Third World War

by Unknown

  Song needed Yan as his eyes and ears of the military. He had brought the general into his trust precisely because he spoke his mind without airs and graces. Yan had cut his teeth in the 1979 war against Vietnam, taking shrapnel which was still in his leg. He had served in Xinjiang, forging an intelligence relationship with the corrupt police forces of Kazakhstan against the Muslim uprising of the Uigurs. In Tibet, he had destroyed cells of activists and even run special forces missions into Nepal and India to break up their sanctuaries. During the North Korean famine in the nineties, he had served on the border. It was then that Song, in his first spell as foreign minister, had noticed Yan. Song plucked him out and sent him to Hong Kong to teach him manners and etiquette, and then to serve as military attache to Pyongyang. It was here that Yan had forged the contacts - shadowy as they might be - which were serving China so well today.

  'We also have the report from the Air Koryo flight,' said Yan, offering Song a freshly printed sheet of paper. Song carefully rolled the balls back into their tray and took it.

  'On its descent to Pyongyang, the aircraft suddenly pulled up, turned north, then dropped sharply to about two thousand feet,' said Yan. 'It maintained that altitude until it landed at a military airfield in Huichon. Two of our agents from the MSS were on board. They are alive, but they have not yet made contact.'

  'These names you've underlined here?' asked Song.

  'The interesting ones. Yes. The Iranians,' Yan explained.

  'Do we know who they are?'

  'We're still checking,' said Yan. 'One we know is Captain Mashoud Alband from the SAVAMA secret police. The two others we don't have. One was travelling on the passport of Mashhoud Najari, accredited to the Iranian embassy in Beijing. But Najari was seen inside the diplomatic compound with his children after the plane had taken off.'

  Song glanced up. 'You're sure?'

  'Yes, sir,' said Yan. 'We watch the embassy and the residences round the clock.'

  'And the third?'

  'The passenger register had him as Hossein Ansari.' Yan shrugged. 'No record of him anywhere.'

  'The North Korean embassy must have issued a visa.'

  'They've gone to ground.'

  'Not surprising,' said Song, returning to the list. North Korea was a country entirely displaced by fantasy, whose people were still unaware that a man had landed on the moon. It was little wonder its diplomats hunkered down when cold truths were sprinkled into their world. Yet Jamie Song now had his own cold truth. With Park Ho in control, China had a most dangerous, but perhaps most useful, ally.

  'I told the Americans we would accept a strike on the missile launch sites,' said Song, after a few moments. 'If they do, what will Park do? Go across the line?'

  Yan shook his head. 'No. He's enjoying playing with them. He'd fire a missile from an underground silo. One the Americans couldn't touch with conventional bombing. The problem the Koreans had in the past was with staging. They took years to get the second stage working. It was a problem with the starter motor and the solid fuel. They overcame it. With Yokata, he's proved he has a working three-stage rocket. That means it's conceivable that he could deliver a warhead to the United States.'

  'Then Jim West will throw everything he has at him.'

  'Precisely,' said Yan. 'And that is when he'll cross the line. But before that happens, comrade, there is a detail you should be aware of. Park Ho could launch from either Chunggan-up or Paekun, the two sites closest to our border with North Korea. It means that an American strike on him would be only miles away from Chinese territory.'

  Song, a veteran of scores of boardroom and diplomatic negotiations, looked at his intelligence adviser with utter surprise. 'Do you mind, General, telling me how you know this?'

  Yan remained deadpan. 'I spoke at length to Park. I have known him for many years. He is a formidable strategist.'

  'Should I speak to him, too?' asked Song, refreshed and surprised by Yan's bluntness.

  'Not yet,' said Yan. 'He already has a hostage in President West. As soon as you contact him, you become a hostage, too.'

  Song nodded thoughtfully. A car door banged outside. Yan got up and went to the window. 'Qureshi has arrived,' he said, heading for the door, but then pausing and walking back to Song.

  'I have revealed these things to you because you command great respect among us, comrade, as a political operator. I would trust no one more than you to see us through this great danger. I also would ask you to keep what I have told you completely to yourself.'

  'Of course,' said Song softly, as Yan left the room. Song moved to the window. The afternoon sun had broken up more ice on the lake and by leaning round he could see coloured kites being flown high in the distance in Tiananmen Square. So Quereshi's appointment had been made anyway. Song cleared the window of more condensation to get a better look, and saw Yan greeting the Pakistani Air Vice-Marshal, dressed in full uniform, a peaked blue cap under his arm, his eyes alive with colour and purpose, his hand gripping Yan's elbow, and looking around him in the heart of Zhongnanhai like a devouring force of nature.

  Yan pointed towards the door, and leaned towards Qureshi, whispering. Song watched the two men and wondered who held real power in his nation.

  ****

  22*

  ****

  Air China 821, Beijing-Islamabad*

  Tassudaq Qureshi did not enjoy lying to Jamie Song. He also regretted the death of President Asif Latif Khan. He admired the courage of General Park Ho in North Korea. The sending of an unarmed missile into the Yokata base in Japan was an act of style and subtlety he found missing among his own colleagues. He was surprised the British had acted so decisively in Brunei, although he had never expected Colonel Joharie Rahman and his conspirators to hold Brunei for long.

