The Brightest Fell

by Nupur Chowdhury

  He picked up the glass in front of him and pretended to take a sip of water, using the time to take his eyes off the crowd of reporters and swallow the tightness in his throat.

  He’d been walking this tightrope for almost a year now, and the damn rope seemed to get narrower every time he stood on it. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up without falling on his face and breaking his nose.

  He’d spent the last hour answering questions about Badal’s murder, arrested suspects, missing evidence, international conspiracies, and national security. All the while, trying to weave the slightest hints, the minutest references to the almost-forgotten La Fantome scandal into his answers, without going overboard or saying anything that might prompt too many follow-up questions.

  It was an exhausting – and exhilarating – game to play, but there was too much at stake for him to truly enjoy himself. He’d never minded playing roulette with his own life, but now there were other people’s necks on the line, and he didn’t enjoy being weighed down by the additional responsibility.

  Putting the glass down, Jehan raised his eyes once again to the gathered reporters, smiling invitingly and bracing himself for what was to come. It was time for the final act of his little charade.

  A middle-aged journalist near the back of the room raised her hand. She was dressed in a white jacket, worn over a black and green checked shirt and gray slacks. With her hair pulled back in a tight, braided bun and a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles on her nose, she looked the picture of solemn respectability.

  Jehan gestured for her to speak. She rose to her feet and smiled briefly at him. “Do you think former Prime Minister Rajat Shian could have had a hand in Badal’s death? After all, it is a well-known fact that Badal supported your ascension to the premiership after Mr. Shian was forced to resign.”

  A flurry of excited murmurs filled the room. Jehan smiled tightly, leaned forward, and pretended to clear his throat. “Thank you for the question,” he said, pulling the microphone towards him with steady hands.

  “Rajat Shian and I have had our differences, as I’m sure you’re all aware.” He raised an eyebrow, prompting some awkward laughter from the gathered audience. “And there are plenty of things he has done that I disagree with, and always will.

  “But, that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve known Mr. Shian since I was fifteen, and I can say with absolute certainty that never once in all that time have I known him to intentionally hurt or undermine any of his colleagues or subordinates, even when it might’ve been considered justifiable. He saw them – us – as an extension of his own family.

  “So to answer your question, no, I absolutely do not think that Rajat Shian had anything to do with what happened to Badal. Despite all his faults – and he has many – Mr. Shian never had anything but love and loyalty for his country and her people. And despite everything that’s happened between us in recent months, I’ve never once had reason to doubt that.”

  For a few seconds, there was absolute silence. You could’ve heard a pin drop. Then, everyone started talking at once, asking questions, making speculations, and demanding answers.

  Jehan let the bedlam continue for a minute, then raised a hand to get the room back under control. He looked over the crowd and pointed at a young man who’d been sitting quietly in the second to last row throughout the conference.

  The young man – barely more than a boy, probably an intern or trainee – looked surprised to be acknowledged and nearly jumped to his feet. Taking the microphone in his hand, he stuttered, then blushed and stuttered some more.

  Jehan smiled encouragingly at him, showing no signs of impatience. This, in turn, seemed to help him relax, and his stance became more confident, less anxious. “It’s rare to see such candid admiration between opposing factions in politics these days,” he said, his voice steady.

  “These are difficult times for our country, for a variety of reasons.” Jehan leaned forward, trying to look and sound sincere, earnest. Everything he wasn’t. If they’d never believed a word he said before, he needed them to believe him now. “And now, more than ever, we need to stand by the truth.

  “And the truth is that Rajat Shian’s one of the greatest leaders Naijan has ever had, despite the fact that circumstances had conspired to put him in a position he couldn’t control. But he was a strong and honest leader nonetheless, and right now, we’re running severely short of those.”

  “You did good out there.” Ruqaiya caught up with him moments before Jehan had exited the venue. They got into the car together, and she rolled up the screen separating the front of the vehicle from the back. “Touched on the La Fantome scandal, gave the press a gentle reminder without going overboard with it. Nicely done. All that remains is to see how Rinisa reacts.”

