Free Third World War by Unknown Page A

messenger stepped in. He gave an envelope to Suri, then slipped away, closing the door.
    The two men were silent, Suri reading, Mehta studying the screen. 'We have fires in our own land,' said Suri meditatively. 'Gujarat is alight with funeral pyres.' He read on. 'Not only Gujarat. Maharashtra and Uttar Pradesh as well. Twenty-seven regions are under police curfew. Dozens are dead.'
    Mehta turned, hands on his hips. 'Is India being bloody India?'
    'Impossible to say,' shrugged Suri. 'Give me a second to read this through.'
    Mehta moved over to the window. Unusually, it was a clear, smogless day with the sun's evening shadows casting a yellow light on the sandstone of the government buildings. It created a glow that was carried across the undulating and open landscape towards India Gate, but didn't show the charred remains of the parliament building.
    Suri shook his head. 'I think it may have been,' he said.
    'May have been what?' asked Mehta, returning to his desk.
    'Orchestrated. In Gujarat at least. The first reported violence was in the coastal town of Navibandar.' Suri sat down opposite Mehta and continued to paraphrase. 'Navibandar is ten, fifteen miles down the coast from Porbandar. The attackers were Muslim, or claiming to be. They were from out of town. No one knew them. They rounded up Hindu villagers, including women and children, loaded them on to two fishing trawlers, and towed them out to sea. Those who jumped off were shot in the water. So the rest stayed on board. The boats had been booby-trapped with explosives. The attackers detonated them. The trawlers turned into fireballs and sank. The attackers ringed the area in speedboats, shooting survivors. When a police patrol boat arrived, the attackers took off and quickly outpaced them. This happened five hours ago. But word spread. A bus was intercepted between Navibandar and Madhavpur. It happened to be owned by a Muslim bus company, but mostly there were Hindus on board. The hijackers were Hindu fundamentalists. There were two local policemen among them. The Muslims were ordered off the bus, lined up by the road and shot dead.'
    'Including women and children?' asked Mehta softly.
    'Including women and children,' affirmed Suri. 'The driver, who happened to be a Muslim, was spared, so he could continue his journey.'
    'How many?'
    'Twenty-three. Nine men, ten women and four children. Right now, we're getting in more reports of killings all over India. But the key is here in the last paragraph. The attackers on the speedboat spray-painted the slogan Daulah Islamiah Nusantara on the hull of one of the fishing boats. I'll check out what that means.'
    Mehta pushed himself back into his chair and stretched his arms behind his head. 'Fly the army into every affected area,' he said. 'Flag marches at company strength down every street. Troops will stand by in all places that are vulnerable. Curfew will be imposed. If no suitable troops are in the area, helicopter them in. If they are attacked, they will shoot to kill.'
    'Yes, sir,' said Suri, picking up a telephone to forward the order. But before he got through, the light on another telephone flashed, the direct line to the head of external intelligence. Suri picked it up and spoke for only a few seconds.
    'The PIA 757 landed in Pyongyang,' he said, replacing the receiver. 'Air Vice-Marshal Qureshi was on board.'
    'Dear God,' Mehta whispered, mostly to himself.*
    *****
    Unlike previous prime ministers, Vasant Mehta had come to political life late after a career in the army and the intelligence services.
    His career would have remained behind the scenes had his wife, Geeta, not embarked on a very public affair with a Bombay film star. For two months the press loved it, and as the story ran, so did details of Mehta's remarkable professional life. Not all of it was correct, but it was enough to propel him into that rare category of being an Indian hero. In the public eye, Geeta was transformed from a sophisticated and