Chapter Fifteen Forty-five minutes after the call and a rather steaming hot shower.The tall, trim black man, now prettied up in a smoky black three-piece suit climbed into the backseat of a New York’s hallmark yellow hybrid taxicab he had flagged down on 21st Street. “Brooklyn Heights,” he said to the squash-faced Caucasian driver the minute he was fully settled in, catching the subtle nod of acknowledgment from him. Dropping the brown leathered briefcase he carried on his person beside him on the seat, he brought his hand up to his neck in a vertical motion. To carefully loosen his knotted striped necktie for comfort at the same time the cab pulled gently away from the curb into the busy streets of Queens, New York.Done with that now, he sagged into the seat. His left and right arms sprawled gingerly over its top in a striking regal-like pose.Now seated in this manner, he caught the smug look on his reflection in the car’s rear-view mirror. At that, he managed an inconsequ
Chapter Sixteen Breathtaking!That was the only word Ander could come up with on the spot as his steely blue eyes scanned the massive lobby of the Doha Museum of Art. He had realized from the moment he stepped into the lobby that the interior of the museum was no less spectacular than its exterior. Actually, he somewhat found the museum grander and postmodernesque on the inside than the outside.In an unresplendent, subtle kind of way, the interior of the museum with the fusion of modernistic trends in architecture and deep rootedness in Islamic historical identity oozes unprecedented magnificence and up-to-date refinedness through several geometrical patterns and abstract arts of the Islamic world that bedecked its spaces. This was evident on the sprawling marbled floor embroidered with crisscross patterns and shapes, the domed ceiling tapestried with Islamic art mosaics and designs; and even, on the centerpiece of the central atrium—the narrow double staircase that curved upwar
For seven years, Mr. Josua Hermann had lived in Qatar. Six out of that seven years, he had spent as the General Manager of one of the biggest hotels in the oil-rich country—the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. Since becoming a naturalized citizen here in Qatar, he could scarcely recall for once a scenario where he had seen on the part of any organs of her executive branch the willful exercise of force or aggression on her citizens. Let alone claim that he saw with his own eyes any form of human rights violations on many of his cruises across the capital city in his stable of sports cars. Or while eating in one of the high-end restaurants in Lusail. Nor when shopping at the big malls across the country. Unfortunately, he was bearing witness to all that presently. All the GM could do as he momentarily stood at the end of the long, axminstered hallway on the hotel’s third floor, was gape pie-eyed in startling disbelieve at the clutch of men across from him in the hall. The men, a baker’s doz
The heat was up by a notch across town, at the Cielo Hotel. Hotel guests were thrown out of their rooms by eager beaver agents whose willingness to knock down doors after a few unanswered raps were only outmatched by their eagerness to roughhouse someone. Anyone. Hotel’s security and staff were brushed aside like they mean nothing as the records were taken without their official consent. While every room and suite was turned upside down within minutes in search of the world cup trophy and the suspects.The message was clear and explicit: This was no ordinary search anymore, but a shakedown. And giving your full cooperation is non-negotiable.About 1.4 km from the Cielo—give or take, a three minutes car ride—at the West Bay Lagoon, Doha, where the Ritz-Carlton Hotel overlooks the sweeping shades of blue of the Arabian Gulf, an entirely different scene was unfurling itself:All activities—both indoor and outdoor were grounded to a halt at once as several suited agents streamed into
Downtime was a real bitch! Kante knew this as he lay unstirring on his back on the divan, staring at the off-white ceiling with a pop of cream. Even as the strings of joyous shouts and ululations around him swelled into a grating crescendo in their two-bedroom apartment on West Best Lagoon, he couldn’t think of any other thing than this. Not to mention joining in to celebrate with his comrades, who are responsible for it. Instead, he lay there; arms rigidly folded over his chest, eyes shut against the amber light coming from the chandelier hanging down from the ceiling as if in a self-induced hypnosis. Right from time, he was never the one to favor downtime of any type while on a job. Even though he had been trained to remain sangfroid and unperturbed like the leaves on a tree on a windless Summer day in times like this, he had taught himself not to be fooled by the quiet and tranquility that came with them. Being an Ex-serviceman, he was well aware that moments like this one
Commander Ali was just getting off another call with the Minister of Interior when he noticed Amman approaching his position from across the corridor. Slipping his cell back into his jacket’s breast pocket, he stared at the squat older man in earnest.That close, Commander Ali could easily observe the uncanny resemblance his inferior had to a raging bull as he scuttled toward him. The big scowl on his face didn’t make him appear any less frightening, either.From his comportment alone, the commander could tell something was amiss, he just couldn’t say what exactly yet.For the span it took as he waited for him to shorten the distance between them, all that preoccupied the commander’s mind from considering what could have happened between the time he had excused himself from the control room to pick a call here in the hall was the thought of the unsettling news he just heard from the Minister.“I have some bad news, sir,” Amman rattled off as soon as he was close enough to be heard
Liam Nielson had this strange feeling the moment he watched three SUVs ripped away from the stadium’s parking lot and tore along the Al-Khor coastal road in a whoosh. He was standing in the dusting of snow with his videographer getting ready to record the latest update of their quarterly live spot report when he first noticed some movement at the stadium’s ‘Entrance Gate Four’. This movement as he would later discover turn out to be the tripping of the squat agent from when the director had arrived earlier at the parking lot and a handful of suited agents who trailed after him.Call it the sixth sense. A gut feeling. A hunch. Or whatever. For all Liam cared, it is something that has served him right up until now, and he would be damned to just shrug it off as nothing this time. Or ever!Not surprisingly, his reasons for this rather uncompromising stance hinged upon two sentiments: The first being that; it’s a well-established fact anywhere in the world that, trusting in one’s inst
Prime Minister Qabid El Hamdi took one last glance at the three faces standing like posted sentries across from him. Faces he knew all too well. Faces of individuals who had served under his administration for so long that he now trusted them completely with his life. Soon as Al Jazeera had faulted the gagging order placed by the government on all media agencies in Qatar, the need to go public with the disappointing news of the stolen world cup trophy had become not only apparent but inevitable. Therefore, his study has been instantly transformed to make it scenic enough for his address to the nation broadcast under the ever-efficient guidance of those three. As expected, a whole lot has been put in place to make this realizable: one such thing is the at-the-ready camera crew assembled immediately by his Chief of Staff that now hung about the study. Same with the ad-lib speech scrolling horizontally across the teleprompter’s screen which was churned out courtesy of his Press Secre