Let Bhutto Eat Grass 2

by Shaunak Agarkhedkar

  ‘Of the four probables, industrial buildings have been observed at two,’ Mishra began. ‘The size, orientation, and features of TARGET TWO suggests that all the buildings there have been constructed by the same company or government agency. The same cannot be said about TARGET ONE. That, however, is not sufficient to rule it out.’

  Mishra paused to let Almeida speak. The older man had nothing to say.

  ‘After all, we have no reason to assume that all buildings at a centrifuge facility have to be similar,’ Mishra finally continued. A full minute had elapsed. ‘Why should the administration building look similar to the centrifuge hall or the machine tools workshop?’

  The absence of any reaction unsettled Mishra. In the dim light of the room and with the glare of the table lamp between them, it was difficult to see Almeida’s eyes. Mishra considered getting up from his chair to check if Almeida had fallen asleep, but pushed the thought out of his mind just as soon as it had emerged.

  ‘Chief Almeida, these were taken by a reconnaissance aircraft yesterday morning,’ Mishra finally said, rising from his chair to pass the photographs over the desk.

  A moment passed, then two. Mishra was about to noisily clear his throat when Almeida stirred, leaning forward to accept the photographs with a bony, hairless hand. Mishra found himself staring at a gaunt face under a bald head. Almeida’s eyes were on the photographs. Leaning back, he stared at each black and white for about a minute.

  ‘As far as we know,’ Almeida began, the words emerging slowly and with great effort, ‘the URENCO centrifuge facility in the Netherlands is made up of buildings that look rather similar. But that is not enough to reject TARGET ONE. There we are in agreement, Mishraji.’

  Mishra nodded. He heard Almeida breathe deeply a few times before he continued.

  ‘What do you propose to do?’ Almeida asked.

  ‘Lahore and Islamabad will investigate one target each. I will send them copies of these photographs as well as the approximate location of each facility. Their orders will be to gather as much intelligence as they can. Then they will infiltrate the facilities with the purpose of gathering irrefutable proof of uranium enrichment. Considering the leadership’s waffling back when you proposed having Khan assassinated, I think it’s best to get proof that they cannot downplay.’

  ‘That is an excellent idea. Good luck, Mishraji,’ Almeida replied, bringing the meeting to an abrupt end.

  Mishra hesitated, wondering if he should say something. Almeida had already turned his attention to a file on the table and was flipping through its pages.

  ‘Chief, is everything okay?’ Mishra finally asked.

  As Almeida looked up from the pages and focused on Mishra’s face, the latter thought he saw surprise, even befuddlement. Almeida stared, blinking. A few moments passed before Mishra saw a glimmer of recognition in his eyes.

  ‘What was that?’ Almeida asked.

  ‘I asked, is everything okay?’ Mishra repeated.

  ‘I should have had the bastard killed when we had the chance.’

  ‘You didn’t get authorisation, Chief,’ Mishra gently reminded him.

  ‘God damn the leadership and their miserable authorisation. I should have travelled there and slipped a knife into Abdul Qadeer’s fleshy neck myself!’

  ‘Chief, I cannot claim to have known you well, but I’m certain you assessed the risks correctly. Rash actions could have hurt us even more.’

  ‘How could a simple act of mine have hurt us more than my inaction did? I failed to stop our mortal enemy from getting its genocidal hands on an unstoppable weapon to wield against us, Mishraji. It was my responsibility. He was on my continent. I knew about him. But I failed to prevent him from fleeing with everything the Pakistanis need, and now—’

  ‘Had you taken such a risk, the damage to the organisation could have been horrific,’ Mishra interjected.

  ‘The organisation would have survived,’ Almeida sputtered. He was breathing heavily now.

  ‘And what would have happened if you had been apprehended while killing Khan?’

  ‘I would have spent the rest of my life in a Dutch prison, but my conscience would have been clear. “Besides we are men, and after all it is our business to risk our lives.” But I failed.’

  The words came out with a ferocity that belied the frailty of the man slumped into that office chair. Mishra knew the sentiments driving them were absolute, and there was little he could do to mollify them.

  A moment later Almeida spoke again, his words softer, more laboured this time. ‘This is the cross that I must bear for the remainder of my miserable days. Now if you would be so kind as to excuse me, Mishraji, I must get back to work,’ he said, reaching into the drawer that Mishra knew contained his inexhaustible supply of gin.

  TARGET ONE, south of Lahore, proved easy to crack. The Resident’s network was able, after observing the logistics of the place, to infiltrate an agent into the facility as a truck driver. It turned out to be a fertiliser plant set up by the government. Mishra kept the news to himself and waited for information about TARGET TWO. That one proved tougher. For one thing, the area around the facility was cordoned off by the Pakistan Army and entry was strictly restricted to those already cleared by GHQ Rawalpindi. This fact in itself indicated to both the Resident and to Mishra that this was the facility they were looking for. But the ask was for hard evidence that a bureaucracy driven solely by self-preservation could not ignore or reject. The second aspect that made infiltration difficult was the logistical movement in and out of the facility. After observing the facility for a week, the Resident’s network noticed none.

