Let Bhutto Eat Grass 2

by Shaunak Agarkhedkar

  ‘Keep my face within the larger frame lines in the viewfinder,’ she said, ‘and observe the small rectangle in the centre. If you notice, there are two images there. And when you rotate the focusing ring, those images move. Now keep that rectangle aligned with my face and rotate the ring till both images overlap. When that happens, the camera is focused on my face. Take a few photos to make sure you’ve got a good one. And do be careful with that thing. If we ding it, we won’t get our papers.’

  Sablok peered through the viewfinder at Nissa’s face and set about trying to frame the image and focus properly.

  ‘Smile,’ he said out of cultural habit more than anything else.

  ‘Nobody smiles for their passport photo, Captain,’ Nissa said.

  Sablok quickly looked up from the viewfinder and muttered an apology. But when he got back to watching through it, he noticed the hint of a smile.

  ‘Why do you need a passport?’ Sablok asked her a little later as she was rewinding the film inside the camera.

  ‘If the DST or MI5 are on the lookout for you, Captain, they’ll be watching airports for an Indian man travelling alone,’ she replied.

  He waited for her to continue, but by then she had finished rewinding the film.

  ‘How many more days do you think I’ll be here?’ Sablok asked her.

  ‘One or two days, maybe more.’

  Sablok poured himself another glass. A third of the bottle was now empty.

  ‘I shouldn’t have taken you to the embassy yesterday,’ she said, sipping tepid coffee. ‘The Jesuit had warned me about it. Whatever mission he sent you on—it must be completely...uhh...independent of regular channels. But the cassettes...’

  Sablok felt that he needed to console her, ease her guilt, perhaps even make light of potential consequences. But her anger from the day before was a fresh memory. He held his tongue.

  ‘What the hell did he have you do?’ she asked, her guard momentarily lowered.

  Sablok looked at her, his face blank, eyebrows slightly raised, and said nothing.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said after a few moments.

  Sablok smiled. It was thin and shallow, and his eyes stayed out of the expression. Almeida’s instructions to her must have included keeping him out of the Resident’s sight, Sablok thought. She appeared to have read his mind.

  ‘The embassy could have been under surveillance,’ she continued. ‘And we walked right up to the rear entrance. Now two sets of people likely know what you look like: the Resident, and the French.’ Then she sighed. ‘There’s nothing to be done about it now. The good news is that this flat isn’t being watched. Well, not yet. We’ll soon have the papers we need. I’ll go there with the photographs after this cup.’

  ‘Is he reliable? The forger, I mean.’

  ‘She may be. I haven’t worked with her before. My regular chap couldn’t be reached. But her references seem alright.’

  She got up to leave.

  ‘It might take a day or two for her to prepare the passports. I think she’s still working on the visas. I’ll return when I have them,’ she said, then added, ‘Ration the whisky, Captain.’

  ***

  Three days later on a Saturday morning, the bored young guard manning the emigration desk at Évian-les-Bains glanced once at Sablok before exit-stamping his passport and waving him through. Nissa was next. Sablok walked a few paces and waited, his suitcase in hand. But the young guard showed greater interest in Nissa and her passport, asking her question after question. Sablok couldn’t hear most of the words from where he stood. Not that it mattered: the conversation was in formal French; the vocabulary and even the way the sentences were structured were all new to him. As the seconds ticked by, his nervousness grew. The clock above the doorway before him indicated that it was twelve minutes to departure. He set his own watch by it and willed himself to wait. The smart thing to do was to walk ahead and board the ferry. His standing there wouldn’t help Nissa in any way. And if he boarded and sat quietly, perhaps they wouldn’t notice that Nissa and he had arrived together, waited in line together. If they decided to investigate her papers or detain her, there was a possibility that they wouldn’t bother with him. After all, they had exit-stamped his passport without fuss. Almeida would want him to walk away. Arora might agree with their boss, but Sablok couldn’t be certain; the old Berlin hand had a deep streak of defiance in him that surfaced from time to time.

