Authors: R. SREERAM
A pause. ‘Mr President, it has come to our attention that you have authorized the assassination of our president, Gopi Kishan Yadav. It would be pointless to deny this – not to mention a waste of time that you might not have. Suffice to say that we would appreciate it if you would withdraw your order and mind your own business – because, as you can see, we can get to you just as quickly as you can get to our president.
‘And just so that there is no misunderstanding, let me be absolutely clear on this. You are not safe. Your wife is not safe. Your kids are not safe. If you make one more move against us, we will strike you where it hurts. There are hundreds of Winston Haywoods out there. Can your Secret Service stop every single one of them?’
20
25th September, 2012. New Delhi.
‘It’s better we stay put today,’ Sir Harold remarked as he brought in a tray of breakfast for Llong. ‘GK was attacked last evening and the cops are on the streets rounding up suspects.’ Noticing the piquant expression on his guest’s face, he pulled up short. ‘What’s the matter now?’
Llong stepped away from the window that overlooked the High Commission’s exit gates. ‘Those two men we saw yesterday . . . they’re yours, aren’t they?’
Sir Harold gave an apologetic shrug. ‘An old man like me – on the streets of Delhi – can never be too careful, you know. The station chief here refused to let me out without those two tagging along.’ Pouring both of them a cup of coffee each, he continued, ‘I did what came first to my mind. A little fib to get you to fall in line. Didn’t work out too badly for you, did it?’
Llong took his cup, too mad to answer. He hadn’t missed the note of irritation in his host’s voice either, nor could he refute the truth – he was far safer inside the British property than he was out there on the streets. It brought him closer to a ticket home.
He decided to change the subject. ‘What’s our next plan, then? When am I going to get back?’
The director of the SIS sipped his coffee thoughtfully and took his time answering. ‘Llong – or Jack, if you prefer. Your story checks out – in parts. But unless I see the safe-house myself –’
‘It’s ruined,’ Llong interrupted. ‘I told you that. The bomb –’
‘I know,’ cut in Sir Harold impatiently. ‘But the property should still be there. They couldn’t have done much more in the past one week than just clear the debris. Until I see that with my own eyes, I am not going to risk my pension by shouting out
your
cock-and-bull story off
my
rooftop.’
25th September, 2012. Hyderabad.
Madness.
Qazi hung up the phone cursing under his breath. He paid the booth operator in coins, absently reassuring himself by touching the wallet he had taken from the dead emissary. He had the money to fall in with their instructions, sure enough, but to travel to Delhi – to a city that was reportedly clamped down by the authorities – was nothing short of madness. Or apathy. As if they didn’t care whether he made it or not.
He spat on the ground as he walked, ignoring the dull throb from the side of his jaw that still seemed to be suffering from the previous day’s fight. As he walked along the market in the mid-day sun, he kept stopping at random stalls and pretending to inspect the wares while actually scanning the area for anyone following him. He wondered if anyone had stumbled upon the body yet.
Death, postponed.
The walk, in a sense ironically given that the sun continued to beat down mercilessly, cooled him down. Hyderabad to Delhi by train was two days, maybe more if the protests for/against Telengana erupted again. But it would be an anonymous way for him to get to the capital and keep himself
below the radar until the time of the rendezvous with the man he had just spoken to, the same one who had pulled him out of the firing line and into the fire.
Qazi wondered if the conspiracy the emissary had hinted at would die a natural death now. He doubted it. There were so many layers that went into mounting such well-planned attacks that the absence of a player was rarely felt. The Pathan and the emissary were all, at the end of the day, as easily replaceable as the gun-fodder they sent to their deaths.
Would the Indian authorities be able to stop it? He doubted that too. Years of corruption, leakage, nepotism and lack of will had eroded the anti-terror mechanism. If he had not seen with his own eyes his group being taken out so professionally and so ruthlessly, he would have had even less faith in the system’s ability to respond. It was a well-cherished belief among his former colleagues that 26/11 had, with the vulgar showmanship that succeeded it, demoralized the forces instead of motivating them.
