Let Bhutto Eat Grass 2

by Shaunak Agarkhedkar

  ‘That was moments after I parked the van in the forest. When I killed the engine and checked, Hussain was unconscious. I then stepped out of the van to ... err ... stretch my legs.’

  ‘We heard you urinate. It is on the tape. Please do not give in to the urge to sanitise your narrative for my sake, Captain. We want the unvarnished truth.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Sablok replied, rather sheepishly. ‘After I urinated, I returned to the van to find that Hussain had regained consciousness.’

  ‘Something bothered you before you did that. We heard a sharp grunt.’

  ‘It could have been Hussain, sir. He was in the process of regaining consciousness at that time.’

  ‘The sound came from somewhere outside the van.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sablok asked, a sardonic smile beginning to form on his face.

  Arora pulled an unmarked file from among a pile of newspapers next to him and thumbed through a few pages before nodding.

  ‘We had an audio expert check. It certainly wasn’t Hussain grunting at that point,’ Arora remarked.

  Sablok couldn’t remember why he had grunted.

  ‘Try harder,’ Arora quipped.

  ‘Perhaps I should have taken notes at that time and prepared a memo about my meeting with the Pakistani,’ Sablok replied.

  ‘Let us move on,’ Almeida interjected. ‘What happened when you returned to the van?’

  ‘Hussain was awake and moaning faintly. I removed the rag from his mouth and made it clear that nobody could hear him because we were deep inside a forest. I also told him that I had his Beretta in my hand and that it was pointed at his chest.’

  ‘Chest?’ Arora asked, referring to that file again.

  Sablok guessed that the file contained a transcript of the tapes. He couldn’t understand why Arora would bother with such trivial issues, but thought back to what he had said to Hussain in the van.

  ‘At his heart,’ he said, correcting himself.

  Arora nodded.

  ‘Did he understand you?’ Almeida asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘He said he understood.’

  ‘So he was alert enough to understand what you said in one go,’ Arora observed.

  ‘Well, yes and no. He—’

  ‘Was he alert or not? It’s a simple question.’

  ‘He was alert.’

  ‘And you based that on his responses?’

  ‘I also noticed in the light of the torch that his eyes were quite alert. But he was also very...well...I found it very easy to lead him along in whatever direction I wanted the conversation to take,’ Sablok replied, beginning to tire of the questioning.

  Arora made a note in the file.

  ‘What did you do next?’

  ‘I told him that his son had been abducted, and that he would be released just as soon as Hussain—Colonel Ejaz Khan—gave me the information I needed.’

  ‘That wasn’t part of the plan,’ Arora said.

  ‘It wasn’t. When I abducted him, I found a letter in his pocket. It was from his son, who was visiting cousins in Karachi. That gave me another means of keeping Hussain off balance.’

  ‘Clever,’ Almeida remarked in a tone that suggested it was anything but. ‘Go on.’

  ‘As we had planned, I began straight away by asking about his role in Malathi’s murder.’

  ‘How many minutes had elapsed after he regained consciousness?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Think.’

  ‘Why don’t you refer to the bloody transcript and just tell me!’ Sablok exclaimed.

  ‘Four minutes, give or take,’ Almeida replied without bothering to look at the file. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The doctor had warned us that the first half hour or so after consciousness was regained would be critical, and I intended to get as much intelligence out of him as I could within that golden period.’ Sablok began.

  While Sablok was narrating how he had broached the topic of centrifuges, Arora retreated to the kitchen with the bottle of Scotch and their glasses after the first serving was consumed. He returned with strong, sweet tea. Sablok’s narrative continued, and each time he covered a substantial chunk of time, his debriefers would walk him back through it with pointed questions. He wasn’t permitted to move on until that part of the interrogation had been thoroughly dissected. On more than one occasion they even challenged his version of events, stating that the transcript disagreed with what Sablok claimed happened.

