Caleb15:
Nice story, more ink to your pen

Thanks for the kind words, sire.

Impressive thriller. Getting more intriguing every moment. Love your dialogues, narrations and descriptions, they are copacetic 😎.



#Xavier

Xavier5:
Impressive thriller. Getting more intriguing every moment. Love your dialogues, narrations and descriptions, they are copacetic 😎.



#Xavier

You brought a smile to my face with this tonight, Xavier. Thanks a bunch, brother.

Chapter Twelve

Amman smiled for the first time in the last one and a half hours or so. And knew in some bigger part of him that this was because he had met the Director’s absence in the control room the moment he had walked in and for no other reasons.

Although he had initially returned to the control room to fill him in on the progress of most of the activities he had recently put in motion, he had felt instead instant relief for not meeting him here.

This means a respite from the boring monotonous routines of the last hour!

Wiping the last traces of the smile from his face and ignoring the operator seated dead ahead before the bank of monitor screens, he edged toward the eastern part of the room; where the data analyst sent from HQ, sat ensconced in a chair across a computer screen.

“How’s it coming?” he asked as soon as he was only some inches away from him.

Startled by the sound of the voice, Alsam wheeled around abruptly in his seat to meet the face of his CSO—Chief Security Officer—whom he hadn’t noticed walking into the room.

“Oh, thank God it’s you, sir,” he breathed in relief, placing his right palm over his chest.

“Are you expecting someone else?” Amman asked, confused by the analyst’s queerish reactions.

“Not actually, sir,” Alsam said, “it’s just that the Director stepped out of here just now, and I didn’t hear you walk in.”

Amman brushed this off with a shrug, walking closer to him and leaning in to steal a peek at the screen. “Do you have anything yet?”

Sensing the crisp hardball edge in the CSO’s voice, Alsam quickly composed himself and offered. “Yes, I finally got past the smoke issue of a thing,”

There was a brief instant in which he did nothing other than type in some commands into the computer before he finally added, “But we have a new problem entirely,”

Amman’s jaw dropped the instant he saw what he meant by having ‘a new problem entirely’ on the computer screen across him. From just watching the image on the screen, he felt the little surge of hope he had felt earlier take a complete nosedive.

As he stood there, staring perplexedly at the masked features of the men on the screen; a thought filtered into his mind on the spot:

Well, it appears we are indeed up against a formidable adversary if not even a superior one. And there seemed to be no end to the surprises up their sleeves.

“Those bastards!” was all he could manage to mutter after a long time of protracted silence. “So, what do we do now?” he demanded, after fully recovering from the shock delivered by the unpleasant discovery.

“The Director has asked me to run their faces through FRS,” Alsam explained while typing away on the workstation.

Amman, on the other hand, was taken aback by this and asked, “But, the face masks on their faces, won’t that be a hindrance?”

“They sure as hell are hindrances since no face recognition algorithms can workaround masks. Even pre-treatment with Face Hallucination to remove the masks is a long shot.” Alsam revealed. “But, the Director insisted that I should carry through with the operation and give him something to work with, even though he knew the chances of having an accurate match is lesser than thirty percent.”

Amman drew in a startled breath just then and nodded sagely in acute understanding.

Desperate times, indeed they say needed desperate measures, he reasoned, seeing why the Director, who has always loved and cherished facts, accuracy, and efficiency over any other thing had resorted to this in the first place.

“Well, if that’s the case, I should leave you to it then,” he later said to the analyst, striding away from him to a part of the room where he leaned against the wall.

Relaxing against the wall now and taking his mind off everything else at the moment, Amman thought of what best to do with the time on his hands.

Now that I have the time, how do I put it to good use? he wondered to himself, conjuring in his mind the ideas on how best to spend his little downtime.

Perhaps, I could light a smoke to clear my head? he considered within the corridor of his mind, discarding the thought as soon as it popped up in his head right there on the spot. No, I can’t possibly light a smoke here.

Maybe I should just grab a chair, sit my ass down and rest some. Or, better still, grab a cup of mocha latte to keep my mind and body stimulated.

He scratched off these thoughts and several others that came right after, as they held no appeal whatsoever to him at the moment.

