The Secrets We Live In: A Novel

by Fazle Chowdhury

  Another thought entered Zain’s mind; Aylin.

  ╔ ——————————————— ╗

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  ╚ ——————————————— ╝

  “Move him to the center of the room,” called out the Staff Sargent.

  The other two assisted and placed the beaten-up man opposite the sunlight that caused him more than the irrigation of his blood-stained clothes.

  “Look at this guy. He doesn’t look like a terrorist, does he?” said the accompanying soldier.

  All three looked at the man.

  “He is a peculiar-looking man, isn’t he?” said the other.

  What befuddled the observation of all three was how their prisoner had the attributes of someone from Africa and yet had Anglican features. Authentic, he looked of some diving simplicity—a man who could easily be labeled as a native or ancient practices and traditions.

  “Sarge, he has a British passport!” said the soldier.

  “Well, I guess he is not that peculiar now, is he?” the Staff Sargent laughed.

  One of the soldiers slapped the thin man a few times to wake him up, but he remained out of it with his head swerving from one place to another.

  “Sit him up before you leave. He has a long road of grilling before him,” said the Staff Sargent.

  As their superior exited, the two soldiers kept staring at the thin man. The thin man looked actually incompetent when he could not even wipe the sweat on his forehead. Instead, in his state of deliriousness, he shifted his hands around as if he was trying to catch a moth.

  “This guy can’t possibly cause a crime. He can barely hit a mosquito, I think,” said the soldier.

  “Don’t ask, just leave him to the interrogators,” said the other.

  The two exited the cell.

  As the thin man tried to open one of his eyes, he smelled a breeze. He then began to cough incessantly. The air moderately polluted caused a reaction. Then the man calmed down and began to breathe. He relaxed a little, sensing he was the only one in the vicinity. His eyes gazed at the ceiling where a rope was hanging. There were no beds. Just an empty space and the man at the center of it. The swishing sound of metal clanging against each other echoed with screeching sounds in his condition of the injury. He heard screams, followed by agonized and painful sounds of others, assuming they were mostly men. The floors in front of him were stained red marks around. Then he heard more sounds. They consisted of reactions of horror and silence simultaneously. Like an on-and-off-button switch, one came after another. These sounds were undoubtedly inhumane treatment of detainees who were treated as savages.

  Then he suddenly saw a man approaching him. Grabbing him on his right shoulder and roughly pulling him up. Unable to hold his own weight, he could not sit still. He felt dizzy and could only sit up straight because of the opposite man’s aggressive grip. He jabbed him in the chest harshly. He spoke English and not in another tongue as his abductors did, but he still could not understand in his state. The room was beginning to feel cold.

  “You are John Thomas!” said the visitor.

  “Welcome to Detmo!”

  For Thomas, he looked up, but his bruised hands and legs needed medication. As the visitor read his document, his captors claimed to have captured him during a raid at Askan. Even before his transfer to Detmo, he had been grabbed in the face, placed in stress positions, placed in standing sleep deprivation, and doused with water multiple times for two weeks. Before his airlift, Thomas told his interviewers, he would not answer any questions until he was provided with a lawyer, which was refused to him.

  Then Thomas heard loud footsteps coming toward him. Then he felt someone untying the rope from his arms, and then a rough hand was placed on his shoulder. If it weren’t for the aggression with which

  he was pushed forward by a soldier with appalling odor, stinking of drain water Thomas would not have been able to move.

  In his tired state, he had no option but to be dragged just as he had been before. As Thomas was being tied up, he heard the two men whispering to each other. As he opened his eyes again, this time, he was actually able to see them. The haziness in his eyes had worn off. They were not men. They were two women with short haircuts in a uniform. They spoke candidly.

  “Send a message to Ferdash after this!” said one of them.

  “Wait till midnight. This has to be done very quietly!” said the other.

  The two agreed.

  One of them tightened Thomas with a new clean rope. The other brought in a few metal rods from outside the cell and placed them behind him.

  “He has very nice red lips.”

  “You think so? It's kind of odd with his complexion,” said the other.

  Having Thomas stand up straight with two rods on each side of his ligaments in addition to two ropes holding both of his hands, one of the orchestrators believed they were missing something.

  “You want to aim at his behind or spine?” she asked.

  The other observed and calculated.

  “Bring in the medium rod.”

  The understanding was they would target his behind.

  Afterward, the two looked to see if all items were in place. The ropes held Thomas up straight. Supported by two rods aiming at his ligament if he decided to cringe. Another rod aimed at his back blocked by the wall behind him.

  “Hi John, how are you?” came out the sweet, harmonic voice of the woman who was questioning him.

  Thomas, his eyes were open, but he remained silent.

  “Ok, if you want to say nothing, but we know why you were in Askan.”

  Still, Thomas remained silent.

  “We know you were there gathering evidence for ballistic missile testing but who sent you there?”

