I've been a secret admirer of your works for some time now. Man, you're damn good! Thus far, I've noticed your style is parallel to none on Nairaland. The way you weave your plots and your delivery/imagery is flawless. To top it all off, you've created your own unique Universe, which obviously is not a child's play. Anytime I read your works, I can't help feeling this lady has got all it takes to be the next Sarah J Maas and George R. R. Martin.

It's a sad thing, however, that such talent like yours has to be born in a country like Nigeria.

I know this isn't much of a thing. But I hope it goes a long way to keep you motivated to strive harder!

You will get there pretty soon!

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.

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.

Growing up in the manner that I did ensure I was exposed to a lot of things as a child. Although I wasn't a partaker in most of these things, being just an audience watching from afar was enough to make them a part of my experience as much as those who actually lived them. For example, I wasn't allowed to play or run around in the rain like most of the kids in our house do. All because my father wouldn't permit it. He was wont to say, "Because we live in this house, or this ghetto doesn't mean you get to behave like hood rats. You're different from those other kids. You're my children, born to me. And you must learn to act like it."

But the fact that I didn't get the chance to play football or Suwe—a game played by throwing seeds and hopping on one foot through a square of either eight or ten tiles depending on the preference of lines drawn in the sand—alongside other kids in the rain doesn't stop me from sharing in the profoundness of the joy from these games. I often watched with a smile from our window as the kids kicked balls around in the slanting sheets of rain, sloshed through giant puddles filled to the brim with muddy rainwater, splashed and played in the same water, or took turns as they pushed each other across a concrete pavement while seated on a slab of wood which moved on boris wheels.

Similarly, I couldn't dare to join with the other kids who rolled tires up and down our street daily, clad only in panties. These plaything—which happens to be their first-ever automobiles—come in various kinds: mostly as regular motorcycle and car tires; or as the most-favored type, the wrought iron or copper molded into a perfect circle, and driven with a stick, on whose head is attached a used milk tin beaten and flattened, such that it resembles a golf club.

What's more, myself and my siblings don't get to bathe outside like other kids in our yard. As with most things, my dad forbids us from doing that, too. Stressing the need for us to be model children and how boorish a thing it was to do. So, instead of going the orthodox way like everyone else, my mom usually bathed us in the bathroom we shared with two other families in our wing.

In the house that I grew up in, like almost every house on our street as I believed at the time, it's a common rite every morning for kids to bathe out in the open. The only exception is sometimes on unforgivingly cold Harmattan mornings. But since there's scarcely any sign of the bone-seeping chill brought on by the harmattan season and experienced across the country at every dawn in Lagos, it's better to assume there's never a time this happened. Save for the fog in the sky, it's really hard to tell most mornings if Harmattan is still blowing or not.

The spots for these baths vary from home to home. For the vulgar and borderline flippant on our street, it's usually done in front of their house. For those that have little decency in them on the other hand, their affairs are sorted out in their backyard.

This particular experience remains one of my fondest childhood memories even though I never for once did partake in it. Watching those kids who happened to be around my age at the time lined up in their birthday suits while their younger ones are being attended to either by their moms or older siblings—sisters mostly in this case—is one thing I can never bring myself to forget even if I want to.
The mothers whose nudity is covered only by various one-piece mismatched Ankara Iros tied high above their busts would sit on Apoti—stool—while they scooped water from an aluminum basin and rubbed their bodies with the local sponge. It's from these seated positions that they usually bark out curt commands; demanding the kids hold onto a bucket or pail and raise their feet while they scrub almost to the point that the sole of each foot is showing faint blushes of red.

The clangorous chorus of cries that accompanied this ritual from children either spanked hard on their buttocks or slapped across their faces by their mothers; the spatter of water hitting the concreted floor as each bowl of water is emptied on the kids' heads, along with the vigorous Tchw-tchw Tchw-tchw of toothbrushes gliding over teeth will forever be my favorite sounds.

On the other hand, the sight of water raining down from the bowls and snaking down the kids' bodies in ribbony rivulets: the slather of blood and thick white foam as it dribbled down a corner of the kids' mouths as their mothers brushed their teeth remained my best visuals. I guess even mothers aren't exempted from the African passive-aggressive ways of doing things; driving the brush over the rows of teeth in both horizontal and vertical motion, until the gums are bleeding or a crown or two is shaking.

However, there's one thing in particular that my dad loathes above all else: that is, the notion that bathing every day would make one's skin blanch and paper-thin as it was believed by most people at the time. He never once entertained these 'unfounded theories' as he aptly called them; and was never a believer or subscriber to the concept, either.

