Chapter 6
Orly Airfield
Paris
“Princess Anouschka has arrived,” announced a tall, strikingly handsome man standing at the head of the crowd.
The jet taxied to the end of the runway and turned toward them.
The familiar blue-and-gold livery of Qatar Airways came into view.
The aircraft continued toward a large hanger before coming to a halt.
Only then did the customs officials open the gate and allow the crowd to rush onto the tarmac proper.
Tariq, however, never rushed. He strolled agreeably. He laughed easily. He chatted amiably. Today, however, the easygoing manner was a facade. Today, he did not feel joyous, buoyant, or relaxed. To the contrary. Today, TNT felt as tense as a coiled spring.
The weekend had arrived.
The weekend that would define the rest of his days.
“Today,” he whispered to himself, “my next life begins.”
To welcome the princess, he had chosen a Louis Vuitton tracksuit, vintage Air Jordans, and a Richard Mille wristwatch, which he’d purchased that morning in a boutique on the Avenue Matignon for €1.1 million.
TNT was an influencer. Each day he posted pictures of himself across social media, on Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok, among others, showcasing his luxurious lifestyle.
There were pictures of him falconing in the desert, deep-sea fishing in the Pacific, shopping on Rodeo Drive, dining in Las Vegas, and dancing in St.-Tropez.
Most frequently, however, he liked to post photographs of his fleet of high-performance automobiles: Ferraris, Porsches, Lamborghinis, and, of course, his Bugattis.
He took his responsibility as an influencer seriously. No one, he wanted all to agree, lived a better life than TNT.
A loader drove to the rear of the aircraft and positioned itself below the cargo door. After a moment, the platform began to rise. Handlers in fluorescent orange vests guided four uniform container loads out of the fuselage. TNT and his entourage gathered near as the platform reached the ground.
A compact blond woman dressed in jeans and a corduroy vest accompanied the first container as it was transferred to a truck.
“Good flight?” asked TNT.
“We had some turbulence over Italy,” said the woman. She was British, in charge of Anouschka.
“And Anouschka? How did she handle it?”
“She didn’t seem to mind,” said the woman.
“She’s a better flier than I am,” said Tariq. “Then again, she’s only five.”
The shipping container was transferred to a truck and driven into the hangar, where it was rolled down a ramp onto the concrete floor. Handlers swung open the door. Princess Anouschka lolled her head over the gate, looking as majestic as ever.
“There you are,” said Tariq, running a hand over the white blaze on her forehead. “I’m sorry about the bumpy ride. Nothing is going to stop you from winning again.”
The horse’s response was a loud, vigorous snort.
Anouschka was a five-year-old American Thoroughbred, the winner of the Breeders’ Cup and five other grade-I races over the past two years.
She’d come to Paris to race the autumn season at Longchamp, beginning with the Dauphin Stakes.
Her owner was TNT’s father, Sheikh Nayan bin Tariq al-Sabah, the richest man in the world.
TNT looked on as the horse was led to the customs desk, where her passport and health records were examined. Even horses had to pass immigration control.
A second Qatar Airways jet landed as the first was being unloaded.
It was much smaller, an Airbus A330F, but also a cargo jet.
Tariq’s heart beat faster just looking at it.
He led his retinue out of the hangar. As always, he was accompanied by his security detail.
He never went anywhere alone and rarely with fewer than a half dozen people, all male.
He arrived as the first automobile was being unloaded.
A Ferrari. The moment it touched ground, he knelt beside it and took a selfie.
He did the same next to the Lamborghini and the Porsche.
It didn’t matter that he was only staying in Paris for the weekend or that he had no intention of driving them.
It was his duty to show the world how a prince from the Gulf traveled.
He posted the pics to social media. #BienvenueAParis. #APrincesLife. #LetsRollPeople.
A final car left the fuselage and descended to the tarmac.
“Saving the best for last,” he said to the loadmaster.
Tariq ran his hand over the hood of the black-sapphire Bugatti Chiron.
It was a two-door sports car, curvy, low to the ground, with fat side vents, a sloping roof, and an aggressive grill.
Something between the Batmobile and a Formula 1 racer.
The car had an eight-liter, sixteen-cylinder engine yielding 1,480 horsepower.
Zero to sixty in 2.4 seconds. Top speed: three hundred miles per hour.
It was the fastest production car on planet earth.
