by Duane Evans
“Major, you are looking fit these days. Are you still jogging?” Ali asked.
Tarek smiled and shook his head. “Not as much as I used to, Sir. I try to get out three to four times a week for about 10 kilometers. But that is about it.”
“Good Lord, man!” Ali responded. “The heart only has so many beats in it. Why push your luck?”
Tarek laughed. “Running is supposed to be good for the heart, so I’m hoping it has added to the number of beats, not lessened them.”
“You can try to add beats to your heart if you like, Major, but the number of our days is written on our foreheads by the Almighty himself, and there is nothing we do can do to change that number,” Ali said matter-of-factly.
“You may be right, General, but I’ll keep running just the same. I find it therapeutic, and that alone makes it worth the effort.”
“Well there is nothing wrong with that I suppose,” Ali said, then asked, “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Or a soda perhaps?”
“Thank you, Sir, but I’m fine.”
Ali raised his eyebrows. “How about a brandy, Major? It’s been a while since we shared one of those. Oh, and don’t worry about Madam chastising us, she is with her family in Lahore for the week.”
Tarek pondered the offer for a moment. Although he did not often drink hard liquor, there was something about the thick night air and the soulful raga playing in the background that made the thought of a good brandy sound very appealing.
“Thank you, General. I accept your offer,” Tarek responded.
“Good. I was hoping you would. It gives me an excuse to indulge myself in the interest of being a good host. Certainly Madam would understand that.”
Ali walked over to a rattan cabinet under a sheltered area of the tiled patio, took out a bottle and two brandy snifters, and returned to his chair.
Pouring a double shot into each glass, Ali offered a toast. “To Pakistan.”
Tarek raised his glass and touched it to Ali’s. “To Pakistan,” he echoed.
Each man took a brief drink. Tarek found just one sip had an immediate relaxing effect. He could not help but notice that the General seemed melancholy. As the evening progressed, and they consumed more brandy, it became clear that Ali was in a pensive mood.
An hour later, Ali sat comfortably back in his chair, his empty brandy snifter dangling from his left hand, a smoldering half-smoked cigar in his right. He took a draw off his cigar and asked, “Still no word from our friend, I assume?”
“None, Sir. But I should hear something soon.”
“The sooner the better, Tarek. Maybe I’m paranoid, but the complete stand-down of the LT is ominous, as contradictory as that may sound, and with HV/30’s report on the meeting between Abu Shafik and these mystery persons from our government, the situation only looks worse. My belief remains that Abu Shafik is stopping operations in order to refit, with the intention of resuming operations at a critical moment.”
Tarek took a sip of his brandy, savoring the smooth taste as it slipped down his throat.
He set his glass down and said, “If HV/30 has some news at the next meeting, we may get answers that will clarify things.”
“I’m counting on it, Tarek,” Ali responded. After a moment’s thought, he asked, “Do you think you can get to the bottom of this sub-source of his at the next meeting? We’ve got to know where this information is coming from.”
“I’m going to do everything I can, General. The last meeting was a car meeting, but this fellow did not open up to me much. I wanted to get a little further with him before taking him to a safehouse, but I don’t think I have a choice at this point if I’m going to create an environment where he feels safe enough to really talk. In fact, I’ve already procured the house”
“It makes sense to me,” Ali said, nodding his approval. “I think we have to push the envelope on this one.”
Tarek could see General Ali’s eyelids were becoming heavy and that he was starting to fade. Looking at his watch, Tarek was surprised to see how late it was. “Sir, I believe I’ve kept you up well past your bedtime and mine as well. It is time for me to leave before I wear out my welcome at the Ali home.”
The two men stood up. “Tarek, you know that will never happen,” Ali said, and then to Tarek’s astonishment, he added, “You are like a son to me.”
Tarek knew whatever he said in response would be insufficient for the moment, and all he could think to say was “Thank you, General. That means a lot to me. You have always had my deepest respect and admiration.”
Ali put his arm around Tarek’s shoulder and walked him down the pathway to a side gate that led out of the garden to the street.
Tarek stepped through the gate and started to walk away but Ali stopped him.
“If you hear anything from HV/30, call me immediately. And, just so you know, I will be out of my office tomorrow afternoon. The ISI director has invited me to lunch. You can always call my highline, however, and leave a message. And let’s hope our friend signals soon.”
“Exactly right, Sir,” Tarek said. “And let us hope this luncheon is less disastrous than your last.”
38
The heat from the late morning sun was intense. Despite having all the office windows open and the ceiling fans at maximum speed, there was nothing Anil Deshmukh could do to cool himself. There simply was no escaping from the heat of late spring in Calcutta. The smell of rotting refuse and the cacophony of cars, horns, motorcycles, and shouts of vendors rising from the street poured into the fourth-floor suite of the West Bengal Protocol Office. Anil did not know what annoyed him most—the heat, the smell, or the noise.