  It was nearly 3 a.m. when Sablok was describing Hussain’s last moments.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget the expression I saw on his face when I told him that I would let the Pathans keep his son. The look in his eyes suggested pure terror. He went to his grave—in a manner of speaking—worrying about the well-being of his son. He even mumbled about it with his dying breath, I think. I don’t know if the transcript or the tapes record this but he soiled himself when the end came. He was terrified.’

  Arora burst into laughter.

  ‘One would think you were a bloodthirsty barbarian, Jugs,’ Almeida remarked.

  ‘Oh I’m delighted with that panchod’s death, boss. I only wish he had suffered more,’ Arora replied, then went to the kitchen and returned with Scotch and glasses.

  Sablok sensed that the mood had changed.

  ‘To be fair, sir, I did want to torture him. Physically. Rip his thumbnails out, break his fingers and limbs, castrate him. But your orders—’

  ‘Those orders were given for a reason. I take it they were followed.’

  ‘To the letter.’

  Arora poured. He felt upbeat.

  ‘Do you share the Captain’s assessment now, Jugs?’ Almeida asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ Arora replied. Sablok stared at him wide-eyed. Arora continued, ‘I counted seventeen contradictions in the statements Hussain made.’

  Almeida smiled: ‘I only counted twelve. Age appears to have caught up.’

  Sablok sipped in silence.

  ‘No need to worry, Captain,’ Almeida said, noticing Sablok’s expression. ‘Interrogation is a fine art learnt over years. We threw you into the deep end without so much as a single lesson. You did as well as could be expected of anyone in your circumstances.’ Then he turned his gaze to the glass in his own hand. ‘In an ideal world, I would have liked to have Hussain brought to our facility in Gurgaon for our inquisitors to take a crack at him. With a team working on him, his inconsistencies and contradictions would have been caught. I have little doubt that most of his answers were true. The first half hour of the interrogation strikes me as being particularly fertile. How many contradictions did you catch during that period?’

  ‘Two,’ Arora replied.

  ‘Indeed. And even those were, if I remember correctly, about matters not directly related to our areas of interest.’

  Arora nodded.

  Almeida continued, ‘Had our inquisitors worked on him...Have you ever seen the aftermath of their work, Captain? How about you, Jugs? Give them a healthy adult and by the time they are done practising their dark arts, what is left is the husk of a desiccated mind. Definitely not a pretty sight. But I cannot begin to imagine the wealth of knowledge we could have gained about Jilani Khan’s operations.’

  Noticing that his voice had risen in pitch, Almeida lapsed into silent contemplation of what remained of the drink in his glass. At length he spoke again, ‘Alas! We do not have Ben-Gurion’s political fortitude and must make do with what we have.’

  ‘That should be the Wing’s motto, sir,’ Arora quipped, drawing laughter.

  ‘The European end of this operation appears to have run its course. There is the possibility that Hussain lied. No, Captain, this is not in any way meant to question your effort. You have gone far beyond wha
t the Wing can expect from you after it refused to train you for such missions. But no matter how hard we may try to overlook it, the fact remains that neither Jugs nor I have been able to rationalise those contradictions away. So the possibility remains, however small it may be. But my intuition tells me the essence of what Hussain revealed about their centrifuge programme is true. In any case we have no choice but to assume it is and proceed. To do otherwise would be leave us in a paralytic cul-de-sac and make any further action difficult to justify. I will order surveillance on a few of their Residents in Europe. For corroboration, so to speak. But I anticipate no surprises from that.’

  He stopped to let Arora refresh his drink.

  ‘And what do we do about A.Q. Khan, Chief?’ Arora asked.

  ‘Mishra and his men must part the veil Jilani Khan has drawn on Abdul Qadeer, of course,’ Almeida replied, gratefully accepting the glass of Scotch—no water—and dropping two cubes of ice into it.

  ‘But will he?’ Sablok asked. Mishra was the chief of the Pakistan section at the Wing. It was to Mishra that Sablok had first taken his suspicions of Pakistan’s covert actions in Europe, only to be ignored. Sablok had had to sidestep the organisation’s hierarchy by quietly—and quite illegally—working with Arora to gather more evidence. And even then it had been Almeida, chief of the Europe section and Arora’s boss, who finally agreed to let them investigate the ISI’s operation in Europe. All Mishra had done was grudgingly allow Sablok’s secondment to the Europe section.