Why not use it to know the media and peoples’ reactions to the disappearance of the World Cup on the internet? [/i]He thought after some time spent brooding over the subject.

Bringing his right foot up against the wall in a way that his knee was jutting out in front of him, Amman retrieved his cell phone from his cargo pants; swiped a finger across its screen to unlock it, and launched the browser on his phone.

In no time, Amman was surfing the internet; reading through blog posts, tabloids, and news content from across the world.

At some point in his reading. He turned up at a blog post whose heading drew his attention and made his eyes bulge a little in shock within their sockets.

Needing to be sure he was seeing correctly, he went over the heading once more, taking his time to pore over every word in it:

‘[i]World Cup Trophy missing in Qatar: A mere coincidence or Kremlin’s way of getting back at the world after unfair treatment and heavy sanctions? Russia's possible involvement in the disappearance of the World Cup Trophy —Our theory.’

Fucking unbelievable, he thought with a rueful shake of his head, making no attempt to click on the post as he continued scrolling down the page.

Inconceivable even to think Russia would be the subject of their conspiracy bollocks and click-baiting campaign!

Little less than a minute later, he came across a headline from a news Web site, with a different heading and angle to the former:

‘FIFA should take responsibility for the World Cup fiasco in Qatar’.

This should be interesting, he thought with a wry smile, deciding to click on the Web page with the news article this time.

Amman learned otherwise the instant a new tab came up on the screen, and his gaze settled on the first paragraph in bold print on the news article:

‘World Cup Stolen on the final day of the World Cup tournament in Qatar: FIFA should claim responsibility for this for awarding Qatar the hosting right to the 2022 FIFA World Cup tournament in the first place’.

However, unpleasant and dispiriting reading this may seem to any Qatari Nationals, it came as no surprise to Amman. He had always known conspiracy theorists and the media to always use avenues like this one as an opportunity to drive more traffic to their sites and force their cock-and-bull story down peoples’ throats.

Another crap from loads of bullshit present on the internet these days, he mused.

Without bothering in the slightest to scroll down the Web page, he minimized the browser window and quickly switched over to the Twitter app on his phone. A minute after launching the Twitter app and navigating to the trending tab, he came across a thread:

‘QATAR 2022 FIFA World Cup: Trophy went Missing’.

Led by his own curiosity, he accessed the thread with a click, scrolling down the feeds of several tweets from Twitter users across the world; joining to condemn the acts and pledging their support to the State of Qatar and her Intelligence and law enforcement agencies.

Now, this is what we all need, he beamed inwardly as he skimmed through the tweets.

“What is the buzz on the internet?” Commander Ali asked as he stepped into the control room, marching headlong toward Amman’s position.

Taken aback by the Director’s gruff voice and sudden reappearance in the room, Amman quickly looked up from his phone. His gaze came to a rest on the large bulk of the Director looming over him.

“Nothing really much, sir,” he declared. “Just conspiracy theorists and the media being annoying as always.”

“What are they saying?” Commander Ali demanded, his gaze keen on him.

“Something about Russian involvement with the disappearance of the World Cup Trophy. And corruption within FIFA leading to the decision to hand Qatar the hosting right of the prestigious tournament.” He revealed, pocketing his cell phone.

Still unfazed, Commander Ali queried further with a straight face. “Let’s put that aside. What are people saying on social media?”

“For now, people are condemning those responsible and showing us their support on Twitter, sir.”

“The local media; are they still contained as we speak?”

“They’re very much contained, sir,” Amman said, “none of them has yet gone public with anything.”

“Good then,” Commander Ali gave a satisfactory nod to that and added, “Well, what have you gathered so far from the stewards?”

“Nothing noteworthy,” Amman replied. “None of them have seen or noticed any new faces among them. I even had an agent pull the records of all accredited stewards. The figures, credentials, and even profiles; everything checks out fine and not a single person is missing.”

“And how’s that even possible?” Commander Ali asked, his expression clouding over in confusion.

However, Amman couldn’t blame the Director for this. He had felt the same way when he had come to the same understanding just a few minutes ago.

“I believe you showed them the picture from the footage,” Commander Ali said, still far from recovering from the daze.

“Every one of them, sir,”

Commander Ali wrenched a long, deep sigh from his chest then, dropping his arms to his sides in complete frustration.

