Chapter 14: Flames licked at the night sky as Amartya watched his burning shop, Hassan panting beside him—'The Al-Mansours did this,' he hissed, to which Amartya calmly replied, 'Then we’ll take their warehouses, their docks, and their dignity before dawn.'
The news arrived on a Tuesday, packaged in the sterile language of a diplomatic cable. It came not to Dev’s office, but to the External Affairs Ministry, was vetted by three deputies, and then, with the weight of a death sentence, placed on the King’s desk.
Unverified reporting from regional assets indicates high probability of fatality. Subject A. Agnihotri believed caught in crossfire between local militias in Al-Zubayr district, south of Basra. No body recovered. Scenario assessment: 94% likelihood of death.
Dev read it once. Then again. The words didn’t change. He felt nothing. A total, white-noise emptiness. Then, a physical punch to the gut that forced him to brace against the polished wood. He didn’t cry. He became very still, very cold. Protocol took over. He had to tell Rukmini.
He found her in the greenhouse, pruning orchids. She saw his face and the silver shears slipped from her fingers, clipping the edge of a pot before clattering to the tile.
“No,” she said, before he could speak. A simple, flat denial.
He just held out the paper. She took it, her hands dry and steady. She read it slowly, her lips moving faintly over the bureaucratic phrases. “Believed caught. No body recovered.” She looked up, her eyes blazing with a ferocious, wild hope. “See? They don’t know.”
“Rukmini—”
“They don’t know, Dev!” she shouted, the sound tearing through the humid, quiet air. The paper shook in her hands. “He’s clever. He’s a survivor. This is a mistake.”
But the fight drained from her as she stared at her husband’s expression, the utter devastation he was trying, and failing, to armor with duty. The sheen of stubborn hope shattered. Her knees buckled. Dev caught her, lowering them both to the warm tiles amidst the lush, indifferent greenery. She didn’t sob. She let out a single, hoarse sound of animal pain and then buried her face in his shoulder, her body shaking with silent, seismic tremors. He held her, his own tears falling silently into her hair. The perfect, held-breath grief of the past year collapsed into the final, suffocating certainty of loss.
Tara heard it from a weeping maid, the rumor swirling through the palace staff like poison gas. She locked the door of her suite. She didn’t cry. She stared at her reflection, her face a pale, sharp mask. Then she picked up a crystal perfume bottle from her vanity and hurled it at the mirror. The crash was spectacular, a web of fractures exploding outwards, splintering her image into a dozen distorted pieces. She stared at the broken glass, breathing hard. He couldn’t be. He was hers to find, to save, to own. This was an impossibility. A world without Amartya was not a world she recognized, or wanted.
She packed her bag that night. The decision was calm, clear, and insane. If there was no body, there was proof. And she would find it.
Three months later, in Basra, the proof was very much alive.
City Hall was an ugly, Soviet-era block, but the office of the Municipal Minister for Commerce and Urban Development was now a sanctuary of modern power. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Shatt al-Arab. The furniture was low, sleek, and expensive. Amartya stood at the window, his back to the room, wearing a tailored navy suit. The middle-part was perfect. He’d just adjourned a meeting about sewage lines for the new eastern quarter.
Hassan, now his chief aide, closed the door. “The appropriations bill passed. Al-Mansour delivered his bloc.”
“And his cousin?”
“Resigned. Citing health reasons.”
A small, satisfied nod. Amartya’s rise hadn’t been a campaign. It had been an assimilation. He’d solved problems—a strike here, a funding gap there, always leveraging his network of shops and informants. He made powerful men richer and their lives easier. When a seat on the municipal council opened, they’d suggested his name. It was quieter that way. Less democratic, more permanent. The ministerial appointment followed like the next logical step. He was a utility. Young, connected, impressively pragmatic. The story they told was of a self-made Indian businessman investing in Basra’s future. The truth was colder, sharper.
The truth was also in the penthouse apartment he owned two blocks from City Hall. It was stark, all white surfaces and dramatic lighting. It held no personal effects, no photographs. It served one purpose.
Tonight, it was Laila. Or maybe Nadia. He didn’t always remember their names. They were beautiful, meticulously curated. A mix of local students and expatriates drawn by the money, the power, the dangerous charm he wore so casually. He provided discretion, generous “gifts,” and an intoxicating proximity to influence. They provided oblivion.
“You’re thinking again,” the girl tonight murmured against his shoulder later. Her skin was damp, the sheets tangled. The air smelled of sex and expensive air conditioning. “Even now.”
He didn’t look at her. He was