The Great Heist

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. Fuck 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.