"Sorry to startle you, Monsieur." Pasquer took a seat at his desk. "Now, I'm going to ask you some questions.”
Pasquer didn't wait for Zain to answer before he started to rattle off the questions.
"What is your occupation?"
"Ambassador to the Republique." Zain raised an eyebrow. What kind of question is that? He knows very well who I am, he thought.
"Good. You were listening. I like that," Pasquer smirked. "What was your occupation before becoming an ambassador?"
Zain didn't understand what this had to do with the murder.
"I was President and CEO of Hildam Holdings."
"I notice you don't have a wedding band on. I know how your type works, but I’ll ask anyway—are you married?"
"No."
Zain was getting annoyed.
"Do you have any children?" Pasquer asked.
Zain's eyes opened wide. He hated whenever people asked that question. It wasn't one he ever wanted to answer, nor did anyone need to know what really happened in his past.
"No," he plainly stated.
"Good. And what was the nature of the party you had today?"
Nature of the party? Since when do I need to have a reason to throw a party? he thought. Every other month or so, he would throw one so everyone could have just one day of not dealing with their duties.
“The party was to invite a few friends and those I know in Paris to come together and have a good time,” Zain sighed.
"You understand these are just questions to help me get to the bottom of what happened. It's all protocol," Pasquer said.
"And did you hire any outside vendors”
Zain understood what that question meant. Whether he solicited prostitutes or men of a criminal nature.
Zain’s frustration grew. What kind of party did Pasquer think this was? Zain never hired prostitutes. And criminals?
"Inspector, no and no. I don't know what kind of party you thought I was having. Again, it was mostly friends.”
“For a man who has been in Paris for such a short time, you have a lot of friends, yes?”
Zain remained calm as he answered the question. “I do.”
Pasquer wrote down Zain's answers and then looked up at him.
"Now, no one else is here except us two, so you can be completely honest with me on this next question. Did you know the man who died?"
"No, Inspector. I've never seen him before in my life. Do you have a name for him yet?"
Pasquer shook his head.
"As soon as you give us access to the dead body, our coroner will understand the cause of death. "
"Look, Inspector, I never saw this man before in my life. I was surprised when I saw him walking through my garden. You would've known he wasn't someone I knew if you saw how he was dressed. He wore dirty and tattered clothes. That's why I don't understand how he even got on my premises in the first place”.
As Zain said those words, he realized he had avoided Bagratuni, but he was at the party and cast doubt on his security’s ability to keep out people who weren’t permitted to be there.
“But there was one ambassador that was not on the guest list that did arrive with an escort.”
This confession piqued Pasquer's interest.
"So, someone was at the party who wasn't on the invite list?" asked Pasquer.
Damn, Zain thought, as he realized he had just opened up a floodgate of more questions.
"It's nothing to get excited about. One of my guests invited someone as their guest to come to the party, even though they knew that person wasn't ever allowed to my parties. But I wouldn't worry about it. As much as I despise this man. I don't think he would've been involved in this murder."
"Monsieur Ambassador, I don't think you understand why I'm finding it hard to believe this wasn't an inside job. Your mansion is the most guarded in Paris. None of the other big mansions have as many guards as you do. You have your own security, your own security systems—it is almost a city of its own.”
"Yes, we are the most heavily secured. What does that have to do with it?" Zain asked.
“We have endured problems in other embassy compounds—murder, bomb threats, break-ins, but yours is like Hỏa Lò Prison.”
“But my premises are not a Hell’s hole!” spat Zain.
That answer did not amuse the inspector.
“What I mean, Monsieur Ambassador, is there is no way this man could get into your party unless someone inside let him in. And by someone, I mean the only person who has the privilege circumventing the rules is you."
"Inspector, I honestly don't know how he got in. I keep telling you there was a dress code for the party, and he was nowhere close to it.”
Pasquer slammed his fists on his desk.
"What I want is for you to explain to me how an old man was able to get through probably the best security system in Paris. My men took a look at your security footage, and he isn't seen in any videos. How is that possible? And Monsieur, of all the times he could've made an appearance, he chose tonight. Tell me why?"
"Inspector, I already told you everything I know. Instead of asking me the same questions again and again, why you don’t tell me your theories of how he got into my party," Zain challenged Pasquer.
"Some theories have crossed my mind. And I've concluded that this man must've been lurking in your residence for a long period," Pasquer said.
"But how?" Zain asked.
"As you said, you have all this security, and he was still able to get inside. But if you didn’t let him in, someone who has access did."
The more Zain thought of Pasquer's theory, the more he believed that must have been what happened. But what about the man’s clothes?
"Monsieur Ambassador, I think you might be in danger, and it will look bad on me if something does happen to you. You had hundreds of people at this party. Chances are, someone is going to talk, and word of what happened will get out soon. As inspector, I have to do everything I see appropriate to solve this. Even if in the end I have evidence it was you.”
"Why would I invite a man I don’t know!" cried Zain.
"Do not raise your voice at me, Monsieur Ambassador. If I want to, I could have you thrown in jail for that alone. The more you protest, the more you appear guilty. Remember that." Pasquer looked back down at his papers.
