₦airaland Forum

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

YoungBruzzy:
Damn! They will kill Nnamdi for sure. But I like him, he didn't go down without putting up a fight, a real man.
Thanks for the update OP

I really must commend you for what you do here in the literature section for writers, sir. Like, you're always profuse with your admiration of their work and giving them the right incentive to do better. I only wish half the readers here on NL are like you.

I see you have something crackin' and kicking here already after the long hiatus, my man.

By the way, it's good to have you back.

Mhizzard:
i guess her father was not a human created by almighty

I am lost on the joke here, bro.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, you don't worry missus. You've found your first and best audience in me.

You're doing just great, by the way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Roger that…”

“Copy…”

“Got it…”

“On the move...”

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

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

It was just as he had predicted, he thought, obviously pleased. A lazy smile somehow came out to play on his lips then.

With nothing else left to do, he laid back in the plush seat of the jeep and waited for his confederates to join him soon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Xavier5:
Welcome mate. Use this one hold body 😎.

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



#Xavier

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

Xavier5:
Akinbami, I this you? 👀👀👀

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



#Xavier

Yeah, it's Me, brother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bam17:
Awe. I'm glad, Salahdin. I'm definitely going to read your story. Gosh, I had no idea people were still posting stories on Nairaland. Like, it's been long on this platform.

I would pretty much love that. And I promise to return the favor (I see you have a new book here already: Crushed).

Bam17:
Awe. I didn't think anyone would still remember me on this platform. Will check it out. Thanks, Silv. It's been hell long, fr.

Well, you're not forgotten ma'am.

There you have it, good people.

Here's today's question, by the way: If you were in Amman's shoes, what would you have done differently at the discovery that the World Cup trophy is missing?

And remember the golden rule: keeping this thread buzzing and interactive.

So, don't hesitate to air out your opinions!!!

Chapter Two

Since the completion of over 70% of its infrastructure in 2018, the planned city of Lusail was witnessing an unprecedented record of activities on its streets so far.

This was currently evident on all streets within the Sports district and its axis; as people—mostly locals— from all walks of life gathered around as bystanders to witness what seemed to be a rather unexpected ending to the greatest event on earth which they have been a witness to for a month now.

However, it appears this new surge in activities was not about to end just yet. Because a new wave of siren wails split the Lusail air, as a motorcade barreled down the Al-Khor Coastal road of its Sports District.

The fleet, led by the sweepers—three Porsche Panamera police cruisers—and guarded at the rear by four Toyota Land Cruiser V8s breezed past the crowds of bystanders lining the Al-Khor Coastal road on both sides in a stream. Then, followed a sharp right at a turn into the stadium’s proper, before coming to a screeching stop in the large expanse of its parking lots.

What happened afterward saw a slight drop in the temperature around the stadium and its parking lots. As full-vested policemen holding large K9—canines—on thick leashes and sleekly-dressed agents from the Qatar State Security poured out of the vehicles in droves, and stood guard around the only Porsche Cayenne amongst the fleet.

Barely seconds later, the death seat door of the Porsche Cayenne popped open. And out came a strapping man, whose toned six-feet-two physique hinted at regular visits to the gym. Similarly, his slightly tanned olive skin, straight big nose upturned at the bridge, hard jawline and defined cheekbones were enough telltale indicators of his Arabian ancestry.

Commander Ali Daei, the shaggy-haired young Director of the Qatar State Security spared a cursory glance at the stadium bowl’s elaborate exterior the instant he stepped out into the crisp evening air and scrunched up his nose in pure distaste.

Why spend so much on building a stadium when there’s so much that could still be done for the Nation’s Defense and Intelligence? [/i]He thought resentfully for an instant there. [i]Such a total waste of money and resources!

Tossing the thought from his mind there on the spot, Commander Ali made briskly toward the Stadium’s northwestern entrance and was followed in tandem by the agents and team of policemen in his entourage.

Halfway to the northwestern entrance of the stadium, he was met by a short barrel of a man in a trench coat and cargo pants.

