SidNaaz: Worst Betrayal Ever?

Interview

Irfan Siddiqui glanced up, his attention drawn by the sound of swift footsteps across his presidential office. Lounging back in his maroon leather swivel chair he studied the vice-president who was walking toward him. "Well?" he said impatiently.

"Have they announced who the low bidder is?"The vice-president leaned his clenched fists on the polished surface of Irfan's mahogany desk. "SFK Corp was the low bidder," he spat out. "National Motors is giving him the contract to provide all the radios for the cars they manufacture, because Sidharth Khan beats our price by a lousy thirty thousand rupees." He drew in a furious breath and expelled it in a hiss.

"That bas***d won a five crore contract away from us by cutting our price a fraction of point one percent!"

Only the slight hardening of Irfan Siddiqui's aristocratic jawline betrayed the anger rolling inside him as he said, "That's the fourth time in a year that he's won a major contract away from us. Quite a coincidence, isn't it?"

"Coincidence!" the vice-president repeated. "It's no damn coincidence and you know it, Irfan! Someone in my division is on Sidharth Khan's payroll. Some bas***d must be spying on us, discovering the amount that goes into our sealed bid, then feeding the information to Khan so that he can undercut us by a few rupees. Only six men who work for me knew the amount we were going to bid on this job; one of those six men is our spy."

Irfan leaned farther into his chair until his silvered hair touched the high leather back. "You've had security investigations made on all six of those men, and all we learned was that three of them are cheating on their wives."

"Look Irfan, I realize Khan is your stepson, but you're going to have to do something to stop him. He's out to destroy you."

Irfan Siddiqui's eyes turned icy. "I have never acknowledged him as my 'stepson,' nor does my wife acknowledge him as her son. Now, precisely what do you propose I do to stop him?"

"Put a spy of your own in his company, find out who his contact here is. I don't care what you do, but for God's sake, do something!"

Irfan's reply was cut off by the harsh buzzing of the intercom on his desk, and he jabbed his finger at the button. "Yes, what is it, Rosy?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, sir," his secretary said, "but there's a Miss Shehnaaz Maniyar here. She says she has an appointment with you to discuss employment."

"She does," he sighed irritably. "I agreed to interview her for a position with us. Tell her I'll see her in a few minutes." He flicked the button off and returned his attention to the vice-president, who, though preoccupied, was regarding him with curiosity.

"Since when are you conducting personnel interviews, Irfan?"

"It's a courtesy interview," Irfan explained with an impatient sigh. "Her father is a distant relative of mine, a fifth or sixth cousin, as I recall. Maniyar is one of those relatives my mother discovered years ago when she was researching her book on our family tree. Every time she located a new batch of possible relatives, she invited them up here to our house for a 'nice little weekend visit' so that she could delve into their ancestry, discover if they were actually related and decide if they were worthy of mention in her book.

"Maniyar was a professor at a Shimla university. He couldn't come, so he sent his wife"a concert pianist"and his daughter in his place. Mrs. Maniyar was killed in a car accident a few years later, and I never heard from him after that, until last week when he called and asked me to interview his daughter, Shehnaaz, for a job. He said there's nothing suitable for her in Shimla.

"Rather insolent of him to call you, wasn't it?"

Irfan's expression filled with bored resignation. "I'll give the girl a few minutes of my time and then send her packing. We don't have a position for anyone with a college degree in music. Even if we did, I wouldn't hire Shehnaaz Maniyar. I've never met a more irritating, outrageous, ill-mannered, homely child in my life. Shehnaaz was about nine years old, chubby, with freckles and a mop of hair that looked as if it was never properly combed. She wore hideous horn-rimmed eyeglasses, and so help me God, that child looked down her nose at us..."