The Great Heist

Chapter Seventeen

For seven years, Mr. Josua Hermann had lived in Qatar. Six out of those seven years, he had spent as the General Manager of one of the biggest hotels in the oil-rich country—the Waldorf Astoria Hotel.

Since becoming a naturalized citizen here in Qatar, he could scarcely recall for once a scenario where he had seen on the part of any organs of her executive branch the willful exercise of force or aggression on her citizens. Let alone claim that he saw with his own eyes any form of human rights violations on many of his cruises across the capital city in his stable of sports cars. Or while eating in one of the high-end restaurants in Lusail. Nor when shopping at the big malls across the country.

Unfortunately, he was bearing witness to all that presently.

All the GM could do as he momentarily stood at the end of the long, axminstered hallway on the hotel’s third floor, was gape pie-eyed in startling disbelieve at the clutch of men across from him in the hall. The men, a baker’s dozen in total—excluding their knock-kneed lead agent standing off a few paces away—were smartly dressed in suits of varying textiles and colors. And stood in front of the various doors that open to the hall, impatiently waiting for each room’s occupant to open up.

The sight didn’t only strike him as odd but came both as a shock and surprise to him. Not only because he was seeing firsthand the worst case of highhandedness and deliberate infringement on basic human rights he had ever seen anywhere. But because, the whole thing was happening right here in this century, and at the Waldorf Astoria of all places.

Not that he would have minded if the same thing had happened seven years ago. Or expected in the least for things to play out so differently around here at the time.

This is perhaps because when he had first arrived in Qatar, he had expected to see a humdrum country; so conservative that there was hardly room for her citizens to do anything other than stay up in a mosque and pray to some God.

But instead, he had found to his own quiet disbelieve a country both charged and packed with life. Her cities—most especially Doha—as he would later discover moved almost, if not at the greased lightning rhythm and clip as most European cities he had been, and pulsed with the same energy as these cities. This, of course, had left him a bit disappointed at the time, because the country hadn’t fit into any of the narratives propagated in the West.

Except for the extremely hot weather, which has bronzed his skin a dishwater blond with a yellowish undertone. The open distrustfulness and wariness shown to him at first by the natives; which also was understandable at the time given that he was a foreigner—and not just any foreigner but one from the West. And the country’s strict adherence to the Sharia law—whose rulings he had learned to begrudgingly abided by since Qatar is an Islamic State. He obviously couldn’t see a reason why anyone wouldn’t want to live here.

As far as he was concerned, Qatar is an accommodative and ever-integrating country, where someone can enjoy his life and at the same time make big money.

But, now that times have changed and certain traditions and laws have been a thing of the past even in the most mossbacked of civilizations. The mere thought of something of this sort happening in this modern era made him even more furious. More so, he couldn’t think of any reasons whatsoever why this should be happening to their customers under his watch.

What if the World Cup trophy is missing? He considered, shrugging his shoulders with unveneered indifference. So what?

After all, it’s not as if it was the Emir’s son or siblings that have gone missing.

And to think I was in my office on the upper floors of the hotel hoping that things were plain sailing like they did every other night, he wondered as an afterthought with a sharp grunt. A sour look materialized on his youthful face just then, as though he had tasted something rotten.

A creature of habit, the GM had been lying supine in an executive chair in his office, vaping on an electronic cigarette when one of the porters had barged into his office unannounced to give him the news. He had reacted swiftly to this. Stopping his cloud chasing, he had followed hot on the heels of the man, doubtful of the news all the way here.

Barely able to repress the roiling anger he felt at the sight any longer,  the GM stormed away from the spot over to the center of the hall where the lead agent was standing. His loafered feet struck out a percussive thunk against the carpeted floor as he belted along the hall.

“You must be the manager,” the demure-looking lead agent said when he got to him, thrusting a hand out in greeting.

“Yes, I’m the manager.” The GM returned, ignoring the agent’s extended hand downright as he came to a stop within an inch of him.

The agent took this rather maturely, hiding his annoyance and whatever emotions he felt at the slight under the veneer of a wry half-smile.
Withdrawing his outstretched hand to himself, he slipped it back into his pants pocket as though he had been caught stealing cookies from a jar.