“Nurahib bialqayid,” the man said once within earshot. His breath jetted out in a cloud of condensation in front of him. Welcome Director.

“What’s the sitch on ground, Amman?” Commander Ali asked in passing, never breaking his strides.

Amman, who was just about to stop dead in his tracks for the Director fell right back in step behind the muscular man before diving into details. “The trophy is still very much missing, sir. I had the police and stewards initiate a lockdown of the stadium at the instance of the incident. We have also blocked all access to the stadium and are now coordinating a stop and search of the spectators in the stadium at ‘Entrance Gate One’.”

“That’s some balls you got rolling already, Amman.” Commander Ali said with a brief nod of approval as he approached the Stadium’s ‘Entrance Gate Four’.

“I would also like to add that, we found a hole in one of the dressing rooms that link to one of the malls in the stadium complex,” Amman informed, taking two steps at a time to keep up with the Director’s brisk pace.

The information, however small and insignificant seemed to carry some weight, because the Director slowed his pace a little, and echoed. “A hole in the wall?” He picked up the pace seconds later. And so did his details, who had slackened their pace at the same time as him.

“Yes, a hole sir. It was discovered by some uniforms some minutes after the trophy went missing.” Amman explained. “Our working theory earlier is, that it’s likely to be the escape route used by the robbers, but it appears it isn’t.”

“And by that, you mean there is a higher chance the trophy has left the stadium. Don’t you, Amman?” Commander Ali said, making the first eye-to-eye contact with him.
Amman was hesitant before giving a response this time. “I think that’s a possibility we may have to consider now, sir,”

“If we are considering that angle at all, I want to believe you have set in motion some plans to retrieve the trophy as we speak.”

“Definitely sir,” Amman said with some confidence. “I have sent out a helicopter patrol and I also intend to have the cops initiate a roadblock on every street within a five-mile radius.”

“Just a five-mile radius? It’s the World Cup trophy we’re speaking of here for God’s sake, Amman.” Aggravated by this, Commander Ali halted in his tracks at once. “That won’t do. Not anymore, Amman.” He spelled it out this time. “What would do now is, scramble all police units in the city, and have them turn every city block into checkpoints.”

“I will see right to that, sir,” Amman assured, patting the pockets of his cargo pants for his walkie-talkie.

“Well, see to that already, Amman. We don’t want the robbers; whoever they are to get out of the city. Do we now?” Commander Ali said this time in a clipped tone and comport that reveals he was done talking.

Keying into this as well, Amman walked away toward the direction they had come, leaving the Director and his details on the spot.

The instant Amman was out of earshot, Commander Ali turned to his details and said. “I hope someone among you guys at least knows the way around here because I think I may need some help getting to the control room.”

***
Outside the stadium was no different.

In fact, the precinct around the football stadium, which features major facilities such as the circular plaza, shopping centers, car park, and the wide pedestrian concourse that extends outward from the water was crowded with an overflowing mass of crowds.

Among these are policemen and stewards, who coordinated searches at major strategic points of the ground. The scrum of reporters and their mobile trucks pooling around the area closest to the Police line. And also, the stern-faced military policemen stationed within the stadium’s perimeter, who were on red alert, and looked ready and set to bring down even a fly at the slightest detection of threat.

Amidst the crowds of tastefully dressed men of the press and their collection of trucks affixed with satellite dishes pointing skyward was willowy, palish-complexioned Liam Nielson, dressed in a long, knee-length beige down jacket and blue denim jeans. Young, reedy Liam Nielson was having the longest streak of luck for a day in his career as a field reporter for the BBC One Channel.

As a fresh-off-the-boat Communication student from England’s prestigious Oxford University, his wildest dream had been realized two years earlier, when he had been recruited as a junior staffer in the English Giant broadcasting firm.

Liam had worked from the background as a content creator at the BBC StoryWorks in his first year as a recruit at the Beeb. There he created engaging custom content for the BBC’s global creative content division alongside several others.