  Jehan hummed and retrieved a bottle from a pocket behind the front seat, drinking deeply. His throat was dry, but more importantly, he wasn’t in the mood to be poked, prodded, and psychoanalyzed by his deputy.

  “You know,” Ruqaiya continued, glancing out the window and ignoring Jehan’s silence. “The reporter who asked you that question…about Rajat.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her steal a quick glance at him. “I’ve never seen her before. And I know most reporters who’ve covered politics in Qayit for more than a few years, at least by face.”

  He shrugged. “She’s probably new. Wasn’t exactly polished, was she?”

  “Or subtle. Though I had a feeling you didn’t want her to be. People can be remarkably dense sometimes, and journalists are no exception. You have to hit them over the head with drama to make sure they got the point.”

  Jehan let his eyes widen in innocent surprise, his mouth dropping open. “Are you suggesting I planted her there?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. You’re the one doing all the suggesting. So you tell me.”

  “Okay. Fine. She’s a friend of mine.” He rolled his eyes. “What’s your point?”

  “I don’t have a point. Just a question. Why did you want to raise that topic today?”

  “Well, someone was bound to say it sooner or later.” He sagged into his seat and stared pensively out of the window. “I spent the entire press conference saying that someone was trying to frame me for Badal’s murder, that I was innocent.

  “And while that’s true enough, who has the most reason in the world to set me up, to want to see me ruined? In the eyes of the common man, who stands to benefit the most if I just happen to lose my position? Rajat, of course. He has every reason to hate me, and almost as much reason to hate Badal.”

  Ruqaiya nodded thoughtfully. “And so, if you preemptively say on national television, in front of a million cameras, that you trust Rajat with all your heart, the media would be less likely to go after him. Is that it?”

  “Partly. More importantly, if you do end up having to commission that pretty statue of my martyred self, Rajat would need to be reinstated as prime minister. And for that, he needs to be popular and trusted, and have a reasonably clean image, at the very least. He most certainly can’t be suspected of being a murderer.

  “Else, it’d create a power vacuum at the center; and the last thing this poor country needs is to end up with someone like Rinisa as PM. And of course, Maganti would like nothing better than to have a puppet ruler in Naijan.” He turned to her with a self-satisfied grin. “Plus, it had the added benefit of making me look good, for magnanimously supporting my fallen adversary.”

  “Talking to you is disconcerting,” she sighed, digging her phone out of her handbag. “I never know if I’m gonna get the altruistic visionary or the cutthroat opportunist. Or some bizarre combination of them both.”

  Chapter 12

  “You know, you’re gonna have to stop worrying about me at some point. You can’t spend the rest of the year tagging along with me to the university.” One hand resting on the steering wheel, Rito reached out to turn the dial of the car radio. Some generic pop song blasted out of the speakers, filling the car with it
s saccharine lyrics.

  Rito wasn’t much of a fan, but she hated it less than Abhi did. And irritating her brother as much as possible was her current mission. If he wouldn’t leave her alone, she would make damn sure every moment in her company made him want to pull his own hair out.

  A few seconds passed in uncomfortable silence. Then, Abhijat shifted on the passenger seat, turning to stare menacingly out the window. “I don’t trust those people. Dileep Haval had you jailed. And now you’re going back to work for his wife. How can I not be worried?”

  “It was a misunderstanding,” Rito said for what felt like the hundredth time that week, equally frustrated. She knew it wasn’t fair to get annoyed with her brother, particularly when she wasn’t telling him the whole truth. Had their positions been reversed, she’d have been worried sick too. Still, that didn’t make this entire situation any less frustrating.

  “Besides,” she said, trying to change the subject as they rolled to a stop at a red light. “Even you can’t deny that things are getting better. Yesterday’s press conference was honestly more than anything I’d expected. Papa was surprised too, I could tell.”