  Sablok grabbed his suitcase and began walking. Five steps away from the counter. He could still hear words being exchanged behind him. Ten steps. Fifteen. He squinted as the bright morning overwhelmed his eyes. He was outside the terminal building and his ears were filled with the hum of the ferry’s engines at idle. The gangway was thirty-forty feet ahead, and the gentleman who had stood before him in line was already halfway up it. Sablok glanced at his watch. The ferry departed in nine minutes. He walked a little further, then stopped and turned around. His eyes had grown used to the brightness. When he looked at the door through which he had exited the terminal building, everything appeared pitch black. He turned to look at the gangway once again. He could get there in five-ten seconds, he thought. A sailor stood next to it on the dock. Sablok held out the palm of his right hand at him, the fingers outstretched to ask if he had five minutes. The sailor nodded. Sablok noted the time on his watch and began walking back towards the terminal.

  ‘Monsieur!’ the sailor called out.

  Sablok ignored him and kept walking.

  He was nearly at the doorway when Nissa stepped through it. Her eyes widened when she saw Sablok walking back towards her. She took a step towards her left and looked behind Sablok. Seeing nobody following him, she visibly relaxed.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said to him.

  Sablok turned around once again and the two began walking towards the gangway.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  Nissa burst out laughing.

  ‘He was asking mundane questions at first,’ she said. ‘Then he tried to flirt with me. I tried to let him down gently. That took some time.’

  ‘You could have told him we were together. It would have been quicker,’ Sablok replied.

  ‘He had already stamped your passport. There was no need to drag you back and draw his attention to you.’

  The sailor at the foot of the gangway nodded them through, reserving a ‘Madame’ for Nissa and a smile for Sablok. The duo stood at the railing on the deck at the back of the ferry, their eyes fixed on the terminal building until the building had shrunk to the size of Sablok’s suitcase. About twenty minutes later, the ferry crossed an imaginary line on Lake Geneva, and Sablok and Nissa entered Switzerland.

  True to stereotypes the Swiss were more meticulous, asking questions of the Indian couple after their arrival in Lausanne. Sablok and Nissa had rehearsed their cover story well, and after the first few questions Nissa slipped effortlessly into French. She explained that they were in Europe on their honeymoon. That drew a reluctant smile from the border guard. Then he glanced at their luggage. A suitcase and an overnight bag, completely insufficient for a honeymoon trip through Europe. He was about to say something when, without missing a beat, Nissa continued, ‘Paris was so charming. And the Mediterranean at Nice! My god, it was breath-taking.’ Her voice rose high with that remark and she placed her right hand on her chest as if clutching a racing heart. All the while her eyes remained on the guard who had now lost interest in their luggage or the lack of it and was more interested in the pretty woman before him.

  ‘Of course my husband here feels that the Swiss Alps are prettier,’ Nissa continued. ‘So you could say that not only are we here on our honeymoon, we’re also here to settle a lovers’ tiff.’

  The guard broke out into a grin and looked at Sablok who returned his stare with adequate bewilderment before stumbling his way into an apology of sorts.

  ‘Je su
is désolé, je ne parle pas français,’ he said.

  ‘That is okay. Welcome to Switzerland. Enjoy the Alps and your honeymoon,’ the guard replied, entry-stamping their passports and waving them through.

  They were booked into the Château d’Ouchy, an old castle-turned-hotel a minute’s walk from the harbour. Their reservations were for a week-long stay in the Riviera suite, a large, wood-panelled castle room with a view of the surrounding mountains.

  ‘This room belongs in a fairy tale,’ Nissa exclaimed when they were shown to their room and the porter had left.

  ‘The Jesuit didn’t spare any expenses, did he?’ Sablok said, grinning. Then he noticed that there was only one large bed.

  ‘I’ll sleep on the sofa, of course,’ he declared.

  ‘Of course,’ Nissa replied.