Having struggled in that division for some time, he had applied internally for a job at the editorial department of BBC Radio 5 Live but had gotten instead the position of a secretary.
The job had come with the description that his work was not limited to clerical duties alone, but also covers writing, typing, and editing news and sports content, which he can never take credit for.

His first breakthrough came when he took an interest in a story involving a series of murder cases in Oxfordshire, a town in southern England and northwest of London. ‘The McClusky case’ as it was famously known to the public, which he ran and did background investigations on for several weeks did not only make the headlines of every major broadcasting station throughout England but sent shock waves through the United Kingdoms as a whole.

The story, which had given the police the edge to apprehend the suspect responsible for the murders had made him an overnight success. And as such, had earned him the spot of a junior field reporter at BBC One—BBC’s flagship network.

Further successes didn’t follow until three months later when he was assigned the position of a field reporter for BBC One’s live coverage of the Qatar 2022 FIFA World Cup. That had been the biggest break of his life at that point.

As it is now, things were about to get even better. Liam Neilson was just about launching his career straight into the stratosphere with the most anticipated piece of news of the century.

Who would have believed a small boy from the small inland county of Berkshire would be reporting live from the biggest event in the world, within just two years at the BBC? [/i]he thought proudly for a moment. [i]Who exactly would have believed such?

Shaking off the thought and others like it, Liam Nielson stared into the focus of the camera a few feet away. Puffed out a few shaky breaths as he readied himself to unload on the millions watching the BBC One channel from across the world the news that would echo down the history book as one of the world’s greatest tragedies.

As he bided his time, he couldn’t help but wonder why he was feeling apprehensive. Nor could he miss how the fingers of his right hand wrapped around the handle of his Rode Reporter Omni Dynamic XLR microphone had become shaky all of a sudden.

Could this have resulted from the weather? Or, from my anxiousness? He wondered to himself for some time on the spot, coming to an agreement with the latter in a heartbeat.

“We’re go in three…, two…, one!” The voice of his videographer from the spot across him, prompting him with a count of his fingers pulled him from his short absorption.

Gathering his thoughts, Liam ignored his inner trepidations, gave his videographer a subtle nod of acknowledgment, and began. “Hi, this is Liam Nielson reporting live from the Lusail Iconic Stadium in Qatar for BBC One.”

He sucked in a breath before droning on, “Fifteen minutes after a bomb went off some five hundred yards from the Lusail Arena, the much-awaited World Cup final match between England and Brazil has been suspended indefinitely. This comes right after the 18-karat gold World Cup Trophy has been declared missing. The Trophy valued at around £16 million in today’s gold market was declared missing by FIFA Officials immediately after the smoke incident resulting from the heavy use of flares and smoke grenades in the arena. Which has been explained by the authorities as a smokescreen employed by the perpetrators of this crime to carry out their despicable acts.”

There was a brief pause before he continued. “Police and other Law enforcement agencies have since risen to the challenge, placing the Arena and everything within a two-mile radius of it on total lockdown, while also, initiating a stop and search for the spectators.”

“Here’s an exclusive, exclusively for our viewers at home,” he said with a tightly drawn face before he added, “I have it from a reliable source that the police had discovered a hole in one of the dressing rooms in their search through the stadium. And we have reasons to believe this giant hole found by the police fed into one of the shopping malls in the Lusail Arena shopping complex. From this, I think it’s safe to assume for now that, the World Cup trophy may have left the Lusail Iconic Stadium already. And that I tell you is a possibility the authorities are not ready to consider as yet. However, the big question now remains; where’s the World Cup Trophy, and who are the masterminds behind its disappearance?”

The loud whirr of a patrol helicopter high up in the sky drowned out his voice for thirty seconds, or thereabouts.

When his voice finally returned over the microphone seconds later, the camera had panned away from him, and now laterally covered the Bell 407GX patrol helicopter doing a flyby in the distance. “What we just saw now in the Lusail skyline is a patrol helicopter. And from the look of things, it appears the hunt for the World Cup Trophy may have just begun.”

