The Secret Code

thriller stories in English on WordsAllMine

Synopsis: One of the thriller stories in English . 

Cold air emanated from the air conditioning vents of the comfortable mid-sized car. I breathed it intently as if taking a refreshing drink in the morning. My perfect persona dazzled in the rear view mirror which was another reason for added complacency. Yet, many things were supposedly aligned to become an inseparable part of my memory. I got down at the hotel to welcome them with keen eyes and empty mind.

My hard efforts couldn’t keep me from getting nervous during the security check. But the elegant black gown and apt make-up braced me in the best possible way. The security maneuvered me towards the hall where I could feel the cold chill returning. It was colder than what I experienced inside the car but in an unpleasant way. I felt like a part of closed electric circuit where the earth’s minuscule current was travelling up my body through the feet, and leaving away with an imperceptible shiver.

It was a big day and a special place. The faces were foreign with fixed smiles embedded on them. Averting my gaze, I crossed the hall stealthily and walked the corridor which led to ‘Clove’, the dining area. The odors of ginger, cinnamon, cheese, capsicum, pizza, cookies, fruits and different kinds of beverages were deliciously fused to pamper my nostrils. I reached a table and looked around when my anxiety took a leap on seeing the fair complexioned middle-aged man with sharp jaw line. His grey Linen Shirt and black trousers was class. Those blue eyes, a rarity for an Indian, exuded a mystery which would glimmer with his candid smile. He took quick steps and stopped a foot away from me. He smelled of Sweet Turkish rose with tinge of camomile, and castoreum. It is a vintage perfume which works as an aphrodisiac for both sexes. We shook hands while he kept holding my hand for unusually long. I slipped it nervously from his grip.

“Wine, sweet hallucinating red wine. How can you be?” His gesture was outlandish for an official meeting but any quick judgment about the one who has shown faith in your capabilities feels even worse than an offence. I acknowledged him with a smile as he offered me to sit.

The ambience was classy, suiting the standard of a five star setting. Adequately lit, adorned with abstract paintings on white walls and the controlled hustle of rich conglomerates. My roving gaze was soon interrupted by the arrival of a waitress who stood for an order after pouring water in our glasses. I asked for a watermelon juice while the man ordered himself a red wine. He sounded slightly tipsy. His blue eyes said it better while the tattoo of Horus on his right wrist bespoke of dominance. He smiled and looked back into my eyes which carried an unwavering hope to get a break in my dream career of Journalism. But the ethereal connection broke when his impish gaze started sliding down my body. My anxiety touched level two.

His blue eyes stopped at the floor and the characteristic smile faded when he asked me about my work profile. I sighed at this unexpected flip and briefed him about how far I have come and how farther I plan to go in the realm of journalism.

My fascination reveled in interviewing the criminals and unwinding the reasons behind their morbid stance. I had so far covered the stories with thieves and small town muggers, who had their fancies met by petty trespasses. I also interviewed common people about their perception towards criminal origin.

The smile returning on the man’s face hinted me of my first impression having boded well.

“I don’t have offerings for crime stories, but there’s a story about scientific research. A team of 5 IITians has invented a color therapy method to enhance the learning ability of mind by 30 percent. If you like to…”

“I won’t be able to do that story.” I snapped.

His mischievous eyes played around for a few seconds and he replied,” I like your style. So early, you are talking like a journalist.”

To hear the felicitating words from the Creative Director of one of the renowned TV channels was an unaccountable feat. But, I put a tight rein on myself not to be carried away by awe.

By the time, the breakfast got over, I was overwhelmed by the tokens of advice he had been whole heartedly showering upon me about the training methodologies. But his gaze kept piercing through my eyes. They were constantly expressing something which never correlated with his words.

“Let’s go to the VIP Hub.” He said as he wiped off the reminiscent wine from his lips.

VIP Hub! I wondered about the decision of walking with a complete stranger into an unknown zone.  My questioning glance lucidly hinted my discomfort. But next I saw him rising from his chair.

Being unbeknownst about the way, I preferred to walk behind him. But for some anomalous reason, the waitress, the liftman and later the lounge service staff greeted me with unnatural warmth. As we walked to the lift, he asked in a feathery tone, “Are you seeing someone?”

“No” was my spontaneous reply.

“How come not…”His smile turned weird.”A girl like you?”

“Well I guess, I am hard to appease.” His glance touched down the floor in contemplation.

“Anyways, you must have come with your wife.” I managed the question with little hesitation just as we stepped out of the elevator.

