“We are not providing him any support.”
“Well, covertly, you are,” Zain stated.
Evans had a feeling that Zain knew of the facilities near the southern islands at the Gulf of Eden his government and its military contractors used for the delivery of large ammunitions, drones, stealth missiles, and laser stinger missiles for a large contract bid and possibly for use in war. It was all compounded and situated at a base with full security. A decade back, Evans, then a CEO, came under pressure from international organizations to stop operating on that remote island. But now, after a period of inactivity, it was operational.
“I’ll have to speak to my Prime Minister,” said Evans.
“Yes, please do…but Jack…just let them know that I know,” said Zain.
“Mr. Ambassador,” said Salima,
“you can’t leave on your own; one of the security guards will walk you out.”
Evans was unsure, but now he felt threatened.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but your escort is here,”
she pointed at one of her guards.
“He will show you to or if you chose out of the party.”
Straightening his tux, Evans looked around. Salima sensed Zain’s fury.
“Well, that wasn’t that painful, was it, Sir?” asked Salima.
“Get me Ferdash!” ordered Zain.
Salima was worried. Zain rarely called on the head of security. He had only ever done it once, months ago. That time, Ferdash had been tasked with kidnapping journalist John Thomas and placing him under house arrest in a bunker 100 kilometers from Paris. Thomas worked for a newspaper investigating leaked documents of offshore entities held in Arlon dating back to 1965 and contained personal financial information about Zain’s family. The publication of these documents would have made it possible to establish a series of prosecution cases in the Republique of everyone who worked for the family. Thomas was instrumental in digging out evidence about private shell corporations used for illegal purposes, including fraud and tax evasion. Ferdash’s team of agents had convinced other intelligence networks that Thomas was a high category level threat by saying the journalist had drummed up accusations of kidnapping and attempted murder directed at members of Zain’s extended family. Thomas’s defense team condemned the secrecy, the unknown whereabouts, and the inadequate protection to their client, complaining at the High Court in Westminster. Such was needed to get rid of Thomas that rumors circulated that Ferdash had made a deal with some groups. In return for Thomas’s abduction and torture, he and his men would provide arms and ammunition with private transport jets to assist them in their subsequent covert and terror activities. Under orders from Zain, Ferdash had Thomas transported to a remote location where he was picked up and sent to Detmo, where he was locked up indefinitely without trial.
“I hope you’re not going to do what I am thinking,” warned Salima.
“Oh, you’re going to love this,” replied Zain.
Ferdash, decked out in a tuxedo, appeared a few minutes later.
“Leave us,”
Zain asked Salima, whose posture seemed to say she disapproved of what her boss was about to do. But as requested, she exited, closing the door lightly behind her.
“Ferdash, can you find out plans of deployment for—how many submarines are at the Gulf of Eden?”
“There are four, Sir, all for the maritime situational awareness in combatting piracy,” said Ferdash.
“Are all of them NATO?” Zain asked.
“None,” replied Ferdash.
Zain thought for a minute and tried to see if he could connect any events at the Gulf of Eden to the London stock markets and, more importantly, to the specific hedge fund Evans and his family-owned.
“Sir, I do have contacts in Djibouti that can provide a more detailed assessment on this, depending on what you need.”
“No, that’s not it,” said Zain.
“Did Ambassador Evans piss you off again?” Ferdash smiled.
Zain smiled back and raised his eyebrows.
“Remember the documents I asked you to leak some weeks back?” uttered Zain.
“You mean the massive commissions and kickbacks between our friends at the Yellow Sea over the negotiations to acquire Grade A-class submarines?” Ferdash laughed.
“Sure…what did you have in mind this time around?”
“Can we tie Evans’ company to that list of payments?” Zain asked.
“That might be a little hard, but I can come up with a more drastic set of plans…only if you want to see some immediate repercussions.”
Zain took a deep breath and drummed his fingers against the side table.
“Will Salima have to know?” he asked.