Watching his videographer bunch his hands into a fist as he signaled for a wrap, he quickly added on a final note. “That will be all for now on BBC One’s live update from the Lusail Iconic Stadium. More updates to follow within the hour."

Chapter One

The Lusail Iconic stadium was a madhouse.

Presently, its 105 m x 68 m (344 ft by 223 ft) grass pitch was nothing short of a crime scene from a mystery flick with the current buzz of activity. Everyone from standard security personnel at the stadium to stewards, and the smart-looking police officers and their counterparts from other Qatari Intelligence agencies—mainly, the Qatar State Security had one thing, or the other to attend to at the moment.

This had been the new normal in the stadium ever since The World Cup Trophy had been pronounced missing by FIFA Officials. And had lasted for about thirty minutes, or so, with each and every one of the men responsible for security and policing present here at the stadium being thrown into total restiveness.

Things happened really fast after the smoke incident. Men from the Rescue Police Department—otherwise known here as Al Fazaa— heavily dressed and equipped as stormtroopers had stormed the scene, joining with the stewards and the stadium security personnel to evacuate at once the high-profile targets present at the arena. The list began with the Emir of Qatar, the FIFA President and his retinue of high-ranking FIFA officials, and other powerful Heads of State. Followed by the crowds—women and children first—before men as it was protocol.

Neck-deep in the onerous task of ensuring the safety of lives and possessions at the stadium, none of the men had noticed the World Cup Trophy was being moved from its place on the pedestal before its actual disappearance. Even those that did, hadn’t a cause to worry then since it had been with the stewards, which as it appears at the time was also standard protocol.

It was not until much later that the real tragedy struck. When the FIFA officials, who after an overdue time of expecting the trophy to return to their care declared it missing.

All hell had broken loose then. Every stadium security personnel and policeman trained men as they were had been tossed into instant action, fanning out, and covering every ground of the stadium in search of the missing trophy.

Security protocols have been set in place almost instantly. The stadium itself had been placed on lockdown. Stop and search of the spectators within the walls of the stadium had been initiated as well. After being searched, spectators have been advised to exit the stadium proper via a single entrance.

After a long time of searching and combing through most of the sections of the stadium, a police posse eventually stumbled upon a hole in the wall in one of the dressing rooms.
Further searches by the same team of policemen had yielded the discovery of the hole in the wall linking to one of the malls in the Stadium’s shopping complex.

The search continued much afterward. Better yet, a wider search net had since been cast by the stadium securities to apprehend the suspects responsible for the disappearance of the World Cup Trophy.

But, unfortunately, all those efforts put in by every one of these men had yielded nothing of worth so far.

In other words, the World Cup Trophy is still very much missing, and yet to be found.

So, I have decided to bless you with not just one but two updates, today. That sounds super cool, isn't it?

Abdulreheem:
i don sidion for front sit gidigba

Welcome brotherly... I'm sorry I forgot to mention you.

WriterX:
Here and Reading This looks good!

Welcome aboard, bigi man.

Here we go, folks! The first update was promised and delivered (I'm sorry it came late, though).

As stated above in my note to the would-be readers of my work, I hinted at keeping this thread as interactive as possible. As a result,
Here's my question to (you) my readers for this prologue:

Question 1: Fiction aside, In your View; do you think it's possible to steal the World Cup? (Don't just read! Share your views with me).

Oh, wait! Did I mention that chapter two of the story has just dropped on Wattpad?

Here's the link to the story for those who would love to stay ahead of every update: https://www.wattpad.com/story/351603617?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=arkyub&wp_originator=85sroadJfG7vm%2B1XT1sQM2n4Y1ekSbZ1RFd3nsrNzRqnGM0y9c8S9ptjG0C8WhahdmB0CRCgoao1zGNE6%2BLFHrqJWOF%2FADoaoAtY3P1T2YRmi1s4VYqcOXEc33ukJIeZ

silverlinen:
Yo!!

