The Secrets We Live In: A Novel

by Fazle Chowdhury

  “My dear, please have these documents signed by the ambassador. I have to attend an auditors meeting in a few hours. Those scumbags waste my precious time.”

  Salima smiled at Shehzad’s gentle words of this grey-haired man.

  “I have to point out that there is a discrepancy between what we spent last month and the budget we were allocated. Please do look into it; the numbers are high. I’ve attached a red sticky note to the statement of interest and specification in the folder.”

  “How soon do you need this?” Salima asked.

  “Certainly before we default on our loans or get a certain visit from the Foreign Ministry donkey.”

  Salima grew concerned; her plate was already slammed full, and it was only 10:45 am.

  She arrived at the Mesopotamia room. The architect Julian Altherr had replicated as much as he could of St. Petersburg palace. Part of the residence he designed resembled the living quarters of the descendent of Queen Victoria. Intended for another mansion, it was adjusted for the eclectic craftsmanship. A controversial figure, Altherr was criticized for his indifference to pre-existing cultural sites, societal expression and equity, and his ties with fascism and antisemitism. By the time he came to the ambassador's attention, Altherr was going through a difficult period. His last divorce cost him a fortune, and he was on the verge of bankruptcy. Only a month before he was commissioned, Altherr had a stroke. As his bills accumulated, his agent was mercilessly looking for work for him. It was then that Salima discovered him.

  Just as Salima was about to knock, she heard someone clear his throat. It was Chef Bourgeois Anton, who Salima had only hired two months prior.

  “We are out of cheese, ghee, and butter. All my requests were denied!” Chef Anton shouted.

  Salima gasped,

  “I can’t let you order cheese worth €350 per pound.”

  “It is what I require,” he sneered.

  “Then require something else.”

  “You also refused my €49 per pound butter as well—how low must we go on this?”

  “Apparently not low enough,” replied Salima.

  Blatantly ignoring him as she entered the room. Inside stood a few staff members, identical in tone, physique, and fashion to Salima. The color of their hair could only differentiate her relationship with those in attendance. Some blonde, some red, her team were all parallel to Salima in knowledge and management methods. Some of them former professors who had worked under Salima for more than eleven years as they followed her from one endeavor to another were formidable in managing the other end of the ambassador’s day-to-day affairs. Some of her staff had produced political documentaries and was introduced to the ambassador before his appointment.

  Chef Anton remained in the doorway, and a staff member said curtly, “Chef Anton, go back to the kitchen. I’ll discuss your demands later.”

  “Salima, before another decade passes, come inside,” said Chef Anton.

  Her staff closed the door of the Mesopotamia room.

  “How did you know he had a set of demands?” asked Salima.

  One staffer said, “You were both visibly fuming. What else could it have been?”

  Her team noticed the stack of files Salima was carrying along with her tablet, and her cell phone was on the verge of falling from her jacket pocket. One of them took the phone and placed it gently on her own stack of files. Thankful, Salima began to prepare for the meeting.

  “Has he woken up?” asked Salima.

  “He got in an hour ago. I called him at five this morning just to ruffle his feathers, but as usual, he was charming and called me back to say he was on his way,” said one of her subordinates.

  “Do you know what he does in these all-of-a-sudden-take-a-day-off-trips?”

  “The obvious does come to mind,” smiled another staffer.

  “You don’t think he has a lover, do you?”

  “It’s possible,” Salima laughed.

  “I do need to know about it if so. What if it’s a security risk?” questioned another.

  The sound of a door closing echoed throughout the room.

  “Got to admire him—he’s punctual despite all else,”

  The ambassador wore a dark blue double-breasted suit and a maroon tie. The collar of his white shirt was open. The essence of a luxury cologne drifted in the air. The staff looked in admiration at his hazel eyes.

  “Ah, my number one…Give me my homework,” said Zain as he made his way to the sofa at the center of the room. He glanced at the stack of files Salima held.

