Spectre (The Beginning Book 1)

by Anil John

  ‘I’d have to go to China?’

  ‘It will only take you a few weeks.’

  ‘I do not want ...’

  ‘Yakov, we are talking about an Islamic revolunatory leader. He is the guy in the white hat. Our sources say that he has enough popular support in his home country to throw over the Prime Minister. When the timing is right, he will make his move. Meanwhile, we have to keep the man alive.’

  Yakov thought about it. ‘A few weeks, you said?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  The colonel had been wrong about the time, but he had been right about Morad Amir.

  ‘I don’t give a damn whether I live or die.’ Morad Amir told Yakov at their first meeting, ‘We are all going to die. It is the when that concerns me. I have to stay alive for another year or two. That’s all the time I need to drive him out of my country.’ He ran his hand absently across a livid scar on his forehead. ‘No man has the right to enslave a country. We have to free Pakistan and let the people decide their own fate.’

  Yakov went to work on the security system at the villa in outskirts of Guangzhou in China. He used some of his own men, and the outsiders he hired were scanned and their background check was done. Every single piece of equipment was world class.

  Yakov saw the Islamic rebel every day, and the more time he spent with him, the more he came to admire him. When Morad Amir asked him to stay on as his security chief, Yakov did not refuse. They struck a deal.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he said, ‘until you are ready to make your move. Then I will return to Israel.’

  At irregular intervals, Yakov staged surprise attacks on the villa, testing their security. Now he thought: Some of the officers are getting careless. I will have to replace them.’

  He walked through the hallways, carefully checking the heat sensors, electronic security systems and the infrared beams. As he reached Morad’s bedroom, he heard a loud crash, and a moment later Morad Amir began screaming out in agony.

  Yakov passed Morad Amir’s room and kept walking.

  Chapter 4

  The Research and Analysis Wing Headquarters [R.A.W],

  New Delhi, India

  The headquarters for India’s primary external intelligence agency,

  R.A.W is located in New Delhi.

  The ghost building is there but still not there. It does not have any R.A.W markings and the numerous commoners have gotten in close vicinity to the headquarters without even giving it a thought.

  The ten storey ghost building is guarded twenty-four hours a day.

  The authorised visitors are issued coloured badges giving them access only to the particular department with which they have business.

  Inside headquarters building, on the ground floor, a glass corridor wall faces an inner courtyard with a landscaped garden dotted with lush green trees.

  The public is never admitted inside the building, and there are no facilities for visitors. For those who wish to enter the compound unseen – there is a tunnel that emerges onto a foyer facing an elevator door, watched around the clock by a squad of highly trained sentries.

  In the conference room on the tenth floor, guarded by security aides armed with .38 revolvers under their business suits, the Monday morning executive staffs meeting was under way.

  Seated around the large wooden table were Director of RAW, Chief General of Indian Army, Chief of Counter Intelligence, Secretary of Defence and the Minister of Foreign Affairs; Debrato Roy.

  In the middle of the meeting, the face of the Chief of Counter Intelligence was red with anger. ‘If we let the Prime Minister get away with his people to people programme, he is going to give the country away. It has to be stopped. We can’t allow...’

  The Secretary of Defence interrupted, ‘The Prime Minister has been in office for less than a week. We are all here to carry out his policies and...’

  ‘I am not here to hand over my country to the Pakistanis, Mister. The Prime Minister never ever mentioned his plan before his speech. He sprang it on all of us.’ The Army General quoted in a heavy voice.

  The Chief of Counter Intelligence turned to Roy, ‘The General has a point. The Prime Minister is actually planning to invite Pakistan to send their spies here posing as cultural attaches and chauffeurs and secretaries and maids. We are spending billions to guard the back door, and the Prime Minister wants to throw open the front door.’

  The Director of RAW nodded in agreement, ‘I wasn’t consulted, either. In my opinion, this people to people programme with Pakistan could damn well destroy our country.’