The price, if you were permitted to buy one: $4 million.
For once, Tariq did not take a photograph. Not today. Not this weekend.
It took a few minutes for the car to be properly unloaded.
All the import paperwork had been handled in Doha.
It was simply a matter of giving the French customs authorities their copy.
He saw no one coming his way. As expected, they were too involved vetting the world-famous Thoroughbred to pay attention to a sports car.
He congratulated himself on his astute planning. #brilliant.
“Sir, a moment.”
Tariq looked over his shoulder. A customs inspector had come out of his office. An older man with gray hair, clipped mustache, and rigid posture, his uniform just so. One of those. He held a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. Evidently, he did not care for racehorses.
“I have the papers here, sir,” said TNT, his smile more dazzling than ever.
“We’ll need to weigh the vehicle,” said the inspector.
“It was weighed in Doha. It’s all right here.”
The inspector examined the paperwork before handing it back. “Please drive it onto the scales. It will only take a minute.”
“Must we?” said Tariq. “I’d love to get back to my horse. It was a difficult flight for her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I knew you’d understand.”
The inspector removed his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. “The scales. Now.”
Tariq climbed into the Bugatti. The hangar was busy, cargo vehicles entering and exiting, some driving quickly, others moving at a snail’s pace.
He kept the car in first gear, feathering the accelerator, holding the car in check.
With care and precision, he drove it to the south side of the hangar, where the customs officials maintained their offices.
He felt a bead of sweat pop on his forehead.
The inspector directed the vehicle onto an industrial scale set into the floor. He wore a name tag on his uniform. LeClerc. Of course it was.
“Four thousand five hundred forty-three pounds,” said Inspector LeClerc, inking the number onto his forms.
“May I go now?” asked Tariq. “We’re headed to the track. Longchamp. The big race is Sunday . . . in case you’d like to come. We have a lovely box.”
The inspector perked up. “Champagne?”
“From our own estate,” said Tariq. “Domaine du Roi. As much as you’d like. We’ll make sure you have a case to take home.”
LeClerc was unmoved. “I thought you Muslims didn’t drink.”
“We don’t,” said Tariq. “The estate was an investment.”
“No thank you,” said LeClerc. “I’ll be in church Sunday.”
“If you reconsider . . .”
“Too much,” said Inspector LeClerc, reading from his clipboard.
“Pardon me?”
“Four thousand five hundred thirty pounds,” said LeClerc. “Your vehicle weighs thirteen pounds more than when it was weighed in Doha.”
“It must be an error,” said Tariq. “Thirteen pounds. It’s nothing.”
“Are you attempting to smuggle narcotics into the country, Mr. Al-Sabah?”
“What?” The question felt like a slap in the face. “No. Of course not.”
“Is your vehicle carrying cocaine, fentanyl, or methamphetamine?”
This was too much. The impudence. Tariq had never touched a drug in his life. “It is not,” he stated.
It was difficult to keep his emotions in check. If they were in Qatar, he could have the man thrown in jail for such comments. But they weren’t in Qatar, he reminded himself. They were in France. In this hangar, Inspector LeClerc was emir.
“Please drive the vehicle to the inspection bay.”
Tariq got back into the car. His palms were clammy, his shirt damp, clinging to his back. He was sweating for real now.
LeClerc was already walking toward the bay.
Tariq stared at the man, despising him. He started the engine, gunning it, taking the RPMs to the redline.
The roar of the engine was earsplitting, louder still inside the hangar.
At the sudden deafening noise, LeClerc jumped out of his shoes.
His glasses fell to the ground. He dropped his clipboard and clapped his hands to his ears.
It was then that Tariq knew that the weekend was fated for success and that the Prophet was smiling upon him.
As LeClerc bent to pick up his clipboard, a loader approached from the opposite direction.
It was a low, wide vehicle traveling ten miles per hour, less even.
Either LeClerc did not see it or the driver of the loader did not see LeClerc.
The inspector stumbled as he tried to gather up the clipboard.
He took a step into the oncoming vehicle’s path.
The loader swerved to miss him. Too late.
The vehicle struck him dead on. LeClerc hit the ground and slid a short distance on the slick concrete.
He lay still, either unconscious or dead.
TNT looked on, but only for a moment.
He eased the Bugatti into first gear and drove slowly—very slowly, indeed—out of the hangar.