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.'
****
14*
****
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,
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.'
****
14*
****
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,
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