DebbieGg:
I'm dazzled by this write-up. You are just too good!

Thanks ma'am. Really do appreciate your nice remarks.

So, here is the link to the latest chapter on Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/1381269816?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_published&wp_page=create_on_publish&wp_uname=arkyub&wp_originator=HmqKgmVJeAwXTPsiSBZu%2BX3d3JFP%2Bddd1gq1lOEXIqU40Oztmt98PXvfHn%2FWnHGdAYK0uZPXstxl9u%2BccnK%2BCy4V0rGbMvhvTcgVqODvyvO09xkvRlJ5dhCnyHSBNYr1

Remember, to read, vote, and comment, folks.

And please, remember to have your input on this thread. Don't just read and vamooze. Have a say in the discussion. Introduce a new angle. Answer the questions asked after each chapter. Point out a plot hole.

I hope that's not too much to ask of you, people.

Omo, I don miss o.

Salahdin, you dey choke with updates o,

Oya let me do some catching up

YoungBruzzy, Lutherblaq, Xavier5.... please do well to check this out.

Salahdin:
Prologue

All the world was here in Qatar.

Most notably in Lusail—a coastal city in the southern municipality of Al-Daayen—and approximately twenty-three kilometers north of the city center of Doha.

Akinbami, I this you? 👀👀👀

If it's you, it's Xavier from Starlybooks 😏.



#Xavier

Xavier5:


Akinbami, I this you? 👀👀👀

If it's you, it's Xavier from Starlybooks 😏.



#Xavier

Yeah, it's Me, brother.

I decided to pitch my tent here with you, mate.

Salahdin:


Yeah, it's Me, brother.

I decided to pitch my tent here with you, mate.

Welcome mate. Use this one hold body 😎.

How far that your The Court Room, and Mafia story?



#Xavier

Xavier5:



Welcome mate. Use this one hold body 😎.

How far that your The Court Room, and Mafia story?



#Xavier

Thanks mate. I still got them. But my focus now is on the Great Heist.

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.

a great baked chapter of The Great Heist is out of the oven on Wattpad. click on this link to get access to it: https://www.wattpad.com/1382401544?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_published&wp_page=create_on_publish&wp_uname=arkyub&wp_originator=5ajtLxld2bP8Ff5LDYQSAOhFfcH%2Bm%2F2a0GhpkF%2BT81CeYZc1fRcLDQVHf9CDCEnw5Y%2FKBW9D1Ury3ka9K8ChYKo%2Bt2GA6cpkzDFY2UgZscqL9NrDNFtJzercFnVhlORP

Chapter Four

“Thirty minutes after an explosion and a smoke incident here at the Lusail Arena, the World Cup Trophy is still nowhere to be found.” Liam was saying into the microphone before the wails of sirens speared through the air around the stadium.

Acting out of pure curiosity like the true journalist that he was, he removed his gaze fastened on the camera’s focus and turned around to the source of the recent explosion of sound in time to notice the motorcade arriving in the distance.

“It appears we have new arrivals on the scene now,” when his voice returned over the microphone, the camera’s focus had tilted away from him, and now covered the procession of vehicles arriving in the stadium’s parking lot. “There’s a higher chance that one of the concerned officials in the Qatari law enforcement agencies just arrived in a motorcade. But, the big question remains; who amongst these men just arrived in that motorcade? The city’s Commissioner of Police, or perhaps the Qatari Inspector General of police himself? Could be anyone really. For now, we’re as good as guessing. But I think we wouldn’t have to wait much longer to find out.”

The camera which was removed from him for a considerable length, swept farther away into the distance; picking up the face of the dashing young man in a custom-made plaid suit flocked around by a handful of cops.

“Oh, you ain’t really gonna believe this,” Liam's voice returned yet again over the microphone with a thrill. “The face of the man who just stepped out of the Porsche Cayenne in the entourage does not belong to any of the names I mentioned earlier. Nor does it belong to anyone from any law enforcement agencies here in Qatar. But rather, it belongs to one of the top boys from Intelligence. And that’s none other than the Director of the Qatar State Security. Commander Ali Daei.”

The camera zoomed in as the Director progressed toward the Gate Four entrance with a covey of cops trailing behind him.

“The thirty-year-old Director, who was a Pilot Officer in his two years’ service at the British RAF is one of the new crops of youngsters in the corridor of power in the new era ushered in within the state of Qatar.” Liam effused in the grand fashion customary to all pressmen. “Normally, it isn’t really a thing of surprise seeing the young Director here, given that the situation of things around here concerned him as much as it does the Inspector General of police and every other top person charged with security and law enforcement across the country. The surprising thing, however, is, seeing him as the first top law enforcement official to report here at the scene.”

“Trust me, if this means anything at all, it’s to show us the amplitude of the situation we have at hand at the moment at the Lusail Arena.” He droned on in the background as the camera zoomed further out, to capture the scene of the Director speaking with one of his inferiors.

“I think it’s already set then. The Director just walked into the stadium through the entrance Gate Four with a handful of cops at his wake.” Liam was saying just as the camera cut across from the distance back to him.

Within a few minutes of that, another wave of sirens' wails crackled through the Lusail air as troupes of police and Al Fazaa cruisers ripped away from the stadium’s parking lots into the Al Khor coastal road.

The camera darted away from Liam that instant, veering wildly sideways to cover a longitudinal shot of the cruisers zooming off in the distance.

Liam’s face came over the camera once more just as the last wisp of the cruisers’ shrilly wails died down in the distance. His voice, on the other hand, came over the microphone a bit later.

“It gets no realer than this,” he began flatly this time, “Believe me, from what we have witnessed just now, I think it’s safe enough to revert to my earlier statement that; ‘the hunt for the World Cup Trophy has just begun.’”

***
Commander Ali hunched over the large console. His coal-tar eyes roved owlishly over the footage displayed across the grid of colored CCTV monitors in the expansive control room.

Ever since locating the control room with the help of one of his agents some ten minutes ago, and turning loose every one of them, the young director had busied himself with watching the footage of the events leading to the disappearance of the World Cup trophy. And now has at the moment, three viewings in total.

Done with the first golden rule of any procedural investigation, which imperatively is—familiarizing yourself with the situation—he turned away from the grid of monitor screens and looked pointedly at the young operator calmly seated beside him for the first time today.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll have the chair now.” He said genially, indicating the cushy swivel chair, which he had modestly declined at the generous offer of the operator earlier.

“Not a problem, sir,” the young operator returned jumpily, scrambling out of the chair and out of the director’s way.

With a wan smile, Commander Ali navigated his way to the chair and sank into it in the graceful motion of a cat’s.

Lifting his toned, lithe arms off the branches of the chair, he said. “Can you please call up the frame when the bomb first went off? I’d like to watch from thereon.”

“Hasanan lak sayidi,” the operator said diligently beside him and quickly set to work. Alright, sir.

Just a few clicks and taps here and there on the control panel and the operator cued up the required timestamp on the screens and said. “There you go, sir,”

Ready and set to put into practice the next rule in the playbook—which undoubtedly is evaluation and judgment, Commander Ali tossed a bob of acknowledgment the operator’s way, mooring his attention on the monitor screens yet again.

“The explosion, I think was just a decoy created by the robbers to draw away the attention of the police and agents from their main target—the stadium.” He thought out loud a few minutes into watching the screens, showing different angles of the scenes from when the blast had sent nearly everybody in the stadium into hysteria.

