“What is it this time?” Zain asked.
The charges brought against Zain were from a woman, an heiress named Meredith Pamplona, who claimed her husband had gone missing after his altercation at Zain’s party. She wanted to also press charges for some members of his security. Zain was taking Pasquer’s call at his mansion as he was getting ready to host a dinner party.
“Do I need to bring my barrister with me?”
“You can, but this is only a statement for now to complete. We deem to escalate if Monsieur Pamplona doesn’t return home after twelve days, then we will have to seek action,” he said.
“Also, my medical team is requesting access to the dead body, but Madam Abbasid is not permitting,” said Pasquer.
“Yes, of course, they can come anytime, my staff and yes, don’t worry, Salima will accommodate them.”
Pasquer appreciated the answer was upset about the diplomatic nuisances that provided a shield for Zain that made his job harder. His petitions to the Foreign Ministry had received little attention, and he was ghastly waiting to make a move to seize the dead body to understand clearly what actually happened, but without it, he was in limbo.
That night Zain entered his party room to host a dinner for a small group of friends. Seizing an opportunity, a thin wristed lady with a red nail polish made her way to grab Zain’s arms. It was his longtime friend Dr. Sarah Weiss. After her predecessor stepped down, she was the chairman and chief executive officer of WTC, having been in her role for only a year. She was the first Chairwoman and CEO in the organization's history. Before joining WTC, she had worked for a hedge fund based in Madrid for nearly twenty years. In her capacity, and having been in similar industries, as Senior Vice-President she periodically met with Zain in his previous role as CEO. Now she took on the reigns of managing an organization and a cause dear to her.
“How are you, Zain?” she asked.
Zain looked at Weiss, realizing her youth had never left, and her wits were right on the surface.
“Stressed but so good to see you.”
“Liar,” Weiss flirted and giggled.
Well before the Calais situation, she privately spoke to Zain about the need for raising funds, something she was encountering many difficulties in her organizations’ way of managing the reception of large groups of forcibly displaced refugees, asylum seekers, or any other huge groups of migrants. She made the case to Zain that she knew first hand, their intention was only to go to a safe country but if not handled properly, unmanageable crime centers can very easily develop and the after-effects would mean, that all authorities; be it on land and sea would find it hard to manage an already volatile crisis.
“I’ve done all I can, but all charities are stretched as we are getting no help from any government,” she said.
Zain looked around for Salima. He could not spot her. Then he looked to Weiss, who was considerably shorter than him by height. He leaned over.
“Pretend you are laughing at what I am saying to you,”
Weiss thought it was peculiar but went ahead with it anyway.
“Give me your phone,” Zain asked.
He then inserted his private phone number. Whoever saw them only perceived that Zain, as usual, was flirting, laughing, and making the stylishly dressed lady comfortable. He then whispered again into her ears.
“Text me but don’t call me. I think I can carve up something for you,” he said.
Weiss liked it. Zain slowly took her half-empty glass and headed to the bar, located at the corner of the room.
Among the guests were also Edward Blakensoff and his wife, Brianna. Zain was adamant not to change Edward and remained cordial with his wife. He wore a crisp white shirt and a black Armani suit.
Everyone was talking about the refugee crisis.
Zain walked into the lobby, and he could hear a voice from the dining room. He opened the double-winged doors, and, as he walked into the room, the smell of freshly baked bread wafted into his nostrils. Then he heard something from the other end of the room.
Brianna nearly spilled the drink she had. Something startled her, but that did not stop Zain from walking and talking to his other guests. Feeling the heat, the first three buttons of his shirt were undone. Zain could feel some catching a glimpse. He could feel some among the guests having their own color rising in their cheeks. He could feel Brianna looking at him, even so, sure that she shared a long stare, but as he looked at the reflection in the glass, that was not so.
“There you are, Zain,” yelled out Blakensoff in his usual broad smile.
“I need to talk to you in more detail about this deal I got cooking.”
