KALYUG (16 page)

‘Did he mention any particular time?’ he asked her as he pulled into the four-wheeler lane towards the underground parking lot.

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘He will be with us as soon as he gets here, but he didn’t say exactly when.’ It was the truth, and it gave her the flexibility to stay in a crowded, public place for as long as possible.

Although there were slots available on the first level, Raghav continued to drive until he found a solitary spot near an emergency exit on the second level. He backed into the spot, keeping so close to the left wall that Richa would not be able to open her door. As soon as she realized what he had done, the dismay was apparent on her face.

‘Take out your phone,’ he said, opening his door. The overhead light bathed the car in a diffused glow and he quickly turned it off.

‘Why?’ she asked belligerently.

‘Call the major-general and ask him to meet us here,’ he said.

She pulled out her phone and unlocked the screen. Then she shook her phone a couple of times and told him, ‘No use. We have to go upstairs. I don’t have any service down here.’

‘Good,’ he said, and at that instant, she saw her mistake. She tried to move away from him but he was simply too quick. His hand shot out and gripped her wrist. He pulled her forward, not too much but just enough to reach the steering column, and with his other hand, he reached under the dash for the set of handcuffs that he always kept there, held in place by a small lock that was deactivated by pulling on it.

A click later, she was angrily pulling at her hand, unmindful of the metal digging into her skin painfully, and glaring at him. The steering wheel tilted slightly with each move, but did not give an inch otherwise.

Raghav stepped out and surveyed his work with satisfaction. He was pleased to note that he had the handcuff secured on her wrist just tight enough to prevent her small hands from slipping out, while ensuring that the skin was not cut because the cuff was too tight.

He waited for a couple of minutes for her to become calmer, either out of hopelessness or deliberately, and then leaned in cautiously.

‘I’m not going to hurt you, Ms Naik. I could have if I had wanted to, and I hope you believe that. But you should also realize that it would be suicide for me to do what Qureshi wants – so while he is going to be expecting the two of us, I’ll be the one waiting for him where he least expects me. But make a noise, or try to warn him, and then all bets are off where you are concerned. I will not be responsible for the consequences.’

He slammed the door and walked off, leaving her alone in the car.

16th September, 2012. Ghaziabad.

Joseph Karpov Thevaraparambil was the first one to react. And his reaction was as spectacular as it was ill-advised.

Exactly seven seconds after the president had made his proclamation, Joseph started to push and shove his way to the front. Along the way, he pushed one of the delegates off his chair and clutched it by the backrest. As he let out a roar of anger, the few delegates standing in his path scattered hurriedly.

He reached the dais and allowed himself a moment of exultant anticipation. GK was not the only one who could play to a crowd, and Joseph Karpov was going to show the world exactly the stuff he was made of. Everyone in the room would speak of his actions for years to come; with one single gesture, he would earn their awe and respect. When GK made his ignominious exit – as he surely would – Joseph would not ask to be there. No, but others would demand that he was. That he witness first-hand the culmination of events that he had set in motion with just the swing of his arm.

Then they would lay the world at his feet.

He swung his arm and the chair flew off in a true tangent, whizzing through the air and finding its mark. There was a collective gasp as the legs of the chair shattered the life-size LCD screen and slammed against the electronic circuits at the back of the panel, sending out sparks and plumes of smoke.

He raised his arm in victory, the fist clenched, and posed in front of the cameras, savouring the moment. He was sure that when images of his rebellion aired, he would become instantly famous as the next Angry Young Man. The face of the next generation. The next chief minister. A future prime minister. The man who fired the first shot against an illegitimate regime.

Then he held up his middle finger.

16th September, 2012. New Delhi.

I imagine I was the only one in the room who was struck by the irony of the situation. Barely seconds after delivering a stunning announcement of his own, the president himself had been sandbagged by the sudden turn of events. None of us at Rashtrapati Bhavan knew what was happening in Ghaziabad, for all the cameras had faced the delegates and none the direction of the chair’s trajectory. All of us had seen the chair flying towards a couple of the cameras before moving out of sight, and the only clues to what followed were the sound of shattering glass and the image of the young man with a victorious expression on his face.

I recognized him immediately, as I am sure did the others. And whatever he had done, I was sure that it must have resulted in breaking something. It was how he had established his credentials in the dog-eat-dog world of campus politics in south India.

