CLICK ABOVE TO LISTEN

Life in Kqawarrie steadily resumed, but Sheikh Rashad’s mind was already crossing the Atlantic. Correspondence soon arrived from Ali Mansoor regarding the logistics of the uranium transfer. Ali’s research was blunt: a rail system, while efficient, was a security nightmare. The vast, lonely stretches of desert would be a playground for insurgents, and the cost of patrolling every kilometre of track was prohibitive.

“Road transportation is the only viable path,” Rashad mused, reviewing the digital blueprints Ali had sent.

The plan was to acquire specialized, heavy-duty trucks from the Americans as part of the broader deal. These vehicles would carry “casks”—lead-lined, reinforced containers designed to withstand the most catastrophic accidents without leaking radioactive material.

On a secure line, Rashad contacted Ali. “Your counsel is wise, my friend. We will move by road, under heavy escort. Start the preliminary drills.”

Next, Rashad contacted Steven Rock in Chicago to finalize the summit details. This was not a simple business trip; it was a state visit. Rashad demanded a level of respect befitting his nation’s new status. He ensured his delegation would be issued special diplomatic passports and that their weekly religious observances would be respected.

“Steven,” Rashad wrote, “we will work from 09:00 until evening, but Friday from 11:30 to 14:30 is non-negotiable. My people must observe the Jumu’ah. Furthermore, all catering must be Halal-certified and inspected by my staff.”

As he reviewed the American contingency list, one name stopped him: Ester Van Dhoon. She was the personal representative for the Secretary of State. Rashad, ever the chess player, dug into her background. He discovered she was a former Navy SEAL with a record that read like a legend: a fearless marksman and a seasoned knife fighter who had once neutralized a Nigerian warlord’s compound in a daring HALO jump.

He studied her photograph—the sharp, pretty face and the disciplined posture that her combat uniform couldn’t fully mask. He felt a sudden, unexpected spark of anticipation. This was an “avenging angel” he very much wanted to meet.

The holy month of Ramadan brought a spiritual quiet to the palace, a time of fasting and reflection that Rashad welcomed. When the moon was finally sighted, marking the end of the fast, the two-day Eid celebrations were followed by a whirlwind of activity. The summit was set.

Rashad gathered his team in the throne room: Daniel Weiss, the generals Moussa and Farouk, and his childhood friend Ali.

“We leave on Wednesday,” Rashad announced, the authority in his voice absolute. “The Americans are sending a specialized aircraft—the former Air Force One—to transport us. We will have a four-jet escort of B-2 Stealth fighters across the Atlantic. It is a sign of how much they want what we have.”

He turned to Ali. “You must remain here to oversee the mine with Daniel’s understudy. I know you wish to see America, and I promise you a trip in the near future. But for now, Kqawarrie needs its lion at the gate.”

The departure was sombre. Saying goodbye to his mother was difficult; the thought of her son crossing the great ocean filled her with a dread she could barely hide. But by Wednesday, the party was airborne.

The flight was a revelation of luxury and power. Rashad spent the hours in his private airborne office, studying the American delegates. He knew they were masters of subterfuge, likely to “stack the deck” in their favour.

Upon landing at JFK International, the party was whisked away in stretch limousines to a luxury hotel in Manhattan. After a brief hour to refresh, they were ushered into a lavish boardroom filled with an array of finger foods meticulously labelled: Halal for the Muslims, Kosher for Daniel, and standard fare for the Americans.

Rashad was reaching for a biscuit when he turned and collided with a woman. The force of the impact sent the morsel flying—landing squarely in the cleavage of her dress.

“Why, you imbecile! What is your problem?” she snapped, her voice sharp with shock.

Rashad froze. Standing before him was Ester Van Dhoon. “My apologies,” he said, his voice regaining its calm, “it was an accident.”

Recognition dawned on her face, and her expression shifted from fury to sheepish embarrassment. “I… I am sorry, Your Highness. I was out of line.”

“I am the imbecile, then?” Rashad replied with an uncharacteristic, charming smile. “Perhaps we should start again. I am Sheikh Rashad Al-Mustafa Kamaldien. And you, my erstwhile enemy, are…?”

Ester blushed, a rosy tint touching her cheeks. “Ester Van Dhoon. Thank you for being a gentleman about my indiscretion.”

“A lady cannot be blamed for a collision with a biscuit,” Rashad countered. “But let us be clear: whether we cross swords or sing from the same sheet, this deal depends on mutual respect. America is my first choice, but other nations are waiting in the wings.”

The negotiation that followed was a gruelling battle of wills. For the first two days, neither side budged. It was only when Rashad’s ambassador, Yusuf Said, delivered a masterful plea for “a marriage of respect rather than convenience” that the ice broke.

Ester stood up, echoing the sentiment. “I insulted the Sheikh upon our meeting, and he showed me the grace of a true leader. If we continue to fight for the upper hand, everyone loses. We need their uranium; they need our infrastructure. Let us act like partners.”

A week later, the deal was struck: discounted uranium in exchange for a world-class hospital, a specialized trauma centre, and American-led security for the transport convoys.

With the business concluded, Rashad invited Ester to a private dinner at a renowned Halal restaurant. As she walked toward his limousine in a white knitted dress that accentuated her figure, Rashad felt his heart skip.

“I’ve heard many introductory lines,” Ester laughed over dinner, “but depositing a biscuit in a woman’s dress is certainly original.”

As they ate, the conversation turned from politics to faith. Ester shared her journey as a Messianic Jew, her blue eyes bright with conviction. She spoke of the prophecies in the Tanakh and the life of Jesus, explaining the Trinity as God revealing Himself in three persons, just as humans are body, mind, and soul.

“I have found the Truth,” she said firmly. “And I have seen that even in the Quran, it says that if you seek the truth, go to the people of the Book.”

Rashad listened, captivated not just by her beauty, but by her spirit. As the moon rose over the New York skyline, he realized the “serendipity” his father had often spoken of wasn’t just about gold or uranium. It was about the people found along the way.