"You're not listening to me,” said Zain.
“The only time I spoke to him was when I asked if he needed help, but he didn't answer, and then he died. There. Are you satisfied now? Now, you know everything."
Pasquer wrote some notes on his papers.
"If you don't mind me asking, what kind of questions did you ask him? Until now, we had no idea you even spoke to him."
He glared at Zain.
"Tell me everything. Leave no details out."
Zain tried to think back to earlier at the party. It felt like the party was days ago, not hours. He explained to Pasquer that he was speaking to a few friends when the stranger made his appearance.
"I didn't even see him walking through the garden until I heard people shouting. I went over and asked who he was. I knew he wasn't supposed to be at the party because of his attire. Then, as he collapsed, he looked directly at me. After that, my security took charge of everything."
"Anything else I need to know?"
Pasquer looked up from his notes.
"That's all.”
Pasquer nodded.
"Before you go, I would like to arrange a time to come over with my men and inspect your mansion. There has to be something that will give us more evidence of how this man got in. Do you know of any secret passages he could've gone through?" asked Pasquer.
"There are no secret passages. The mansion was built only a couple of months ago. We have security codes that no one but my guards or I can use. Is an inspection really necessary?"
Zain didn't want to call any more attention.
"If you want us to find out who this man was, how he got inside, and who killed him,
then yes.”
“My security will cooperate—I’ll will make sure of it,” said Zain.
“Thank you, Monsieur Ambassador, for the permission,” said a relieved Pasquer.
As much as he wanted to be through with this ordeal, Zain also wanted to find answers to these questions. If someone in his mansion was in on this to frame him for the murder, he wanted to know who.
"Anything else?" he asked.
"That will be all for now. I will work out a day and time for the inspection. Now, if you don't mind, please wait in here for a few minutes. I want to make sure you are escorted out properly."
Zain breathed a sigh of relief, hoping he could at least get some sleep now. He hated sitting alone in that cold office, afraid the flashbacks would start again. The door opened a few minutes after Pasquer left, and two policemen walked in.
“Please, follow us,"
one of the police officers requested. He followed behind the two men until they reached the front door.
"Bonne nuit,” said the policeman.
The sun was starting to rise, and he questioned how long he was in Pasquer's office. He looked around for Berzad and Mazaar, but they were nowhere in sight, nor was the car parked in front. Bothered by all the questions he was asked, he figured a long walk would relieve some anxiety. He wasn't surprised if the guards had gotten tired of waiting so long. He reached into his pockets but couldn't find his wallet. He never left the house without it. Even when he was home, his wallet was always in his pocket. He thought back to when he last had it, and then he remembered—it was when he changed from his tux to his more casual clothes. He slapped his forehead and started walking down the front steps, wondering how he would get home. Zain made his way to the sidewalk and waited in front of the police station, hoping to see a car pass by. He knew hitching wasn't the safest idea, especially when there was possibly someone out trying to get him. But what else could he do? Zain was lost in his own little world, not paying attention to his surroundings. He wondered if the guards Salima sent with him were part of this scheme, and that was why they left him here alone. This whole thing with Pasquer had him losing his mind.
As Zain continued to look around for his car, a motorbike sped around the corner. The rider pulled out a gun and started shooting. Zain screamed and started to run down the block. He thought the shooting was random until he turned and saw the man was still following him as he ran. Bullets flew in his direction. He continued running as hard as he could, wondering why no one heard the shots, and came to his aid. Suddenly, he felt a stinging pain in his left arm. He had been shot. He placed his right hand on his arm and saw the blood. The pain was agonizing. He frantically searched for a place where he could hide, not knowing how much longer he would be able to run. He figured that near the police station was his best option.
He turned around and noticed there were two shooters now. He screamed for help and hoped someone could hear him, but as he got closer to the police station, he saw his Berzad and Mazaar standing beside the car, which was parked in a side alley.
"LOOK!" Berzad screamed, running out into the street. Mazaar whipped the car into the street. Berzad took out a gun from his pocket to begin fire, as Zain jumped in the car.
"What's going on?" Mazaar asked.
Zain panted, listening to the sound of the bullets hitting the car as they used it to shield themselves against the gunfire. Berzad took out another revolver from under the seat and pushed Zain to the floor of the car.
"We circled the block because the police didn’t want us to park out front,” yelled Mazaar.
“Just drive out of here, Mazaar!” ordered Zain.
Mazaar drove a few meters, but the car screeched to a halt. Suddenly, it got quiet. The car wasn’t moving.
"What’s happening?" Zain asked.
Berzad held up a finger, instructing Zain to wait until he checked out the scene. As he peeked around the back end of the car, the biker started to shoot again. He ducked behind the car again. Zain knew Berzad was getting restless. Mazaar hadn’t fired any shots so far, but now, he got out and began firing as their front tires were hit and an entire side of the car was racketed with bullets.
"Why aren't the police doing something? They must've heard the gunshots,” Zain shouted.
