Third World War (11 page)

'Stupid little shit,' sneered Burrows, and shot Daud cleanly in the knee.

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13*

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Delhi, India*

Until now, Vasant Mehta had refrained from making the call. But earlier in the day, as he was driven past the ruin of the parliament building, his mind filling with fresh memories of the attack, he realized that if he didn't, peace would be impossible to achieve. The man in his sights was President Song Ligong of China, better known outside his country as Jamie Song. Song had called on the day of the attack, but Mehta had refused to speak to him.

They had only met twice. Vasant Mehta had spent a day and a half in Beijing during a visit to East Asia, and more recently he had attended the closing ceremony of the Asian Pacific Economic Conference meeting in Singapore. They had formed a working relationship. Trade was increasing, but politically they were far from close. India and China saw themselves as natural rivals. One was a democracy, the other an autocracy. Their border was disputed. Each was expanding its blue-water navy to deploy into the other's waters. Each was creating an arsenal of missiles for the day they might have to face each other down.

All that, however, Mehta put down to the natural progression of nationhood. What he found unpalatable was China's unflinching support for Pakistan. Without China, Pakistan would not have nuclear weapons. Nor would it have the missiles with which to deliver them. Without Chinese weapons, Pakistan could not have supported the insurgency that had raged in Kashmir for twenty years, killing thousands and casting the spectre of war throughout the whole of Asia.

There was no personal chemistry between the two leaders either. Song came from a world of academia and business. Mehta was a military man who had won office by the accident of his wife's infidelity. He had spent too much time digesting intelligence reports on Chinese weapons sales to Pakistan, its violation of the NPT and the MTCR - the treaties to stop the proliferation of nuclear technology and missiles - and its blatant lying to the international community. Over the years, Mehta's resentment had built up, questioning what sort of successes India and Pakistan would have had in their attempts at peace had China not interfered.

The line clicked. 'The Chinese wish to know if this is an official or unofficial call, Prime Minister,' said Uddin.

'What's the difference?' asked Mehta impatiently.

'If it is unofficial, you can speak in English without interpreters.'

Mehta's fierce eyes looked straight ahead, angry at the world, but in his empty office finding no place to look that would satisfy them.

'In English,' he said softly, and he overheard Uddin paraphrase his request to Beijing. 'The Prime Minister wishes to have only a friendly chat with the President.'

Seconds later, Song was on the line. 'I am so, so sorry, Vasant,' he began. 'I tried to get you, but you must have been overwhelmed. If there is anything, absolutely anything--'

'There is,' Mehta interrupted. He was both abrupt and accusatory, perhaps more than he meant to be.

Song took it in good grace. 'Name it.'

Mehta drew breath. 'I want you to cut all arms supplies to Pakistan. I want your missile and nuclear scientists out of there. I want you to impose a complete arms, aid and trade embargo on that nation, and I want access to your intelligence files--'

'Prime Minister, Prime Minister,' Song broke in. 'Do you have evidence that this was the work of the Pakistani government?'

'I haven't finished,' said Mehta. 'What I outlined just now is what you owe this country after supporting those bastards for forty years. We warned you. We kept warning you, and you kept playing with fire. What I just listed, I want you to begin implementing now, as soon as this phone call is finished.'

'Go on, then,' said Song disbelievingly.

'If we find a direct link between the attack here and any element of the Pakistani military or intelligence services, you will give unequivocal support for us to go to war and destroy the institutions of that nation.'

Mehta paused to let his words sink in so there could be no misunderstanding. He had delivered his ultimatum. He had probably been too harsh, too much drawn back to the battlefield, addressing a corporal rather than the president of the most populous country on earth. He would allow Jamie Song a reply, even a defence if he wanted it. But, as he had spoken unprepared, unbriefed by his advisers, Mehta knew he could not negotiate on his conditions. Either China joined the world of civilized nations or he would expose it as a pariah.

'You are a brave man, Vasant Mehta,' said Song after a decent interval. 'The world has seen your courage. I have the picture on my desk, you with your daughter. It will be with me for ever as the image of how a man should lead and defend a nation.'

Mehta listened, glancing down at the newspapers as Song knew he would. Song was speaking in short, staccato phrases. Mehta could almost feel his brain working on how to find a diplomatic sidestep to the directness of Mehta's demands.

'You and I,' Song continued, drawing in common ground, 'we have come to office with the baggage of history. What has happened in Delhi is a tragedy. But it is one your nation is strong enough to bear. Pakistan is a pack of cards, Vasant, and you know it. It has no strength, only poison. Would I like China to cut its links with Pakistan? Yes, of course I would. But it is not something I can do overnight--'

'Stop,' Mehta broke in. 'I didn't call you for platitudes. If you want to break with Pakistan, do it now. There is no better time.'

'It cannot be done that quickly,' responded Song, his voice more firm. 'You must have talked to Khan about this.'

'Khan was not responsible. That is why he is dead.' Mehta slammed his hand down on the desk, loud enough for Song to hear. 'You know that as well as I do. Because he did not control the military. The men who have the supremacy of violence in Pakistan are given that power by your government. So, as I said, I want your technicians and scientists on a plane out of there within a week.'

'Prime Minister, I understand your anger. I sympathize with your grief. But I cannot allow you to threaten China.'

'Jamie,' said Mehta tersely. 'It is not a threat. It is a demand on your moral duty.' He dropped the receiver into its cradle. Had he gone too far? Vasant Mehta, India's accidental prime minister, didn't care. He picked up the phone again. 'Ashish,' he said unenthusiastically. 'I need to speak to Andrei Kozlov.'*

*****

He heard the flare of Kozlov's lighter as the Russian president took up the telephone, and his drawing on the tobacco. 'How's the warrior?' Kozlov asked sympathetically.