It was only when a few of the delegates – particularly some of the younger ones – started to clap and cheer, their tinny voices faintly audible amidst a crackling noise, that GK’s expression changed. Where a benign façade had been presented, his anger was now palpable. His voice seethed with barely contained rage as he leaned towards the microphone, although it was sensitive enough, and said, ‘What happened?’

None of the delegates moved, but one of the commandos stepped forward and saluted the camera. ‘The screen has been shattered, Sir.’

‘Are you the commanding officer for this operation?’ GK asked imperiously. On one of the screens, I could see Joseph Karpov turn around to look at the commando, who was probably about ten to fifteen feet behind him.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then I want you to make an example of that young man,’ said GK, and my blood chilled. The GK speaking now was no longer the suave, calculating politician we were all so familiar with; he was not even similar to the raving party spokesperson I had argued with on television two years ago. At that time, the emotion had been apparent, the subservience of intelligence something to be pitied; now, with the kind of power that he held in his hands, I caught the first glimpse of what I feared would be life under GK’s India.

Where uncomfortable questions would be answered in uncomfortable ways.

16th September, 2012. Ghaziabad.

‘Oh, really?’ said Karpov loudly as he turned around. Despite the fact that the commando had not yet responded to the president’s order, Karpov advanced towards him, flexing his muscles. A few stray shouts of, ‘Yeah, that’s it, Karpov,’ and ‘Get him, Karpov,’ egged him on. He covered the distance between them in a few strides and sneered at the officer, who stared back at him impassively.

‘I said, make an example of him!’

Before the officer could answer, Karpov threw the first punch. There was no doubt that he had put his entire strength into the blow, but Joseph Karpov was not a fighter – he was just a strong man who thought he could talk with his fists. Even as he was moving to strike, the commando, infinitely better at hand-to-hand combat, sidestepped the blow, letting it glance off his bulletproof vest. As the momentum swung Karpov through – another basic mistake – the officer stepped into the circle, behind the swinging arm, and gave a sharp jab to the kidney. Most people watching the fight missed the blow.

But Karpov definitely felt it. The pain fuelled his rage; the rage blinded his common sense. With an angry roar, he tried to swing his arm backwards, intending to catch the officer on the jaw or neck with his elbow, not really caring whether he killed him or merely maimed him.

The officer was expecting one of two moves – a cross, or to be more precise, a wild swing with the other hand, or a backhanded elbow to his face. Even as Karpov’s backward swing gained momentum, the officer moved his left palm to the young man’s elbow, like a pivot, and used his other hand to grip his palm. Using Karpov’s momentum against himself, the commando transferred his own weight to his heels and pivoted himself, pulling the young turk into an accelerated spin that the latter had no control over.

A second later, Karpov was airborne and on an unavoidable collision course with one of the round tables. He slammed into the edge and then into its stem, collapsing in a heap at its base. The officer bent over him and checked his neck for a pulse. Satisfied, he stood up and gestured for two of his subordinates to drag the injured man away.

It was all caught on camera.

16th September, 2012. New Delhi.

We watched Joseph Karpov’s life change drastically in just under five seconds without comment. Three of the screens on top had caught the action perfectly, albeit from different angles, and even thousands of miles away, I could feel the impact against the table almost as painfully as if I had been the one thrown into it. By the time he was taken away, there was no doubt that he would never be the same again. It was that kind of a beating.

For a little while, nobody spoke. Even Nelson Katara looked worried at this unexpected sideshow of violence, although there was little doubt that his own obnoxiousness had caused Karpov’s downfall. GK continued to stare transfixed at the screens, as if what he’d seen had just made him realize the true extent of his newly-adopted powers.

I glanced at Jagannath’s face and found nothing to read there. Nothing. No pity, no compassion. On the other hand, there was no sense of satisfaction, the kind you get when you hear about someone getting what they deserved. If I were to lay a bet, I would say he was more interested in learning how the move worked than anything else about what we had just seen.

It was Nelson who, clearing his throat quite sotto voce, brought GK back to the task on hand. GK glanced at him for a second, then at both of us for half that time and then turned towards the camera.

‘I hope no one else will act in a similar way,’ he said, rather weakly, before adding, ‘There will be zero tolerance for violence of any kind against the government, government officers or public property. For a period of one week, we are suspending basic rights such as the right to gather, right to protest and the right to expression, where such right seeks to destabilize the government or advocate its replacement. The Home Department in every state is hereby authorized to use whatever force it deems necessary to protect the public.’

