The Secrets We Live In: A Novel

by Fazle Chowdhury

  “Monsieur Ambassador, it’s nice to meet you in person,” said Pasquer.

  “I’ve seen you on tv many times, even before you became Ambassador.”

  He leaned toward Zain with an evil grin on his face.

  "Monsieur, may I speak to you alone?”

  Alarm bells rang in Salima’s head as she stepped between the two men. "Anything you need to ask him, you can ask him in front of me, " she said.

  "It’s ok, Salima,” reassured Zain.

  “It’s really ok. Please, everyone, step outside while I speak to the inspector.”

  But Salima insisted,

  "No." She crossed her arms.

  "As Chief of Staff, I am to be present whenever the ambassador speaks, especially to the police."

  Salima’s stubbornness made Pasquer angry.

  "Monsieur, I insist that you kindly request the Madam here…”

  Zain shot her a look reluctantly acquiesced, so the night ended in some iteration of a good note. Salima exited with the rest.

  “Did anyone leave early?” asked Pasquer.

  “I’m sure they may have, but you have all documentation of those in attendance, and we have also provided the CCTV footage for your convenience."

  “Thank you, Monsieur, but eh, I was wondering…have you had any incident or what you say…a fight with anyone during your stay here in Paris?”

  Zain thought for a minute.

  “Yes, there have been two incidents, but no permanent injuries,” he said.

  “What about to those that attacked you?” asked Pasquer.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I mean, did you press charges?”

  Exhaustion began to cloud Zain’s mind.

  “No, I have not.”

  “Why not?” Pasquer asked.

  “I’m here to do the job of an ambassador, not let distractions get in the way,” he said.

  Pasquer wrote down Zain’s response in his notes. Regardless of how specific Zain was in his response, he wrote in great detail.

  “Monsieur, you understand, we need to continue the investigation by examining all your property, including the embassy grounds.”

  Zain agreed.

  “I’m going to need you to come down to the police station with me now for a few more questions."

  "What? Why? Everything you've asked for, I have given you," Zain said. Pasquer flicked his eyes toward the surveillance camera at the top right of the room.

  "I know you have diplomatic immunity, Monsieur, but it would be better to question you at the station."

  Zain requested to change his clothes, leaving Pasquer alone in the room. Salima barged in at that moment.

  "Now, you listen to me! I have had enough of you. The ambassador has no orders from any court or judge that would have you take him forcefully to your station at this time of the night.”

  Her fury glinted in her eyes.

  “I think, Madam, you really need to calm down and let me do my job," Pasquer replied.

  "The ambassador is not required to do this under any circumstances. He is only doing it out of his goodwill, so stop taking advantage of him, Renaud!”

  “Madam, you are testing my patience. If the ambassador is willing, why can’t you understand that helps me to better assess this situation?” Pasquer said.

  As he looked over his checklist, his assistant ran into the room and whispered something to him.

  “Madam, my assistant has just informed me that your security is not willing to hand over the dead body to the police?”

  Ferdash and Mazaar entered the room and whispered a few words to Salima, who nodded in return.

  “We need to get further clarification from our own government on how to proceed first,” she said.

  “I don’t have to remind you, Renaud, that we are not in Republique’s jurisdiction, and it is under our government’s authority, not yours.”

  Pasquer balked.

  “Madam, if you keep the dead body here, my specialists will not be able to do the necessary reports. That is something that, as officers of the law we have to do.”

  “I’m sorry, Renaud. You would need a form of a petition from your Home Ministry to ours, and only when our government approves and instructs us to do just that will we comply.”

  Pasquer was livid, though he chose to feign civility.

  "The police will go through the proper channels to honor our request," said Pasquer’s assistant.

  Pasquer retreated almost entirely. He pulled his assistant to the side and spoke quietly to him. The assistant then left the room and alerted the policeman outside.

  “I’m ready,” said Zain as he entered the room in more casual clothing.

