The Fall Of House Farouk

Chapter 21 : Who Is Who Now?

Baek stood at the entrance of the living hall, feeling annoyed which was shown on his face. I blushed, completely forgetting that he might be back here after the call, which was awkward, especially when he's a big complainer about Bruce flirting with me. "Get a room, just get a room." he said. "I didn't bring my aviator sunglasses this time!" Bruce merely chuckled while I struggled to even say something, as I was completely embarrassed after being caught like this, even though Bruce was still my partner. "Sometimes... I prefer the cold forensic doctor persona, instead of a married woman which her partner still flirts with in public spaces." Baek added, walking away as he continued to mumble. 

"Looks like you've been busy during the two years." Bruce said. "I think that you're working as an actress."

"I needed something else to do, instead of... well... wasting my time in hating her." 

"Fair enough." Bruce said, raising his hands. 

"To be fair, I portrayed an icy forensic expert on screen in the police drama." 

"I've seen a tough cookie as an FBI professional, but an icy forensic expert? I'm intrigued."

"Well... the international broadcasting wasn't doing well so we had the series shown on local television channels, like The Queen's Guard." 

"Anyway, we should get back to the case." 

"Thanks, for that." I say, glaring at him and opening up the laptop once again. 

"Is there anyway you have digitised the dusty files you found in the Netherlands?" 

"No, not yet." I say. "I was thinking of it, but whatever happened at the Dutch-German border." 

"I guess we're back to basics." Bruce shrugged. 

"Just say archaic." I say. Tapping into the second file we caught a glimpse of a clipping of a Soviet newspaper report. "Grandfather was a whizz in translating Russian Cyrillic." 

"He was a man of many talents." Bruce mused. "I can guess that he was mostly the private tutor in the household." 

"Hungarian Dissident murdered in cold blood... Night of Terror in West Germany." I say, mentally translating the headline from Russian Cyrillic into English. "Otto Schfan. Political opponent of the Hungarian Worker's Party, defected in 1968 to West Germany and relocated to France. Found murdered outside a West German nightclub after reportedly saying to take a smoke, shot in the head, and twice in the arms. No sign of the assassin was found, bullets without markings, suspected Western influence in the killing to blame the Worker's Party for it."

"What a way to cover up what they did and blame it on the Western World at that time." 

"That's what we call a classic Soviet method of getting rid of political opponents and not letting the people find out that they did. People like this there were mostly disappeared, but did they ever have a haemorrhage of sorts... we don't know."

"Haemorrhage?" Bruce asked. 

"Um... a nice way of saying a gunshot to the head." I say, awkwardly. 

"Oh."

"You know, when I had to make a trip to Philadelphia to give that lecture, people still ask me that." 

"Not much surprised." Bruce said. "Your grandfather... he said some unpleasant things while you were away." hearing this, my brows knitted and stopped scrolling.

"What kind?"

"He said that you're not going to waste time..."

"On resolving the issue of why your son and I had a strained relationship?" I ask. 

That." 

"Bruce... I've told you." I say, turning to look at him in the eye. "It's not that I don't want to resolve. It's that I know that he has known her far longer than he... you get the picture. And I don't want to be painted as a controlling step... you know what? Just let him do what he wants, he's an adult, with at least some good judgement, hopefully." 

"I should've stopped it, if I was at the party." 

"And make a scene?" I say. "It's fine. At least when I saw it, I kept my sadness here." I say, a hand to my heart. "Nobody knows."

"Yes, but I know now." he said, feeling concerned. 

"Yeah, I know." I say, my voice soft. "But... let's focus on what we are now working on." The newspaper clipping disappeared after I pressed the close button and yet another report popped up. "Polish reformist leader leading in polls... assassinated in Krakow at the steps of Wawel Cathedral. Shot in the head, political radicals influenced by the West blamed for the attempt."

"Second murder so far." Bruce said, leaning forward. "Can you magnify the image on that?" he asked, pointing at the photograph where the leader was making a public speech on the front steps of the local government building. 

"I can, but I can't colourize it for you." I say. 

"It's fine, I need to see something." Printed in black and white it shows the building now known as the Polish Parliament Building. Here, the Polish reformist leader was giving a speech, standing behind a podium on the steps of the building. The photograph was captured mid-speech, with his back facing the camera as he faced the people gathered in front of him. "There, right-hand corner." Magnifying the picture now gave us a clear look at the crowd gathered in front of him. It was a typical crowd who came to hear their leader speak, but our gazes focused on a young man, standing behind a possibly Polish woman, wearing a blue headscarf. The man wore a fedora to conceal himself from the camera, but from this angle, however, he was unable to. His face had a grimace on it, and was a few shades darker due to the black-and-white aspect of the photo. His gaze was tense, fixated on one person, and one alone. "Suleiman. That's him." Bruce said, pointing at the man in the photograph. "When was this taken?" 

"18th February." I say, cross-referencing the article. "The assassination happened on the 24th, you mean..." 

"He was there, observing his next target." Bruce concluded. "Was it Suleiman? Or was it Ataturk's job?" 

"It could be both." I say. "Assassins can create or be given an alternative identity to disappear into the streets and blend in with the common people, especially government-hired assassins for doing their dirty work." 

"How far is Suleiman... Suleiman?" Bruce asked, questioning himself.