Third World War (25 page)

He had chosen one to be airburst, one to detonate on impact and a burrowing one to explode several seconds after impact and filled with phosphorus which would act as a firebomb sending out toxic smoke.

What Muda did not know was the sophistication of the anti-mortar defences around the Prime Minister's residence. But he doubted they had the ability to create the defensive shield needed to withstand a three-mortar attack.

Inside his clothes, his finger slipped to the second button. The small vibration of the box confirmed that the radio signals were running at full strength. The top of the van slid open like a sun roof. For a second, the sharp crack went unnoticed. Muda pressed the button and the vibration stopped, indicating that the signals had locked on. The mortar was travelling too fast for him to check. Another crack. Then another. A cry from the tennis courts. A guard running forward. Muda broke his stroll into a half-run, looking towards the confusion among the handful of people in the car park, his eyes following everyone else's, quickening his pace with their mood. Then the withering explosion of the first mortar round finding its mark, and almost simultaneously a ball of fire rising out of the van which had launched them, killing the three men inside.

Muda let the crowd gather around him, and he stayed with it, until the first police car arrived, when he walked out of the gates, exchanging expressions of shock with the guard. Once clear, he hailed a taxi to take him south, away from the government houses, India Gate, North Block, South Block, the parliament building and the Imperial Hotel. He got the taxi to drop him off at the neighbourhood known as Defence Colony, and an hour later took another taxi to the domestic airport.

His hotel room would have been cleaned out and wiped clear of fingerprints. The phone record of the call to AOL would have been destroyed. The bill would have been paid by the imprint of the credit card of Jonathan Desai. Memed's orders had been for Muda to be on an afternoon flight to Mumbai and to lie up there for a week. Then he would receive his next instructions.*

*****

'Mortar,' yelled Mehta, throwing himself at Suri and pulling them both to the ground. Flame shot down from the roof. A searing explosion tore the ceiling, hurling down chunks of plaster like missiles. The blast threw Campbell against the wall. As he crashed to the ground, he saw an unexploded mortar embedded in the lawn outside. Behind him, there was a second explosion. The door to the hallway was flung open amid a mass of smoke and fire.

Meenakshi, in the garden, was running away from the burning house towards the unexploded bomb. 'No,' screamed Campbell, scrambling up, toxic fumes choking his throat. He threw himself through the door frame, slashing his face on jagged glass, running, arms waving, blood on his face, tripping over himself, his voice screaming out. 'No, no, get back, get back--' as the mortar exploded, smashing him down against the ground.

****

30*

****

Rawalpindi, Pakistan*

'Mehta will probably not survive,' said Brigadier Najeeb Hussain. 'Meenakshi, his daughter, was also there. All India Radio is reporting that she is dead. Suri has shrapnel in the leg and a broken arm. Uddin, the private secretary, escaped unscathed. Four of the household staff are dead. Three others in the vehicles outside, also dead. There was also an American there. We don't know what happened to him.'

General Zaid Musa, sitting furthest away from Qureshi, tilted his head in respect. 'Dead or alive, doesn't matter. It was the accuracy of the mortar which counted.'

'Dead would have been better,' said Admiral Javed Mohmand. 'Mehta is a charismatic leader. If he survives, he will remain a formidable opponent.'

Qureshi's living room was tastefully decorated in minimalist style, with a suite of sofas covered in white brushed linen and brightly coloured cushions. Here there were the ornaments and art of a man who had travelled widely, but he had displayed only a fraction of his collection, preferring to leave the room fresh and uncluttered. The two oils on the walls were of modernist Islamic art and the controversial small bronze statue on the coffee table was of a woman crashing to the ground from the World Trade Center towers in 2001. Hardline Islam might prohibit the artistic depiction of any human form, but Qureshi had acquired it at some price through a dealer in New York because he thought it so precisely summed up both his religion and his politics.

General Musa's nod to him had sealed his presidency. The attack on Mehta's residence had been Qureshi's rite of passage, just as the attack on the Indian Parliament had belonged to Najeeb Hussain.

Not that Musa, a highly decorated infantry general, had been in favour of the continuation of civilian rule. His concern had been that men of the right metal should take over. Without Musa's support the coup would have been impossible. He commanded the loyalty of the corps commanders to whom Qureshi would cede nuclear strike control in the event of conflict.

Out of the corner of his eye, in the shadows of the encroaching darkness, Qureshi spotted the Cherat Special Services Group installing anti-terror equipment in the garden. This was what life would be until the conflict was won. Farrah had been wise before the event to move to Lahore. Tasneem would have to stop berating him for letting her go. She was safer there.

'Then the man I should talk with is Suri,' said Qureshi. His face was intense as he kept an eye on the men working outside, and listened to the rhythmic hum from the generator at the back of the house. 'It is right it should be Suri,' he said out loud, but really confirming it to himself. 'A military government should negotiate only with the military element of a civilian government.'

In the short time since the three other military officers had arrived, the sun had vanished over the edge of the hills, taking with it warmth and light and leaving in its place a quickly darkening dusk and the sudden sounds of nocturnal insects.

'As a mark of respect for this second terrible act of terrorism in such a short space of time,' said Qureshi, lacing his voice with irony, 'Pakistan will fly its national flag at half-mast on all government buildings. Our ceremonial troops will not partake in the face-to-face border rituals. They will instead go to the ceremony unarmed and will salute the Indian troops on the other side. At first light tomorrow, we will withdraw our armoured columns and artillery right along the joint border with India to create a demilitarized zone on the Pakistani side stretching at least ten kilometres. Through an unspecified agency, I have commissioned a commercial satellite to photograph the withdrawal and post the images on the Internet. This is in case the Western intelligence agencies choose not to publish their own images. The only place where India might immediately respond is with artillery on the Siachen Glacier. Pakistan will not fire back, regardless of the casualties. In the absence of Vice-President Zafar, power naturally goes to the Speaker of Parliament. That process will continue. The press can report freely. We will not comment, of course. If any member of the armed forces does, he will receive a summary court martial.'