  "Salima," Zain placed his hand on her arm,

  "I can handle things from here. Inspector, I am coming with you."

  "Sir,” pleaded Salima,

  “you don't have to do this. In fact, I would recommend that you do not go with him. He isn't following any of the protocols."

  "We both know me doing this will help the inspector.”

  Zain saw the look of concern on Salima's face and was touched, but this was something he had to do on his own. He didn't need Pasquer to have any ammunition against him that could make him look guilty.

  "Go home, Salima. I’ll be fine".

  He turned to Pasquer,

  "Let’s go.”

  “Renaud,” interjected Salima.

  “I can’t let you take the Ambassador on his own. Two of our security will go with you. The security has their own car that can follow you.”

  “That is fine. The ambassador can come with his own escort,” said Pasquer.

  They made their way out the side exit and walked towards the back of the mansion, where the two bodyguards waited for Zain. An exhausted Zain could only think of Brianna, who looked so much like his old lady love Aylin. Zain got into his Mercedes-Maybach S650, which he affectionately called “Debra”. Four police cars followed him. Salima looked on as she saw the car leave the compound.

  “Ferdash?” she asked in a worried tone,

  “Are those two guards competent?”

  Ferdash gently held her wrist and looked at her,

  “Don’t worry. They will guard him till their last breath.”

  ╔ ——————————————— ╗

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  ╚ ——————————————— ╝

  In the early hours, the mesmerizing Rue de Vaugirard offered a brief escape for Zain, as the lights drifted by him on the empty street.

  The dreadful night drug on. An old man was dead, and now Zain was being questioned for it. He shook his head. As he left his residence, all eyes were on him. He knew his guests were talking about what had happened. Once this night ended and he was back home, he would have enough breathing room to repair everything that had gone wrong. He and his staff would have to take on the ultimate damage control mode for the next few weeks to reassure all guests that the death was not his doing.

  The thirty-minute drive felt smooth, but Zain knew that the night would be a long one. He didn’t mind for now. His imagination kept him good company. He passed by Le Bon Marché and thought about how, so long ago, he had wanted to bring Aylin there. It was the oldest department store in Paris, and, in Zain’s opinion, it was the only place he could get his favorite caramel chocolates.

  “Zain, can we afford to go to Paris?” Aylin had asked.

  “Think we can but no guarantees. Just let me pull a few strings first, and then it will be a resounding yes,” said the 24-year-old Zain.

  The patisserie café in Rolle, Switzerland, in the summer of 1989 was the center of the romance between the dashing Zain and the seventeen-year-old Aylin. They were introduced by Mehdi Touati, who then worked as a photographer, a tour guide, and a dishwasher at Zain’s former school. Due to his intense summer schedule, Touati could not take on one more gig and requested that another friend take preliminary model-like
pictures of the young Aylin. It was at the photoshoot near the grounds of the Rolle Castle, where Zain was working with a group of architects to model a city center, that their eyes locked. The city project to be implemented at Sumqayit, Soviet Azerbaijan, was commissioned by a foundation closely associated with Zain’s family. The purpose was to revive old Indo-Persian architecture with a fusion of contemporary European layers. Zain had taken up the project to redesign, renovate, and reuse the informal add-on structures instead of eliminating them and bring to life what was long neglected: a bridge that blended European and Indo-Persian cultures through architecture. Through Touati, Zain met Aylin’s father—himself an Azeri—and it was there they would meet again. At the final stages of the project, Zain amended with consultation from Aylin’s father a traditional greyish-green set of bricklayers in what was considered an attractive addition to the courtyard he built to strengthen community life.

  Pump went the brakes. Zain was shaken out of his deep past thoughts.

  “I’m sorry for that, Sir,” the driver apologized.

  "How much longer are we going to be on the road?" Zain asked.

  The two security personnel in front looked at each other briefly. “Apologies, Sir, but we've only been in the car for ten minutes. It shouldn't take much longer.”