  ‘I understand your scepticism, Captain. But the reality is that Mishra has been given too many targets to shoot by our overlords and not enough bullets to shoot them with. There is no telling how seriously he has taken the request I raised asking for surveillance on Khan or anyone connected to him in the Pakistani establishment. Or how much longer he would be willing to continue.’

  ‘Can’t we share the intelligence we’ve just gained?’ Sablok asked. ‘That would certainly secure us his attention.’

  ‘Without reading Mishra in on the operation in Paris, Captain? Perish the thought. He will see through any cover story we create, and until we give him the whole truth he will not lift a finger in our aid. The intelligence is top-grade, obviously from someone high up in the Pakistani establishment. He will realise that about one minute into the briefing. Then he will ask for access to the source. If we falter in providing it, the best that could happen is him shutting us out. I do not care to contemplate what the worst-case scenario for us could be. Trouble is, we do not have a source. Not anymore.’

  ‘We have the cassettes,’ Arora remarked.

  ‘That we do. And they are very helpful,’ Almeida began. ‘They have Hussain’s voice on them. They also have Captain Sablok’s voice on them. Considering the fact that the good Captain here worked for Mishra for...how long was it? Well, it does not matter. Mishra will recognise his voice. What then?’

  ‘He won’t turn me in, sir,’ Sablok said.

  ‘Are you willing to bet your career on that?’

  ‘He may be brusque and he may have told me to buzz off earlier, but I don’t doubt Mishra sir’s integrity. He won’t betray me.’

  ‘How can you be sure, Captain?’

  ‘When he hears about the interrogation he will want to debrief me quite as you have. If he crucifies me he won’t get a cooperative subject for the debrief.’

  ‘I admire the certainty of your convictions, Captain. Unfortunately yours is not the only neck on the block here,’ Almeida said.

  The bottle of Scotch was empty, as were all the glasses. The east was beginning to show the first signs of the approaching day. Almeida stood to leave.

  ‘The bitter draught of revenge has been served, gentlemen. Pray the aftertaste is short-lived.’

  Later that day Almeida sent word to Residents in a few Western European capitals. His instructions were clear: the Residents were to mount discreet surveillance on their Pakistani counterparts and report on any unusual activities.

  ***

  A few days later, early in the evening, Almeida was having a quiet drink alone at the club. The ice in his second glass of Scotch for the day had just begun to melt forming a thin layer in the amber fluid when someone walked over.

  ‘I knew my fortunes would take a turn for the better if I came early. I am blessed to join the Jesuit for a drink.’

  It took Almeida a moment to recognise the bald man with thick eyeglasses and a bristly white moustache quite like a shoe polish brush. He was a Secretary in the Foreign Service. He and Almeida had worked together in Paris after Independence when the spymaster had been a Resident.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Secretary,’ Almeida said, motioning to a vacant chair. ‘Have you come for your confession?’

  ‘How does one confess a lifetime of vices?’ the Secretary asked, laughing.

  Almeida noticed his eyes. ‘Very carefully,’ he replied.

  Pleasantries were exchanged. Almeida asked after the Secretary’s family.

  ‘The eldest joined the Foreign Service last year.’

  ‘Like father, like son,’ Almeida replied. ‘And the younger son?’

  ‘He’s at St Stephens, reading History.’

  Almeida pretended to be suitably impressed, then asked if Mrs Secretary still liked Merlot. ‘I must remember to send a bottle over sometime,’ he added.

  ‘She does, and thank you. She has even succeeded in converting my tastes,’ the Secretary replied. Then, turning towards the waiter who had dutifully walked to the table, the Secretary ordered a glass of Merlot for himself.

  Almeida smiled at his colleague, then said to the waiter, ‘Refresh my drink too, will you?’

