Let Bhutto Eat Grass 2

by Shaunak Agarkhedkar

  ‘I would advise against that,’ the Director warned. There was an edge to his voice.

  ‘Noted, sir. I accept the consequences that will follow my actions, actions which you have advised me against. My hypothesis is that word about the compromised network came to you from someone higher on the totem pole. As I reasoned earlier, it couldn’t have come from Pakistan. And it couldn’t have come from our colleagues in uniform: even in our emaciated state, the Wing’s networks are a hundred times better than theirs. Now, the only two people higher than you on the totem pole, sir, are the leader of the steel frame and his boss.’

  The Director sighed. He stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray on the table.

  ‘It’s not unreasonable,’ he said. Then he paused to let them work through the absurdity. Seeing it dawn upon their faces, he continued, ‘Zia has been showing interest in the Prime Minister’s natural cures for quite some time now. In addition to the usual bromide of everlasting peace between our two countries, of course.’

  ‘Natural cures, sir?’ Sablok found his voice.

  ‘The Prime Minister drinks his own piss, man,’ Mishra spat out.

  ‘Quite. It appears Zia telephones the Prime Minister often to seek his advice. I assure you this is news to me too. We do not, as you’re all aware, keep tabs on our own government. At a little after 7 p.m. today, the ruler of Pakistan asked the Prime Minister of India if better results could be achieved by drinking the first excretions of the morning. Piss, as you so eloquently put it, Mishra. After advising that that had been his experience, the Prime Minister casually mentioned, during the conversation, that he was aware of what Pakistan was up to in Kahuta.’

  Sablok swore.

  ‘Then he added that the Wing had provided him all the details. Those two sentences doomed our network.’ The Director paused once again. ‘As I said earlier, the Prime Minister isn’t naive. The conversation couldn’t have been an accident. Heading a coalition is difficult. It is entirely possible that some of his colleagues were pressuring him to launch air strikes, hoping for war. And yet, if you tame the rage that manifests itself on your faces right at this moment and look at it from his perspective, you’ll realise that he faced Morton’s Fork, a choice between two alternatives that lead to the same unpleasant conclusion. His first choice was to authorise air strikes or sabotage. Nobody here is naive enough to believe that it wouldn’t lead to war. Zia would have no choice but to defend Pakistan’s sovereignty against India. If he didn’t do that, his corps commanders would have him arrested and shot. Perhaps we would have won such a war, or perhaps it would have ended in a stalemate. The United States would condemn us, the UN Security Council would sanction us, our economy would be ruined, and lakhs of our citizens would starve, possibly more.’

  ‘The Soviet veto—’ Arora ventured.

  ‘The Soviets made it clear in ‘71 that their veto wouldn’t apply if we invaded West Pakistan. Their aid to us then was strictly limited. Call it the fruit of non-alignment, gentlemen: we have no real friends or allies. There is no reason to assume circumstances have changed in the half decade since then,’ the Director replied. He waited for a response but when none came, he continued, ‘The Prime Minister’s other choice was to continue to refuse authorisation to the air strikes. My assessment is that in such an event his coalition partners would have eventually replaced him with someone more aggressive who would authorise the strikes and we’d face the same war the Prime Minister was desperate to avoid. Do you see it now, gentlemen? Between those two choices, the outcome was going to be the same.’

  ‘So he leaks intelligence to the bloody enemy,’ Sablok spat out.

  ‘I would be careful if I were you, young man,’ the Director replied gravely, ‘The Official Secrets Act remains in force.’

  ‘Bugger the act,’ Sablok replied, defiant.

  Arora grabbed him by the shoulder to calm him. Sablok shook Arora’s hand off.

  ‘It’s cowardice,’ he shouted, his mouth quivering even after the syllables had fled it.

  The Director waited for Sablok to regain his composure. When moments had passed with little change to show, he replied, ‘Is it bravery then to choose to let lakhs of your own people—the poorest of the poor—die?’

  The words stung Sablok.

  ‘Must we then do nothing at all, sir? Is that brave? Is that honourable?’