He didn’t have to wonder why he was being summoned to New Delhi, though. As one of the targets mentioned by the emissary – and faithfully reported to his new handler – no stone would be left unturned in the quest to defend the national capital. It stood to reason that he was dealing with a governmental, if highly-secretive and competent – as much of an oxymoron as that seemed – agency, and as such, the head office would be within a stone’s throw of the power centres. But what if he chose not to obey? What if he simply walked away? Asking him to come to Delhi, instead of latching on to him in Hyderabad itself, was symptomatic of the laziness he had come to expect from the government.
But he was curious. What was this agency anyway? He needed to know. Travelling to Delhi would not curb his options – perhaps it would be even easier to vanish in one of the biggest, most chaotic cities in India.
Changing his direction, he set off towards the railway station.
Chalo Dilli
, he thought with a smirk.
Inshallah.
The New National Times, 26th September 2012.
(Reproduced with permission from Sri Karamchand Patil’s official blog)
Life after GK.
Perhaps no ruler has symbolized the ‘fatal flaw’ more than Duryodhana, one of the more tragic characters in the
Mahabharata
. Under his rule, the kingdom flourished, his subjects were the happiest; yet, under his rule, they went to war and millions perished. His fatal flaw was the ego that prevented him from giving even five villages to the Pandavas when he was the emperor of the whole world. After his death, Hastinapura started to decline.
History has been replete with leaders whose fatal flaws have damned them for eternity. Would we have hated Hitler so much if he had left the Jews alone? Would Saddam Hussein have fallen if he had embraced the approaches of the United States of America? Would Nehru’s legacy have been better if he had only been more decisive when it came to his beloved Kashmir?
When President Gopi Kishan Yadav announced the Emergency on the sixteenth, I, like many of you, had my misgivings. Democracy may have its headaches, but it is still a far better alternative than any other. To concentrate all those powers in the hands of one man is a recipe for disaster because no one, not even the best among us, is free of at least one fatal flaw.
The attack on the president two days ago has proven once again how precariously we are perched on the wall of destiny. His Emergency was avoidably unfortunate; his demise, now that the Emergency is in effect, would be catastrophic. The nation mounted an angry tiger when the Emergency was brought in, and the nation cannot afford to dismount until the tiger – the ills that have created this situation – is quelled.
Is GK the best man for us in this situation? Over the course of our long association, there have been many times that we have agreed to disagree, and I hold all possible respect for him as a technocrat and a fellow parliamentarian. But what India needs right now is a man of vision, integrity, openness and humility, and I leave it to you to judge GK for yourself. We cannot afford to compound our troubles with a Duryodhana who will stubbornly lead us to our demise.
In our situation, there is no one who is indispensable. Indeed, in any unit bigger than a family, there is no case that can ever be made for irreplaceability. We have seen how the US reacted two days ago to the possibility that its president could pass away – automatically, the vice president was readied to take his place the instant such a calamity happened. When that is the fate of the ‘most powerful man on earth’, can our president’s be any less fleeting?
Life before GK was hard. Life under him, perhaps hindsight will be a better judge. But life after GK is what we should always prepare for. India has the leaders. India just needs the leadership.
26th September, 2012. Washington D.C.
The welcome-back committee was conspicuously missing the chief-of-staff as President Timothy Jackson was wheeled back in by his wife. The official photographer took a few snaps that would later be released through the PR department and left after a few minutes; the more inconsequential staff members and Capitol colleagues left soon after, the purpose of their visit served. His wife was among the last to leave, and she did so reluctantly.
The vice president, hiding his disappointment at a thwarted promotion well, hung around until he too was excused brusquely. As he passed through the doors, the president could not hide the contempt he’d felt ever since he had come to know his running mate personally.
A colourless, vaporous presence
– that was the phrase that always ran through his mind when he thought about his deputy. His last valuable contribution to Timothy Jackson’s presidency had been to carry, just barely, the Southern states.
He was finally left alone with the people he wanted to talk to. Andrea Simps, looking suitably sombre, had the seat across the desk; to her left sat DNI Craig McSmith with his characteristic air of incompetence and cluelessness. Devon Barres, the head of the Secret Service, sat at his customary spot near the doorway.
‘Where’s Winston?’ the president directed the question at Barres, knowing that the Service had taken his friend-and-attempted-murderer into custody immediately after the call.
‘Camp David,’ replied Barres. ‘He sticks to his story. But when we got to his home, there was no one there. His family backs him up.’