“If none of the stewards claimed to know those men in steward’s colors from the picture, then, how the hell did they infiltrate the stadium in the first place?” Commander Ali said, airing out the same question that’s been rolling around in Amman’s head for the past twelve minutes.

Stumped as much as the Director on the subject, and with no apparent way out to proffer, Amman stared right back at him blankly.

The odd staring engagement accompanied by a bout of deepened silence between both men lasted for fifty seconds or thereabouts. Until it was finally canceled out by the sound of a voice from nearby.

“Bingo!” Alsam holloaed out in joy from his place before the workstation. “The FRS found a match.” He announced, turning around to meet the faces of both men.

Just like kids at the sight of an ice cream van, both men raced toward the analyst, unminding the presence of the young operator, who was at the other end of the room. Amman damning protocol this once led the way, while the Director followed at his heels.

Even with just the short distance covered, Amman arrived beside the analyst in ragged breaths, hunched over, and peered straight at the computer screen.

“Facial Recognition has an eighteen to twenty-seven percent match on the faces of the five men,” Alsam declared to his superiors, who have crowded in close on either side of him.

At his declaration, Amman looked away from the screen and stared at the Director in a pointed way that subtly goaded him to decide whether to go through with his earlier plans or make a detour.

Oblivious to the little dumb show going on around him, Alsam further said, “The angles, shapes, and contours on their features place them to be seventy percent Europeans, twenty-five percent Africans, and three percent South Americans.”

Reaching a decision in his mind now, Commander Ali firmly stated to the analyst. “I want you to share these composite images with both local and International law enforcement agencies in Qatar: The police, Al Fazaa, Interpol… Any agency at all concerned with law enforcement.” He continued more emphatically in the same breath. “Make sure you also share them with the Airport authorities, the Metro police, and every unit of the Qatar traffic police.”

“Right on it, sir,” Alsam said, diving right into work.

To Amman, the Director turned and instructed, “Have the police draw up their faces on wanted posters, and paste them on the walls of every street throughout Lusail.”

“Very well, sir,” Amman said, standing at attention.

“I will also need you to assemble a team of sixty to seventy agents. Have them conduct a search in every hotel, motel, bed and breakfast, and any guesthouses across the nineteen districts of Lusail and other neighboring cities. They are to inspect each room and suite and use force if necessary, to go through their logs of check-ins and check-outs, in any case, the thieves were stupid enough to lodge in any of these places in the past weeks or months.”

“Alright sir,” Amman nodded assent and turned away to take his leave.

“No, wait up, Amman!” Commander Ali called after him.

Amman slowed to a stop after barely taking two steps. His gaze narrowed at the Director in earnest.

“I think you should also consider corresponding with the Lusail Real Estate Development Company—LREDC—and the Urban and Housing Development agency to get a list of the estates and villas acquired across every district of Lusail within the last three months.” Commander Ali opined, biting on his fingernails in deep contemplation. “I think that’s another angle we may need to work to get closer to nailing the robbers.”

“It’s the weekend, sir. Both ministries don’t work on weekends. But, anyways I’ll see to it that I correspond with them first thing tomorrow morning, sir,” Amman assured.

“Remember, we can’t afford to let them slip through our grasp now that we have the likeness of what they really are in person.” Commander Ali stressed.

“I get that, sir,” Amman said, excusing himself from the room right after a slight reverential dip of his head at the Director.

Chapter Thirteen


I am super late for work!

World-famous TV personality—Layla Naseer—knew this even without ever daring a glance at the digital clock on the air-smoothed dashboard of her Ford Escape Hybrid 2022 Edition, as she rounded a corner in the western part of the Wadi Al Sail district of downtown, Doha, Qatar.

Ignoring the incessant buzzes of her cell phone mounted on the car phone holder atop the dashboard, and at the same time trying hard to keep herself from being nervous any more than she already had, she put her foot down on the gas. And stared rather absentmindedly at the needle on the speedometer dial as it shifted to 120km per hour.

The Director would be madly crossed at me, she concluded in her mind at the thought of his several calls she had decidedly ignored today. This recent one, of course, would make it fifteen in total.