Salahdin my broski

I am here, so where the rest of them at?

Y'all should come around fr, things are about to go down.

ObehiD, Bam17 i really want you both to check this out.

Welcome my brother. Help me tell them say we're at it again!

The announcer was cut off then by the sudden reverberant blast of explosion, which sent a shock wave through the whole of the stadium and its perimeter.

At the same time, the atmosphere around the stadium went from charged with excitement and organized to agitated and panicky. As the players and match officials either dipped instinctively into a crouch or laid down flat on their stomachs. While the spectators, coaching staff, and the bench, on the other hand, made a beeline for the nearest exits.

It took a minute or two for any of the players or match officials to snap out of the shock, and for any semblance of normalcy to be restored amongst the spectators. Worse, even longer for the ball boys, stewards, and most of the coaching staff and the bench on both teams, who have taken shelter in the tunnel at the instance of the explosion to return to the pitch.

The voice of the announcer returned over the PA an instant later, this time with no hint of thrill or excitement at all. “I think a bomb just went off somewhere very close to the stadium. And it would be an understatement to say, the eighty thousand people present here in the stadium were scared to shit for a minute there.”

“I’d wager scared don’t just do enough justice to what we just witnessed here, Zalman. I think shaken or fried would do.” A second voice said this time.

“Well, I believe there’s really nothing to be scared of. I tell you, apart from being the biggest event here on earth, this game is one of the most secure events there is.”

“Yeah, there’s really nothing to be scared of other than the blast of a bomb.” The second voice said, chuckling. “That’s a joke actually. I second that. With all the powerful and important Heads of State present here to grace this final, I doubt if there’s really a thing to be worried about. Anyways, I hope the blast is nothing fatal. And that security personnel have things under control.”

The first announcer resumed his recital of the team list once more, as if a bomb hadn’t gone off just five minutes ago. “Midfielders: Casemiro, Paqueta, Neymar Jr.”
“Forwards: Rodrygo, Richarlison, Vinicius Jr.” This time, the sound of his voice over the PA competed with the hums and chatters of the spectators, who have picked up their chanting from exactly where they left off earlier.

“Now on to England Starting XI—”

He was cut off mid-sentence again. On this occasion, by a new wave of protracted chorus of gasps from the spectators.

However, it didn’t take long for the announcer to realize the reason behind the latest chaos, now spreading like a lichen amongst the spectators. He had his answer the minute he noticed the giant wall of smoke that rose high from every conceivable corner of the pitch and settled over the stadium as a thick heavy fog.

All around him in the stands, the spectators, irrespective of age and sex were thrown into instant agitation; shoving and pushing their way through the teeming crowds in the struggle to get away from the stadium and the smoke that has many of the crowds choking already.

Through the billowy smoke that now settled over the pitch below like ominous stacks of nimbus cloud, the announcer thought for a moment there in the glass walls of the skybox that he caught some movements behind the screen of smoke. But discarded the thought the moment it emerged in his mind due to lack of visibility.

Everything afterward happened at double time. From the players and match officials being herded out to the tunnels by a group of policemen in flak jackets and helmets, to the Heads of States in attendance being huddled around by their body men, and a pack of stewards in light green bibs invading the pitch in waves.

When the particles of smoke finally settled down, half the crowds in the stands dispersed with it, and those that remained and stayed behind were left in a daze of disbelief as the World Cup Trophy has disappeared from its place on the pedestal.

Half of the world that watched from their various homes felt the same.

Prologue

All the world was here in Qatar.

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

For three weeks on, the planned city had witnessed and recorded the biggest influx of people arriving in the city proper and the country as a whole. Hence, leading to an upward surge in the number of people in the city from roughly 450,000 to about 600,000.
This among other things, had spurred city officials and the Qatari government into taking necessary actions to make stopgap plans to create more accommodations and breathing space within the city—which was initially proposed to have the infrastructure to accommodate a mere 400,000 people.