Zain jumped when he heard an explosion noise. The gunmen had thrown a grenade at a nearby car. Firing continued until Berzad, and then Mazaar was out of bullets. Zain could hear the sound of the motorbikes closing in. He searched to see if he had anything in the glove compartment as he reached over the gear shift.
At that moment, he heard Pasquer yell to his men,
“Alez, alez” Pasquer yelled to his men.
Zain watched in amazement as over twenty policemen rushed out with their guns drawn. They wasted no time in returning the fire. Pasquer, with his gun in his hand, started to shoot at the two bikers. Zain peeked out of the car and saw that the police were shooting to disable the assassins, not kill them. Pasquer must've given the order to make sure they got these guys alive.
"Get back!" Berzad snapped at Zain.
"Don't let them see you."
The shooting continued for a few minutes. Zain thought it would never end. With firing going on, Zain closed his eyes and covered his ears, which did very little to drown out the sounds of the bullets. The whole night had been a nightmare, and to make things even worse, now there were two men out there trying to kill him. He felt someone nudge his arm, and he opened his eyes to find Mazaar telling him to stand up.
"It's safe now. They’re gone," Mazaar said, putting his gun back in his holster. Zain saw as Pasquer instructed his men to follow the bikers. Berzad helped Zain out of the car.
"Inspector, do you think the bikers are involved with what happened at the party?"
"After everything that's happened today, who knows. I’ll have a police car take you and your men back—your car is in no condition," Pasquer said.
One side of his €400,000 Mercedes battered as if someone mowed over it and then drilled through it. It was destroyed. Zain looked at the car he called Debra with great disappointment, but he was more concerned that assassins were on the run. In all the chaos, Zain had forgotten about his wound.
"I need to get to a clinic."
He pointed out the injury to his guards. Pasquer overheard.
“Monsieur, come inside.”
╔ ——————————————— ╗
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
╚ ——————————————— ╝
“How did you manage to do this, Zain,” she asked.
The two were dancing on the ballroom dancefloor, all eyes on them, Aylin in a deep-v halter gown and Zain in traditional black tie at the Lucerne Festival. Zain could not fathom any thought or consequences seeing how stunning she looked. He felt an overwhelming sense of achievement. His project in Sumqayit, Soviet Azerbaijan was awarded the Pritzker Architecture Prize, which came with a $50,000 grant. Aylin wore the ruby and diamond earring she had bought her. He wasn’t shy, and no price would sway him from what he hoped would be the first of many presents he would give Aylin.
“I can’t believe you’re spending this evening with me when you could be with your Granada teammates,” said Aylin.
Thinking he would not pass his Oxford finals, Zain had a scout place him at a try-out for the second division Spanish football club. He had only recently helped them survive to stay in the second division from being relegated. As he was supposed to be part of the celebration in Granada with his teammates, Zain chose another venue; with Aylin.
“Well, after this month, somebody will have no time for me,” joked Zain.
“I’ll always make time for you. You know that,” she said.
He dipped her.
“I hope you keep your word, Lady Akhundov.”
Zain spun her around one more time. Their minds and hearts were in sync for that moment. Then, the floor began to shake and rumble. A crack opened between
the two, and they drifted apart. Try as he might, he couldn’t reach her.
“AYLIN,”
screamed Zain as they drifted further and further.
“NO!”
Zain sat up panting, soaked in sweat. He felt groggy. His wound was still very sore, and his mind wouldn’t settle. To get his mind off of it all, Zain looked for his notepad calendar to schedule some time to fly his own Learjet 35 from Paris to Granada. To do that, he wanted to check with the air traffic control at Beauvais airstrip well before his departure. In the dark, he looked but could not find his notepad. Frustrated, he finally turned on his table lantern only to find a note from Chef Anton that read,
“You said you would meet me for lunch today, and as usual, you didn’t! Sad face!”
Zain chuckled and looked at his alarm clock. It was 6:55 pm. He had been asleep for nearly twelve hours after the mayhem of the night before.
Feeling a little light-headed and very hungry, he got out of bed. His cell phone battery was dead, so he picked up his landline.
“Hello, hi. It’s me. Just get me a car and no guards and bring it around at the back entrance,” he said.
He gathered his clothes and prepared for a much-needed shower when the landline rang.
“Hello.”
“Dreaming of an earthquake again?” said the voice on the other end.
“How did you know?” he laughed.
The call was from Ambassador Galeet Herzl. A woman he saw eye-to-eye professionally, but who he had an uncanny relationship with since neither of their respective governments recognized the other informal diplomatic circles. At the very least, Herzl and Zain’s relationship had been defined by multiple instances of close covert coordination. Almost regularly, both used their official residences in Paris to mediate and exchange necessary information with each other. The relationship between Herzl and Zain was special. Zain needed her for his nuclear deal, and she needed him as a-go-between her own nation’s detractors.
“What made you think of me?” asked Zain.
“I need to see you to discuss something. Come by this Tuesday.”
The phone line cut off. Zain understood it was accidental. To prepare himself for the night, Zain entered his shower. The hot water calmed his nerves but not his mind. The heat caressed his head, messaging it like delicate fingers wrapped around the back of his neck.
The Secrets We Live In: A Novel Page 15