  “All of you, just relax and sit down. You’re already making me nervous, and the day hasn’t even started yet,” he said. Everyone sat opposite him.

  “Salima, you look exhausted. Should I ask Chef Anton to make you something?”

  “No, he has more important things to do,” said one of the subordinates as she giggled, looking at her colleague.

  Zain turned to the staff and gave them a sarcastic smile. He straightened his shoulders.

  “Ok, so I got your text message. What time am I meeting the Estonian Ambassador?” he asked.

  “2:30 pm, Sir,” said Salima.

  “What am I discussing with him?”

  “Standardized tests.”

  “Why is that important?” he asked.

  “Because our government spends less than 3% on public education, while his spends less than 30% and with quality results. Among the EU, they’re in the top four countries in mathematics and sciences in grade school education. This meeting is for you to develop a strategic partnership that can mutually benefit our two countries.”

  “What can I offer for his cooperation?”

  “Your specialty, Sir,” said a staffer.

  “That’s right,” said Salima,

  “Nuclear technology. His country’s electricity at present is entangled with its neighbors. It ranks in the lowest category in CO2 emissions in Europe. We can offer him clean nuclear energy that is renewable and cheap”.

  “Did you get the green light from the General’s office?” Zain asked.

  “Yes,” said Salima, “And also the Prime Minister.”

  “Good that we have our bases covered,” said Zain as he smiled.

  “There are a few other things I need to hammer out before tonight’s party.” Salima took out a list and handed it over.

  “What’s this?” Zain asked.

  “This is a long list of guests. Included are forty Ambassadors that are attending tonight —do you have any reservations about any of them?”

  Zain looked through the list. He was taking more time than Salima would have liked.

  “Hand me a pen.”

  She handed him her own. She hoped he wasn’t striking off one from the G7 countries or any female ambassadors. G7 ambassadors were important. Countries like Canada, Germany, Italy, Japan, the United Kingdom, and the United States and the representatives of the European Union represented nearly 60% of the global net wealth. Since they consisted of the largest IMF-advanced economies in the world, they had a direct role in the foreign aid her country was receiving—roughly 30% of her country’s budget. Salima herself had a good relationship with some of the female ambassadors and hoped she wouldn’t end up in the diplomatic crossfires. The female ambassadors especially had enormous influence in the Central Bank and other international financial institutions. Salima feared Zain’s previous reputation as a care-free hedge fund bachelor could potentially have rubbed them the wrong way. She had spent months propping up his reputation. Lobbying through the local media outlets to have tonight’s event served him well as he continued his position.

  Zain handed the list to Salima. There were two marks, and she was relieved that neither was for any ambassadors from the G7 but from a country in Caucasus and a female ambassador whose name was stricken out three times.

  “Sir, may I inquire why you crossed out Ambassador Pavlovich?”

  “No, you may not.” Zain looked in another direction. Salima took a deep breath.<
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  “You know she’s already invited, and the best I can do is try to keep her away from you.”

  A frustrated look came over Zain.

  “So you invited her anyway despite my reservations. Fine! Do what you can—I just want to spend as little time as possible with her”

  “What did she do to you?” Salima asked in frustration.

  Zain adjusted his cufflinks and replied,

  “I find her to be excruciatingly boring.”

  Salima thought to herself and then recalled that Zain had run into Ambassador Pavlovich a few weeks ago while attending a Monet art exhibit. The meeting took a turn when Pavlovich expressed that she was upset that she was not invited to a party held in Rue de Tilsitt. Salima knew that Zain had directed his staff to send her staff conflicting addresses via a third party so the blame would not circle back to him. Pavlovich, a stocky woman, was certainly not the intellectual or witty-playful-desirable type that Zain preferred. Her accent was less than alluring. But for Salima, she was not to be messed with. She had served two decades in her state’s secret police. She was brash and said what she wanted to say, even if she had to interrupt a president or Prime Minister to do it. Her lack of tact was a big red flag for Zain, as diplomatic discussions often centered around bypassing, charming, demonizing with subtlety.

