by Mainak Dhar
Illahi solved her dilemma by grabbing the mike from the Indian envoy. His voice was now eerily calm.
`Let the diplomats and bureaucrats squabble. All I know, as a true Muslim, is that I cannot stand by while those of my faith are murdered. I call upon my fellow Muslim countries to join me in a symbolic walk out to condemn the Indian actions.’
He quietly walked off the raised platform and past the seated dignitaries and out of the Assembly.
For a while, no one moved. Then, to the horror of the Indian delegation, the representatives of Saudi Arabia, Iran and the UAE got up and followed Illahi out. A split second later, the delegates from Iraq and Libya joined them.
The Indians knew they had suffered a devastating reverse without a single shot being fired.
***
Pooja was sitting at her desk in office, grateful for the break of a few hours. The past four days had been harrowing, as she and Rahul had been out in the field, capturing the riots as they unfolded. Though now increasingly under control, violence continued to erupt across the country. While what irked Pooja most had been their utter helplessness to do anything about the riots, this only strengthened her resolve to bring the full ugly reality of the riots to the people through TV, so that they might learn the futility of such senseless violence.
She was playing Solitaire on her computer, trying to forget, if only momentarily, the horrors they had witnessed. Her ringing phone jolted her out of her reverie.
`Hello, Pooja Bhatnagar here.’
`Hello, madam.’
The voice at the other end sounded muffled, almost as if someone was trying to disguise his voice. That got Pooja’s attention immediately.
`Yes, what can I do for you?’
`Madam, I saw you on TV, talking about the riots. I want you to bring out the true story of what’s going on.’
`And what might that be?’
`Madam, these riots haven’t just broken out on their own. Tarapore’s people have had a big hand in these. Many of their ministers are actually involved in the rioting. I am a party man, but first I am a human being. I cannot sit back quietly any more, madam. I have to tell someone the truth.’
`Hold on. We’ve all read Tarapore’s statement. But he’s gone on record to emphasize that his people are not involved in the rioting.’
`They are, madam. It’s just that no one’s been able to prove it. I can give you proof…’
`Just wait a second.’
`No, I have no time. Listen carefully to me. Go to Fort at four in the evening today-near Strand.’
`What do I look for?’
`Just be there. You’ll find out.’
The line went dead.
***
Abdul moved slowly through the crowd-the last thing that he wanted to do was to draw attention to himself. His mission had been extremely successful. The bombs at Presidency College and Howrah station had gone off just as planned, and the resulting communal carnage was still consuming the city. Normally polite and docile by nature, Bengalis of both religions had long demonstrated their ability to sink to the lowest depths of inhumanity when it came to communal violence. Abdul was quite pleased that his handiwork had unleashed a level of bloodlust Calcutta had perhaps never witnessed, even during the terrible riots of the 1940s.
He was at the port, on his way to board a steamer to Bangladesh. Once there, he was to contact the Pakistani Embassy, and then it would be time to go home. He had lost all his operatives in the riots and the blasts, but he had survived-and that was all that mattered. Twelve years in Pakistan’s elite Special Services Group had taught him that compassion could be a fatal weakness. He had been chosen for his ruthlessness and expertise with explosives-and he had not failed.
It struck him that his employers had not really planned for him to live or escape. The remotest chance that he could be caught would of course create a huge risk for the whole operation. From the beginning, the whole operation had been shrouded in too much secrecy. None of the field guys seemed to know anything approaching the full picture. That irritated Abdul-the best way to motivate a soldier was to trust him. Anyway, now he had more immediate concerns-how to get out alive from enemy territory.
Suddenly shrieks filled the air as the crowd dispersed, running in all directions. Abdul could have guessed the reason. A mob was approaching, carrying swords and knives. Abdul had his pistol with him, but using it would be a dead give-away. He hid behind a garbage can, hoping the riot ended soon.
