The Secrets We Live In: A Novel

by Fazle Chowdhury

  "Happy Friday. How can I help you, sir" the quirky young lady behind the counter said.

  "I have some files to print. Can you help me with that?" Eldan asked.

  "Of course," she said with a radiant smile.

  Eldan gave her the hard disk.

  "It's asking for a password," she said after a while.

  Eldan had no idea what the password was.

  "What's the password?" the attendant asked.

  An idea popped into Eldan's head. He picked up a pencil and paper and wrote down what he thought was the password; 1800tysonboulevard.

  "All right, I have opened the file. Do you want me to print all 90 pages?" the attendant asked.

  Eldan came around and saw the document. It consisted of all offshore bank accounts connected to the Polygon and everyone they did business with. It was exactly what Haviv had promised him. A side note in the document said: Eighteen hundred Tysons boulevard = owned by Scheinermann. P.S. get the bozo!

  Then there was a sound at the door as another customer entered the store.

  "I'll be with you in a minute, sir," the attendant called out.

  It was a man dressed in an odd long robe with a cap.

  Eldan thought the gentleman was out of place. Then he heard sounds of a little girl.

  “Dad, do you really have to wear that?” she asked.

  “Yes, I do,” he said seriously.

  It was funny, but Eldan could not laugh as much as he wished. Other things were pressing.

  "Can you mail the document to Representative Donamessi’s office? This is her address."

  Eldan spoke out to the attendant on the details of the address.

  "And who should I say it's from?" she asked.

  "From Ariel Haviv."

  As Eldan found some relief when he exited the shop, inside of himself, it dawned on him that the one person who now was in danger was Ambassador Auzaar.

  ╔ ——————————————— ╗

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ╚ ——————————————— ╝

  Heavy rains had taken a toll on the surrounding areas, but the Paris night remained resilient and bloomed beautifully. Even in the dark, the butterflies flitted through the air. Zain couldn’t believe what he saw at first—it didn’t seem real. He looked out through the window over his large garden. He loved looking at the butterflies thriving in their surroundings. He envied their independence and their ability to move as they did in the rain. At that moment, Zain felt his inflection point and a sense of loss in his loneliness. He realized his strengths had been exhausted and stagnant. Gone were the days of his energized youth and his capacity for aggression and anger. That fury in him had waned, and so did his awareness of how he could impact those around him. He looked at the maze of canopied pathways edged with flower beds and statues. A profusion of colors brought about by the few flowers and garden plants that could thrive in the late night gave a charming look, but the battle in him could not be mellowed. As for the garden, the contrast of vibrant colors and distinct designs of each plant and flower showcased the rich soil they grew on. The balmy scent of the slight breeze carried across the lawn. Nothing was out of place in this garden. Even the chaos of colors seemed to be coordinated.

  The main house itself was an architectural marvel. The three-story building was built in a U-shape with left and right wings stretching like branches on either side of the main building with the lawn and garden in the middle. An expanse of land behind the main house led to acres upon acres of fruit orchards and meadows. The main entrance was flanked by Corinthian pillars with high, pointed turrets, giving the entrance a majestic look. The pillars had moldings depicting ancient folklores, each telling time-honored stories. The high ogee-arched doorway came to a point at the middle, a common style in Moorish architecture, gave testament to the occupants of the embassy and led into a large hallway decorated with potted plants. There were about thirty rooms in the main wing alone, most of which were suites.

  He walked sedately towards the other side of the mansion. The way his mind was going, it felt like a great weight was crushing him. He ached for a drink but resisted. He opened the large mahogany door and let himself in. Like most of the furniture in the house, the door had been carved with historical images. The whole side of the mansion was silent, as he had hoped. The hallway was lined with pillars and columns that held beautiful vases of fresh flowers. There were beautiful statues arranged in the hallway also. But it was all lost-on Zain tonight.

  Zain walked down the hallway towards the large, curved staircase that led to his study and den. He took the stairs with heavy steps, leaning heavily on the oak banisters. His shoulders drooped, and he felt exhausted. All he wanted was to be able to sleep and forget Aylin and let go of the dreams he had once held on to.

