Open Arms

by Vince Cable

  He was, as always, several steps behind her, and he struggled to find a suitable reply. ‘Maybe you can come and help me deliver some Labour leaflets,’ he said tentatively.

  She laughed – she wasn’t sure if he was being serious or had a nice line in humour. ‘That sounds really exciting. Maybe my brother can come along as chaperone.’ Then her long, deep chuckle told him what he needed to know. She really did care for him.

  In another part of town, where the more sordid bedsits were interspersed with gap sites for housing parking lots and illegal businesses operating unlicensed taxis and distributing qat and hashish, a police van sat waiting for orders. There had been a tip-off about someone described as an illegal asylum seeker. The Home Office wanted him removed, and quickly. The police were on hand in case Border Agency staff encountered serious resistance. There was no reply at the door so the police were summoned to break it down.

  The flat was empty. Signs of a hurried exit were evident. The only sign left of the former occupant was a photo found under the bed of an African-looking woman and young children photographed in happier times.

  The occupant was, in fact, watching the raid from behind the curtains of a nearby flat belonging to a friend. Unlike his former workmates at the factory he actually read the British broadsheets. And, when he read that article in the Telegraph, he realised that he had been betrayed, though by whom and why wasn’t clear. Anticipating that the authorities would come after him he had quickly moved in with his friend, stayed off the streets and awaited developments.

  Being a refugee was not a new experience. He had survived before and would survive again. But he felt a bitter anger at a country that had taken him in and given him hope and then spat him out again. It was a long time since he had prayed to Allah. But Allah would guide him to do what was right.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE ABDUCTION

  Associated Press, 25 July 2019:

  The official Chinese news agency Xinhua has reported that a flotilla of Chinese warships has made a ‘goodwill’ visit to friendly countries in the Indian Ocean. The vessels passed close to the Indian Andaman Islands en route to Dacca; sailed around the Indian coast to Karachi as part of a visit hosted by the Pakistan navy, before ‘rediscovering the maritime silk route’. Indian sources are said to be investigating claims that the Chinese vessels had strayed into Indian territorial waters and have insisted that India would meet the ‘maritime threat’. President Trump tweeted that China was ‘again demonstrating aggressive and expansionist tendencies and aggravating the risks of nuclear confrontation in the subcontinent’.

  The events in the subcontinent rippled through the respective communities in Britain. The governments in Delhi and Islamabad, prompted by their allies overseas into a belated disavowal of collective suicide, were seeking to maintain a sufficiently belligerent position to satisfy their hot-blooded militants in politics, and the military, while simultaneously trying to turn down the temperature dial. But it took a while for their acolytes to get the message. There were continuing reports of sectarian mobs running amok. Funerals for the first round of casualties fuelled demands for revenge, feeding another round of attacks. Politicians on both sides reflected on the fact that it had been easier to inflame bigotry than to put out the fires. Hate-filled speeches continued to resonate with the faithful and were amplified in the retelling and in the diaspora.

  Muslim communities in Britain were mobilised for a protest demonstration denouncing the Indian government. Cooler heads at the local mosque cautioned against it: the militant cleric would demand to be heard; the black flag wavers might appear and dominate the media coverage; the factory where hundreds of local Muslims worked would again be at the centre of unwanted attention; the English Revival – a virulent, post-Brexit, nationalist group – might organise a counter-demonstration that could produce violence. The police also expressed concern and strongly advised cancellation.

  The police advice was not heeded. A lot of people felt the need to let off steam and exercise their democratic rights. About a thousand of them gathered near the town hall. Their numbers included many of the same characters who had marched on the factory but, mercifully, not the black flag wavers. About a hundred English Revival protesters turned up, too, separated from the Muslims by a thick blue line. These activists – almost all young men with shaven heads, bulging muscles, bare torsos and tattoos – were clearly not here for a political seminar. The political descendants of Mosley’s blackshirts, the NF, the BNP and EDL, were enjoying an upsurge in their fortunes and here was a perfect platform to demonstrate their contempt for foreigners in general and brown-skinned Muslims in particular. Tucked away around the corner were a substantial number of police riot vehicles in the event of trouble.