  ‘Two UK diplomats beaten by guards at target two last week,’ the Resident reported. ‘Definitely a govt facility of sorts. Regret unable to infiltrate. Please advise on indirect proof.’

  ***

  Sablok found himself back at Trombay sitting face-to-face with the same Director, who made no effort this time around to cloak his irritation. Saha’s reaction to Sablok’s presence was a lot more cheerful, though, and when Sablok explained that they needed a way to identify if a facility enriched uranium, Saha sought and received the Director’s permission and dragged Sablok to one of the laboratories. Sablok watched with gleaming eyes as Saha demonstrated a Geiger counter.

  ‘What is the range of this instrument? Will it work from a mile away? Half a mile?’ Sablok asked.

  Saha’s loud, shrill laugh caused the other scientists in the lab to stare daggers.

  ‘It won’t even work properly from beyond that door, Captain.’

  ‘There must be some way...’ Sablok murmured.

  While Saha tried to imagine what might work, Sablok played with the Geiger counter and a tiny piece of Cobalt-60, a childlike smile on his face.

  ‘Are you wearing lead underwear?’ Saha suddenly asked.

  ‘What? No. Plain cotton. Why?’

  ‘Oh, then don’t play with that thing. It’ll fry your privates,’ Saha quipped.

  When he saw the look of pure terror on the hardened soldier’s face, he burst into laughter. A distinguished, greying wizard in human form walked over and told them off. So Saha returned the Cobalt-60 and the Geiger counter to their places. Sablok and Saha then stepped out and walked over to Saha’s office.

  ‘The problem is a difficult one, Captain. Nuclear facilities are built to contain any radiation emitted from within them. Unless that centrifuge facility has a terrible accident and the Hex leaks, you won’t detect anything outside it. In fact, background radiation—from sources other than the enrichment facility, like large concentrations of naturally radioactive limestone in the ground—would be far greater on a typical day. I’m sorry, Captain, but I don’t see any reliable way to determine if a facility handles uranium without physical access to it. Although...well, if you gain access to a truck that delivered yellowcake uranium—the form in which it is found
in nature—you might get a high reading off the truck.’

  ‘We haven’t seen any inbound or outbound movement of goods from the facility, doctor. Nothing goes in or out. Except employees, of course.’

  Saha lapsed into silence. If they were now asking for a way to confirm the handling of uranium, that meant that they had found the suspected location, likely with the help of his calculations. By now the questions Sablok and his colleagues had been asking him had become a complex puzzle to him, and this was definite progress.

  ‘If those employees were handling radioactive material they would be carrying some kind of evidence in their bodies,’ Saha replied.

  ‘I don’t think we could kidnap one of their employees for tests, doctor,’ Sablok quipped.

  Saha did not reply. Sablok’s mind wandered, in that silence, to thoughts of steaming cups of sickly sweet tea. He was about to suggest a detour to the cafeteria when Saha remembered an incident from a year earlier.

  ‘One of the operators at CIRUS—I forget the poor fellow’s name. His dosimeter—the radiation badge everyone who works inside or near radioactive material wears—showed a very high dose, almost five hundred millisieverts. That’s the dosage permitted in an entire year. Now either his dosimeter was faulty, or we had a major leak inside CIRUS. Not to mention that the poor fellow was about to be very, very sick. Teams were kitted in lead suits and sent into the reactor with Geiger counters to find out if there was cause for alarm, of course, but that didn’t help the poor operator. He was decontaminated first—stripped of all clothing and footwear, washed with soap and water. Then he was taken to Tata Memorial. I think they did a whole set of tests on him, but ultimately found nothing. The dosimeter had to have been faulty, because the teams checking CIRUS couldn’t find any leaks at all.’

  ‘How will that help? I can’t kidnap an employee from that facility and bring him to Tata Memorial,’ Sablok replied.

  ‘Patience, Captain. The doctors may know of indirect tests.’

  After a quick cup of tea, Saha took Sablok to the health centre on campus at BARC. One of the doctors there recalled the case Saha mentioned, and wrote a referral note for one of the physicians who had treated the operator at Tata Memorial. Sablok insisted that the note refer to him as “the person bearing this letter”. BARC was a sensitive establishment, and all employees underwent periodic background checks at the hands of the Bureau. Tata Memorial did not. After thanking Saha for his help, Sablok commandeered a BARC vehicle and its driver from the head of security, a retired infanteer who had warmed up to the visitor from Delhi during his last visit, and set off for Parel.

  ***

  The doctor’s referral note cleared Sablok’s path to the fourth floor of the main building.

  ‘Come back after one week,’ the receptionist on the fourth floor said when he handed her the note.

  Sablok presented his identity card. It identified him as a Major Ajai Singh belonging to a fictitious unit of the Indian Army.

  ‘This is urgent,’ he replied.

  The receptionist read his identity card twice.

  ‘Doctor Joshi is on leave,’ the receptionist said. She was now looking over Sablok’s shoulder at the people standing behind him, waiting for their turn.

  ‘Is there another doctor available in this clinic today?’ Sablok asked, refusing to take the hint.

