The Secrets We Live In: A Novel

by Fazle Chowdhury

  Before Zain could say anything,

  “Lana, Uncle Zain has offered his Chef to teach us what I told you about…the kind of dessert we can bring all our friends to enjoy.”

  Zain objected, saying it was a one-time offer for only one person that was her.

  “Just how many of your friends are you planning to bring?” asked Kamikazed as she penetrated through her daughter’s buffer. A laughing Zain could not contain his amusement to piss off his Chef.

  “It’s perfectly all right. They will bring that much-needed challenge to Chef Anton’s needs.”

  “Lana, this is my Uncle Zain or as all of Paris knows him as Ambassador Auzaar.”

  For Zain, he could hide his curiosity, but in the back of his mind, Lana looked so much similar to a woman he had known so long ago. Her very appearance was so enchanting, so magnetically recognizable bit silent and her soft way of speaking was all too familiar. Zain thought of a photographer in his past who called his lady love Aylin equivalent to a Greek goddess of passion. The comparison to Lana now, of which only Zain felt he had known while others contemplated. Lana’s eyes showed the maturity to understand inner peace ―the same things he loved about Aylin. The way she spoke too, in a gentle wave, reminiscent of an ocean which peaks at a great height before gently and peacefully lending itself to the shore but leaving faint ripples. When Zain looked to the other side of the room at a glance, his eyes locked with Brianna. Lana looked not too differently from her. Their appearance, the mannerisms, and their common fashionably exotic appearance ―all which Zain just could not ignore in the similarity.

  “Mr. Ambassador, thank you for giving us this opportunity” Lana expressed her gratitude and looked to ask something else.

  “So, how did the two of you meet?” asked Zain.

  “She is in my Science Photography club,” said Sumeyyea.

  Lana explained that she was studying chemistry back in Los Angeles. She said how wonderful it was to be back in Europe after a long hiatus. She talked about her time as a child in London and then in Los Angeles but finally back now in Paris.

  “Well, all places are different” Kamikazed dismissed Lana’s comments of the absence of experiences in Europe to the Americas.

  “I had long wanted to be back, and this trip was perfect to tag along with Mom and Dad.”

  “And who are your parents?” asked Kamikazed.

  Lana pointed in the same direction as previously Zain’s eyes had locked. She pointed to Brianna. Now an intrigued Kamikazed began to doubt whether Zain was actually seeing what she now could possibly believe. Was, in fact, Blakensoff’s wife, who called herself Brianna, actually Aylin as Zain believed. After some moments of wondering, Kamikazed had a flashback.

  A light folder consisting of ten pages remained in a dark room where only two individuals were present. The papers detailed financial information of an offshore entity. It contained personal private financial information.

  “I’ll authorize $250,000 to your account in the Bahamas after the job is done, but you do understand what I want?”

  “For that kind of money, not only will I get rid of her, but I’ll make sure no one asks any questions.”

  “So you are absolutely clear that I want this girl completely removed from the face of this earth?”

  “Yes, consider it done.”

  The person giving the orders was Kamikazed. The recipient was one of her contract killers. Kamikazed thought she could confirm what —her curiosities were leading to —this girl who had immense similarities to her own daughter. Lana could not have been Blakensoff’s daughter, but Brianna was certainly her mother. But more so, Brianna looked at the mirror image of Aylin, the same woman she had ordered the execution. The similarities of Aylin for Kamikazed were hard to ignore and one she could remember. Now Brianna looked strikingly similar to her daughter Lana. Kamikazed wondered and knew exactly the evidence she needed to confirm her doubts. But her doubt was as dark and two-fold —one which she feared the answer. Seeing a waiter, she requested the man to bring her a dish. The man quivered for a bit but relented. A few minutes later, he brought out a large array of dishes of delicacy makeovers—something he didn’t want to tax himself to bring or return more than ten times. The young ladies around looked to this handsome man as he brought dishes of categorical tapas one after another in fattening and hot on the plate attraction. The labels he set to describe these dishes citing themselves from Provence with further descriptions of the tomato, the sauce, and the cheese. But instead of being breaded and fried, the dishes looked softly roasted.

  “Lana, why don’t you try one of these dishes?” suggested Kamikazed as she plotted to find the answer to what she sought and hoping the dishes on display would answer her curiosity once and for all.

  “Don’t mind her,” said Zain,

  “she just wants your opinion and judge my Chef.”

  Zain spoke candidly, but he could not take his eyes off the woman far from his reach nor could he fully indulge the young girl in front of him.

  “This tastes immaculate, but I prefer something less dull” Sumeyyea burst into laughter at Lana’s comment.

  “Oh my god, I feel the same way.. see what I mean”. Kamikazed’s suspicions were confirmed. The dislike of the Eggplant Tian could only mean one thing. The answer she dreaded two decades back and the same answer to what she breathed in at present. Brianna was Aylin, and Lana was Zain’s.

  ╔ ——————————————— ╗

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  ╚ ——————————————— ╝

  “Zain, I want good news,” echoed the hollow voice of “the Grand Vizier”, Ikramullah Mandan. He was known by his title to his ambassadors. Otherwise he was known as Prime Minister. He spoke fretfully through his speakerphone.

