Line of Control- A Thriller on the Coming War in Asia Page 2

  Illahi waited for about five minutes and was about to ask for a break while the awaited member arrived when the door swung open.

  The man who entered could not have been over forty, and wore a loose fitting robe, in the fashion of his nation. His long, unshaven beard and rugged build gave away clues as to his origin, as did the automatic pistol slung at his waistband.

  `Illahi, I’m sorry. I was caught up in traffic.’

  `It’s okay, Abdul, please be seated.’

  The man seated himself among the Generals and bureaucrats.

  Illahi began speaking, knowing that he was probably making the most important speech of his life, one that would not only determine his fate, but that of his nation as well.

  `The Emir called. He expresses his pleasure at our current level of activity in Kashmir but wants us to increase our pressure dramatically.’

  Karim was the first to respond, as Illahi had almost expected him to. If there was one thing he did not like about Karim, it was the fact that he tended to ask too many questions. Illahi cut him off in mid sentence.

  `It’s all in here. Please read it carefully and then I’ll continue.’

  Illahi handed out a single sheet of paper to each of the men at the table. As they read it over, there were audible gasps in the room.

  `But Illahi, what’s come over him all of a sudden?’ The speaker was the Chief of Army Staff, General Shamsher Ahmed.

  `We should not use such words while talking of that great man. Illahi, please go on’, interjected the representative of the Emir in Pakistan, and the last man to enter the room.

  `Well, it’s pretty simple. He wants us to move soon. We’ve had the Mujahideen operating behind the lines for almost six months now. But now the Emir feels it’s time to escalate and try and wrest some territorial control.’

  `Come on, Illahi-we have nukes, so do the Indians-why would we risk war now?’ the Army Chief was not going to give in so easily.

  `You will do as I say!’ Illahi’s famed temper came to the fore, and the proud Army officer did all he could to control himself. His face was flushed with anger and his broad shoulders heaved as he sat back in his chair, but he did not make his displeasure at this censure known.

  The Emir’s representative spoke up again, `His Holiness does not want us to try and get full territorial control-for he knows we are probably not ready yet. But what he wants is a sign to the doubters among our faith and a stern warning to the infidels. We need to make substantial territorial gain and then stop-demonstrating that we are willing to step in to protect our faith’s interests. And remember-it’s not just a question of going in with our guns blazing-we need to smart about it-and create circumstances that would serve our purpose. One of the key challenges before the Islamic Brotherhood now is to unite for the final battle against the Great Satan. But before that our leader, the Emir, needs a demonstration of his power. This is our privilege and our opportunity to contribute to this holy cause. If the Emir wants us to do something, let us not waste time debating it-let us figure out how.’

  As Abdul finished speaking, Illahi could see the distaste writ large on the faces of many of the men inside, especially the Chiefs of Staff. Professional soldiers all, they had not taken kindly to the virtual usurping of power by the Emir. But harsh lessons had taught them not to express their displeasure openly. Ilahi felt that Abdul, while blunt as always, had probably been a bit too harsh. He should remember these men are the most professional soldiers in the world, not his Afghan thugs.

  He adopted a more conciliatory tone as he tried to defuse the tension in the room. `Gentlemen, you have served Pakistan all your lives with dedication and patriotism that has been beyond question and reproach. But now I appeal to you to serve an even higher cause-the greater cause of our Quam-the Islamic nation. The Emir feels, and I agree with him, that while the Islamic nation has made great progress in terms of international solidarity, we are still a badly fragmented people. We can never hope to ultimately win against the Western imperialism and Indian expansionism unless we do unite. And the honor of the first task in uniting us as a common front falls to us.’

  Ilahi’s always been a great speaker, got to grant him that. But Karim could feel the tension and apprehension in the room as the meeting disbanded. The Service Chiefs were clearly not in favor of escalating military tensions. The past few years had taken a heavy toll on the Pakistani economy, and its military had not been spared. While discipline and training had remained at their usually high levels, spare parts and new equipment were not as easily forthcoming. And Karim knew that wars were not won with fervor alone, but real equipment and blood.

