The Brightest Fell Page 9

“Rito says something amazing has happened. Followed by twenty heart-eye emojis.”

  Ruqaiya laughed. “Okay, now I’m interested!”

  He swiped the call icon and put the phone on speaker, setting the device on the table between them.

  It had barely rung twice before his sister’s excited voice filled their booth, “Oh my God, Abhi, you’ll never believe what’s happened!”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t. Your brother has no imagination,” Ruqaiya said, popping another olive into her mouth. “But I would. So spill.”

  Rito chuckled. “Qia! Just the girl I wanted! You know about Professor Sinya Haval of Qayit University, don’t you?”

  Ruqaiya frowned and tilted her head to one side. “Head of Department, Comparative Literature. Straight brown hair, crooked nose, slightly horsey face. That’s the one, right? She kept appearing on all the primetime debates trashing our government. Trashed the Opposition even worse, though,” she grinned. “So that’s okay.”

  “Yup, that’s the one. Thought you’d know her. Anyway, guess what! She wants me to come work for her. At the University! Said they have a few research slots open and that she needs a new TA asap! Apparently, Professor Ishika told her I’d be in the city for the foreseeable future, and she thinks I’d be a good candidate for the job. I just got back from the interview.”

  Ruqaiya whistled. “Well, talk about serendipity! When do you start?”

  “In a week. God Abhi, everything’s gonna be okay. We can just tell Papa I transferred to Qayit University to be closer to you guys. He never has to know!”

  Abhijat frowned. “We could, but...”

  “She’s read my work, did you know? Some of the stuff I published back in Weritlan. Really read it, I mean. She quoted some of the lines to me during the interview. Said it was impressive. Fuck. I can’t believe Sinya Haval told me my work was impressive!”

  Ruqaiya laughed. “And if you’re done fangirling over your future boss, how about you take us out to dinner tonight? You can tell us more about her amazingness over something suitably high-calorie.”

  “Almost too good to be true, isn’t it?” Ruqaiya said, after they ordered dessert. “God! Meetings always make me so hungry.”

  “So she’s a big deal, huh? This Sinya Haval. I’ve heard Rito talk about her a couple of times before now. Apparently, she’s written some books or something. Never knew she was involved in politics, though.”

  “She isn’t. Not really. More like the typical college activist. The talking heads on TV like her ‘cause she’s got a way with words. Always pithy and snazzy. Eloquent in a debate. That sort of thing. Never been involved in anything more serious than a student rally, though. As far as I know, anyway. Just look her up if you want details, although Rito mightn’t be happy with you prying into her business.”

  Abhijat grabbed his phone and grunted, flicking the browser open. “She’s my little sister. Her business is my business.”

  Ruqaiya whistled, squinting at his cell phone. “Impressive. I can see why your sister is excited to be working for her. Doesn’t look like there’s an award she hasn’t won, does it?”

  “Or an academic journal she hasn’t been published in,” Abhijat added, a note of pride creeping into his voice. “Working for Haval would be good for her career, I suppose.”

  “And she doesn’t look as horsey when she’s not spouting venom about our administration on national TV. Quite pretty, if I do say so myself. Still has the broken nose, though. Wonder where she got that from...”

  “For God’s sake, Qia, stop playing matchmaker with my sister. This woman is at least ten years older than Rito.”

  “Pah. I’d bet money she isn’t a day over 32. Besides, she’d be a step-up over that last one if she was seventy.”

  “Not if she’s married. Which she is. Look,” Abhijat scrolled down and held the phone up for Ruqaiya to see. “Some chemist guy. Works at the QRI. Dileep Haval. Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “Fuck.” Ruqaiya snatched the phone from Abhijat.

  “What?”

  “Dileep Haval. Damn. Why didn’t I think of that before? Of course. That makes perfect sense.”

  “It really doesn’t,” Abhijat assured her.

  She looked at him sharply, as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Oh. I...” she sighed. “I suppose I might as well tell you. Knowing you, you won’t let this go until you’ve gotten to the bottom of it anyway.