As if not arriving at work one hour after she was due to resume, as well as ignoring the Director’s calls and that of her secretary a couple of times already was not bad enough; she had even broken several traffic rules on her way here, today.

She was certain to get a speeding ticket from the Qatar traffic police.

But that was the least of her problems at the moment. As it were now, she has a more pressing problem than that. That imperatively being, arriving at work within the next ten minutes.

And that she must do at all costs!

I just hope the Director will understand my position in all these, she thought with a heart full of hope. That none of it was in any way my fault.

Or, how was she supposed to know that the twenty-four kilometers ride from Lusail—her residence—to Doha—her workplace that she had always made under thirty minutes would drag out for almost an hour and a half? How was she supposed to know some thieves from nowhere would steal the World Cup trophy today, of all days, and disrupt everything for everyone, including herself?

She knew she ought to feel some remorse or cringe at the strangeness of her train of thought. But surprisingly, she felt nothing of the sort at the moment. Rather than that, what she felt was guiltless conviction and refuge in the apparent fact, that there were no wrongs or faults on her part to be held responsible for her tardiness.

After all, she had left her home in the Waterfront Residential district at the same time she did every other day. Took the same route she had taken to work for the past three years since she moved to Lusail. Better yet, she had graciously declined her husband’s offer to eat before leaving for work and had avoided other things that might have resulted in her not being punctual to work.

But, despite everything, she had been unfortunate enough to be caught up within the city limits of Lusail when the first roadblock had been set up in the city. Before she knew what was happening, she had found herself snarled up in the gridlock that ensued shortly after all outbound and inbound transits had been grounded to a halt throughout the city.

It had taken efforts, relentless pleading; flashing her ID into the faces of several cops, and even, her reputation as a top Media personality to get past the police roadblock on the Doha expressway, very close to the Gharrafat Al-Rayyan to finally arrive here in the city center of Doha.

Coming up now on Khalifa Street in the same Wadi Al Sail district, she could easily see her destination—the Qatar Radio and Television Corporation complex—come fully into view. The complex which also serves as the headquarters of Al Jazeera Network where she works spreads out stragglingly before her.

Taking a hard right at the next turn on the street, she slammed on the brake, bringing the car to an abrupt stop before the complex’s entrance gate.

Having no luxury of time at all, she honked thrice; drumming her fingers impatiently on the car’s steering wheel while she waited for one of the securities on the property to come out of the sentry box by the entrance gate.

Luckily for her, a sleazy, puny man in the white getup of security emerged from the booth within a few seconds.

With just a desultory peek through the window at the car's occupant, the flimsy man wasted no time, pushing the button on the automatic level crossing boom barriers blocking out the car from entering the premises.

As she watched the tip of the poles on the boom barrier swing upward into the air in a vertical arc, she stole a peek yet again at the digital clock on the dashboard.

I have less than nine minutes!

Turning a small smile of appreciation on the man, she shifted the idling car back into gear, navigating past the narrow corridor of the barrier into the complex proper. Once within the complex, she revved the car's engine even more, zipping through the 100 km-long asphalt driveway of the complex.

The world flew by her in a blur as she coursed through the stretch of tarred road. The landmark structures and the vista of the complex’s 70, 000 m2 landscape changed considerably from old, worn-out buildings to newer avant-garde structures.

Another look at the digital clock on the car’s dashboard made her even more restless and sent her heart pounding faster.

Less than seven minutes!

Seeing this, she connected her foot with the gas pedal once more, bringing the car to almost 140km/h. All within a few seconds. This earned her curious stares and glances from both passers-by and drivers who drifted by occasionally on the road as the car scudded past.

Some minutes later, the Ford Escape Hybrid skidded to a stop in a parking spot opposite a courtyard. Within seconds of that, it was put in park and its engine was turned off simultaneously.

Snagging her phone off the car’s phone holder and her 2021 Summer Collection Fendi handbag from the passenger’s seat, she dove out of the car.

As she stepped into the open, she felt an icy blast of the winter air assault her. The strong gust blew her straight-layered hair out in all directions in the manner of a wimpling flag.

Oh no, I forgot my scarf at home, she recalled on the spot, feeling a mite rueful as she struggled to gather into a single piece the outward-branching tendrils of her hair blown by the fiery gust.

