The Export J.K. Kelly (best way to read e books .TXT) 📖

downtown Doha. And while it was an offense to drink alcoholic beverages or be drunk in public, military men and women were able to find alcohol in licensed restaurants and bars. If there was an excuse for bad behavior, intentional or otherwise, the policemen had heard it all before.

“Did he tell you he had Tourette’s syndrome?” Charlie asked.

“Won’t work this time, Charlie,” Matt murmured under his breath.

One of the officers stepped closer. “If you think this is all a joke, we can escort you both to holding cells until, as you say in England, we get this sorted. Do you want that, or do you want to get on a plane and leave Doha as soon as possible?”

Charlie and Matt, old acquaintances from many interagency investigations around the world, knew better than to screw with the police in one of these countries. Yes, they would eventually be able to have their diplomatic contacts get them released and sent on their way, but the ass-chewing they’d have to endure from their managers in London and Washington would not be worth the fun and games they were contemplating with the Doha police.

“Something tells me, officers, that I’m going to grab a seat on my friend’s flight to London,” Matt volunteered. “I’ll be out of here in less than two hours. And I promise to sit quietly in the lounge until it’s time to board.”

The backup team had stood at a distance, but when the tall officer nodded to indicate all was in order, they resumed their patrol of the massive complex, leaving the first two on the scene to finish up.

“Here are your credentials, gentlemen,” the shorter officer said as he handed the two travelers their passports and law enforcement identification.

“Stay out of trouble and don’t miss that flight!” the tall officer added.

In no time, Charlie and Matt were walking arm in arm and, to the dismay of the lounge attendants, headed back inside for drinks and crudité. The front desk concierge booked Matt a $6,000 seat in First Class on the Boeing 787 for the seven-and-a-half-hour flight north/northwest to Heathrow and now he just had to wait.

The two sat down in a quiet corner of the lounge to catch up and have a laugh at the recent episode. Charlie always sat with his back to the corner or against a wall, perhaps something they taught at MI5 or something he picked up from old movies. Matt always teased him he must really be with MI6, the U.K. spy agency.

“You have to tell me, old boy,” Charlie demanded, “what’s with the bloody beard and the ball cap?” Matt clawed at his chin and laughed.

“Got lazy while I was working here and let it go up on the mountain,” he told him. “Plus, the damn sun really beats on you up there, so I picked this up somewhere along the way.” Within minutes of sitting down, Matt saw Charlie’s eye contact break off to focus on something over Matt’s shoulder. Charlie’s expression went from jovial to curious.

A soft voice with a distinct accent immediately got their attention. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” The last time these two had been together and a woman had said that, one of them wound up in a rat-infested jail.

CHAPTER THREE

The massive airline lounge had high ceilings and wide spaces filled with maroon or tan leather chairs and sofas and brown end and coffee tables to maintain the color scheme of the fleet. The woman, fully clothed in a flowing black hajib, her face covered with a veil that allowed only her beautiful brown eyes to remain visible, stepped alongside the table and addressed the two travelers.

“I would like to eat my meal,” she said softly, “but in order to do so, I must remove my veil, and I can not allow you to see my face.”

Matt and Charlie were familiar with the custom among Islamic women and understood what she needed immediately. Without her having to say another word, the two men stood up, placed their right hand over their chest as a sign of respect, nodded, picked up their drinks, little plates, and carryon bags and moved 10 or so feet away and planted themselves at another table. This new location would actually accommodate them better, as the large flat-screen television was now fully within view, and a replay of the All Blacks rugby game from New Zealand was just starting.

“Ah, just in time for the Haka,” Charlie said with joy.

At the table next to them, a man had been quietly nursing his drink. He grumbled to himself from time to time, his breath smelling of pungent Scotch. Matt sensed trouble brewing. He pointed out the drunk to Charlie.

“Do you see what I see?” Matt asked his friend.

“Yes. It’s unfortunate she didn’t though.” He tipped his chin in the direction of the Islamic woman.

Sections of vertical mirrors were mounted in areas of the airline lounge. What the woman in the hijab had missed was that certain people sitting behind her had been able to watch her lower her veil and begin eating her meal. The drunk, unaware or uncaring for the tradition and her privacy, was loudly chomping on ice and gawking at her in a simmering rage. Noticing the pre-game dance of the All Blacks on the television, he voiced his opinion in no uncertain terms.

“Bunch of fake jungle warriors pounding their feet and sticking their tongues out at everyone, what the hell’s the world coming to?”

“You work on Wall Street?” Matt asked as he spun in his leather recliner and stopped face to face with the big drinker.

“How can you tell?” the Scotch and water replied.

“The company name on your polo shirt and the asshole behavior.” Matt smiled, lifted his glass of beer as if to offer a toast, and then spun his chair back to face Charlie.

Too drunk to get up, the man uttered every four-letter word he could muster and glared at Matt and Charlie with disdain. Luckily,