Had he not been so terrified, he would have considered it almost poetic justice, after having caused the carnage overtaking the city, here he was, a proud soldier, cowering behind a garbage can from the same carnage.
Any hopes he had that he would pass unnoticed disappeared when a man suddenly appeared in front of him, wild eyed, knife in hand. `You Muslim bastard, I’ll kill you-you killed my son’.
`And I’ll kill you too if you don’t move on’, Abdul said calmly. All his fear seemed to melt away. Now he was just a trained killer-all instincts and training.
The man lunged wildly. He was probably just a bereaved father, who had succumbed to the rage of the mob. He certainly knew next to nothing about killing a man. He brought his knife down-an elementary mistake. The trained killer will always sweep up from hip level. Bringing a knife down means the blow can be warded off more easily, or if the victim moves, just produce a grazing wound. The underhand strike has a much higher chance of killing a man. Of course, the Indian rioter knew none of this. And of course, Abdul had trained all his adult life with men who could kill five such rioters bare handed without breaking a sweat. The man’s fury was no match for Abdul’s unarmed combat skills. In a matter of seconds the attacker lay dead, his neck broken. His dying scream had however attracted the attention of his friends, five of whom now converged on Abdul.
This was it-there was no other way out now.
Abdul took out his Chinese-made machine pistol and emptied the magazine at the approaching men-four of them fell dead. The other tried to run, realizing that he in knee deep in something he could not handle. Abdul pounced on him, catching his throat in a vice like grip. With his left hand, Abdul struck a knife into the man’s stomach, twisting it to cause the most damage. The man cried out briefly and died.
Captain Bose heard the sound and at once knew what it was. A Captain in the Indian Army’s Engineering Corps, Bose was not meant to take part in combat, but he had undergone infantry training, and knew gunshots when he heard them. His unit had been called out in Calcutta to help the beleaguered civil authorities control the riots. So far, it had been a nightmare. Shit, some mad fucker now has a gun. Just when I thought these riots were screwed up enough.
Bose ran towards the sounds and saw a brawny man, gun in hand. Bose knew that this was no ordinary rioter. The man had adopted a killing stance and was dispatching an attacker with ease, killing with a large knife, while several corpses lay at his feet. While Bose had gone through the mandatory unarmed combat course, he was an engineer by training, and had never hit a man in anger. Even in school and college, he had always preferred not to mix it up. He knew that, whoever this strange man was, he would not stand any chance against him. He cursed his lack of firearms. The only weapon he carried was a riot baton.
He decided the only thing he had going for him was the advantage of surprise and the simple fact that if he did not succeed once, Mrs. Bose would have a pretty lonely old age. Knowing he would not get a second chance, he hurled himself at the man. He thought he screamed something remotely ridiculous like `hands up’, but he was so pumped up at the moment, he had no idea what he was saying. His entire focus was to use all his strength to bring his baton crashing down on the man’s skull.
***
Pooja’s car was now only a couple of minutes from Strand. Her watch read 3:55. They were on time. The streets were almost completely deserted-the police had enforced a shoot-on-sight curfew, and only their Press sticker had enabled them to get past the several checkpoints they had encou
ntered.
`Boss, we should really have called the cops. We don’t know what we are getting into.’ The last few days of being out in the streets had robbed Rahul of much of his humor. He was sitting ashen faced, his camera clutched tightly in his hands. Despite his bravado, Pooja knew he had been deeply affected by the scenes of bloodshed they had witnessed.
`If we called the cops, I’m sure whatever’s going to go down would not. Let’s just see what happens and get it all on camera.’
They neared Mumbai’s famous Strand bookshop, which had been attacked and partially burnt the previous day. The attack had led to widespread outrage and condemnation, but in the madness that was fast engulfing the city, and the country, no one could really prevent such attacks.
They parked the jeep in an alley and stood behind one of the walls of the shop. For about fifteen minutes, nothing happened.
Rahul had begun to give up and sat down on the pavement. Then, they saw five men walking leisurely down the road towards them.