"Why should you go a day without bathing when even a hen takes a sand bath every other day?" He would often direct at no one in particular in that stern voice of his. "Not only is it a sick thing to do, but it's also only befitting of the Cavemen because only the Caveman goes without bathing and eats fleas picked from their hair. And I'm quite certain we modern men are none of that anymore."

This means instead of skipping our baths on Wednesdays and Saturdays as everyone does, we bathe every day of the week. Of course, this along with other things we did then drew derision and mockery from our neighbors who were given to gossip and name-calling. Statements like "Awon alakowe yi ati iwa won yi sa?" meaning "These learned people and their strange ways," or, "Won a de mase bi eni ti ko ki ya gbe," which translates as "They're always acting as if they don't take a shit," are never far from their mouths.

But no matter how hard my dad tried to shield us from sharing in these experiences. One thing he didn't know is we couldn't unsee the things we've seen; nor could we unlearn what we've learned, even if we could, and that whether or not he likes it they've become a part of us, too.

Oh, that brought to mind. Did I ever mention to you that my mom, just like my dad was a Polytechnic graduate? Not that there's something special about this information, but I thought it would be better if you knew that my mom is educated. Only she didn't bag beyond an ND—National Diploma. She had to put paid to her plans of bagging a Higher National Diploma because my all-too-manly Dad couldn't stand his wife having the same degree as him. Even at that, for all her ND certificates, he still wouldn't let her work full-time. So, to help ease the burden on his shoulders, so to speak, the best she could do was double both as a full-housewive and a Jeleosinmi teacher.

They had met—my mom and dad—while still studying in Laspotech. My dad was well into his third year of school at the time; my mom, on the other hand, was still in her fresher year. One thing led to another, and they were joined together as husband and wife six years later in a Nikkah ceremony presided over by some renowned Jalabi Alfas, and attended by friends, families, relatives, and of course, those uninvited.

"I paid your mother's dowry in full without owing her kolanut-eating dad a dime," my dad would often boast to us in one of their good moments together.

To which my mom would often come back with a most-fitting repartee, "You know my dad was a kolanut-eater. Yet, you wouldn't stop coming after his daughter. Do you remember how many chicks you stepped on just by coming to our house back then?"

Beaten, my dad would look morosely for some time as if searching for the right words to say. I still don't know if this was genuine or just for dramatics. He would then pop off with a response out of nowhere. "Is it my fault that you're irresistible then, Sophiat?" making sure to lay more emphasis on the then and Sophiat—mom’s maiden name—which he often likes to swirl around his mouth like it was honey whenever they play.

"Then?" Mom would ask, fixing him a cold stare. "Why not now?"

"Yes, then." Dad would say smugly. "It's only that young, lithe lady in that previous life that was irresistible, not this woman with the paunch and all those stretch marks."

"Whose fault is it then that I become this person? Mine or yours, who wouldn't sleep and let a child lie?"

There, that remark always put an end to their japery. Thereupon, Dad would continue with whatever it was that he was doing before. While mom waltzed over to the nearest chair, glowing in the aftermath of her small victory.

Ours was not a rich home in the financial sense, but it was one rich with happiness and contentment. Cut short only by my father's sudden demise when I turned seven. Our home is not filled with laughter every day as most people would have you believe. Neither is it fraught with fights or bickerings. Our parents seldom fight, and sometimes when they do, it only ends in silent treatment imposed by my dad, which withers away within a few days.

This silent treatment, as it were, stops only at ignoring each other and not responding to each other's greetings, and does not extend to other areas like sharing the same bed and feeding. The reason for the former, I only wish I knew. The latter, however, I believe, was because my dad is someone who doesn't play with his stomach. Even at that, the longest any of these silent treatments had lasted was five days. And that was when my mother had attended a relative's wedding against my father's wishes.

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.

Xavier5:
Space rented, seat placed, popcorn bought, all in readiness for this piece 😎😌.



#Xavier

Alrighty. Good to have you here by the way, boss.

Strap up! 'Cause we're heading straight for the satellite.

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 One

From what I can recall from my early life, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I wasn't born or bred with a silver spoon. My family, if anything, gets by each day on a hand-to-mouth basis.

Even though I like to think that we weren't as poor as some families in Nigeria back then. Nor are we living in abject poverty as the skin and bones kids shown in the footage generally used as promotional videos by UNICEF and the WHO on TV. The ironic bit remains, by no means can my family be considered rich, either. At least, that much could be backed with proof that; we didn't own a V-booth Benz which was the trendy automobile owned by the cream of the society at the time. This, plus the fact that my parents couldn't afford to send us—myself and my two siblings—to the Montessori schools that were cropping up in the country then.