  Abhijat grunted. “He’s planning something. Why’d he have to drag Papa’s name into it anyway?”

  “He didn’t. That journalist did–”

  “He didn’t have to respond. He could’ve ignored her, moved on to the next question–”

  “Yeah, cause that would’ve looked so much better.” She rolled her eyes as the light turned green and they started inching forward through the traffic once again.

  “It’d have been less disingenuous.” He glanced at her through the corner of his eye. “If you really believe that Fasih meant what he said, Rito, you’re more gullible than I thought. This is the man who pretended to be friends with Papa, to respect and admire him, for years before he betrayed him without a second thought. Did everything in his power to destroy the man who’d made him who he was.

  “Everything he said at that conference was to further his own agenda, to make himself look magnanimous and loyal in front of the cameras. And to divert people’s attention away from the real issue at hand – Badal's murder. If you think for a second he wouldn’t throw Papa under the bus to save his own skin, you’re delusional.”

  “You think he did it?” Rito asked quietly after a moment’s pause, turning down the radio. “You think Fasih killed Badal?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he did,” he snapped, keeping his eyes trained on the traffic-clogged scenery outside. “I don’t trust that slippery bastard as far as I can throw him.”

  “You know,” she said mildly, turning left as the campus came into view. “Fasih isn’t that big of a guy. I daresay you could throw him far enough if you put your mind to it.”

  Abhijat’s phone buzzed. Out of the corner of her eye, Rito saw Ruqaiya’s name flashing on the screen. She glanced at her brother and raised an eyebrow.

  Abhi shrugged, received the call, and put the phone on speaker. “Qia?”

  “You two need to start preparing for the trip to Maralana, pronto. There’s no more time to lose.”

  They looked at each other, surprised. “How did you know I was planning to go to Maralana?” Rito asked.

  “How did you know I was with Rito?” Abhijat demanded at the same time, their voices drowning each other out.

  “It’s not rocket science,” Ruqaiya droned. “I know what time your sister leaves for work, I know what happened between her and Dileep Haval recently, and most importantly, I know you, Abhijat. Hence, I added paranoia and overprotectiveness to arrive at annoying chaperon.”

  Abhijat grunted. “And who told you my sister will be going to Maralana?”

  “A little birdie in an oversized cardigan. You’ll be going as part of the PM’s delegation, of course. And Dileep Haval has been invited personally by Maganti, as the new head of the Amven project. So Rito will enjoy every perk and facility as part of his group.” She sighed. “Though if you don’t want to go, Rito, if you’ve changed your mind, you have only to say the word. You have no obligation–”

  “I want to,” she cut her off, stealing a glance at Abhi. “I really want to go, okay? And it’s my decision to make. But more importantly, how’re you so sure Fasih will be able to leave the country? Wasn’t the guy who killed Badal swearing up and down that Fasih paid him to do it? I’d have thought there’d be an investigation.”

  “Keep an ear to the news,” Ruqaiya said cryptically. “This little mess will sort itself out soon enough.”

  Jehan had been inside Ruqaiya’s office before, but not since he’d wriggled his way into the premiership and asked her to be his deputy. It hadn’t changed much, from what he could see.

  It was still white, spotless, and vaguely intimidating. The large, ivory desk still stood at the center of the room, littered with the whimsically multi-colored writing pads.

  Ruqaiya pointed a remote at the flat-screen TV mounted on the opposite wall and pressed the power button. Jehan turned in his chair as the device flared to life.

  “How is it your office is so much nicer than mine?” he asked, his gaze fixed on the TV.

  “Cause I’m not in the habit of burning my workplace to the ground.”

  “Way to blame the victim.” He shook his head sadly. “So, what’s this meeting about?”

  Ruqaiya said nothing, just flicked through the channels until she found the one she was looking for. A handsome man in a gray blazer sat behind a desk, reading out the headlines of the day.

  “The guy they arrested for Badal’s murder has retracted his statement,” Ruqaiya said after a few seconds, as the news anchor moved on to the next story. “He now says he was forced into making a false confession.”