  “Maybe you should attend to her first instead before anyone arrives,” asked Salima peevishly.

  “Ok, I also see you’re not a big fan of Ambassador Bagratuni.”

  “He is a bigoted xenophobe,” Zain replied.

  “I was worried you’d feel that way.”

  Salima feared Zain’s suppressed rage because, when it mattered, it would cloud his judgment. She knew Ambassador Shahaan Bagratuni and, more importantly, all the members of his staff. A unique bunch, they had mixed reception in Paris. Bagratuni’s Chief of Staff was a woman known to a select few as “Linnie,” her real name was Lindsay Juds. Salima had spoken to her formally over the phone, yet she never met her in person. Rumor had it that she liked working from home and never stepped out of her office. It was late at night for specific and internal staff meetings when she did.

  “She runs her office like a Gestapo,” one anonymous staffer wrote on a social media site, claiming she would blast staff, verbally abuse them, call them names, insult their families, and then call them after hours to do the same thing. One former staff member approached the media, alleging that working for “Baroness Linnie” was worse than smelling garbage for nine hours consecutively. She claimed that the woman treated her like an abusive coach and thrived on bullying her. The situation was far from idyllic, with reports that contractors were warned by her staff to look for other jobs as they transitioned in. Though the mistreatment was no secret, Bagratuni’s did nothing. Salima suspected that Zain’s perspective on the man was blinded by this incident and, therefore, somewhat inaccurate. Bagratuni was a man with a subtle and attractive sense of humor, a few years older than Zain and mixed in the same circles. He was a regular visitor to the Ministère des Armées.

  “The man, Bagratuni is a goon. He is openly working on landing arm sales contracts, enrichening himself privately and working to lay the groundwork for something pretty bad,” said Zain.

  “Sir, one more thing—I got a text from Ambassador Chen’s office. She won’t be able to attend tonight’s event, but she said she will call you sometime later in the month.”

  “Oh,” Zain frowned in concern.

  “I don’t like matters to drag—see if you can schedule her for an early morning game of badminton before she leaves.”

  Some staff members nodded. It was the perfect setting for them to speak without being interrupted. Salima was reminded that Chen had already left Paris.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Salima.

  Before Salima could begin, one staff member interrupted.

  “Sir, you still haven’t responded to Ambassador Avinov’s request for dinner at his home this weekend.”

  “Oh shit,” said Zain.

  “How long has it been since he invited me?”

  “Three days,” said the staffer.

  “He doesn’t like last-minute yes or no…Just say yes for now.”

  “Sir, I don’t want to be in his bad graces for the rest of the year,” said the staffer as she gave a serious warning look.

  “Fine, I’ll go,” said Zain unwillingly.

  Avinov was one of the few ambassadors in Paris with real influence. He had the Republique president’s ear and was the only Ambassador invited to sit on the Foreign Relations Council. He had made a name for himself in his native country as a hero who rooted out large-scale tax evasion and stripped CEOs of their corrupt management practices. Under Avinov, companies and their debts were restructured, and their profits grew at an astonishing rate.

  Most of the staff wanted the good relationship between the two ambassadors to continue for the purposes of continuation of joint military drills and cooperation of nuclear technology maintenance. However, the most pressing matter remained in the next phase of a gas pipeline agreement. Salima received clear instructions from parliament that reducing the gas pipeline cost was a key task for her and the ambassador.

  “We are meeting contractors for tonight’s event in a few minutes,” said one staff member.

  “Salima, do you need anything from us?”

  Salima shook her head, and her staff exited the room.

  “Ok, we need to sort out a pressing problem. As usual, there is a budget problem…” began Salima.

  Zain looked at the ceiling.