  Zain looked out the window and saw Pasquer’s car in front and his men’s in the back. At the back of his mind, he thought, what police inspector wouldn’t love to boast about questioning an ambassador? He could picture it now; the man is smiling, thinking he'll be able to throw him in jail or at least try. But like Pasquer, Zain wanted to get to the bottom of this. He feared his altercation with the guest earlier in the night wouldn’t come to light. Perhaps Ferdash and his men had handled it and not left traces of that bastard. Served the man right for hurting that poor boy for something so minor. But for the death, Zain wanted to know more. Perhaps everyone who entered his premises had been vetted.

  A thought rose in Zain's mind. The guards who oversaw letting the guests in knew the guest-list. They knew Shahaan Bagratuni wasn't invited. They must've seen him arrive with Touati. What if one of his guards worked with someone to kill that man. He wanted to speak to Salima about this but realized he didn’t have his cell phone.

  A tapping noise from the front of the car brought Zain back to the present. The guard who sat in front of him was shaking. The driver saw a look of worry wash over Zain's face.

  "Sir, I know you had nothing to do with that guy's death."

  "I'm sorry. What do you mean?" Zain asked.

  "I know what you're thinking. You see Berzad shaking, which is usually a sign of guilt. I've been a guard long enough to know that's how a guilty party acts. But I can assure you. I can testify to say you had no part in that man's death, Sir.”

  “Is Berzad ok?” he asked.

  He chuckled. “He is special. If he has to be still for long, he starts twitching. That's why you see him walking around the mansion during the day. He needs to walk around whenever he starts to feel he's been still for too long. Even a short ride such as this is too much for him."

  "I'm sorry." Zain felt horrible for even asking.

  “Sir, if you don’t mind, Berzad doesn't want people to know. He feels they'll treat him differently if they did, and he doesn't want that. I only know because he told me when I found him walking away from his post one day. Normally, Ferdash wouldn't allow any of the guards to walk while on duty, but he's made an exception for him."

  Zain smiled and empathized.

  “If you need to bring me in to make sure I am speaking the truth,” said Mazaar as he sat on the driver seat.

  A sense of ease came over Zain at his guard’s calm assurances. As they drove past Rue Montorgueil, Zain leaned back to his seat, resting his head on the headrest. His mind shifted when he met Aylin's brother, Malek.

  Malek was twelve when Zain met him. He was writing on a wall, and the other boys were taunting him.

  "Look at him! He can't even write clearly,” they laughed.

  "I...I'm…" Malek's lip quivered.

  "You're always doing things on your own because no one likes you," the leader snapped his fingers.

  Seconds later, five boys were bashing Malek, beating him on the ground.

  "HEY!" Zain yelled out from his car. He ran to the playground where the incident took place. Rushing to Malek’s defense, he jumped into the scuffle, grabbing the boys one by one off of Malek and throwing them aside. Zain helped Malek off the ground.

  "Are you all right?"

  "I...I…" Malek's voice shook.

  Zain took out his suit pocket-handkerchief to wipe the blood off his face. Looking at the blood in front of him, he thought of his own bloody past. Adored by his friends but not by those that mattered most: his parents. Looking at the blood, the tears, and what he just saw, he felt the urge to hurt the kids that harmed this innocent boy. They had all runaway, but for Zain, it wasn’t over. He memorized the faces of each of the five boys.

  “Will you be ok going back home on your own?” Zain asked. The boy was so much in tears, he could barely speak.

  “Can I give you a ride home?” he asked.

  Zain drove the boy to his house. To his astonishment, it was Aylin’s home. At the back of his mind, Zain was convinced that the universe wanted him with her and her family beyond love. Aylin saw her brother approach the house, and seeing the state he was in, she rushed out to hug and kiss him.

  "I don't think this was how your sister wanted us to meet," Zain joked with a small smile.