'Just one question,' said Mehta, dismissing the attempt at small talk. 'If it comes to war with Pakistan, Andrei, will you be with us?'

'We do not want war, Vasant, as you know,' said Kozlov. 'But if you have the evidence, you will have our political support. Our arms contracts remain regardless. They are indestructible.'

'Even if Jim West wants you to stop them?'

'Particularly if Jim West wants me to stop them,' answered Kozlov, his voice hardening. 'This is not the era of Vladimir Putin.'

'What about China?'

It must have been thirty seconds before Kozlov spoke again. 'China is complicated,' he said. 'We have a new alliance with China, Vasant. If you need muscle with China, I will try. But don't pick a fight with Jamie Song. Not now.'

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14*

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Pyongyang, North Korea*

'You have lost Brunei,' said Park Ho. He had walked, uninvited, into Ahmed Memed's suite at the government guest-house in the northern suburbs of Pyonyang. The Muslim cleric and his bodyguard, Hassan Muda, were at prayers, facing west towards Mecca using mats they had brought with them on the plane.

On Qureshi's insistence before he left, Memed had been given better quarters. But still they were far from luxurious. The room was large and narrow with high ceilings and a glass chandelier in the middle. The armchairs were covered in faded pink cloth and the other furniture was of heavy, dark wood: a low coffee table, three upright chairs, a writing desk and two cupboards, one with a stuffed pheasant decorating a shelf, with books by Kim Il-sung and his son Kim Jong-il lining the shelf underneath. The walls were a dirty white, the paint grubby and faded, and on them were photographs of Kim Il-sung, some from when he was a young man just after the Korean War.

Memed looked up patiently, and shifted his position while studying the impatience on Park Ho's face. 'Please, a few minutes,' he said gently.

'You have lost Brunei,' Park repeated. He walked to the window, impatiently tapping his fingers on the glass. 'You told me you had fighters with courage. You lied to me.'

Memed did not respond. Park lit a cigarette and opened the window. 'Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria - nothing. You told me there would be rebellion throughout the Islamic world. You lied to me.'

Memed ignored him. Park stepped over to Hassan Muda and kicked him in the face as he was kneeling.

Trembling with anger, Memed pushed himself to his feet. 'What are you trying to achieve, General?' He brushed down his gown and walked as calmly as he could manage to a window, across the room from Park. 'If you do that again, you will have lost everything, because you will have lost my cooperation.'

Park drew on his cigarette. In the silence that followed Memed's threat, Park silently studied the portraits of his predecessors.

'General,' said Memed gently. 'You will gain nothing by using sadism against Hassan Muda. You have seized upon him in a fit of anger. You do not respect me because you do not understand me, and you are a man who is afraid of what he does not have the courage to discover.'

'Don't preach to me,' said Park, walking to another corner of the room, his eyes concentrating on the cold and grimy view through the window.

'We are following our religion,' continued Memed, patiently, softly, trying to bring Park round. 'You do not have a religion. You have no god. You do not understand. Wherever people feel suppressed, they will turn to us. We have a vision that uplifts the hearts of men. It will spread, because Islam is a truth. You do not win or lose truths. They simply exist.'

'Brunei is lost,' said Park, turning back inside the room. 'That is a truth.'

'You cannot expect to gain such a large territory as Daulah Islamiah Nusantara without losing and regaining territory. We have not won Singapore. Penang, we never expected to win. But we have Kuching, Kota Kinabalu, Zamboanga, Jolu, Sulu. When we win, it is because the people believe us. It will not be through the barrel of a gun.' Memed finished the sentence with his eyes on Park. Then he knelt down and dipped a clean cloth in a bowl of fresh water that he kept underneath the radiator.

'Here,' he whispered to Muda. 'Take this. It will stop the bleeding.' Memed opened out the cloth and let Muda tilt his head back into his hand, while he lay the cloth over his face. His nose was bleeding and the kick had cut him under the right eye.

He got up and walked up to Park. There was a shiftiness across the general's face, an uneasiness about being looked straight in the eye. The two men were close and hostile, one in a laundered, khaki uniform, the other in a white, floor-length robe.

Park flinched as Memed put his hand on his shoulder. 'You follow the juche philosophy of your nation's founder Kim Il-sung,' Memed said slowly. 'Juche is based on the principle that man is the master of everything and man decides everything. I follow the religion of Islam, which believes that God is the master of everything and God decides everything.

'I see in your face a force more immediate, more human. Perhaps you follow your path because of an experience in your early life. That is what most godless people do.'

'Enough,' said Park, dropping his cigarette on the floor. He trod on the butt inches away from Memed's sandals and stepped back. 'With Qureshi, we talked of the need for another catalyst. With Brunei gone, do you still believe it will work?'

'The British newspapers are criticizing Stuart Nolan's action. International opinion is against him. They have published photographs of British special forces men attacking Muslim Bruneian soldiers. They ask why Western thugs are let loose in the developing world. Nolan will now try to take back Sabah and Sarawak. But each day, public opposition will grow. This is not just a battle for territory, but for the will of the new world we are trying to create. The West believes that if it can regain South-East Asia, the danger of unrest in Saudi Arabia, Jordan and Egypt will subside. I believe that the longer we fight, the wider the revolution will spread.'

Memed looked Park straight in the eye. His expression was soft, but determined. 'So yes, General, it will work. We will continue, and Muda will leave tonight, if you permit him.'