Spectre (The Beginning Book 1)

by Anil John

  New Delhi, India

  The conference room was filled with cabinet ministers and the members of media. When Prime Minister Vir Sanghvi walked in with Sunny Jordan, television cameras began to turn and still cameras began to flash. Jordan had spent the previous hour with the Prime Minister, and he had been warm and assuring.

  ‘You are perfect for this assignment,’ He told him, ‘or I would never have chosen you. You and I are going to make this dream come true.’

  It does seem like a dream, Jordan thought as he faced everyone for his swearing in ceremony.

  ‘Raise your hand, please.’

  Jordan repeated after the President of India:

  ‘I, Sunny Jordan, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of India against all enemies foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same., that I take this obligation freely and without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion, that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. Jai Hind.’

  And it was done with a big round of applause and amidst the flash lights of cameras. Sunny Jordan was now officially the Indian diplomat to Pakistan.

  Chapter 12

  Benazir Bhutto International Airport, Islamabad, Pakistan

  Benazir Bhutto International Airport is thirty miles away from the heart of Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan, is a modern airport, built to facilitate the flow of travellers from the nearby countries, as well as to take care of tourists who visit Pakistan every year.

  Inside the terminal were soldiers in dark green uniforms, armed with latest automatic rifles and pistols, and there was a dark air of coldness about the building that had nothing to do with the temperature.

  Two men were approaching. One of them was a young, athletic, good looking Indian, and the other was older, both of them dressed well in suits.

  The young man introduced himself, ‘Welcome to Pakistan, Sir. I am Dev Arora, your Deputy in Chief of Mission and he is Imtiaz Ali, the Pakistani Chief of Protocol.’

  ‘It is a pleasure to have you with us, Welcome to our country. Your limousine is waiting for you, Sir.’ Imtiaz Ali added

  There was a long line waiting to go through Customs, but Sunny Jordan was outside the building in a matter of minutes with his baggage.

  There were reporters and photographers waiting again but instead of the free-for-alls that Jordan had encountered earlier, they were orderly and controlled. When they had finished, they thanked Jordan and departed in a body.

  A long, black limousine with an Indian Flag on the right front wing pulled up. A cheerful looking man in chauffeur’s uniform held the door open.

  ‘This is Javed.’

  The chauffeur grinned, baring beautiful white teeth.

  ‘Javed will be at your disposal twenty-four hours a day. I thought we would go directly go to the Residence, so you can unpack and relax. Later, perhaps you would like to drive around the city a bit. In the morning tomorrow, Javed will take you to the Indian Embassy.’

  ‘That sounds fine, Dev.’ Jordan replied with a smile.

  The drive from the airport to his new residence was fascinating.

  They drove on a four-lane highway, heavily used by cars, buses and lorries, but every few miles the traffic would be held up by little gypsy carts plodding along the road. On both sides of the highway were modern factories and industries, next to ancient homes.

  The car passed farm after farm, with women working in the fields, colourful bandanas knotted around their heads.

  They drove by the domestic airport, just beyond it, after a few miles, off the main highway, was a low, green and white two storey building with an ominous look about it.

  ‘What is that?’ Jordan asked.

  Javed grimaced, ‘The District Jail. This is where they put anyone who disagrees with the Pakistani Government.

  During the drive, Dev pointed to a red button near the door. ‘This is an emergency switch,’ he explained. ‘If you are ever in trouble – attacked by terrorists or whomever – just press this button. It activates a radio transmitter in the car that’s monitored at the Indian Embassy, and turns on a red light on the roof of the car. We will be able to triangulate your position within minutes.’

  Jordan said fervently, ‘I hope I will never have to use it.’

  ‘I hope so, too, Sir.’

  The centre of Islamabad was beautiful. There were parks and monuments and fountains everywhere one looked.

  Jordan remembered his father’s saying, ‘Islamabad is a miniature of Old Delhi.’

  He was now in the land where his father served his forefather’s country and now it was his turn to serve his country. He thought.

  The streets were crowded with people, bikes and cars. The limousine honked its way through the traffic, the pedestrians scurrying out of the way, as the car finally turned into a small, tree-lined street.

  ‘The residence is just ahead.’ Javed said.

  The residence was a large and beautiful, old fashioned three storey villa surrounded by acres of lovely lush green landscapes.

  The entire staff and the manager were lined up outside the residence. When Jordan stepped out, the Manager of the Residence introduced himself and followed by everyone from butler to social secretary, housekeeper, chef, and maids.

  ‘You take rest, we will meet up tomorrow in the office.’ Dev told Jordan and got back into the limousine.

  Jordan moved down the line, receiving their bows and curtsies, thinking; oh my God, what am I going to do with all of them?

  There was iced champagne waiting inside the house, along with a table loaded with tempting middle - eastern recipes.

  ‘That looks delicious!’ Jordan exclaimed.

  He wondered whether he should offer them anything. Did one do that with servants? He did not want to start out by making a mistake.

  Did you hear what the Indian Ambassador did? He invited the servants to eat with her, and they were so shocked that they quit.

