‘Limited victories can gain us room for manoeuvre at the negotiation table, sir,’ someone in uniform said.
‘We cannot absorb broad-based sanctions, General. We just can’t. Limited victories will turn to dust when trade dies and all our creditors stop taking our phone calls,’ the babu from the Finance Ministry spoke.
‘Then we push for the USSR veto, and give them what they want for it,’ someone from the Home Ministry said.
‘The USSR is busy with what is happening in Afghanistan,’ the mandarin from the Foreign Service replied. ‘Relations between them and the government of Doud Khan have soured, and we believe the USSR will not sit back and let Doud Khan chart course independently. They will be wary of precipitating action before they are ready to act, and they are not yet ready. Acting against Pakistan before they’ve recovered ground against Doud Khan would be foolish, and as the Prime Minister said, Brezhnev is no fool.’
‘How long do you suppose it will take the Security Council to act, Mr Secretary?’ the same Lieutenant General asked.
‘It could be anywhere between twenty-four to seventy-two hours, General.’
‘The Pakistan Army cannot mobilise quickly enough to take advantage of that window. If we begin mobilisation immediately after the air assault, we may catch them by surprise.’
‘Are you suggesting that we can mobilise for war in a few days?’ an official from the Ministry of Defence asked incredulously.
The Lieutenant General turned to reply, but the Prime Minister spoke first.
‘Assuming that we mobilise in a day and our armoured columns pierce into the Lahore sector effortlessly, what happens when the Arabs embargo us on the second day of the war? How long can our tanks fight without diesel?’ the Prime Minister asked. ‘And what happens when, a few weeks later, we run out of money to buy food and medicines?’
The Director took a deep breath. Over six trying months, he had worked hard to overcome the hostility that the Prime Minister felt for the Wing. While it wasn’t back to the days immediately after ‘71, when the scrappy intelligence agency was the darling of the executive, the relationship had mended, to an extent, and the Prime Minister no longer saw them as mortal enemies.
‘Prime Minister,’ the Director spoke, weighing his words with care, ‘without going into specifics since neither you nor I were involved at that point in time, as I mentioned earlier there was one previous occasion when we could have nipped it in the bud. Similar concerns must have weighed upon the Executive back then. But we must realise that each time we defer action, sir, the costs involved rise exponentially. Every person here agrees that air interdiction by the IAF will very likely lead to war. A regime that survives and thrives on the mythology of being the ultimate defender of its people cannot afford to allow its territory to be violated with impunity. Whether reprisal will come in hours, days, weeks or even years is up for debate, but nobody here believes that it won’t ever come. So long as Pakistan remains under the nuclear threshold, we can count on our superiority to absorb their retaliation and inflict severe punishment. We cannot say the same if they acquire nuclear weapons.’
The soliloquy received full-throated support from the Chiefs, and each man then weighed in on the advantages of degrading Pakistan’s ability to wage war.
‘That is all very fine, gentlemen,’ the Prime Minister finally said, his eyes staring into the distance, ‘but how do you propose to protect lakhs or even crores of our countrymen from starving to death when the economy collapses after we have degraded Pakistan’s ability to wage war? Answer that question to my satisfaction and I’ll authorise immediate action.’
The room fell silent.
‘And Director, even if we destroy the facility, how much will it set the Pakistanis back? Five years? A decade? Do you really believe that the success they have achieved in this area is a result of only their efforts? They stole nuclear secrets from Europe, did they not?’
‘Yes they did, sir.’
‘Are European intelligence agencies so incompetent?’
‘Not to the best of my knowledge, sir.’
‘And I am given to understand that after my predecessor refused to sanction an assassination, we—your agency, Director—shared a detailed dossier with the Dutch government. What came of it?’
The Prime Minister’s voice was growing sharper with each question.
‘Nothing, sir,’ the Director answered.
‘What would you have done if someone came to you with a dossier like that?’
‘I would have arrested Khan and prosecuted him for treason.’
‘But the Dutch did not.’
‘No, sir.’
‘What does that tell you? Is it because they’re incompetent?’
‘I don’t think it’s because they’re incompetent, sir.’
‘Then why would a country ignore such explosive evidence?’
‘I have thought about this long and hard, sir. It is my considered opinion that the Dutch allowed Khan to steal those designs.’
‘Now, Director, coming back to the hypothetical. If we destroy Kahuta and kill everyone in the building—even Khan—will that destroy the knowledge Pakistan has gained?’
‘No, sir. It is certain that Pakistan have debriefed Khan extensively, and every bit of knowledge he possesses about uranium enrichment has been documented in triplicate somewhere out of our reach.’
‘Then what is to prevent them from re-initiating the programme a few weeks after clearing the rubble?’
‘Once the facility is destroyed, sir, it will be up to our Foreign Service to convince the world that Pakistan was enriching uranium at Kahuta. Our objective should be to get sanctions placed on the Pakistanis.’
‘Easier said than done,’ someone muttered.
The Director turned to see who it was when the RM intervened.