Ignoring the thought and the biting pinpricks of the frosty weather against her skin altogether, she marched through the courtyard dotted with well-tended palm trees and the monument—otherwise known as the ‘Freedom Wall'—which bore the engraved names and dates of deaths of 600 journalists lost in the line of duty since the year 1996. She didn’t pause for as much as a glance at the monument before she struck a beeline for the adjacent building from which the Al Jazeera TV Network currently operates.

Designed by the architectural company Veech X Veech with aesthetics and a futuristic outlook in mind, the Al Jazeera studio building stood out in stark contrast from every other building on the premises, like a patch of cloud against a sky of infinite blue. Something about its chalk-white color, and its rather unconventional open-plan design of wall-less, partition-less, and column-less structure, which gave anyone an unobstructed view from both inside and outside this architectural marvel sets it apart from other buildings in the complex.

Built to commemorate the Al Jazeera Media Network’s twentieth anniversary and shaded by a lone-standing canopy cantilevering suspended on a 36m lateral structural support, the studio with its latticework glass façade boasted about 1,650m2 of studio space and support areas. As well as a sprawling 7,450m² of landscaped public space.

As she hurried along the pavement which forked out every which way through the premises for an astonishing 56,000 m2, it crossed her mind to scour through her memory if there was ever a time when she had come late to work in her six years’ service at the Al Jazeera Network.

Surprisingly, she found there was never a time she came late to work. But rather than feel a sense of swelling pride and a tad relief in this, the discovery left a sour taste in her mouth.

Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything, she conceived on second thoughts, dashing headfirst into the foyer of the building.

When she arrived at the lobby in a trot a few seconds later, her secretary was already waiting at the receptionist’s desk with some papers in hand. She thrust these papers into Layla’s hands just as she scooted over to her side.

“The Director and the crew are waiting for you in the English newsroom,” she explained, falling into pace beside her as they both walked away from the lobby and further into the building.

Knowing what the papers were for at a glance, she quickly tucked them under her armpits, then, turned to face the taller lady with a big smile on her pert face.

“What can I ever do without you?” she asked, pulling a face. “You’re such a life-saver, Nina!”

Unaffected in the slightest by her remark, Nina—her tall, gracile secretary—maintained a poker face rather than offer a gracious smile in return. Yet never faltered a step for a beat beside her.

Together, they continued down the copious space of the building’s workstead galleries at the same pace; breezing past a narrow aisle fringed on both ends by several workstations and cubicles for another forty-five seconds or thereabouts, before Nina came to an abrupt stop directly across a workstation.

“You will have to continue alone from here as there are other things that I must attend to for you in the office.” Nina relayed on the spot, her reflective zaffre eyes straying over to the watch on her wrist. “You have less than three minutes before the broadcast goes live.” She stressed in a quick reminder afterward.

Throwing a crisp nod of understanding at her oval-faced secretary standing completely still behind, Layla proceeded down the aisle, covering the rest of the distance to the English Newsroom at a jog.

Moments later, Layla arrived winded and almost doubling over in the studio of the Al Jazeera English Newsroom. There, a couple of technicians, assorted crew, and producers along with the studio’s Director stood. Feverishly awaiting her arrival as Newshour—the Network’s popular hour-long newscast program—which she had anchored for over two years draws closer to its airtime.

“She made it! She’s finally here!” Someone declared to the room upon sighting her.

Upon the declaration, the primly dressed middle-aged director in a white-stiffed-fronted shirt suspended on black trousers by black suspenders shuffled over to her side from a corner of the studio where he was shouting out orders to a clutch of technicians.

“I’m really sorry boss—” she tried explaining in bated breath but was quickly cut off by the Director.

“Save your breath ‘cause you really gonna be needing it pretty soon, Layla.” The director stated firmly, his sagely blue eyes glinting with salient understanding. “You’re live in sixty seconds.” He added with some finality.

Layla managed a feeble nod of assent from where she squatted like a toad on the glistening tiled floor, struggling to catch her breath. She watched the director spin quickly on his heels and strode purposefully away from her.

“Well now, it appears we’re ready and set, guys,” the director addressed the room as a whole an instant later. “Let’s rock and roll!”

