The Secrets We Live In: A Novel
Page 1
THE
SECRETS
WE LIVE IN
ALSO BY FAZLE CHOWDHURY
Non-Fiction
Promises of Betrayals: The History That Shaped the Iranian Shia Clerics
Revived Failure: Iran’s Reality After the American Withdrawal of the Nuclear Deal
Fiction
With Dark Understandings: A Novel
The Other Side of Eden : A Novel
Never Among Equals: A WWI Novel
THE
SECRETS
WE LIVE IN
A NOVEL
FAZLE CHOWDHURY
First published in India by
PUFFINS PUBLISHERS
Private Limited
Plot No. CW 727, Ground Floor,
Sanjay Gandhi Transport Nagar City,
New Delhi,
Delhi – 110042,
India
www.puffinspublishers.com
Copyright © Fazle Chowdhury 2021
All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Image from iStock ID: 493619080
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
ISBN: 979-888525629-2 (Paperback)
No portion of this book maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electrical, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning or other-except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the author and publisher.
Printed in the United States
for Ilan,
May your life be filled with quests like those of your
father, grandfather and your great-grandfather before you
“Out beyond the ideas of right-doing and wrongdoing,
There is a field i will meet you there.
It's the world full of things to talk about.”
― Jalāl ad-Dīn Mohammad Rūmī
Author of Makatib
╔ ——————————————— ╗
CAST OF
CHARACTERS
╚ ——————————————— ╝
Alice Derrida ―first-term Mayor of Saint-Valery-sur-Somme and progressive liberal-left politician
Ambassador Alexey Avinov ―appointed Permanent Representative to the Republique
Ambassador Galeet Herzl ―American born, Ambassador to Republique and Chief advisor to Minister of Foreign Affairs
Ambassador Jack Evans ―diplomat serving as Ambassador to the Republique
Ambassador Shahaan Bagratuni ―appointed Ambassador to Republique
Ambassador Zain Auzaar ―appointed to the post as his country's Ambassador to the Republique
Andrew Evans ―Business magnate, and philanthropist, brother of Jack Evans
Ariel Haviv ―a former Airforce pilot, a case officer now working in intelligence
Berzad ―a former Olympic athlete, now a special agent working under Ambassador Auzaar’s security
Brianna Blakensoff (also thought to be Aylin Akhundov)―former business executive, wife of Edward Blakensoff
Captain Pierre Dubois ―Military officer of the NW Command
Charlotte Riachi ―mistress to Zain Auzaar
Chef Bourgeois Anton ―the mansion chef
Chloe Kamikazed ―owns Solstice, a restaurant that attracts a varied clientele, including men and women from the underworld to reach business accommodations
Denis Blanchard ―CEO of Ascolit
Edward Blakensoff ―a millionaire real-estate businessman
Farhaan Nawazuddin ―Chloe Kamikazed’s husband
Ferdash ―a former military intelligence officer, now head of agents working under Ambassador Auzaar’s security
Foreign Minister Rafael Toussaint ―a former investment banker turned first-term center right-wing politician
General Jeremiah Didier ―Chief of the Defense Staff
General Selman Kemal ―Director-General of Intelligence
Inspector Renaud Pasquer ―Inspector of police
Member of Parliament Jean Chevalier ―is a centrist politician serving as advisor to the Prime Minister
Jalal ―groom
John Thomas ―newspaper reporter with ties to Ambassador Bagratuni and other intelligence groups
Lana ―Brianna Blakensoff’s daughter
Linnie Juds ―Chief of Staff to Ambassador Bagratuni
Lucio ―the waiter
Masud Shehzad ―the mansion accountant
Mazaar ―a former military intelligence officer, now a contract agent working under Ambassador Auzaar’s security
Mehdi Touati ―Paris based CEO of Manolet
Meshal Eskad ―an assassin for hire
President Shujaat Yazid ―a former parliamentarian, his use of authority are limited to a ceremonial figurehead
Prime Minister Dominique LaRue ―a former judge turned center-right-wing politician
Prime Minister Ikramullah Mandan ― “the Grand Vizier”, i.e. Prime Minister-elect head of government
Rabia ―the bride
Representative David Scheinermann ―right-wing politician, head of committee on Nuclear proliferation
Representative Jessica Donamessi ―center-left politician, Head of Select Intelligence Oversight Panel
Salima Abbasid ―Chief of Staff to Ambassador Auzaar
Simon Eldan ―a former Airforce pilot, now working as Chief of Staff to Representative Donamessi
Sumeyyea ―Chloe Kamikazed’s daughter
Vanessa Rhine ―Reporter for Channel 90
Walter Ule ―(a.k.a Johannes Heidricht), South America based bio-tech physicist with close ties to western intelligence networks
╔ ——————————————— ╗
CHAPTER
ONE
╚ ——————————————— ╝
“How can you tell an orange from five bananas?" asked Mazaar.
