Fenix (17 page)

“Allah is witness to my suffering,” Muzammil continued. “He protects the faithful and the pure. Do what you must.”

“Impressive,” Ansari noted. “As it turns out, I am also deeply aware of the Holy Book. And His teachings. And you, represent
neither
.”

That got Muzammil’s attention enough for him to face up at the man in front of him. He stared at Ansari for several seconds. “You claim yourself a Muslim?”

“I don’t just
claim
it. I
am
one.” Ansari stated authoritatively.   

“And yet you fight for the pagans?” Muzammil asked in genuine surprise. “Anyone who fights alongside the Hindus and against his Islamic brothers is not a
true
Muslim.”

Ansari smirked. “Do you honestly expect people to believe that your attempts to wage war and kill innocents are about religious purity? I am a Muslim but I was born on this land and I will fight scum like you to ensure nothing happens to it or the people who live here. You and I will both answer to Allah for our sins in the afterlife. But
my
faith is not dependent on interpretations of irrelevant mortals. Only He can judge us, lest you forget!”

Muzammil continued to look at Ansari for several seconds and then stared back at the floor. Ansari was about to turn away when the terrorist leader spoke again: “why did you come down here? You could have just left me to your Hindu dogs in this room.”

Ansari turned around and punched Muzammil to the side of his face that shoved him off the chair and to the floor. The man spat out some more blood from his mouth and gasped in pain. Ansari stepped forward over the writhing man on the floor: “You and I may share the same faith. But do not mistake it for a weakness. I came here to see the face of the man who has brought death to thousands of my countrymen. Of all faiths, of all ages.” Ansari then bent on one knee near Muzammil: “I
also
came here to let you know that we have
already
killed all of your commanders in front of your eyes. But we won’t stop there. Oh no,
we
are going up the ladder, my friend. All those who supported you will find themselves next to you. Just you watch.”

Ansari got up to his feet and nodded to the major and walked towards the exit. Stepping out into the corridor, Ansari turned to Basu’s men as they piled out: “just tell me you have the names we want from that bastard.”

“We do,” the major replied.

“That simple?” Ansari asked as he removed his handkerchief and wiped the blood off his knuckles.

“That simple,” the major continued. “What you need to understand here is that it is the same story with all these so-called holy-warriors. When they fall into our hands, they sing like canaries. All of their courage melts away when they realize that they will spend their life in a coffin-sized room unless they cooperate. This one, was no different.”

“And
what
did you find out?” Ansari asked, impressed with the routine way the
MI
personnel were treating this case.

“Lt-general Haider is Muzammil’s contact man in the
ISI
,” the senior
RAW
man noted. “Our captive met with him repeatedly during the past months while they put together the strike on Mumbai.”

“So Haider’s our man,” Ansari noted. “What about the warhead itself?”

“They received the warhead through Haider’s men. A Brigadier Minhas was in charge of that. Mihas belongs to Hussein’s operations staff but works closely with the
ISI
and Haider.”

“If Haider and Minhas are involved,” Ansari noted, “then rest-assured, so is the higher offices at Rawalpindi. If your captive sang like a canary, why is he almost on the verge of dying in there?” Ansari asked as the noise of beating and moans from room started again. The major waved Ansari down the corridor as they left the room behind.

“Mumbai is a big city, sir,” the major explained. “A lot of us lost a lot of friends and relatives. Many had to be evacuated. Others are still missing in that mass exodus following the detonation off the coast. Once my men here realized who they had on their hands, well…”

Ansari nodded. He understood the sentiment. He started to climb up the stairs that would take them out of the underground facility. “Which is why it is important that you keep a close eye on the captive and make sure he stays alive. At least
until
our work is done. Can you do that?”

The major smiled to himself. “Yes sir. But I make no guarantees that he won’t just flop over and die on his own.”

Ansari stopped midway on the stairs and turned to face the military-intelligence officer: “now you listen to me! We went to a
lot
of effort and risk to get that bastard
alive
. You
keep
him that way. If I hear that you let him die, I will make it my personal mission to make sure you are busted down to lieutenant and posted to the freezing Siachen glacier the rest of your career. Is
that
understood?”

“
Sir!
Understood.” The major had lost his earlier smirk.

Ansari vented his anger in a sigh and then made his way up the stairs again. He understood the emotions running within the services at the savage attack on Mumbai. With all-out war just around the corner, fear was in the air as well. People under these stressful conditions could and
would
make mistakes. But the mistakes tended to be costlier when the people making them were in positions of responsibility. He knew he had to keep a short leash on everybody under his command until the situation stabilized to normal again.

If at all it ever did.