  The receptionist sighed. ‘Doctor Menon is available,’ she replied. Then, just as Sablok turned to look at the consulting room door, she added, ‘You will have to wait in the waiting room there. You don’t have an appointment.’ With a smirk, she directed him to a waiting room full of cancer patients in various stages of illness.

  Sablok shrugged and walked over to the waiting room. The referral letter was taken into the doctor’s consulting room by one of the nurses. He stood in a corner, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible in a sea of people in visible and audible agony. The room had run out of vacant chairs much earlier in the day. Some faces, marked by an absence of the tiniest bit of hope, reminded him of MH Kirkee. Others reflected fervent determination. A few minders, people who had accompanied loved ones who were obviously suffering, looked at him with thinly veiled hostility as if wondering why someone as healthy as a horse was there alone. Some patients and minders had tears in their eyes. Other eyes appeared to have dried out for good.

  There were children, boys and girls barely old enough for school, with sallow skin on small faces dominated by cheekbones. Most lacked hair on their heads, and a few were even without eyebrows. He found it hardest to return their gaze, especially the ones who smiled despite their obvious suffering. He felt a blend of pity, fear and revulsion, and was unable to harmonise those negative emotions with his estimate of his own character. That shamed him. He did not belong there among those suffering for themselves and those suffering for loved ones. After stewing in his own sentiments for half an hour, he sought out one of the nurses and asked if the doctor couldn’t spare fifteen minutes for him. It was urgent, was the subtext that he wisely left unsaid.

  ‘Major Singh, what did you wish to consult me about?’ she asked.

  There was a patient seated on a chair before her, sitting next to an older gentleman who, Sablok assumed, was his father. There was another patient on an examination table ten feet to Sablok’s left, being attended to by two nurses. The doctor was seated at her desk, reading from the patient’s file. Sablok had hoped for privacy.

  ‘It’s a sensitive matter, doctor. I was referred by—’

  ‘Yes, I read the referral, Major. It didn’t suggest any medical condition, so I’m not entirely sure I understand why you are here. You look healthy enough, but I don’t wish to prejudge.’

  He couldn’t speak about specifics, not without reading her in, and certainly not with so many other people in the room.

  ‘I need fifteen minutes,’ he said, stepping towards her and holding out his ID. ‘Alone.’

  She made no move to accept it from his outstretched hand. Her eyebrows knitted and eyes squinted as she read it, the lines on her face highlighted in a frown.

  ‘I know who you are, Major. My receptionist informed me. So I fail to see what purpose is served by your showing me that identity card. If it’s medical in nature, you can speak now. If it isn’t medical in nature, would you kindly wait until I have attended to those who came here before you did?’

  Sablok did not want to return to the waiting room. He insisted, hinting at important government business.

  ‘Major, most of the people in the room outside have waited days, sometimes weeks, for an appointment. Within the context of their condition, that is a very long period of time. You will forgive me for saying this: I don’t care if you’re ADC to the Field Marshall himself. You can wait.’

  It was just after 7:30 p.m. when the last patient was examined, and Sablok was invited into the consulting room. Except during a short lunch of two delicious plates of ragda patties at a stall outside, which he knew he would regret the next day, he had remained in the waiting room all day and, unless it had coincided precisely with his absence, he was certain the doctor hadn’t taken a break for lunch. He began by giving the usual five-minute brief on the Official Secrets Act. She listened with raised eyebrows; people reacted with varying degrees of bewilderment, which often turned into fear when presented with the documents to be signed.

  ‘The note says something about a patient from last year. I’ll send for the file,’ she said after signing the OSA document, and rose from her chair wearily to call for a nurse.

  ‘Actually, doctor, my visit isn’t strictly related to that patient.’

  She sank back into her chair, unable to keep from sighing, and waited for him to continue.

  ‘I was told that certain tests were performed to detect if the patient had been exposed to radiation. I would like to find out about those.’

  ‘Why?’

 
‘Pardon?’

  ‘Why do you want to find out about those tests?’

  Her words oozed fatigue. She ran out of what little patience had survived morning rounds followed by ten hours of OPD and, with no answers forthcoming from him, she snapped, ‘If someone you know is suspected to have suffered radiation exposure, you should bring him or her here immediately instead of wasting time.’

  Sablok decided to ask her directly. ‘We need to know if there is any way to find out if a person works in...in close proximity to radioactive materials.’

  She studied him closely. ‘Then this isn’t about someone suffering from radiation poisoning?’ she asked a few moments later. He shook his head.

  ‘Major, the first thing we do as doctors when a patient comes to us is take his or her medical history. That’s because, in the absence of complete information, diagnosis, prognosis, and treatment can be radically inefficient or even just plain incorrect. Applying that to your situation, why don’t you stop wasting your time and mine? Surely you’re a busy man in the army...’

  Sablok gave a sanitised version of the problem they were grappling with, avoiding specifics about geography and about the enrichment process. He was astounded by how alert she was despite the apparent fatigue, asking questions that he had a hard time answering while staying within the parameters of the general narrative he had given her.

  ‘Is it uranium?’ she finally asked him. He nodded. She followed up by asking what physical state it was in.

  ‘Gaseous.’