  Did you hear what Indian Ambassador did? He gorged himself in front of the servants and didn’t offer them a bite. They were watching him hungrily.

  ‘On second thoughts,’ Jordan said, ‘I am not hungry right now, I will have something later.’

  ‘Let me show you around,’ the manager said.

  They followed him eagerly.

  The residence was a beautiful house. It was pleasant and charming in an old fashioned way. On the ground floor were an entry- way, a library filled with books, music room, living room, and a large dining room with a kitchen and pantry adjoining. All the rooms were well furnished. A terrace ran the length of the building outside the dining room, facing a large park.

  Towards the rear of the house was an indoor swimming pool with an attached sauna, and dressing room.

  The most captivating was the ballroom, built near the garden.

  ‘This is where the Embassy parties are organised, watch this-’, the manager said and pressed a switch on the wall.

  There was a grinding noise and the ceiling began to split in the centre, opening up, until the sky was visible.

  ‘It can also be operated manually.’

  ‘Hey, that was neat.’ Jordan quipped.

  As the cold air started to descend, the manager pressed the switch again, and the ceiling closed.

  Jordan followed his manager up the staircase to a large, central hall with two bedrooms separated by a bathroom.

  Further down the hallway, was the master bedroom, which was no less than a executive suite of a five-star hotel. There was a terrace on the roof, with its separate stairway.

  ‘The third floor has servant’s rooms, a laundry room, a storage and utility area. In the basement, is a wine cellar, and the servants dining and rest area.’ the manager concluded.

  Jordan loved his master bedroom, which had a king-sized bed with a goose-down comforter, two couches around the fireplace, dressing table with an antique mirror, an armoire, a luxurious bathroo
m and a wonderful view of the surrounding landscapes.

  He lay awake most of the first night, filled with deep loneliness mingled with a growing feeling of excitement and pride about starting his new assignment.

  Chapter 13

  The Indian Embassy at 5 Diplomatic Enclave, in Islamabad is a white, semi-gothic, two storey building, with an iron gate in front, patrolled by a uniformed officer. A second guard sits inside a security booth at the side of the gate. There is a boom barrier for cars to drive through, and rose marbles steps leading up to the lobby.

  Inside, the lobby is ornate. It has a marble floor, two closed circuit television sets at a desk guarded by a marine commando.

  The corridors are lined with the portraits of Presidents and Prime Ministers of India. A winding staircase leads to the second floor, where a conference room and offices are located.

  A marine guard was waiting for Jordan, ‘Good Morning, Sir, they call me Gunny.’

  ‘Good morning, Gunny.’

  ‘They are waiting for you in your office. I will escort you there.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He followed him upstairs to a reception room where a woman in late thirties sat behind a desk.

  She rose. ‘Good morning, Sir. I am Ruth Goodwin, your secretary.’

  ‘Good morning, Ma’am, How do you do?’

  Ruth said, ‘I am afraid, you have quite crowd in there today.’

  She opened the office door, and Sunny Jordan walked into the room.

  There were nine people seated around a large conference table. They rose as Jordan entered the room. They were all staring at him , and Jordan felt a wave of animosity that was almost palpable. The first person he saw was Dev Arora, his Deputy in Chief of Mission.

  ‘I see you got here safely,’ Dev said, ‘Let me introduce you to your department heads.’

  ‘Please be seated,’ Jordan said. He moved to the seat at the head of the table and surveyed the group. Hostility comes in all ages, sizes and shapes, He thought. It’s going to take time to sort them all out.

  The meeting lasted for thirty minutes.

  There was general, inconsequential conversation.

  Dev finally said, ‘Ruth will set up individual meetings for all of you with the Ambassador later in the day, Thank you.’

  Jordan resented his taking charge. When he and Dev were alone, Jordan asked, ‘Which one of them is the ISI agent attached to the embassy?’

  Dev looked at him a moment and said, ‘Why don’t you come with me?’

  He walked out of the office. Jordan hesitated a moment, and then went after him. He followed him down a long corridor past a rabbit warren of offices.

  They came to a large door with a marine guard standing in front of it.

  The guard stepped aside as Dev pushed the door open. He turned and gestured for Jordan to enter.

  He stepped inside and looked around. The room was an incredible combination of metal and glass covering the floor, the walls and the ceiling.

  Dev closed the heavy door behind them. ‘This is the Bubble Room.

  Every embassy in an Iron Curtain country has one. It is the only room in the Embassy that cannot be bugged.’ He saw Jordan’s look of disbelief.

  ‘Sir, not only is the Embassy bugged, but you can bet your life that your residence is also bugged, and that if you go out to a restaurant for dinner, your table will be bugged. You must understand and always remember that you are in enemy’s territory.’

  Jordan sank into a chair. ‘How do you handle that?’ he asked, ‘I mean not ever being able to talk freely?’

  ‘We do an electronic sweep every morning. We find their bugs and pull them out. Then they replace them, and we pull those out again.’