He seemed undecided for a second before continuing, ‘That’s all for now. I hope you will realize it’s better for all of you to join rather than to fight us.’

Nelson reached towards a console in front of him and pressed a button, at which all the screens went black. The lights on the microphone and the camera facing GK turned red a second later and we were offline once again.

GK leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced together at the back of his head, and closed his eyes. And for the first time, I considered that all this was taking as big a toll on him as it was feeding his ego. Getting to play God must come with its own price, I guess.

Nelson and Jagannath shared a look that was all but meaningless to me, but I assume that it did convey something significant, for Jagannath nodded once and immediately left the room. Almost by reflex, I took a step after him before stopping, wondering if I was to stay or if Nelson needed to talk to GK alone one more time. Nelson caught my eye and shook his head. I took it to mean that he wanted me to stay.

Presently, GK opened his eyes and looked at the two of us in turn. If he noticed Jagannath’s absence, he did not mention it. Then he turned towards the screens and I could imagine him reliving those images of violence. ‘I have known him since he was a little boy,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘His father is a good friend of mine – not just work, you know. Joseph’s always been a little difficult, but to be so damn foolhardy . . .’

‘Sir,’ said Nelson gently, after more than a minute had passed without further comment.

‘Hmm,’ responded the president. The monosyllable was a question and a statement by itself.

‘Everything is ready. We need to move to the Nehru Room now.’

As he stood up and turned around ponderously, Jagannath stepped back into the room.

A young woman who looked vaguely familiar followed him inside. Intrigued, I stared at her, trying to place her. As if sensing my attention, she turned towards me and gave me a brief smile that was at once impersonal and sympathetic. I was sure I had never met her before, although that did not preclude me never having seen her.

‘Sir,’ said Jagannath, ‘this is Richa Naik from Doordarshan. She will take you through your address to the nation.’

10

16th September, 2012. Washington D.C.

‘What’s happening, people?’ queried the president as he walked into the Crisis Room in the west wing of the White House. As Winston scrambled to place the one-page summary of the latest intel in front of the chair at the head of the table, the rest of the crowd half-rose from their seats in deference to their commander-in-chief, who waved them down absently. Despite the early hour and the short notice, almost every seat was taken. One did not ignore such summons from the White House, which is why one lived typically not more than a few minutes away. Only the vice-president, by virtue of the fact that he was touring Africa, would be excused his absence.

‘GK’s just a few minutes away from going public,’ said the chief-of-staff, taking his own seat only after Jackson had sat down. ‘But it doesn’t seem to be such a big secret anymore. Every single news channel over there has been reporting talk of an Emergency, with some even going so far as to advertise a debate on its constitutional validity by experts about forty minutes from now.’

‘We’ve intercepted a lot of chatter as well,’ said Craig McSmith, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, jumping in. He was already feeling the pressure, having been briefed by Winston about the video conference with GK and how the lack of accurate intel had made the US president look, well, uninformed in front of his Indian counterpart, and was eager to make amends as quickly as possible. ‘Online and offline. About thirty minutes ago, roughly around the time of your conversation with Gopi Kishan, the Internet suddenly exploded with rumours that there’s been a State of Emergency imposed in India. We haven’t been able to pinpoint a singular source, though – there’s been a slew of messages all saying the same thing, but no one knows on whose authority.’

The door opened once again as Andrea Simps, the secretary of state, walked in. She nodded to the president, dispensing with the formality of apologizing to him for being the last one in, letting him – and the others in the room – know that she walked in last because she could. They needed her skills more than she needed their acceptance, and both sides knew it. If McSmith had been Winston’s pet project, Simps had been his pet peeve; the president had maintained peace by taking both of them into his team.

Eyes followed her appreciatively, if surreptitiously, for even at fifty, there was no doubt that Simps was an attractive woman. Suave, well-educated and cultured, the widow of a Southern ore magnate who had left her both immense wealth and influence, Andrea Simps never hid the fact that she lived for the sole purpose of manipulation. Her fundraisers were legendary, as was her ability to string together the unlikeliest of co-conspirators. Pundits were already betting on her as the Democrats’ next big hope once President Jackson served out his second term, and it was in preparation for such a future that she had condescended to take on the role of the secretary of state for the final two years of the current administration.

She took the last vacant seat, a straight-backed chair almost across the length of the table from President Jackson, and pulled out a notepad from her purse. With the air of one almost contemptuous of her company, she opened the pad and flipped through the pages, letting the silence build up around her, enjoying it.

