Authors: Eric Alagan
Uncle Smiley dashed off a report to his field operative code named
Shield
. He then called the Coordinating Minister for Security and requested an urgent meeting.
The Deputy Prime Minister, who is also the Coordinating Minister for Security, tapped the tips of his fingers together, contemplating the PM's decision.
“I think we should let Ulrich Sobyanin be. If we take him out, we'll get rumbles from the Kremlin. Moreover, there'll be dozens waiting to fill Sobyanin's seat.” The DPM crossed his legs and sipped his coffee. “I like that python analogy. Let Sobyanin see what befalls the cat, not knowing when he'll be next.”
“And what about the cat?” asked the PM.
“We can't put him on open trial. National security matters are at stake,” reminded the DPM.
“How about holding him at the President's leisure?” The PM sounded tired and hopeful.
“You mean invoke the Internal Security Act?” The DPM had already thought through the options,
“In this case, I'm afraid that would be ill advised. We lock him up and risk provoking the Russians. There is nothing to stop them from grabbing one of our agents, trumpeting from the rooftops and forcing a trade. You've read about the
Zakaria Incident
in the â60s. We hesitated and the CIA bundled him out. We're not going to repeat that mistake.
This
cat will not slip through.”
The PM was glad for the steadfast man seated opposite. The DPM, an ideologue without being dogmatic, had served in his father's cabinet. The DPM was serving out his last term in office but remained focussed and some say brutal.
“This cannot be a cabinet decision,” said the PM, as he absorbed the deadliness of the options presented to him.
“Of course not,” replied the DPM. “The decision will be mine as coordinating minister for security.”
“No, no,” said the PM. “I don't want any records, nothing written, not even verbal. Keep it purely electronic and once the operation is over, I want all traces of communications, even the IP addresses to disappear.”
“I'll have Uncle Smiley make the contacts.” The DPM had long ago adopted that man's moniker, it seemed so appropriate.
“So you recommend Shield as well? Would you not prefer an outsider, someone with absolutely no profile? Shield in comparison is very high profile, two years in the Moscow diplomatic circuit,” observed the PM, shuffling his notes.
“As you correctly noted, she is very high profile and her position is getting increasingly tenuous. Time to pull her out,” the DPM again tapped his fingers together. “But we'll let the Russians make that request, after she completes some housekeeping. We'll close the file on the IndoTel affair and pull her out.”
The PM had read Uncle Smiley's report, shook his head. “He is recommending that we let Shield go operational at a time of her choosing. I understand she demands flexibility but should we not also be ready with damage control if required?”
“We can have the communiqué, press release all prepared and ready to roll out.”
The PM continued, “Okay. After Shield does the job, do we bring her back to a desk job?”
“No chance,” replied the DPM. “Probably repackage her and send her to Africa.”
“Africa?” mused the PM. “Yes, I've read the first flash reports on that. But coming back to Shield, what about her domestics?”
“Parents died in a motor accident in Malaysia when she was a teenager. Lost contact with father's side of the family in India. Her mother was a war orphan, family wiped out by the Japanese in the Sook Ching massacres in â42. She grew up in a convent,” the DPM read off notes in his files, was matter-of-fact and emotionless. “Shield is a lone wolf and in the event we lose her, no one will miss her.”
“Hmmâ¦And you endorse her recommendation too, no due process, no trial, nothing, simply terminate him?” asked the PM. “She has no qualms?”
“None whatsoever. She is a patriot and a pro. You've read her deductions on The Mole and also seen Uncle Smiley's findings. Though his words are coy, we both know what Lee is suggesting. All three concur. The man is a prime suspect in two, possibly three, known deaths,” the DPM took out a green hardcover dossier from his briefcase, placed it on the coffee table and tapped it, inviting the PM to review the highpoints of the reports again, if he so wished.
“What would make a man turn traitor? He grew up in our system, did his national service,” mused the PM.