  "Tell you what—since they stopped you from writing, why don't you write the equation on this small board.” Zain took a portable dry erase board from his car. He had intended the gift for another friend’s daughter but thought Malek the more appropriate recipient.

  Knocks on the window woke Zain up from his dream.

  “Pardon me, Sir, we are at the police station.”

  "I’m sorry?"

  He looked out the window and saw the police station. Zain groaned, opened the door, and stepped outside. Berzad and Mazaar followed him to the curb.

  "Where are you two going?" he asked.

  "Following you into the station, Sir," Mazaar responded. "Salima gave us strict orders to never let you out of our sight," he said.

  Zain put his hand out to stop the two from following him into the station.

  "I’ll be fine. Just stay here,” he said.

  “This is a matter I have to take care of on my own. I could only imagine what the inspector would say if he saw the two of you accompanying me. He'll probably say it's a sign of guilt. I shouldn't be long."

  The guards looked unsure, but they stepped back.

  "We won't go inside with you, but we will wait right here, Sir," Mazaar said.

  Zain took a deep breath and entered the police station. The second he walked through the door, he was greeted by an unpleasant bluish light.

  "Are you going to just stand there?" Pasquer’s voice echoed down the hall.

  "I was just admiring your office palace," Zain said.

  His diplomatic immunity made sure he never graced a police station, something Pasquer seemed to take for granted.

  "Well, don't get too used to it.”

  Pasquer whispered something into the ear of one of the other policemen. Three of them walked over to Zain and grabbed his arm.

  "Follow us," said one of Pasquer’s cronies.

  "We're going to another room."

  "I'm going! I'm going! There's no need to hold onto me." Zain squirmed in their grasp.

  The policemen ignored Zain's appeals, bringing him to a small room. Pasquer was already sitting at the desk, a cunning smile on his face. The policemen left the room, leaving Zain alone with Pasquer. Zain sat up straight.

  "Can we get this over with?"

  Pasquer slammed the papers he had in his hand down on his desk.

  "You do not tell me how to conduct my business. I know how to do my job," he said.

 
; He got out of his seat, slammed his chair into his desk, strode out of the room.

  “I’ll be right back,” he snapped on his way out the door.

  "What do you mean you'll be right back? Where are you going?" Pasquer seemed to be dragging this out.

  First, Zain thought, he brings me here, and now, he locks me in this unbreathable cold office, claiming he has to take care of something. Zain shook his head. He didn't believe that Pasquer had anything else to do for one second. If questioning him was as important as he claimed when he brought him in, Pasquer could've waited to tend to other business. The windowless room that housed only a desk and some file cabinets reminded him of another time in his life. One that he didn’t want to relive.

  The flashback hit Zain like a ton of bricks: his father beating him senselessly with a belt. His father had built a sort of chamber in the basement. His mother knew it existed and did nothing. Whenever he was home in one of his angry moods, Zain’s father took him downstairs and beat him for the sole purpose of teaching his son to be obedient. Zain started to panic. The flashback was becoming too vivid. He felt like he was actually back in his father’s chamber now. The beatings were still with him, as were his scars, although his father was long dead.

  Zain remembered lying on the floor, blood pouring from his mouth, as his father left the room. That's what Pasquer is going to do to me, he feared. That's why he wants to be alone with me. He wants to beat me until I cave and admit to a murder I didn't commit. Zain frantically looked around the room for a way to escape. But how? The only exit he could find was the door, and he knew Pasquer locked that when he left. I'm trapped in here, he said to himself. His mind screamed, but he couldn't get a sound to come out of his mouth. No one would be able to hear a sound coming from this windowless office. But his panic slowly calmed after he saw the time in his watch.

  The silver Patek Philippe Calatrava watch straightened his nerves. He sat upright in the chair, wondering when Pasquer would return. He was so worried he didn't hear the door open until it was slammed shut. He jumped out of his seat, putting a hand to his heart and trying to catch his breath.