  A day after they had checked in, when the honeymooning Indian couple that tipped well were out for an early morning walk, a telegram arrived from New Delhi. The Indian man’s father had suddenly taken ill—doctors thought it was a heart attack—and the young man was needed back home. The couple were suitably distraught, and the woman shed a few tears when the concierge informed them.

  ‘You must rush to him,’ she exclaimed in chaste Hindi, her voice wavering with each syllable.

  Her husband took it stoically, the concierge thought.

  ‘We would like to settle our bills right away,’ the husband said to the concierge in English. ‘And I need to book a flight ticket for myself. Does Air India have an office in Lausanne?’

  The concierge promised to check, and asked if the lady wouldn’t be travelling as well.

  ‘No. She has to be back in London before the weekend,’ he offered with a shrug, then added, ‘A trip to India and back would take too long.’

  The concierge replied that he would get him the ticket he needed, and retreated to his desk to man the telephone. He didn’t get many Indian guests, but his friend who worked at another hotel in Geneva did. Perhaps he would know about Air India flights.

  The hotel arranged a taxi and the couple were on their way to Geneva airport within an hour. There they were met by the concierge’s friend who handed Sablok his ticket for Air India Flight 126. After a rather subdued farewell at the airport, he boarded the Boeing 707 which finally took off at 6:50 p.m. By then Nissa had purchased a ticket on a British Airways flight to Heathrow.

  TWO

  Santacruz Airport, Bombay (India)

  Air India flight 126 landed at Santacruz airport the next morning. The heat and humidity hit Sablok the moment he stepped out of the aircraft and began the slow process that had him waiting for his suitcase and then waiting in line for immigration. For half an hour the line crawled forward a few feet at a time through the stifling air of the airport terminal, and it was almost noon when Sablok found himself at the immigration counter, face to face with a middle-aged officer sporting the bored appearance typical of public servants forced to serve the public. He took Sablok’s passport with a reluctant movement of his hand, then flicked the booklet open, held it as far away from his eyes as the length of his arm would allow, and began reading. Moments later his eyes darted to a piece of paper taped on the inside of his table where it couldn’t be seen by passengers. He read the name on the passport again, marked the passenger’s entry into India by viciously thumping it with a fat rubber stamp, and waved Sablok through.

  A short walk later, Sablok found himself waiting in line for customs. Minutes passed as the passengers before him slowly filtered through, some unscathed, some after parting with a few valuables. Sablok felt a hand grab his elbow.

  ‘Did you pack that suitcase yourself?’

  Sablok nodded.

  ‘Step out of the line.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Sablok asked.

  ‘Random checking. Follow me to that room,’ the official in white said to him.

  Inside, the official walked across the room to another door and motioned for Sablok to follow.

  ‘Your flight to Dilli leaves in fifteen minutes. Better hurry,’ he said, handing Sablok a ticket. It was in someone else’s name. None of his aliases corresponded to it.

  ‘Are you sure this is my ticket?’

  ‘I don’t run a bloody travel agency. It’s yours,’ the official snapped, turning and walking away.

  Sablok had hoped to see Arora at Palam airport. But after ten minutes of waiting outside Arrivals, when nobody turned up, Sablok walked to the makeshift taxi stand. There were four taxis waiting there. He went to the first one and gave his address. The driver smiled a toothy smile, but declined. The second taxi driver was no different. As Sablok walked wearily towards the third taxi, the fourth one drove up alongside and its driver called out:

  ‘Sirjee, I will take you.’

  Sablok glanced at the third taxi. Its driver shrugged and returned his attention to the newspaper.

  Once inside the black and yellow Fiat, Sablok gave the driver—an old Sikh with a glorious white beard—his home address and off they went. The old man drove cautiously, but talked. At first Sablok replied out of politeness but by the time they passed Chanakyapuri he had run out of things to say and stopped responding. That did not faze the old man at all, and he continued the conversation entirely by himself as they passed Rashtrapati Bhavan, the Sri Bangla Sahib Gurudwara, and Connaught Place. Sablok was on the verge of tuning out when, instead of driving past Ajmeri Gate and through Chawri Bazar, the driver turned left and drove past Sheila Theatre.