Unbothered in the slightest by the operator’s presence, Commander Ali continued his observation of the footage in a similar fashion. “And the smoke was just another trick of the robbers to get securities and stewards to initiate standard security protocol throughout the stadium, which of course, they used to their advantage.” He paused his assessment just as thick layers of smoke shrouded the stadium on the screens across him, making it plain hard to see anything at all.

“The smoke? How do you get that much smoke in a setting like this one?” he pondered out loud in deep contemplation.

Reduced into the background already, the operator, who had taught the question was directed at him looked startlingly across the room. His seemingly young face, a live tile of puzzles.

However, his befuddlement was cleared seconds later when the Director answered his own question. “To create a wall of smoke thick and dense as that, you’ll need an incendiary device, and that would be a lot of smoke bombs and grenades, maybe some flares too. Which clearly points at something pre-planned for weeks, months perhaps.”

“And having thought of that, a new question arises; How do you get that many incendiaries into the stadium?”

When yet another question dropped this time, the operator didn’t bother proffering an answer to it, taking it for what he thought it really was—a rhetorical question— content at staying calm as a lake at dawn in the background.

As he had done through the duration of his deep mentation, Commander Ali followed up on his own question again. “There are a thousand ways in which incendiaries could be smuggled into the stadium and plenty of days to choose for such an occasion. But today is definitely not one of those days. Given the heightened security around the stadium today, bringing something incriminating as that within the premises of the stadium will be a straight-up suicide mission. That leaves us with the safer and plausible option of the incendiaries being brought into the stadium before today, which in every word makes a whole lot of sense.”

“That’s it!” Commander Ali piped with a sudden snap of his fingers and reared up to his feet.

Startled by the older man’s reflexive movement, the operator shuffled back a few feet. His countenance showed the faintest traces of the shock registered just now.

“I’m sorry, but you must understand I didn’t mean to startle you.” Commander Ali offered brusquely, throwing his palms open harmlessly.

However, this time, the Director waited for a docile nod from the young operator before he continued. “If you will permit my troubling you—” There was a short pause with which a glance at the name badge on the operator’s uniform revealed his name to the Director. “Amal, is it?”

“No—I mean, yes sir.” The young man—Amal said with another curt nod of his egg-shaped head.

“Okay, Amal. I’m going to need you to pull all the logs of the activities carried out around the stadium before today. I will also be needing the logs of all the accessways and entrances into the stadium. I want to know what comes in and out of the stadium from a week ago.” Commander Ali said in a tight, authoritative tone. “Mind you, I’ll be needing all that pretty fast and soon.” He finished, redirecting his attention to the screens.

“Freeze the frame there on Cam #25!” Commander Ali interjected, pointing at the monitor screen on the top right corner of the wall of monitors.

Amal swung right into action mechanically, reaching over the control panel in one stretch of his long arms to pause the footage on that particular monitor.

Unlike the pictures captured on the other cameras, the one on Cam #25 offers a much better angle of a group of stewards marching onto the pitch from the tunnel to remove the World Cup trophy from the pedestal it was placed on, and later retreating into the tunnel.

“Can you zoom in a little on that?” Commander Ali asked, riveted still.

With all but a click of a button on the control panel, Amal brought this to bear, zooming in on the still frame on the screen to the last possible fit.

Unable to get a clearer view of the men in green bibs and black baseball caps of stadium stewards in the smoky background of the screen, Commander Ali scrunched up his nose and stared at Amal in that pointed manner of his.

“Well, well, I guess that’s about as far as useful that picture goes,” Commander Ali said with a ring of disappointment. Unyielding still, he continued. “Since they seem to be heading into the tunnel in that frame, why don’t we have a look at the cameras in the tunnel? I’m certain there should be one down in the tunnel that captures the faces of those men.”

In mute understanding, Amal saw to it that the Director’s wish was done within the blink of an eye.

Eyes flitting from one monitor screen to another, Commander Ali watched the feeds rendered on the cameras stationed in the tunnel show successive pictures of the same group of stewards progressing down the teeming tunnel into a corridor.

The strange thing about the feeds, however, is, that none of the cameras were able to get a clear shot of any of the faces of the men. The five men, like the mechanism of a machine, moved in synchronicity and close-quarters down the tunnel, their features hidden from the cameras placed within every twenty paces of the tunnel. The closest any of the cameras came to capturing any of them was only their backs.

For a minute there or two, Commander Ali stood breathless, and motionless, in a daze of disbelief, unable to grasp the realities of what he had just seen. The disappointment was clear as day on his face as he considered it all over again in his head.

Each frame from the footage he had just watched seemed staged… As if every man from the group of stewards knew precisely where the CCTV cameras' blind spots were; what to do, and when exactly to do it. And that made him feel terribly uneasy.

“Well, it seems they know exactly what they are doing. Don’t they?” he finally said once he recovered from his momentary shock. “But this changes nothing. In addition to your long list of tasks, I will need you to scrounge through the footage of every other camera within the premises of the stadium. There should be a place where one of those men slipped and was caught on tape.”

Again, there was a feeble nod of agreement from Amal.

“I don’t suppose you can do any other thing to fine-tune the image earlier from Cam #25; you know, to give us a clearer view of the shot, and maybe a chance to at least do something like scanning the faces of those men and running it against several databases for facial profiling. Or, can you?”

“Not quite, sir,” Amal blurted out fast.

“I thought as much,” Commander Ali said, squeezing his face. “Well, it’s really nothing to worry about. I will find someone else who can help out.” He added with some conviction, turning away from the screen and the young operator.

“Anyways, I must commend you for your diligence and hard work. I hope you will keep that up.” He remarked cursorily as he put some distance between himself and the younger man.

“Shukran lak sayidi," Amal said from behind him with a slight bow. Thank you, sir.

But the Director was done with him and wasn’t listening anymore.

I need to find Amman, he reminded himself the instant he stepped out of the control room. And fast!

A new bun is out of the oven. Here's where to go to enjoy it: https://www.wattpad.com/1383475227?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_published&wp_page=create_on_publish&wp_uname=arkyub&wp_originator=qvR78D3BN5eo40e3kr9elY6SYfKhfnOzGg6s9RlFoAZ1nvMjdIqCcZ6LXGOsBQIjXjGO86ThOgoq7GW2%2BndKJvda8jQV1Umv68jCxjMbLy%2BIZkoRaxLFLDUdfe3QhFbP

Chapter Five

Some hundred thousand miles away from the City of Lusail, Qatar.

In the heart of bustling Queensbridge, Long Island City; a commercial and residential neighborhood on the distant western tip of Queens borough, New York, America.

Queensbridge, the largest of twenty-six public housing developments in Queens and the whole of North America boasted a population of roughly seven thousand people; living in cramped conditions within ninety-six buildings spread out across North and South in two different complexes.

Strains of Ennio Morricone’s The Ecstasy of Gold’s theme from the Western movie—The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly could be heard from about fifty yards out of one of the project houses in the housing complex. In the same apartment unit from which emerged, this melodic line also spread the unmistakable glorious aroma of home-brewed espresso.

The man responsible for both; a trim-figured black man in sweats with a dark glossy crewcut and proud temple worked from the kitchen of his unit, humming the tune of the music blasting through the surround system.

Dripping wet with sweat from his just-concluded workout session and his little singing exercise, the man checked the display sensor on his QuickMill 820 home espresso machine placed on the kitchen’s island one last time.

Seeing the coffee was ready to brew, he slid a porcelain cup under the portafilter, then, pulled a shot—as it’s commonly said of producing an espresso. And watched in an almost dream-like state as a thick, syrupy coffee concentrate jetted out from the machine’s portafilter into the cup.