“Now is not a good time. Why don’t you talk to me about it in a few days? I’ll be in London for a fashion show. I’ll have more time then,” said Zain to Blakensoff.
Blakensoff toned down his voice.
“It’s a little sensitive,” he whispered,
“kind of need your help ASAP!”
Brianna came over. As normal as it seemed, Zain simply could not help himself to face the look of Blakensoff’s hand on Brianna’s hip out of his head. The thought of meeting her again sent a wave of cold shiver down Zain’s spine.
“Edward, let’s dance,” suggested Brianna.
“I need another drink, but perhaps Zain can show you his moves,” smiled Blakensoff.
“Well, Zain, are you up for it?” asked Brianna.
A nervous Zain was forced to provide a smile and reached out his right hand to take Brianna gently to the dance floor.
Zain held her gently. Very gently. Keeping a distance between her, him, and his hand, he moved her slowly with his thumb on other hand, and she grabbed it tightly. He looked the other way as she looked at him. She teasingly and gently moved his jaw to look at her. Everyone around admired the chemistry of the two. They looked mercilessly compatible.
“I hope you are enjoying Paris,”
Zain said to Brianna as he tried to maintain as little eye contact with her as possible.
Brianna brought Zain’s hand forcibly towards her hip. That touch of warmth felt something for Zain.
“Paris is ok, no Rolle.”
“I’m sorry,” said Zain.
“I said Paris is ok but nothing like Rolle, Switzerland,” she said.
Zain was taken aback.
“You’ve been to Rolle?” he asked.
“Only as a tourist,” she said.
Zain’s heart began to beat as if the person he was dancing with would reveal that his imagination was not so.
“It was such a long time ago, but I guess it’s the people in the city that matter, that makes the city what it is,” she said.
“Ed tells me you spent a lot of time in Rolle.”
“Yes, nine years,” replied Zain.
“Wow, see, I knew you were different.”
“How so?” asked Zain.
As they were dancing to the light jazz music, others witnessed how they danced together. It looked like two lovers reacquainting from strangers to friends from a previous life. The gloriousness of their elegance could not be ignored even for the passing servers who looked at the two as their chemistry raised eyebrows, noticing the grand passions only a step away from could be love.
“Something about you, Zain, reminds me of a man I remember?” she said.
“Not Edward?”
“Forgive me to love others before my husband,” she smiled.
Brianna took her next step, hugged Zain closer to her, and then closed her eyes. Zain sensed that she wanted to have him hold her tighter. The music was going to end very soon. He was hesitant.
“This is nice dancing with you,” Zain said innocently.
“Oh! Come on, Zain, why so formal? I thought we were friends from the night we first met.”
The warmness and ease between the two; Brianna and Zain felt it. Yet the curiosity inside Zain remained despite him forcibly convincing himself that Brianna was not Aylin.
“And how are you liking
your stay at your husband’s premier hotel?” he asked.
“It’s ok,” she giggled. Brianna feigned a convincing smile.
Then the music ended. Another began. Zain felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Ease off, old boy, what are you trying to do? Steal my wife?” joked Blakensoff as he cut to dance.
“If you would excuse me then,” Zain said as he turned to leave. Forcing himself not to look back, he walked out of the room. He let out a deep breath he didn’t even know he was holding.
“What are you doing?”
Salima was outside the door.
“You are not leaving this party?”
“Just need a minute,”
Zain was confident that Salima would be disappointed over the results of yesterday's events, but he wanted an excuse to be left alone. He did not find one. Then Salima pulled out her tablet to attend to some pending issues.
“Did you get the Prime Minister to agree to the nuclear deal?”
“Ah, it’s a little complicated.”
Zain closed his eyes.
“What?!!!”
Salima’s eyes were almost popping out of their sockets.
“It’s still pending?....Sir…we talked about this, and I was talking about it until the Interior Minister’s office was sending a host of emails.”
Zain’s eyes remained closed, and Salima was not happy.