  Steve observed all of this from the window of his office in the town hall and saw that he was not the only watcher. Plain clothes officers with cameras were filming the event, capturing faces for posterity, a fact that had registered with a significant number of demonstrators whose faces were masked. Steve did, however, notice a few familiar faces from his meetings, one of which was Mo.

  The organisers lined up a series of speakers including a well-known MP and a Muslim peer who were politely received, and, then, less celebrated but more animated, there was a man in traditional Kashmiri dress who had honed his oratorical skills on the street rather than in the Palace of Westminster. The political heat rose perceptibly and it was approaching boiling point when the preacher whom Steve had seen at the mosque clambered onto the rostrum. He started slowly, switching between heavily accented English and an Asian language familiar to his audience. As he picked up speed he held up a picture of the Indian Prime Minister leading to outraged shouts and chants of ‘Pakistan Zindabad. Pakistan Zindabad. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.’ As he concluded his peroration and prepared to leave the stage, his supporters at the front grabbed the picture and set fire to it, waving the blazing poster in front of a conveniently placed TV camera. A choreographed outburst of spontaneous anger.

  The controlled nature of the demonstration was not understood by the police officer commanding the line who saw arson as a prelude to anarchy and instructed his men to intervene. By advancing into the crowd they inadvertently created a bridge-head for the English Revival to charge into. Before long, fists were swinging and heavy boots were finding tender flesh. Although small in number relative to the size of the crowd, the Revival had a vast superiority in street fighting skills. They cut through the crowd flailing fists as they went, before orchestrating a well-planned tactical retreat by which time the police had re-established their line. As the troops from English Revival marched off in triumph down the nearest street, chanting slogans and waving captured banners, the Muslims counted their wounded. Steve could see from his vantage point that his group of friends had borne the brunt of the attack. Mo was clutching his face and his white tunic was covered in blood, the badge of martyrdom.

  The demonstration was captured, too, on network television and YouTube. Scenes of Muslims in Britain being beaten by white racist thugs, while (mostly) white police officers milled ineffectually in the background, provided further evidence for millions in the Middle East, Africa and Asia, already inclined to believe that Western countries were involved in a crusade against Islam. Taken in isolation, the British news was bad enough. But the bulletins also had dramatic coverage of gruesome massacres carried out by Assad’s forces, accompanied by Russian advisers, ‘mopping up’ the last centres of radical Islamic resistance at the end of the Syrian civil war; a revival of hostilities in Gaza; and reports of brutality in the ‘concentration camps’ established in several European countries to hold suspected Muslim militants. Le Fevre’s dystopian and self-fulfilling narrative found a perfect echo in the Muslim world. And that world included many millions in India and Pakistan following the news on Al Jazeera or social media.

  In Pakistan, a Cabinet meeting was reconvened to which the military High Command, including General Rashid, were invited.
It was decided that the military would press ahead with preparations for a ‘worst case’ scenario, including an underground nuclear test to demonstrate Pakistan’s preparedness.

  In Mumbai, the atmosphere was tense. From the top of Parrikar House Deepak could see several columns of smoke from some of the densely populated slums where sectarian violence had broken out. He received strong advice from his management team to work from his apartment. But he was determined to have a presence at the factory to face down Desai’s uninvited ‘advisers’.

  He set off as usual from his apartment block with the added precaution of an armed security guard alongside the driver. The roads were eerily quiet but not in any way threatening.

  But as the Bentley approached the main highway to join the stream of traffic to the north, a transit van pulled out in front of it from a concealed drive. Deepak’s car screeched to a halt. And then another van pulled up behind, blocking it in. Armed men in hoods jumped from the two vans and converged on the car. Deepak was pulled out of the back; as he resisted he heard several shots in the background as the guard fired at the assailants and they fired back. Within seconds he had been bundled into the back of the van, his legs tied with cord, his arms bound behind him and tape stuck across his mouth. The van drove off at speed onto the main road. It had all happened in less than a minute.