──── 19
────

“W
here are they headed?” the prime-minister asked as he glanced through the images in front of him. Ravoof turned to General Potgam who responded sharply: 

“Pasrur.”

“And where the hell is that?” the
PM
said as he looked at Potgaml. The latter kept a remarkably neutral face, Ravoof thought as he watched this play out.

“A short distance west of Shakar-Garh. Which itself is across the border from Pathankot.” Potgam replied. The room filled with silence. The images were unanimous in their clarity. Columns of tanks and vehicles on the road were headed east to the border with India. The Pakistani army was on the move.

“What the
hell
are they playing at?” Bafna asked as he passed the
PM
more images from the file. “They
know
they can’t win this, right?”

“By the looks of it,” Ravoof noted, “it looks like they don’t agree with you on that.”

“This,” the
PM
noted, “goes against
everything
that their government and the foreign office have given assurances against! It doesn’t make
any
sense!”

“Unless the analysis model is itself flawed,” Basu noted chillingly.

The
PM
put down the images and removed his glasses as he looked at the intelligence-chief: “What are you saying? That the civilian government in Islamabad is unaware of all this military mobilization? I
know
their prime-minister personally. He would
never
authorize this!”

Ravoof muttered an expletive just a tad bit more loudly than he had anticipated and the
PM
caught it: “Oh, and you concur with Basu, I take it?”

“I do.” Ravoof replied. He understood that now was not the time to be subtle. His country was being threatened by war by its nuclear-armed neighbor. If what Basu had revealed to him about General Hussein and Haider’s involvement in the Mumbai strike was true, even
this
assessment was untrue. The country was not
being
threatened. It was
already
at war…

“The facts are straightforward,” Ravoof continued, “but the choice is for us to either see them or ignore them. The strike on Mumbai was not a deranged act of a lunatic. It was
planned
. It was
considered
. It was
analyzed
. And Rawalpindi
chose
to act on it. Why? Is it because they are stupid? No.
Nothing
that we know about Generals Haider and Hussein over the past two decades show us that they are stupid. In fact, they are anything but. So their decision to allow the terrorists to strike with a borrowed nuclear warhead reveals their inner thoughts and conclusions. Much more so, in fact, than
anything
their civilian leaders have put out over the past few weeks.”

“They are convinced that we are weak.” Potgam added in a voice teeming with authority that he was known to wield. “They
think
we are on our knees militarily after the Tibet war and more so psychologically. They
think
the nuclear fallout from the attacks in Bhutan have left us without the stomach to absorb another such war. A war where the nuclear options are on the table from the get go. They are not convinced they are going to lose, sir. In fact, they
think
they can
win!
”

“Of course,” Ravoof added, “our massive strikes against the terrorist camps and commanders was unexpected both to the
ISI
as well as the terrorist commanders themselves. That was why it caught them flat-footed. The senior terrorists are dead. And the street-jihadists in Pakistan are outraged and rabidly asking for war. I don’t think Islamabad is convinced that they will win. I just think that they see no other alternative at this point. From their perspective, they can wage a popular jihad against us or the same Islamic extremism will topple their precious hold on their country!”

The
PM
rubbed his eyes and shared a look at Bafna: “everything we have done for peace. All our efforts. And
this
is what it is coming down to. Is there
no
alternative for peace at this point?”

Bafna shook his head after a few seconds of consideration. The
PM
then looked around his war cabinet: “what will it take for Islamabad or Rawalpindi or whoever is in charge over there, to talk peace? Can we give them something, anything, to avoid war?”

“I suppose,” Basu noted in frustration, “if we surrender Kashmir and put down our arms in front of their tanks, it might get them to reconsider chopping our heads off.”

He got a piercing glare from the
PM
and Bafna stood up from his chair: “how dare you show disrespect for this country’s prime-minister!” Somehow, under the circumstances, the outburst rang hollow in the room. Basu was long past the mental inhibitions that held him to this particular government. When the strike on Mumbai had unfolded, he had decided right then that this time the perpetrators would not be allowed to escape. If war
was
the medium to deliver on that promise, so be it. After all, what was that saying about nations who could not summon the guts to push back when blatantly instigated?

              In this he was not alone. Pakistan was being driven to war by its jihadist momentum. There was no way to stop that ball from rolling. But the Indian response was paralyzed by the top leadership’s inability to face this new threat head on. The
PM
’s inability to make his stand for his nation was no longer of concern. The war was already in motion. And the service chiefs,
RAW
and others in the cabinet had surmised the same.

