“Princess Anouschka has arrived,” announced a tall, strikingly handsome man standing at the head of the crowd.
The man removed his sunglasses and turned to the assembly, waving while offering a dazzling smile for the many phones raised high and directed toward him. His name was Tariq bin Nayan bin Tariq al-Sabah. He was thirty-three years old, the second son of the emir of Qatar’s first wife, and, as such, heir to a fortune valued at $500 billion. He had large, friendly brown eyes, fashionably trimmed hair, and a perfectly manicured goatee. His friends, family, and ten million fans on social media knew him better as TNT. No one loved the moniker better than Tariq himself. To underline the point, he wore a black baseball cap with the bold initials embroidered on its brim.
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 howa 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.”