  ***

  In the privacy of his bedroom, the Prime Minister of Pakistan was not so belligerent. He knew he was taking a big risk, but then, he reasoned, history had rewarded only those who dared. Moreover, he mused that it was not as if he had any real choice.

  Illahi Khan had stormed to power in a military coup with the blessings of fundamentalist groups. The previous military government under Musharraf had provided a few years of near autocratic rule, but in the bargain, had antagonized many of the fundamentalist groups, especially with its clear support to the United States in its war in Afghanistan to root out the Taliban and Al Qaeda. The fundamentalist forces had always lurked in the background, and surfaced occasionally with attacks on Musharraf and the assassination of Benazir Bhutto in late 2007. Religious fundamentalism and economic collapse made for a volatile cocktail, and Illahi had stormed to power in yet another coup, this time with the backing of the Emir and fundamentalist forces within the Pakistani army. Illahi had, to his credit, restored some semblance of economic stability and social order, but at the cost of a harsh clampdown and a virtually autocratic government.

  But he realized, in his quest for power, he had sold himself out. And he did not regret it for a minute. Starting life as a non commissioned officer in the Pakistan Army, he could never have dreamed of attaining the highest position in the country. As he gradually rose in the Army hierarchy, he was not noticed for his tactical brilliance, but for his staunch, almost fanatical religious fervor. He had come in contact with hard-line fundamentalist groups early on in his career, and with his influence in the army and religious circles, he became a natural candidate to lead the coup.

  Despite his lack of much formal education, Illahi possessed a sharp mind, and he never deluded himself with the thought that he was actually in control. He had ridden the fundamentalist tiger to power, and could now do little without their approval. He was in no way indispensable-and if he strayed too far, they would find someone else to take his place.

  What had queered the pitch even more in the last two years was the growing power of the Emir. Following the upheavals in Saudi Arabia, the Emir, known before his rise to power as Abu Sayed had overthrown the monarchy and had emerged as the political and religious leader of Saudi, and he claimed, of the entire Muslim world. Most liberal Islamic countries like Egypt and Algeria were resisting the Emir’s visions of an expansionist religion and his ultimate terrifying vision of an Armageddon between the forces of Islam and others. However, his influence was growing by the day-he had many allies in Pakistan and, as Illahi was never allowed to forget, he owed his coming to power in no small measure to the money and weapons supplied by the Emir. To reinforce this, a representative of the Emir, Abdul, had to sit in on all top-level meetings. This irked Illahi, but he knew better than to make his displeasure known. His loyalty to the Emir stemmed not just from the purely selfish consideration of staying in power, but also from a real belief in the man and his words. Illahi had met him only once, but his overwhelming charisma and presence had awed him. To disobey him was unthinkable.

  Now the Emir had upped the ante. What he was asking for was bold and dangerous-but if it worked, it could firmly establish the Emir as the leader of the Islamic world and Illahi as the greatest national hero of Pakistan ever.

  Yes, he decided, he would go ahead with it. His generals were com
petent and more importantly, would carry out his orders. His purges following the coup had ensured that any officer who tried to rock the boat would soon find his career destroyed. Illahi had found several strong allies in the Army, especially the fanatical Lt. General Tariq Ahmed, who headed a special wing of Pakistan’s elite Special Security Group. In the initial struggle for power, Tariq and his handpicked SSG commandos had proved decisive.

  While Tariq had refused the offer of being made Chief of Army Staff, preferring to carry on his `holy orders’ on the field, he remained one of the key figures in the military hierarchy and was also given independent charge of a wing of Pakistani’s intelligence arm, the Inter Services Intelligence. Tariq’s men would now once again come in handy, mused Illahi as he sat down. Illahi also realized that he indeed did not have much time.