  “Dileep Haval was Jehan’s partner at the QRI. They worked together on the Amven project for...I don’t know...a decade at the very least. He’s one of the senior-most researchers working on the project now. I think he replaced Jehan as lead scientist when this whole mess started.”

  “So this professor is the wife of one of Fasih’s former colleagues?”

  Ruqaiya laughed. “More like one of his closest friends. Those two had been attached at the hip almost since the day Jehan joined the QRI. They rose through the ranks together. Some of the key developments in the Amven project have been attributed to Haval. Jehan might’ve pioneered the idea and created the original prototype, but from what I understand, the modern incarnation of the Amven drug wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for Dileep Haval.”

  Thoughts flew through Abhijat’s head, making him dizzy. He pulled up a picture of Haval on his phone and scanned his memory for any recollection. “I don’t remember seeing him at the press conference Fasih called, about being forced to do the clinical trials. Or anywhere else in his vicinity, for that matter. I’m sure he wasn’t at the swearing-in ceremony.”

  “He wasn’t. Less than a week before Jehan went public with his allegations against the government, at that goddamned press conference, as you say, those two had a dramatic – and very public – falling out. We’re talking a full-blown shouting match on campus; almost came to blows. In full view of hundreds of students and interns and their handy smartphone cameras and recorders. Just in case anyone missed it.”

  “You think it was staged.” It was more a statement than a question.

  Ruqaiya shrugged. “I just think it was…exceptional timing. I mean, nobody’s sure about the exact details of the disagreement. Nobody that I’ve talked to, anyway. There’re rumors galore, but no one can say for certain what exactly it was that they fought over.

  “Still, the upshot of that – very public – row was that Dileep Haval was in no way involved in the scandal that followed.

  “Jehan got some of his colleagues at the Institute to back him up at the press conference and corroborate his claims. Ordinarily, Haval’s presence would’ve been expected at an event like that, considering that he was essentially Jehan’s second-in-command. The one person who knew the most about the Amven project, apart from Jehan himself.

  “He would have been interrogated by the media and dragged through the same shitstorm we all went through in those weeks. But he wasn’t. He stayed out of the media hype and maintained his neutrality throughout the whole sordid episode.

  “Didn’t support Jehan, didn’t denounce him. Stayed quiet as a mouse and most importantly, didn’t publicly take a stance or pick a side in the conflict between Jehan and your father. Because of course, he couldn’t be expected to have an objective opinion after what’d happened between him and his former friend.”

  “And now his wife wants to give Rito a job in her department…as her TA…” Abhijat muttered.

  “Because she thinks your sister is the best candidate for the position, or because she’s the easiest way for Jehan Fasih to gain some more leverage over the Shian family?”

  “Damn that bastard!” Abhijat stood, strode over to the glass wall on the other side of the restaurant, then back to their table. A waitress rushed over to ask if they needed anything, if there was anything she could do. He shook his head and forced himself to sit back down across from Ruqaiya. “I can’t tell her,” he said at last, taking his head into his hands. “Not unless I’m completely sure. It’d break her heart, Qia. And after everything she’s been thro
ugh. I can’t!”

  “And I don’t think you should,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “At least not until we know for sure what’s going on. Hell, for all we know, Sinya Haval probably just really liked your sister’s take on imagism and surrealism in the works of 18th century avant garde poets.”

  Abhijat scowled. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Everything, my boy,” Ruqaiya laughed, impaling a piece of pie with her fork. “Everything.”

  Chapter 6

  The sun had set moments ago, leaving the sky tinged with shades of red, orange, and copper. The courtyard of the Parliament House almost glowed in the fading sunlight, resplendent with colorful flowers and panoramic greenery. On any other day, Abhijat would have enjoyed his routine walk through the grounds.

  Yet, all he could think of was yesterday’s dinner. Rito’s laughter and her contagious excitement, as she told them about her new job at the university. The way she had raved about Sinya Haval and her books. The plans she had made about surprising their parents with the news. And the baffled disappointment in her eyes when he had failed to share in her joy.