I made it! Layla beamed inwardly, her lips curling up at the edges in a satisfactory smile as she rose to her full length.

Wasting no time further, she zipped away from the spot toward the set.

Chapter Fourteen


In one of the private study rooms in his exotic residence—The Green Palace—Prime Minister Qabid El Ahmadi after a literal day in hell laid back in an Ottoman. His gaze fastened on the live broadcast of the Al Jazeera Network‘s newscast—the Newshour presently airing.

After the events of the last hour had gone by in a dizzying blitz for the PM. Such that he could barely recall the details in full himself. The PM had sat down to watch the TV. Anything to get his mind off the scenes he had bore witness to earlier.

No matter how hard and long he thought of it now, it still felt too rapid for him to grasp… almost like a slideshow.

One minute, he was in the company of the Emir, the FIFA president, and other prominent leaders of the world in a skybox about to watch the biggest show on planet Earth. In another, a thick curtain of smoke had gone up and taken over the stadium. And before he or any of the dignitaries he was with could realize what was happening, a wall of bodies had materialized around them. Within minutes of that, strong, beefy arms had formed a gangway, through which he was carted off from the spot and out of the stadium like contraband alongside other big names. By the time his brain could catch up on the things going on around him, he was in his car, on his way back to his official residence.

The all-too-familiar face of the anchorwoman—Layla Naseer—covered to her upper body on the TV screen in a white double-breasted designer blazer—the PM could never have thought would come as a much-needed reprieve to him. Nor her voice a piece of soothing music to his ears as she lipped the news in her trademark reedy monotone.

Withdrawing his observant gaze from the feature of her seated figure on the screen, the Prime Minister returned his whole attention to listening to the news rolling off her full, pink lips.

“In another news from the foreign scene: Britain’s plans to decrease her Greenhouse gasses emission by 20% before the year 2024 runs out to fight Climate change and Global Warming have been made an actual reality as the British parliament earlier today passed into law a bill that will restrict both existing and new industries across Great Britain to the use of Green Energies.” The story’s lead-in tumbled out from her lips in lilting, unaccented English. “Six months after the G-7 Summit in Munich, where he unabashedly confirmed his awareness of Great Britain being amongst the countries with the highest carbon footprint in the world, and said that the issue of Climate change and Global Warming is a pressing matter which Great Britain and the countries of the world must join hands together to fight and meet head-on.

Britain’s PM—Boris Johnson finally had his wishes to decrease Greenhouse gas emissions by 20% across Great Britain granted after the UK’s parliament passed the bill that will ensure that every industry—light and heavy, old and new makes use of Green Energies for a cleaner, greener, and carbon-free Earth.”

“Our reporter; Majid Abdy was there in Munich in June to cover live the Summit which focuses majorly on hot topics like the Russian invasion of Ukraine, the issue of Climate Change, and Global Warming, among other things. He’s also at the PM’s residence on 10th Downing Street earlier today to get a statement from the Prime Minister in a rare scrum granted at the front of his residence after the declaration of the bill.”
Immediately, a fast-breaking interview of the coral-haired PM offering comments to reporters clustered around him like a swarm of insects at the sighting of a honeyguide against the background of the famous 10th Downing Street came on the screen.

The Prime Minister watched with mild interest from his seat across the TV screen as his counterpart from the United Kingdom encircled by microphones attached to several hands revealed to the reporters his delight upon hearing the news of the enactment of the law that will reinforce the use of more Greenhouse-friendly energies across the UK, to promote the G-7’s ‘Green Earth campaign’.

The video clip rolled to a quick end with a brief outro from the wide-eyed news reporter before vanishing from the screen. It was replaced an instant later by a visual from the studio, where the talking head of the news anchor dutifully waited on the set with her hands knotted over the desk before her.

“That was the English Prime Minister—Boris Johnson addressing reporters after his vision to reduce the UK’s carbon footprint by 20% before the end of the year 2024 was made feasible by the passing into law the Greenhouse bill he submitted three months earlier to the British Parliament.” The canorous voice of the news anchor returned over the TV, her gaze firmly fixed on the unseen teleprompter in the studio. “Now, on to the local scene—”

At the mention of that, the Prime Minister’s countenance changed noticeably from bright to deadpan. He sat bolt upright in his seat almost instantly, his attention riveted on the screen more than ever.