Once done, he retrieved the cup from under the portafilter, peered into it, and noticed at once the crema—an orangish dense layer of froth that had formed over the beverage.
Just the way I love it, he thought, with the creases of a smile visible on the edges of his mouth.

A steaming cup of espresso in hand, the man padded out of the kitchen into the living room, where the sound of a TV was playing secondary to Morricone’s masterpiece.

Taking a short sip of his espresso, the man settled into the burgundy Davenport, positioned right across the wide-screened TV in his mediumly furnished room. Slouched on the large sofa, with an arm draped around its top, and the other still cradling the cup, he continued with his morning routines of enjoying a hot shot of espresso and listening to music.

His attention was later brought to the TV by a newsflash that suddenly took up the TV screen. Picking up some interest in this, he reached across to the portable glass center table, picked up the remote on its top, and turned up the volume on the TV.

“Just in: Football’s greatest tragedy struck at the Lusail Iconic Stadium; the venue of the Qatar 2022 FIFA World Cup Final as the World Cup Trophy went missing.” The plump female news anchor in a cherry-red gown began smoothly. “The final which was set to pit two football super-giants Brazil and England against each other was brought to a sudden end a few minutes from kickoff after the stadium came under a heavy fog of smoke.”

A secondary window showing the scenes from the Stadium broke into the right-hand corner of the screen as she continued. “The smoke incident which was reported to have been caused by heavy use of flares and smoke bombs in the stadium was a link in the chains of unforeseen events that led to the World Cup Trophy disappearance. The events that had first begun with a bomb explosion that claimed no casualties at the site of the explosion—Blusail apartment, approximately five hundred yards from the Lusail Arena has been described as the workings of the trophy’s robbers.”

The man as if finding crude amusement in this watched on with a smile stretching across his squared face, and carefully took a sip from the cup.

“The 18-karat gold World Cup Trophy commissioned to replace the Jules Rimet Trophy in 1974 is presumed to have left the Arena, along with its robbers, who are still at large and unidentified at the moment. However, there has been no actual report or statement confirming this from the Qatari authorities, who till this moment have been keeping a tight lip on the subject.”

There was a brief pause in which the lady adjusted the frame of her glasses before she continued. “Here’s a bit of history trivia before I bring the news to a close: While this is the first time the new World Cup Trophy has gone missing. This is, in fact, not the first time that the Trophy has disappeared in its almost century-old history. Its predecessor—The Jules Rimet Trophy had gone missing twice: It was stolen for the first time in the 1966 edition of the World Cup tournament at a public exhibition in Westminster Central Hall, England; where it was recovered seven days later in a newspaper by a mongrel dog at the bottom of a garden hedge. And on a second occasion at the Brazilian Football Confederation headquarters in Rio De Janeiro, where the trophy was never recovered and believed to have been melted down and sold by the thieves responsible.”

At that point, the man took a final quaff of his espresso, then set the cup down gently on the glass table across from him. The smile from earlier was already wiped clean from his face. His expression was stony and unreadable.

“That brings us to the end of this newsflash. This is Elena Hughes broadcasting live for MSNBC—” there was a crisp zap in the room as the man turned off the TV with a swift poke at the remote.

This is just the prelude, he thought bemusedly, resuming his humming.

His attention was pulled again from the music some minutes later by the jarring ring of his cell phone beside him on the couch.

A look at the caller ID displayed on its screen revealed all there was to know to him and was enough to bring a teeny smile back to his face.

Without another glance at the cell phone’s way, he rose slowly to his feet, ignoring the cell phone and its ceaseless ringing.

There’s no use picking up the call, he reminded himself on the spot. Its intended purpose was well-taken and understood.

Watching the sun crawl slowly into sight in the distant eastern sky through the windows, he left the cup and his cell phone there in the living room and headed straight for the showers.

There’s work to be done.

***
Toni Kroos, excited to be rid of the cops at the last checkpoint cleared the bend on Al Tarfa service road with a quick swerve, bringing the Toyota Land Cruiser V8 about-face with the unbroken stretch of tarmac on the Lusail expressway.

Through the Jeep’s windshield and the slow swirl of snow outside, he could make out in the distance the faint retroreflective markings and strobing beacons of three parked police cruisers.

Not again! he thought, suddenly alarmed, slamming his fists on the wheels of the car.

At the discovery of the patrol cars about a hundred yards ahead, the air of mirthfulness all over him washed off in an instant. In its stead, returned his old fears, the double-quick beats of his heart, as well as the dampness in his palms.

In the same breath, he noticed a graveyard silence settle over the car almost immediately, like a shroud. His confederates—every last of them—who had been chattering away merrily just now had gone silent at the sight of the checkpoint ahead. And now appeared to share his concerns.

The only sound that could be heard in the car now was the stop-start swishes of the Jeep's windshield wipers.

For a brief moment, as he took his foot off the gas and watched the needle on the speedometer plunge considerably as they neared the cruisers' position, he considered the one-hundredth things that could go wrong at this point. Likewise, what it would mean to the grand scheme of things and their mission objective as a whole.

A wrong gesture or body language from one of them… The plate registration of their cruiser not checking out... One of the cops seeing past their masks and all, and asking them to identify themselves… Or, even worse, one of the cops forcing them to a stop and demanding that he pop the vehicle’s trunk… The thoughts came in an endless loop in his head.

It would spell doom, he admitted to himself in the same breath, quickly discarding the thoughts from his mind.

Fifty yards out…

The palpitations of his heart were at record-high now. Despite the cold, beads of sweat trailed down the side of his face. His hands gripped the wheels of the car harder now, in his odd attempt to keep them from visibly shaking.

It’s just another checkpoint, he told himself silently, forcing calm into his nerves as he made a mental recollection of the number of checkpoints they have encountered since leaving the stadium and the Sports District.

Now, he could see vividly in his mind’s eye the checkpoints they had cleared. Even better, he could recall the faces of most of the cops that have waved them on at every stop. There have been five checkpoints on every block from the stadium, and they have been able to clear it all.

Thirty yards out…

That little recollection on his part seemed to work a great deal in his favor. For it slowed down the fast-beating cadence of his racing heart, and likewise, reinforced his depleting resolve.

Feeling a trickle of the confidence he had felt earlier return, he wiped away the sweat on his brow and adjusted the fit of the cap on his head.

There’s no reason to be scared, he repeated to himself. Not when there were no hiccups since they left the stadium’s premises.

Kroos slowed the cruiser as he came within ten yards of the checkpoint. His steady gaze fixed on the road, and of course, on the bunch of policemen standing by the patrol cars.

One, two, three… seven, and eight, he counted off the numbers of the cops in his head as the needle in the speedometer dropped below ten.

Just impressive!

Time slowed for a split second as the cruiser lurched within three inches of the narrow corridor formed by the patrol cars. Then reverted to normal almost simultaneously. During those fleeting seconds, however, it was as if Kroos had a stethoscope with him because he could hear each distinct thrumming of his own heart in his ears.

The stocky officer in charge of the group stepped away from his spot beside one of the cars, sizing up the cruiser with hawk-like regard.

At that moment, Kroos’s heart had crawled to his throat, and perspiration beaded simultaneously around his groin area and armpits. Somehow, he felt cold and hot at the same time.

Relax and just breathe!

Seconds later, with all but a nod of assent thrown his way, the man waved the cruiser on, just like the other cops before him had done.

Kroos, on the other hand, made a conscious effort of tipping his cap at the officer, before revving the car’s engine and peeling out of the passage formed by the cars.

