KALYUG (10 page)

The appeal to the ego was so transparent and obvious that I was sure the president would again mumble his favourite words – ‘You’re crazy’ – but apparently, flattery works. As GK turned towards Mitra, there was a distinct softening of his features.

Katara immediately seized the initiative. ‘There are scams breaking out left, right and centre. Every organization we have – including the Armed Forces – is getting infected, getting worse day by day, and there is absolutely no control over the ministers or their ministries. Every single one of them has his or her own agenda, which has nothing to do with what is good for the country.

‘You know I am telling you the truth. You’ve seen this happening. Is that the legacy you want to leave behind?’

I stared, with disbelieving eyes, at the transformation in GK. Gone was the consternation, the incredulity – in its place, I saw the beginnings of desire, of unfulfilled dreams close enough to grab. I couldn’t believe that the oldest of tricks was working here. We weren’t talking about inaugurating a hospital or a highway project! Goddammit, we were talking about subverting the Constitution – screw Raghav and his logic – on the basis of some two-penny flattery and half-baked theories.

GK chose that exact moment in my reflection to turn towards me and ask, ‘So what do you think, Mr Selvam?’

I spluttered – I am not proud of it – before I could answer. I did not even wonder why he, the president of India, was asking me my opinion – although in retrospect, it was a rhetorical question or, more likely, he wanted me to endorse the coup, and by extension, his role in it. I searched for the right words as I spluttered. When I did get them, however, they poured out of me. From the morning, from the moment I had answered my phone, everything that I had seen or heard since then culminated in one outburst that, in the days of royalty, would probably have justified my decapitation.

In a democracy, however, the maximum they can do is throw you in jail and torture the hell out of you. Been there, done that.

‘What do I
think
? What do
I
think? I think you are crazy if you think, for one second, that these guys are making any sense! You can’t just announce that you are taking over the country one day and then expect people to lie down and take it. You’ve got courts here. You’ve got the police and the Army and the Navy and the Air Force. They’re going to say, No, thank you for the offer but we decline, and then they are going to put you in jail.

‘And before they even get to you, your own party is going to want your blood first. It’s not the Opposition’s government you are suspending – it’s your own! Mrs Pandit is going to have a fit, and then, that’s the end of anything you’ve ever built in your career. She’s never going to forgive you if you do this, because you will lose the next elections and her son will not get his chance . . . you know what, go ahead. Do it. I mean, what do we have to lose? We’re getting a lame-duck government anyway, so what does it matter whose it is?’

It was GK who broke the uncomfortable silence that followed.

‘There’s some truth in what he said,’ he said slowly. Katara and Mitra turned their attention towards him once again. ‘Mrs Pandit would certainly not be happy.’

26th March 2012. New Delhi.

‘And you have based this theory solely on the assumption that the gunman would have seen my wife’s bracelet, recognized her for a Muslim herself, and therefore spared her if he was a genuine jihadi himself?’

Richa nodded, cringing inwardly at how weak her idea sounded when uttered aloud.

‘A bigot like that,’ Major-General Qureshi pointed out, ‘would have shot her anyway. For being outside, alone; for not covering her face. For not falling down at the stroke of twelve and offering namaz. This is Delhi – how often do we hear about attacks on women, forget the religion?’

Richa conceded the point. ‘That’s true. But I did some digging on my own. You were at the Ministry of Defence at the time the attack happened.’

‘So?’ he asked warily. ‘I am somewhere at any point of time. It so happened I was at the MoD that day. What’s your point?’

‘You met with the defence secretary. Yugi Krishnamachari. Upright IAS Officer, Tamil Nadu cadre. Class of’93. At the time the attack was happening.’

Major-General Qureshi’s eyes seemed to stare through her, as if he was suddenly back in time, walking those heavy steps towards the swinging doors, knowing the price he had already – almost certainly – paid. He barely remembered the meeting, although he was sure that he had made as complete a report to the bureaucrat as was expected from him. The results were certainly tangible, for later that same evening, he had received a copy of the memo that had halted, until further notice, the use of all ViFite materials across the Army.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you aware that Krishnamachari was transferred yesterday, back to Chennai, to head the regional committee on the study of the inter-linking of rivers?’