  ‘Why do we permit Pakistanis to work in the Indian Embassy?’

  ‘It’s their playground, they are the home team. We play by their rules, or blow the ball game. They can’t get their micro phones into this room because there are marine guards on duty in front of that door twenty-four hours a day. Now – what are your questions?’

  ‘I wondered who the ISI man was.’

  ‘Vardhan, your Political Consular.’

  He tried to recall what Vardhan looked like, grey haired and heavy. No that was agriculture consular, Ah, he was the middle aged one, very thin, a sinister face or did he think that now in retrospect because he was told he was ISI?

  ‘Is he the only ISI man in the staff?’

  ‘Yes,’

  Dev looked at his watch. ‘You are due to present your credentials in thirty minutes. Javed is waiting for you outside. Take your letter of credence. You will have to give the original to Prime Minister Khan and put a copy in your safe.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Headquarters for the Pakistan government is a forbidding looking building made of blocks of sandstone, in the centre of Islamabad. It is protected by steel wall, with armed guards in front of it. There were more guards at the entrance to the building. An aide escorted Sunny Jordan upstairs.

  Prime Minister Khan greeted Sunny Jordan in a long rectangular shaped room on the second floor. Prime Minister Khan had a powerful presence. He was fair in complexion, hawk –like features, and black back brushed hair. He had one of the most imperious noses he had ever seen. His eyes were blazing and mesmerizing.

  The aide said, ‘Your Excellency, may I present Mr. Ambassador from Republic of India?’

  ‘As-Salaam-Alaikum Mr. Jordan, Welcome to Pakistan.’

  ‘Wa-Alaikum-Salaam, Thank you Sir.’

  Jordan quickly opened his bag and took out the letter of credence from Prime Minister of India, Vir Sanghvi.

  Khan gave it a careless glance. ‘Thank you, I accept it on behalf of the Pakistan Government. You are now officially the Indian Ambassador to my country.’ He beamed at Jordan. ‘ I have arranged a reception this evening for you. You will meet some of our people who will be working with you.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Jordan said.

  He took his hand for a concluding hand shake and said, ‘We have a saying here, An ambassador arrives in tears because he knows he will be spending years in a foreign place, away from his family and friends, but when he leaves, he leaves in tears because he must leave his new friends in a country he has grown fond of, I hope you will grow to love our country, Mr. Ambassador.’

  ‘I am sure, I will.’ He thinks I am just a handsome face. Jordan thought grimly. I will have to do something about that.

  Chapter 14

  Sunny Jordan spend the rest of the day at the Indian Embassy, in the large conference room, meeting with the Political Consular, the Economic Consular, the Agriculture Consular, the Commerce Consular, the Public Affairs Consular and the Deputy in Chief of Mission Dev Arora.

  They were all seated around the long rectangular table, against the back walls were a dozen junior members of the various departments.

  The Commerce Consular, a small, pompous man, spoke rattling off a string of facts and figures. Jordan was looking around the room, thinking: I will have to remember all their names.

  Then it was the turn of the Agriculture Consular, ‘Pakistan’s Agriculture Minister is in worse trouble than he is admitting. They are going to have a disastrous crop this year, and we cannot afford to let them go under.’

  The Economic Consular protested, ‘We have given them enough aid, Pakistan is already operating under a favoured nation’s treaty. It is a GSP country.’ He looked at Jordan, covertly.

  He is doing this deliberately. Jordan thought. Trying to embarrass me.

  The Economic consular continued patronizingly, ‘A GSP country is…’

  ‘…is a Generalized System of Preferences,’ Jordan cut in. ‘We treat Pakistan as a less developed country so that they get import and export advantages.’

  The Economic Consular’s expression changed, ‘that’s right, sir.’

  He said, ‘We are already giving the store away and…’

  The Commerce Consular interrupted, ‘We are no
t giving it away - we are just trying to keep it open so we can shop there. They need more credit in order to buy crops from us, if we don’t sell it to them; they are going to buy it from China.’

  He turned to Jordan, ‘It looks like we are going to lose out on soya beans. The Brazilians are trying to undercut us. I would appreciate it if you could talk to the Prime Minister as soon as possible and try to make a package deal before we are shut out.’

  Jordan looked over at Dev, who was seated at the opposite end of the table, slouched in his chair, doodling on his iPad, seemingly paying no attention.

  ‘I will see what I can do.’ Jordan promised.

  He made a note to send an email to the Head of the Commerce Ministry in New Delhi asking permission to offer more credit to the Pakistan Agriculture Ministry. The money would come from Indian banks, but they would make the loans only with the government approval.

  The Political Consular, spoke up, ‘I have a rather urgent problem,

  A twenty five year old Indian nurse was arrested last night for possession of drugs. That’s an extremely serious offence here.’

  ‘What kind of drugs did he have on her?’

  ‘Marijuana, Just a few ounces.’

  ‘What is she like?’

  ‘Bright, hardworking and a committed nurse.’

  ‘What do you think they will do to her?’

  ‘The usual penalty is a five year prison sentence.’