Kroos couldn’t bring himself to join in the triumphant whoop made by his associates exactly two minutes later, going rather for a lazy smile; while his eyes remain focused on the road. Not because he deemed the whole thing as being complacent or unworthy. But because he was too proud to celebrate a small victory when the battle had just begun.

At this point, I think I have to put this out here. If you're enjoying what you've read so far and would love for this amazing story to continue on this platform, you can support or appreciate its writer by extending a hand of gratitude.

Below are my account details:
Account number: 0089460570.
Account name: Akinbami Ayub Adeoye.
Bank: Union Bank PLC.

Note: This is by no means a way of me extorting my audience/readers. I'm only asking to be appreciated.

And do remember, the little you do will go a long way to help me and keep me motivated to write.
(No amount is small!)

Intriguing story Mr Salahdin 😎.



#Xavier

Xavier5:
Intriguing story Mr Salahdin 😎.



#Xavier

Danke!

I'm really honored that you find it in your busy schedule to read my story, Xavier.

Food don officially land for Wattpad. Go out there now and eat! https://www.wattpad.com/1384552381?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_published&wp_page=create_on_publish&wp_uname=arkyub&wp_originator=w56JaUdB6ae6alU0qpemy6x%2BQXzbU0ro6gTF6uOx8iyKFyjYQR7sKzrwJO3YiQvhxPGKzVgqeaDJWKnP%2B9W4LRZTwnbEStrgYJy3XXaDk0ElGOpsNPKY7awJ9JyZkBoC

The stress was becoming almost unbearable for Amman.

This was evident on his face as he cannonballed in the wake of the Director with several other agents of the Qatar State Security down the narrow stretch of the hall that led into the dressing rooms. Even though he had been mentally trained and equipped for situations like this, he felt this was too much for anyone to handle, trained or otherwise.

Not when he had barely seated or rested in the past hour. Nor have time to reflect. Not to talk of smoking to clear his head.

Already, he had lost count of how many times he had been to this part, or anywhere at all in the stadium.

Yet, here he was again. Walking down the whitewashed walls of this same hall, after being dragged down here by the insistent Director. He had sent two agents to fetch him while he was busy attending to other things that needed urgent attention like; seeing to it that the search and stop continued without a hitch, and also that security measures were still in place now that half of the police and Al Fazaa units have been dispatched to set up checkpoints on every block in the city.

What a bad day, indeed, to be at work, he thought, cursing softly under his breath.

“The footage,” Commander Ali said over his shoulder, drawing him from his thoughts. “I assume you have seen them.”

“Yes, a couple of times already,” he answered, quickening his pace to come within hearing distance.

“And I take it that you already know that our suspects may have posed as stewards to succeed at stealing the trophy.”

“Definitely, sir. But, I do have trouble identifying their faces due to the smoke.” Amman revealed, wondering what the Director was driving at with this.

“And it has never crossed your mind to get one of the analysts at HQ down here. Or, has it?” Commander Ali asked, striding stiffly like a robot ahead of him.

Amman was momentarily thrown off by this. Not just because the Director had uttered the words with an edge of frostiness to his tone.
But because he hadn’t had time in the last thirty minutes to consider the option himself.

“No sir. I have had too many things on my plate that the thought of it hasn’t crossed my mind yet.” Amman admitted truthfully, never breaking stride.

“Make that your priority now, Amman. Get an expert analyst from HQ here as soon as possible. We’re losing daylight already as we are, and as you know; every minute counts.” Commander Ali lectured, making a sharp turn at a bend in the hall.

“I’ll see to it that it’s done—”

Commander Ali cut him off just as they arrived before a waxed, wooden door, bearing the plaque ‘Dressing Room A’. “Well, see to it! And also see to it that all the stewards are rounded up for questioning,” he continued at the same time he turned the doorknob. “I want to know how many of them are there, and what each one of them knows.”

“Very well, sir,” Amman said, stepping into the elaborate dressing room behind the Director.

Despite himself, Amman couldn’t overcome the temptation of taking in the breathtaking view of the dressing room a third time. The wide rectangular dressing room was out of this world. It was more like an executive suite of a five-star hotel in setting and grandeur; with its bright white walls, better accented by the dashing array of lighting fixtures that hung on its white lineated ceilings, like stars. The panels of walled-in lockers that formed a ring of bulwarks around the room. Likewise, the state-of-the-art Jacuzzi at its rear.

The only blemish, however, on the elaborated façade of the dressing room Amman knew was the giant hole, hollowed out perfectly on its northern wall.

The silence that followed the Director’s discovery of the enormous hole in the wall was one that Amman could swear with his life was saturated to the extent that the sound of a needle dropping could be heard clearly in the room.

“Allaena! Bleep!” Commander Ali cursed aloud, the shock evident in his voice. “I thought you said it was a hole they punched in the wall. This is no ordinary hole, Amman. It’s a fucking Black Hole.” He remarked, edging slowly toward the hole.

Without a word, Amman fell in step behind the Director diligently.

“What could possibly punch a hole this big in a wall? An RDX? Or, perhaps a C-4?” Commander Ali was saying to himself as he arrived at his side. His gaze was fixed on the rubble of bricks and chalky dust residue that had resulted from the wall caving in.

Seeing as he was uncertain, Amman quickly filled him in on that. “The bomb squad is theorizing that it’s a PE-4.”

“Could be that too,” Commander Ali conceded, continuing with his examination of the hole. “No one heard the blast, I presume?”

“Absolutely no one sir,” Amman replied. “Not even the stadium security stationed around here. I think the blast was timed to overlap with the time the stadium had turned into a madhouse to minimize the risk of the blast being heard.”

Commander Ali gave a consenting nod and asked, “Which store exactly does it lead to in the mall?”

“Store eighteen, sir,” Amman replied. “I must add that, it’s an empty store.”

Commander Ali reacted to this with the quirk of a brow, loosed a breath, then, with no prior warning or hints, stepped into the big hollow in the wall.

Amman, anything but shocked by this and ready for such a move all along, followed closely behind him. An instant later, he heard the shuffling of feet come up behind him as the other agents also followed.

“I wonder for how long those bastards have had all these in motion.” Commander Ali thought aloud as he navigated his way around the jumbled mess on the floor. His voice echoed through the hollow chamber.

Amman, on the other hand, was more than happy to provide an answer to that. “For months, maybe years now.”

In the semi-darkness of the cavernous chamber, Amman could see the Director nod in agreement to that.

They arrived shortly at the store. The Director up front, while Amman and the other agents pressed close behind him.

“It’s indeed an empty store,” Commander Ali observed at once, trouncing around the vacant space of the store to observe every inch of it.

“Yes sir,” Amman said, “there are several others like it in the mall. The stadium management couldn’t get people to lease them. Probably, because the stadium would be torn down soon.”

Commander Ali took a cursory look around the store again and said, “I don’t suppose there’s a CCTV here.”

“There actually is, sir,” Amman said, pointing at the CCTV just to his left.

“Oh, I see,” Commander Ali breathed, undoubtedly feigning surprise. “By any luck, did the CCTV camera happen to capture the faces of those men?”

“Not really, sir. It appears they weren’t here at all,” Amman explained, moving swiftly over to the store’s only entrance. “There’s no sign of forced entry. And no one has been in this store since the completion of the mall. At least, I gathered that much from the footage I have seen.”

“That means this wasn’t their escape route, is it?”

“No sir,” Amman answered, “it was just another decoy.”

At that, the Director seemed to come to a grim realization. His face instantly took on a graver look, while his jaw clenched more tightly.