He said so in response to his last-minute decision to capture a man hanging upside down in front of him, alive but unconscious. Looking at the old man, Mazaar felt no remorse, but he was concerned whether the effects of the injection would wear off sometime soon— he wasn’t ready to interrogate him yet.
“Pick whichever is closest to the color of a banana,” said Ferdash, his unit coordinator.
Exhausted, Mazaar looked at his folder of documents he carried whenever he reviewed a case. He had captured the right man, or so he thought. There was some missing information that led to skepticism. Operation Dionysus—a plan to kidnap 89-year-old Walter Ule from Belo Horizonte and bring him to the Hague to face trial—had taken fifteen months.
“Ferdash, I have studied this “killer” for over a year now. I know I have the right guy, but I need to make sure his fingerprints are a match,” said Mazaar.
Agitated now, he took out his phone to see if he had received any more messages since he last checked a few hours ago.
“Quit being snippy with me, Commander. Here—take a look at this,” said Ferdash.
Leaving his cell phone on the wooden table, Mazaar looked.
“What am I looking at….this is a black and white picture…nice hair, though.”
“Yes, I know you must admire any man with hair since your own is receding, but that’s not the point. This is a picture from 1947.”
“’47, my parents weren’t even born then.”
“Just look at the picture and tell me if you see similarities,” said Ferda
sh in an irritable tone.
Mazaar looked. It was a ghostly image. The face, his eyes, sitting stiffly in an upholstered armchair wearing pinstriped pants, a dark suit coat, and a tiny swastika lapel pin. His hair was combed back, and light illuminated one side of his cold face. In the background behind Ule was a Nazi Party office that possibly may have been owned by the SS Sicherheitsdienst -the paramilitary corps. The location looked to be unknown, which further lent to greater curiosity.
“What are you doing, Commander? Tell me —what do you think? Do we have our man?”
Ferdash’s patience was clearly wearing thin.
“Shhhh...I need time,” said Mazaar.
“If you rush me, I’ll muck up.”
Observing Mazaar, Ferdash grew tired. He had combined four stealth teams to monitor performance, reconnaissance, and collaboration and had finally gotten the opportunity to select the target and send in a team to hijack Ule with cutting-edge non-traceable technology. Ferdash was a lover of gadgets. The 47-year-old former Lt Colonel of an elite unit had come close to being one the most highly decorated officers, having taken part in a wide range of covert combat missions. After not making promotion, he was recruited by the intelligence services as their Chief of Operations in Europe and South America. He wasn’t about to let his hard work go to waste in a failed operation. The only thing that stood in his way was Mazaar’s acceptance.
“This photo…was it taken by the Soviets?”
Mazaar’s ongoing analysis was killing Ferdash. He couldn’t wait any longer. But he composed himself.
“The camera was a ’45-Zenit.”
“You are sure, Ferdash? It might be a ’39.”
“I don’t care about where the photo was taken. Just tell me.”
Agitated, Mazaar flipped through the list of fingerprints in his folder. Shuffling one after the other. He then walked into the eight-hundred square foot room and to the small den where the prisoner was held. The man hung upside down and was snoring loudly. To avoid waking him, Mazaar stepped slowly, measuring his steps and analyzing the features of the man’s hand.
With both hands crossed, Ferdash pressed himself to be patient. He found some comfort in drumming his fingers against the sleeve of his white button-down shirt, but he knew he would explode if Mazaar didn’t answer him within the hour. Worse still, if he had to listen to Mazaar analyze things one-by-one which Ferdash considered irrelevant. Mazaar tilted his head and continued his analysis.
“The nose is the same….I think.”
Ferdash rolled his eyes.
“Only a few more minutes, Ferdash —don’t rush me,” said Mazaar as he continued inspecting the man.
“I would think that for a man who’s run covert operations for half a decade, you’d think more and speak less,”
Ferdash retorted. Turning around, Mazaar glared at him.
“You learn a thing or two, things that stay with you even after 24 years, but you do know 99% of extraction operations fail, right?”
Mazaar’s words reminded Ferdash that he was a 1986 graduate of The Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. In the past, he managed to rise through the ranks to ultimately conduct operations in the Afghan civil war through his set of connections. Demoralized by the campaign's conclusion since 1989, he had been determined to grow his intelligence networks independently. His field agents never doubted his covert astuteness, but they knew his demise would be his hot temper. There was another side to Mazaar’s story. Toward the conclusion of the civil war, Mazaar had been a young intelligence officer, so sure that consolidating his hold on Mazaar e Sharif would lend him the victory. However, he mistakenly believed enemy militias congregated nearby and ordered his network of militias to attack: an episode that would haunt him for the rest of his life. More than fifteen thousand civilians died, mostly women and children, in the vicinity of Shrine of Hazrat Ali and the adjacent villages. A widespread massacre was carried out in broad daylight. The enemy militia performed the massacre, and Mazaar couldn’t stop them as he totally miscalculated their aims, gains, and logistics.
