Despite Mullick’s valiant efforts, those case officers that had monitored the Congress leadership during the days of the Raj were being relegated to unimportant positions. Some of his colleagues had pulled whatever strings they could grasp, whether familial or professional, and managed to get decent assignments. Arora had recourse to neither. His former superiors had all opted to serve Pakistan, leaving him an orphan in a hostile place. After being shunted around for months from one position to another, from one corner of the country to the other, his will had reached breaking point. Some of his colleagues had already quit. A few were rumoured to have ended their misery. In that terrible darkness, a caustic Catholic showed up at his desk one day and shone a dim light.
‘You are not worthless, young man,’ the gaunt and bearded man had said. ‘There is much left to be done.’
Try as he might, Arora could not remember Almeida’s features now; only the beard remained in memory. On Tolstoy Road, he wiped away a tear. When Almeida had informed him of his plan to retire, Arora had attributed it to the budget cuts and bureaucratic interference. He cursed himself for having missed all the signs over the last months of Almeida’s presence at Main: his sudden rages, his staying cooped up in a dark room, the empty bottles of gin at eight in the morning. He was sure there had been more.
Like the clueless idiot that he was, he had promised to visit Almeida once the mission was over.
‘I’ll keep you informed, in the interim, of its progress,’ he had even offered.
‘Please don’t,’ had been the reply.
Once more Fate had seen fit to take from him. His son’s death had robbed him of joy, his wife’s departure of hope. Now he was robbed of his only friend. But he would mourn in his own time. There was much left to be done.
THIRTEEN
Effendi threw two photos onto the coffee table between them. The first one showed Feroze holding up a schematic of the centrifuge and explaining some aspect of it. In the second one he was copulating quite enthusiastically with the fragrant woman from the previous week.
Feroze suppressed a shudder. Much to his horror, his second Sunday of hospitality at the mansion in Islamabad was nothing like the first.
‘We have video too,’ Effendi said.
This time there had been no alcohol on offer. Feroze now realised it was because they wanted him to feel every bit of the crushing weight of his own imagination descend upon him. Every breath was an effort. His eyes watered and his ears rang with loud hissing in that nest of agitated snakes. After a few moments that could have been hours, his eyes turned towards the exit and met the servant’s, who now seemed six feet tall and as broad as the Great Gama. The servant’s smile challenged Feroze to attempt an escape. The sight terrified him. He sat there, unable to move, his forehead beaded with sweat.
‘What do you want?’ he asked finally.
The only possibility that made sense to him was that they were spies.
‘We want your cooperation,’ Baig replied.
‘Filthy Indian spies!’ Feroze shouted, spitting out each word to rid himself of its rotten taste.
Effendi stepped around the coffee table with an agility that belied his heft and slapped him. Heard before it was felt, the strike numbed the left side of the young man’s face. Pain and heat came later.
‘Don’t you ever call us Indians, you bastard!’ Effendi shouted.
Baig quickly stepped between the two of them to calm things down and, after a little cajoling, managed to get the host to take a short walk. The servant remained firmly in the doorway.
‘Get ice,’ Baig shouted at him. He remained motionless. Baig gave up and turned his attention to Feroze.
‘We are spies of sorts, but we don’t work for the Indians,’ he said, his voice dripping with patient understanding. ‘The government of Pakistan purchased parts for four thousand centrifuges from different companies in Europe. One of them makes what are called inverters. Unfortunately, the government then decided, after the parts were delivered, that there was no need to pay the balance amount to that company. It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, and there was no honour in it. But Bhutto wanted money for the election, so he took it. Now the government must account for its sins. Think of us as debt collectors.’
The shock of the photos and the slap was beginning to wear off. Baig could see wheels turn inside the young man’s head.
‘Is the job you offered me also a lie?’ Feroze asked.
Baig realised that perhaps a part of him was still searching for a silver lining to that cloud darker than the night.
