Open Arms Page 3

  8 June 2019

  Air conditioning was an essential of life for Deepak Parrikar. Without it, office and home were intolerable. For his father it was an uncomfortable, alien distraction. His small office, downtown in the bazaar area around the old fort, relied on a noisy overhead fan. Bits of paper flapped under their weights as the fan revolved – that is, when it worked, downtown Mumbai being subject to ‘brownouts’ from time to time, the symptom of India’s creaking infrastructure. And the noise of the fan was competing with the cacophony outside: the rattling, squeaking, banging and scraping of vehicles being loaded and unloaded; the constant hooting of horns by moped, motorcycle and car drivers and, in a deeper register, from the boats plying the harbour; the barking of dogs; the cawing of crows; the plaintive whining of the beggars; and the shouting of street hawkers and hustlers. The senses were further assaulted by a heady cocktail of smells: richly scented garlands on the wall, diesel fumes, rotting food in the street, cooking oil, human waste, spices.

  None of this could be heard or smelt in Parrikar House but this was where Parrikar Senior preferred to work. It wasn’t sentiment that kept him there. It was here, and in the chai shop on the corner, that his network of informers and confidants, business contacts and friendly officials could slip in and out quietly, like a colony of ants ferrying gossip, rumours and inside knowledge back to the nest. The stock exchange, the bullion market and the municipal offices were all nearby. Here he could keep up with, or ahead of, the markets in which he operated.

  This morning, one of Parrikar Senior’s oldest associates was in his office: Mukund Das, flustered and sweating profusely in a safari suit that was at least one size too small.

  ‘We have a problem, Parrikar Sahib. Our Mr Patel has gone missing. He didn’t come home yesterday evening.’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  ‘More serious, Sahib. A few days ago he had a visit from a couple of goondas. I recognised them: shooters; the Sheikh’s men. People we don’t mess with. Trouble. I asked what they had come about. Patel said: “Nothing. The usual shit. I told them to fuck themselves.” He didn’t want to say more. But I knew the reason: these goondas want protection to cover potential “accidents” on the site. We normally pay. No problem. But not Patel. He has high principles. Then, next day, he said he had had late night calls. Some goondas threatening him. He was frightened, very shaken. He planned to come and talk to you. Now he has gone. Mrs Patel telephoned to say he did not come home last night.’

  The mystery did not last long. Parrikar Senior’s PA brought in the morning newspapers. On the front page of Bharat Bombay was a picture of a body. Unmistakably Mr Patel.

  ‘Exclusive’ is a valid claim for Mayfair’s Elizabethan Hotel. It is tucked away down a quiet, cobbled mews and never advertises, relying instead on a reputation for tasteful luxury and absolute discretion of the kind demanded by those among the world’s super-rich and powerful who prefer to stay out of the limelight. These qualities were especially valued by the Chairman of Global Analysis and Research when he needed to convene a meeting of his directors.

  He was sprawled across a soft leather armchair in a private room in the bowels of the hotel sipping occasionally at the large tumbler of neat whisky beside him and giving his captive audience of three the benefits of his geopolitical world view. The lecture was delivered in the slowest of Cajun drawls and he could have been chewing the cud on the verandah of his eighteenth-century French mansion overlooking the swamp-lands of Louisiana. But his associates were careful not to let their attention wander too far. The Chairman’s brain moved a lot quicker than his speech. And there were crocodiles in his swamp.

  ‘Good news, colleagues. History is on our side. Good friends of our company are now in charge in the US and Russia. Islamic terrorists are in retreat. More and more customers are queuing up for our anti-missile technology and we are now the dominant supplier in parts of that market. Our external shareholders are delighted with the thirty per cent return we are giving them. And I hope you are all pleased with the size of your Cayman accounts. Let us drink to the future of Global.’ There was a growl of approval and glasses clinked.

  ‘Now, let us get down to business. Reports on our next project, please. Admiral?’

  ‘I am lining up the British company we have researched. No problems. My contacts in government will play ball.’

  The Chairman paused, sensing overconfidence and seeing that the Admiral was rather flushed. He had brought class and an impressive contacts list to the company. But he was too fond of rum.

  ‘Are you sure? I need to be sure.’

  After an awkward silence, the burly, crew-cut Orlov spoke up for his old friend. ‘The Admiral always delivers. Ever since we worked together in St Petersburg twenty-five years ago he has been as good as his word. And he is the only Britisher I have met who can drink Russians under the table.’ His belly-laugh proved infectious.

  The Chairman swallowed his doubts. Orlov was a thug. But a reliable thug. And a man with almost unprecedented access to his old KGB chum in the Kremlin.