These were not the conditions he had imagined he would be working under when he accepted the provincial governor’s offer of a job as the protocol officer for the province. Governor Ghule had made the offer almost two years ago while he and Anil sat ever-so-comfortably in the governor’s tranquil air conditioned office, sipping ice-cold Coca-Cola served to them by the governor’s office assistant, truly one of the most beautiful women Anil had ever seen. Looking back to that meeting, he had to admit that Governor Ghule had not exactly promised him an air conditioned office, or that he would be “assisted” by a beautiful woman. But still, the implication was there. At least in Anil’s mind it was.
Since then, Anil had somehow grown to accept the reality of his current station within the West Bengal government. After all, he was very fortunate to have landed a government job of some responsibility, given his young age. He had a steady if low salary, and employment with the government meant that he received some health benefits. Should he endure until retirement, he would have a pension in his old age.
The job had other benefits, as well. As the protocol officer, he had met a number of celebrities who had visited the city, most having come to make highly publicized donations to organizations that helped Calcutta’s poor.
He had also organized open-air concerts for Western rock bands, primarily from the UK, who came to Calcutta while on tour. This had happened with much more frequency prior to Mother Teresa’s death, but still, every now and then, a band of tattooed long-haired rockers would arrive. Some were actually unaware Mother Teresa had died years before and would no longer be available to see them when they visited her orphanage, their mouths dropping open in shock when told of her passing.
No, his job was tolerable, as long as he kept reminding himself that his current post was only temporary. Anil was convinced the job in Calcutta would be his stepping stone to a position in India’s Ministry of Culture, with all of its possibilities—service abroad, perhaps, maybe even New York on assignment at the United Nations. This had been his dream for as long as he could remember, and he was confident he would one day fulfill that dream and the world would be his oyster.
But for the present time he had no oyster, only cold left-over lentils and hard naan to sustain him. Pushing the unappetizing food aside, he picked up the large manila envelope, which had only that mornin
g arrived from New Delhi, and for the third time pored over its contents.
His office assistant, Mathir, walked into the room carrying a stack of old newspapers. “What is it?” Mathir asked. He was a short pudgy man of about 45 years, a far cry from the office assistant Anil had imagined when he accepted the job.
“A lot of work,” Anil answered.
“That’s not good,” Mathir said as he unceremoniously dumped the papers he carried out the open window. They crashed down onto a large garbage heap, conveniently located on the street only 30 feet below the office window.
Anil turned and glared at Mathir. “How many times have I told you not to throw things out the window? We are not slum dwellers.”
Mathir, tired of hearing this particular refrain, retorted, “How can you say this? We are slum dwellers. Look around. There is garbage everywhere. Bad odors are everywhere. There are poor people everywhere. Where do you think we are Anil? In the south of France?”
“But we are not slum dwellers!” Anil fairly shouted, shaking his head emphatically. “This is not our home!”
Angry with himself for getting mad, Anil made a conscious effort to calm down. After a couple of long breaths, he once again reminded Mathir that a move to a new office was budgeted for the following year, and it would be in a much better part of Calcutta.
Mathir had a simple formula for responding to almost every statement Anil made. He would either respond, “That’s good,” or “That’s not good.” He had learned that these two responses had the least chance of provoking the volatile Anil.
In this case, after listening to Anil wistfully speak about the new office, Mathir chose to respond, “That’s good.” This seemed to satisfy Anil, who once again was pondering the contents of the manila envelope.
Mathir walked over to Anil’s desk and picked up the envelope, which bore the seal of the Ministry of Waterways. “So what is this one about?” he inquired.
“The same thing as the last one,” Anil replied absent-mindedly, “the Farakka Barrage ceremony.”
“You’re joking? I thought everything was worked out on that,” Mathir said.
“Apparently not. Based on this new list of VIPs, Delhi wants to make it a bigger deal than what was originally envisioned. I think the only one from the government who won’t be coming is the prime minister.”
Mathir picked up the list Anil had been studying. Although Anil had exaggerated a bit, there were many important officials who were now invited—about 25 senior Indian government personnel, it appeared at a glance, ranging in rank from assistant deputy minister to full minister. India’s deputy representative to the UN was on the list as well.
There were foreign dignitaries, too, most notably the Russian ambassador to India, and the resident chief of the American Agency for International Development.
Also on the list was Engineer Advani, who had designed Farakka Barrage and oversaw its construction. Advani’s daughter would accompany him as well. According to a footnote at the bottom of the page, as a courtesy, the Ministry of Waterworks was also allowing the Advani’s to bring up to five guests with them, who would be identified prior to arrival. A second footnote indicated that a group of foreign investors might also attend—if they could be identified quickly enough.
As Mathir read the list, Anil commented, “The Russian ambassador is no doubt invited in acknowledgment of his country’s support in building the dam during the days of the Soviet empire.”
“And the American embassy official? And the foreign investors? Why are they coming?” Mathir asked.
“Think about it, Mathir. India has been trying to encourage foreign investment to develop the economic infrastructure in West Bengal for the last few years. I’m sure the government sees this as an opportunity to get some exposure for West Bengal in this regard.”
“But Farakka Barrage is in the middle of nowhere. Isn’t this going a bit overboard?” Mathir asked. “After all, it is just an old dam. You might as well just dump your money in the Ganges.”