  Qureshi anticipated that territory in the other areas - northern Borneo, the Malaysian peninsula and the southern Philippines - would be lost again in time. The uprisings and the violent reaction to them would, however, have enough support to begin low-intensity guerrilla wars throughout that region, and that was what he and Memed had intended.

  But most of all, he was appalled at the attack on the Indian Parliament. To gather a force of insurgents to act with such precision and skill would have taken years to plan. How did they get their vehicles? How did they get their aircraft? From where did the explosives come? Where did they practise? From where were they recruited? How would it change things?

  The cordoned-off first-class compartment of an Air China Boeing 747-400, chartered for his exclusive use and heading through the night over the north Asian deserts and mountains, was as good a place as any to take stock.

  At one stage during the day, Qureshi had wondered if he would ever get out of China alive.

  On his way to the airport, he had been ordered back to Zhongnanhai after Song's difficult telephone call with Vasant Mehta. Yan was there, but distant, standing by the door. Qureshi, greeted earlier as a statesman equal to the Chinese President, was now made to stand in front of Song's desk, diplomacy thrown to the wind, and Song, his face blazing with anger, fired questions as if in a court of law.

  'Did you know about this?' he began, throwing a newspaper down on the desk.

  'Jamie, if you could just explain--'

  But Song didn't. 'Answer me, damn you, or I'll have you dragged off right now, so you'll never be heard of again. Remember you're in China.' Qureshi's eyes darkened. There was something in the way Song issued the warning that sent a chill through him.

  Song pointed to the newspaper again. 'Did you know about this? And I want yes or no answers.'

  'No.'

  'Do you know the group who carried out the attack?'

  'Yes.'

  'Is one or more of their leaders in Pakistan?'

  'Yes.'

  'Are they trained in Pakistan?'

  'In Azad Kashmir.' Qureshi shifted awkwardly on his feet and brushed his hand down his moustache.

  Song stalked round the desk. 'Don't mess with me, Qureshi. Aza
d Kashmir is your territory. So I will ask you again: Is the Lashkar-e-Jannat trained in Pakistan?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you order the attack on the Indian Parliament?'

  'No.'

  'Do you know those who did?'

  'No.'

  'Do you know senior members of the intelligence agencies or military who would have supported the attack?'

  Qureshi hesitated. He glanced round towards Yan, but Yan might have been a statue for all the support he was giving. 'Yes.'

  'Did you know in advance about the assassination of President Khan?'

  'No.' That was the big lie, and to tell it, Qureshi made sure his expression remained unchanged, his eyes lowered, his hands clasped in front of him, his head slightly tilted down. Gone was the ebullience and confidence of the former fighter pilot. In its place, Qureshi had installed humility because that was what Song in his present mood demanded.

  'Did you know in advance about the uprisings in South-East Asia?'

  'No.'

  'Do you know the colonels who staged the coup d'etat in Brunei?'

  'No.'

  'Did you transport any weaponry, nuclear, chemical, biological or conventional, in your aircraft to North Korea?'

  'No.' And that was the second lie. Qureshi briefly closed his eyes and wondered if Song had noticed and if he had guessed. The next question took some time in coming. 'Do you support the assassination of President Khan?'

  'No.'

  'Do you support the attack on the Indian Parliament?'

  'No.'

  'Do you support the uprisings in South-East Asia?'

  'I understand them.'

  'Answer me, damn you. Do you support them?'

  'Yes. But we have not sent any weapons, money, men.' Qureshi stepped forward, prompting Yan to stiffen. 'I support it because in my heart I believe the Islamic people have been suppressed and their uprising is a natural manifestation of that.' Now he leant on the desk, and Song let him. 'Your question is not one to which I can give a yes or no answer. You should know that, President Song. China is what she is today because Mao Tse-tung led her people against oppression.'

  He moved back, his point made, his emotions displayed. 'And you have no right to treat me like a criminal.'

  'Nor did I have the right to treat you like a national leader,' retorted Song. 'Yet I made the mistake of doing so.' He picked up the marble balls, testing their weight. As he rotated them in his hand, he walked over to Yan and spoke quietly to him so Qureshi couldn't hear. Yan nodded and left the room.

  'Vasant Mehta has asked me to withdraw our technicians and scientists from your missile and nuclear programme within seven days,' said Song, pacing the room, keeping Qureshi with his back to him. Qureshi looked round sharply. 'Mehta wants us to share our intelligence,' Song continued. 'He wants a full arms embargo on Pakistan.'

  'Impossible,' said Qureshi shaking his head.

  'Not impossible,' contradicted Song. He moved round so that he faced Qureshi and sat casually on the corner of the desk. 'I want the men responsible for planning, ordering and executing that attack arrested and brought to China. I am providing you with a 747-400 and two companies of special forces troops who will secure the aircraft for the journey back. The men you deliver to me will match a list provided by India. I will give you three days. If you do not comply, I will accede to the Indian Prime Minister's request. China's alliance with Pakistan will be over. Should India have to go to war with you, we will support India. Am I clear?'