  ‘If our networks survive, we will try again. If they don’t, we’ll infiltrate new agents. Our lot is to roll the boulder up the hill and, after watching it roll down yet again, to begin anew.’ Then, turning to Mishra, he continued, ‘I don’t mean this as a threat, gentlemen. Mishra will vouch for my intentions. But if you know what’s best for you, what I just told you will remain within the confines of this room.’

  FIFTEEN

  The palm of his hand set off thunderclaps on the door. He winced at the noise and glanced around for peering eyes. It had taken him longer than expected to reach Mohri. The wind had picked up and was beginning to really bother him, and his foot felt as if he were one of those mystics walking on burning coals. There was the sound of two heavy bolts being drawn back, and the door opened to reveal an unfamiliar set of eyes questioning his presence. Sarfaraz Minhas asked for his friend, a farmer of forty, give or take a decade, who had often invited him over for a meal. At that moment Sarfaraz wished he had taken up the offer at least once. The teenager answered with an exaggerated, gruff voice that his father had gone out to attend a wedding and wouldn’t return before dawn. He was about to shut the door on Sarfaraz when the spy pleaded for help, invoking God and the young man’s father. He had been robbed on his way back to Manyand, he claimed, and had lost everything including his shoes. To prove his point, he shoved a foot through the doorway and prayed for the young man to take pity.

  ‘I’m not asking for money, young sir,’ he added. ‘If you could just lend me an old pair of shoes, I’ll be on my way. Tomorrow I’ll clean them and bring them back, and will sing your praises for the rest of my life.’

  The door opened wider. After looking him over one final time, the teenager invited him in. There was nobody else at home, which suited Sarfaraz just fine. While he sat inside the doorway of the three-room house, taking care to avoid soiling the floor with his feet, his host stepped into another room. Grateful for the rest, Sarfaraz closed his eyes for a moment, letting his ears do all the hard work. Next thing he knew, the teenager was inches away, peering at his face, gently tapping his shoulder to wake him. His other hand held a pair of old, worn-out leather boots covered with a fine, white layer of fungus. Snapping out of the catnap and momentarily startled by the touch, Sarfaraz glanced around, his suspicious eyes taking in every detail. Then it all came back to him, and he thanked his host for the boots. They were one size too small, but Sarfaraz squeezed his feet in by clenching his toes. The teenager’s eyes showed pity and kindness.

  ‘Have you eaten anything?’ he asked.

  Sarfaraz shook his head. Once again the young man disappeared into another room, returning this time before Sarfaraz could nod off, with two thick rotis.

  ‘The sabzi is over, unfortunately. Please eat.’

  Sarfaraz thanked him, took the food, and stood to leave.

  ‘You don’t have to return those,’ the teenager said, indicating the boots. ‘They don’t fit me anymore.’

  After stepping out, Sarfaraz began walking towards Kahuta, listening for the sound of the two bolts being engaged. Once he heard it, he turned and made sure the door was shut. Standing still for a few moments, he looked around. Seeing not a single soul outside, he turned towards the north and began walking across fields towards the mountains that loomed dark and ominous over the whole world.

  ***

  Seeing a cluster of houses before him, Faisal Baig left the gravel road and began walking through fields. The clouds had parted a bit, and starlight made it easier to see. Ever so often, he would stop and lo
ok back, trying to navigate in relation to the dull yellow glow of the nuclear facility back at Kahuta. Sometimes roads circled around, something he could not afford to do. A flash of light caught his attention. It seemed to come from the west of Kahuta. Baig stared into the gloom for a long time, willing the flash to reappear. Something about it was strange. It appeared again, remaining longer this time. He could make out two points of light, moving slowly from side to side before disappearing once more. Baig shivered. It was a truck headed towards Kahuta on Rawalpindi Road. His watch showed fifteen minutes to midnight; hours had passed since the warning, enough time for reinforcements to arrive from Rawalpindi. He had expected such an outcome from the moment he had stepped out of his house and yet, when he actually saw it materialise, the fear that gripped him wasn’t moderated by hours of anticipation. He turned abruptly, his back towards Kahuta, and started at a brisk clip.