Looking up at Mathir, Anil responded in a serious tone, “It is more than an old dam. It is a symbol of India’s technological prowess and its sovereignty. Here, read this.” Anvil handed Mathir a second page. Mathir read it.
“Hmm, I see. The picture is becoming clearer now. Farakka is to be debated at the UN again. I wonder if the debate will take place before or after the commemoration ceremony?” Mathir asked.
“The next UN session begins in only a week, and it will last for about a month, so any discussion of Farakka should take place very near the time of the ceremony.” Anil, who kept track of anything having to do with the UN, said. “It’s actually a clever strategy, whether India wins or loses in the debate. A high-profile ceremony highlighting the dam will emphasize the point that India bows to no one on internal issues. Obviously, that is why our deputy UN rep will be here.”
Mathir put down the paper, “That’s good.”
“Yes, it is good. But now we must think about what it is we have to do to properly organize for the ceremony and related activities, particularly in light of these additions to the list of invited guests. Obviously, we will need a larger shamiana for the VIPs in case of rain. We also will need to recalculate our catering order for the dinner. And that is just the start of it.”
“Indeed,” Mathir responded. “We will need to line up more buses to transport the invitees to the various locations here in Calcutta and get them from Malda to Farakka. That, I think, is all easily accomplished. However, arranging for more aircraft to transport the invitees from Calcutta to Malda will be a challenge, putting us way over budget. We also cannot forget that we will need to coordinate with the police regarding the need for more security.”
Despite his frequent frustration with Mathir, Anil had to admit that when it came to planning events, he was a master.
“All good points, Mathir. Let’s sit down this afternoon and make a list of everything we can think of that needs doing. This must come off well.”
Mathir shook his head dejectedly, “Oh, God, I’m dreading this. Governor Ghule is going to be even more demanding now that there will be more VIPs coming. He is such an ass.”
“Mathir!” Anil said sharply. “You will not say such things about Governor Ghule. He is not an ass. He is just under a lot of pressure. He has personal issues to deal with plus the demands of this job. Do you know his wife has left him?”
“That’s not good,” Mathir responded.
“No, it’s not. The man is beside himself. So let’s not be so callous about his situation. It could happen to you too, you know.”
Mathir started to reply that he did not think so, since he was not involved with a beautiful office assistant that his wife could find out about, but he thought better about making such a provocative comment to Anil. Tired of the conversation, he simply said, “Well, it’s not good. Let’s discuss what we will need to do after lunch.”
The two men locked up their office and walked down the four flights of stairs to the street level, stopping at the front door to tell the chokidar they were leaving and not to let anyone go up to their office.
Mathir hailed a motor-rickshaw, and the two men shared the ride to the middle-class area of town where they both lived. There they parted company, each making his way on foot to his own apartment.
With the day’s heat at its peak, the first thing Anil did upon arriving at his apartment was to turn his window-mounted air conditioner on high. The small unit only cooled the living room, which was closed off from the rest of the house by a glass wall and door. The chilled air felt so good that Anil lay down on the cool tile floor directly under the air conditioner.
As he lay there drinking in the coolness, he imagined what it would be like when he finally could live in a place where creature comforts weren’t such a rarity and his work would always be interesting. To his mind, the United Nations in New York was the perfect place for him.
Just before drifting off to sleep, the thought occurred to him, a
nd not for the first time, that his role in organizing the Farakka Barrage ceremony could be his ticket to New York.
39
Well into his ten kilometers, Tarek had entered the zone. His mind was clear and still, his pace steady and strong. With each stride, the surface of the dirt trail rose up to meet his feet in an effortless rhythm. The heat of the day and the exertion of his body felt good. Tarek savored every moment. This was his meditation. This was what renewed him time and again.
It was only one week since his last meeting with General Ali, but much had happened since that evening. The day following the meeting had been a fateful one for Ali. At his luncheon with the ISI director general, Ali was informed that he was being assigned as the ISI representative to Washington, effective immediately. The DG had tried to put the best face on it, telling Ali it was safer for him to go abroad, as the “miscreants” who had tried to kill him were still at large. The DG also noted that the position in Washington was highly coveted.
Ali thought the desirability of the Washington job was debatable and under different circumstances he might have been happy to take the assignment. But given what seemed to be afoot in Pakistan, Ali knew that now was not the time to be exiled half-way around the world. Realizing General Ali did not seem particularly excited about the news, the DG went on to say, “It is fortunate that General Baluch has announced his intention to retire and return from Washington. Had this not happened, I do not know where we could have placed you.”
Ali understood the DG was saying that if he did not accept the Washington job, retirement would be his only other option. He knew that, as difficult as it would be to try to influence events from his post in Washington, if he retired he would be completely out of the game, with no influence at all.
The DG had apologized for the short notice, offering the excuse that given the importance of Pakistan’s relationship with the US, he needed to get a replacement for General Baluch out to Washington as soon as possible, and he did not want to work through the normal personnel process, which could take weeks. General Ali was to be in Washington by the following week, and Shahida could join him later.