  Lying in extreme discomfort on the rattling metal floor of the transit van, with two hooded men pointing guns at him, Deepak struggled to make sense of what had happened. His bodyguard presumably dead? Driver? Probably also dead. He was still alive; and had his captors wanted him dead, they had had ample opportunity already. Kidnap was the obvious explanation; there had been several cases in the past of Bollywood stars and rich individuals, or their children, being abducted in this way. He was certainly worth a lot more alive than dead. Or, conceivably, they had something seriously unpleasant in store for him, like the late Mr Patel.

  After a journey of fifteen minutes or so – still well within the city limits, he reckoned – they turned onto a rougher track. Judging by the hubbub of human noise and the smells, savoury and unsavoury, penetrating the vehicle, they were trundling slowly into the heart of a crowded slum. Eventually the vehicle came to a halt. Deepak was blindfolded, then dragged out of the back and brought into what he judged by the echo to be a substantial building with a concrete floor, set aside from the main part of the community. His blindfold was removed and he was thrown into a side room, on the floor, still bound. His captors – he guessed half a dozen – slammed the door and left him, bruised and terrified, in the dark.

  Kate’s mind was in turmoil. She hadn’t slept on the overnight flight to India and she filled the time watching films, not really concentrating. She had received a call from Deepak’s sister Veena very early in the morning, explaining that a few hours earlier Deepak had been abducted. The police knew where he was and had a building surrounded. Negotiations were taking place. But his captors were violent and irrational. No one could say when the crisis would come to an end. Veena knew how Deepak felt about Kate and wanted her to be properly informed. Kate decided on the spot to go out to India and booked the evening flight. She then had a tense conversation with Jonathan, explaining that there was an ‘emergency’, unspecified, and she would be gone for several days; he would be in charge of the girls. An indignant Stella was told that she would have to cope with the weekly advice surgery on her own. Polly, the researcher, was entrusted with the job of tactfully fielding other queries and manufacturing excuses.

  As she tried to compose her thoughts, she was prepared for the fact that Deepak might be dead when she arrived in Mumbai. Another part of her toyed with the idea of a successful rescue and a future in India: the life behind her was a mess, both her marriage and her short political career. In front of her was the possibility at least of real love allied to useful work with her business associates. But she had her daughters and the umbilical cord was long and strong. Nor did she really want to run away from failure. Now, altogether more alarming outcomes seemed more plausible than a romantic ending.

  On arrival she went to the airport information desk where Mr Parrikar’s driver would collect her. When she arrived at the desk she was approached by an attractive but tearful young woman who introduced herself as ‘Bunty’ Bomani, Deepak’s PA. She spoke very quickly, full of emotion, and tried to explain the sequence of events of Deepak’s abduction. Kate was to come to the family residence where the rest of the Parrikars were assembled.

  The driver, whom she had last met on her late night tryst, was uninjured and had recovered sufficiently to drive her there. The morning traffic was no worse than normal and they made reasonable time. But Kate was not remotely interested in the passing scenery. This was the latest big emotional shock in a few weeks – the riot, the discovery of her affair, her departure from government, now this – the worst of all.

  Her first four decades of life had been largely free of trauma. She had lost her father in her twenties but he had been a rather distant figure and when he, metaphorically, disappeared beneath the waves, the waters had closed over him remarkably quickly. There was childbirth, yes, but compared to some of her friends, it had been smooth and uncomplicated. No major illnesses. Healthy, normal, children. A love life, until very recently, satisfactory if nothing much more, or less. She realised that she would need to pull herself together when she met Deepak’s family. But in the car she let herself go. Bunty took her hand and they wept together. It seemed obvious that Bunty also had an attachment beyond the professional but Kate did not need or want to probe.