“If that’s the case, and I’m to consider the pattern that I have noticed so far, then, that means we’re up against a bigger opponent than we are willing to admit.” Commander Ali put his thoughts into words. “Also, I think it’s safe now to come to an agreement with your earlier theory that, the trophy has left the stadium some twenty or thirty minutes ago, and may be heading out of the city already.”

As Amman watched the Director touch on this much-dreaded subject at long last, his mind ran through the likely decisions the Director could come up with at any moment.

Issue an immediate curfew in the city… Have the police turned the city upside down in search of the trophy… Even, delay all outbound flights from the city. The list was unending now that he thought of it.

“We need to block every point of entry into the city at once, and place the whole city on lockdown right away!” Commander Ali blurted out fast.

Unfortunately, though, none of the things he had thought of came close to the decision the Director came up with. Actually, he wouldn’t have thought of that in a million possibilities.
For an instant after the Director’s declaration, all Amman could do was stand there and watch in the motionless and wordless rigidity of an effigy.

However bizarre and absurd it may sound or appear, he knew deep down in his heart that this was the right course of action. That is if they were ever going to stand a chance of catching the thieves and retrieving the trophy.

“Right away?” Amman asked once he snapped out of the shock. The disbelief was still clear in his voice.

“Right away, Amman!” Commander Ali stressed. “See to it that security is heightened at the metros, the thoroughfares, and even at the airports in Doha. And have the cops and Al Fazaa commence stop and search in each of these places. We have to take our chances and trap them now that we can, before they slip through our grasp, for good.”

Amman quickly changed tact, “I’ll make sure of it, sir.”

“Good,” Commander Ali said with a nod and pirouetted on his heels. “Do that and let’s put an end to this menace already!”

“The Press, sir,” Amman said after him, “we’re going to need to offer them some explanations.”

Commander Ali halted in his tracks right away. His molten gaze whipped around to meet Amman’s. “Get this straight, Amman: We owe the damn Press no fucking explanations. So, nobody, and I mean nobody, not even the cops speak with them until I say otherwise.”

Held by the intensity of those blazing overbearing eyes, all Amman could manage was a nod.

Commander Ali moved even closer, then went on severely. “The only people we owe an explanation to are the Emir, the Prime Minister, and the Minister of Interior. And I will be corresponding with the Minister pretty soon. So give me exactly the results that I want.” He finished, digging his index finger into Amman’s sternum for emphasis.

Loss for words, Amman watched the Director walk snappishly out of the store. The clicks of his shoed feet slowly diminished as he put some distance between himself and the store.

“What are you waiting for? C’mon, get going already!” Amman snapped at the other agents.
Seething still, he watched them all scurry out of the store and followed behind them shortly afterward.

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have raised his voice or snapped at any one of them like that. But his day has virtually gotten even worse. So, hell if he cares.

Men....seems like have missed a whole lot!!

Okay... so far there's nothing to criticize here, and i am pleased with this.

silverlinen:
Men....seems like have missed a whole lot!!

Okay... so far there's nothing to criticize here, and i am pleased with this.

Hi there brother, thanks for all the time.
I'm relieved you find this story is worth your while.

So after a brief hiatus, we're back in business!
Two new updates of your favorite story just dropped on Wattpad. To check it out, access the link below:

https://www.wattpad.com/1388005810?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_published&wp_page=create_on_publish&wp_uname=arkyub&wp_originator=NA5r6odWXo51AZrfVOZh%2Bo3bCN4T%2BmHAOkjllnZX39fQ0cuMNrL%2BhuvUHULTVEVN%2B8QEC7SkQm%2BJzYRU98dg0uD4d%2F8acETFDxtod82kh3gEuRHwuo%2BfN1wpUgmdpZVh

The lockdown took effect immediately throughout Lusail. And caused quite a stir and uproar in the proximal districts and municipalities that shared boundaries with Lusail in its first ten minutes:

At the Umm Salal Al Muhammed municipality, a two-mile-long backup had formed along the expressway that connects Doha with Umm Salal Ali…

Newlyweds traveling from the Al Dafna district of Doha through the West Bay Lagoon region to the Lusail Marina for their honeymoon were being hassled by policemen at the Lusail expressway…

A procession of eighteen-wheelers transporting merchandise from Al Kharayej district was denied access into Lusail…

Also, Terry stops began on all streets within the city limits of Lusail:

A furious husband trying to transport his pregnant wife in time to the Le Royal Meridien fought a police officer over a delayed traffic stop...

A dispatch rider on a BMW motorcycle was forced to a stop on the Wadi Al Wasah road…

In the Marina district, a luxurious coach packed full of tourists was halted alongside other cars by Al Fazaa units…

Stop and frisk was conducted on passengers at the Metros in the city of Lusail and across all other tram stations:

A group of supporters returning to Doha after a rather disappointing day was stopped and frisked by metro police at the Lusail Metro station…

Also in the same Lusail station, a northern terminus of the Red Line—a rapid transit line of the Doha Metro, passengers pooled around waiting shelters as all outbound and inbound transits were canceled by the rail service management…

At the Lusail central station, an adorable-looking bunny was found in a pet bag carried by one of the passengers boarding the Lusail tram after a police stop and search…

Two women in burka were being frisked in a screened booth by a young policewoman in one of the stations of the Lusail Tram Orange Line…

Things were no better at the airports in the capital city of Doha, either. Because security has been heightened a notch by airport authorities at both the Doha International Airport and the Hamad International Airport.

Columned lines of travelers formed at the departure gate of the newly reopened and refurbished Doha International Airport (DIA) after security measures were put in place.

At the same departure gate in Hamad International Airport, a middle-aged woman was being whisked away on a gurney after swooning from overheating in the press of bodies and standing for so long…

A dissembled skateboard carried in a compact carry-on was rejected at the check-in by airport staff in the same airport…

Extra attention was paid to the luggage ferried down the baggage carousel to the baggage claim by Airport security.

In another part of Qatar and approximately fourteen miles from the city of Lusail, Director Julia Riviera of the Museum of Islamic Art Doha paced the length of her streamlined office, looking from the telephone on the desk across her to her IPS Spitfire wristwatch.

It’s already 4:30 pm, she thought with a drawn-out sigh.

The director, a midget woman in her late fifties with prominent cheekbones and discerning ocean-blue eyes was not the type to worry or wait for so long on someone. More reason she had always loved dealing with people that stick to time all her life.

But today, she was doing both, which was quite unusual for someone like herself. No thanks to the honored guest she was due to receive here at the museum.

What’s taking him so long?


As she continued with her pacing, her eyes flew to the telephone, then, to her wristwatch unconsciously again.

He was due to be here thirty minutes ago, she mulled over anxiously, biting her nails. Why is he not here already?

Maybe, he’s stuck in the traffic… Or, had a run-in with airport security or an official. Perhaps, because of the restrictions that must have been put in place already by the authorities at the airport…

She couldn’t help considering these possibilities as she thought of what could best explain his tardiness, while she continued pacing along her small office.

Earlier, she had heard the news of the fiasco at the Lusail Arena on TV, feeling truly sorry for the World Cup organizing committee; the law enforcement agencies, and the Qatari government as a whole, who have put in so much effort to make the football tournament a memorable one. Only to have it blow up in their faces in its final moments.

The optics must look really bad for the Qatari government at the moment.

But, that shouldn’t be the case, since he was officially invited here by the Al Thani family—the famous ruling monarch family in Qatar in collaboration with the Qatar Museums. This came to her as an afterthought after some time.

No Airport security or officials in the whole of Qatar would dare interfere with Al Thani's interest, she reasoned in a different light. At least, no one in his right mind. For an act of defiance to the Al Thani is as much defiance to the state of Qatar herself.