`Holy shit! That’s Vinay Sethi!’ Rahul was up before Pooja could complete her sentence.
`Yup, Boss. Camera’s rolling.’
Widely regarded as the public face of his party, Sethi was a known firebrand, and many had commented that he had really masterminded the riots. The problem was that so far no one had got any proof against him. In the absence of any proof, the suave and glib Sethi always sidestepped any accusations. Now that looked about to change.
The four men accompanying him looked like thugs, and Pooja felt that would be a good guess as to their profession.
`This is where it gets interesting’; Pooja whispered as Sethi opened the briefcase that he was carrying.
`Focus on the bag, then on Sethi.’
`Yes Boss.’
The five men were standing under the shop’s awning, and were fairly hidden from view of anyone on the road. However, Pooja and Rahul were in the perfect position to capture them on camera.
Sethi opened the bag to reveal rows of fresh Rupee notes, and four pistols with several ammunition clips.
Pooja and Rahul were too far away to hear clearly what Sethi was saying to the men, but what they saw was damning enough.
Sethi handed out two bundles of cash to each man, and then gave each man a gun and several clips. The five men then disbanded, each walking off in a different direction.
`Bastard. Just too bad I can’t go over and snap that son of a bitch’s neck’, Rahul growled as Sethi sauntered off, whistling an old tune.
`Don’t worry; he’s going to get what he deserves. I’ll see to that.’
***
`Sir, sorry to call a meeting at this time-but it’s something urgent’, Joshi began addressing the NSC. Khosla, the Service Chiefs, and the Foreign and Home Secretaries sat around the conference table.
`We’ve got a rare breakthrough, we’ve managed to capture a Pakistani agent-one of their SSG commandos in Calcutta.’
Everyone stopped grumbling about the late hour at once. All eyes were on Joshi.
`The interrogation is still on. But what we know so far is summarized on this sheet. Pretty clever-the man was in the SSG for several years, and recently took voluntary retirement. That means that technically, he is no longer part of the SSG, and Pakistan can claim he was acting on his own. But still, its powerful evidence.’
Khosla finally saw what looked like the first piece of good news in the last week.
`This is exactly what we needed. Now, let’s see Illahi talk his nonsense about genocide. That bastard’s killing innocent civilians to further his madness.’
`This commando, a Lt. Abdul Hamid, doesn’t know all the dimensions of the plan. But what he does know is dynamite. Engineered riots to create chaos and the impression of genocide against Muslims followed by some sort of escalated attack in Kashmir by the Mujahideen. He doesn’t know any more than that, but I would be willing to bet that they would be followed by the regular Pakistani army to support this uprising against injustice.’
Khosla was beginning to wonder if this was good news after all.
`Hell, Joshi, they don’t need to neutralize our nukes. If they can rally enough opinion against us, even among the major Islamic powers, we probably won’t dare use nukes. Also the likely military support from Islamic countries would really upset the military balance.’
Khosla got up and walked over to Joshi, `Well, we’re not going public on this-yet. I want to get to the UN as soon as possible. Let’s unmask this monstrosity before the world community. And get all the evidence we get, if possible, video recordings. What we have so far is very fragmentary.’
Joshi, who till now had been displaying a rare bout of good humor, spoke up softly.
`Sir, there might be a complication there-the local police roughed this guy up pretty badly when they found out who he was. Can’t really blame them after the chaos he’s caused. Our guys got to him when he could barely speak. I wouldn’t count on getting too much more out of him.’
The phone rang.
Joshi got off the phone ashen faced. `Sir, it’s too late. He just died in hospital-it seems he had suffered a serious concussion and had huge internal bleeding.’
Khosla was now sure that he had been too prematurely optimistic about the whole thing. `No! Well, we’ll have to go with what we have. Get all the transcripts and tapes we have.’
***
There was a hushed silence in the room as Pooja and Rahul reviewed what they had shot. The station chief was pacing up and down the room.