“We are no more together.” I felt sorry for his broken relationship. But let’s not overlook the bitter reality, I wondered. It takes a huge cost to be an international interviewer, a celebrity with over a billion reviews and a million followers over the internet. Only once a while, a person having got tired of his frenetic lifestyle may want to have few moments of pleasure.

I once again chided myself for extreme percipience.

The gloomy corridor was an empty curve running between the rooms that were closed. Only those erotic paintings with irrational contours in red-orange hues that hung on the white walls had a quality of voice that reverberated inaudibly through the gloom.

I could anticipate the fate of my chosen track. His resonating descent sounded like the voice of his boiling desperation. I had to be vigil in order to run at the anticipation of trouble.

He stopped by a room at the end of the pathway. The corner was deserted except the scant service bowing down to his command.

There’s no escape. I fidgeted with trepidation as he opened the door holding my hand in light grip.

But the view affront redeemed me from my fear. Indeed, a lounge invited us with coffee table fenced with comfortable sofas. On one side was a small tea counter where a service staff of two or three people was preparing snacks in rotational shifts. The lounge was empty with only tinkling sounds of porcelain cups and silver spoons. On the other side was a window wall of glass, a portal to the outside world basking cheerfully under the sun’s warmth.

He took me towards the end of the room. Making me sit in the sofa, he walked towards the window and murmured, “I love this place, silent and peaceful where two people can talk freely.” This time, his blue eyes were shining like Topaz by the glimmer coming from the window. I feigned a hesitant smile and pretended to be busy in my phone.

Indeed, it was a comfortable sitting for someone who wants to write, paint, meditate, prepare a presentation or make love. I chided myself for even thinking about the last possibility.

He came towards the adjacent sofa and placed his laptop on the table. After setting his bag on the sofa, he headed to the washroom with a T-shirt in his hand .

I stopped fiddling with my phone and looked around to once again check for safety. The waiters kept entering and leaving the cafe with no interest in the sitting.

Soon, the man returned in the grey T-shirt with his black hair gotten disheveled in the process. He hung his shirt carefully behind the sofa and started to work in his laptop.

His biceps were clearly the carving of his workout regime. His arms with a light dusting of hair appeared masculine whenever the perceptible veins would dance with the tapping of his fingers on laptop.

I lit a cigarette savoring the view of the handsome man working busily.

“You are different from other girls. I know that since our first encounter.” He said after sometime. “It was a painting exhibition last year hosted by me. You barged into my conference room midst of my presentation. How can I forget that longing I saw in your eyes. How I wished it were for me. But damn camera! I started envying that camera of mine afterwards.” Mild laughter played across his lips.

“I am so sorry to spoil your meeting that day. My camera got broken while I was doing interviews. Thanks for saving me by lending yours.”

“After the meeting, I observed you taking interviews. Your enthusiasm impressed me.”

“And later at night, when I returned your camera, your wife seemed like she would murder me right there”.

Suddenly, his giggle was taken over by an icy glint.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to..”

“Don’t be. I am good to be free. You should marry someone from the same profession. Are you really not seeing anyone?”

I snubbed my cigarette in the ashtray. It was getting quite suffocating.

I had come for a different purpose which was more important than the tingles we both were feeling in a cozy setting. 5 years of my herculean efforts at journalism had come down to this very opportunity to be recognized by a legend for my work.

I fished out my phone once more and showed him one of my best interviews.

He watched it intently, but his expression was nondescript. As soon as it ended, he rejoined brusquely, “Angle is incorrect. Light is so dim. Enough is with this misaligned narration and vague story line! Try to cover something new, challenging.”

I knew I didn’t have a chance. It seemed to be a place where people who appear to be generous, crumble down the efforts of a newbie under the weight of sheer mockery.

“I should go.”

“Why?” His voice was a confused murmur of frustration mingled with desperation.

“To find something new and challenging”. I snapped.

He laughed and held my hand while getting on his feet.

“Before I help you, I want us to know more about each other.” His hand lingering on my wrist gave me goosebumps. The touch was hallucinating, setting my breath at a higher pace. His cologne was an intoxicating inhalation of wine lees and perigord truffles, the aperitif of a royal banquet with smell of indulgence. The olfactory conspiracy reeled me back into the sofa.

He asked me about my hobbies, my past relationships, my future plans, my interests and dislikes. The conversation was candid. I seldom had dived into my narrowly dark corridors. For years, I had not talked to anyone about these small casual things of life, which now I realized were indeed an important part. But then, he touched upon a very peculiar question.

“Have you ever escaped a close death”?