While this went on in her head, she was galvanized into the present by the shrill ring of the telephone on her desk.

This better be good news!

Reacting too fast for someone her age, she half-walked, half-trotted over to the desk, snatched the receiver from its cradle, and brought it to her ear.

“I have him and his team here in the museum already, Director.” A plummy voice declared from the other end.

“Good,” she said tersely, sighing in relief. “I’ll be down there with you in a minute.” She finished, returning the receiver to its place.

He has a team?

But I thought he worked alone, she pondered inwardly.

Her mind was fixated on this only for a moment before she gathered her thoughts and decided none of that mattered anymore. So long as the man was here now and can render a good service.

Adjusting the fit of her bespoke two-piece suit on her well-figured body, she walked out the door to meet with her august guest.

***

Renowned art specialist Ander Leigh stared in awe at the Doha Museum of Islamic Art, spanning a staggering 45,000 m² on an artificial peninsula on the Corniche from about three hundred yards.

From that distance, the modern museum, taking its designs and plans after other ancient architecture across the Islamic world stood out from the projecting peninsula and against the gauzy Doha skyline, like a giant vessel docked in the harbor.

His expert gaze took in at once the haphazard geometrical shapes and patterns, that make up its five-story frontal and gave it the unerring appearance of the decks on a ship; the besnowed central tower that jutted out like a funnel and houses its high-domed atrium, and its cream-colored limestone façade that captures the constant changes in light and shade even on a snowy day like this.

Give it to Pei to always come up with a masterpiece, he thought, fascinated.

Having seen the museum a couple of times, mostly in pictures, or on a TV, he couldn’t help noticing how magnificent the building looked now that he had come face-to-face with it for the first time.

Used to settings like this one and visiting over one hundred museums across the globe in his ten years’ career—The Louvre, the Prado, and the Cairo Museum of Islamic [/i]Art—he felt a sudden pang of guilt at the thought of not visiting the Doha Museum of Islamic Art until now.

[i]Well, it's not like it’s all my fault, he thought, taking a quick recourse.

Even though, he’d have loved to come to the Doha MIA earlier. It was not like he could just go around jet-setting from one museum to another. The fact is, most of his visits even to the museums that he had been to were strictly on a business or official basis.

He’s an art specialist, not a museumgoer, after all.

As he waited out in the open for the Museum’s Director alongside his team and Saad—the gangly man sent to fetch them at the Doha International Airport—shortly after the jet officially sent to fly them trans-continent had taxied on a private runway at the Doha International Airport, his gaze darted across to the purpose-built park on the eastern and southern façade of the building.

The forecastle of the great vessel, [/i]he mused.

From there, his gaze moved further out across to the two bridges that connected the southern front façade of the museum with the peninsula on which the park was located.

Looking away now, Ander watched through the spritzy snow shower as a sprite woman in a navy blue two-piece suit approached their position in quick, smooth strides. Her full lips thinned in a smile.

Seeing the woman was closing in on their position, he brushed off imaginary creases from his own Brioni suit and patted it at the right places. Apparently, in a vain attempt to look his dashing best and presentable.

Finally, the woman stopped short before him with a slender hand extended in greeting and her smile widening. “I’m Julia Riviera, the Director here at the Doha MIA. It’s nice to finally have you here, Mr. Leigh.” She said, blowing out a stream of fog.

“Trust me, it’s a pleasure to be here, Mrs. Riviera,” he returned warmly, giving her hand a strong grip and shake. “And more pleasurable to find out that your English is so fluent.”

“Well, eight years in the States made sure of that,” the director said with an even broader smile.

“Honestly, you know I was actually expecting some [i]Raghead with a long nose as the Director,” he confessed in a brutally honest sort of way. “And I was already prepping myself to put up with the accents, and you know, probably a translator. Then, I see you walking right toward us, and boom!”

“You really must be relieved then, to find out that you wouldn’t have to put up with any of that anymore.”

“You bet I do!” he conceded with a smile of his own. “Good to know the Hajjis are learning to put those who truly know how to run things at the helm of things.” He added in a whisper.

“I must confess to your face that you had me worried a bit, and I was beginning to have second thoughts.” The Director adroitly steered the course of their conversation, slipping her hand out of his bigger, stronger one, and returning it to her side.

“Oh that, I truly am sorry we came thirty minutes behind the appointed time,” he said with his earnest and sincerest look. “You must forgive me and understand that I’m a man that loves to keep to time. But, we do seem to have encountered some unforeseen circumstances on our flight here. And it has also come to my notice that there’s been so much going on around here lately, you know, the World Cup trophy going missing and all.”

“Well, the authorities are handling that as we speak,” the director said outright with a hint of indifference.

“Please, do meet my team, Director,” he said this time, gesturing to the group of groomed individuals in dark suits that stood beside him; each carrying different suitcases, which obviously held some apparatus. “I bet you must have heard or read somewhere before that I don’t go anywhere without my team, Director.”

‘I’m sorry to break it to you, but I have never heard or read of that anywhere until now,’ the Director would have loved to say but instead chose to stay silent.

“Matt Gordon here is our conservation technician,” he began the introduction, indicating the shaggy-haired man with glasses. “And this is Leon Ziegler; our specialist conservator-restorer,” this time he gestured at the wiry man to his right, who was wearing a goatee and soul patch. “This is Thaddeus Anderson, our art authenticator.” He continued, pointing at the chubbiest man in the group. “And finally, meet Keenan, our conservation scientist, and as it is, the only lady on the team.” He finished, jerking his hand at the sylph of a lady, whose mocha bangs free-fall down her forehead in wavy curls.

“Well, it’s nice meeting you all,” the director said, beaming a smile as she gave each member of his team a handshake. “I have heard and read so much about you, Mr. Leigh.” She added soon after she was done greeting his team.

At the mention of that, he instantly pulled a face, as if to say; ‘And what’s it you’ve heard about me?’

Seeing the look on his face, the Director quickly made a follow-up, “Only good things, I must admit,”

“Well, on the contrary, I must say you do have a way of staying off the radar because there’s really not much to be read about you out there,” he said matter-of-factly. “Trust me if there’s, which I’m sure there isn’t, given how many magazines I have pored through to get to know you, then I wouldn’t be expecting some long-nosed Mullah in the first place, Director.” He joked.

“Please call me, Julia,” the director quickly objected to his use of formalities.

“Oh, we already got on to the first-name basis, aren’t we Julia?” Ander said, impressed. “Well… while we are at it, I would also like to be addressed as Ander.”

Again, a warm smile came to play on the director’s scarlet, plump lips as she said, “I don’t seem to mind that either, Ander,”

“Now, I think I like the sound of that better,”

“We should go inside already,” Julia informed, indicating the weather with a flick of her hand. “Come right this way.” She said, leading the way.

Ander followed the lead of the Director immediately with his team towing right after.

“That there is our education wing,” Julia began in an attempt to initiate small talk, pointing behind her as they advanced toward the museum’s entrance.

He followed her outstretched hand with his eyes to the adjacent building connected to the museum by a large courtyard. “Read you had a library and a restaurant here, too.”

“Yeah, that’s IDAM. IDAM is an idea conceived from our goal of creating a restaurant that serves the best of French Mediterranean cuisine.” She explained. “You really need to try one of their food while you’re here because it’s believed that a visit to the MIA is incomplete without a slice at IDAM.”

“Duly noted,” he said with a curt nod of his head and added. “I also read somewhere that the great I. M. Pei had to come out of retirement to draw up the plans for this museum himself.”

