Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Souq Waqif, literally "the standing market" or "the Old Market" to the locals, began as a Bedouin trading post nearly a century ago. In time, it evolved into a place of trade and industry, until the modern world forced it into its current role as one of the top tourist attractions in the city. It was restored in remembrance of the mystique of old Qatar. Ivory white walls of stone house the crammed stores under the balconies and arches of small buildings. The vendors sell all kinds of traditional crafts like decorative knives, musical instruments, pottery, chess sets, clothes, carpets, dry goods, souvenirs, etc. Local patrons haggle ardently for a good price, while most tourists shyly conform to the asked value. There is a large variety of restaurants and cafés from around the world, but the spell is somewhat broken by the presence of a handful of western-style eateries. Art galleries and workshops mingle with three small, yet charming hotels, including one that shares its name with the market.

Hotel Souq Waqif is a throwback to the country's legacy, heightened by a modern sense of style and comfort. Just two stories high, it is surrounded by arched windows with colorful glass that stand out against its white exterior. It has ample hallways, marble floors, elaborate chandeliers and impressive wooden doors.

Singleton sits in the lobby, pretending to read a newspaper. For all the fond memories he has from his time as a case officer during the Cold War, he knows he's too old to be running around playing international man of mystery. But with a little luck, this will all end soon enough. At least he can rest easy knowing that Fariq Najjar has a contingent of men ready to move in on his signal. Yet, no matter how rusty he is, some things are just like riding a bicycle; you jump on, pedal, and hope you don't fall.

Singleton's eyes scrutinize every person in the lobby. He analyzes their body language and memorizes the tiniest detail, while his thumb fiddles with his wedding band. He has to remain visible so his contact can recognize him by the predetermined red tie he's wearing.

"Excuse me," a hotel employee says approaching Singleton. "Are you Mr. Damocles?"

"Yes," Singleton says.

"I have a message for you," the man says, giving him a piece of paper.

The message contains only a room number, which Singleton whispers into his hidden microphone as he makes his way.

Once there, Singleton knocks on the door. Moments later, a Middle Eastern man opens up just enough to get a good look at him.

"Damocles?"

"Dionysius," Singleton says.

"Are you alone?" the man says in English.

"I am, but no one said anything about meeting in a room."

"Change of plans," the man says.

"Indeed," Singleton walks away.

"Wait, where are you going?" the man says, confused by the turn of events.

"We agreed to meet here at this time, but you must think I'm stupid if I'm going to just walk into that room by myself."

"No, please. Wait," says the man stepping into the hallway. "This is no trickery; it's just a matter of safety."

"Not mine."

"We're negotiators, not thieves."

Singleton returns. He pushes the door completely open and checks the room from the outside. There are two more men inside, one sitting on a sofa and the other standing behind him. They're Middle Eastern as well, but Singleton can't say from where they hail.

"Please, come in," the man on the sofa says.

Singleton does so carefully, keeping an eye on the doorman. The man on the couch is short, with an air of aristocracy about him. The other one is tall, grim and has a scar on his cheek.