“Our Prime Minister is not going to take this well. This is not good news Sir.”
Salima became increasingly tense. She had to produce something soon.
“What is your plan, Sir?”
“LaRue wants us to help with the refugee crisis first and then the nuclear deal.”
“Please tell me you did not agree to that?” Salima warned.
Zain opened his eyes and headed to his upstairs office. He managed to get Salima off his back, but her staff was right behind him. Salima came running through the doors and up the stairs. Zain’s mind went back to the little child he saw in Calais.
“Sir, Sir, Sir,” it was Salima’s voice echoing through the corridors. Permitting her entry into his office, Zain asked her to pick up the phone and speak as instructed. There was more she wished to talk about, and the potential police investigation of Mr. Pamplona, but Zain had other priorities. He had Salima pick up the intercom. He wrote down “Langley-Haviv” three times next to each other. Then instructed Salima to say the following. “Langley-Haviv! Charter Flight! Calais!”.
Salima could not understand what she was saying to what she was reading, but she said it anyway.
“Sir, I honestly don’t think you need a vacation now.”
She raised an eyebrow as she saw Zain’s reaction.
“You are going on a vacation at a time like this, SECRETLY?” Thinking Zain was heading to his favorite vacation spot in Grenada, Spain, Salima could not remain quiet.
“Sir, we can’t have you run off for another vacation at a time like this.”
Protesting over the fact that Zain had to be present in Paris at all costs. Then. Salima hung up the phone.
“What did he say? Zain asked.
“They said Langley-Haviv confirmed!” but Salima protested the pending issues were more important, and he could not leave for a vacation.
“Relax! I’m not going on any vacation”.
Zain looked too deep in thought as he calmed Salima’s nerves.
“Then what was this call for?” she asked.
“There is something I need to get done.”
“Sir, you better not be agreeing to any effort to support this refugee crisis?”
She had only recently briefed her bosses back home that Zain was close to getting his nuclear deal. Then she realized maybe Zain had not done so.
“Sir, please tell me you have some assurance that this deal will go through,” She spoke nervously.
Then came a knocking sound. It was Ferdash peaking inside.
“The guests are asking for you,” he said.
Zain buttoned his suit.
“Salima, get my plane from Granada and have it flown to the army airport in Lille,…Ferdash come in, Salima has some codes for our pilot to communicate with our friends at the other end and coordinate with General Didier and Captain Pierre Dubois, he is in charge of the army airport in Lille.”
“Other end?” asked Ferdash.
“Don’t worry, Salima will fill you in,” smiled Zain. “Sir?” she asked in her nervousness,
“you did not answer my question.”
Zain looked and smiled, then left. He returned to the party to smooth things over with some of his friends from the night when many were inconvenienced due to the chaos. Only now did he notice the grand party room in the middle of his mansion showcased the upscale and glamor of any 21st-century glass level of a mansion made with the likes of a brand of a household name. Adaptable, spacious, and accommodating, the room allowed a creative dining experience supported by the house staff who have been experienced in years of providing quality food for guests from their own past experience. The crystal room was meant to be the venue to celebrate in style. It had a modern atrium where guests had an open space. Ideal for an upscale cocktail hour, it featured marble floors and a fragrant air circulation. Noticing the additional banquet hall that opened up linking it with an intimately small lawn surrounding it. Inside were featured elegant chandeliers and large glass walls that acted as a view to the outside, allowing guests to welcome other guests in controlled lighting.
Zain sneaked back in only to run into Farhaan Nawazuddin, Chloe Kamikazed’s husband. The ft hazel eye with strings of grey in his curly covered bushy hair was a very handsome man that not every woman in the room noticed. For Zain, he suspected the man had a violent temper but had a kindness unmatched by those he ever met, which made all the difference to Kamikazed.
“What are you two doves whispering here?”
It was Kamikazed asking her husband and Zain. Reminding that her feistiness was what united the acquaintance of the two.
“You smell something?” Nawazuddin asked.