‘What?’ he could not hold back the surprise at the news. He had heard nothing about the transfer – which was understandable under the circumstances – but it was the transfer itself, the speed with which it had been handed down, that stunned him. A physical attack could be arranged with money and the right contacts; a transfer of a senior bureaucrat, however, meant that the rot went very high. Higher than he had feared.

‘Transfer with immediate charge,’ she said. ‘And his last order was to countermand his own memo barring procurements from a vendor called ViFite.’

‘How did you find out?’ he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

‘A source at the MoD itself,’ she said. ‘He found the flip-flop suspicious and got in touch. Thinks there is a scandal there. Nowadays . . .’ She shrugged.

For what seemed like an eternity, Major-General Qureshi studied her silently. She met his gaze, a little frightened but unwilling to be cowed down anymore. He knew she had smelled blood with the information about Krishnamachari’s transfer and, like a bloodhound, had realized there was a story there.

For an instant, he was reminded once again of his wife. And then the seventeen soldiers who had perished, chilled to death on the unforgiving slopes of the Himalayas, and he steeled himself. It was time for the next battle – one that would be fought on a different battlefield this time.

He got up and went inside.

16th September, 2012. New Delhi.

‘Forget Mrs Pandit,’ said Katara, exasperation in his tone. ‘You don’t need her anymore. Besides, we’ve neutralized her. And most of the people in the Sabhas. Only the clean ones remain, but those are fewer – and more sensible. They will come around if they believe in you.’

‘But it’s Mrs Pandit,’ said GK. He sounded uncertain, almost reverential and admiring. I wondered if it was for the lady, or for the gentleman who had promised to neutralize her influence.

‘Yes, and at least for the next two to three days, you won’t hear a peep out of her,’ Katara promised. ‘As of right now, she is flying to Japan to have a complicated micro-surgery. She won’t issue a statement until she gets back – that should give you enough time to consolidate your hold.’

‘You have planned this for a long time, haven’t you?’ GK asked, masking the relief he was obviously feeling with an accusatory look. ‘The trip was not on her itinerary last night.’

‘Yes,’ replied Katara, nodding to Mitra who left the room immediately. ‘We’ve planned this for a long time now – in fact, even before your book came out, Mr Selvam. There was even a time when we thought our plans had been leaked.’

‘Before my book? Before 2010?’

‘Yes.’

Before I could ask, GK had made the connection. ‘Yet, you were formed only in 2007. Within three years, you were thinking of overthrowing a democratically elected government?’

‘Oh, please spare me the moral high ground,’ exclaimed Katara, his expression clearly one of exasperation and incredulity. ‘You’ve been doing it every time a state elected a party other than yours. Put your own Governor in, fan a law and order situation, then suspend the Assembly and impose Governor’s rule.’

As GK started to object, he held up a hand. ‘INSAF was only three years old, but the sentiments that drove us are much older. You see only INSAF, GK, but behind this action is a group of highly committed patriots. Men and women who’ve risked their lives for our country and who are prepared to do it again.

‘You were more worried about Mrs Pandit than the Executive or the Judiciary. But if you had asked me, I would have been only too glad to tell you that the Armed Forces will stand by you. Through the Home Ministry, the police and other paramilitary forces will fall in. We have a battery of lawyers ready to argue the legitimacy of this Emergency.

‘Your crown is safe at least for the next two years. By that time, if we’ve done a good job, nobody’s going to object – except a few out-of-work politicians – if we continue for the full term.’

He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Are you in or out?’

GK stood up as well and looked at me, then at Katara. Then at the outstretched hand. Then he said coolly, ‘If it’s not me, it will be someone else.’

Katara nodded.

The two men smiled at each other, lips tight, in grim understanding. It was the smile between two people who have decided to work together, not because they needed each other, but because they saw their own advantages in doing so.

Then they shook hands.

6

16th September, 2012. Ghaziabad.

