Shiva

by Simon Sloane

  Jyran beamed. “My father always talked about ushering in a new age. He reached slowly for his jacket pocket, where a silver chain glittered in the sunlight like the prize of a lifetime. “Together, we’ll make his dream come true.”

  “Thank you, Jyran.”

  Then a flicker of doubt rushed across Jyran’s handsome face, and he let the golden card drop back into the cashmere again.

  Hugo tried not to look disappointed. Had he appeared too eager when asking for access to Shiva? Jyran seemed to have changed his mind in the blink of an eye.

  Jyran patted Hugo on the back. “I promise we’ll visit the thirty-sixth floor right after brunch.” He turned his watch toward the sun. “Two hours from now!”

  “Of course,” Hugo said. He felt like cursing.

  Chapter 81

  Testimony

  Saturday, 6:30am CET

  Khaled stopped the audio recording he had sent to Charenton’s phone. “Is that enough?” he asked the politician, who sat next to him in the limousine’s backseat.

  “Legally, no,” Charenton said as they crossed Place Vendôme. “But politically ….” He formed a cross in front of his chest to indicate that Tanguy’s career was about to be buried. “May I borrow those futuristic glasses for a moment?” he asked as if hit by a sudden flash of technological curiosity.

  Khaled gave them to him. Unlike Charenton, he wasn’t satisfied with what he had learned from Zoë’s wired-up tryst. At no point during their intercourse had Tanguy confessed to a crime. Nevertheless, voters wouldn’t forgive him calling the slain father of the nation “a crippled cockroach whose rotten corpse will make the flowers wilt on his grave.” Tanguy had even let slip that he didn’t intend to honour his promise not to raise taxes. And yet, French voters might be more forgiving of such a lapse than their British or American counterparts.

  “When are you going to release the tape?” Khaled asked Charenton, still carrying the police inspector’s badge that identified him as Philippe Plossignac.

  “Let me talk to Tanguy first,” Charenton said after a long pause, during which he examined Khaled’s eyewear. “Maybe he’ll resign instead of facing disgrace.”

  “What if he still wins?” Khaled’s voice wavered when he asked the dreaded question. He would be as good as dead the moment Tanguy moved into the Elysée Palace.

  “He won’t,” Charenton said, reassuring Khaled with a pat on his arm.

  Khaled didn’t like the incumbent’s casual tone. The avuncular statesman sent a short message on his phone, having put on Khaled’s interactive spectacles.

  “What about Zoë?” Khaled asked. “Will you forgive her?”

  “I might. She performed an important service for France. And so did you.” Once again, the rustic smile spread across his jowly face.

  Khaled shook his head. “I would have expected a megalomaniac like Tanguy to brag about his ingenious plot, but he didn’t.” He looked at Charenton, who didn’t seem to be listening. “So, we still don’t know who paid Saint-Clair to arrange the president’s murder.” Khaled was surprised by Charenton’s lack of interest in catching the instigator of the assassination.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Charenton said jovially. “It’ll take months to untangle this, if not years. Look at Kennedy—they still don’t know for sure who did it. But we’ll start right after the election. As for you, Inspector,” he paused to look at Khaled in the eye, “how would you like to become a Knight of the Honorary Legion?”

  Khaled took a deep breath, knowing he had to level with Charenton at some point. “I have a confession,” he began, playing with Plossignac’s badge. “I’m not exactly who I said I am.”

  Charenton laughed, playing with Khaled’s smart glasses. “Who is these days? Aren’t we all condemned to wearing our professional masks every day and all night?” To Khaled’s amusement, the politician opened the limousine’s rear door and stepped out before Khaled had a chance to take back his eyewear.

  He turned his head when the other door of the limousine opened as well. Before he knew it, two security guards had squeezed in, holding Khaled at gunpoint.

  “You’re under arrest,” the agent on his left said with an expressionless face, “for conspiracy of murder.”

  “What?” Khaled protested. “I….”

  “Tell that to the judge,” the agent on his right growled. “But I guess he won’t believe you’re not the man behind the assassination of the president of France.”