  ‘Two weeks ago,’ the diplomat began, ‘a Pakistani diplomat, not too junior—Second Secretary, I think—disappeared in Paris. For reasons best known only to the Pakistanis—and I say this with a wink and nod—his embassy only became worried a few days later. This, despite the fact that he had not shared any plans for such an absence with his superiors. After frantic back-and-forth with Islamabad—not with the good people of Constitution Avenue, obviously,’ he added, referring to the address of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Islamabad, ‘the staff at Rue Lord Byron began with the harmless assumption that he had either suffered a gruesome accident and was lying in some French morgue, or that he had suffered a slightly less gruesome accident and was lying in some French hospital. The ambassador alerted his French counterpart. Discreet enquiries were made in hospitals and morgues throughout the country. But they weren’t discreet enough, obviously.’

  Here he paused.

  ‘Obviously,’ Almeida chimed in.

  Satisfied, the diplomat continued, ‘One of their enquiries reached the ears of a particular doctor based in Marseilles, a regular at our own Independence Day celebrations at Rue Alfred Dehodencq. The good doctor understood that such information would be very valuable to us and passed it on. A few days later, presumably when all those enquiries had yielded nothing significant, they appear to have graduated to the assumption that their diplomat had defected. Imagine that! Anyway, a young Third Secretary with the Pakistan embassy happens to know one of ours from their time together at Oxbridge—you know how these Oxbridge chaps are.’

  Almeida nodded.

  ‘Well, they met on the sidelines of some multilateral shindig—all above board, don’t cock your eyebrow—and the Pakistani took our chap out for lunch. We allow such interactions. Helps with the deficit.’ He chuckled. ‘Anyway, halfway through the first course, the young Pakistani asked our fellow if we were having much luck with defectors. I’m told that our chap nearly choked on the hors d’oeuvres trying not to laugh out loud. Whatever would a Frenchman or Frenchwoman want to defect to India for, he wondered aloud. The Pakistani gently remarked that he was asking about defectors of South Asian origin, but then moved the conversation in another direction. It was only when this encounter was re
ported to the Counsellor that we connected it with the report we had received from the doctor. The ambassador then asked your acolyte if he was aware of this disappearance. He denied it, of course—no surprises there. The Counsellor dug a little deeper—’

  ‘He should not have done that,’ Almeida interjected, his voice low but clear. The diplomat knotted his eyebrows in response, so Almeida explained, ‘If the Pakistanis get wind of our enquiries about their missing diplomat, their paranoid minds will find validation—I am sure they have already worked out some absurd theory or another that lays the blame at India’s door as always. And loath as I am to use a term that the Americans so favour, we do have that Chinese Wall between our Residents and your folks for a reason: the Counsellor is the only person at an embassy or consulate informed of the Resident’s identity just so that he or she may avoid asking the Resident inconvenient questions.’

  The Secretary grunted.

  ‘Well, what’s done is done,’ he said. ‘He didn’t expect to find much, obviously. But then the most interesting thing happened. When he dug deeper, the Counsellor found that around the time this Hussain chap disappeared—or was last seen by his colleagues—our staff was busy with an event at our own embassy. It was all very convenient. An alibi of sorts for everyone that matters at the Indian embassy in Paris. It was an event hastily organised, coincidentally, by your acolyte.’ His glass of Merlot was empty. He paused to order a refill.

  ‘Fascinating,’ Almeida said, staring blankly.

  ‘Indeed. So, the ambassador asked each of our ranking diplomats if they had received any overtures from potential defectors matching Hussain’s description. Nobody had, which is disappointing if you ask me ...’

  ‘Perhaps. But it is hardly surprising. The kind of diplomat who can disappear from his job at the embassy for a few days without setting off alarms is the kind of Pakistani who does not defect to us, Mr Secretary. We have nothing of value to offer. Ask the good people at Rue Lord Byron to check with the Americans or MI6. Or even the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire. If I were a betting man I would wager a handsome sum on the possibility that Mr Hussain has grown much too fond of his mistress and has gone native, as they used to say.’