‘No, no reporters,’ said the guard.

‘But I have a press badge,’ said Jack, holding up the bogus badge that was part of his tradecraft. ‘I was invited by your government to cover this program for the . . . erm, foreign media. You have to let me through.’

The armed guard, who had stopped him at least fifty feet away from the entrance to the convention centre, was apologetic, but firm. ‘Press not allowed,’ he repeated, almost laying a hand on him. ‘You cannot go in. Please leave.’

Jack pulled a fifty-dollar note from his pocket and kept it folded lengthwise as he waggled his finger. The guard was tempted – his eyes spoke of the greed and the need – but the moment passed before Jack could press his advantage. The Indian shook his head quite firmly. ‘Please leave.’

Jack shrugged, casting a woeful look at his watch, before turning around and walking away. At the moment, he knew, spies from at least five different countries were watching him, taking his picture, wondering who he was. The sixth country’s spy – his compatriot John – was probably wearing a victor’s smile at his failure.

But Jack had never assumed that he would be able to win access to the convention centre anyway – he had only wanted John to assume that he did. It was vital that at least one of them remain behind just in case, but he had no intention of waiting idly, not with such a hot tip in his hands. Besides, posing as a reporter was one way to exit the hotel building without being stopped or arousing any suspicion.

As he had hoped, no one stopped him as he ignored the entrance to the lobby and continued towards the gate. There was a rickshaw-stand just outside and he hoped they would accept his currency. Without the local currency, a thick wad of which he had left back in his room, he knew he was just asking to be robbed blind – the black-market exchange rates were atrocious, as he had found out on an earlier trip to the country – but he did not have the luxury of time. He had not wanted to risk the delay of converting a part of the cash he held at the hotel’s desk.

The discipline amongst the rank of rickshaw-drivers dissolved the instant they perceived a foreigner in need of their services and he was immediately buffeted in different directions. Rather than bargain, he climbed into the nearest three-wheeler and slapped the meter impatiently. The driver joined him in the blink of an eye, not wanting to risk his fare having second thoughts, and switched the engine on, flicked the meter and shot out of the stand before his colleagues could protest.

They rode in silence for a few minutes before the driver finally realized that he had not been given a destination. ‘Sahib,’ he said, glancing back at his fare, effortlessly swerving to avoid a motorcycle that had overtaken them from the left. ‘Khidhar – where to go?’

‘Take me to the nearest mall,’ said Jack, wiping the perspiration around his neck.

‘What you want? I can get you cheap price, good bargain. I know places –’

‘Nothing. Just drive, please.’ Jack could already see the gleaming façade of a mall ahead, recognizing it as one he had passed on his way to the hotel earlier that morning. He pointed to the building. ‘Take me there.’

A few minutes later, the rickshaw pulled up to the street-side drop-off point for the mall. Even as he got out, the driver coolly flipped the meter. ‘One hundred rupees,’ he said. The American did not bargain – he pulled out the smallest denomination from his pocket, a five-dollar note, and thrust it into the driver’s hand. The driver was about to protest when he stopped himself, remembering that a dollar was certainly worth a lot more than twenty rupees; the almost-protest became an obsequious salute as he thanked the American and started the vehicle again.

He had moved just a few feet when Jack shouted, ‘Wait, wait!’

More out of reflex – for if he had consciously considered it, the driver would have preferred to continue on his way – the rickshaw braked to a stop. Jack was instantly by his side.

‘Do you have a phone?’ he asked, miming a cell-phone with his right hand. ‘A mobile phone?’

The driver nodded. Who didn’t?

‘I want it,’ Jack said, pulling out the only hundred-dollar note that he had. ‘You can buy a new one with this. But give me your phone.’

The driver’s eyes gleamed at the sight of the crisp note, the 100 mark clearly visible. The details stored in his phone gave him but a moment’s pause – he remembered the important numbers, and that was enough. He nodded vigorously as he pulled the phone out of his pocket. As he tried to remove the back cover to take the sim card, the American placed a hand over his.

‘No,’ said Jack emphatically. ‘With connection.’