  Khaled was too shocked to resist. If only he had kept his glasses! Now the only piece of evidence that might have proved his innocence was in the fleshy hands of the man who would soon inhabit the Elysée Palace.

  Chapter 82

  Pariah

  Saturday, 6:45am CET (10:15am Indian time)

  Yogi still felt tired despite another espresso from the poolside buffet. He felt like one of the oranges that the servants squeezed to freshen up cocktails, only to toss their rind into the trash.

  The man whom Yogi had hired the previous year guarded the cabanas at the edge of the infinity pool. Alexander had betrayed Yogi like all the others, and Yogi cursed himself for having trusted the Russian.

  Only a few yards away, Hugo relaxed in a cabana. The notorious playboy was staring at the sky, which shone an immaculate blue. The places to his left and right were reserved for Jyran and Maya. It was so disgusting to see the once-proud Singh family treat the flashy fraudster as if he was the Prince of Wales!

  Finally, Hugo got up to join Jyran, who was shaking hands with local dignitaries. Despite the sacking of New Delhi, the Mumbai elite still gravitated to Singh Tower like dwarf stars dancing around a black hole. Dozens of couples in colourful gowns queued up to shake Jyran’s hand. An even bigger throng of men swarmed around Maya. The mindless drones were desperate for the attention of their queen bee now that she was in need of a new fiancé.

  None of the guests even acknowledged Yogi’s presence. Word must have gotten around of his replacement, although no press release had been issued yet. Maybe it was the air of dejection and desperation that emanated from Yogi’s face.

  “Artificial intelligence is the lifeblood of modern commerce,” Yogi overheard Jyran informing the mayor of Mumbai, “and we’re proud to have attracted none other but the designer of the famous Sibyl AI to lead our company.” Jyran let his hand rest on Hugo’s shoulder while Yogi stood only a few yards from the successor he despised like no one else in the world—with the exception of the deceitful heir himself.

  The one thing Yogi admired was Jyran’s timing. Hugo’s appointment made it sound as if Akasha Ltd had only just embarked on its pursuit of artificial intelligence. It concealed the firm’s possession of the most powerful quantum computer ever built. And no one seemed to care that the man who had designed the machine alongside the firm’s legendary founder had been cast aside.

  After some more chit-chat, Hugo turned away from the politicians and celebrities. The new CEO of Akasha Ltd walked a few yards toward Yogi. But instead of offering a word of consolation, Hugo whispered into Diana’s ear. She was the only woman at the brunch who still displayed a shred of interest in Yogi. Probably, she didn’t know how she had inspired Yogi to reincarnate his career abroad.

  “Distract the suits … I must … Shiva … wait here …” Yogi caught some of Hugo’s whispered words to Diana. “This circus is a bloody waste of time!”

  Yogi wondered what the wretched Englishman was about to do. He took out his mobile phone so that he appeared distracted. Who would blame him for contacting head-hunters or prospective employers? But instead of calling a person he dialled into the security system that Alexander Popov had installed on his orders.

  Yogi elongated himself from the crowd so that no one heard his dialogue with the interactive voice response system that connected him to the cameras and microphones on Singh premises. The negligent Russian must have forgotten to remove him from the list of authorised personnel with access to the security server.

  Yogi pr
essed his phone close to his hear. It took him only a few whispered commands to find what was looking for. “Didn’t you tell me,” he heard Diana ask in a low voice, “that he keeps it in his pocket?”

  “You’ll get it,” Hugo whispered. “They must have taught you that in spy school.”

  Yogi didn’t need to hear more to know how the pretender planned to betray his benefactor. And Diana was a spy—now that was interesting indeed! Too bad Yogi owed nothing to the Singhs! Jyran seemed to have forgotten his decades of loyalty. Yogi’s teeth ground when he remembered giving Jyran a drone for his fourth birthday. The young boy had been overjoyed, calling Yogi “his favourite uncle.”

  And now?