In 1990, Human Rights Watch conducted its own investigations. It concluded that an unknown rogue and ghost unit bore responsibility for the violence and that the massacre was a form of genocide. Many in the intelligence community knew that a massacre was in progress but chose not to take serious steps to stop it, as their priority remained getting the Soviets out of Afghanistan. But in close quarters, many heads of intelligence indirectly held Mazaar responsible "for ignoring the danger of tribal bloodshed and revenge," forcing him to operate as a “contract agent” in the twenty-four years since.
Ferdash stood with his hands on his hips, trying to steel himself against the anxiety that they’d gotten the wrong man. He rubbed his black and grey hair. He wondered what he would do if that happened. Mazaar let out another laugh, and Ferdash clenched his fists even tighter.
“You’re joking.”
“Calm down, Ferdash,” said Mazaar.
“There is no way I would jeopardize our men by making such a colossal error.”
Taking a deep breath, Ferdash rushed to the nearby cabinet. Mazaar heard the slams of the cabinets being opened and closed, crystal glasses clinking, the pouring of what he hoped was Petrus Pomerol, his favorite Bordeaux blackberry wine. Still, he knew there was no chance of that. The frugal Ferdash wouldn’t dare spend that much money on a bottle of wine, let alone on anything besides his solitary daily meal of bread and butter.
“What are you drinking, Ferdash?” asked Mazaar.
“You’re more than welcome to have some,” Ferdash responded.
Mazaar smiled as he continued to mark the similar features between the photograph and the captive.
“What, no conditions? Leave it to you to take the fun out of a situation.”
Having heard pouring of another glass, Mazaar heard Ferdash pour another glass as he checked off a few more parallel features. Something wasn’t right. Looking at the prisoner, he thought, what use is a bio-tech physicist? Especially one that sleeps so much.
“Here’s the glass. Try not to break it,” said Ferdash.
“Let me guess…organic pomegranate concentrate from Jerusalem.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Well, when you survive on bugs and grass for years, you know the difference between quality and filth, but I would’ve preferred this.”
Having enjoyed a few sips of his drink, Ferdash gained a greater grasp on his calm. Pomegranate always had that effect on him. He thought of his home, thousands of miles away, the tiles that decorated the façade and exterior walls in a mosaic of white, light blue, yellow, and black. He longed to set his eyes upon something similar to that European architecture, but nothing came close. Perhaps something in Genoa or Venice had existed once, but not now. The description of his home, now almost eradicated even in his dreams, had changed. He longed to be near the small shrines where he secretly played with his older brothers —all who had perished in the civil war. Their blood had erased his memories. All that remained were the images of the mosaic panels that he couldn’t find replicated in any piece of art.
“Ok,” announced Mazaar lazily,
“it’s him. The prints match. We got him!”
Ferdash did not join in the celebration but remained eerily still. Mazaar watched Ferdash continue to take small sips of his juice while his head swung back and forth as if on a pendulum.
“Am I missing something?” asked Mazaar.
“I thought you would be jumping for joy.”
Ferdash placed his glass on his desk and then walked over, passing Mazaar on his way to the prisoner. He glared at him for some time until he spoke.
“This is Walter Ule, but his real name is something else.”
Mazaar could not make sense of what he had heard. For a minute, he thought Ferdash was drunk but then remembered he was drinking pomegranate juice. In addition to the dossiers on Walter Ule that Mazaar had reviewed for the last fifteen months, he had done his own ho
mework. Dr. Walter Ule was a small-town bio-tech physicist, researcher, and professor at a local all-female college. He had lived in the same town for the last eight decades, and Mazaar could prove it. There was no way he could be anyone else. From 1946 to 1956, Ule worked on a lead-cooled fast reactor in Podolsk, assisting with ensuring that the materials the factory manufactured, processed, tested, packaged, stored, and distributed aligned with safety standards. As a consultant, he contracted with manufacturers and suppliers to create reliable supply lines. He kept things on schedule and sampled, tested, and amended bulk raw materials, active pharmaceutical ingredients, microbiological elements, primary packaging components, and finished pharmaceutical products. In Mazaar’s opinion, Ule was just a lonely lab rat who might have broken compliance, leading to an accident that ruined his career.
“Are you messing with me now as payback?” asked Mazaar.
“God, no. I’m just telling you something you should know.” Mazaar, despite his frustration, was tuned in to Ferdash’s every word.
“What do you mean his real name is something else? That’s impossible.”
Ferdash fished a small piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it over.
“This came from Aphroditus,” he said.
The note read, “#121 Újlipótváros.”
Mazaar didn’t understand. Aphroditus was the nickname of their handler who sent instructions to Ferdash’s group of agents who supplied information to Ferdash and Mazaar.
“I don’t understand what this means?” asked Mazaar.
Ferdash playfully tossed a cigarette at him, indicating that he was about to provide the bigger picture.
“Dr. Walter Ule, also known as Johannes Heidricht, was a German SS-Obergruppenführer officer, known to several spy networks as ‘the flogger of Újlipótváros.’ He was responsible for murdering and sending over two thousand Hungarian Jews to concentration camps.”