  He walked into his large study, his favorite room in the whole house. The entire room was done in brown and gold, giving the room a masculine look that suited his taste. The large dark oak desk with hand-carved legs took the prominent position in the room. It faced the entrance and away from the bay windows that overlooked the garden. He most enjoyed reclining in the large leather executive chair. He also liked to pull back the curtains, look out to the garden, and reminisce about how his life had turned out and what more he needed to achieve. His reminiscing tonight was not on happy memories.

  The shelf on the left side of the desk was laden with old volumes of books by Socrates, Plato, and the wise men of classical times. His library was a sophisticated blend of books on business, history, romance, politics, and diplomacy. His position did not allow for ignorance, and he made sure he at least knew something about everything, old or new, about his home country, the Republique, or anywhere else in the world. He prided himself on his ability to inform himself about anything. Now his books failed him.

  He stood with his back to the study door, looking out the bay windows to the gardens and lawn. He looked out at the gloomy weather. The weather matched his mood perfectly. The rain had begun to subside and was replaced by a cool breeze. There was a rustling sound behind him. He tensed up a little and angled his head slightly towards the sound, but he did not turn. When he did not hear the sound again, he relaxed and turned back to the lawn. It must be the rustling of the breeze or the house settling, he thought. Either that, or he was beginning to imagine things in his exhaustion. He heard the sound again. He needed to try and sleep or run the risk of going mad. He would take a snifter of brandy to help him on his way.

  The den adjoined the study, so he walked into it through the door. His rooms were on the second floor of the mansion, though sometimes, he preferred to sleep on a cot in the den if he’d been working. As soon as he entered the room, he felt a change in the atmosphere. He was not sure if it was a smell or a sound, but he knew he was not alone, and somehow, he knew who was in the room with him. He flipped on the light switch.

  The room was immediately bathed in warm, electric light. Zain stood with his dark brown eyes surveying the landscape. He made another sweep of the garden with his eyes and turned his head back abruptly. The silver envelope lay in front of him. He picked it up and was struck by how light it was. Inside, he found a lone hard disk and a note that read, “The password is Jerusalem—GH.”

  Zain smiled. He inserted the hard disk into his computer and typed the password “H-E-R-O-D.” The folder opened to reveal three documents.

  He opened the first one. It was from Galeet Herzl. She was thankful for his efforts to hand over the 89-year-old alleged former Nazi to stand trial for his complicity in over 2,000 murders. Walter Ule—or Johannes Heidricht, as he was known then—was to be held accountable in a secret military court, but to her dismay, some prosecutors declared UIe unfit to stand trial. His recent escape from custody and consumption of a drug that stopped his heart as he made his escape put a lot of strain on his blood vessels. When everyone thought Ule was dead, he had simply stopped breathing. Upon arrival to the secret milit
ary installation, he had undergone a medical assessment. While a minority of officers believe he is fit, others see his advanced age as an issue.

  Herzl had facilitated groups pursuing former Nazis. Her biggest frustration remained that while many had committed mass murders, they died during or before evidence was approved of direct participation in their murders. Ferdash and Mazaar had told Zain under duress that the body of Ule was handed over to someone who had moved it out of the compound. Exactly where even Zain did not know. Now he did.

  On the second document was a list of all of Bagratuni’s transactions. Zain was shocked as he skimmed the list. As difficult as it may be for him to understand, a few of the transactions were, for Zain, a Holy Grail. Purchase of arms, offshore bank accounts, and money that he had been amassing for years ―evidenced in that document. As Herzl explained, one of her informants who had rubbed shoulders with Linnie Judge earned a place as a trusted friend among them. When Herzl’s informant asked Bagratuni for a small loan, he wrote her a check no questions asked. That check contained the account number that opened the door to all Bagratuni’s transactions. Galeet’s friends in the army intelligence had detailed the evidential report on all Bagratuni’s activities, including supporting terror networks.