  Roy said, ‘Gentlemen, some of us may disagree with our Prime Minister, but let us not forget that the people of India voted for Vir Sanghvi to run this country.’ His eyes flicked across the men seated around him, ‘we are all part of the Prime Minister’s team and we have to follow his lead and support him in every way we can.’

  His words were followed by a reluctant silence.

  ‘All right, then. The Prime Minister wants an immediate update on the current situation in Pakistan. Everything you have.’

  ‘Including our covert stuff?’ The Chief of Counter Intelligence asked.

  ‘Everything, Give it to me straight. What is the situation in Pakistan with their Prime Minister?’

  ‘He is riding high in the saddle.’ The Chief replied.

  ‘Once he got rid of the Ex Prime Minister family, all of his allies were assassinated, jailed or exile. Since he seized power, he is been bleeding the country dry. The people of Pakistan hate his guts.’

  ‘What about the prospects for a revolution?’

  ‘Ah, that is rather interesting. Remember a couple of years back when Morad Amir almost toppled the government?’

  ‘Yes, Morad got out of the country and saved his life.’

  ‘Our information is that there is a popular groundswell to bring him back. Morad Amir would be good for Pakistan and if he got in, it would be good for us. We are keeping a close watch on the situation.’

  Roy turned to the Secretary of Defence. ‘Do you have that list of candidates for the Indian Ambassador post?’

  The Secretary of Defence opened a leather case, took some papers from it and handed a copy to Roy.

  ‘These are our top prospects. They are all qualified career diplomats. Each one of them has been cleared. No security problems, No financial problems, No embarrassing skeletons in their closet.’

  As Roy took the list, the Secretary of Defence added, ‘Naturally the Defence and the Army favours a career diplomat rather than a political appointee, someone who has been trained for this kind of job. In the current situation, Pakistan is an extremely sensitive post. It has to be handled very carefully.’

  ‘I agree.’ Roy rose to his feet. ‘I will discuss these names with the Prime Minister and get back to you. He is anxious to fill the appointment as quickly as possible. Good bye Gentlemen.’

  Riding back to the Office in his chauffeur driven Rolls Royce Phantom, Debrato Roy opened the envelope containing the names of the candidates for the post of Indian Ambassador to Pakistan and studied them. It was an excellent list.

  The Secretary of Defence had done his homework. The candidates had all served in Eastern and Western countries, and a few of them had additional experience in the Far East and Africa. ‘Vir Sanghvi is going to be pleased.’ Roy said to himself.

  ‘They are not good enough,’ Prime Minister Vir Sanghvi snapped. He threw the list down on his desk.’

  ‘Vir,’ Roy protested, ‘these people are all experienced career diplomats.’

  ‘You remember how the last government lost it three years ago? Our experienced career diplomat in Islamabad screwed up and we were out in the cold. The pin-striped men worry me. They are all out to cover themselves. When I talked about people to people programme, I meant every word of it. We need to make a positive impression on a country that at this moment is very wary of us.’

  ‘But if you put an amateur in there – someone with no experience – you are taking
a big risk.’

  ‘May be we need someone with a different kind of experience. Pakistan is going to be a test this time, Roy. A pilot test for my whole people to people programme.’ He hesitated. ‘My credibility is on the line. I know there are a lot of powerful people who do not want to see this work. If it fails, I am going to get cut off at the knees on a global platform and I don’t intend for that to happen.’

  ‘Okay, I can check out some of our political appointees who...’

  ‘No way, I want someone with a fresh point of view, someone who can thaw the ice.’ Prime Minister Vir Sanghvi snapped.

  He has to be the opposite of the Intolerant and Impulsive Indian.

  Roy was studying the expressions of his friend who was the Prime Minister of India. ‘Vir, I get the impression that you already have someone in mind. Do you?’

