ONE MONTH LATER
AL ASMAKH TOWER, DOHA, QATAR—NOVEMBER 24, 2020—10:30 / 10:30 A.M. AST
Saad had instructed Mousavi and Kamal to use the draft box for their shared email account when they needed to communicate with him. This morning the box was empty, but that was fine. Although he wanted inside information from both men, he had a busy schedule. Sometimes it was hard to keep his overall mission from interfering with his everyday work. A message from either man too often distracted him for the rest of the day.
Rolling back from his desk, he walked across the tiled marble floor to the full-length windows that made up the walls of his office. He was on the 28th floor of the Al Asmakh Tower, which was not the penthouse of the building, nor was it in the city’s tallest skyscraper, although he could have easily afforded either. Saad had chosen this location for the headquarters of his company, ASEnergy, because among a bizarrely futuristic skyline, the Al Asmakh was a retro-looking throwback.
Inspired by the American Empire State Building, its art deco design came right out of the early twentieth century. Well before the high-rise opened its doors, Saad had purchased rights to the 26th, 27th, and 28th floors, and now, three years into his occupancy, he couldn’t be more pleased. When it came to boats, he wanted cutting edge. When it came to office space, a little artsy aesthetic was a nice change.
He looked out toward West Bay. His view of the water was only slightly obstructed by the Burj Doha Tower. Although similar in height, the two structures couldn’t have been more different. While Saad’s building looked to the past, the cylindrical Doha Tower appeared to have been transported from a futuristic science fiction novel. In his opinion, it was fortunate that the Al Asmakh didn’t fit the overall aesthetic of the Doha skyline, a city he thought was trying too hard to be modern.
At the far reaches of the bay, almost out to the open waters of the Persian Gulf, he could see the Cafala Bahr where it was moored. Only five days of meeting with the board and entertaining potential clients left before he could step aboard one of his tenders, which would shuttle him out to Ibn Tamiyyah, his boat’s true name. Then it would be off to the Malay Peninsula for the next month.
As he watched his yacht rocking in the water, his mind returned to the meeting he’d had last month with Mousavi and Kamal. His business, both the energy work in public and the freedom-fighting work in private, was all about relationships. He was a people person, and he drew other people to himself. Over the years he’d become a good judge of character. He knew whom he could trust and whom he couldn’t. From the first meeting he could tell who had the skills to get the job done and who would flounder.
Kamal was not a quality person, which was glaringly evident. He could, however, be Saad’s link into the inner circle of the Saudi rebel movement. Not only could this make him a significant amount of money in weapons purchases should an actual rebellion take place but also leave him in a strong position if the ruling family was overthrown. And as long as he stayed in the background, he needn’t be afraid of repercussions should Kamal and his unhappy friends never get their movement off the ground.
A knock on his door pulled his thoughts back to the present.
“Come in,” he called.
His secretary walked in carrying an oversized white envelope. She was followed by a young man he didn’t recognize. In his hands was a large wooden box.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Salim.” She then whispered something to the young man, who put the box on the long conference table that ran along the far side of the window wall. After he completed his task, he looked to the woman, who with her hand indicated he could leave. He hustled out the door.
“What have you brought to me, Noora?” Saad asked, stepping toward the box.
“It just came in, and I knew you would want to see it right away.”
He recognized the Japanese character meaning “harmony” painted on the side even before he read the words Hibiki Suntory Whisky stenciled next to it.
“Ha! Takeshi, how did you know I was out?” When Saad had found it necessary to upgrade the technology in his pumps, he’d turned to SEKEI Inc., a Japanese company owned by Takeshi Kitamura. The two quickly bonded over their love for their yachts and had since been each other’s guest on the seas. Kitamura had been the one to arrange for the Hibiki distiller to hand deliver Saad’s previous store of Japanese whisky.
“Mr. Kitamura also asked that this be given to you with his compliments.” Noora held the envelope out toward Saad.