‘If you work with us, you won’t need another job. We have been promised a large sum of money, quite a bit of which we have already received. And we are willing to share some of it with you...enough money to retire to a house in London.’ Then, anticipating his next question, Baig continued, ‘On the other hand, if you feel the urge to defend the crooks in the Majlis who steal from people here and abroad, well, you won’t need a job then either. After all, how many prisoners have you heard of in Kot Lakhpat that work for a living? Your father won’t need to mind the store; he will be there to keep you company.’
The young man’s nostrils flared. ‘And what if I turn you in?’ he asked, a touch of defiance in the tone of voice.
At that moment, Baig knew they had him. He chuckled.
‘Do you think someone who can afford a house like this in Islamabad and knows about the government’s scandals doesn’t have a few ministries in his pocket? When Bhutto was in power, he gorged himself on a buffet of the state. Now that the generals are in power, do you think they have no appetite? Will they believe the words of a dirt-poor young man who has no proof, or will they believe a group of distinguished rich men who have already paid lakhs of Pounds Sterling into the generals’ accounts? You could go to the police, and they might even arrest us for half an hour. Then the police station will receive an angry phone call. It will be a Lieutenant General from Rawalpindi GHQ telling them to release us. But the case of espionage has already been registered, the Station In-Charge will reply, and someone has to be arrested. Who better than a lowly electrician who works at the nuclear plant? And he couldn’t have been working alone for the Indians. So they will arrest his father, perhaps even his mother. Within twenty-four hours, the old couple will accept that they are Indian spies; so will the young man: The police have ways to make it happen.’
At that point, Effendi returned. Feroze flinched on seeing him.
‘In jail, they will do to you what you did to that whore last Sunday. Every single day of the week for the rest of your life. And it will be a long life. Kot Lakhpat doesn’t let its prisoners die easily, especially spies,’ Effendi interjected. ‘Your parents are luckier. Considering their age, they won’t suffer a similar fate...for too long.’
For six gruelling hours, the two older men hammered that vision home until Feroze had internalised it. In between, they dangled a fat juicy carrot—one lakh Pounds Sterling in a Swiss bank account in his name, and British passports for his family and him. How they would accomplish that latter miracle he did not ask. By 5 p.m., he had been broken and rebuilt.
‘What exactly do you need me to do?’ he finally asked.
Effendi sent the servant to get them something to eat. Baig watched Feroze carefully to see if his eyes strayed to the now unblocked exit.
‘You mentioned last week that you perform thorough maintenance on the entire facility every few weeks,’ Effendi said.
‘Every fortnight, on Friday.’
‘And you have access to the substation, don’t you?’
The young man nodded.
‘Do you know which one is the power transformer?’
‘I was there when they built the substation. I know.’
‘Good. Are there any circuit breakers between the power transformer and the centrifuge inverters?’
‘I’m not sure,
’ Feroze replied.
‘Either you don’t know, in which case you’re useless to us, or you’re pretending to not know, in which case you’re worse than useless to us. Which is it?’ Effendi pointedly asked, a sinister tone creeping into his voice.
‘I don’t think there are any major circuit breakers. The safety equipment is mostly between the power transformer and the transmission network,’ Feroze blurted out. ‘The substation is meant only for the facility. There is no other load feeding from it, so there was no need to waste money. Circuit breakers between the transmission line and the transformer are sufficient.’
Effendi smiled. ‘When our friend here tells you, go to the power transformer the next day. Time it to coincide with heavy load, when most centrifuges are running. Can you do that?’
The young man nodded.
‘We want you to operate the load tap changer on the power transformer. Increase the feeder voltage by as much as possible.’
Feroze stared back, blinking rapidly. ‘Everything will burn up,’ he gasped.
‘The machines won’t be affected, but the inverters will be destroyed. Then, after thirty seconds, return the tap to its original state. Nobody will know a thing, and in those thirty seconds you will have earned ninety thousand Pounds.’