  In the distance, he thought he saw some streetlights, likely the town of Kallar Syedan. They seemed to be as far as the horizon, but he knew the town was only a dozen or so miles from Kahuta as the crow flies, well within range for a brisk walk in the night. He had intended to lay low once he got there, but the truck made him second-guess himself. There was no reason to believe twelve miles would be safe. If they didn’t find what they were looking for in Kahuta, more troops would be called in and the search would resume covering a wider area. The opponent he faced was relentless: it wouldn’t tire, it wouldn’t overlook a hiding place, and it wouldn’t show mercy. Cut off from the network he had built in ‘Pindi, Baig’s survival depended on putting as much distance as he could between the men in khaki and himself. If he made it beyond their furthest checkpoints even before they had time to put them up, he would live; it was that simple.

  It was that hard.

  ***

  The High Commissioner’s phone call had been terse. Given the fact that their phones were certain to be monitored, it made sense to the Resident. There had been a major political development, the top man had said, and he was instructed to rush to the High Commission for consultations. The drive took less than ten minutes. In the parking lot, he could see the cars of three others in addition to the High Commissioner’s own Jaguar saloon. The Deputy High Commissioner was waiting outside. He stopped the Resident before he could head to the Duty Officer’s room.

  ‘You need to check your cables. One of your operations has been blown,’ he said.

  The Resident stared in disbelief. If the real diplomats had heard before he did, something terrible had to have happened. Either that or some hair-triggered nutcase back in New Delhi had woken from a nightmare and sent a blizzard of cables out.

  ‘The others have been called in to obscure your role. There is no time to waste,’ the Deputy High Commissioner added.

  The colour had disappeared from the Resident’s face. He ran to his office. His teletype had spat out three cables. Their code indicated that they had been sent by Mishra. He fumbled for the appropriate One-Time Pad and frantically decoded them. The first one ordered him to stand down. He figured that it had been sent to each Resident in Pakistan.

  ‘Kahuta compromised. Warning transmitted via All India Radio at 1950 Karachi,’ the second one began.

  In it, Mishra also instructed him to evaluate each of the networks with which the Kahuta agents had ever been involved. He was to activate cut-outs should he feel the need.

  The third cable, which had arrived minutes earlier, mentioned that the source was high up in New Delhi. It said the Pakistanis were aware of the presence of a network within Kahuta, but had nothing specific to go by. If the agents made it out the Wing might, at an indeterminate point of time in the future, re-activate the assets cultivated there.

  The Resident swore over and over. A few moments later, his anger no longer boiling over, he retrieved his operations logs and began tracing each of the Kahuta agents’ prior operations. Preventing an uncontrollable wildfire by creating a fireline across his networks was the first order of business.

  ***

  With each step away from Kahuta it seemed to Faisal Baig that the skies cleared up a little more until, about three-and-a-half hours after he began his escape, the ground around him was brilliantly bathed in starlight. The moon was nowhere to be seen, though. Baig was making good time. Now that potholes were no longer able to lie in wait, hidden in utter darkness, he stumbled less often and felt better. The only thing that slowed him down was the need, ever so often, to stop and search all around for that pair of bright headlamps he had seen near Kahuta.

  After circling around the village, he had walked over small earthen embankments between lush rice fields until he was a few hundred yards past. Back on the gravel road, he hadn’t come across more than the odd hut or well. The last living being he had heard, apart from dogs that barked or howled near and far, was the man near the nullah. Punjab was well and truly asleep. It was ten minutes past one.

  Another village loomed. Stepping off the gravel path, he veered right, eager to avoid straying close to the dozen or so houses whose outlines he could see. He was a hundred-odd yards from the nearest one and walking further away with each step when a shout from his left caught his attention. It had to have come from one of the houses, though he couldn’t pinpoint the source for the darkness.