Qureshi paused and took some nuts from a bowl on the table. Hussain and Mohmand were silent. Musa, as always, jousted. 'We would, in effect, cede ten kilometres of territory to India. It would take months to rebuild our defences in new positions.'

'And it would take only hours for India to destroy them wherever they were - if it so wished,' responded Qureshi, crunching the nuts noisily between his teeth. 'The day India went nuclear was the day we won the right to defend our nation by whatever means possible. I am proposing that we make our last resort our first resort. If it works, it means we can wind down our costly conventional war efforts, and rely solely on our nuclear deterrent. If India - or any other nation - puts one foot into Pakistan, it will know what will happen.'

'My God,' said Musa. 'It is both insane and brilliant.'

'It is not insane,' said Qureshi, shaking his head. 'It has been unspoken since the nuclear tests of 1998. We could never win against India in a conventional war.' He looked around to meet the eyes of each of the other three. 'As is known only between the four of us, I have delivered five tactical nuclear warheads to General Park Ho in North Korea. He had already shipped to us the components of the Taepodong-2 long-range nuclear-capable missile. These have now been assembled and are ready to launch at any time we need them. North Korea and Pakistan have forged an inseparable alliance. Yes, we can now take on India in a city-for-city exchange. Let us hope that will deter war. But should any other nation intervene against us, it will also be in range of our nuclear weapons. That, gentlemen, is the nature and power of our deterrence. Together, we have changed the balance of power against small nations for ever. Now,' he concluded lightly with a smile, 'all we have to do is explain it to the world.'

'Who should explain it?' said Hussain. 'It is far more likely to be accepted from a civilian leader than from us.'

'Musharraf was accepted,' said Mohmand. Apart from Qureshi, Mohmand had the most complex and sophisticated mind in the room. He had risen to head the Pakistani navy by being both a skilful naval commander and a careful diplomat. 'Yet Musharraf ended up being discredited.' He smiled self-effacingly. 'So my point is, that it's impossible to tell. Certainly you, Tassudaq, would have more authority, but that would not necessarily give you credibility among the western democracies.'

'We should bring Zafar back,' said Qureshi, sprinkling nutshells on to a saucer.

'Would he come?' said Hussain.

Qureshi laughed quietly. 'Of course he would.'

'Who could resist becoming the president of the most powerful Islamic nation?' agreed Musa, sarcastically. The general stood up and clapped his hands together. 'Are we decided then? If so, it seems I am to be the busiest, so perhaps I should get going and start the ball rolling.'

Qureshi was on his feet. 'Just one other thing. Mehta, before he - well, we don't know how he is exactly - but he gave Jamie Song a hard time about China's support for Pakistan. Song gave me a hard time when I passed through Beijing. If Mehta dies, I don't think we have a problem. If he survives, we will have to hand over some men to be flown to China as a token of--' Qureshi shrugged, and it was difficult to tell how much was a show and how much was heartfelt. 'I think you all know as well as I that we have to give face to China if we are to retain the technology we need. So whatever it takes, we'll do it.'

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31*

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New York, NY, USA*

The murmuring of low, disciplined voices faded into silence as the side door of the United Nations General Assembly Hall opened near the podium. For a moment, a cluster of people gathered at the entrance, half-exposed, half-hidden, dark-suited men, security guards, assistants with speech notes and files. Their feet shifted, heads tilting to pick up whispered conversations. The 1,743 delegates and their staff from 192 nations craned to see what was going on. This was a special emergency session called after the two terrorist attacks on India. Ambassador after ambassador, summoned in alphabetical order, had spoken about the need for dialogue and international cooperation. Then, just over an hour earlier, the Secretary-General had been notified that India wanted to speak immediately. Unbeknown to most, the leaders of China, Britain, Japan and Russia were also flying into New York. At first, the request from India had been denied, until Mehta's private secretary, Ashish Uddin, had telephoned John Kozerski, who then spoke directly to the office of the UN Secretary-General. 'India very much wants to retain the authority of the United Nations,' Uddin had said. 'For security reasons, which you will understand, we could not announce the movements. Nor do we have time to linger in New York and wait our turn. So either the announcement will be at the UN, immediately, or we will give a live address to be broadcast on both CNN and BBC.'

Uddin had swiftly won the argument, and now the cluster of people in the wings of the assembly hall melted away, leaving two figures exposed in the doorway. One was in a wheelchair, with a medical dressing covering the left eye, and the right leg protruding out and wrapped in bandages. The second person walked with one hand on a cane, the other balancing on the handle of the wheelchair, pushing it from behind.

To have walked it at a normal pace would have taken only a few seconds. But for Vasant Mehta and his daughter Meenakshi the journey to the podium took two minutes and seventeen seconds. Within seconds of starting out, as the two figures made their way under the huge UN emblem of an image of the world, flanked by olive wreaths as a symbol of peace, a murmur rippled through the historic General Assembly Hall. Father and daughter, lit up by spotlights, their images thrown on to two massive screens, looked out across the expanse of people. The murmuring dropped to a silence. The television networks cut into their normal programming and transferred to the stark image. The commentators spoke sparingly because the picture told all. In the hall, clapping began, a solitary staff member in one place, picked up on the microphones, and copied, louder and louder, until applause rose like a surging wave. As Mehta and Meenakshi reached the podium, the United Nations stood up, delegates rising to their feet like a Mexican wave, peppered with wolf-whistles, cheers, the slapping of desks and the shaking of papers.