  'Three days?' asked Qureshi. 'You said Mehta gave you a week.'

  Song pressed a button under the ridge of the desk. Qureshi heard Song's voice from a speaker on a far wall: '. . . China's alliance with Pakistan will be over. Should India have to go to war with you, we will support India. Am I clear?'

  Qureshi looked furiously at Song.

  'Within half an hour, Mehta will have this recording,' said Song. 'You may have trouble convincing your fellow officers. So we have four extra days. For now, you can think of me as your friend.'*

  *****

  Qureshi tried to sleep, but the shuttling from city to city had left him without exercise and his body restless. Mehta had thrown down a gauntlet to Song, and Song had passed it on to Qureshi. The gauntlet would stop with whoever resisted taking it, and Qureshi's mind churned as to whether that should be him, and whether, even if he wanted to, he could achieve what Song had demanded.

  Out of the window the night was absolutely clear, and he was able to see clusters of lights on the ground from 30,000 feet. The sky map told him he was above Xinjiang, China's own troubled border province where Islam was challenging the rule of the Communist Party.

  There had been a deal, struck many years ago. Pakistan would stop insurgents being imported into Xinjiang. They could go to Afghanistan and to Kashmir, and after the 2001 War on Terror they were sent to Indonesia, Malaysia and the Philippines. But never would one trained Jihad fighter be allowed to operate in Xinjiang or anywhere that directly endangered Chinese territory. If they were found, they would be rooted out and executed. In return, Pakistan would receive unlimited military support from China.

  Song must have calculated that the attack on the Indian Parliament was a greater threat to China's stability than insurgency in Xinjiang, and was, therefore, planning to break the agreement.

  Qureshi would have faced down Song, and told him some cold facts of political life. But it was too early, and some elements of Qureshi's plan were not yet in place.

  But Song was wrong. If the momentum was to have been stopped, it should have been in 1979, when Pakistan's democratically elected prime minister was executed by a military dictator; it should have been in 1980 when Pakistan became the launch base for the Islamic forces fighting the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan; it should have been in 1990, when the Soviet Union was defeated, American money vanished, and the money of extreme Islam poured into the schools, the military and the government. And when the 2001 War on Terror began, it was too late. To the outside world, President Khan had been a symbol of hope. But for Qureshi, he was an instrument of the Americans, placed there, bankrolled by them, and the ultimate weapon designed to destroy the vision for which Pakistan was created.

  Yes, Qureshi had been right to have him killed. Had Khan remained in office, the nation would have slipped backwards again. America had never understood that democracy created tribalism; that the money needed for electioneering spread corruption; that broken promises of politicians created despair and resentment.

  Strange. Jamie Song understood. He and his predecessors had kept China free of democratic institutions. Strange that he was acting as he was!

  As Qureshi drifted in and out of sleep, his mind trying to run with the light turbulence and the change of engine sound, this was the question that perplexed him most. No nation destroys a historic alliance without having another to put in its place. But China and India could never be allies. Their borders, their beliefs, their ambitions would all make it impossible. So what was Song playing at, and would Qureshi be able to call his bluff?

  The Air China plane landed and taxied to a remote area of the airport at Islamabad. Qureshi changed into a full dress uniform, checked himself in the toilet mirror, smoothing down his jacket and running a tiny comb through his moustache. A limousine waited at the foot of the steps for him, but no colleagues. He was driven alone to Chaklala, the military cantonment area of Rawalpindi. From the limousine's darkened windows, he was shamefully reminded of the filth and poverty in his country. However new a building, however freshly repaired a road, a beggar in rags would find his way on to it to remind him that whatever had been built was only a facade covering the real failed texture of his nation. China had not been like this; nor had North Korea.

  As the car pulled up and the door was opened for him, Qureshi identified the distinct dark uniform of the Special Services Group taking up positions around his vehicle. He stepped out. The captain in charge saluted. He walked, unaccompanied, through to the Gen
eral Headquarters. Staff stopped their work and stood to attention as he passed. The lift was ready for him, and took him straight down to the underground command and control room. As the lift door opened, Brigadier Najeeb Hussain stood at the head of a line of military officers, his hand outstretched.

  'Welcome, President Tassudaq Qureshi of Pakistan,' he said, with a huge smile on his face. 'The destiny of our nation is now in your hands.'

  ****

  23*

  ****

  Rawalpindi, Pakistan*

  Qureshi stepped across the threshold, finding his hand grasped by Najeeb Hussain, and hearing the rumble of outdated air conditioning in the silence which only military discipline could ever instil in Pakistan. Behind Hussain was Admiral Javed Mohmand, commander of the navy, a long, sinewy man, his hands rubbing together in front of him, his eyes blinking and wide, as if Qureshi was an apparition from the heavens. Next to him was General Zaid Musa, taller but more muscular than Hussain, smiling and welcoming, but his face a little too sincere, given that he and Qureshi had violently disagreed in the past.