  It looked like Thomas was going to say something. He gave a sign to the woman who was questioning him. She moved forward, bending her ears. Then with a riotous sound, Thomas made. He had spat on the woman. His liquid was all over her.

  The other who was observing did not move. She knew what was going to happen next.

  “I don’t think we have been properly introduced,” she said.

  “They call me Ivy, and you are about to find out why.”

  She looked at the other, who was standing close to the door, signaling to her with a nod. Within a minute, the other brought some items over to her. It was an additional rope with a small container. Consisting of meshed jalapeno seeds, she checked to see if they were the correct ones.

  “Good job!” she said with a smile to the other.

  She placed the rope around her thin fist, which was already covered with a plastic glove—circulating it round and round until it looked like a giant glove. Stretching her arms, she wanted to see if her hand-eye coordination with work with something heavy on her hand. Taking a few steps back, she practiced one round and then another. When the rope was just perfect, she began to do what she had intended.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” said the other woman.

  She smiled.

  “Would you do the honors?” she asked.

  The other woman spat on top of the rope, which looked to be sewed on her partner’s fist and then gently tilted a few spreads of the jalapeno peppers on top of it. After she finished that, she turned around and headed to Thomas.

  She went in front of him, stuck her tongue out, and gave an erotic smile. She then unzipped him but made sure his pants were still intact. She looked at his pink ripped cotton boxers that looked in a well, relaxed and non-binding fit. She kept her eyes on him as she ripped the front portion of them.

  “Go for it!” she said to her partner.

  The woman pulled Thomas by his short hair. With the other hand, she began pounding the heavy rope with jalapeno pepper seeds around his scrotum. The reaction from Thomas blended well with the other agonizing cries around. Like others, he screamed in pain. The burning of a sensitive part of his skin caused Thomas to shake uncontroll
ably. So dire of pain he was in, even when the pounding punches weren’t taking place, he endured a horrific set of intervals where he felt his sensitive skin ripping to the point of bleeding.

  “All you had to do was to tell me who sent you there, and we could have had a civil conversation without the spitting.”

  She pounded him again with her wrist like a punching bag at his sensitive parts. Mercilessly attacking Thomas as if she had to reach a certain count. All while Thomas screamed harder and louder. Finally, her partner held her back from doing more. When she stopped, Thomas was broken to tears.

  The other woman bent down, looking at him from his below.

  “Just tell us who sent you to Askan, and maybe more pain can be halted,” she said in a gentle, quiet tone.

  “You will never find that out from me,” said Thomas as he breathed heavily.

  ╔ ——————————————— ╗

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  ╚ ——————————————— ╝

  The night had gone all wrong. Zain had spent weeks preparing for this event, and as he felt it was ruined. And on top of it all, his mind reeled at how much Brianna looked like his lost love Aylin. He wandered through a private part of the garden where he could be alone. The sound of the party buzzed around him. The breeze that was now his only companion provided that solemn moment he had craved. Yet, he felt the pull of the party, nonetheless.

  “Hi,” spoke a soft and mellow voice behind him.

  Zain turned around to see a stunning woman. She looked and dressed almost exactly like Brianna. Same black hair, the same neckline on the same dress.

  “Ambassador Auzaar, I’m sorry to startle you,” she said.

  Zain was mildly curious about the person that called him. For once, it was not Salima.

  “Hmm, this is an off-limits area. Your date is probably over there,” said Zain, pointing.

  “Actually, I wanted to speak to you privately, ambassador,” she said.

  “I’m sorry…”

  “My name is Vanessa Rhine. I’m a sports reporter from Channel 90.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry, I seldom get football players at my parties.”

  “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant. I wanted to meet you. I was so touched by the wedding ceremony you had at your mansion and was just curious about the place.”

  “Well, first of all, thank you for taking an interest; second, enjoy the party; and third, there is an event liaison standing way at the corner over there. They can help you out.”

  Zain pointed to a disgruntled host. Looking at the official, he decided otherwise.

  “Perhaps, I should direct you to someone else.”

  “Honestly,”

  she said as she gave his arm a gently squeeze,

  “I was hoping maybe you could give me a tour or an interview.”

  Zain had never been approached by a sports reporter, and he was a little concerned he couldn’t give anything of substance.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Rhine, I don’t think I’m the right person or have the time to—”

  “Surely you can tell me about the time when you played for Granada.”

  Zain was stunned.

  “That was a long time ago. How did you know that?”

  “A reporter always does her homework,” she said, wagging her finger.

  “Well, you are leaving very little room for me to say no, Ms. Rhine,” said Zain.

  “Please, call me Vanessa.”

  Zain accompanied her back to the main party.

  “You are from….”

  “Canada”

  “do you ever get to Montreal?” he asked.

  “Actually, I was born in Lavaal, which isn’t far from it, but my real home is in London.”

  “London, Ontario, correct?”

  “Wow, not many people know that.”

  “I did a cross-country road trip from Montreal to Vancouver once. I think I did pass by your town— I’m sorry, your city.”