“Whether I tell her or not, she will eventually find out, and that won’t go down so well with my bosses or yours.”
“Then do it quietly, Ferdash.”
“Are you asking me to make it a priority?”
Zain hesitated for a moment, but Ferdash was just happy to have one more covert pursuit under his belt.
“Consider it done!” Ferdash smiled.
╔ ——————————————— ╗
CHAPTER
TEN
╚ ——————————————— ╝
Zain’s cell phone buzzed, and when he looked down at it, he saw he had several missed international calls, and voicemails piling up. He knew they were from his bosses at the Foreign Ministry, and worse still, they could even be the Foreign Minister himself. He looked at the framed photo frame on the corridor wall. It was Zain and former Norwegian Prime Minister, Johan Jørgen Holst, considered one of the best diplomats of his generation, who Zain had hoped to emulate. But the climate he was engulfed in was not what he imagined for his own time. His only desire at the moment was to enjoy the party—that everyone seemed intent on thwarting.
“There you are, Sir,” called out Salima.
"I hope you didn’t task Ferdash with one of your hit and run escapades.”
“Now, why would you say a thing like that to me?”
“The news always reaches me, and then when you finally spill the beans, I wonder why you didn’t tell me from the beginning so I could at least stop the hail from landing on us.”
“Oh come, come,” sighed Zain.
“You worry too much.”
Salima gave one of her disciplinary stares. Zain changed the subject.
“Well, now that Evans is out, let’s enjoy the party!”
“Just a minute, Sir. Mehdi is here and needs to speak to you.”
Zain was delighted, as was Salima, as they both found the well-dressed guest immensely charming. Mehdi Touati was a Paris-based businessman. Born in Algiers and immigrated with his family to Marseille, Touati was the ultimate success story to Zain. He graduated with a first-class degree in economics from the Sorbonne and, now at forty-five, was the longest-serving CEO of a food corporation.
Salima walked Zain to the Indus Room, one of the most spacious and luxurious. It was an area meant to ensure that intimate meetings could take place with Zain’s friends.
As he entered the room, Zain stopped when he saw Shahaan Bagratuni sitting beside Mehdi.
"Salima, did you forget to mention something? I thought we disposed of two-faced rats that roam in the Seine.”
“I’m sorry, Sir—Mehdi insisted!”
“Zain, we only need five minutes!” said Touati calmly.
“Since when do you rub elbows with this zealot?” cried out Zain.
“You should choose your words wisely, Zain,” warned Bagratuni.
“Salima, call security now!”
“Zain, please calm down,” said Touati,
attempting to diffuse the situation. But four members of the security had arrived. Salima stood as still as a statue.
“Zain, please!” protested Touati.
“Please, trust me on this—you need to listen before you do anything.”
They had reached a
standstill. The security awaited their orders. Salima remained silent as Touati tried to calm Zain. Bagratuni arrogantly reclined on the couch.
“Well, Mehdi, looks like we shouldn’t even bother,” said Bagratuni as he buttoned his tux to leave.
“Now, just a minute, Shahaan,” said Touati.
Zain seethed over how Bagratuni had deceived the Republique on his government’s bloodshed, property destruction, and rioting with the endorsement of his bosses. Bagratuni represented a right-wing government that outsourced their dirty work to large mobs that attacked the minorities in his country that were the majority in Zain’s. These mobs killed men, women, and children, beat them in the streets or set them on fire. Anyone who opposed these mobs, including police, the army, or civil servants, was shot. The victims of the violence were placed in inadequately staffed medical clinics. When the Republique Prime Minister questioned Bagratuni, his only response was that his government was working to resolve the issues just as the Prime Minister was trying to control civil unrest in their own country.
But Bagratuni had also sabotaged Zain’s nuclear agreement with the Republique. Making back-room deals, forging commercial interests, outbidding on proper sourcing of economic resources for geopolitical gains—proving that Zain’s soft democratic and military-run government needed further sanctions.