‘How long would the Services need to prepare for such a decisive conflict?’ he asked the Chiefs.
Consummate professionals that they were, each officer replied with an estimate of the weeks or months that they would need to mobilise. That bit of integrity gave the Executive the opening to defer a decision, one that was particularly challenging for an avowed pacifist to make. The attendees were told that they would be informed at a subsequent meeting, which would soon be scheduled by the PMO, of the decision made by the government.
‘Director, please stay back,’ the RM said.
When all attendees except the Director, the RM, and the Prime Minister had left, the Prime Minister spoke, ‘We have had our differences, Director, but I hope you will not precipitate any action against the Pakistani facility without my explicit permission.’
‘You have my word, sir,’ the Director of the Wing replied.
On the way out, the RM took the Director aside for a cup of tea in his office.
‘Why can’t your people take care of this problem quietly? In ‘71 the Wing mounted numerous such actions in the east, and were so effective,’ the minister asked after they were alone. ‘An all-out war right now will take us to the brink of ruin.’
The Director laughed. ‘Sir, when the government took office, the Prime Minister slashed our budget in half. Since then we have had to eliminate positions, stop funding assets, and make do with far too little in the face of uncloaked hostility. That we managed to find this facility and confirm its purpose and progress is a testament to the doggedness of our people. Right now, I’m struggling to keep the lights on. In the absence of funds, which the government isn’t too keen to part with, attempting a major infiltration and sabotage could only end up revealing to the Pakistanis that we know. A hastily executed and underfunded operation will make any further action ten times more difficult.’
Even though the RM was a seasoned politician, the Director saw the faintest flicker of surprise. It was understandable: the Wing reported to the Prime Minister and the Prime Minist
er only, and no other minister knew about its budget. The RM recovered an instant later.
‘I will try to impress upon my colleagues in the Cabinet the importance of intervention...in some form or the other. That much I can assure you...We are a coalition. Taking a phrase from the Prime Minister himself, coalitions engage in collective decision-making. One man cannot decide on his own, especially on an issue with such far-reaching consequences. There are those among us who would happily pounce upon the opportunity to strike and goad Pakistan into war. Madam’s popularity after the ‘71 victory is fresh in their minds. But it won’t be their sons fighting and dying, and it won’t be their families starving afterwards when the economy collapses. The United States won’t sit quietly and let us destroy their ally, and even if we finish the job before it mobilises, we will have to suffer for the impertinence.’
‘Some would say we have already suffered for the impertinence, sir,’ the Director interjected.
‘Careful, Director,’ the RM said. A moment later, he continued, ‘Waging war is not an easy decision to make. We have a responsibility to all our people, and we must exhaust all other options before condemning them to death. If you tell me how much money would be needed for covert action, I may be able to find it within the defence budget.’
‘Restore my budget, sir.’
The RM smiled morosely. ‘That isn’t within my discretion.’
‘Even if you fund it completely, sir, mounting an operation would still require the Prime Minister’s permission.’
‘The Prime Minister is a reasonable man, Director. If he isn’t keen on marching to war with Pakistan, it is because of the economic circumstances in which we find ourselves. Would temporarily destroying Pakistan’s nuclear infrastructure and setting them back a few years be worth the crores of lives that would otherwise be lost in war and famine? You’re asking him to make a very difficult decision.’
‘I believe that responsibility comes with the job, sir.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Covert action will also almost certainly lead to war. Zia is still consolidating power. A setback so severe will make his hold on the country even more tenuous. He will retaliate, and in a very open and public manner.’
‘I don’t disagree with your assessment, but in that case we will be defending ourselves, Director.’
‘Perhaps, sir. But how likely is the Prime Minister to sanction covert action?’
‘Sometimes coalitions have their advantages, Director.’
***
‘Ten thousand Pounds Sterling,’ Baig said, showing Feroze a facsimile of a letter written by the managing partner of a notorious family-owned bank based in Switzerland. The letter had been written on the bank’s official letterhead. It detailed an account opened in the name of Feroze Akmal and mentioned the balance. The letter had been prepared in Nissa’s presence in a basement in London.
As the young man read it, Baig continued, ‘Today that is worth one lakh seventy-three thousand rupees. Have you ever seen such a large amount of money?’
The week leading up to the facsimile’s arrival had been nerve-wracking as Baig fought his own instincts and projected a calm, confident demeanour. Letting Feroze go about his life was the only way for him to determine if their bluff had worked. It was true that Baig had enough evidence to sink the young man. But if the young man complained to the authorities, Baig’s cover would come under a microscope, and he would end up sharing Feroze’s cell at Kot Lakhpat. Six nights had gone by without much sleep as Baig lay in bed and anticipated the sound of a rifle being cocked followed by a knock on the door.
Feroze’s reaction to the letter put Baig at ease. He could see greed in those eyes.
‘All you have to do is go there,’ Baig continued, pointing to the bank’s address on the letterhead, ‘and tell them this number. They already have your photographs. Once they confirm your identity, the money is yours. Memorise the number. Now.’