  He opened his drawer and took out the brown envelope, which he must have opened at least a thousand times over the past six months-hoping each time that by some miracle, the contents would change. He decided that the Emir’s call was indeed a divine sign-now he could at least fulfill some higher purpose before his time came.

  Illahi did not sleep that night, as he sat in his study, thinking up what would form the core elements of his plan. He had at the most eight months to do it-as then snow would render most of the mountain passes impassable-and he would do it. He knew he would not get a second chance.

  ***

  TWO

  News is the first rough draft of history.

  - Ben Bradlee

  The alarm seemed to ring forever. Pooja fumbled around in the dark, sending the much-battered clock tumbling to the ground with a resounding crash. That woke her up. As she got up she marveled at the abuse the clock had endured over the years. It had been her constant companion for the last ten years, from before her days in college. She wryly wondered that this clock had lasted longer than any of her boyfriends over those years.

  Before doing anything else, she reached for the cordless phone at her bedside and dialed a number. There was no answer for over a minute. But she didn’t seem surprised or perturbed-it was a part of everyday life-a routine she had long gotten used to. She mentally started counting, one hangover, two hangover.

  As she reached five hangover, a groggy voice appeared at the other end.

  `Uh, who is this?’

  `Good morning, Rahul.’

  `Hey boss, not today. You were at the party as well.’

  `Yes Rahul-but you were the one who decided that all the booze in the world was going to disappear and you had one night in which to finish it. Plus, you’re at some party every night-so forget it. Get up, we have work to do.’

  `Slave driver.’

  `See you at eight, slave.’

  Pooja slammed the phone down and jumped off her bed. Her bedroom was a study in chaos-the only areas which did not have clothes or newspaper clippings strewn on them were the huge bookshelf crammed with books and a computer table with a PC on it. As a journalist, Pooja realized that it was critical for her to do two things-anticipate things before they actually occurred, and read up to know enough about the background to have a meaningful analysis when the news finally broke. The rest of her flat was equally bohemian-a small living room with a TV, and a kitchen. She had never bought a dining table, preferring to eat by her computer, while she surfed the Net.

  She stood in front of her bathroom mirror, brushing her teeth. She reminded herself that she needed a new tube of toothpaste as she squeezed with all he strength to get some paste out of the tube on the shelf. She showered and shampooed, and as she toweled off, she cursed herself for not having exercised for a week. Work was about all she managed to get into her life right now. Every once in a while, her mother would call, pleading with her to marry a `good’ boy, whatever that meant. Pooja did not want to be like most of her friends, for whom marriage was a routine thing, something to be done because `it was time’, which Pooja always found ridiculous. It made marriage seem about as exciting as a haircut. There had never been a shortage of boys wanting to woo her. At twenty-eight, she was clearly very attractive with her slim body, chiseled face and long, black hair, and managed to turn heads wherever she went. But, as she had found, most men felt quite threatened by her combination of looks and strong professional ambition. There was no way she was going to compromise on the way she wanted to live her life. Her mother’s parting shot was that the day she found a man she truly loved, it would not seem like a compromise at all.

  Well, that was yet to happen. At the age of twenty-one, she had started off with a leading newspaper as a journalist. Within a couple of years, however, she had chucked it for what seemed to be the more glamorous world of TV journalism. `I want to be there when the news is being made, not write about it later’, she had explained to her editor before putting in her papers. Her father, a retired journalist, had opposed her move to the `sensationalist media’, but she had gone ahead, and had never regretted her decision.

  Pooja put on jeans and a white T-shirt and rushed down to the parking lot. It was still relatively chilly, but even the severest of Mumbai winters never really required anything heavier.

  She had joined WNS-a mega media conglomerate that had been formed with the merger of several of the old news channels in 2010. In her first year, she had risen to become a senior journalist-and now had a cameraman of her own-Rahul. Maverick, wild and absolutely brilliant-those were the words anyone used to describe Rahul. He had once jumped into a burning building after a bomb explosion a year ago to capture the news as it broke-but then when he saw the maimed victims crying out for help, he had ditched his camera and helped them out. It had cost him his job, but he couldn’t have cared less-that was when WNS had hired him, at Pooja’s insistence.

