The Great Heist

Chapter Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once done, he retrieved the cup from under the portafilter, peered into it, and noticed at once the crema—an orangish dense layer of froth that had formed over the beverage.

Just the way I love it, he thought, with the creases of a smile visible on the edges of his mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fifty yards out…

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

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

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

Thirty yards out…

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

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

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

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

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

Just impressive!

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

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

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

Relax and just breathe!

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

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

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