  Zain was in his secluded room of an office, looking out over the garden, hoping the view would bring him some tranquility but so far, it hadn’t. The Prime Minister badly needed a foreign policy win in Zain’s nuclear deal, as his domestic economic policy was entangled in it.

  Prime Minister Ikramullah Mandan spent much of his election campaign denying he was the best option for the country’s powerful military and intelligence. But after suffering a shocking defeat in parliament over the authorization of new loans from an international consortium of banks, he had turned over much of the Defense Ministry, which was already in the hands of the army. Then, he had virtually made his foreign minister a lame duck by getting rid of much of his cabinet and replacing them with members of the country’s powerful intelligence group.

  “Zain, tell me about your conversation with the Republique Prime Minister went well. If he gave you a date, begin the informal discussions immediately!”

  Zain could sense the desperation in his Prime Minister’s voice. He knew that Mandan had been meeting with several generals over the past week, as he was looking to replace his fourth finance minister in eighteen months. The problems arose when he championed the idea that the international consortium of banks back the country’s economic jumpstart after fighting high inflation. His parliament already voted against the bailout. The speaker of the parliament and the majority members wanted an increase in exports and lower taxes. But two-thirds of the parliament too were banking on the nuclear deal, as it would fall in the category of exports, filling their coffers.

  “The Republique Prime Minister has requested a delay.”

  “What?” Mandan’s fury resonated in Zain’s ears like a drum.

  “Prime Minister, it is only a short delay due to the refugee crisis here in Europe. As soon as they have a handle on it, they will address our concerns.”

  A long silence hung in the air. An eerie buzz on the phone gave Zain a feeling that someone else had been listening in. Zain understood the situation. He was well aware that the army and its allies in parliament could very well pull the support of the Prime Minister, causing him to take measures to win a vote of confidence. But he would not w
in it if the army pulled its support. Mandan would then have to hand in his resignation.

  “Zain, I can’t afford a delay. My economic advisors need outside capital flowing in; otherwise, we’ll be in grave peril.”

  Zain knew why the Prime Minister was taking such a desperate tone with him. Mandan represented economic stability for the army and its intelligence. It was the only reason why they had supported him. If he did not deliver, they could easily launch a coup to oust him, and Mandan could do little to stop it.

  “My staff and I are working on every detail. We are in regular talks to assist them in their efforts, and the moment I have an opening, I will drive this effort home, as you have directed me,” said Zain confidently.

  “How long will it take, Zain?”

  “Officially, two months; unofficially, two weeks.”

  Again, there was a long silence. Ferdash had warned Zain that Mandan’s cabinet was on life support. It had to spend $600 million of its reserves each month to stay afloat, and it could not do so much longer. It would have to go to some international bank for a $9 billion bailout help if the nuclear deal didn’t materialize, and that could cause havoc even on Zain’s end.

  “Zain, I know you have a good handle on this, but I need results like now.”

  “I’m working fifteen-hour days. I’m working as fast as I can, but it just takes time, Mr. Prime Minister.”

  In desperation, Mandan offered him all the state resources he could to get, at the very least, sign a pre-condition or even an MOU-type agreement, where the two sides agreed on principle to move forward followed by an initial release of $3 billion. So, when the final agreement was signed, the remaining $17 billion would flow to alleviate an economic catastrophe for Mandan.

  But time was running out for Mandan. He needed the support of 116 lawmakers in the 175-member parliament to win the confidence vote in an open ballot. Although his party had a thin coalition majority, there was no guarantee of his survival.

  Ferdash had already warned Zain that the Prime Minister was in a difficult position. As he found out, thirty-seven members of his own party in parliament were under the military's payroll. Ferdash had evidence from his own network of informants that they were receiving bribes through various offshore transactions. Finding out that the army and its intelligence had warned Mandan that they were monitoring events. In point blank terms, Mandan did not know if he would be ousted or not. The army already had an outsized role in Mandan’s administration, with a say on everything from foreign policy and security matters to economic decisions. The generals held private meetings, and as Ferdash believed, the army was very close to rescinding its backing.

  Zain ended the call with the Prime Minister on a hopeful note, but on another line, he now had the head of Intelligence, General Shahen-shah Kemal.

  A four-star general, Kemal had been appointed as the Director-General of Intelligence only a few months back. He had a quiet demeanor and over two decades of experience in directing covert operations. He was an instrumental bridge in leading the talks with rogue parliamentary members. For Zain, Kemal was one of the key players to get his terms of the nuclear deal accepted by the military and the parliament remarkably smoothly.

  “Zain baba,” the general addressed him affectionately.

  General Kemal’s voice irked Zain; he hadn’t expected to speak with the general today. He folded his hands on his lap. Talking about the refugee crisis was more difficult than he expected and failing in what he hoped to achieve with his nuclear deal was also difficult to broach. But pleasantries only infuriated the general.

  “The Republique Prime Minister wants us to help with the refugee crisis first before we can discuss the nukes,” Zain said.