‘Chacha promised one lakh Pounds,’ Feroze replied, in a wavering voice, a half-hearted smile upon his face.
‘Now that you have agreed to do this, the company will transfer ten thousand into an account in your name this week. Our friend will show you the papers soon. You’ll receive the remaining amount after thirty seconds of service.’
‘And don’t worry about the country,’ Baig added. ‘As soon as the inverters are burnt, the government will place a new order for four thousand more with our company. A good part of that money will go to Swiss bank accounts similar to yours, accounts owned by our generals. The new inverters will be here in a month, and nobody will be bothered.’
As they were leaving a couple of hours later, Effendi pulled the young man aside.
‘In case you feel the need to speak to anyone about this, or refuse to do what we agreed upon, remember that not only do we have the evidence against you, we also have other people at the nuclear plant. Once you’re arrested, one of them will do the job and earn the money meant for you.’
***
New Delhi (India)
Hosted by the Prime Minister, the meeting was attended by a shuffle of the nation’s top bureaucrats and the three service chiefs accompanied by key staff officers.
‘It will take days for the smell of Brasso to fade,’ the Director jokingly remarked to the Lieutenant General seated to his left. The three-star officer was not amused.
Keeping the Prime Minister company on one side of the table was the Raksha Mantri on his left and the Cabinet Secretary on his right. Even though the other worthies had at least a couple of stars on Marbles, the Air Chief had brought him along to present the plan to strike Kahuta, a gracious nod to the hard work he had put into preparing it.
‘Director sahab, please brief everyone present on Pakistan’s secret programme,’ the Prime Minister said, bringing the meeting to order.
‘The Wing has determined that Pakistan is actively developing nuclear weapons,’ the Director began. ‘We have been monitoring their efforts since ‘74 and have arrived at the conclusion that unless we take quick and decisive action to stop them, they will achieve nuclear weapons capability within the next decade, perhaps even earlier.’
That caused quite a stir. The Director waited for the commotion to die down. Then, taking his time, he began recounting the uphill battle involved in reaching those conclusions. He figured it was as good an opportunity as he would ever get to create some much-needed goodwill for his organisation.
‘I would be remiss in my duties if I did not mention that we last had an opportunity to stop the Pakistanis in June of ‘75. The Europe section of the Wing had identified Abdul Qadeer Khan as a Pakistani mole in Europe. He was smuggling nuclear secrets to the ISI. As his role as the linchpin of Pakistan’s operation became clear, the Wing sought permission to have him assassinated—’
‘From whom did you seek permission, Director?’ asked a senior mandarin with a particularly expansive waistline that mirrored the vastness of his domain.
‘From the office that the Wing reports to, Secretary,’ the Director deflected. He thought the Secretary was trying to earn them both brownie points with the political leadership, but he wasn’t willing to play that game. Without pausing to let the Secretary ask further questions, the Director continued, ‘Unfortunately the events of the Emergency happened at that exact moment and the request remained unapproved. Khan fled to Pakistan a few months later. We hope that this time around—’
‘That will be a political decision, Director. Perhaps you should focus on your findings,’ one of the other babus said.
‘I have completed the briefing that I intended to give, sir.’
Because he had avoided any mention of specifics about how they had gone about it, one of the first questions asked sought to know exactly that. While the spy-master formulated an answer in his mind, one that wouldn’t needlessly expose operational details, the Prime Minister chuckled and hinted at bribery. Some tittered. The Director held his tongue.
‘If Pakistan acquires nuclear weapons, our hard-earned superiority in conventional warfare will be blunted. In such a scenario, if Pakistan acts in a manner hostile to our national interests our ability to respond will be severely curtailed,’ a three-star general said gravely, kicking off a hot debate.
About an hour later, after a tenuous consensus had been reached about just how much of a setback Pakistan’s acquiring nuclear weapons would be for India, Marbles was called upon to unveil the air interdiction plan. It took him twenty minutes to methodically lay out the scenario.