“By the way, I’m Agent Adel Al-Shddy from the Qatar State Security Service. We have orders to search your hotel and its premises. If you will be as kind, I would appreciate it if you could provide me with a log of your check-ins and check-outs in the last couple of days as well.” he went on about a minute later, acting as if nothing had happened.

“And I suppose you have a warrant for the search you’re about to conduct and the log you ask to see, Mr. Al-Shddy?” The GM shot back in a frightening detached tone.

Once more, the agent had to disregard the incisive edge and the scorn dripping in the manager’s voice. Choosing to tackle the question instead. “I’m afraid not,”

“If that’s the case, then, I’m afraid all these will have to stop right now.” The GM said, indicating the search about to be carried out in the hall by the agents with a sweep of his right arm.

“I’m afraid we can’t, sir,”

“Why not?” This rolled off of the GM’s tongue as if he could hardly fathom the reason for all of these. Which is virtually the case here.

“I believe you’re aware of the robbery earlier at the Lusail Arena, Mr.—” the agent paused for a moment, looking deliberately at the other man for a bailout.

“Joshua Hermann,” the GM obligingly supplied. “Yeah, I heard of the fiasco at the Arena. Matter of fact, I was heartbroken when I heard the news. I felt truly sorry for you guys. But this changes nothing, still.”

“And what exactly do you mean by ‘but this changes nothing, still’?” The agent retorted a matter harshly. It was clear at that point that he was at the end of his rope. Not to mention, the steam of his anger was beginning to radiate off of him.

“Are you seriously asking me that?” The GM said this time, barking out a short, dry laugh. “This is the Twenty-first century, Goddammit! You think you can just waltz in here with your men in fancy suits and go around infringing on the privacy of our customers trying to have some quality time or a good night's rest?”

“Pardon me if that sounds too odd for your Western ear, ‘cause that’s exactly what I have in mind to do here,” the agent said, adding the faintest edge to his tone. “You’re a long way from home, Mr. Hermann.” He added drily, inching his face closer to the managers.

“Are you trying to intimidate me or something?” Mr. Hermann demanded sternly, noticing for the first time in the haze of his fury that the table was rapidly turning against him in their little standoff.

A look around the hall confirmed this for him instantly. Presently, all the doors in the hall were thrown open. Their shell-shocked occupants—both male and female— hung around helpless in the hall while the agents searched their rooms.

“You’re missing the whole point here, Mr. Hermann. By no means am I trying to intimidate you. All I’ve been implying is, you’ve very few options on the table. You either cooperate with us and let’s do our job. Or get in our way and find out the hard way what can of worms you will be opening for obstructing an ongoing investigation.”

“And if I insist?”

“Then, you leave me no choice but to employ the use of force. At this point, I think it’s in the best of your interest to know that we have orders to use force if necessary.”

This struck a raw nerve in the GM because he went bitchcakes right away. “Look here, Mister! I’ve been a bona-fide citizen of Qatar for some time now. In that time, I have tried my best to contribute my quota to her society, one way or another; and as such, I believe I’m entitled to some rights and privileges. So, I’m telling you this is not done anywhere in the world.”

“It’s because I respect your rights as a citizen of Qatar that I will bother explaining this to you this once, Mr.  Hermann,” the agent said, biting down on his every word this time just to make himself clear enough. “Stealing the World Cup is a crime as tantamount as terrorism to our national integrity and security. The moment the trophy was stolen, the fabric of the status quo has been torn. Meaning; nothing is ever as it were before or as you know it.”

He paused until he eventually saw what he presumed to be a flash of cognition cross the GM’s face before adding, “Now that this is out of the way, you will either stand in my path or show me the log I asked to see. Because I’m certain I don’t have to remind you that we’re past the time for reasoning.”

Mr. Hermann seemed to consider this a moment, weighing his options there on the spot. “Alright, I will make a concession,” he said deflatedly after some time of thoughtful deliberation. “But mind you, it’s not for you. I’m only doing this because I want the robbers apprehended. Come right along.”