Zain took a deep breath. He adjusted his cufflinks and rubbed the back of his head.
“Ok, let’s sit down. Salima, tell the men to wait outside the door, but you do join us to hear what this rat wants to say,” said Zain. Salima instructed the men and then uncomfortably sat down next to Zain. Touati signaled to Bagratuni with his eyes to begin.
“Salima, please give Mr., Bagratuni a bottle of our ’91 Hauts-de-Corsica before he leaves.” Said Zain.
“Correction! It’s Dr. Bagratuni,”
Bagratuni spat, never letting an opportunity pass to mention his Ph.D. in Physics from Cambridge. Salima glared at Zain. What looked like a kind gesture to Touati and Bagratuni had a bitter underside.
1991 was one of the worst years for grape harvests after spring frosts devastated Republique vines. The wine from the year tasted, at best, rancid. Zain kept a few such bottles for occasions like this.
"All right, Zain, I’ll get to it. There are concerns about the ongoing ballistic missile testing your government is conducting. I’m authorized to ask you to speak to your government to stop, and in return, a few of your informants who are languishing in our jails can be released,” offered Bagratuni
“And depending on your good faith and the length of time it takes to halt these exercises, we can also work to possibly give a very small part of endorsement to your nuclear deal.”
Zain looked at Salima in disgust. In the back of his mind, he wanted to set a target on Bagratuni ’s head and have him annihilated. But then Salima leaned over.
“Sir, I think we should speak about this to the General’s staff,” she said.
“Zain?” asked Touati.
“There has been some talk among my board of directors that the investments we had carved out in the aid package, which the Republique government consolidated, well, it does not look it’s returning the way we were expecting, and though we do like dealing with you, we are not seeing your government’s want to keep their end of the bargain.”
How I would love just to tell you what is exactly going on in my mind, Zain laughed to himself while keeping a firm exterior.
“Considering what I am offering, I think our foreign ministers should meet soon. And with your gift of a lovely bottle of wine, I can even sweeten the offer,” said Bagratuni.
“What would the sweet part of your offer look like?” Zain sneered.
“Well, we should leave some things to the imagination, shouldn’t we?” Bagratuni smiled slyly.
Zain nodded.
“Fine, I’ll take this matter to my foreign minister…I also have to keep in mind my guests, which both of you are keeping me from,” Zain said firmly.
A frustrated Touati called out,
"That's all you care about, a party?" Touati shook his head.
"I have a board meeting coming soon. I need an answer."
"What more do you want from me? I gave you my answer. I will deal with your problem once I handle this other one. Give me a week or so to get back to you," Zain demanded.
"A WEEK OR SO?" Touati yelled.
"You expect me to wait weeks?"
"That is the best I can do, for now, Mehdi," Zain shrugged. “Now, if you don't mind, I'm putting an end to this…Mehdi, go out there and enjoy yourself, have some drinks on me, and Shahaan, someone will bring a few bottles over to your car.”
Bagratuni stood up and closed the button of his tux.
“Well, my work here is done!” smiled Bagratuni.
“Let me show you out, Sir,” said Salima.
Bagratuni paused,
“One more thing, Zain—I’m sure you’ve heard of the reporter…what’s his name? Oh yes, John Thomas. We need you to figure out a way to hand him over to us.”
“Excuse me?” Zain’s eyes widened.
“Oh, don’t be surprised. We know you had something to do with his disappearance. We can discuss Thomas later but do make it a priority, won’t you? We wouldn’t want the whole deck of cards to collapse on you, Zain, would we?” Bagratuni snickered.
Salima, escorted by security, walked Bagratuni out. Touati, meanwhile, leaned back on his charm, arms crossed and with no intention of leaving.
“What do you want?” Zain asked.
“I need you to give me something that I can take to my board; otherwise, you, I, and my position with the board will break down,” said Touati.
“Mehdi,” said Zain as he sat opposite him,
“Let me tell you a story”,
Touati patiently waited and listened.