Today was no different, either. Despite the nippy climate of late December, the traffic on this Sunday evening on all major freeways, thoroughfares, and causeways throughout the city of Lusail was heavy and near-congested. The lightest and most accessible traffic available only at the tramways and the Metros.

The ironic fact about all these, however, is, that the sudden rise in the tide of vehicles and human traffic through the city of Lusail has nothing to do with the ongoing Qatar National Day—a national festival celebrated annually on every eighteenth of December throughout the state of Qatar. But rather from the great event slated for the same day.

The literal storm center was the Sports District and the ten-acre-long premise around its main attraction—The Lusail Iconic Stadium, where a crowd of football fans pressed along a concourse toward the stadium in large waves. The fans, dressed either in their favorite jerseys and long overcoats or combinations of both with shawls have traveled from every part of the world into the district through the Lusail LRT and the Doha metro, to watch the biggest showdown on earth which was about to go down within the hour.

Taking center stage in the district, like a ghost ship lost at sea was the 80, 000-capacity Lusail Arena. Its sleek shape and intricate details, a subtle homage to the svelte bodies of the belly dancers known to the Middle East region; as it is also a huge reminiscent of the art’s motifs found in art pieces and decorative wares across the Arabian world.

The ultra-modern stadium built by the British firm Foster + Partners and Populous, and inspired by the dhow—a lateen-rigged sailing vessel— common and famous to the region around the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean is a step change from conventional architectural designs and methodologies with the remarkable application of light and shadow which gave its golden exterior a muted glow and rare metallic luster even in the thick snow flurry. This fact is made more apparent by the way its bold body doubled over in flawless asymmetrical and undulating trims, like a coiled giant King Cobra.

From inside this giant architectural masterpiece, which seemed to be gliding over unseen waters from a distance—a mere illusory effect created by the reflective pool of water and moat surrounding it—rose the blast of music and the explosive report of fireworks. The fireworks in their dazzling spherical confetti showers shoot forth from the muzzles of mortars erected around its slopping, retractable cable-membrane roof, as the closing ceremony of the Qatar 2022 FIFA World Cup gets on the way.

Performing live on the big sheet, which covered the length of the natural grass of the pitch and bore the figure 8—or, the infinite symbol— which was the official emblem of the competition alongside a company of dancers and performers was an artist ensemble of Davido, Trinidad Cardona and AISHA—all part of a new movement of young, talented artists making their break on the international music scene.

Aisha, garbed in a flowing sequined, gossamery gown filled the stadium and the two-mile radius of it with her sonorous voice. She glided across the scene, like water on rock between American singer; Trinidad Cardona, dressed in a white Thawb topped with a Keffiyeh, and Nigerian Afrobeats superstar: Davido, who on the other hand was dressed in the unflawed combinations of Nike’s Air Jordan sneakers and sweatsuits.

The trio’s performance of their Single—'Hayya Hayya’ (Better Together), which was produced by Redone and made the Tournament’s Official soundtrack came to an end moments later to the applause and cheers of the eager spectators, who now filled each row and column of seats in the stadium to the max. And was followed soon by a performance by Qatari pop sensation—Syed Maimunah—who sang famous Qatari folk music accompanied by the Ardah dance—a stylized martial dance performed by rows of children to the accompaniment of several percussion instruments.

Right after her performance and the clearing up of the turf for the match, a deep, heavy hush fell over the whole stadium for a brief moment. The stadium came alive once more with the thunderous crackle of spectators, as Didier Deschamps strutted out of the tunnel onto the pitch with a Limited Edition Louis Vuitton travel case.

The silver-haired French man, who was a two-time winner of the cup.—first as a player in 1998, and as a coach in the previous edition of the prestigious competition—fiddled with the travel case’s push button, brought out the 18-karat gold World Cup Trophy and presented it with a flourish to the crowds, the Heads of States in presence, and the world at large.

That done, the tall French National team coach set the malachite base of the trophy down with great care on the pedestal stationed right at the mouth of the touchline. Then spun around on his heels, and headed back into the tunnel.

