Open Arms

by Vince Cable

  As they drove back into downtown Mumbai, Deepak reflected on the awkwardness of the occasion: the many things he needed to learn before he could call himself ‘a man of the people’. He contrasted the discomfort he felt among his own people – he had almost thrown up on the platform, nauseated by the stench of the slum – with the easy, warm familiarity he enjoyed with his British lover who now seemed so very far away.

  He needn’t have worried. The High Command in the ruling party were delighted with their new recruit and the media exposure he generated. Bharat Bombay’s coverage, like that of other popular papers, focused on national and family unity and the generosity of the Foundation. No one noticed, or was inclined to point out, the half-completed latrine, the disused shell of a school, the scramble for food and the unsavoury gang of goondas watching from the hillside nearby. Together with other occasions around the country featuring India’s eclectic mix of colours, castes and creeds, the Prime Minister’s slogan for the forthcoming election – Inclusive India – took shape. It tested well with focus groups. It remained only to arrange, through intermediaries, a gesture of reconciliation with Pakistan, which would calm down worrying talk of war and enable him to proclaim: Blessed are the Peacemakers.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE EXHIBITION

  Statement by the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, 1 October 2019:

  A group of suspected recruits to an Islamic terrorist group is active in the UK. They are of Pakistani origin and may be seeking targets with an Indian connection in the light of recent confrontation and riots in the subcontinent. Extra guards have been placed around the Indian High Commission in London, offices of Air India and major temple complexes in Southall, Slough and Neasden.

  Shaida’s missing brother was nearer than either of them realised. His group arrived at its destination in the early hours of the morning. The van slowly made its way up a dark alley and moved quickly and quietly through a yard at the back of a three storey terraced house.

  The group split up once inside the house. Each was given a room and told to wash, change and prepare himself for a briefing shortly after dawn. There were only a few dimmed lights in the room Mo occupied, but it seemed to be a child’s bedroom, with a few soft toys piled beside the bed and a scooter in the corner. A reassuring, familiar smell of Asian cooking seeped through from the kitchen below.

  He lay on the bed and tried to sleep. His brain, however, was in overdrive with memories flashing past: his parents, his brothers and sister in episodes of his generally happy childhood; the embarrassing, awkward, unfulfilling encounters he had had with girls; the horrific images he had seen of Muslim suffering around the world; the day when he had been allowed time off school to go to Buckingham Palace to see his father receive a medal – when his parents glowed with pride and happiness; then the demonstration and the look of hatred in the eyes of the racist thug in the seconds before his face felt the force of the man’s blow. He felt mounting excitement and anticipation but also fear and a nagging, sinking feeling of doubt that he could not, despite his best efforts, totally suppress. In his semiconscious state he could still hear every sound in the house: a snore from somewhere; a whispered, animated conversation somewhere else.

  When the first signs of morning light appeared he forced himself to follow the routine he had been given. He washed and changed into the clothes that were waiting for him: what seemed to be a waiter’s suit, which fitted almost perfectly. He tiptoed downstairs past the open door of a room inside which one of his group was kneeling and whispering his prayers. The lounge gradually filled and there was fruit juice and bread to break the fast. Tariq Ahmed stood at the back and left the floor to a burly man in black T-shirt and jeans who stood before them with a large chart taped to the wall. Mo noticed that one of their number was not present and he broke the silence by asking about him. The man was brusque and clearly didn’t wish to discuss the matter: ‘He has been allocated to another task.’ He then took the group carefully through the morning’s programme and the instructions they were to follow once they had been delivered to their – unspecified – destination up to the point that they were to open fire on their target: a group of mainly American businessmen who were supplying arms to the enemies of Islam. The rest of the group seemed drugged – with sleep or some sort of hypnosis – and did not share Mo’s curiosity to know more. After being rebuffed several times, he was unable to pluck up the courage to ask the question nagging at him: what do we do after the shooting? The instructor read his thoughts but was studiously vague: ‘Allah will protect us. You will be shown the way out of the building and return to continue our struggle.’

  The weapons on which they had trained were distributed and checked. Then the group made its way back through the yard to the van. Mo was surrounded by his fellow warriors and two of the instructors who eyed him much as they would have done a prisoner in custody. If he had any second thoughts, it was too late. In the van he sat next to the African from his hometown whom he had wanted to get to know better but had never had the chance. The African smiled at him, an open, almost loving, smile, put his arm around him and said: ‘You’ll be fine, son.’

  The top floor of the tower in Canary Wharf provided a good vantage point overlooking Docklands. Tariq Ahmed had come up here with the help of a sleeper from his organisation to understand better the distribution of security around the exhibition.

  What was unfolding in front of him amazed and delighted him. There were flashing blue lights and police sirens everywhere. In front of him, on the roof of the O2, a group of nocturnal protesters had painted, in large luminescent orange letters, ‘STOP THE ARMS TRADE’. He could just make out a cluster of people on the public steps to the top of the building gesticulating, no doubt working out how to conceal this embarrassing welcome to the world’s largest and best-attended defence equipment exhibition.