‘Anything from your psych team, Andrea?’ President Jackson asked, a little irritated at her lack of urgency. The team in question was a group of psychological experts – although Andrea herself preferred the team ‘prodigies’ – that worked out of the State Department’s office, reporting directly to Andrea with dossiers compiled on every major player in global politics.

‘As a matter of fact,’ replied Andrea with a smile, drawing out the syllables in the exaggerated manner that she had picked up from her husband, ‘they do. They’ve reviewed the video conversation between you and GK and are of the opinion that GK was reading from a script. Someone else was telling him what to say.’

Before the president could respond, Winston objected. ‘How can you say that? I was there, I saw him. He was talking naturally, not as if he was being fed his lines.’

Andrea smiled patronizingly at Winston, her affection for him no more than his towards her. ‘If that had been the case, he would have spoken more or less – and not closed the call at the point where he knew that he had raised more questions than he’d answered. He must know that we would not sit silently if their prime minister’s life is being threatened – yet, he chooses to answer it enigmatically, which opens up the possibility that we would immediately launch a diplomatic counter-offensive to isolate him and get him to toe our line. Left to himself, he would have taken pains to reassure us that Razdan is perfectly safe and happy – worst case, force us to negotiate a safe passage for the leadership.’

She tapped the cover of her notepad with her pen. ‘The second – and more important – fact is that at the end of the video, just before the screen goes black, he seems to look away from the camera, somewhere to its far left. My video team spotted it right away. A reflection in his eyes that they were able to zoom into and enlarge. We don’t know who it is yet – the facial recognition team is working on it – but there is no doubt that whoever it is, he was clearly congratulating Gopi Kishan with a thumbs-up.’

‘A puppet regime?’

‘Maybe. Depends on factors we still have no intel on. That reminds me, by the way. Craig, has your operative Jack – Llong Cox, I believe, is the poor sod’s name – resurfaced?’

All eyes turned to the director, who had a petrified look on his face. The disappearance of the operative – unimportant as he had been to the CIA’s scheme of things in India – was an issue he had hoped to discuss privately with the president, once he had assured himself that Jack had not merely put himself out of contact. Inside the Crisis Room, with more than its fair share of people who had led teams into battle and prided themselves on bringing everyone back safely, Craig felt the same sense of inadequacy that was becoming a more frequent companion to him these days.

Before he could think of something – anything – Simps issued her rejoinder. ‘After all, there is no reason why he should maintain radio silence any longer. Unless he’s been captured, or worse . . .’

There was pin-drop silence in the room as the others completed her sentence for her. An agent dropping off the grid in the midst of an official operation was not unusual, but with the interest that the media would show in the coming days, the questions that were surely going to be asked about American preparedness and handling of the India situation, a leak would be disastrous. No one knew whether Jack had a family who would make enough noise to put the spotlight on his disappearance – and that was the uncertainty that worried them.

As the president mulled over his options, Andrea Simps moved in for the kill, the look of ruthless pragmatism disguising the thrill she truly felt.

‘Mr President, I would like your permission to draft an actionable plan for the restoration of democracy in India within the shortest possible time-frame, including but not limited to the civil or military destabilization of the new regime.’

24th April, 2012. New Delhi.

The mid-afternoon crowd at the mall milled around him, forcing him to join the flow – for to have stood still would cost him the inconspicuousness he was trying to cultivate. It was an aberration in what, according to him, was a good plan – but as a soldier, he understood only too well that no plan ever survived intact its first contact with reality. Moving around was now unavoidable, but it also made it more difficult for him to spot signs of being tracked himself.

And Iqbal Qureshi, who had been scouting around for Raghav Menon and Richa Naik for the last ten minutes, was certainly aware of that possibility. He had arrived at the Fortune Mall in his official vehicle, driving himself, and parked it at the kerb, hopeful – but not really banking on it – that he would not be ticketed due to the official stickers adorning the windshield. Instead of walking through the main doors, which he was sure Raghav would be monitoring, he had made his way around the mall and discovered the loading bays.

His ID card allowed him access to the mall through these loading bays, although he was a little disconcerted by the fact that the security guard who had readily allowed him inside
had not found it strange that a senior Army general wanted to investigate the new security measures at the mall. He did not dwell too much on it, though, for it was not his concern – and in the Army, they taught you to do
your
job well. Not others’.