  A few instants later, he started walking again, quicker and more anxious this time. Another shout, then two. Straining his eyes, Baig could make out three shadows moving near the middle of the village where the gravel road bisected it. He tried to remain calm and, keeping his eyes on them, continued walking away. Had they really spotted him? Or were they just yelling at shadows? One of them separated from the others and disappeared behind a house. The others stayed where they were. Or perhaps they were moving too, and Baig just couldn’t make it out in the gloom. The third shadow soon emerged from between two houses, a good twenty-thirty yards from his friends, and clearly appeared to move towards Baig. For a split second Baig considered walking towards them, making up a story, and going his merry way down the gravel road. It would be a whole lot easier.

  Then they shouted again, and Baig noticed that they were trying to converge on his position. Icy fear gripped his heart. Leaving aside all thoughts of resolving misunderstandings, he began running. They were at least a hundred yards away and would have to navigate through a couple of rice fields to reach him. That gave him hope. Looking around, he noticed what appeared to be a sugarcane field a few hundred yards to the south-west, away from the village, and ran towards it. The shouts became louder, more insistent. When he got to a barren field, a dry one that had recently been harvested, Baig turned around and risked a glance. He saw four people wielding thick lathis chasing after him, their intent undoubtedly hostile.

  He stumbled and fell, landed on his palms and knees. The field stripped his skin, but he was back on his feet and running for dear life a moment later. Heart racing, Baig reached the first sugarcane plants and rushed past them. The crop was almost ready for harvest and hid him well.

  His instincts told him to keep going, but he hadn’t survived years in ‘Pindi on instincts alone. Once he was deep inside the field, and the initial shock of the whole thing began wearing off, he turned right to face Kahuta once more and ran as fast as the sugarcane plants would let him. Again and again, he stumbled; but each time he was up in a flash and running. The field was too large for four men to cover properly. Besides, they were unlikely to split up if they thought they were chasing a thief or a robber. He kept going and prayed the field wouldn’t end too soon. The sound of his body crashing through the crop was deafening, so he stopped a few times to listen for those in pursuit. They were there; he could hear them shouting. It sounded like they were trying to rouse the entire village for a lynching.

  Baig ran again. Salty sweat poured down, stinging his eyes. His own breathing and the pounding of his heart deafened him. Half-blinded, he ran in a never-ending forest getting scraped and cut b
y all the plants around him, till suddenly he was out in a barren field, scrambling onto an embankment and diving over it. Crawling back up, he could not see the four who had pursued him, but near the village were half a dozen more men, each one running towards the sugarcane field.

  He crawled back down and began running away towards Kahuta at a crouch. His back screamed at him, his chest began to ache. In the distance he saw a line of trees, and made for it. Perhaps it was an orchard. Glancing back, he saw a few lights go on in the village. More people appeared in the fields between it and the sugarcane, which was almost two hundred yards behind him now. He was being hunted, though he didn’t know why. Having run out of breath much earlier, his vision darkened at the periphery. He needed to stop, but the treeline was still some distance away. Though running at a crouch was taking a greater toll, he didn’t dare straighten up and risk being spotted.

  Less than a hundred yards to go; eighty. A quick glance told him they hadn’t spotted the crouched figure yet and were still headed in the direction of the sugarcane field.

  Sixty yards. Everything but a small circle directly in front of him had gone dark, and his head hurt as if struck by a stone.

  Forty yards. He was Kishan Lal again, running with his father, fleeing Lahore, one of many fleeing an armed mob.

  Twenty yards from the railway station and the train whistled and began to roll down the track. Father had fallen; a sword had hacked his head off. There were soldiers on that train. He had to reach it. As Lal ran beyond the first trees into the orchard—or perhaps it was a jungle—his left foot caught on a root that had found its way out of the ground. Tumbling, falling, Lal landed heavily, his head slamming hard against something. When his body stopped tumbling, he smiled. He was on that train at last.

  ***

  Eight miles to the north and three hundred-odd feet higher, lying with his back against a solid tree trunk, Sarfaraz Minhas gazed down at Mohri, Manyand, and Kahuta while he rested. The shoes pinched badly, but he didn’t dare take them off for even one minute, afraid that his swollen feet wouldn’t fit into them again.