  ***

  Pooja stopped her old Fiat Uno outside Rahul’s fourth floor apartment and dialed his number on her cell phone.

  Before she could utter a single word, Rahul shouted out, `Boss, gimme a break-I’m coming down in a minute. If you want it any faster, I’ll have to jump from the window.’

  Pooja watched Rahul sprint down the stairs to her car. Large and stocky, Rahul was only a year younger than her-but insisted on calling her Boss. It was uncharacteristic of Rahul, who viewed hierarchy with undisguised contempt, but reflected the real respect and affection he felt for her. He accepted as part of his job protecting the little stripling of a woman who seemed to never bother about how much trouble she might be running into.

  He slumped into the passenger seat, dressed in what was his usual attire-old jeans and T-shirt, topped off with long hair and four-day-old stubble. Whenever Pooja made one of her futile attempts to convince him to expand his wardrobe beyond a single pair of jeans and to get a haircut, he would point to a global conspiracy involving jean manufacturers and barbers. It was hard to argue with logic like that.

  Pooja started the car, grateful that the engine caught on the first attempt. The car had been a gift from her father, and though she would probably never admit it in public, her hanging on to the old car was her way of showing her affection for her father, though relations between them had never been very good. Her father had always sought to cast her in a mold of his choice, and perhaps because of this, she had always ended up rebelling against him.

  `So which grease ball are we tailing today?’ Rahul asked between swigs of a Coke can, which much to the immense annoyance of his mother, had served as his breakfast ever since he joined college.

  The question was a running joke between the two. Pooja had asked for a transfer to the glamorous foreign desk-but in a bureaucratic snafu, had been rotated to the home desk. So instead of covering breaking international news, she was usually on the trail of India’s politicians as they went about their venal ways. The editor had promised her a transfer out in three months, but that seemed like a very long time away.

  `Ram Sharan.’

  ‘Yeah. Grease ball numero uno.’ Another large swig.

  Pooja looked at Rahul and laughed out loud.


  `Rahul, it’s amazing how a human being can stay alive without any solid food. They should lock you up in a lab or something.’

  `It’s simple, Boss. The cola gives me the calories I need, and the booze kind of kills all the germs. It’s actually good for health. Serious.’

  For the last week, they had been following a lead on Ram Sharan, a senior minister in the new cabinet. They had nothing firm yet, but their source had sworn that Sharan was regularly accepting bribes in money and kind for dispensing favors to large industrial houses. He was the weak link in an otherwise relatively clean government, and his appointment reflected the kind of electoral compromises the new government had had to make to come to power.

  `Which way, Rahul?

  ‘Hotel Sea Princess-just keep going towards Juhu.’

  It was a fifteen-minute drive from Rahul’s house in Bandra to the hotel where Sharan was supposed to be staying. As the car pulled into the parking lot, Pooja pulled out her writing pad where she had scribbled the information her source had given her.

  The two got out and sat on a bench about twenty meters from the main door, obscured by a large tree.

  `So, what do we expect, Boss?’

  `Get ready to shoot-if this is to be believed, we’re in for the biggest scoop in WNS history, or our careers at least.’

  Rahul took out the small Handycam from a bag in the back seat.

  `There, Rahul! Right on time.’

  `Whoa, Boss-that’s Karan Ambujee.’

  Oblivious to Pooja and Rahul’s presence a few meters away, the elder scion of one of India’s largest business families entered the hotel. Tall, elegant and dignified looking, he was supposed to epitomize India’s emerging class of global businessmen. Well, corruption is a global thing, I guess, Rahul thought as Ambujee entered the hotel.

  `What do you think he’s got in the briefcase?’

  `According to the source, about fifty lakhs in cash.’

  `Whoa. Must be a big deal if Karan Ambujee is here himself. Who is this source anyway?’