`Well, what do you think?’
`Guys, this is even bigger than Sharan, much bigger. And dangerous.’
`So, when do we go on air with it?’ Pooja asked the question matter of factly. It never crossed her mind that this footage could be dangerous not just to Sethi, but to the station as well.
`What do you mean, go on air?’
Pooja got up to face the chief, `But we have to get this out as soon as possible! People deserve to know what’s going on.’
`I understand. But we don’t know who those men were….’
`Bullshit!’
All heads turned at this outburst from Rahul.
`That’s bullshit, and you know it. You’re just scared of pissing Tarapore off, that’s all.’
`And what if I am?’
`Well then, I’ll quit and take this to another channel which has the balls to carry this. You’re sitting here in your goddamn air-conditioned office, wearing those suits of yours. Why the fuck would you be bothered about some poor fuckers being cut up out in the real world! All you care about is saving your fat ass. I’m taking this tape to the first channel that comes to mind.’
`You wouldn’t……’
`And who would stop me?’
Pooja stepped in between the two men. While she shared Rahul’s disgust and anger, she didn’t want him to do anything stupid.
`Guys. I have an idea-let’s take this to someone in the government. ‘
`Gimme a break, boss. We’ll take this to some stupid bureaucrat or minister?’
`No. We take it all the way up-to the Prime Minister. Look, I’m convinced he has nothing to do with this. If we show him this, I’m pretty sure he’ll act against Tarapore and his men. Let’s give it a chance. If he also refuses to act, we go on air. Is that a fair deal?’
`Fair enough, I guess.’
Dasgupta nodded in agreement, relieved that going public with this news had been delayed. He did not relish the prospect of incurring the wrath of Sethi’s goons. If this crazy girl wanted to run after the Prime Minister, let her. At least she’d be off his back for a while.
***
SEVEN
The statesman who, seeing war is inevitable, hesitates to strike first is guilty of a crime against his country.
- Karl Von Clausewitz
Khosla reminded himself that he would have to cut down on his drinking. The tension of recent days was beginning to get to him, and he found himself extending his usual one glass of scotch to two or
more much more regularly than he would have liked.
He had been home for over a week now, happy to be away from the confines of his hospital bed. Things were not looking very good-Illahi’s outburst at the United Nations had led to an outpour of outrage and condemnation from many Islamic nations. The hit and run attacks in Kashmir by `outraged Muslim youth’ had been continuing, and now it seemed a matter of time before a more organized and large scale attack was mounted.
What happened at the United Nations when Khosla presented the Indian point of view was going to hold the key to what would unfold on the subcontinent. The revelations from the captured SSG agent were still top-secret and only a small group knew about them. The whole idea was to unmask Pakistan’s plans at the UN-and press for a resolution condemning Pakistan. That was the only way to turn world opinion in favor of India. Otherwise, it looked like Pakistan could attack India and get away with it-probably even have some Islamic countries join in. The UAE had already expressed `concern’ and there were rumors that a squadron of Mirage 2000s was being prepared to help Pakistan if the contingency arose.
For the moment, however he had more immediate concerns on his mind. The call from the TV Station Chief had taken him by surprise. Even more surprising had been the request for a meeting with one of his journalists. Khosla had refused point blank, saying that he had no time for interviews. However, Dasgupta was an old supporter of his party, and had been one of the few media personalities to support Khosla’s party. So when he pressed, literally begging, Khosla had grudgingly agreed.
The upcoming meeting intrigued Khosla. The journalist would arrive any time now, and with Dasgupta refusing to divulge the reasons for his strange request, Khosla passed time guessing what he might have in mind.
`Come in’, Khosla called out as someone knocked on the door. The door opened to reveal a very attractive, and somehow familiar face before him.
`Sir, my name is….’
Khosla suddenly remembered where he had seen her before.
`Pooja Bhatnagar. I know you. So, do you have more misdeeds of my ministers to place before me?’ he said with a grin.