  Zain rubbed his eyes and blinked to make sure he was seeing correctly. Then his eyes veered to the third document titled “Aylin.” It was shocking. What did Herzl know about Aylin? After his conversation with Chloe, he was convinced Brianna was not Aylin, just bore a striking resemblance to her. The awful reality that life would go on without Aylin did not paint a whitewash of grief inside of him. He had started hearing her voice, smelling her scent. Twenty years are long, but time had not rid him of his first love. Those memories were his only remaining companion.

  He groaned inwardly. His head grew light and began to pound. In the document were descriptions of Aylin Akhundov since 1992. His stomach flipped. After years of dealing with politicians, he had developed the perfect poker face.

  He recalled how Aylin said his name, her stunning face. Now, he read about her twenty-two years later. The image of Brianna swept into his mind. If possible, she had become even more beautiful than he remembered. Her large, almond-shaped eyes were luminous in the evening light, making her look like she could see through his soul. Her high forehead gently sloped down to perfectly arched eyebrows. A long, straight, aquiline nose flared a little at the nostrils and gave her face a slightly fierce look that was softened by full lips, currently upturned in a look of surprise. So what if he was dreaming? Zain wanted to dream of her until she stood before him. She wore no jewelry except for the large diamond on her ring finger and little tear-drop diamonds in her ears. She came forward and touched the right side of his face. Zain felt the memory of her touch on his skin. From when she had been his.

  “Come with me,” she said.

  He tried to catch her eyes again, but she quickly averted her face. His heart was pounding, and as they entered the room nearby, they both sat down to speak. Zain bent over her with a concerned look on his face. She smiled brightly at him, and he felt reassured. Unaware of her discomfort, Zain’s eyes said they were alone, and this night was for them alone. A prickled itch awoke Zain, and he felt a stab of emptiness at realizing he was alone. Those moments were just a fragment of his imagination. The rain had picked up again outside.

  He took a deep breath and looked at the document.

  It began with “*No information could be gathered between 1974 to 1997”.

  One brother died May 1, 1998.

  Mother: Lubna, a businesswoman, lives in Dubai.

  Daughter: Lana, born May 14, 1993, at St Bernard's Hospital, South Hall, UK.

  Graduated from the University of East Anglia, (year unknown), with a degree in Finance.

  Worked as a tutor during her university years until she founded an import/export company called K and became its CEO in 2000. Began with a loan of ₤365. In 2012, K was valued at ₤47 million. It was sold to a Middle Eastern conglomerate in January 2013 for ₤515 million.

  Married Edward Blakensoff on December 12, 2008. She took the name Brianna Blakensoff.

  As Zain read the highlights in the report, he could not help himself. He read and re-read it. Aylin had given up her entire life in Switzerland to raise her daughter in England. Zain could only imagine that Aylin had lived many lives already. She built her own company and raised a child in probably one of the most difficult circumstances. But the same questions rose in Zain’s mind. Why didn’t she call? Was Zain that intolerable? Why was it so hard after what the two of them had been through? Or did she hate him that much?

  He poured himself a whiskey. The document also described how, in Aylin’s first few years in London, she had been Andrew Evans’ mistress, a fact that shocked Zain. He closed his eyes in disgust and shook his head as if to blot out the knowledge. Andrew was the brother of Jack Evans. He was a man of immense charm and unmatchable intelligence. He made Wall Street profits look like pennies compared to what he made during his impulse moments. He was a devout gambler and a compulsive womanizer. He was married at twenty-five to a woman only a year younger than him, but she brought with her impeccable inheritance that he both squandered and doubled in turn. But a year into his marriage, he took a mistress. He had met Aylin at a North London restaurant with a few of her classmates from university, and she had reportedly satisfied sexually in a way no one had before. This was all too hard for Zain to read, but he fortified himself with his whiskey and continued.