“Yeah, that’s actually true,” Julia said with a tight smile. “If you know that, then, you must also know that we also foot the old man’s six-month all-expense-paid trip through the heart of Arabia and North Africa.”

“That too,” Ander confessed, chuckling.

“I wasn’t here until two years ago, but I’m guessing they made the old man an offer he couldn’t resist.”

“Must cost quite a fortune to be able to do that,” he retorted, giving her a crooked smile.

“Everyone has a price, you know, and that’s if you’re willing to pay,” Julia pointed out, “so, what do you think of our troubles? Do you think it’s worth it?” Julia asked, doing a great job of keeping up with the younger man’s pace.

Ander squeezed his face in a rather comical way and said, “As I am a huge fan of I. M. Pei, I would say the old China man never ceases to amaze.”

Just like he had done earlier, the Director made a face, which he sagely interprets as; ‘Is that all you have to say about our masterpiece?’

Reading a meaning to this, he quickly came up with something on the go. “Actually, I’m truly impressed with what I see. What a sight and what nice scenery to have it on. I hope that is fair enough?”

“Yeah, it sure is, fair enough,” she admitted, coming to an abrupt stop in front of the glass double doors to let the man in first. “Right after you, please.” She said this time to his team, watching as they all walked in.

Another servings of this glorious delicacy don land for Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/1389135554?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_published&wp_page=create_on_publish&wp_uname=arkyub&wp_originator=rH9TdtX3FuE7f1ILpbMhrzG9VJnGy7CjfCPx5qbsDiCNyAyCS8kl6JFEDO6hdFk95fwQILU2gxhlEjUHZi7K0JSk%2F9bnQxw0fgKwWQ5VtFw0L%2B4ZKM23rcNMZe2BR1Ll

Chapter Nine

“An hour after the World Cup Trophy went missing here at the Lusail Iconic Arena, the Qatari authorities in a desperate countermeasure to apprehend the thieves and retrieve the World Cup Trophy have ordered the total lockdown of the city of Lusail.” Liam began from a close-up. Right now, the snow had let up some, thus allowing for clearer visibility. “The order, which we have reasons to believe was issued by the Director of the Qatar State Security has come into full effect throughout the districts of Lusail as I speak.”

“The lockdown which came after police roadblocks were set up across every district of the city some fifteen minutes ago has been said to have caused a ripple effect throughout Lusail and has brought traffic and all activities within the city to a standstill.” He paused for a moment to catch his breath before he continued. “News coming in from across the city indicated the heavy presence of Police and Al Fazaa units throughout the streets of Lusail, which has brought about the closure of all highways and thoroughfares, and hence, causing great hindrance to the movement of people within and without the city.”

Now, the camera zoomed out for a wider-angle shot of Liam holding the microphone to his mouth. “Scenes reported from across most of the districts, most notably the Marina district suggested the closing down of many of its malls and shop-fronts.”

“Also reported is the city-wide case of the police traffic stop, which has since begun on all streets along with pedestrians’ stop and frisk.” Again, Liam took a brief pause before he continued in the same breath. “Same thing has been observed on all metros and tram stations across the city, as passengers were reported to have been stopped and frisked by the police before boarding a train or tram. While all outbound transits to neighboring Doha and West Bay Lagoon have been suspended in every station and substation throughout the city.”

The camera zoomed further out from Liam a little more as he continued rapidly. “It appears the effects of the lockdown doesn’t end here in Lusail alone, as the news reaching us at the moment from the capital city of Doha, has indicated similar restrictions taking root in some part of the port city as well, particularly at both international airports; The Hamad International Airport and Doha International Airport that serves as the major air traffic hub for both cities, where it is said that things are beginning to heat up after the airport authorities put some security measures in place.”

He scratched at an itchy spot on his forehead and took a firmer grip on the microphone before he progressed. “I must stress the point that there’s been no official report or statement from anyone in the Qatari government confirming the disappearance of the World Cup Trophy, or, the issuance of the lockdown as yet.”

There was a brief stop again as Liam paused for yet another breath. “Now, that we can all stand on common ground and agree with the fact that the World Cup trophy has since left the stadium. The real question that remains as I round off my report for the hour is; could it be possible that the World Cup Trophy is still within the city limits of Lusail, or, has already left the city of Lusail?”

“It’s with this last deet of news that I’m wishing the Qatari government and her law enforcement agencies good luck in apprehending those responsible for stealing the World Cup Trophy, and I bring to a close this news update.” Liam finished, looked away from the camera, and toggled off the microphone.

Data analyst, Kaboul Alsam was finding it hard to get his work done as he sat before his workstation, some safe distance from the operator and the grid of CCTV monitors in the stadium’s control room.

To begin with, enhancing the picture from Cam #25 with Face Hallucination—an algorithm-based resolution enhancement technique used in low-resolution imagery to enhance human identification at a distance through pixel substitution—was not turning out as smoothly as he had first thought. Neither are his attempts to reduce the high signal-to-noise ratio of the picture and get a clearer resolution of the image of the stewards captured in its background with the program coming off as good. Nor is the Director standing this close to him and breathing down on his neck helping, either.

He had thought having worked for six years at the Qatar State Security Service, where he had helped crack and solve several cases under intense pressure and scrutiny would be enough to help check his nerves in a situation like this.

But, unfortunately, he could see now that he was making bad work of that. At the same time, he had discovered that all those years of sitting behind a desk and a computer screen in his workstead back in HQ mattered little in this case and scenario. Interestingly, he had come to know for a fact that this particular situation was nothing like anything he had ever seen before. Or what they handled back at HQ.

This situation was a whole new ballgame and on a different dimension. More significantly, he could see that the stakes are too damn high. After all, it’s the World Cup Trophy that has been missing.

At least, that much was evident in the way his hand was shaking as he dragged the mouse over the mouse pad. More so, in the way, his heart pounded heavily in his chest while he watched the digital clock on the monitor’s screen across him tick past without any significant progress on his end. Likewise, in the same way, the Director was huffing and puffing as he paced the length of the control room.

In his six years working as an analyst for Qatar State Security, Alsam had never seen the Director this up close. Nor had he seen him this distraught before. Basically, it’s not like he sees him regularly. But on the rare occasion that he had seen him from his cubicle walking down the hall, or on the scarce chance that he had seen him come down of a car from across the street, the Director has always seemed composed and collected.

But not today. The Director was nothing like the man he had come to love and revered so much from afar. Today, he was more like a walking volcano, ready to erupt, at any time.

Holding a little tighter on the mouse to keep his hand from obviously shaking, he dragged the cursor across the monitor’s screen; selecting yet another familiar enhancement tool from the Face Hallucination program to further enhance the picture on the screen.

As Alsam worked from his place in front of the workstation, unable to shake the unnerving footfalls of the Director’s feet; which subconsciously served as a constant reminder of a ticking clock in his head, he prayed silently to God that he arrived at something soon.

His prayer was answered two minutes later. The algorithm after a due process of plotting and enhancing the imagery finally blotted out the very last of the smoke that shrouded the faces of the men in the picture. Now on the monitor’s screen was a sharp high-res. rendition of the same picture taken from #Cam 25.

“I have something, sir,” he announced, swiveling around in his chair to meet the drawn face of the Director traipsing around in the room.

“Oh, good,” Commander Ali breathed a sigh, rushing over to his side.

On getting there, Commander Ali who had run over to the analyst’s side with the hope of unraveling the mystery behind the picture at long last was stunned into perpetual silence when he stared at the image on the monitor screen.

Instead of looking squarely at the faces of the men that had caused him so much headache in the last half an hour or so, the Director’s gaze settled on faces muffled with face masks and baseball caps. Therefore, he found the image on the screen crisp and quite distinct but otherwise useless.