They were on that bridge again. The wind was quieter this evening, and Baig’s woollen clothes were up to the task of keeping it out. A minute later, Feroze was able to recite the account number without hesitation. Baig took back the facsimile from him, tore it to tiny pieces, and threw them into the middle of the river. The young man panicked for a moment, then recited the number a few times just to reassure himself.
‘Say it with your prayers each night,’ Baig quipped.
The asset he had steadily cultivated over the past few months was now ready. Baig hoped the go-ahead would arrive soon. Letting a primed agent languish was never good. Besides, Baig wasn’t sure he himself could take much more of all this. He was tired, his knees ached more every day, and he yearned for a night’s honest slumber in the safety of his own country. The prime of his life had flown by in wakefulness, and in always looking over his shoulder for jackbooted thugs who would bring with them an undying nightmare. If the young man made it out of the facility after wrecking every machine within it, the Resident would take care of him. The moment Feroze stepped into the nuclear facility with orders, Baig’s role in the entire affair would end and he would make his way to Rawalpindi Road immediately, taking care to keep a low profile. From there, someone would take him to Islamabad where he would hide till things calmed down. Then he would cross over near Jammu. He could see, in his mind, the Tawi flowing by the Baag-e-Bahu, and the urge to leave immediately had never been stronger.
‘How will I get to Geneva?’ Feroze asked.
It took a few moments for Baig to snap out of his reverie. He looked the young man squarely in his eyes and lied once again.
FOURTEEN
On a chilly November night, a little after 8 p.m., Mishra had begun warming his bones under two thick blankets and was on page two of a novel about the founding of Israel. Dinner had been frugal, the only sort his body could tolerate anymore. It had been an uneventful day.
‘Turmeric milk,’ Mrs Mishra said, placing a cup and saucer on his nightstand.
Mishra shuddered. He hated the yellow concoction. It left his throat feeling powdery and foul for the rest of the night. But he had given up arguing with Mrs Mishra about it years earlier. She insisted that it was good for arthritis, and he pretended that it helped.
Mrs Mishra was about to ask if he would accompany her the next evening to a wedding in her extended family when the telephone on his nightstand rang. It was connected to a restricted access telephone exchange used only by senior government functionaries, and the only people who knew to reach him on it were colleagues, superiors, and the duty officer at Main. Mrs Mishra frowned at the intrusion but quickly left the room without a word.
Full of nervous foreboding, Mishra answered the insistent instrument on its fourth ring. It was the Director. Mishra set the novel down on the bed and sat up.
‘Kahuta is compromised,’ the Director told him, his usually smooth voice unable to conceal agitation.
‘How credible is the intelligence?’ Mishra asked, keeping a tight rein on his composure.
‘Extremely.’
‘Who leaked?’
‘This is not the time, Mishra!’ the Director exclaimed.
‘I ask because I need to know if my assets should expect just a police picket or the entire might of the Triple One. Should I evacuate them or should I ask them to go to ground?’ Mishra asked, referring to Pakistan Army’s 111th Infantry Brigade based in Rawalpindi.
‘I leave that to your judgement. The only thing I can assure you of, at this moment, is that Kahuta will be crawling with khaki by dawn. I am on my way to Main, but won’t get there for another hour at least.’
Mishra acknowledged and rang off. Questions germinated, but he pushed them to the back of his mind: like the Director had said, there would be time for that later.
He rushed out to the living room and used the telephone there to place a priority call to an unlisted number for All India Radio, Jalandhar. It was a
nswered on the second ring, and Mishra identified himself with a prearranged code. When it was acknowledged by the person on the other end, Mishra gave him a short message.
‘Eight-eight-eight kilohertz. Repeat, eight-eight-eight kilohertz. Transmit immediately, and continue transmitting every ten minutes for twenty-four hours.’
Despite decades spent in and around imminent danger, the prematurely aged spy-master found himself choking with emotion.
The leak had to have been from the Indian side of the border, he had concluded by then. Had things gone awry in Pakistan, it would have been the duty officer alerting Mishra, not the Director. Tuning the large Murphy radio to 888Khz, he heard dead air. The large grandfather clock, a gift from his brother-in-law, ticked and tocked, eating away at his patience.
He had begun dialling the number again when the radio station at Goraya, twenty miles south-west of Jalandhar, jumped frequency and the receiver in that spotless New Delhi living room squealed to life. Mishra remained as he was so that his left ear faced the radio. After a series of beeps loud enough to wake the dead, a soothing female voice came on and spoke in Hindi.
‘Mrs Singh of Madras is pleased to notify everyone of the engagement of her son to the daughter of Mrs Sharma of Trivandrum.’
The message repeated twice before Mishra found himself listening to dead air again. He willed himself to lower the telephone receiver on its cradle. When he looked up, he caught sight of Mrs Mishra in the corner of his eye. She was standing to his right, near the kitchen. He turned to her to explain, but the expression on his face was enough. She disappeared into their bedroom, returning half a minute later with a fresh set of clothes for him.
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