“Just put it on my desk. Then find me a crowbar or something to leverage this open,” he said, putting his hand on the lid of the box. It shifted under his weight, causing him to momentarily lose his balance.
“I took the liberty of having the nails removed from the top of the crate.”
Saad smiled. “Noora, have I told you lately that I love you?”
“I’m sure my husband will be happy to hear that,” she said, raising her eyebrows. She walked out, closing the door behind her.
Excitedly, Saad removed the lid from the crate and placed it on the table. Next came handfuls of crinkle packaging, which he scooped out and dumped next to the lid. When the first glass-capped cork came into view, he took hold of it and carefully lifted the bottle out. After transporting it to his desk, he crossed the room to his bar, then removed a ball of ice from the freezer and dropped it into a glass, enjoying the anticipated clink.
He returned to his chair and slowly began to work the cap until he felt it give and heard a slight pop. Before he laid the cork down, he closed his eyes and deeply inhaled its scent. For a moment he was transported back to the upper deck of his boat. Tilting the bottle, he watched the amber liquid cascade off the ice and pool in the bottom half of his glass. He swirled it around a few times to chill it before taking a sip.
A smile came to his face, and he let out an audible “Ahh.”
As he was taking a second taste, his eyes caught sight of the envelope Noora left on his desk. Putting the glass down, he pulled the square over. The eggshell–colored material was familiar to him, but he didn’t know why. It came to him when he opened the envelope and saw threads fraying from the edges. It was artistic canvas. His daughter Fariha had gone through a stage when she wanted to be a world-renowned artist. A small fortune in materials and art lessons later, she decided she wanted to be a world-renowned singer instead.
Intrigued, he removed the envelope’s contents. The first item he noticed was a square of cement with a glossy coating approximately 10 × 12.5 centimeters. On it was painted a miniature caricature of Marilyn Monroe. She was biting a pair of Oakley sunglasses. It was irreverent, sexy, and overwhelmingly appealing. It was also familiar, and he tried to remember where he’d seen it.
Then that came to him too. The gist of a story published in the online newsletter of a high-end, members-only yachting organization was about some new canvas technique that allowed art to survive on the waters. Saad had been skeptical until he’d seen a photograph of his friend Takeshi standing next to that same Marilyn painting, titled Oakley Marilyn. He’d installed it on his yacht and was singing its praises.
The concept was certainly intriguing. The canvas was some kind of cement compound, likely the stuff he was holding in his hand. The paint was applied to the cement, then a thick gloss coating was added to protect the artwork. Mold, mildew, salt deterioration were all a constant battle on his yacht. It wasn’t a big financial drain, but it was a drain.
This might be something worth looking into, he thought as he laid the cement piece down and picked up a brochure. On the cover, two women stood next to a full-sized Oakley Marilyn. He recognized the woman on the right from the article. She was the artist, and under a headshot of her was the name Alicia Marcos. When he saw the second woman’s photo, his breath caught. She was exquisite. Her blue eyes were the color of ice, and they were staring right through the camera lens into his own. He read her name—Nicole le Roux.
Dropping the brochure onto his desk, he turned toward his computer and did a Google search on her. He quickly learned she was a model from South Africa who currently lived in Milan. Clicking from All to Images offered him row after row of photos of her. Some professional, some candid. Some sexy, some girl-next-door. Soon he found himself lost in the repetition of sliding to the bottom of a page, refreshing, then sliding to the bottom of another.
When he reached the end of the available photos, he turned back to the brochure. He skimmed through it page by page, looking for her. Then on the back cover, he found one final photograph of Nicole and the artist. They were standing in front of a new painting, this one a glamorous woman staring through her fingers. Across the bottom were the words Let us come tell you why you should own a Marcos. A phone number was listed.
Saad pressed a button on his phone.
“Yes, Mr. Salim?”
“Noora, come in here, please. I need you to set up a meeting for me. I’m in need of an artistic makeover for the Cafala Bahr.”