  He’d told her he had a headache, but he could tell she didn’t believe him. Not really. Rito always knew when he was lying; not that he was a very good liar to begin with. He could see her trying to cover up the hurt in her eyes as she joked with the waiters and discussed her plans with Ruqaiya.

  And throughout the evening, he bit his tongue to keep himself from telling her the truth. But the one thing that was more intolerable than the thought of Rito being angry with him, was that of her feeling defeated, feeling like a failure.

  And so, he had kept his mouth shut and done his best to share in his sister’s happiness. And he still wasn’t sure if he’d made the right choice.

  He rounded the corner into the front yard. A man dressed in orange and black detached himself from a group of similarly dressed workers and approached him.

  “We’re done for the day,” he said, nodding at Abhijat. He was broad shouldered, wore a thick moustache, and was almost as tall as Abhijat. He held a black cap in his large, callused hands, attached to thick forearms with more than a few scars on them. “We’ll be back tomorrow to check if any of the new pipes are causing trouble. But apart from that, the work is almost over.”

  Abhijat nodded, and accompanied him to his truck. All their gear had already been packed into the back, and some of the crew members were taking off their overalls before jumping into the vehicle.

  “No trouble, I hope,” Abhijat said, more out of politeness than real curiosity.

  Every six months, the pipes were cleaned and any minor damages repaired. The work had been going on for the past week, and by now Abhijat knew most of the plumbing crew by face, if not by name.

  The man assured him that everything was in order, put on his cap, and jumped in beside the driver. The truck rumbled to life, lurched forward, and rounded the corner towards the exit gates.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Abhijat saw a flickering brightness in one of the second floor windows. He turned. An orange and gold light flared in the balcony of the Prime Minister’s office.

  Abhijat darted up the four flights of stairs to the second floor, taking the steps two at a time. An acrid smell filled his nostrils as soon as he reached the second-floor landing. He kept moving, his lungs burning with the lack of oxygen.

  The passage leading up to his father’s old office was filled with smoke. He dashed up to the doorway and reached, instinctively, to turn the brass doorknob –

  And recoiled, blisters forming on the skin of his palm as a cry escaped his lips.

  He cursed, then tried kicking the door in. The sturdy fiberglass panel refused to budge. “Fuck,” he snarled, smoke filling his lungs even as he stood helplessly outside the chamber.

  Preparing himself for the impact, Abhijat sucked in a deep breath and threw himself, shoulder-first, against the door. It creaked, but remained firmly shut. He took a step back and repeated the process, throwing his full weight against the door. This time, it creaked and moved slightly backwards.

  Acrid fumes filled his lungs, choking him and making his eyes water. For a fleeting second, he considered backing away, getting to the safety of the ground floor and calling for help. He could barely breathe out here. What would it be like inside? He wouldn’t be doing Fasih any favors by burning to death alongside him.

  And yet, had things been different – normal – it would have been his father inside the office.

  “Third time’s the charm,” he muttered, and careened into the door one last time. It flew open, causing him to bang his head painfully against the reinforced fiberglass. He groaned. “Damnit!”

  The smoke-filled chamber was dark and suffocating, with occasional flashes of fiery brightness that blinded him and made it harder to see. The curtains near the back were on fire, as was most of the carpet, making it look as though half the floor was burning. An ember singed the bottom of his boot, burning through the leather and causing a scalding pain to shoot through his foot.

  The lights had gone out and there was smoke everywhere. His eyes watered incessantly, further clouding his vision. Abhijat thanked the stars for those miserable weeks of high-altitude training, which was the only reason he hadn’t yet collapsed from the lack of oxygen.

  Dizzy, breathless, and in pain, he stumbled forward, trying to avoid the flames and the smoking remnants of what had once been expensive furniture.

  Precious seconds passed before his stinging eyes landed on Fasih. The Prime Minister had collapsed face-first on his desk, his inky hair staining the polished tabletop, which was thankfully yet to catch fire.

