“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.”

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“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 through. 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.”