The DPM tapped the file and said, “You have seen the report on him; not only from Lee and Uncle Smiley but the latest cable sent by Shield.”
“Well, it's just as well we put a stop to that practice. But it still doesn't explain his actions,” said the PM.
“As Lee had pointed out, there is a litany of incidents and we can only guess what his mother had been feeding him before she succumbed to the bottle.” The DPM dropped the green file softly on the table and looked up.
“We're a young nation, made many mistakes in our formative years but our systems are evolving â,” the PM stopped, embarrassed. The DPM was one of the pioneers who had fought for independence and had been part of the cabinet that made those
mistakes
.
After a few moments, the PM continued, “But not all fell through the cracks. Look at Zain. He persevered and made it.”
“That's true but for every Zain who made it, there was probably another who felt bitter and betrayed. You recall that among Indians, at one time in the 80's though they made up seven per cent of the population they represented fifteen per cent of all emigrants.” The DPM, himself an ethnic Indian knew all too well the pressures he faced in trying to win and retain the minority vote throughout the â80's and â90's.
“But he didn't do too badly,” protested the PM though he knew it was people in the sandwich class, who had the intellect to recognise the glass walls, who felt the walls the keenest â not the pizza deliveryman.
The DPM closed the green file carefully and concluded, “It's all hearsay of course. But that might explain the man's bitterness and betrayal.” The DPM sighed long and continued, “If this blows out into the open, I'll take the heat and resign. I'm due to step down anyway.”
The PM contemplated the offer then he leaned over the table and clasped the older man's hand in both his hands. “The continued viability of this country depends on people such as you.”
His deputy replied, “We've put together a good team and I've no doubt they'll step up or step down when required. But I suggest we tweak the type of people we invite for our tea sessions.”
The DPM alluded to the government party's modus operandi of inviting potential political candidates to tea sessions where a panel of the older guard would assess the young potentials.
“What do you mean?” the PM raised his eyebrows, knew the DPM did not toss comments frivolously.
“Once upon a time we went searching for young people in their thirties and even in their late twenties. I supported it and worked to get the older office holders to retire graciously,” reminiscenced the septuagenarian.
“That policy has helped us rejuvenate, keep us connected to the younger generation,” reminded the PM, himself a product of such a selection process.
“Yes, but the pendulum had swung past the six o'clock position and we're a fast greying nation. If we keep bringing into parliament young people, we'll risk alienating the older voters, who would soon form the majority of the electorate. Not now but certainly ten years down the road.”
“Hmm!” The PM scratched his chin, “Perhaps we discuss this another day?”
“Fine by me. Coming back to Agent Shield â”
“Please allow me a day or two and I'll get back to you on this.” The PM's shoulders drooped under the burden of decision.
The older man waited, respecting the PM's moment of privacy. When he notice the PM ready, the DPM suggested, “Shall we go over the re organisation plans for the Desk?”
The PM nodded and his deputy continued, flipping the pages of another folder as he spoke,
“I call it
Ali Baba and his Forty Thieves
. We break the Desk into three protocols for better management: counter commercial espionage, counter military intelligence and a new arm, cyberspace security. The distinction will only be at the level of the protocol directors, each a superscale-grade officer. Under every director, three handlers, each handler with three field operatives. The field operatives work independently. This would provide maximum survivability in the event of a security breach at any level. The operatives continue to tap off the assets and infrastructure of the overt agencies.”
“Who'll be Ali Baba?” the PM fell in with the analogy.
“It should either be the Coordinating Minister for Security or a senior minister. Going forward, I would suggest a senior minister. Let the Coordinating Minister for Security,
co- ordinate
the overt agencies. Leave the Desk out â keep it independent.”
“A policeman keeping an eye on policemen â”
Chapter 30
The old man, a tube in his nose, patted his bed, his hand feeble. His cheeks sunken; forehead furrowed deep; hair platinum, niggardly and lifeless; and his skin dry and mottled. He lay raised on several pillows propped under his head and shoulders.