“But you didn’t mention that there’s a new problem entirely,” Commander Ali stuttered out in vexation once he recovered briefly from the shock, unbothered in the slightest by the presence of the other man in the room.

“I was going to mention that eventually, sir,” Alsam explained in a rush. “Plus the fact that we stand a lesser chance of getting an accurate reading of their faces with their masks on. And that’s even if they’re not wearing disguises, which I’m sure they did.”

“Bleep! You think I don’t know that already?” Commander Ali growled softly, running a frustrating hand over his eyes and temple. “Just run their faces through any FRS (Facial Recognition System)—FindFace, DeepFace—anything. I don’t bloody care what. And have their faces pre-treated and plotted, or whatever it’s you guys do to get better imagery in such cases. I need to know who the hell those men are right now!”

“I get it, sir,” Alsam blurted out, panicked.

“You can do that, right?” Commander Ali asked this time on a rather calm note.

“I could try, sir,” Alsam returned, hearing no edge of conviction in his own voice.

“Well, good. Now, get me something to work with already.” Commander Ali said, folding his arms over his chest in eager expectation. A master, who has assigned his subject a work he deemed could be done by him.

Alsam got down into business in no time. His hands tapping and clicking away on both the keyboard and mouse at a go, as he set to initialize the facial scan of the masked stewards on FRS.

As he did this time, he felt the fears and trepidations from earlier double from the Director standing this close to him.

As it were now, it took great effort not to knock the workstation in front of him over with his trepidations. Even worse, it took taking several deep breaths to calm his palpitating heart; and nothing at all within his power to stem the flow of perspirations streaming down both sides of his face and throughout his entire body.

Fortunately for him, this was allayed when the Director’s cell phone sprang to life with a lively tune about a minute later.

Sparing a glance behind him, he watched as the Director quickly withdrew the phone from his suit’s pant pocket, and stared long at its screen as if dreading to answer the call. Having found the right resolve after much deliberation, he reluctantly swiped a finger across its screen and brought it gently to his left ear.

“Commander Ali speaking,” the director breathed into the phone, and almost in the same breath pointed a finger at Alsam and mouthed out the words, which the data analyst lip-read to be; ‘You get on with your work. I will be back once I am done receiving this call’.

Saved by a phone call, Alsam thought silently as he watched the Director scat out of the control room.

Feeling a little relaxed now that the Director was not in the room with him, Alsam turned his mind away from the events of the last minutes and pulled his attention back to the here and now. And soon, began the work at hand.

Commander Ali strode briskly out of the control room into the adjoining hallway. Ignoring the nods and subtle greetings from his agents and police officers alike, he listened to the brassy voice of the Minister of Interior from the other end of the call.

“Have you anything of worth on the robbers of the World Cup as yet, Director?” the hectoring voice of the older man boomed through the phone’s speaker.

Commander Ali was hesitant, contemplative even in his response. “We have nothing of worth, for now, Mr. Minister,” he said and quickly added. “But we will have something pretty soon, I promise you.”

“You better do, because this is dragging for too long, and it’s becoming a sort of a menace and disgrace for us all.” The voice returned over the sound of indistinct noises in the background.

“I understand, sir,”

“No, you don’t, Director,” the voice refuted, “because if you do, you will have an answer for me already. And will be raining hell as we speak on those SOBs—Sons of Bitches—who dare to disgrace our country while the whole world was watching.”

Commander Ali began placatively. “Believe me, I really do understand, Mr. Minister,” he continued, his voice turning icy cold this time “And I do want those bastards more than you do. I want to make them suffer and feel sorry at the same time for having the balls to rob us and turn our nation into a laughing stock in front of the whole world.”

“If you really do, then, prove it already. Find something… Anything out about the robbers and turn off this growing heat and pressure we are both in once and for all.” The voice sort of implored over the phone this time, as the noise in the background grew louder.

Are those footsteps I’m hearing in the background? Commander Ali found himself wondering right away, as he tried to make sense of the indistinct patter in the background.

Well, I will be damned if those are not footsteps, he thought seconds later, convinced beyond doubt. Surely, he is afoot with his details in tow while making this call.

But where could he be going?

“You know I had to convince the Prime Minister against having an airtime anytime soon as per your suggestion, right?” the voice was saying as he snapped out of his thoughts.

“Thanks so much for following through with my plans and for your vote of confidence in me, sir,” Commander Ali acknowledged.

“Well, make that vote of confidence count sooner rather than later, Director!” the voice stressed sharply.. “Because I think you and I both know that my stalling tactics won’t hold for long unless, of course, you have something tangible. And we also know that, sooner or later, the Prime Minister would have no other choice but to grant airtime, if for anything at all, for the sake of the hungry media, right?”

“I’m aware of that too, sir,”

“You better be, because as I speak with you now, I’m just walking out of the Green Palace. And I have no mind of paying any more visits to the Palace anytime, soon.”

I guess that explains the drumming footfalls in the background, Commander Ali thought to himself, satisfied with his earlier assessment.

Noting that the man on the other end was waiting for a response from him, Commander Ali promptly said, “I promise not to fail you, sir. I will see to it that everyone involved in this grand heist is apprehended and brought swiftly to justice.”

“Well, do that and bring this whole circus to a close,” the voice shot back, unmoved. “Or, you will leave me no choice but to take this whole case from you, and place it in capable hands as the Prime Minister has asked me to do.”

At that, Commander Ali loosed a shaky breath and quickly refocused his attention on the call.

“And by capable hands, I damn well hope you know what I mean?” the voice asked menacingly.

“Yeah, I do, sir,” Commander Ali answered, his voice dropping considerably by an octave.

How can I be possibly lost on something like that? He thought in mild annoyance.

“Very well, then,” the voice breathed in satisfaction to his response. “Now get to work, Director.”

With those as final words, the call ended with two sharp beeps.

Standing alone now in the long corridor with the cell phone already removed from his ear, Commander Ali’s mind cycled back on the thoughts of what the Minister had subtly hinted at on the phone just now.

Surprisingly, a shudder racked his body at the mere possibility of what the Minister had suggested.

In a way, he knew the Minister was right on all grounds. If the current trend were to continue and they were unable to arrive at something tangible; the Minister would have no choice but to involve the Qatar State Security Bureau (SSB) and their counterparts from the Internal Security Forces (ISF)—locally known as ‘Lekhwiya’.

Besides, it’s obvious they will need all the help they can get in this particular situation.

To face the facts, he actually had no problem with the SSB and ISF involvement in this. But what he did have a problem with was the manner with which these two agencies worked. Not that his agency was a saint or anything. In fact, he knew there was no saint or angel in the Intelligence world. However, when compared with these agencies in brute force and barbaric measures they employed in their operations, the State Security Service comes no closer to none.

Their sabotage methods and hard-boiled operations are notoriously known within the Arabian mainland and across the Persian Gulf. To the extent that they have been branded as Qatari’s version of the CIA and DIA.

The SSB and ISF?

Well, those I can stand and handle, he thought in a compromise on the spot. At least, they still have little decency in them.

But, involving the military in this now?

Not those! He found himself screaming in his mind this time. Involving them is as good as pouring gasoline into an already growing fire. With them, everything was bound to go to shit.

And God knows, if there’s anything they don’t need at the moment; that would be a scenario that would turn into a full-blown crisis. Well, this was bound to happen with the military’s involvement, anyway.

I must fix this before it blows over and gets to that, he thought with some newfound resolve and assurance. That, I would do!

Nice story, more ink to your pen