“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. Thesale 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.