  Andy began to show signs of weakness and recklessness, and Aylin could not stick around for it. Furthermore, he had succeeded in making a significant dent in her self-esteem. By November 2006, Aylin had had enough of him. Now separated from his wife, Andy moved out of his house at Russell Road in Kensington and stayed at the Rosewood Hotel. He succumbed to major cocaine addiction, and by his death in April of 2007 at the tender age of 34, he was just a shadow of his former self. In his will, as he left Aylin’s daughter Lana ₤210,000.

  A document with the header “Attention” kept him from reflecting too much on this. It detailed that on September 15th, 1993, there was a gunfight in front of Aylin Akhundov’s home. One evening, gunshots rang out near her home on a busy road. Police had gotten a tip from a gas attendant that a wanted criminal had been spotted. The police arrived and confronted the man near the car.

  The man made a run for it and broke into a house. Police officers exchanged gunfire with him. After a three-hour gunfight, the police broke in and stopped the suspect. When he then took out a sharp knife to take a swing at one of the officers, he was shot. The suspect was dead. He was then taken to the hospital for treatment, but he died from his wounds.

  The name of the dead suspect was Meshal Eskad. After detectives analyzed his marksmanship through videos of the incident, they realized that he was a trained sniper. Whether he had received military training could not be confirmed. But the report did say he had a record of killing former business executives. So what was he doing at Aylin’s house? Zain asked. There was a photo attached to the document. It consisted of nine people that Eskad had killed along with their occupation. One of the victim’s faces caught Zain’s attention. He had a sharp-shaven face and slick black hair. Zain knew he had seen the man somewhere but couldn’t place him. He searched on the internet for the name Selman Ansari. The hits showed that he had worked for Kamikazed’s father as his accountant. But her father had died in 1990. And then Zain had a realization. All of the nine had died before that time. But what did Aylin have to do with this lot? She was not an executive, just a seventeen-year-old girl.

  Interestingly, Ansari was going to testify against Kamikazed’s father to indict him on illegal financing in conducting the transport of conflict diamonds to and from several parts of the African continent. He had provided two names and was on his way to provide six more when he was killed. But even in death, Ansari was not finished. He left a massive archive of accounts used by the Kamikaze
d’s in bribery and extortion, followed by massive drug cartel operations from Africa into Europe.

  By 1990, the courts would find that Kamikazed and their associates guilty. Further court cases were also in the making, as evidence proved the Kamikazed’s had diverted funds out of the continent to avoid paying taxes.

  Zain kept reading about Eskad, who was known to have brutally assaulted most of his victims before strangling them with his sharped edged belt. Some who had cooperated during the investigation revealed that he would sometimes meet his victims over coffee and strangle and stab them to death in public areas with no regard. The very thought that that fate was intended for Aylin frightened Zain, but he forced himself to keep reading.

  The report also revealed how Eskad had received his payments—several bank accounts had false identities combining legitimate and untraceable links to other accounts. Three of the accounts—all ending in 00021—were highlighted in yellow, but the amount of money transferred could not be determined. However, where the money was transferred from had the account digits 5551212. This number was very familiar to Zain. These accounts meant were transfer fund accounts, routing money from one terminal to another until it reached its final destination. The receiver would withdraw the money, but the withdrawal location was hard to trace. But over time, these accounts had either been deleted or ceased to function. The report did not say why, but it did say it was a mule account used to launder money to different channels that were reversible. But for Zain, 5551212 meant something else, and he feared the reality of it. He rushed to the drawer that had his money and personal finance records. He was looking for something but wasn’t exactly sure what. Then he found it, a booklet that contained all the passwords for his bank accounts. He flipped through page after page until he came across a reminder card called the “Piggy bank.” It was a reminder of a payment he made every three months. He and Chloe Kamikazed had reached an agreement after the birth of Sumeyyea. Kamikazed did not want his role in financially supporting their daughter to be known, so she had folded this account into her business relationship with Zain. But there it was. The account number 5551212. Zain now realized that some of his contribution may have had direct links to paying Eskad. And that too might have been used in an attempt to kill Aylin.