  At the nearby City Airport, police helicopters hovered over the runway and there were scores of ambulances and police cars. According to the radio commentary, a group of twenty to thirty protesters were lying down on the runway having adopted the successful technique from their road blockage of the previous DSEI event in 2017. It would take several hours to clear them – perhaps longer since another group had apparently landed by dinghy from the waterway alongside the airport. In the air, a growing number of aircraft were circulating and a leading member of the Saudi Royal Family had already been diverted to Stansted, with his London-based entourage fighting their way through the traffic to get to the M11 in order to greet him.

  The Metropolitan Police were expecting trouble. Thousands of extra officers were on duty. With forty thousand visitors expected, including delegations from some of the world’s least savoury regimes, the attraction for protesters was obvious. And unlike at previous DSEI events, where protests had been small and limited to dedicated pacifist and human rights groups, this time there was plenty of advance publicity. Television programmes featured torture equipment, cluster bombs and landmines allegedly being sold, illegally, on British soil, in a privately run exhibition heavily patronised by the British government as part of its global export drive.

  Moderate opinion was outraged. The kind of people who marched against the Iraq war but generally disdained public protests started to say ‘something must be done’, and those within travelling distance headed off to join hastily assembled demonstrations. Docklands does not have the public gathering places like Trafalgar and Parliament squares through which protest could be channelled, and policed. So the impact was chaotic. The DLR became dangerously overcrowded and had to be suspended. Key access routes, through the Blackwall Tunnel and Thames Gateway, became hopelessly blocked preventing emergency vehicles getting through. At the ExCeL entrance itself, a long thin blue line held at bay thousands of protesters, and delegates struggled to get through.

  All of this was witnessed with mounting satisfaction by the watcher in the tower. He had played no part in organising the chaos below but it made his own job easier. He had l
ong admired the self-restraint, discipline and humour of Britain’s peaceful mass protesters and had seen the same techniques used with good effect in the subcontinent. But they lacked the impact of violence: the shock, the terror that even a few people could create. Personal experience, as well as theory, had led him into this, more brutal, kind of politics. And like moths drawn to a flame, the media would always amplify the violence and ignore the worthy and well intentioned.

  Today was the biggest venture he had attempted. The arms exhibition was a perfect target. And meeting the African, now a committed recruit to the cause, had given him the idea of concentrating the attack on the Global operation. The propaganda value of taking on a company with links to rabidly anti-Muslim forces was potentially huge… if the attack was a success.

  Success today did not depend on the tens of thousands of protesters but the team of young men who had been well prepared for their task. Their first big obstacle had been the security screen around the exhibition centre. But the obstacle proved to be scalable. The scrutiny devoted to searching the bags of visitors did not extend to the comings and goings of staff serving Michelin Star meals to VIPs and VVIPs, nor to their food containers. It had not been unduly difficult to find a willing helper who was able to obtain a set of security passes for a chef and a serving team, doctored to accommodate new faces and names. The only anxiety was whether the congestion below would prevent certain guests arriving.

  Tariq Ahmed need not have worried. A block booking at the O2 InterContinental, near the exhibition, had secured penthouse suites and a comfortable, secure business meeting room for the board of Global. The evening before the exhibition opened, all were comfortably ensconced and unaware that they were the object of so much interest. The company had a prominent display to advertise its arrival in the big league of weapons makers and distributors and a list of potential customers or partners had been drawn up for board members to cultivate. It was also an opportunity for the board to meet, to hear the Chairman set out his strategic vision and, hopefully, discover that their services would continue to be very well rewarded.

  The Chairman convened a meeting of directors and was in good form. Since their last meeting in London the Chairman had secured a one-to-one meeting at Trump Tower and had been given the names of key people in the Pentagon who the President guaranteed would be helpful. Not only that: the British acquisition had come through – well done, Admiral! – though it was a pity about the unhelpful publicity. Desai, for once, was on the defensive explaining the complex politics of India; but it would be sorted. A pity Orlov couldn’t be here; the British had refused his visa: ‘tiresome Cold War politics’.

  The Chairman was, however, in an expansive mood. The heightened tension in East Asia over North Korea and China’s increasing assertiveness was creating a big market for Global’s products and services in South Korea, Japan and, above all, Vietnam. Global’s new Vice-Chairman, ex-Pentagon Colonel Ted Schwarz – would lead that work. ‘I will ask Ted to say a few words in a minute. He has just come back from Ho Chi Minh City, which he last saw as a teenage marine.’

  He then explained his next big play: the opportunities that had opened up as a result of meetings Orlov had arranged in the Kremlin. Russia would pay very well indeed for access to the most sophisticated Western military technology that wasn’t available through conventional channels. The White House had been kept informed and wouldn’t make a fuss. Once Desai had cleared away ‘obstructions’, the Pulsar/Parrikar Avionics partnership would be the main conduit for equipment officially exported to India, but then diverted to other lucrative destinations, including Russia. Board colleagues, he concluded, could look forward to a ‘bumper Christmas bonus’.