  Vir Sanghvi took a cigar and lit it. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said slowly, ‘I think I may have.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  Vir placed a picture on the table and slid it towards Roy.

  ‘He is for sure an amateur in politics, Vir.’ Roy quipped,

  ‘Some of the finest ambassadors in the history of mankind have been amateurs. You know it. In fact, One-third of our current ambassadors who have delivered the best were once what you call “amateurs”.’

  ‘But you don’t know anything about this man.’

  ‘Except that he is damned bright and intelligent, tolerant and compassionate, brave and thinks out of the box. I want you to find out everything you can about him. His name is Sunny Jordan.’

  Two days later, Prime Minister Vir Sanghvi and his friend – cum - Minister of Foreign Affairs, Debrato Roy breakfasted together.

  ‘I got the information you asked for.’ Roy pulled a paper from his file.

  ‘Sunny Jordan, Age – 40 years, born to an Israeli father and to an Indian mother. His father Mr. Jordan Maron was Israel’s Ambassador to many countries in Asia Pacific region, including India and Pakistan and he married an Indian nurse called Mary. Both of his parents are no more. Sunny Jordan is a successful business man who runs a chain of multi-cuisine restaurants across the state and contributes a chunk of its profits to run an NGO called Mary Jordan Foundation, providing for homeless old women in remembrance of his mother and he is the..,’

  Roy looked up, ‘The more I have thought about this, the more sense it makes. He probably knows more about Pakistan than most ambassadors know about the countries they are going to serve in.’

  ‘I am glad you feel that way, Roy. I’d like to have a full security check run on him.’ Prime Minister Vir Sanghvi replied.

  Chapter 5

  Republic of Chechnya, Russia

  The nucleus of Russian crime is stationed in Republic of Chechnya, a region within Russia just north of Georgia.

  This is the region due to which from superpower to Third World country think tanks are beginning to speculate if communism really was the cure for Russia.

  ‘We are meeting under the usual rules.’ The host announced. ‘No records will be kept, this meeting will never be discussed, and we will refer to one another by the code names we have been assigned.’

  There were eight men in the isolated graveyard of the ruins of a tenth century Kremlin. Four armed men in plain clothes, bundled up in woollen overcoats, kept vigil outside, while a fifth man guarded the gate of the graveyard. The eight men in the graveyard had arrived at the site separately, a few minutes earlier.

  The host continued, ‘The Pindar has received some disturbing information. Morad Amir is preparing a coup against the Prime Minister of Pakistan. A group of senior army officers in Pakistan have decided to back him. This time he could very well be successful.’

  Greed spoke up, ‘How would that affect our plan?’

  ‘It could destroy it. ‘Wrath snapped back.

  ‘Then we must prevent it from happening.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We assassinate Morad Amir.’ The Pindar replied.

  ‘That is impossible. Prime Minister Khan and his men have made half a dozen attempts that we know of, and they have all failed. His villa in China seems to be impregnable. Anyway, no one in this room can afford to be involved in an assassination attempt.

  ‘We wouldn’t be directly involved.’ The Pindar said.

  ‘Then how?’

  The host pulled out a file that had the details of a competent and dangerous assassin who is for hire.

  ‘He is best in the business, unlike his peers; he is wickedly competent and lethally dangerous. They know him as Carlos. He is the true synonym to terror and an embodiment of evil.’

  According to the file, Carlos was involved in the assassination of prominent leaders and politicians across the globe.

  He also master-minded the assassination of a dozen senior army officers in China and the chinese have offered a five million dollar reward for him, dead or alive.’

  ‘He is impressive,’ Lust said, ‘Can we get him?’

  ‘He is expensive. If he agrees to take the contract, it will cost us five million dollars approximately.’

  ‘That can be handled.’

  ‘How do we get to this man?’

  ‘All his contacts and contracts are handled through his childhood friend who is a priest in the slums of Rio de Janeiro and they call him Padre Pio.