  Stepping over smoking debris, Abhijat closed the distance between them and pulled Fasih up by the scruff of his neck. He was pale, his face whiter than usual and his lips chapped and blue. He wasn’t breathing.

  “Goddammit!” he muttered, pulling Fasih unceremoniously off the chair and into his arms. He wasn’t heavy, and ordinarily Abhijat could have carried him without breaking a sweat. He didn’t ordinarily have burned feet and lungs full of smoke, however.

  Staggering under the added weight, he inched towards the door. Something creaked, and a section of the plaster fell off the back wall.

  Abhijat whirled, forgetting for a second that he was carrying a comatose Prime Minister in his arms. Swaying slightly, he took a step back, trying to find his balance without dropping Fasih, and promptly stepped on a splintered piece of smoldering wood.

  His vision swam as he cursed a blue streak, his knees threatening to buckle. He was losing air he couldn’t afford to lose, yet it hurt to breathe, like a million hot pins were stabbing his lungs. His throat itched, but coughing made him choke, which only made the pain worse.

  Every fiber of his being screamed at him to let Fasih go and make a run for it. What good would it do for both of them to die in this inferno?

  Rito’s face flashed before his eyes. What would she say? And his parents? He wondered incoherently if they would miss him. He wondered if he would want them to.

  His feet moved, almost of their own accord, towards the still-open door. Towards the light which promised fresh air and an escape from the searing pain in his chest.

  Seconds before he’d reached the doorway, a grinding noise made him pause. He looked up. One of the wooden cupboards near the door was aflame. It burned with an orange and gold flame which sent sparks flying in every direction. They singed Abhijat’s face, even as he closed his eyes to keep them from blinding him.

  There was another piercing screech and the cupboard collapsed, the top half falling across the doorway, still aflame.

  Abhijat staggered back, his vision clouding over. He wasn’t sure if it was the sweat, the tears, or just the lack of oxygen. He looked back. The flames had eaten their way through most of the carpet and were moving incessantly forward, towards them.

  In front of him, the heat from the burning cupboard made his skin prickle. He coughed, inhaling more
smoke and retching into the fire, even as his ribs tried to crawl out of his body along with his lungs.

  There was no way in hell he was going to be able to jump over the burning cupboard – not with Fasih in his arms. Trying it would be a death sentence for both of them. And yet, there was no other way out.

  Waiting for the cupboard to burn down wasn’t an option. The chamber was full of wooden furniture and other flammable knickknacks waiting to catch fire. And even if they didn’t get burned to a crisp by then, they certainly would die of smoke inhalation.

  Part of him wasn’t even sure if Fasih was still alive. And he had neither the energy nor the desire to check for a pulse.

  He took a hesitant step forward, then jumped back with an aborted cry. It was too hot, and the embers flying around the blazing cupboard stung him.

  His legs were shaking, and he could feel the dizziness getting worse. He’d end up killing both of them if he didn’t act, and act quickly.

  Closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath. Well, nobody could say he hadn’t tried. And a concussion was better than third degree burns anyway. His arms shaking under the strain, he lifted Fasih’s prone form as high as he could manage and, with a strangled groan, threw him across the doorway, over the flaming cupboard, and into the safety of the corridor outside.

  Something cackled behind him and a gust of smoke filled his lungs. The carpet was almost gone and a part of the large mahogany desk had caught fire. The advancing flames were less than a foot away.

  He took a step back, further closing the distance, his heel barely an inch from the fire. Parting his lips, he inhaled deeply one last time, closed his eyes, and leaped.

  The moment his feet touched the ground again, his knees buckled and he collapsed. He wondered if he had made it out of the office, but he was too tired to open his eyes and see.

  The stench of antiseptics assaulting his nostrils was the first thing Abhijat noticed. The second was that he was surrounded by various shades of white, blue, and purple. His body ached, but the pain was muted and distant, held at bay by some cocktail of drugs he was simultaneously thankful for and annoyed about. He had never been a fan of painkillers.