  “Who forced him?”

  “Says he doesn’t know. Apparently, his...clients never talked to him in person.”

  “Or they paid him well enough to induce selective amnesia. Either way, this should buy us the time we need. Rinisa’s backpedaling hard. We spooked her, alright.”

  “Which could be a double-edged sword, for all we know,” she said gravely. “You’ll have to be very careful once you get to Maralana.”

  Jehan batted his eyelashes. “Aww, Ruqaiya, are you saying you’re worried about me?”

  She rolled her eyes and rose from her seat, to pour him a steaming cup of his favorite tea. “I’m saying you don’t have a face that’ll look good carved in marble.”

  Grinning, he raised his cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

  Chapter 13

  Manganic, the capital of Maralana, was both larger and more densely populated than Qayit. Getting from the airport to the hotel seemed to take a lifetime, though whether it was because of the distance or the traffic, Abhijat couldn’t tell.

  He had never thought he’d miss the congested, bumper-to-bumper traffic of Qayit. And yet, the cars here seemed almost ready to climb onto one another in their rush to get ahead.

  Abhijat wasn’t a fan of megacities, but he’d pick Qayit over Manganic in a heartbeat, and it wasn’t just because it was the capital of his country.

  The relief after they reached their hotel was short-lived. A small welcome party had been organized in honor of the visiting dignitaries in the banquet hall. Many of the important players in Maralanese politics were present, as were most top government officials and ministers. Only President Maganti was conspicuous by his absence.

  Beautiful, carefully rendered replicas of famous Naijani artefacts featured prominently in the banquet hall. Fresh, fragrant flowers, arranged in the traditional styles of the five Naijani states adorned the walls. Somebody had put a lot of effort into wooing the Naijani delegates.

  Fasih fluttered from group to group, making conversation, cracking jokes, taking the measure of everyone present, all while looking distracted and slightly dazzled by the grandeur of their surroundings.

  Abhijat would’ve fallen for it, had he not had months of close proximity to study Fasih in all kinds of situations.
Right now, Fasih looked relaxed and nonchalant, ambling aimlessly about, laughing and talking to everyone who approached him.

  And yet, his eyes were keen and his smile a tad too bright, his expression far from the dazed and dreamy look he wore when truly at ease. He was prowling the perimeter, stalking potential prey, trying to pin down the easiest kill. Abhijat could feel it under his skin.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Abhijat watched Dileep and Sinya Haval enter the banquet hall, followed by Rito. A few other senior scientists from Haval’s team at the QRI had also arrived with them. His sister spotted him and broke away from the group, coming to stand beside Abhijat.

  “Having fun?” she asked, bumping her shoulder against his.

  “My dream vacation.”

  A tall, elegantly dressed woman in her fifties stepped through the massive doorway after the scientists. She was accompanied by a young woman who looked a lot like her, but couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.

  Outfitted in a long, bottle-green dress, her auburn hair swept up in a perfect chignon, she smiled and spoke pleasantly with all those around her. Abhijat couldn’t help but notice, though, that from the moment she set foot over the threshold, her sharp eyes had been following Fasih around the hall.

  Eventually, Fasih came forward, his hands outstretched, and the older woman moved in his direction to meet him halfway.

  “Madam Ivanovna!” he said, embracing her warmly just a few steps away from where Abhijat stood near the back of the room with Rito.

  “Jehan Fasih.” Her baritone rang through the room as she returned the hug enthusiastically. “It’s been a long time. You’re still just as handsome as I remember.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, Madam,” he smiled, wrapping one hand around the younger woman, who kissed him affectionately on the cheek. “You don’t look too shabby yourself.”

  He turned towards the Shians, one arm still wrapped around the younger woman, who wore an old-fashioned shrug over a simple silk dress. “Milli, meet Abhijat Shian, my head of security. And that’s Rito, his sister, and a brilliant young academic.”