  Elsewhere in the same hotel a couple of old adversaries met for their regular exchange of information. The mere fact of their meeting would, were it known, lead to demands for their court martials and exemplary execution. In fact, they were both passing to their mutual enemy information on nuclear missile deployment that no ordinary spy could have obtained. Yet they were not traitors or spies but deeply patriotic – indeed, nationalistic – soldiers whose loyalty could never be doubted. One was General Rashid, the architect of the 2008 Mumbai raid and the more recent, and less successful, adventure at Parrikar Avionics. The other was General Balbir Singh, known as the Snowman for his exploits fighting on the Siachen Glacier where extreme cold rather than Pakistani bullets had claimed several fingers and toes.

  They were not friends exactly. Indeed, they spent much of their time working out how to destabilise each other’s countries through disinformation, terror raids and military action short of outright war. Their family histories during Partition matched each other in horror. Neither had ever visited the other’s country, though they shared a common language and history. But their acquaintanceship had engendered camaraderie and they exchanged presents: Cuban cigars for the Snowman; the best Glenlivet for Rashid who was obliged to curtail his drinking habits back home. And they both had a soldier’s contempt for their respective politicians: venal, self-serving, lying hypocrites whose endless pandering to popular prejudices had, more than once, taken their countries perilously close to a nuclear exchange.

  The events of the last few weeks had underlined just how important it was to be able to control these idiots in an emergency. And each could speak with confidence knowing that in a safe back home there were letters from their chiefs of staff, and Prime Ministers, authorising the meeting. At the end of it, they had exchanged enough information to be sure that nuclear war could not start by accident – or misunderstanding – and without trip wires to ensure that the politicians on both sides had a clear, unambiguous understanding about what Mutually Assured Destruction could mean.

  When the business was complete they settled down to a companionable drink and an exchange of news about their families. Then they wished each other well and looked forward to a good day shopping for ‘toys’ in the exhibition.

  Steve was on his way to London, to the exhibition for which he had been given a pass and time off for ‘union duties’. He didn’t much like the idea of an arms fair but he could no more disown it than a fisherman could reject the sea. The union expected him to be there, visiting the stands of Rolls-Royce, BAE Systems, Westland and the rest, including Pulsar, for a photo and reassuring words with the bosses and their prospective customers.

  When he reached the underground he saw the signs advising that the DLR to ExCeL was closed, for reasons unspecified. Chatter on the station platform established that public and private transport was immobile. No problem: it was early; he would walk. He hadn’t realised quite how far it was. But there was the entertainment, and mounting excitement, of endless flashing blue lights from police motorbikes, helicopters overhead and crowds moving in his direction.

  It then took an age to get through the crowds milling at the entrance, the pass check and then the bag check. Either the organisers were utterly incompetent or there was something seriously untoward going on. Overheard conversation from people glued to their phones filled in the story: the demonstrations; the sit-in at the airport; the protesters’ message on the O2. He could see that at the next Labour Party meeting Ms Cook’s friends would have plenty to say when they discovered that he had been abetting the sale of weapons to a miscellany of visiting tyrants.

  Once through security he headed for the main hall. He had a list of company stands to visit but his first port of call wasn’t the exciting new drone at BAE as the list suggested but to attend to the woman he loved. Shaida was greeting guests at the entrance to an impressive, expensively designed marquee devoted to the products of Global and its various subsidiaries, of which there were many after the recent spurt of acquisitions. Today she was not the Asian princess he so admired but an impeccably smart woman in a fitted, perfectly tailored navy blue suit, white blouse, stiletto heels and glossy coiled hair. It was a style he hadn’t seen before but had clearly caught the eye of the line of men waiting patiently for her to introduce t
hem to the world of laser-bearing missiles.

  When she saw Steve in the background she gave him one of her most welcoming smiles and asked him to come back in the lunch break. ‘As you see, I am auditioning to be an air hostess. Company dress code. Suits only. No hijabs here. It should be quiet when the VIP guests are eating.’ What she didn’t tell him was that this was how she liked to dress on her private trysts in London. They were getting closer, more comfortable. But she didn’t want to assume too much too soon.

  The last twenty-four hours had opened Shaida’s eyes to the kind of company she now worked for. The firm wanted her to be available to lubricate the socialisation of top management. Duty No. 1 was to be present at a drinks party after the board meeting the previous evening. She was one of two young women in addition to the waitresses and when she entered the room she sensed that more was expected of her than looking pretty and making small talk.

  She gradually fitted names to faces. The Chairman was a larger-than-life, fleshy man – over twenty stone she reckoned – with a garish mustard suit and uncoordinated tie. His loud Deep South drawl could be heard above every conversation introducing his new ‘catch’: a top Pentagon official, recently retired. She could also see that his eyes were not fixed on the man from the Pentagon but on her or, at least, her body. Having heard the gossip about his reputation, rather similar to that of his friend and sometime business associate Donald Trump, she kept her distance and avoided eye contact. She experienced a brief moment of panic when she was introduced to the Israeli director who bore a striking similarity to her old flame; but it wasn’t him.