  As they spoke, they were interrupted by the sound of glass breaking and raised voices. Zain, as well as the security, stood on edge. He squeezed through the dancing crowd to find a young boy being accosted by a man. Flashes of Zain’s past sprung unceremoniously into his mind. An incomplete registration form. An angry father. Zain beaten bloody at a hotel in Monaco.

  He felt his stomach drop, and he covered the boy with his body.

  “STOP!” he demanded.

  “This bastard spilled wine on my wife’s €10,000 dress and broke our champagne glasses,” spat the disgruntled guest.

  “I’ll write you a check right now for the dress, but there is no need to be angry about the glasses. They’re mine,” said Zain.

  The man pushed past Zain toward the boy, shouting,

  “Fuck off, and don’t get in the way.”

  Zain calmly placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “It looks like you’ve had more than your fair share of drinks. Don’t do anything else you’ll come to regret.”

  The man took a swing at him, and security stepped in.

  “Get your hands off me,” the man screamed.

  “You have no idea who you’re fucking with.”

  Ferdash made eye contact with Zain and nodded. Zain shook his head. Ferdash seemed to insist on his course of action with his eyes. It was as if the two men had an intuitive language without words but with their eyes and hands.

  Ferdash ignored Zain’s warnings and stepped up to the disgruntled man. His men rushed the man away from the curious party guests and into a secured location nearby. Inside the large bushes of the property, the small house was primarily used for storage but now found new meaning for the security in settling their scores with drunk and disgruntled guests. They called this house “the Corner.”

  Ferdash’s men held the guest up straight inside the Corner's single room. Ferdash whispered something into the man’s ear.

  “I’m not going to fuck with you; I just want you to feel something,” he said menacingly.

  Ferdash signaled four of his men to turn around. The music pulsed outside, where the crowd continued to dance. Ferdash proceeded to unzip the man’s pants and squeezed his genitals so sadistically that the security struggled to hear the sound of pain despite the outside music. The crying pain of the man dragged on until the man could take no more and began to beg. He waived the €10,000 damage but continued to cry as Ferdash did not stop. When he finally couldn’t take it anymore, and was bleeding quite badly, Ferdash stopped, his palm covered in blood.

  “Make sure he’s alive when you dump him, but give him some souvenirs to remember the night,” ordered Ferdash to the security.

  Back at the party, Zain observed the carefree dancers. At a tap on his shoulder, he started. It was Rhine.

  “You disappeared, and I didn’t want to leave your party without saying goodbye,” she said.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Well, it is getting late…”

  Zain paused. His party has been a disaster so far, and the only thing between desperation and divine was in front of him, telling him she was leaving.

  “I’m sorry; we were just getting to know one another. These kinds of events…well, you know how men get at these parties.”

  He scrambled for something to say that would make her stay longer.

  "Sir?" she asked.

  Rhine realized his mind was elsewhere.

  "Didn't you hear what I said?"

  "Sorry, I was distracted. What did you say?" Zain asked.

  "I asked…"

  The noise of the music and the crowd masked her words again. Zain smiled and, pointing to his mouth, slowly mouthed goodnight.

  Rhine looked at him giddily and stood still. She took a few steps towards Zain as though she were going to whisper something in his ear. But as she looked into his eyes, Zain felt her hands moving. But then she halted for some reason and backed away. She was extremely nervous about something with an uncanny express
ion. She took a step back and walked away through the crowd. Zain saw Ferdash inquiring if all was well. Then he watched her leave slowly. Rhine was gone.

  After a few minutes, the DJ stopped the music.

  "Who's that guy?" someone yelled out.

  "What guy?" called out someone else.

  Zain looked and saw a man. He looked out of place, dressed in a dirty white shirt and a pair of old, torn pants.

  "Who let him in?" asked someone else.

  "You don't know who that is?"

  People were asking questions, but Zain stood silent. He could not spot Ferdash or Salima. The crowd headed towards the man and stopped a few feet away. He reeked of weed. The man’s voice was muffled from behind his hands, and he seemed disoriented. His eyes had a glassy stare, and Zain wondered if he even knew where he was. "Sir," cried out the man and looked at Zain.

  Zain thought he had to do something quickly. Reporters would have a field day if they found out that someone crashed his party. The man turned away and headed toward a few women, and security cut him off. Just as one of the men grabbed his left arm, he began to breathe laboriously until he collapsed on the floor.

  "He's having a heart attack!" the security called out.

  "Get help! Someone, get help!"

  The man's mouth opened, and foam poured out. One of the security checked for a pulse, and after a few moments, looked up to Zain, shaking his head. Ferdash ran onto the scene at this moment, and his men informed him that the foam coming from the man’s mouth was not indicative of a heart attack.

  “Sir, we think he was poisoned," said the security.

  "But how?” asked Ferdash.

  Zain chimed in,

  "Does anyone know who he is?”

  “I haven’t seen him before. I don’t know how he got in here,” replied the security.

  "He must've snuck in somehow," Ferdash said.