I realized the conversation rising up to an interesting level. To escape a near death is an intimate encounter with death itself, an experience of other-worldliness. I lit another cigarette when a recent sea diving experience at Devil’s caves in Florida sprang to memory. Had my oxygen mask slipped off in the dark valley, the water would gush into my lungs giving me no time to escape. I would be dead in seconds.

His shrill laughter was a kick in the guts. But I was curious to hear about his experience. In a keen voice, astounded eyes, he began to recount as if it were still happening before him.

“I belong to Kashmir’s Baramulla district, which is vulnerable to terrorist attacks and militant subjugations. I visit my parents there once a year as I did few days ago. It was my five day excursion midst of which I had to visit my company’s headquarters in Srinagar, 37 miles away from my home. An official cab was arranged for me and four of my colleagues. But that day, mom didn’t wake me up on time. She might have forgotten, I thought with exasperation. In few minutes, the city went on high alert and news channels were strewn with the news of a bomb blast. Eighteen people were killed and sixty six were gravely injured in the blast on main Srinagar road used by government officials, including Chief Minister Al Qusheer Sayeed, whose residence was a mile away. The cab which I was supposed to board was blown off rendering two of my friends mutilated.

A massacre lasted for many weeks in which hundreds of civilians, mistaken as terrorists were killed by agitated army troops.  The tragic incident kept me in shock for several days. I flinched at the sight of my injured friends who lost their limbs. And the very possibility of me being one of them sent tremors through my body. The news reports related to this blast were forged. But I, compelled by my inner turmoil more than my profession, did my personal research on the whole matter. I used one of my contacts to wheedle out confidential information about those people and their mission. It was a conspiracy by terrorist group headed by Mufti Qublaq to remove the law enforcement officer from their territory followed by separatist-linked violence in Kashmir.”

I kept stunned for few minutes not knowing how to react to this. The tears suspended in his eyes were the traces of his repressed melancholy.

“It can be a great story.” I knew that I was being a mean journalist rather than a concerned friend.

“Yes, it is a fresh one waiting to be unraveled by these sultry lips.” I felt the heat rising up in my body once again. My emotions had become the instrument of his shifting moods playing with my senses.

He handed over me a thick file folder and said, “This is the researched data I was talking about. A small present for the girl I admire.”

I was taken over by the biggest surprise of my life. But the question which started haunting me was why on Earth a celebrated journalist would hand over the denouement of his extensive hard work to a new comer like me..

The waiter came over to our table for an order. The man looked at me for response while I was lost in delirium.

“Two black coffee with brown sugar “.

“Black coffee?” I asked the waiter to serve me lemon juice instead. But the man with superlative influence said to me, “I know what’s good for you. Stop smoking and feel the instant effect of coffee on your tired nerves.”

I snubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray once again, wondering why he was behaving like my father.

The coffee was brewing hot. And its smell haunted my sinuses. At one sip, I felt like throwing up while the tilted position of his cup implied it was already half emptied. His eyes were looking into mine over the cup. I finished the acerbic drink in small daring sips. He was right. Black coffee works. I wondered at the rush of adrenaline in my veins. My mind was refreshed as if nothing had happened back in the day. I smiled back at him but he now seemed to be a blurred figure, still smiling. The tears in his eyes started flowing. It appeared like a painting with fresh colors being washed by a shower. My mind was wobbling. I fell down and stretched my hands for help, but couldn’t feel his touch. Whether it was him getting fainter or my vision, it was difficult to comprehend. But his smiling face came close to mine and whispered meekly in my ears amid the rattling noise of the crockery, “Don’t forget, Red Wine…” And then my vision blanked out completely reserving the abstruse image of his tear laden face.

“Madam! There’s an urgent call from a style magazine.” The sudden voice of my secretary broke the chain of my thoughts about the mysterious man who changed everything in my life in his own way. I asked my secretary to transfer the call on my phone.

“Ms. Faeezah! The rights for Red Wine. What price would you like?”

“Red wine is not for auction.”

I took a sip of black coffee savoring the bright panorama of the city from the wall window of my office. The blue haze seems to be emanating from his blue eyes. The bitter drink carries his flavor. His last words keep echoing in his same powerful voice. His fragrance of Sweet Turkish Rose is enough to set me reeling. Having unraveled the story of his death along with other killings in the name of Red Wine, I suffer from vertigo every other day when he comes close to tickle my senses just as he did in the hotel Lounge, the place which was always empty.

Want to read similar topic (Thriller stories in English )? Go to Story: Trapped

Read Thriller stories in English at Stories

Join me on my facebook page