Third World War Read Free Page B

fragments of war.
    The pilot had not chosen his target at random. He would have known the layout of the building and would probably have sat in the public gallery to familiarize himself with the target. The Central Hall was decorated with twelve gilded emblems representing the original twelve provinces of India before independence. It was here that the transfer of power had taken place on 15 August 1947 - and it was here that parliamentarians had been gathering to hear Prime Minister Vasant Mehta deliver his address to a joint sitting of both houses. That was why the death toll had reached 476.
    On the first-floor balustraded balcony, some of which had come through with barely a scratch, the attackers had daubed the name Laskar-e-Jannat. They had even translated it into English - Army of Paradise. One photograph showed pamphlets caught in a breeze and swirling about like leaves. Next to it was a close-up of one pamphlet. 'Why Are We Waging Jihad?' it asked. And the answer: 'To Restore Islamic Rule Over All Parts of India.'
    Yet there was one picture that all newspapers ran prominently on their front pages. It was the one that would rally India through its darkest moments: it showed Mehta changing a magazine in the Uzi and shouting a command while his daughter, Meenakshi, stripped to her bra, applied a tourniquet to the wounded attacker. Both of them were framed between two bullet-chipped sandstone pillars of the parliament building. 'Attacked. Defending. Caring' ran one caption. 'The image of our great nation.'
    'Has he talked yet?' asked Mehta, referring to the attacker whose life Meenakshi had saved.
    'Not yet, Prime Minister.'
    'Documents? Fingerprints?'
    Suri put his hands on the desk and looked his friend straight in the eye. 'Fingerprints are being checked by Interpol, Europol and the FBI right now. We have identification of two of the dead, and if we want to trace them to Pakistan, we can. Who ordered them precisely to do what they did, we don't know yet.'
    Mehta stood up. 'I need a strike plan by missiles and aircraft on the Pakistani missile bunkers at Sarghoda, Rawalpindi, Lahore, Karachi and Multan. One strike only. Whatever it takes. Prime the Agni for launch, both from silos, and deploy two on the rail launchers. Close the lines if necessary. And on your way out ask Ashish to get me Andrei Kozlov in Moscow.'
    Suri left, but the phone rang again too quickly for it to be Moscow. Ashish Uddin had been working in the Prime Minister's South Block office since the attack. Never once had his diffident, but efficient, method of handling Mehta wavered, except now, when he began in a jumble of words, hesitant and apologetic. 'I didn't want to disturb you with this, Prime Minister, and I've already said no many times, and I understand it is the last thing--'
    'To the point, Ashish. To the bloody point,' said Mehta, reaching over and pouring himself a glass of water from a jug which had been on his desk far too long. He was about to drink it when Uddin answered. 'It's your wife. She's insisting on speaking to you.'
    His hand paused as he brought the glass to the surface of the desk. They used to leave love notes for each other in the kitchen as they led busy and young lives. He couldn't remember who stopped first, or why, or whether the ending of the notes was the first step towards the end of the marriage. Oh Geeta - dear, wild, Geeta, who had given him two wonderful daughters and more misery and love than a man could ever need. Mehta leant back in his chair and gazed at the high ceiling, empty of colour and in need of a coat of paint. He shook his head. 'No, Ashish. Tell her I will call her later today,' he said. 'And has Suri asked you to get me Moscow?'
    'On the line, sir. But Mrs Mehta insisted I pass on to you that she thinks you are wonderful.'
    'Only because she saw my picture in the paper,' muttered Mehta to himself, as the twitter of a broadband satellite line came through the telephone, followed by the calm and