  “Can’t it wait?” Diana hissed at Hugo. “You must remain in Jyran’s good books.”

  His curiosity aroused, Yogi withdrew to quiet corner before he routed the security camera feed on the screen of his mobile. He saw Hugo stare at Diana with that inescapable gaze from his black eyes, which had also seduced Maya. “It was you who predicted Armageddon when we flew back in the helicopter. Seems like you’ve put on your rose-tinted glasses now. But I’m cut from a different cloth than you.”

  Diana looked at Hugo as if he was stupid. “Don’t you see? Shiva will massively extend the human lifespan. Victory over cancer is within our grasp. Without countermeasures though, the planet will soon crumble under overpopulation. Look at Mumbai’s slums! They’re a blueprint of our future unless we let Shiva do its job.”

  “What do you mean?” Hugo asked, looking bemused.

  Yogi tittered, covering his mouth. Boy, that Englishman was slow!

  “The crop and fertiliser shortages,” Diana responded, “have been conjured up by Shiva to reduce human headcount to a more manageable size.”

  Yogi enjoyed their squabble. His respect for Diana grew with every word from her lips. She knew what was going on. And she understood there was no other way.

  “I suggest rebranding Shiva then,” Hugo said, “to ‘Hitler 2.0!’” He ended the conversation and waved to Jyran as he walked toward the bathroom.

  Yogi turned around, sniggering. He touched the red button to terminate his connection with the surveillance system.

  Returning to the party, he saw a particularly eager young man bowing to Maya as if he was about to kiss her feet. The poor bloke didn’t have a clue that the cherished heiress had been deflowered by a foreigner just the night before.

  Soon Hugo would learn what it meant to work for Jyran Singh. Hours earlier, Hugo had been a pariah after what he had done to Maya. Now everything was forgiven. But the wheel of fortune never stood still ….

  Yogi was in control of his fate. All he needed to do was to keep a clear head, so he rejected the waitress’s offer of a cocktail in favour of another espresso. She must have been unaware of his dismissal, or she would have ignored him too.

  Hugo had access to Shiva now, but he didn’t know everything. Surely, he couldn’t have discovered the Room of the Three Gods. Yogi had been wise to safeguard some of the secrets of the Singh residence on his phone. He waved to a non-existent party guest before ambling away. Then he dialled a foreign number.

  “Allô?” The man from Paris asked, not recognising Yogi.

  “It’s good to hear your voice, mate,” Yogi said as if they were chums from boarding school. “I heard that you detest Hugo Hyde almost as much as I do.”

  Chapter 83

  Swing

  Saturday, 7:00am CET (10:30am Indian time)

  “Who are you?” Jean-Marc Tanguy asked the person who had called him from an unknown number. “And what do you want?” The caller’s opinion of Hugo Hyde intrigued him, but there had to be more than a shared dislike.

  “My name is Yogi Kapoor, and I can swing the election in your favour.” The Indian’s thick accent and the high-pitched voice made him sound needy, but Tanguy ascribed the perception to his lack of cultural sensitivity.

  “How did you get my number?” It was hard not to be suspicious about someone making such a far-fetched claim little more than twenty-four hours before the polls were about to open, but Tanguy was desperate. The television in his private chambers played Charenton’s closing campaign ad. The acting president was sitting on a hay wagon framed by his blond wife and three even blonder children. Two horses leisurely pulled the family through the barley fields of Charenton’s native Nevers. As the sun rose on the horizon, the incumbent patted the head of a golden retriever. His soothing voice extolled his vision of a happier, safer, calmer country. “Je m’appelle Henri Charenton, et je fais confiance en la France.”

  It was his final line: “I just trust in France.”

  Minutes after release, the ad was being regurgitated by celebrities on social media. Tanguy only needed to see it once to know it posed a grave threat for his own campaign.

  “Monsieur Tanguy, we are both members of the secret circle of the 108,” Yogi declared after a long pause.