‘I’ve known him a long time,’ said the president. ‘I still can’t believe it was that easy for someone to get to me through him.’
Barres cleared his throat. ‘Mr President, you realize we still have to proceed against him for attempting to kill you. There is little else we can do.’ Pre-empting his objection, Barres added, ‘He could have always come to me, or even to you, and we could have worked out something without risking your life. Maybe you could have acted sick and that would have given us enough time to –’
‘Save it,’ said the president, waving away the explanation. ‘I’ve thought of little else these last two days. But keep a lid on it. I don’t want anyone else getting any ideas.’
He turned to the DNI. ‘Craig, have you been able to retrieve the agent who went missing? Jack?’
The shoulders drooped even more. ‘No,’ he replied in a voice that barely carried to the other side.
‘Have you mounted any operation to locate and rescue him?’
Instead of replying, McSmith merely shook his head.
‘Do you know who leaked his details to the media?’
McSmith shook his head again.
‘Then,’ said the President, his voice as cold as ice, sliding over a piece of paper on his desk, ‘I suggest you sign at the bottom of that sheet and get the hell out of here before I lose my temper.’
‘What’s this?’ the DNI asked, though he knew the answer.
‘Your resignation,’ Andrea Simps answered before the president could. She cocked an eyebrow at the stricken director. ‘Effective immediately, I’m sure.’
The DNI opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. His eyes darted between Jackson and Simps, looking for kindness, finding none. After a few seconds, the president tapped the paper impatiently. Left with no other choice, Craig McSmith complied. He signed.
And without another word, got up and left.
The president tracked his exit. ‘Devon, make sure he leaves the building immediately. Send the word out to Langley that he is officially on the shit-list. Revoke all access.’
‘Yes, sir. Mr President.’ Devon nodded and got up from his post.
Jackson waited until Devon had shut the door behind him.
‘I thought your Powerhouse never failed.’
Andrea Simps had been expecting the question. She was ready. ‘It was a trial run. They were testing for vulnerabilities and reaction patterns. But I thought we would be backing off now –’
‘Now that I’ve been threatened?’ Jackson retorted angrily. ‘Do you think I’d back down now, after everything that’s happened? Those bastards have just made it personal.’
27th September, 2012. New Delhi.
‘The papers say the US was behind the attempt.’
‘I saw those reports too. We’re tracing their sources, but to be honest, I’m sure it leads back to Powerhouse. They’re the only ones bold enough to attempt something like this.’
‘But they failed,’ GK pointed out. ‘And Powerhouse never fails.’
‘Jagannath feels that it could have been a trial run. Testing our defences . . .’
‘In other words, until you find the assassins, I’m going to have to watch my back?’
‘You have us and the NSG to watch your back, sir. We’ll keep you safe.’
‘That would have been more reassuring if I weren’t heading to the final rites of the men who died protecting me, Nelson.’ The president watched the world pass by in a blur as his motorcade drove towards Shahid Ghat. ‘Can you take out Powerhouse? Will that make a difference?’
Nelson could easily imagine Jagannath shaking his head even before GK had finished. And unfortunately, he had to agree with his lieutenant’s assessment. ‘I doubt that. Irrespective of what happens to Powerhouse, the order to assassinate you might still stand. We can’t take that chance. We have to find the assassins, take them down and then take out Powerhouse before they can hire anyone else.’
28th September, 2012. Chennai.
The phone rang just as I was sitting down for breakfast. As soon as I heard his voice, I had a déjà vu moment – from twelve days ago, to be exact.
‘Hi Selvam. Raghav here. How are you?’
‘Depends on why you’re asking. If it’s just a courtesy call, I guess I’m good,’ I said cautiously.
‘What? No how-are-yous or where-were-yous? Come on!’
I smiled despite my misgivings. ‘Ok, I’ll bite. Where have you been?’
‘Can’t tell you. But how about you join me for breakfast?’
‘I was just about to have mine.’
‘Pack it,’ he said, ‘And while you’re at it, pack a set of clothes. We’re flying back to Delhi this afternoon.’
28th September, 2012. INSAF HQ.
‘Raghav’s back in the country.’
‘Was he tagged on the way?’
‘I doubt it. If he had, they wouldn’t have let him get away – not after poisoning their president. He must have made a clean exit.’