The driver looked at him curiously, then at the phone in his
hand. Perhaps spooked by the unfamiliar surroundings, he assumed, wants the reassurance of a cell phone in his hand. So be it. It was a prepaid connection anyway, hardly any balance worth negotiating for. He shrugged and handed over the phone, simultaneously reaching for the hundred-dollar note with his free hand.

Jack was relieved. When he had exited the hotel and discovered that he had left his own phone behind, he’d had only a vague idea about finding a mobile phone or a payphone and putting a call through to his handler at the New Delhi consulate. It was only when the rickshaw had been pulling up to the entrance that he saw the difficulty – there were hardly any payphones in sight, and he remembered hearing that you needed all sorts of documentation to get a mobile connection, even a prepaid one. The idea of buying the driver’s phone had been an inspired one, the price he paid inadequate for the value it promised. He hoped his idea worked, but at the very least, it was a possibility now.

He turned around and had just built up his pace from a trot to a run when he was hailed from behind. ‘Sahib,’ was the cry, a familiar voice, and even as he stopped, the driver was on him.

‘What?’ he said, trying to keep his irritation in check. ‘I’ve paid you already.’

‘Yes, sir. I know. You will need this also,’ said the driver. He pressed a charger into his palm. ‘For the phone. Free. For low battery.’ Cracking a wide grin, before Jack could react, the driver was making his way back to the auto-rickshaw.

Momentarily surprised, Jack stood unmoving at the entrance to the mall. He saw the rickshaw pulling away; he glanced at the phone and accessory in his hand.

He did not see the man on the bike who had followed him from the hotel.

28th March, 2012. New Delhi.

‘I thought you were one of the good guys!,’ Richa almost shouted at the Major-General when he answered the phone.

‘What do you mean?’ he growled

‘The report on ViFite, the inquiry report on the Kuragon tragedy – they don’t match the documents you gave me. The Kuragon report says the soldiers died because they were unable to find their way back to camp in extreme conditions, that the commanding officer for the expedition had been negligent in reading the maps and got them lost. The ViFite report is full of praise about the suit’s performance, about trials and purchases by European armies.’

‘It can’t be,’ said Major-General Qureshi from his farmhouse. ‘I don’t see – whom did you check with?’

‘MoD,’ Richa replied. ‘I found a clerk who was willing to copy the files for me. I gave him the file numbers you had given me, and this is what I got.’

There was stunned silence from the other end of the line as Major-General Qureshi tried to process the implications of Richa’s news. It was possible that the clerk had passed the wrong files to Richa – but in that case, how coincidental could it be that the wrong files too pertained to ViFite and Kuragon? The odds were . . . No, there hadn’t been an error, deliberate or otherwise, by the clerk. Couldn’t have been. Which left only one logical reason.

The files had been replaced.

‘Hang up,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ll call you back.’

As soon as the line was free, he dialled his office and instructed his secretary to pull up the access logs of about twenty different files, interspersing the ViFite and Kuragon files amongst others. The secretary – an officer retired by disability to a desk job – was familiar with the major-general’s demands and expectations, and promised to have the logs mailed through the internal email system within thirty minutes. He did it in twenty-five.

As Qureshi opened the access logs for the two files that concerned him the most, he cursed under his breath. The logs showed the clerk’s incursion from a few hours ago; the only entries prior to that had been his own access the day of the terrorist attack – the murder – just after he had returned from the MoD and locked up the files.

Although he was still entitled to another week off on compassionate grounds, he donned his uniform and rushed to the office, much to the surprise of his staff. Most of them had no idea how to react to him, unsure if he would accept their condolences, unsure if they should be bold enough to offer any. The amateur psychologists felt he was trying to cope by throwing himself back into work; the less charitable ones suggested that he was probably not grieving as much as one would expect from a husband who had loved his wife.

He locked himself in his office and opened the safe that held the files. The biometric scanner verified his thumbprint and added the time, date and person to the access log before unlocking the heavy door. His pulse racing, Qureshi searched for the files he was afraid he would not find.

