pulled up in front of the Chateau Michael.
The doorman opened the door and stepped back. Boyd got out and offered to help Pamela. Loosened considerably by all four of the little Jack Daniel’s bottles in the courtesy bar in her room at the hotel, she smiled pleasantly as she took his arm.
“Thank you,” Donn said, addressing the doorman, pausing to look around the parking lot and at the few bystanders before striding purposefully into the restaurant. He approached the maître d'.
“I’m MacDonnald Wilde. The hotel called.”
“Ah, yes. I am Anthony. Your table is ready, sir.”
“Anthony, my driver will be outside. Could you send out a sandwich, some coffee? Whatever he wants.”
“Of course.”
“We’ll be meeting Dr. Smith, a larger man than I, about the size of my associate here, reddish hair, balding. He’ll have his wife. I haven’t met her.”
“She’s Chinese,” Boyd offered.
“Ah, perfect. We certainly want them to feel welcome.”
He smiled at Anthony.
Boyd watched Donn work the room. While he talked with the maître d', no one passed or saw anything but Donn. He was polite, forceful but not loud, upbeat, enjoying himself, bringing out the best in those there to help him. He walked slowly, confidently, to their table, looking around the room, attracting attention in his fine-looking suit, smiling. Boyd felt the eyes, too. It was an entrance.
When the Smiths arrived they were brought to the table by the maître d'. Donn met them halfway, shaking Joe’s hand and introducing himself to Joe’s petite wife. The waiter popped the champagne cork as they took their seats. Mrs. Smith looked bewildered. Pamela offered her glass first to the waiter, a gay smile on her flushed face.
They had a sumptuous meal with appetizers, soup, spectacular entrees and flaming deserts. Donn had an animated discussion with the wine steward, finally letting him choose a white and a red for the occasion. Throughout the evening, Donn kept up the pace with stories of oil deals in Oklahoma, outrageous golf outings, and down-home tales of hunting and fishing expeditions and colorful characters he’d met. Their table’s periodic explosions of laughter had the room politely craning their way to hear the stories.
Pam had rushed down to the Crystal City Mall to buy some high heels for the evening. At the end of dinner, as they were leaving, she tripped on a step and broke off one of the heels. With a broken heel she continued walking toward the door, too drunk to notice. Boyd rushed to her aid, stopped her, reached down to slip off both of her shoes and helped her quickly out to the car. Donn followed with the Smiths, thanking the staff, slipping bills into discretely offered hands, promising to be back soon.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Doha, Qatar
Khalid was aware of the bulletproof doors and windows as his Pakistani driver eased the Mercedes slowly down Al Ashat Street in Doha, Qatar, stopping in front of the main entrance to the Gold Souk. Emerging onto the sidewalk, Khalid stood to his full 6 feet 2 inches and squared his shoulders, well aware all eyes were on him. He wore the traditional Qatari white robe, or thoub, with a carefully ironed, folded square cloth covering his head, held in place with a black double coil. Looking to the uninitiated like any other of the thousands of men wearing traditional garb in Doha, he was, in his own estimation, unique. His ghutra, or headdress was folded just so – like no other. The street was filled with men rushing about in all manner of dress, but there were no traditional white robes in sight. That, and the smell of garbage from a dumpster in the alley across the street, reminded Khalid that he was in the rough part of town and surrounded by foreigners, servants and infidels.
“Wait here,” he said quietly to his driver, surveying the scene. He strode across the broken sidewalk and up the three steps to the
The doorman opened the door and stepped back. Boyd got out and offered to help Pamela. Loosened considerably by all four of the little Jack Daniel’s bottles in the courtesy bar in her room at the hotel, she smiled pleasantly as she took his arm.
“Thank you,” Donn said, addressing the doorman, pausing to look around the parking lot and at the few bystanders before striding purposefully into the restaurant. He approached the maître d'.
“I’m MacDonnald Wilde. The hotel called.”
“Ah, yes. I am Anthony. Your table is ready, sir.”
“Anthony, my driver will be outside. Could you send out a sandwich, some coffee? Whatever he wants.”
“Of course.”
“We’ll be meeting Dr. Smith, a larger man than I, about the size of my associate here, reddish hair, balding. He’ll have his wife. I haven’t met her.”
“She’s Chinese,” Boyd offered.
“Ah, perfect. We certainly want them to feel welcome.”
He smiled at Anthony.
Boyd watched Donn work the room. While he talked with the maître d', no one passed or saw anything but Donn. He was polite, forceful but not loud, upbeat, enjoying himself, bringing out the best in those there to help him. He walked slowly, confidently, to their table, looking around the room, attracting attention in his fine-looking suit, smiling. Boyd felt the eyes, too. It was an entrance.
When the Smiths arrived they were brought to the table by the maître d'. Donn met them halfway, shaking Joe’s hand and introducing himself to Joe’s petite wife. The waiter popped the champagne cork as they took their seats. Mrs. Smith looked bewildered. Pamela offered her glass first to the waiter, a gay smile on her flushed face.
They had a sumptuous meal with appetizers, soup, spectacular entrees and flaming deserts. Donn had an animated discussion with the wine steward, finally letting him choose a white and a red for the occasion. Throughout the evening, Donn kept up the pace with stories of oil deals in Oklahoma, outrageous golf outings, and down-home tales of hunting and fishing expeditions and colorful characters he’d met. Their table’s periodic explosions of laughter had the room politely craning their way to hear the stories.
Pam had rushed down to the Crystal City Mall to buy some high heels for the evening. At the end of dinner, as they were leaving, she tripped on a step and broke off one of the heels. With a broken heel she continued walking toward the door, too drunk to notice. Boyd rushed to her aid, stopped her, reached down to slip off both of her shoes and helped her quickly out to the car. Donn followed with the Smiths, thanking the staff, slipping bills into discretely offered hands, promising to be back soon.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Doha, Qatar
Khalid was aware of the bulletproof doors and windows as his Pakistani driver eased the Mercedes slowly down Al Ashat Street in Doha, Qatar, stopping in front of the main entrance to the Gold Souk. Emerging onto the sidewalk, Khalid stood to his full 6 feet 2 inches and squared his shoulders, well aware all eyes were on him. He wore the traditional Qatari white robe, or thoub, with a carefully ironed, folded square cloth covering his head, held in place with a black double coil. Looking to the uninitiated like any other of the thousands of men wearing traditional garb in Doha, he was, in his own estimation, unique. His ghutra, or headdress was folded just so – like no other. The street was filled with men rushing about in all manner of dress, but there were no traditional white robes in sight. That, and the smell of garbage from a dumpster in the alley across the street, reminded Khalid that he was in the rough part of town and surrounded by foreigners, servants and infidels.
“Wait here,” he said quietly to his driver, surveying the scene. He strode across the broken sidewalk and up the three steps to the
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