  Unsure if he was going to get a tongue lashing, but he braced himself for one. The silence that hung between them was colder than it had been in Zain’s previous conversation.

  “Have Ferdash send me progress on the matter by the hour, and if you can’t pull it off, Zain, pack your bags.”

  With those words, the general hung up the phone. It was an unpleasant feeling for Zain. Not speaking the whole truth had bought them time, and the absolute truth only landed them in hot water.

  A knock came from the door, and a security member entered with a note, reading,

  “Just received communication from the Elyse. The matter is getting out of control. Immediate attention needed—Army HQ.”

  Ferdash understood that the army and its intelligence, based on the note, were operating on two fronts but achieving the same aim. One could overthrow the Prime Minister and the other take-out Zain. But given his conversations in the last hour, Zain was furious. He clenched his fist until his nails bit into the flesh of his palms. Even Ferdash didn’t want to entertain the refugee crisis. Zain had to find a way, but he needed to understand the consequences of what he would actually do.

  “Salima, come in,” he yelled.

  “How did it go?”

  Salima took an empty seat in front of him, giving him an

  “I told you so.”

  “I don’t need your scolding now,” he said.

  “Of course not, but what will you do?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but I have to figure something out soon.”

  “Ok, but you also have a meeting scheduled with Inspector Pasquer tomorrow.”

  Zain ran his fingers through his hair. Both Ferdash and Salima could see it was becoming too much to manage.

  “Also,” Salima continued,

  “there is a notice from the Republique Foreign Ministry that an investigation team is coming tomorrow to inspect the building, and I will have no choice but to approve.”

  “Just give them the damn body,” snapped Zain.

  Ferdash and Salima advised him against it. Salima proposed a news conference to make a statement that they would conduct their own investigation and that there was no legal basis to comply with the demands of the police. But Zain believed that the police were entitled to enter his mansion and potentially could arrest him for non-cooperation. Salima disagreed. She said it was an implied threat and a violation of the Vienna Convention.

  “The worst the police can do is sit outside the mansion and wait until you go far enough from the mansion that they could attempt to arrest you,” said Ferdash.

  “I don’t want to deal with this now. Give them the damn body, and I’ll go to the station right now to do whatever they want,” Zain said.

  “You can’t do that—it would make us look weak under pressure,” said Salima.

  Ferdash weighed in,

  “At least give us forty-eight hours to give you our recommendation, and then you can do what you want.”

  Zain shook his head. He really didn’t like this

  “Any idea who the dead guy is? And how had he gotten past security?” he asked without getting any response.

  Aside from general curiosity, having the shadow of a murder hanging over him would jeopardize even his smallest of endeavors, not to mention his nuclear deal. Zain couldn’t bear to lose the General’s confidence and realized he needed to relax and take a step back.

  “I’m going to the police now,” he said finally, and Ferdash agreed to drive him over.

  A heavy silence rested between the two men as they made their way through the glittering city lights. No one would have guessed the two were unusually close. They did their early morning jogs together and had ad hoc meetings almost every day. And even now, when Zain was in the hot seat with his bosses, he preferred Ferdash by his side.

  Ferdash broke the silence.

  “At least say something. You know you want to.”

  “I don’t know anymore. I really don’t,” sighed Zain.

  “This isn’t a setback, just an irritant. We’ll get through this.”

  “Why can’t we just do our jobs and not have to worry about shit like this?”

  Zain’s exhaustion was written on his face.

  “Can I say something?” Ferdash began.


  “What?” Zain asked.

  “I’ve been talking to Mayor Alice Derrida’s staff.”

  “Who?”

  “Mayor of Saint-Valery-sur-Somme—you know her.”

  “Oh yeah, how is she doing?”

  “Well, her staff was telling me that she will support the liberal candidate for president in the forthcoming election.”

  Zain nodded, eyes fixed on the buildings going by outside.

  “It was hard enough to get her elected as mayor. It would take a fortune to get her into the next president’s cabinet.”

  “Not at the next, but the present,” Ferdash uttered.

  At this, Zain looked at him with curiosity.

  “How are you going to get her in the present cabinet?”

  Ferdash explained that his men in the field had discovered that Prime Minister LaRue had been receiving money in other ways. His contacts at Interpol came across something a few prior but only informed him earlier in the evening. It looked like he had received kickbacks from some appointments in Brussels and diverted them to a company to produce and sell fighter jets.

  “So, you’re saying he gets double the kickback? One for the appointments and the other on the bids?”

  “Don’t forget the commission on the sale,” said Ferdash.

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “No!”

  “It will take time, money, and resources. I’ll keep Berzad and Mazaar out of this if you are willing. It will be strictly off the books like the last one.”

  Ferdash smiled.

  Zain thought about it. Ferdash would unleash a political scandal that would shake up this government and reshuffle Derrida into LaRue’s place. In doing so, Zain had a better chance to get his nuclear deal approved. He knew it would take time he didn’t have and money that he would have to put together on short notice.

  “How much do you need, and how soon can you get started?”

  “Give or take $1 million and a couple of days.”