              But what
was
needed was what was known as the “higher-direction-for-war”. Without planning a clean outcome of a war, the end result was always a bloody slugfest of attrition battles with no clear winner. The Pakistani army was no pushover. Propped up by irregular mujahedeen and other mercenaries, and aided by the Indian losses in the China war, the balance of forces was more in Pakistan’s favor than what the Indian military would have liked. And like sharks sensing blood, the Pakistani Generals were pushing for a fight…

              “You see these tanks, Bafna?” Basu said, holding up the satellite imagery taken just hours before. “
Where
do you think these are headed?
Hmm?
Do you think Islamabad is looking for a
peaceful
resolution here?!”

              There was no arguing the evidence, and Bafna had no response that could override the facts. Basu moved in for the kill: “when these armored columns go over the border on a time and place of Pakistan’s choosing, I would
love
to hear from you about my supposed insolence in this room. In the meantime,
we
have a war on our hands!”

              The
PM
bypassed any defense of his senior party member and left-hand man, and turned to Potgam: “what is our readiness to handle a Pakistani attack?”

              “We are getting there,” Potgam said. “But there is no strategic advantage to be had now. They have been mobilizing across the board for a week. And we are only now responding. We can probably match them at the border with air-strikes to slow down their preparations. I suspect they will attempt to do the same to us soon. Apart from defeating the momentum of their army, we need to know the larger objective here if we want to ensure that this doesn’t turn into a quagmire.”

              “What do
you
recommend, General?” Bafna asked.

              “That, sir,” Potgam said flatly, “is
your
job.”

              The room was silent for several seconds. Ravoof looked around and saw that the
PM
and the Bafna had missed the obvious objectives of any military action against Pakistan under the current circumstances. It surprised him no end that
he
, of all people, had to remind them about it…

“I would imagine,” Ravoof noted finally, “that one of the objectives
should
be to capture or kill the senior
ISI
leaders behind the Mumbai strike.”

              “General Haider?” Bafna asked, surprised.

              “Of course.” Ravoof replied.

              “Can we even do that?” The
PM
asked. All eyes turned to Basu, who was just as surprised at how Ravoof had seemingly gotten him legitimate orders for something that he was already prepared to do without orders.

              “We can.” Basu replied after a few seconds. “We are keeping a close eye on Haider. He and his men are organizing the jihadist units into combat groups in Lahore. At least, that’s what we think he is doing. The other
ISI
commanders will need more effort to locate. They will most certainly be embedded with General Hussein.”

              “And how do we propose to eliminate these men?” Bafna asked.

              “We send a few precision-strike cruise missiles into their command centers!” Potgam replied sharply, causing Basu to turn around and face the Army commander.

              “Or,” Basu added, “we send in a special-warfare team to grab Haider in Lahore and bring him back here,
alive
.”

              “
Inside
Lahore?” Potgam thundered. “Have you lost your mind? I am
not
sending my men that deep behind enemy lines to try and capture that man! A missile strike is clean and precise…”

              “…but for which we won’t know exactly where the target is!” Basu interjected. “Look, you need eyes on the ground regardless. Once we locate the bastard, you can take him out with a goddamned missile! Or half dozen missiles for that matter!”

              “Also,” Ravoof added, “bringing someone like Haider on trial,
alive
, has its own merits! He
should
be tried as a war-criminal, not a martyr!”

              “These are semantics I can ill afford to delve into, sir!” Potgam replied. His voice had that effect of dominating a room that few in his posts before him had managed in a long time. “This is a
war
we are talking about, not a public court!”

              The
PM
leaned back in his chair: “General, I want this man Haider to pay for his crimes. Find him. Capture him if you can. But kill him only
if
there is
no
other choice. I want his head
on a platter
for what he has done.” 

              “Sir,” Potgam continued his lonely battle, “you
do
understand that Haider is a
Lef
tenant-General in their army? He is
not
likely to work alone on anything. At the very least, he had the blessing of Hussein and other commanders at Rawalpindi. You know where
that
buck stops! They won’t let him be taken alive!”

              “You might be surprised at what we can do, General.” Basu noted neutrally. Potgam shot him a glance but said nothing. He knew what Basu was referring to.

              “Very well.” Potgam said in concession. “I can see when the decision has already been made. You gentlemen can bring your plans to me on Haider when you have them. In the meantime, I have an enemy to fight at the border! But I warn you
now
: plans to kill or capture Haider that depend on allocation of precious military resources under my command leaves me with the final veto authority.
If
I see a senseless or reckless plan involving capturing that bastard, I will choose to lob a few missiles and kill the bastard rather than risk my men. Is that acceptable to you all?”

              “Understood,
Warlord
,” the PM nodded politely. “That
was
your call-sign in Bhutan, yes?”

Potgam smiled as he got up from his desk:

              “It still is, sir!”