  ‘What would the next step be? Who would get in touch with the Padre for us?’

  The host replied, ‘The Pindar has suggested a man named Lucas. He is a maverick. He was thrown out of CIA for setting up his own drug cartel when he was in Brazil. He knows the territory and he would be a perfect go-between.’ He paused, ‘I suggest we take a vote. All those in favor of hiring Carlos please raise your hands.’

  Eight well manicured hands with the most expensive watches on earth went up into the air.

  ‘The meeting is over. Goodbye Gentlemen.’

  It was a Monday, and Constable Vadim was having a picnic in the greenhouse a few kilometres away from the graveyard and the Kremlin, where he had no right to be. He was not alone;

  He later had to explain it to his superiors. It was warm in the greenhouse, and his companion Tatiana, a bosomy country lady, had prevailed upon the good constable to bring a picnic hamper.

  ‘You supply the food,’ Tatiana giggled, ‘and I will supply the dessert.’

  The ‘Dessert’ was five feet, with beautiful, shapely breasts and hips that a man could sink his teeth into.

  Unfortunately, in the middle of dessert Constable Vadim’s concentration was distracted by a limousine driving out of the castle gate.

  ‘This bloody place is supposed to be closed on Mondays.’ He muttered.

  ‘Don’t lose your place.’ Tatiana coaxed.

  Twenty minutes later, the constable heard a second car leaving. This time he was curious enough to get up and peer out of the window. It looked like an official limousine, with darkened windows that concealed the passengers.

  ‘I just can’t figure out who could be in the castle, except for tour days. It is closed down.’ He wondered.

  Twenty minutes later when Constable Vadim heard the third car leave, his sexual appetite lost out to his instincts as a policeman.

  There were five more vehicles, all limousines, all spaced twenty minutes apart. One of the cars stopped long enough to let a fox run by. Constable Vadim was able to note the licence-plate number.

  ‘It is supposed to be your bloody day off,’ Tatiana complained.

  ‘This could be important,’ the Constable said, and even as he said it, he wondered whether he was going to report it.

  ‘What were you doing at ruins of Kremlin?’ Sergeant Viktor demanded.

  ‘Sight-seeing, sir,’

  ‘The Kremlin was closed.’

  ‘Yes, sir, The Greenhouse was open.’

  ‘So you decided to sight-see in the greenhouse?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Well, to tell you the truth...’


  ‘Spare me the bloody details, Constable. What made you suspicious about the cars?’

  ‘The cars left at intervals of twenty minutes and the drivers seemed very cautious.’

  ‘Is this the number on the plate you got?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’

  ‘Okay, now you can leave.’

  When the reports on the licence number came, Sergeant Viktor thought that Vadim had made a mistake. He took his information upstairs to Inspector Stanislav and explained the back-ground.

  ‘I would not have bothered you with this, Inspector, but the licence plate number...’

  ‘Yes, I see. I will take it from here.’

  At the Federal Security Service of Russian Federation Headquarters, Inspector Stanislav had a brief meeting with one of the senior chiefs of the Russian Secret Intelligence services, Nikolai Bortnikov.

  ‘You were right to bring this to my attention,’ Nikolai smiled, ‘but I am afraid it is nothing more alarming than the Royals trying to arrange a vacation trip without the press being aware of it.’

  ‘I am sorry to have you bothered you about this sir,’ Inspector Stanislav rose to his feet.

  ‘Not at all, Inspector, what did you say the name of that constable was?’

  ‘Constable Vadim, sir.’

  When the door closed behind Inspector, The chief picked up his cell phone.

  ‘I have a message for the Pindar, we have a small problem. I will explain it at the next meeting. Meanwhile, I want you to arrange for three transfers; Police sergeant Viktor, Inspector Stanislav and Constable Vadim. I want them sent to separate posts, as far from Moscow as possible. I will inform the Chairman and see if he wants to take any further action.’