  “Our state allocates us €500 per month to renovations and building repairs. In the last four months, we, and I mean you, have spent—wait, let me get this right—” She pulled out the document Shehzad had given her—“€9,295,329.86.”

  “What do you propose we do?” Salima asked.

  “When is the payment due?” Zain asked.

  “In two weeks,” she said flatly.

  Zain thought for a second. “How many invoices are there?”

  “Eighteen thousand, three hundred and seventy, Sir.”

  Zain raised his eyebrows.

  “Send them to the Foundation, I mean my mother as we did before.”

  Salima’s eyes widened.

  “Your mother is not going to like it, Sir,” she warned.

  “Let that old crow sort it out. It’s probably the only decent thing she can do at her old age after all the crimes she’s committed.”

  Salima digested those words. She knew Zain’s mother quite well and did not share his opinion of her. Nevertheless, she checked that task off her list and made a note to update Shehzad.

  “Sir, just out of curiosity, will we be spending more on the mansion?” Salima asked cautiously.

  “Hmmm…good question. Well, it depends on how good the party is tonight.”

  “Since you mentioned the party, a problem has come up. Chef Anton is complaining that he cannot purchase the €350 per pound cheese he requires.”

  “What’s the problem?” Zain asked

  “Well, the state can’t afford it, and therefore, we can’t afford it,” she said.

  “Take it out of my salary,” responded Zain.

  “Sir, that would mean ALL of your earnings for a year, including allowances.”

  Zain didn’t hesitate.

  “Just do it, and if he needs more, let me know.”

  Salima still couldn’t get used to how Zain had no bars when it came to functioning the basics. He was unlike any ambassador she knew.

  He was young—only forty-three—and dashing, and unlike other ambassadors, he did not come up through the foreign service ranks. He was a celebrity in his own right before he took up his role. He was CEO of a hedge fund, bred horses, and made a name for himself in several regional races. After ten years of racing without a championship race to his belt, Zain managed to stay in the headlines with his involvement in charitable causes. Media outlets described him as “the best PR man
in the wrong profession.”

  With news of Zain’s campaigns in vaccinations, eradicating polio, child hunger, leprosy, and tuberculosis were active in hundreds of places worldwide, politicians began to take an interest in him. Zain personally directed and negotiated a temporary halt in hostilities when right-wing fascist militias lay siege to a front-line hospital where more than forty-seven children were trapped. Accompanied by the international monitoring staff in the area, he evacuated even more people who were trapped in their homes, eventually rescuing more than three thousand residents. Zain expanded his efforts to former communist countries and started multiple projects, undeterred by the fact that he was a foreigner and his staff remained under suspicion by all governments they were assisting.

  A year before, a politician named Shujaat Yazid was chosen by his party to serve as the country’s honorary president, mainly to assist his allies in unseating the Prime Minister. Salima, a distant niece to Yazid, knew how the calculated Teetotaler would request that parliamentarians go on overseas trips to speak to the need for foreign aid to avoid their dissenting votes on the parliamentary floor at home. Yazid was known to torment the younger members of parliament as well as the members of other parties. Threat was his main ammunition.

  A group of executives were brought in from the private sector to smoothen Yazid's path to the presidency. Salima led the sixteen-member team that worked to make the transition. A business executive, chairperson, and chief executive officer of her late father’s company, she consistently remained a favorite among the politicians, serving on the boards of several companies. In collaboration with a group of industrialists and tech executives but with a few other parliamentarians, Salima worked to weaken the Prime Minister’s hand by controlling the individuals they would appoint. Picking an individual from her father’s own political clan served her interest. The problem was of the twenty-six of the thirty appointees were over seventy, and the remaining four were over sixty-five. When one of the appointees died of a heart attack, the visiting European government delegates composed of parliamentarians let it be known that they wanted a humanitarian first rather than a career politician. They had misgivings of those who may have had on their record to have had embezzled millions of funds and abused the good name of their office.