Third World War Read Free Page A

of them playing together as children - until Partition had separated them. The Muslim Khans stayed in Pakistan; the Hindu Mehtas went to India.
    'I am offering my condolences to the whole nation, to the families of the victims, to you Vasantji, to Meenakshi and to your family.'
    'Thank you,' said Mehta softly. 'Where are you?' he asked, guessing that Pakistan's intelligence agencies would be listening in to their president's call.
    'We've just arrived in Malaysia. Should I return?'
    'No,' said Mehta firmly. 'No. The less we respond, the less they win. This is character-building time for India and the whole of South Asia.' There was no more to say, unless Khan offered something. Mehta let a silence hang between them, although his temptation was to let fly his anger, to let his friend know the true wrath of the people he governed.
    'We were in no way responsible,' Khan said, his voice faltering as if Mehta had made the direct accusation.
    'Is that your word, Asif?' Mehta challenged. 'Or is it the word of your armed forces and intelligence agencies?' He knew Khan would never have ordered the attack, but the nation, its institutions, its agencies, its ideology had created the men who would carry it out. For generations, Pakistan had been a breeding ground for terror.
    'Before I called you, I spoke to Islamabad. A full and transparent investigation has begun. On that you have my word.'
    Mehta looked across at the television screen. The cameras were switching location. They were on the US President, Jim West, walking across the White House lawn from Marine One, the presidential helicopter. A reporter shouted a question about the attack and West, waving a hand, refused to comment. The screen then went live to the Indian home minister visiting the clear-up operation around the parliament building in Delhi.
    'If you're serious - after Malaysia - come to Delhi,' said Mehta, upping the stakes. 'Meet me here. Announce it now. Visit the disaster. Pledge to punish. Make it real. Come here before you return to Islamabad.'
    For a few seconds the line stayed quiet again, the Pakistani President genuine in intent but politically wrong-footed. The press releases ready to go from the propaganda machine in Islamabad second-guessed by the insistence of a peace summit in the victim country to get things sorted before the vultures overshadowed everything with talk of war.
    'Yes. Yes,' said Khan with a sudden weariness in his voice. 'We must meet. I will be in contact with you shortly.' Mehta thought he was ending the call, but Khan continued. 'Vasant, you are my friend. For God's sake trust me. The consequences of not doing so are too serious.'
    Before Mehta had replaced the receiver, Deepak Suri walked straight in without knocking. 'Vasantji, with all due respect, what on earth are you playing at? If Khan comes to Delhi, if he visits the parliament site, he'll be lynched. With the best will in the world, we cannot guarantee his safety.'
    'He won't come,' said Mehta, distracted by the row of newspapers on his desk. Page after page of pictures of the carnage.
    Some chose the intensity of the destruction, showing the inferno across a whole page. Others opted for the sequence of pictures leading to the attack. The tiny speck approaching the building, becoming recognizable as a single-engined plane, to a close-up of the pilot, determined, eyes fixed on his destiny, then the plane plummeting as a missile of high explosives through the roof. It was a chilling symbol of a lone and deadly mission. From inside came the carnage. Nothing was spared. Rows of bodies, draped in shared sheets, seeped with blood. Shocked survivors, dazed, wounded and without help. The mutilated symbols of India. Incongruously, the propeller of the aircraft had survived, twisted but intact. The photographer had framed it hanging from dislodged electrical wires in the Central Hall in front of a portrait of Mahatma Gandhi, the founding father of India, torn and splattered with