The Great Heist

Chapter Three

The last couple of minutes had been the longest and most demanding in Amman’s life. 

What started out for him as yet another ordinary day at work had turned out to be his worst nightmare. So much so that, he wished for nothing more at the moment than to sit down and get some rest. Also, for the first time in his illustrious career, he regretted being superior on this occasion.

Having enjoyed the luxury of being a high-ranking Intelligence officer which comes with hefty salaries and extra privileges for some years now, Amman knew being a superior most times counted as something. While, at the same time he also knew that on some rare occasions, it doesn’t, and it simply means being under great pressure and scrutiny. 

Sadly, for him, he had learned earlier that today was one of such occasions when being a superior was such a huge burden rather than a luxury. Being the highest-ranking Intelligence officer at the Lusail Iconic Stadium, he had been sent into overdrive the second a bomb went off some five hundred yards from the stadium.

 He had been all over the place; dispatching first-team responders to the site of the explosion, and at the same time, seeing to it that security was strengthened here at the stadium. 

Initial reports brought in later by a team of bomb squad he had sent to the scene had revealed the explosion to have resulted from a VBIED bomb—Vehicle-borne IEDs—that had gone off around the Blusail apartment, very close to the stadium. Fortunately, though, no casualties were recorded at the site despite the severity of the blast.

Things had taken a drastic turn some minutes after the blast when the first traces of smoke had been detected in the stadium. 

Amman, who was not a fan of any sport had been smoking in one of the smoking areas of the stadium when he was notified of this strange development by one of his inferiors. He had instantly gone from calm and relaxed to alarmed and worked up.

He had done everything on autopilot then. From running out of the smoking area to the control room to ensuring that every law enforcement officer here at the stadium rises to the occasion and sees to it that the players, referees, FIFA officials, coaching staff, and top dignitaries present at the stadium are protected and evacuated to safety at all cost. While at the same time, running here and there, and shouting orders and commands over the radio from time to time.

This had been before the World Cup Trophy was declared missing.

Everything had gone through the window the instant the trophy was pronounced missing. The shift in the air had been instantaneous. As is the workload and pressure that had doubly intensified, such that Amman at the time was convinced to some extent he was the man with the toughest job in the world.

He had had to make some crucial calls and decisions at the time. Calls and decisions that are not only limited to security enforcement within and outside the stadium but also involve the wherewithal of recovering the trophy.

He had initiated an immediate lockdown of the stadium. Seen to it that a search was coordinated throughout its premises. He had even given the green light for a stop and search to be conducted by the police. 

So, when he had finally been informed of the Director’s arrival at the stadium, he had seen that as the break he so much needed. And had somehow felt a colossal weight lifted off his shoulders.

I should be able to rest, now that the chain of command would change, he had thought then with relief, before heading out to meet the commander at the stadium’s Entrance Gate Four. 

Spread thin already by the demands of his position in the last forty-five minutes or so, he trudged out of the wide entrance of ‘Gate Four’ once more. Then, brought the walkie-talkie ever gently to his mouth, and said. “This is Amman for Captain Farhan. Over!”

“Captain Farhan hearing loud and clear. Over!” Came the hoarse voice of the police captain over the walkie. 

Amman didn’t bother going over the details as he gave the order, “I need you to dispatch all units and have them put up roadblocks on every city block, captain.” 

If bothered by being ordered around, the police captain didn’t make a show of it over the channel and instead rasped over the walkie. “A’ight. I will see to that right away. Over and out!”

Barely thirty seconds later, just as Amman was some few yards away from his destination—the Entrance Gate One—the captain’s voice came over the radio. “All units be advised, you’re to set up checkpoints on all city blocks from this moment!”

That should do, Amman thought, losing a breath. For now!

                                                ***

“All units be advised, you’re to set up checkpoints on all city blocks from this moment!”

The one they called Toni Kroos—a sturdily built man of moderate height with pale ivory skin—sat listening to the message being passed over the mounted radio transceiver behind the wheel of the boldly marked black and white Al Fazaa Toyota Land Cruiser V8.

For two times straight, he had listened raptly to the same broadcast repeated itself over the cruiser’s radio. More out of habit than anything. 

A true perfectionist by nature, and a strict adherent to what he hailed as the ‘two P’s and A approach—Patience, Planning, and Acting—he was used to leaving nothing to chance and no margin for errors. 

Sure enough, it was this perfectionistic nature of his more than anything that got him this particular role in the grand scheme of things in the first place.

Living up to his true nature, he listened to the broadcast once more. Just so to be sure he had heard the message being passed over the radio right, before acting upon it.

Listen thrice, think twice, speak once, he called to mind the words he had chosen as his personal maxim.

Now that he was sure enough of what he had heard so far, he reached for the cabled radio from the transceiver across him and pressed the push-to-talk button on it. Thus, turning on the transmitter. 

Certain that the transmitter was on and he was already on a secured designated channel, he brought the radio ever gently to his mouth. 

“That’s our assist guys. We must score now!” He said cryptically to the four men at the other end of his broadcast. 

“Roger that…”

“Copy…” 

“Got it…” 

“On the move...” 

Four distinct voices returned intermittently over the radio within the space of thirty seconds.

He relaxed visibly once he heard their callbacks, and returned the radio to its place at the top of the transceiver.

It was just as he had predicted, he thought, obviously pleased. A lazy smile somehow came out to play on his lips then. With nothing else left to do, he laid back in the plush seat of the jeep and waited for his confederates to join him soon. 

A solid two minutes passed before any of his comrades togged in the deep blue winter jackets and pants of the Qatari police turned up with a familiar Louis Vuitton travel case at the spot where the jeep was parked.

Toni Kroos from where he sat behind the wheel of the jeep heard the opening and slamming of doors, and some rustling later as each man settled into their various seats. Without as much as turning his head, he toggled on the lightbars and the car’s siren system. 

“You may want to hold on to something,” he said to no one in particular as he gave a wild crank to the key in the ignition. 

The vehicle came alive with a loud purr that minute. Yet in another, shifted into reverse gear as Kroos struggled to pull out from the tight spot it was boxed in.

Before long, however, the jeep was tearing out of the parking lot onto the Al Khor coastal road at the same time as other police cruisers. 

The joint wails of their sirens form an eerie staccato in the evening air.