“Smells like eggplant,” said Kamikazed.
Zain was confused. Hating all forms of eggplant, he wouldn’t dare let Chef Anton cook that item even to his guests.
“Sumeyyea” called out Kamikazed to a direction behind Zain. A group of university-going young girls appeared, joking, laughing, and enjoying themselves. One could use many words to describe them, but the most appropriate ones were “lipstick laughing angels.”
Their smiles and their fashion made way, as a testament to what made the evening purely fashionable. Their youthful splendor provided the frequent stomping of those who would whisk a small glance. A remedy followed by a dent after noticing how young they were.
Meanwhile, the radiant olive skin Sumeyyea, Kamikazed’s daughter was chewing samples of delights as part of her always getting into trouble reputation. Her friends laughed with her as they whispered words to one another. She frequently sought a quiet place. She was beginning to enjoy the crystal room and its surroundings, but she was enjoying her friends more tonight. She wore a short dress that was lightweight, non-stretch georgette consisting of geometric designs with faux pearl embellishments at neckline, an appearance that had her be noticed to all present.
“What are you eating?” asked Kamikazed
“Tofu Duck Confit, Mom”.
“Well…I thought you were having eggplant.”
“Eww, Mom.., you know how much I hate it!” she said.
Kamikazed compared her daughter’s taste with Zain, saying how both always hated a dish they never truly gave a chance.
“Uncle Zain, can I ask you something?” Asked Sumeyyea.
She whispered long in his ears only to have him laugh every few words after. An unpleased Kamikazed did not like how her daughter would always warm more to Zain than to her. Confiding in ways she had hoped her daughter would with her. But Sumeyyea would always have a special bond regardless of how infrequently she saw Zain. After, Kamikaze
d watched as Sumeyyea stepped a few steps back. Making Zain laugh as the two went on to have a private conversation of their own. But Kamikazed would not tolerate that. She signaled to her daughter with her finger to walk back to where she was standing.
“Please….:” protested Sumeyyea to Zain in a playful manner. She put on a grin smile with her sparkling red lipstick glowing.
“I’ll let Chef Anton know,” laughed Zain.
Sumeyyea burst into joy and excitement but maintained the balance on her heels.
“Oh oh….I want to introduce you to someone”,
as she hugged and kissed Zain. With those words, she ran back to her friends to find someone. Kamikazed, just monitoring what just happened, was not too happy.
“Why does she whisper everything to you?” she looked to Zain with a serious look.
“She’s your daughter…ask her,” he laughed.
“What did she want?” Kamikazed asked in a very serious tone.
“Uff, calm down, she just wanted to spend some time with Chef Anton later on the week to get some cooking lessons on how he makes his Crème brûlée”. Zain assured Kamikazed that it was completely innocent.
“Is that what she is really asking you, or are you making shit up?” Kamikazed confronted.
“Why are you always so suspicious?”
It was then the “young laughing angels” came over to them giggling and put a buffer around Zain so they would not be confronted or interfered with by Sumeyyea’s mother.
“Uncle Zain, can I bring my friends too?..especially this one.”
She pulled a giggly but charming girl by the arm who had brunette hair, long dark eye-brow lashes. Both wore a similar type of red lipstick. Yet Lana looked slightly more like the Mediterranean beauty than the rest of her friends. She wore a stylish Grace Paris Rib Dress in Black. With her eyes sparkled of chocolate and deadly attractive eyebrows even had Kamikazed to feel as if she knew who this person was but could not put a finger on it. Her presence, just shy of an introduction, induced more curiosity to others around her could contain.
“Uncle Zain, this is my friend Lana,”
Sumeyyea made it a point to induce her giggles to her new friend. They had an uncanny form of similar attributes and behaviors that even Kamikazed and her husband could not ignore. If only they were sisters from another mother, which they certainly acted like they were, but still. The parallel of similarities could not be ignored.
The Secrets We Live In: A Novel Page 20