However, in retrospection, I sometimes wonder if living in the cramped space of a studio apartment—or a room and parlor as it's commonly referred to here—infested with bed bugs and roaches, and lacking general modern conveniences like an air conditioner, and seldom eating two square meals a day is anything but that.

Although some people who grew up in a family like mine at the time may go on to identify as being in the middle class. Thing is, I will have no part in such fantasies. Because I believe a midpoint had ceased to exist in the social classes in Nigeria at that time. From that point on, you're either rich or poor. It's that simple.

Even while my dad was alive and working whatever job it was that he worked, which as it happened I didn't know at the time because I was too young to understand anything. All I know is he leaves home dressed in a pressed shirt and slacks bright and early in the morning and returns late in the evening, tired to his bones. I can still recall us saving up the tubes of our Closeup toothpaste after they must have been squeezed flat as a pancake and refused to spill out their content. These stored away tubes my mom would make sure to put to later use on our rough days as she called them by blowing air into them before cutting them evenly into two with a knife.

Another thing I picked up from that time was watching my mom put away the second tin of Peak milk for a tea meant for five people every time we breakfasted on bread and tea. This special tea of hers, she usually made with four Lipton bags with no Milo or Bournvita beverage as an additive. After finishing up with this tea alagbada as it's commonly known, mom would cut up a paper into neat pieces of twos or threes. It was with these pieces of paper that she often covered the tiny holes she had made earlier with a bread knife on the lid of the tin milk after greasing it with her saliva. Not to mention, myself draining off the bottles of soft drinks I was asked to return to the retailer every time someone paid us a visit.

If this is not living in poverty, then I wonder what else is…

I still remember growing up with my family of five in what is commonly called a face-to-face in our part of the world. My earliest memories come from tottering from door to door in one of these types of apartment buildings, which have their rooms built in adjacent rows of three to six rooms lined up opposite each other on the backwaters of Lagos that we lived in.

The house we lived in on Tejuoso Street, Surulere was a barrack. Bear in mind that, a barrack in my part of the world doesn't necessarily mean buildings where soldiers live. Well, in this case, what I meant is that our house is one with a lot of buildings in it. First, there's the main house where my family and five other families reside. Then, there are two Boys' quarters—each with seven rooms apiece—in the backyard. So technically, there are a lot of rooms. Which inversely equals a lot of tenants and troubles. Fights broke out every time over trivial things like who made use of the toilet and left it untended after use, whose turn it was on the house-sweeping roster, who shirked the bathroom cleaning duties, who inadvertently or advertently unspread someone else's clothes on the clothesline, and so on.

I remembered waking up every morning to first; the crows and gabble of the gaggle of cocks and hens in our area. Then to the Adhan—the Muslim call to prayer—by the Muezzin from the nearby mosque. And, ultimately, to the permanent fixture of blended waves of the noise of married women, spinsters, and bachelors fetching water from the taps of the three-storied building on our street.

This house owned by a calabashbellied Alhaji who has four wives in different parts of Lagos boasted not only as the painted house on our street but the whole of Tejuoso at the time. Alhaji Karashi as he was known by everyone in the whole of Surulere and half of Lagos mainland sells cars at the famous Oshodi's Ladipo market. Alhaji, a socialite and born philanthropist, whose smile is often readily cocked to reveal his sets of silvered teeth which serve as a subtle indicator of his pilgrimage to the Holy Land of Mecca always felt obliged to give back to the society. Hence, after the successful completion of his house, he arranged a borehole for the whole community.

This made his house, the one he spent just two days out of the seven in a week whenever he visited his first wife a hotspot for brawls and shouting matches. From there every morning, you can always hear the frequent trading of insults and the string of curses. Statements like "Mi o nigba, mo shaju yin de idi odo. E le cheat mi," "Aye yin o nida", and "A bi ko fe da fun yin ni?" are always flying around. It's worth noting that the latter statement is often said with a rising tone, so it's always safe to assume it's a question. Which you can then easily reply to with, "O ma da fun emi oo. Eyin ni ko ni da fun oo."

Aside from this, Alaanu ni Oluwa villa —Alhaji Karashi's house—also serves as another side attraction. Funny that, it's only in Lagos that you will see strange houses with even stranger names. Only, this side attraction is an esoteric knowledge shared between the perverted and lecherous men on our street. I wouldn't become privy to this information myself until I turned eleven and was able to partake in this major rite of passage with the Egbon Adugbos—area brothers—on our street.

If you are wondering what side attraction the house serves. Then this is it: Being that all the women on our street as well as others from neighboring streets, all of whom have shunned the Baba Ijesha selling water in our area for the free water offered them by Alhaji Karashi are always in need of water. And for the most part are on this quest every morning in their naturally unguarded state. For this reason, the larger percentage of the male demographics on our street figured out the best way to make the most of this situation.