“The Qatar 2022 FIFA World Cup Tournament has ended on a tragic note as the World Cup trophy went missing exactly fifteen minutes after a Vehicle-borne IED rocked nearby Blusail Apartment.”

A deep frown burrowed its way slowly into the Prime Minister’s weathered features at the much-dreaded news story the anchorwoman had just touched on.

“The tragedy which has been described by observers and top football bodies the world over as something never seen in the history of modern football had caused quite an upstir within its first two hours; majorly in Lusail—the host country—Qatar’s venue for the final and throughout the world.” The lady narrated in rapid but distinct English. “Reported as a grand scheme of a planned heist, the World Cup trophy disappearance at the heavily secured Lusail Arena came as a stunning blow to the Qatari government and her law enforcement authorities, who are yet to openly avow the disappearance of the World Cup trophy up to this moment.”

So much for having the local media contained, the Prime Minister thought, aggravated by the containment assurances made earlier by his Minister of Interior.

“We haven’t got a leash on the international media. But I assure you, we’ve got our local media contained, Mr. President.” The minister had promised earlier on his visit to the palace. “They won’t go public with anything unless they’ve been given the green light by us. This should buy us enough time until we come up with a fitting narrative.”

“The Al Jazeera Network Watchdog crew were out there in Lusail to capture the scenes from across every of its district in the aftermath of the heist, which has we gathered had set off an unfavorable chain of events throughout the planned city.” She continued in an even clear-cut English. “Here are some of the scenes captured from across many districts of Lusail by our Watchdog crew,”

Before long, new visuals taken from a bird’s-eye view and capturing the standstill in traffic and other activities across several districts of Lusail came up on the TV screen.

“Allaenat ealaa aibn albundunqiat aladhi yusamiy nafsah wazir aldaakhilia!” the PM cursed gently under his breath, reaching for the remote beside him on the Ottoman and, in a rare moment of weakness hurled it against the opposite wall in the room. Bleep that son of a gun that calls himself the Minister of Interior!

Angered beyond measure already, he reared to his feet, caring little for the recording playing on the TV and the news altogether.

Immersed deeply in this state of huffiness, he didn’t hear the sound of approaching footsteps. Much less, noticed the unannounced appearance of his wife who poked her head through the crack in the study’s door.

Knowing better than to walk straight off into an active volcano, the First Lady held her position by the door, choosing to observe the situation from a distance for some time.

Standing there, watching the frown on her husband’s face deepening by the seconds and the muscles in his neck sticking out, she looked across the room at the TV screen. She realized at once that the news airing on the TV had been responsible for her husband’s sour mood.

Now that her gaze fell back on him, she couldn’t help noticing the striking semblance her husband had in that state with Nicolas Cage’s titular character—Johnny Blaze—from the Marvel Movie ‘Ghost Rider’ which she had watched a while back. The only difference of course is the fiery head of fire. Normally, the sight would evoke a reaction from anyone, but not her. It didn’t thrill or spook her in the slightest.

It took a whole minute for the rightful anger the PM was feeling at that moment to let up some, and even longer before he sensed the presence of his wife at the door.

Their gaze locked. But it was only for an instant as the PM looked away after what could sparingly pass for five seconds. His eyes scanned the study much later in an evident search for something.

Where the hell is my phone?! he shrieked in his mind as he spun around in the room, blood frothing still in anger like yeast in his veins.

He gave up the futile search in no less than a few seconds, setting his sight on the door and inching toward it.

Watching him approach her position, the First Lady stood at attention quickly and offered up a sunny smile. The PM, on the other hand, didn’t so much as recognize her presence, breezing past her without a word or a look her way.

However, the repressed rage hidden away under his schooled expression didn’t go unnoticed by his wife, who stood rooted to the same spot, watching his back until it eventually disappeared at the end of the narrow corridor.

But like most women in their part of the world, she decided to know her place by staying silent and not interfering in any way with the affairs of her husband.

Unbridled, the PM continued the final circuit of his trip to the bedroom—the one he shared with his wife—with a single pressing thought stuck in his mind.

I will have that good-for-nothing Minister’s ass.