Chapter 8
Paris
He guided the Bugatti through the carriageway and into the inner courtyard. He climbed out and threw the keys to his valet. “Keep it close,” he said. “No one gets near it.”
“Wash and wax?”
“No,” snapped Tariq. “Just watch it.”
Security men flanked the rear entrance. One held the door as Tariq entered. “Welcome back, Excellency.”
He found his father lounging on the couch in the media room watching television.
It was nearly six, which meant his day had not officially begun.
He wore boxer shorts and a baggy T-shirt from the last Rolling Stones tour.
His hair fell to his shoulders and was a ratty mess. His stomach, Tariq remarked, was regal.
“Who’s screwing who, Papa?” he asked, kissing his father on the cheek.
“Promise me you’ll never marry a woman from the OC,” said his father, His Excellency Sheikh Nayan bin Tariq al-Sabah, the emir of Qatar.
Tariq studied the screen. A group of blond women argued with one another in a fancy kitchen. “Orange County?” he said. “What happened to New York?”
“They’re too tough even for me,” said his father.
Tariq laughed dutifully. If it ever got out that the emir of Qatar was addicted to reality television, they would have to abdicate the throne. “Can I get you anything?”
“A beer would be nice. Nonalcoholic.”
“Right away.” It was their joke. Tariq fetched a Heineken from the fridge. Alcohol content 5 percent.
“And Princess Anouschka?” asked the emir.
“She’s fine. Ready to race Sunday.”
“Let’s hope so,” said the emir. “The Dauphin Stakes is the biggest race of the season. We will go together.”
“With pleasure.”
“My son, the movie star.”
“Not movies, Father. Social media.”
The emir sat up, his dark, disapproving eyes taking note of his son’s attire. “This is how you go out? With a baseball cap?”
“It wasn’t an official occasion,” said Tariq.
“You’re a government minister. Every occasion is official.”
“I’m confused,” said Tariq. “We wish to modernize our country, yet I am to dress like my ancestors.”
“Do you not respect them?”
“It is not a question of respect,” said Tariq, “but of presenting a modern image. We are not Bedouin.”
“You mean a ‘Western’ image,” said the emir.
Tariq smiled. It was always like this. One step forward, two steps back. The last thing the world needed was another swarthy Arab in a thobe and keffiyeh. Alas, it was not an argument he could win.
“May I inquire, how are things proceeding?” he asked, politely. He was referring to a conference being held at that very moment at the élysée Palace under the utmost secrecy, involving Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, Qatar, and Israel.
“Talking and talking,” said the emir. “That’s all the Israelis know how to do.”
“And the others?” asked Tariq.
His father struggled to his feet. He was not a tall man, but even here, in his boxer shorts and T-shirt, his hair looking as if he’d just stuck a finger in the electric socket, he exuded dignity and bearing.
“Also talking and talking,” he said. “I don’t know who is worse, the Saudis, the Emiratis, or the Israelis.
Sooner or later, it appears, we will have an agreement. ”
“An agreement? Inshallah,” said Tariq, “you will bring peace to the region once and for all.”
“Inshallah,” said his father. “But it is your brother Jabr’s doing.”
“We are all proud of him,” said Tariq.
“There is to be a ceremony,” said the emir. “Sunday, it seems. You will attend, of course. And dressed properly. But shh! No one is to know.”
“Of course.” Tariq patted his father’s shoulder while nodding obediently. “Not a whisper to anyone.”
“Your brother took your suggestion to offer the French president our champagne as a gesture of goodwill between our countries.”
“And?”
“The French president agreed.”
“A wise man,” said Tariq.
Last year, the family had purchased the Domaine du Roi, one of the oldest and most exclusive producers of champagne in France. The sale had caused a sensation; one of France’s crown jewels in the hands of a Middle Eastern kingdom.
“I’ll drive out in the morning and get it myself,” said Tariq.
“The ’68, if they have it,” said the emir. “But don’t say I told you. Your brother wishes to make the announcement himself. The agreement is to be his victory.”
“You have my word,” said Tariq.
The emir touched his son’s cheeks. “One day you will serve him.”
“Who?”
“Your brother Jabr,” said the emir. “When he assumes the throne. He will need your counsel, especially on smaller matters.”
TNT fought to keep his tone pleasant. The taste of his bile was insufferable. It would be a cold day in Doha when he served as a minister in his brother’s government. “Until then, Father, my devotion is to you.”
“And to your fancy cars!”
Tariq laughed. “This is true. May I ask where the ceremony will take place?”
“There is only one palace in Paris fit for four rulers,” said the emir.
Tariq raised his eyebrows in appreciation. He knew better than to say the name aloud. “I’m proud of you, Father. I know this wasn’t easy for you.”
“Times change,” said the emir, then he took a long swig of beer and burped loudly. “We must change with them. Jabr has convinced me of that.”
Tariq kissed his father on both cheeks and bowed his head, then took his leave.
Yes, he agreed, running up the stairs to his suite. Times change. But Tariq did not want to change with them. Not at all. It was his job to stop them from changing.
He had until Sunday.
God willing.