‘A strike of that sort so close to Islamabad and Rawalpindi will certainly to lead to hostilities,’ one bureaucrat gravely observed.
The Chiefs agreed, but expressed confidence in a swift victory for India. There was a sense that the reaction to an airstrike might give the nation the excuse it needed to pursue unfinished business in the west.
‘While we have complete faith in the ability of your organisations to deliver swift victory, gentlemen,’ one of the babus said, ‘we must take a broader view. Barely half a decade has passed since the war of ‘71, and our economy still reels. Inflation almost touched ten percent last month. Another war at this time will set us back a decade or two, regardless of how swift the victory is. And if we are seen as aggressors against the Islamic Republic of Pakistan—which we certainly will be—then there is a distinct possibility that the Arab states may embargo us. If that happens we will experience an oil shock that is at least a magnitude worse than ‘73. The economy will utterly collapse, make no mistake.’
The room remained silent for a few moments.
‘I am no expert in economics, sir,’ a Lieutenant General said, addressing the Prime Minister. ‘And I do not contest that the economic concerns are absolutely valid. But we must take a strategic view. If the Pakistanis decide—once they’re armed with nuclear weapons—to re-enact Operation Searchlight in Sindh or Occupied Kashmir, we will be powerless to intervene. Any potential for conflict between nuclear powers will result in the UN Security Council swiftly stepping in. The Americans will certainly push to sanction us, and the Soviets may not be able to stop them. We risk becoming powerless, sir.’
‘We do, General,’ the babu replied. ‘But what happens if we strike their facilities right now and spark all-out war? Say we win in short order—ten days? Do you think you can win a war with Pakistan in West Pakistan in ten days?’
‘No, sir. Their defences in the west are considerably stronger than in erstwhile East Pakistan,’ the General replied. ‘Breaching those defences, blunting their armoured thrusts, and degrading their abi
lity to continue fighting will require longer.’
‘And by the time it happens, the Pakistanis and we will both have run out of money. Our people will starve. Lakhs may die. And what happens when the Security Council votes against us? What about the sanctions that will follow as inevitably as day follows night?’
‘The Soviet veto,’ someone remarked.
‘The Soviets will need a lot of convincing,’ someone else replied.
‘Surely that is just a matter of suitable execution—’
‘Surely not, sir,’ the Prime Minister exploded. ‘I had close friends in that Cabinet when the Soviets vetoed the American resolution in the Security Council in ‘71. Let me assure you all, gentlemen, that the veto came at a cost. And it came with inviolable conditions. One of those—and let me be crystal clear about it—one of those conditions was that we would not invade West Pakistan. None of you fine worthies was involved in that particular conflict, which is why you may think that getting the Soviets to back us in the Security Council is merely a matter of offering the right incentive. It isn’t. Comrade Brezhnev’s Politburo takes collective decisions, gentlemen, which means that any request by us for a veto will be debated extensively by thirty-odd people in private before Brezhnev goes through the motions of announcing the decision. He has begun mobilisation of the military, and his foreign policy is muscular. But that doesn’t, in itself, guarantee that he will support us. His priorities do not always align with ours.’
The room fell silent as all participants digested what the Prime Minister had just revealed. The implications weren’t lost on anyone.
A few minutes passed before a mandarin from the Foreign Office spoke up. ‘As the Prime Minister said, the Soviets supported us during ‘71 because we weren’t the aggressors. But in this case we will be violating Pakistan’s sovereignty. A unilateral attack carried out deep in Pakistani Punjab by a squadron of fighter jets cannot be justified as self-defence, but any Pakistani response will be. What happens if President Gerald Ford sends the USS Enterprise back into the Bay of Bengal—or perhaps into the Arabian Sea this time—and the Soviets don’t deploy their naval might to screen us?’
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