A short while later, the two opposing teams led by the Italian referee—Daniele Orsato with German assistants Felix Brych, Mark Borsch, and fourth official; Stefan Lupp, and their side’s captains filed out of the tunnel onto the pitch to the chants and cheers of their fans raising their colors high.

Just then, the voice of the PA announcer seated in the skybox on the fourth tier of the stadium came over the PA system. “Here they come now straight out of the tunnel. Two super heavyweights of world football: Brazil, in their glorious canary yellow shirts and blue shorts; and England, in their pristine white shirt and navy blue shorts.”

The announcer continued at the same time the players were lining up. “The stage is set. The atmosphere is supercharged. And the world is feverishly waiting as the biggest event on earth nears its start. Here’s a quick reminder that this is not the first time both teams are squaring off in the face-off that has often been tagged by the media as the ‘Clash of autonomy over the round leather game’. Both sides have in fact battled each other a good twenty-six times, which has culminated in eleven draws, with eleven wins for the Seleção, and just four wins for The Three Lions.”

“The plus side this time, however, is, never for once in the history of the beautiful game have both sides faced each other in a World Cup final. And if that meant anything at all, it’s the fact that we’re in for a thriller this evening.”
There was a small pause over the PA system before he eventually added. “Here’s the team list for both sides. The Brazilian starting XI for the World Cup final in Qatar are: Goalkeeper; Allison Becker…, Captaining the Brazilian side in what would be his final World Cup at Centre Back: Thiago Silva…, pairing alongside him in Centre-back is Marcos Aoás Corrêa..., Playing from the right and left full-backs are the duo of Danilo and Alex Sandro respectively—”

Facts:
The World Cup football tournament is the most-anticipated, the most-watched, the most-talked-about event on planet Earth.

The World Cup is the most prestigious association football tournament in the world; not only that, but it’s also the most widely viewed and followed single sporting event in the world. The cumulative viewership of all matches of the 2006 World Cup was estimated to be 26.29 billion with an estimated 715.1 million people watching the final match, a ninth of the entire population of the planet. At an estimated cost of over $14.2 billion, it was the most expensive World Cup to date.

A combined 3.572 billion viewers – more than half of the global population aged four and over – tuned in to world football’s ultimate competition, according to audience data for official broadcast coverage of the 2018 FIFA World Cup.

Qatar is by far the only country with the highest buying value of any country in the Art market.

Sheikha Al-Mayasa Bint Hamas Al-Thani, the sister of Qatar’s ruling Emir Tamim bin Hamad Al-Thani as the Chairperson of Qatar Museums alone, reportedly bought Paul Gauguin’s ‘When Will You Marry? In February 2015 from the Rudolph Staechelin family for about USD 300 million, Cezanne’s The Card Players in 2012 for USD 250 million, as well as Mark Rothko’s White Center—Yellow, Pink, and Lavender on Rose—in 2007 for USD 70 million, and works from other artists like Andy Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, and Jeff Koons.

Dedication:
This book is specially dedicated to Silverlinen—my brother and one true Stan on nairaland and the World beyond it—and anyone who has ever soaked garri before.

DisclaimeR/Author's Note:

This story despite its likeness to reality is entirely a work of fiction. However, all artwork, Intelligence agencies, locations, sportspersons, royalty, and dignitary names mentioned in this book belong to real people and places and are not imaginary.

Copyright © Akinbami Hayoub Adeoye 2023

This book is subjected to copyright and may not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, licensed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the author, or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text will be treated as a direct infringement of the author’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Before update begins tomorrow, let's start with a roll call: muhammed50, metalgear11, silverlinen, Blossompowerpuf, everton4life, WriterX, Apollux, Xavier55, Emperordynasty, holarbolu, Rosemary33, Bam17, kayo80, OluwabuqqyYOLO, Epluribusunom(m), arkonpoint, obehiD, Cynthialinlin, Divepen1.

You can also watch the book trailer on YouTube via:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ic8sauT5SzM?feature=shared