  Tanguy was aghast that his membership was no longer confidential. The 108 were never supposed to meet or talk outside of their virtual congregations. A quick internet search on Tanguy’s laptop revealed that the voice on the phone matched a video recording of Yogi Kapoor’s speech at a recent commodity trading conference. And if Kapoor also knew about the 108, he must be legit.

  “Monsieur Tanguy?” Yogi asked when there was no response. “I would like to request your support. Our endeavour depends on urgent and decisive action.”

  “What exactly do you want?” Tanguy asked brusquely. He remembered his surprise when the 108 had contacted him a few months earlier. Casimir-Perier had sacked him as prime minister, and Tanguy wasn’t exactly a favourite in the polls.

  “You shall make an important appointment,” Yogi replied, “as soon as you assume the presidency.”

  Tanguy laughed. “You’re not the first one who’s asking for that.” He wondered if he had joined the 108 on false premises. So far, their demands had been modest. As a token of appreciation, they had even sent sizable monthly payments to Tanguy’s offshore bank account. But how could Yogi help him turn the tide so late in the campaign? Not only had Charenton forced his anti-terrorism bill through parliament, he had also arrested a suspect for the assassination of Casimir-Perier. It hurt Tanguy even more that he hadn’t managed to chase down the Egyptian and his associates nine months earlier. “How exactly, Mr Kapoor, will you decide our elections from India?”

  Yogi laughed. “You might have seen the announcement from Syngenetiq SA concerning their deciphering of the human genome.”

  Tanguy swallowed. “I have. But how is it supposed to help?” If anything, the Parisian company’s recent scientific breakthroughs undermined Tanguy’s claim that France had lost its innovative edge under Charenton.

  “I’m going to prove that the technology behind genome analysis was actually developed in Mumbai—under my auspices as CEO of Akasha Limited.”

  Tanguy tried to understand what Yogi was saying. How had Syngenetiq SA acquired such stellar research from a foreign competitor? Maybe Yogi knew of an industrial espionage scandal that could be traced to the Charenton administration.

  “I handed in my resignation at Akasha Ltd only hours ago,” Yogi continued, “so the timing is fortunate. If you win the election, Monsieur Tanguy, I suggest you appoint me as the new CEO of Syngenetiq. I will ensure its stroke of good luck continues.”

  Tanguy couldn’t believe his ears. “France is not a communist command economy! Even the president can’t just hire and fire private-sector managers at will. I’d suggest you talk to the Syngenetiq supervisory board instead.”

  Yogi sighed in frustration. “I’m afraid you’re not aware of the strategic implications. In fact, the company should be reclassified from agricultural supplies into the defence sector. Maybe it should even be nationalised.”

  “Why? Syngenetiq seems to be doing just fine. I admit my country has a history of the state meddling in economic affairs, but—”

  “The company’s just one piece of
a much bigger master plan. I learned about it during my collaboration with the sheik.”

  “The leader of the 108?” Tanguy had seen the hidden figure during his virtual announcements, but he had never spoken to him directly. Yogi had to be part of the secret circle’s upper echelons if he had access to its leader.

  “And if you support me,” Yogi added in a pleading voice, “the next phase of the sheik’s plan will usher in your presidency.”

  Tanguy remained silent. Could the clandestine figure really be that powerful?

  “Just look at what’s happening to the commodities markets,” Yogi said, as if he had read Tanguy’s thoughts. “Crop prices are at an all-time high. Already people are starving in the streets of Asia and Africa. Europe will be next!”

  Tanguy began to understand the opportunity. Voters would be up in arms if the government concealed a looming food shortage. Even Charenton had looked rather nervous when they had broached the subject at the Elysée Palace.

  Tanguy’s own research on the topic hadn’t yielded much, but on the other hand, he had nothing to gain from rejecting the Indian’s request out of hand. Once Tanguy was president, there was nothing that Yogi could do if he wasn’t appointed Syngenetiq CEO.

  “Alors, monsieur,” Tanguy said hesitantly, “I think we can do business together.”

  “Of course, sir! Just one more thing: the demise of Hugo Hyde will be another positive side effect of my plan.”