple peasant tastes

before taking power by slaughtering half his country.

Sure, but mung beans?

Even the words taste awful.

Is the orderly bringing it up?

An orderly is.

Room service. Hot porridge.

No weapons.

Apologies, Mac.

You are here to kill me?

I need you to micturate into this cup.

Micturate?

Micturate.

Sure.

One cup of dictator's urine, as ordered.

Oh, that's so sweet.

The other boys only ever bring me flowers.

Take it to the medical unit.

That urine sample was the last piece of the puzzle needed

to identify Mehrak's medical condition.

I love puzzles.

Sudoku guy.

Big-time.

Operative Blanke, what are you doing here?

I saw you guys in the hallway-- thought you might be going for smoothies.

Now why would we be doing that?

Uh, smoothies are delicious.

What does Mehrak have?

Kidney disease?

Lung disease? Heart disease?

They were all possibilities. Bird flu?

We needed a sample of his bodily fluids to know.

Aha.

Effective strategy.

Just like when Soviet Premier Khrushchev

visited the United States in 1959,

the Agency rerouted the plumbing from his guest suite bathroom.

Messy business.

But good thing urine is sterile.

Oh, it is. Unless you've got a disease.

Which he does. Liver cancer. Advanced.

Belada Mehrak, leader of his nation,

president for life, butcher of Miristan

has only weeks to live.

This is good, right?

This guy's a monster?

No, he's a son of a bitch.

This guy is a monster. Mehrak's son-- Sadegh.

He's the designated heir.

Sadegh commands the secret police.

He tortures for fun,

and will make his father look like a humanitarian

if he ever makes it into power.

Which brings us to our other problem.

Two weeks ago four American hikers

were arrested as spies

for accidentally crossing over into Miristan.

And once Sadegh is in charge,

he'll roast them for sheer pleasure.

Exactly.

What about extraction?

We have no idea where they're being held. Is that an option?

That country is a police state.

Every other building is a prison.

So, if we aren't pulling them out, what are we doing?

Making Mehrak change his mind about who will succeed him.

He has another son, lacks the family vicious streak.

Rostam.

He left his homeland ten years ago to live in London.

He's a, uh, part-time philanthropist

and full-time party boy who's been spending

his father's money for the past decade.

Quite wisely, by the looks of things.

In the interest of full disclosure,

I, um,

knew him... briefly in London.

Oh.

Were you two, uh...?

Slight acquaintances.

There you go.

All right, so all we have to do is get an SOB dictator

to disown the son who's a chip off the old block

in favor of the frivolous playboy

who disowned him ten years ago.

Any thoughts?

Operation Mincemeat.

Uh-huh.

Mincemeat. A classic.

One of the greatest deception schemes ever.

1943.

The Allies were about to invade Nazi-occupied Europe in Sicily.

They wanted to fool the Germans into thinking

they were landing somewhere else,

so they found a dead body,

and dressed it as a military courier

carrying bogus invasion plans.

And then they faked a plane crash at sea,

the Germans found the body, read the plans,

and put their forces in the wrong place.

Yeah, and Hitler lost, so it was a happy ending.

Sounds great.

Where do we get a dead body?

Isn't he a beaut?

Lovely. Can we keep him?

He's all ours.

He's going to be a courier from a Swiss bank

carrying documents showing CIA payoffs to Sadegh,

Mehrak's heir apparent.

Mehrak's paranoid, right?

Typical dictator mentality? Doesn't trust anyone?

Mm-hmm. He has beheaded a cousin or two.

Ah. So we frame the bad son.

Bad son gets his head chopped off, our guy is in.

Looks familiar.

That's because you saw his obituary

in the agency newsletter.

He was the deputy chief, file records section.

He always wanted to get into the field.

He's finally getting his chance to serve.

He'd be so proud.

Operation Mincemeat?

Exactly. Then we just wait for the corpse

and the phony documents to wash ashore,

and to be discovered by Mehrak's men.

Sounds grisly.

But it might just work.

There is one hurdle,

which I'll let Martinez describe,

since the two of you are sleeping together,

and there's an emotional component.

Swaying the dictator

to choose Rostam will be useless

if Rostam doesn't give up his party life in Europe.

He needs to return back to his homeland.

It's a tough order.

The Rostam I remember preferred the French Riviera

to the muddy flats of Miristan.

That's exactly why we need someone...

Someone female.

...to help persuade him.

And she would have to be beautiful,

charming.

Maybe somebody that he already knows.

There's a charity ball

in London day after tomorrow that he's scheduled to attend.

She could be there.

After, of course, she takes

the company credit card to Giorgio Armani

and buys herself a ravishing dress for the occasion.

Seriously,

you don't know where we're headed with this?

Of course I do.

I just wanted to see what else you were gonna bribe me with.

Sounds like fun. I'll do it.

Great. But even if Mincemeat works,

there's no guarantee that Dad will choose the playboy son

over the psychopath.

Sadegh's been whispering

in his father's ear for a decade.

That's why Dorset and Collins will be whispering in the other.

St. Ignatius' pinky toe.

Wasn't St. Ignatius eaten by lions 2,000 years ago?

Well, apparently, the lions missed a bite.

And we're looking

at this because...?

Belada Mehrak spent a half million dollars acquiring it.

Why?

It's believed to have healing powers.

How's the toe working out for him?

Evidently, not well.

Over the past six months, he's been buying up

every religious relic he can get his hands on.

He's seen quacks peddling everything from shark cartilage

to invisible surgery.

He knows he's dying.

But can't accept it.