The younger man moved closer, sat on the tall stool next to the hospital bed.
“You look troubled,” whispered the old man. His breathing heavy, his speech tentative but his eyes darted about, as sharp as his brain.
The younger man related the day's interview, “You have often cautioned me about the difficult decisions you had to make in the early days â the arrests, the clearing of squatters, land acquisitions. But this.”
“Times and situations change but difficult decisions always remain.” The old man broke into a bout of coughs and removed the oxygen mask.
“Are you okay Pa,” the younger man placed a hand softly on his father's chest and massaged him gently.
“I'm alrightâ¦it's just the saliva â” he coughed again, a series of long wheezing coughs as he fought for air. After some time, he cleared his throat and said, “Crank up the bed please, just a little. It'll help drain the fluid in my throat, get rid of the ticklish sensation.”
The younger man sprang up quickly, found the control console tucked between the mattress and the bed frame and pressed a switch.
“Thanks Son, that's better.” The old man closed his eyes and tears streamed a craggy line down his cheek.
The young man patted the tears away with tissue, “What about the Law?”
“Laws are made by man, Son.” The old man gulped some air and continued, “You know how fallible laws are. Get the facts and go with your gut feel.”
“My conscience?” whispered the younger man, having moved close to his father's side.
“You mean god?” the old man exhaled. “It's something I've grappled with all my life. If there is a god, he has set the stage, made the rules.”
“The rules â what's best for the people?” the words barely audible.
The old man yearned to reach out, hug and comfort his son.
My Son. Why did I ever allow you to embrace this life? This is no life
. But he had to be strong for his son, remain detached. The old man cleared his throat and hardened his heart,
“Rules? It's much more than that as you know. Twenty years ago, would Guantanamo be possible? Do you remember the My Lai massacre in Vietnam? How many Captain Medina's have gone free in Iraq and Afghanistan?”
“Does the end justify the means?” the young man persisted.
“Clichés don't beget actions, Son. Leave the clichés to the clowns and crooks. These are dangerous times; no one has the answers because the questions are being written as we speak.”
“I know what needs to be done Pa, but dread the â”
The old man patted his son's face; let his fingers drop to the young man's chin. “I've told you long ago this is a thankless job with consequences that reach beyond our lives. A war is raging Son, but most people don't know of its existence because CNN has not reported it. People are numb, have to be told, politicians have to be nudged.”
The young man buried his face in his hands. “It's been less than a year since I took office and already, sometimes I despair. To take out three lives⦔
“There'll be many more lives to come. Leaders who deny issuing such orders are either liars or cowards,” the old man raked his son's hair with his gnarled fingers. “It's good that you suffer your decision. It reveals your humanity.”
The two nurses and elderly doctor sat in the anteroom. They heard soft muffled sounds as the two men continued to ruminate.
Half an hour went by and the younger man saw his father falter. The old man had closed his eyes, his breathing pronounced.
“Rest Pa. I love you,” the younger man leaned forward and kissed his father's forehead.
The old man woke with a start, felt the soft lips of his son and smiled. His son had moved silently to the door when the old man gathered enough strength to call him.
“Son,” the old man's voice a hoarse whisper.
“Yes, Pa,” the tall man turned.
“The buck has to stop with you. You're the Prime Minister.”
After one night and a day dragged past, Michael saw an elderly woman, her head a shock of cotton fluff hair, come out of house number fifteen on Danilova Pereulok. She put out the rubbish bag. However, he had not seen her son, Ruslan Kashin.
By the second day, fatigue set in and doubts clouded Michael's mind. This might be Kashin's address but it does not mean that he lives here. The elderly woman could be his mother but that does not mean he visits. Even if he visits, how often would that be â months, years? Perhaps Kashin was away, rounding up more victims in Orchard Road while he waited and froze here without sleep or rest.