  ‘Uncleji, we need to go to ISBT,’ Sablok reminded him. In between all that talking the senile old fellow had forgotten their destination.

  ‘You can go to ISBT later. Arora sahab told me to deposit you somewhere else,’ the driver replied.

  ‘Arora?’ Sablok remarked.

  ‘Haan ji. Big sahab with big belly,’ came the reply.

  At 3 p.m. Sablok was walked into a building in Paharganj.

  ‘First floor. Flat number 5,’ the driver had told him.

  Sablok knocked, and Almeida opened the door and welcomed him in.

  ‘It appears baldness suits you quite well, Captain,’ he said as Sablok carefully placed his suitcase in a corner and sank into the sofa.

  The living room looked pristine and unused. Sablok guessed it was a safe house.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Is everything okay?’ Sablok asked, worrying about the implications of being diverted there.

  ‘Of course. This is just a precaution.’

  ‘From the ISI? Here in Delhi?’ Sablok wondered aloud.

  ‘No, not from the enemy without,’ came the reply.

  There was another knock at the door. Almeida went and opened it.

  ‘Was he followed?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Arora replied casually, walking to the kitchen and disappearing from Sablok’s view. He returned a few moments later holding a tray with three whisky tumblers and a bottle of scotch. Sablok couldn’t see the name as the label faced away from him.

  ‘Ah! Thank you, Jugs. Drink up, Captain. To a job well done,’ Almeida said as Arora poured.

  ‘That driver friend of yours doesn’t stop talking,’ Sablok remarked.

  ‘Funnily enough he says the same about his wife,’ Arora chuckled.

  Sablok hadn’t finished swallowing the second sip when Almeida got down to business.

  ‘We have heard the cassettes, Captain. Has all evidence been destroyed?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We were informed that you were bleeding when you returned from the forest.’

  ‘It was a tiny cut, sir. A simple bandage took care of it,’ Sablok replied, missing the point.

  ‘You were injured somewhere in the forest, I presume,’ Almeida continued.

  Sablok nodded.

  ‘Then is it possible, and forgive me for belabouring the point but this needs to be clarified, that you
bled all over the Citroën? The van you used for the operation?’

  Sablok could hear a wall clock in the background, its pendulum swinging unconcernedly, showing little mercy for his predicament. Suddenly his ears felt hot. A bead of sweat dripped down his nose and hung for dear life from the tip. He wiped away with his arm, then wiped the rest of his face with a handkerchief.

  ‘Yes, sir. It is possible.’

  Almeida handed over a map of Paris.

  ‘Would you be so kind as to mark the exact location where you dumped it? We would like to hear your own assessment of the operation as soon as you are done,’ he said.

  Sablok put his glass down and stared at the map, trying to remember in which Arrondisement and on what street he had parked the van. It took him a while but he was able to mark the approximate area with a circle one hundred metres in diameter, give or take.

  ‘I believe Hussain was telling the truth, sir,’ he began after Arora had folded the map and stowed it away in a file. ‘After the Sulfikar Butt fiasco in Belgium, the ISI appears to have decided to compartmentalise the operation to procure equipment needed for—’

  ‘What is the basis for that assumption?’ Arora interjected.

  ‘Which assumption?’ Sablok asked, knocked further off balance.

  ‘That Hussain was telling the truth.’

  ‘I believe that based on the way the interrogation went.’

  Arora grunted. Sablok thought there was a hint of mockery in it.

  ‘Be specific,’ Arora challenged him.

  Sablok reached for his glass and swallowed.

  ‘I base my belief on the fact that there were few contradictions in Hussain’s statements as the interrogation progressed.’

  ‘That remains to be seen.’

  ‘Calm down, Arora. Let us all take a step back. Now, Captain, would you mind briefing us about the interrogation?’ Almeida said.

  ‘Where should I begin, sir?’

  ‘When you started recording the first cassette, Captain.’