The ten minutes slowly ticked over to fifteen, and Qureshi realized that he would probably have to move out of cover as a shopper. The aisles of the Big Bazaar afforded him a rather restricted view – narrow and straight ahead – and since the shelves were stacked with items, it would not help him catch anybody’s reflection if, indeed, he was the one being followed.

He worried for Richa to the same extent that he had worried for the hostages during his days in Kashmir, when he had often run operations against terrorists holed up in a civilian’s house, holding the family at gun-point – reducing her to a number, pragmatically obsessive that she should not add to the kills he had been unable to prevent, yet not forgetting the true purpose of his being here.

To capture and interrogate Raghav Menon.

That was the over-arching objective, just as ensuring the terrorists’ unquestionable defeat had been back in Kashmir.

He approached the billing counters cautiously, watchful, with a cart filled with random items – keeping in with his character as a shopper, mindful of attracting attention by loitering around without picking anything – but abandoned it a few feet away and quickly walked out through the exit without a backward glance.

Once outside the supermarket, he scanned the open area around him. He found himself searching out couples – after all, he was expecting two people – but years of training intruded, and he forced his mind to consider even single males, given the possibility that Raghav might have split up from Richa so that
he
could sneak up on Qureshi instead of the other way around.

A few seconds later, he gave a small grunt of exultation. For, standing less than ten meters away, peering in through the glass walls of the supermarket –
got out just in time
, Qureshi thought – was Raghav.

16th September, 2012. New Delhi.

Unlike the rest of the Rashtrapati Bhavan, the Nehru Room was teeming with people by the time we went in. Bright klieg lights shone on a cream wall, the wall itself partly hidden behind a gleaming mahogany table and an old-fashioned chair that resembled a throne. On three different tripods spread in an arc behind the lights sat three cameras, fussed over by their respective crews. It reminded me of the unintelligible murmur of a studio just before a live show – it reminded me of a time two years ago when I was a regular guest on one channel or the other.

To our right, almost at the far end of the room, I saw a table that was covered with digital equipment, box speakers and wires, obviously the sound engineer’s station. Near this, to the right and even closer to the wall, were a bunch of technicians working at a furious pace on their computers – probably the graphics team who were putting the final touches on the background that the telecast would superimpose on the blank wall behind.

By the time all of us were inside – I was bringing up the rear – a rather harried-looking lady was introducing herself to the president. ‘I am Sharmila, head of production for today’s telecast,’ she said, the confusion about the protocol very apparent. Should she extend her hand – a woman’s prerogative – or was that for the president to do? Eventually both of them bowed a little awkwardly at each other and the moment passed. Sharmila turned quickly to the assistant behind her and barked off a few rapid commands in Hindi before turning back to us.

‘Shiva will take care of the president. In the meantime, Mr Katara, I need to go over the script with you once again. There are a couple of things I think we should re-plan.’

As GK followed the assistant across the room and to the seat set up for him, two of the klieg lights were switched off, making it seem as if the room was suddenly cooler. Nelson asked Jagannath to join him as he stepped away after Sharmila, who was already bustling off to the only corner of the room that seemed to be left untouched.

Jagannath turned to me with a smile. ‘Try not to waste your breath convincing Richa that this won’t succeed,’ he said, giving me a pat on the shoulder. Before I could respond, he joined his boss in their short journey across the big room.

There are few things as awkward, I suppose, as suddenly finding yourself alone with a stranger when you have both been part of a larger group, when that group itself was the tenuous common link. You have this feeling that you are supposed to say something to fill the silence, to maybe make the effort to get to know the other person better lest it be seen as insulting indifference; at the same time, you don’t know what to talk about, and you’d rather keep your mouth shut and appear sensible than to open it and commit a verbal faux pas.

I stole a glance at the young lady standing next to me, only to find her seemingly captivated by the chaos around her. I thought she looked quite attractive, with a small face, those thinly-framed spectacles pinching the top of the bridge of her nose, hair that reached down to her jawline and the graceful tension of a horse grazing in a pasture.

Suddenly realizing that my glance had probably turned into a stare, I averted my gaze, feeling quite self-conscious. As I looked away, I had a fleeting impression of Richa turning to look at me. I forced myself not to look back immediately – a resolution that lasted for less than four seconds before I gave in. This time, though, I thought I saw her look away quickly.

This is ridiculous, I thought. There is no need for us to look at each other furtively, like little kids battling a secret crush. Taking a deep breath, I reached out and tapped her lightly on the shoulder.