He did not find them.

His next stop was the MoD itself where, not having a specific appointment with any of the apparatchiks, he was made to wait for another twenty minutes before being shown into a small conference room. A clerk – was it the same one Richa had compromised, he wondered – walked in a few minutes later with the files he had requested.

The files matched the copies that Richa now held in her possession. They were files that he had never seen before.

Yet, there was his signature on every document, endorsing the veracity of the findings and opinions mentioned within.

16th September, 2012. New Delhi.

It is said that the converts are often the more fanatical than the original believers. A few minutes with President Gopi Kishan validated that saying for me.

Immediately after shaking hands, President GK asked Katara, ‘So what’s next? How do we do this?’

‘The first group we are going to announce this to,’ Katara said, ‘consists of the top industrialists and financiers in the country. Just a few minutes before you go live on Doordarshan, of course . . . but we definitely need to address the money first, ensure that they don’t panic.’

‘Of course, of course. That would be a disaster. We’ll need to shut down the stock exchanges for a few days too, just until we get the message out to all the markets that we are as stable as we’ve ever been, or even better.’

The smile on Katara’s face was beatific. ‘This is why we’ve chosen you,’ he said. ‘You are the leader we need right now.’

If GK sensed an ominous ring to the last two words, he didn’t show it; instead, his eyes gleamed with an excitement that the public had rarely been witness to in the past few months. It was also obvious his brain was racing in many directions, for he soon asked, ‘What about the Army? I know, you told me they are with us – but are they? With Major-General Qureshi’s death last night –’

‘You will announce the setting up of an inquiry commission headed by yourself and a sitting judge of the Supreme Court, officers for the investigation deputed from whatever agency you see fit, and propose a memorial in honour of his memory. The chiefs will ensure that any dissension in the ranks will be quelled, at least for now.’

The implied threat was obvious – if the inquiry did not identify the culprits soon, or if it was seen to be compromised in any way, the gloves would be off. I wondered what pull the Armed Forces’ chiefs could exert on their own commander-in-chief. Short of a mass resignation that would plunge the entire country into a security crisis – an act so unpatriotic that I doubted it would ever be carried out – there seemed to be little else that they could do.

GK clapped his hands once, pleased. ‘Splendid!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s exactly what I had in mind. No parliamentary committee or anything. Keep politics out of it.’

At that moment, Jagannath Mitra re-entered the antechamber. Katara immediately turned towards him. His subordinate gave him a nod, at which Katara turned towards me. ‘Mr Selvam! I believe this is your first visit to the Rashtrapati Bhavan.’ Without waiting for my answer, he turned to Mitra. ‘Why don’t you give him a quick tour? After all, he’s going to need to familiarize himself with the layout here . . . The President and I have to go over a few minor details before we go public.’

It was a very pointed dismissal of both of us. I was almost about to remark that it seemed silly to bring me in and then keep me out, but a last minute thought cautioned that even I needed to clear my head. Things had been happening too fast for me to answer the questions that were still bouncing around inside my head.

‘I’ve read
India, 2012
,’ said Mitra, breaking the silence between us as we traversed an empty corridor. The locked offices and the echo of our footsteps had momentarily confused me, before I remembered that it was a Sunday and this section was probably where the routine stuff was managed. ‘If I may say so, it’s a thought-provoking book. You should be proud of your work.’

I snorted derisively. Notorious obscurity for nearly two years . . . and now I come across two ‘fans’ in the span of a few hours.

His smile grew wider at my obvious incredulity. ‘I suppose you are wondering what the role is that you play here.’

‘Your boss said I was going to be this Emergency’s historian.’

His nod was slow, rather grudging, but I got the impression that it was perhaps not personal. It was the gesture of someone who disagrees with the word, not the full import.

‘I wouldn’t call you a historian – or rather, I wouldn’t call you just a historian,’ said Mitra. ‘That was purely for GK’s benefit. As far as he is concerned, you are documenting the events leading up to, during and immediately after the coup – or Emergency, as you call it. We want you to have access to any and all the corridors of power.’