“When I was eleven, my older cousins told me a story about our family tailor Hanif. In the middle of the night, in the summer of 1946, he packed his clothes, belongings, four kids, and wife on a camel and migrated from Baroda in what was United Provinces. He had never been to the land he was migrating to, and, worst of all, he had no idea if he would have any livelihood. All he knew was that if he stayed where he was, he would die, along with all his cousins, father, mother, grandfather, aunts, and uncles. They did die, and he lived. He worked for my grandfather and lived a happy and secure life. On his death bed, he was surrounded by a larger family than the one he left behind.”
“What’s your point, Zain?”
“My point is that my government is thankful for your investment; the bonus is that you get a return on what you invested, but like Hanif, you will have to wait, might be a very long time to see the fruits of your profit.”
But what Zain didn’t realize was the large chunk of Touati’s funds were wrapped up in the nuclear investment.
"Zain, you may not realize it now, but your actions affect everyone, even me. You haven't been in this position long but take it from someone who has been here for some time. I'm trying to help you before this gets out of hand."
Zain closed his eyes. He never thought Touati would give him an ultimatum, but he sensed he was headed there.
“Mehdi, yes, we both are in a difficult situation, but the best I can do is try at my end, and if you prefer, I could speak to the board myself to take some heat off you.”
“Can you give me your personal assurance as my friend? I'm not asking for you to change anything overnight. I just want something to be done."
Zain reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar. Putting it to his mouth, he searched his other pocket for a lighter to no avail.
"Forgot something?" Touati asked,
pulling a lighter out of his pocket.
"I could've sworn I put it in my pocket before I came here," Zain chuckled.
"I bet I lost it in the garden."
"If there's one thing I hate, it's leaving friends on bad terms," said Zain as Touati lit his cigar.
; Then an idea struck him.
“Mehdi, why don’t I just give you a loan to keep your books intact and for the auditors to not drive your board crazy?”
Touati was confused. No loan would help his situation. It would only be a stopgap.
“That isn’t going to help me or my situation.”
“No, no, hear me out, Mehdi. I’ll wire €60 million from my account in Vaduz to an account of your choice. At the very least, you will be able to hold your ground for at least two quarters until I wrap my hands around your problem,” offered Zain.
Touati couldn’t deny the large sum as a good breathing room was a lot better than having nothing, and money of that volume would keep the lights on until, if needs be, he could convince his board to absolve himself of all this debacle.
"And what about the explosive issue of the ballistic missiles? What will you do on that?”
Zain unleashed the smoke from his mouth.
“I might have to go somewhere to settle the matter once and for all. It’s the timing, Mehdi. That is what stops me from getting anything done.”
Zain gave an honest smile, one that Touati understood to be real. Then Touati began to cough from the cigar smoke.
“What kind of cigar is this?” Zain asked.
“Dominican!” replied Touati.
“Didn’t you tell me they were Cuban?”
“Well, at the time, I thought I would get my profits by winter, and we are heading into summer now so…”
“So you lied to me, Mehdi.”
He shrugged. “Well, you have made my money your hostage.”
Both broke out into laughter. Coughing, Touati wanted to curse his friend, but he liked Zain despite the friction between them now.
“Now get out and enjoy the party. And don’t worry. One of my guys will make discreet contact with your office, so don’t go all crazy on me,” joked Zain.
He opened the door for Touati and realized his security was outside. Zain asked them to take him to the party. Then Zain stood alone at the center of the Indus Room and let out a loud groan. He walked out of the room and headed to the party. Finally, some time to enjoy the music. He looked at his watch and couldn't believe the meeting had lasted so long. This is ridiculous, he thought. He wanted to throw another party midweek for the sole reason that he could not enjoy this one. The garden was still packed with guests as Zain looked at the bar with an array of beautiful women dancing close by. Blakensoff was dancing in his usual silly moves with his wife, Brianna.
The Secrets We Live In: A Novel Page 11