So, at every sunrise, the egbons, the unemployed bums, and the depraved old men on our street clad either in an Ankara wound around their necks in the Pakaja style. Or in the age-stained yellow singlets they have slept in overnight with their pricks half-tenting in their knickerbockers, all come out to feast their hungry eyes on these exotic scenes.

Standing in verandas or in front of their houses which literally served as ringside seats, and pretending to do anything from brushing their teeth with Paako—the local toothbrush which is gotten from the barks of trees—to listening to the AM sports news on their transistor radios, these men engaged in the real-time viewing of a most-premium primetime show. From these vantage points, they watched as braless women with breasts of all kinds trooped past on our streets like an army of ants with buckets and pails of water gingerly balanced on their Osuka-ed heads.

It's from engaging in these acts which only in hindsight seemed deplorable that I had the experience of what could be likened to the lesser version of what psychologists termed my primal scene. It's also from there that I learned certain words describing some parts of the woman's anatomy. This is made possible because these uncles or egbons as we like to call them have different names which they called the different types of breasts they glimpsed from their favorite spots.

For instance, one such name is the slippers. I think it's in your good interest to know that slippers in this context don't necessarily mean your regular bathroom slippers. Instead, it serves as a term used to describe fallen, droopy breasts. Others like it are Oronbo—lime—which is used to describe an especially small breast; Watermelons which usually refers to breasts, so big that they're barely curtailed by whatever outfits their owner was wearing.

Caleb15:
Nice story, more ink to your pen

Thanks for the kind words, sire.

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!

Prologue

One may say it all began seven years ago. One may also say it began way before that, stressing the point that it had begun a year before that. But regardless of what one chooses to believe of the two, it's fair to stand on the common ground that one would still be right.

There's a saying that there are always two sides to a story. Well, in this case, there's a third. Rare? Yes. But no less a first as far as first goes. But believe me when I say that all that would be shared in this account is entirely true.

For the first set of people that believed it started seven years ago. On that humid afternoon, the individual this story was about first swiped that #500 change from that man's pocket at the market square. It may be said of them that they are not farther away from the truth. For indeed, the wheels of destiny had been set in motion that very day.

For the second set of people who believed it had started a year earlier. That dismal rainy evening when the main character of this story had stood under that shed and watched his father breathe his last in that moldy culvert. It may be said of them that they know their ass from a hole in the ground. Simply because that very event sealed it for him.

However, what either set of people failed to see is the fact that this story had begun even way before all of that. But the fault isn't entirely theirs. Or is it? Anyway, I do think the blame hinged solely upon this old truth, older than any man that people tend to see the effect and not the cause of events/smoke but not the cause of the fire.

You might wonder why I know so much about this person and why I'm the one narrating this tale. And rightly, so. That's because the main character of this story is me. And the account I'm about to tell you is mine.

If I were to be asked the same question of when it all started. I would say that it began twenty-two years ago. The very moment God blew his breath into my lungs. For it was written in the stars even before I was born that I would wound down this path. It was woven into the thread of life that I would become this person even before I took my first earthly breath. It was there in the umbilical cord I had around my neck at birth that I would turn out the way I did. To put it like a wise man once said; the pen has been lifted and the pages have dried even before I arrived on this planet.

Although, people may say we're the master of our own Fate. But, I say they couldn't be more wrong. For we are in fact nothing but Omo Ayo—Ayo seeds—in the hands of fate.

This, I know for certain. And if not so, what else could it be? Or, why else is life so dour and unforgiving? And why do we struggle so if not that we are mere hands for Fate to play?

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.

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.

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

***

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.

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.

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.

So after a brief hiatus, we're back in business!
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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.

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.

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Xavier5:
Intriguing story Mr Salahdin 😎.



#Xavier

Danke!

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

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!)

***
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.

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.

Happy birthday, Xav. Wishing you the very best!

kayo80:


You're so right.

A lot of readers don't know it is their comments/likes that keep writers writing. But they are always quick to come out of ghost mode to complain when the writer stops posting.

I don't think as a reader you will like everything a writer writes, but whenever you do read something you like, leave a comment... Or at least hit the "like" button. It won't take you more than a second do the latter.

Their matter tires me, my brother. But I do think I understand them.

YoungBruzzy:

Thank you so much for this word of appreciation. I see comments, likes and share as the least that a reader should be able to do since many of us aren’t buoyant enough to send a token to the writer(s). Thanks once again for taking note of that little thing.

Well, you can go on and call what you do little. But I'm sure it's not for those who you do it for.