  When they arrived at the Parrikar home on Malabar Hill, the drive was full of cars and there were a couple of police vans and uniformed and armed men standing around or communicating through walkie-talkies. A crowd of onlookers was gathering at the gate: people who sensed, from the activity, that something untoward was taking place. She saw in the gardens the incongruous but remarkable sight of a peacock in full display: a timeless courting ritual rather wasted on the preoccupied human audience.

  Kate was ushered into the house, a luxurious bungalow overlooking the city and bay below. She had remembered enough of her visit preparation to offer a Namaste to the elderly couple in front of her whom she took to be the parents: a shrunken, crumpled, unshaven, toothless man in pyjamas and an equally diminutive elderly lady in a cotton sari who insisted on trying to stand to greet her despite obvious pain and frailty.

  Kate had discussed at some length with Deepak, in happier times, how she should be introduced to the family; but of course he wasn’t here. There was an awkward silence and, then, a pretty woman in a sharp Western business suit stepped forward. Veena, the sister. She took command of the situation switching effortlessly between cut-glass English, which would only have come from an expensive private school education in the UK, and the language understood by her parents. She introduced Kate to the other people in the room including a rather silent brother and took her to a side room – ‘operational HQ’ – where a policeman was simultaneously fielding several mobile phone calls while his two assistants waited for instructions.

  ‘This is Inspector Mankad,’ Veena explained. ‘He is helping us and understands the background to Deepak’s abduction. There is a SWAT team surrounding his place of captivity but the Inspector is liaising with us on a ransom demand.’

  Veena steered Kate by the elbow to a quiet corner of the big room where the parents and others were gathered. Kate had time to notice the beautiful, thick, handwoven carpets and the stunning artefacts of brass and wood that would have cost a fortune in a London gallery. No one was in a mood for conversation but Veena offered to explain what she could of the background.

  ‘I don’t know how much Deepak has told you?’

  ‘A bit,’ Kate responded. ‘The murder of this Patel. Exposure of the family’s business secrets. Then the trouble at the factory. An American company called Global and a man… Desai? There is a link with Global in the UK where it has been trying to take over
the company that was to be Deepak’s business partner. I had a rather exciting visit there, which you may know about. But, to be frank, I have only a hazy understanding of what is going on here and Deepak seemed too preoccupied to give me the full story.’

  Veena began her explanation. ‘You have the bare bones. There is a shadowy organisation, basically a criminal gang, in Mumbai called Trishul. Has its roots in the murky world where the militant, more fanatical nationalists and religious fundamentalists, who are now a big force in politics, and growing, overlap with the criminal underworld. Politicians and criminals have always fed off each other in this city, as they often do in other countries, but the sectarian element is particularly poisonous now. Goondas – as we call them – think that, if they wave a saffron flag, they will get immunity. Perhaps they are right.

  ‘Our friend the Inspector – who is actually a lot smarter than he looks – has a handle on how the Trishul gang or gangs work. They have been muscling in on several well-established companies like Daddy-ji’s making demands for protection money. Control over land and property gives them leverage and the construction industry is notoriously corrupt. This, in turn, attracts the politicians who need money for elections. The Trishul gang has been building up its network of political friends from the Shiv Sena, an extreme nationalist party in this part of India, and related groups: some of them religious extremists. One clever ploy, however, was to work through the Sheikh, a Muslim who was vulnerable to pressure because of his family connections in Pakistan and was also close to Daddy-ji.

  ‘But there is another level to the Trishul operation that lifts it beyond the mafia-type outfits we are used to. There is some kind of link up with like-minded people at a national level, in politics, the armed forces and the intelligence services. The extremists have been hard at work in the last few weeks fanning the flames of Indo-Pak conflict – you have seen the news, and read the papers. One of the key figures is the man called Desai who is at the centre of a web of these political, intelligence and military people in Delhi. He is also involved in that US company, Global. This group dreamed up the idea of using the Sheikh’s connections to bring in and set up a Pakistani agent leading to the exposure of a “sabotage plot”, raising tension between our countries another notch. Deepak was in their way and – anyway – these people despise his secular, liberal, Western values.