  One member of the group remained silent and unsmiling. Dr Sanjivi Desai was slowly making his way through his favourite tipple: apple juice. He was a small man with a neat moustache, greying hair, a look of great intensity and a beautifully tailored suit of Indian design. His English was impeccable with slight Indian cadences and traces of an American accent. ‘There are uniquely promising opportunities in India. A competent government aligned with our values. Badly in need of what we have to offer.’

  The Chairman had known Desai for a long time and trusted his judgement. ‘Good. Let us know how you get on.

  ‘Now, I have some news of my own. On medical advice I have decided to appoint a deputy Chair. Another American. Colonel Schwarz is recently retired from the Pentagon. Their top man on anti-missile defence. Close to the Trump people. A find. None of us are indispensable, including me.’

  CHAPTER 3

  THE GUARD

  Twitter, 8 June 2019:

  President Trump’s tweet after the regular six-monthly meeting between the Presidents of the US and the Russian Federation:

  ‘Good meeting with #Putin. Sorted #Europe and #MiddleEast. Biggest nuclear war risk India and Pakistan. nice people. #SAD!’

  The dead of night was very dead. For the night watchman, sitting in a cubicle outside the front entrance of the factory, the challenge was to stay awake and carry out the few tasks he was paid the minimum wage to perform. In the months since Mehmet had been given the night shift outside the Pulsar factory he had seen a variety of urban foxes and stray dogs, two tramps, an illegal fly tipper and several couples doing what couples do in the back of cars when they think they are alone in a quiet corner of a sleeping industrial estate away from the neon lights. Silence was broken only by the distant hum of the M1.

  It was a job nonetheless. Not quite the intellectual stimulus of his earlier job as professor of mathematics at the Eritrean Institute of Technology. But he was grateful to have been allowed to stay and work in the UK after he had escaped the mindless carnage on the battlefields separating Ethiopia and his native Eritrea and, then, as a disabled war veteran, and known dissident, had abandoned a harsh and insecure life under the dictatorship. As he surveyed the nocturnal tranquillity of the estate he endlessly replayed in his mind the events that had led him to this life of safety and excruciating boredom.

  After being conscripted into the army and surviving a pointless war that left a hundred thousand dead on both sides, there followed a long trek, familiar to asylum seekers from the Horn of Africa, through Sudan and Egypt, the journey on a leaking, dangerously overcrowded boat across the Mediterranean followed by the trek to Calais, a month’s agonising wait in the Jungle and, after numerous attempts, entering the UK clinging to the chassis of a lorry. He had then been accepted as a refugee seeking asylum. Tedium and poor wages were now a small price to pay for freedom. Eventually he would get his Indefinite Leave to Remain and he had sketched out a long term
route map, requalifying through the Open University, teaching and being reunited with his family.

  Little was asked of him at work beyond monitoring CCTV footage of the perimeter, protected by a formidable fence with razor wire. He was also to check that the premises were empty before switching off the main lights and locking the entrance at 10pm. Occasionally research staff stayed late and he was to ensure that they were signed out and accounted for. The purpose of the factory was never explained to him – the supervisor had simply said Pulsar did ‘hush-hush’ things, something to do with the military. There was a secure area from which he was barred – only accessible by lift to a small number of pass holders. In an emergency he had access to a panic button; back-up security staff would arrive within five minutes. In his six months, alternating shifts with a Nigerian, it had not been needed.

  At 2am that night he needed the toilet, which was beside the reception area. As he left the building he spotted a faint light under one of the doors to the main building: torchlight perhaps? He unlocked and opened the door. There was a brief, faint scuffling sound and then silence and darkness. Mehmet looked carefully in all the rooms accessible from the door. But nothing. He rechecked the ledger. No one officially in the building. He kept a careful eye on the building until morning – but no one appeared. He signed off in the morning: ‘Investigated possible intruder but no one found. Decided not to raise alarm.’ He looked back through the log book and saw that Osogo, the Nigerian, had made a similar note a few weeks earlier. He asked to speak to the head of security, who laughed it off: ‘Ghosts! You Africans have a very vivid imagination.’ Mehmet resented the security chief’s patronising manner and the rather phoney bonhomie he had displayed since their first meeting at the job interview. But he was not going to compromise his job or his immigration status by picking a quarrel. So he smiled deferentially, agreeing that Africans were indeed people with small brains and childlike fears.

  While Mehmet left after his night duty and his encounter with ghosts, the CEO, Calum Mackie, was already in his office, preparing for an early morning call, looking over the papers from his safe first, and checking the relevant emails.

  Mackie was a technological genius whose world-beating research in ultra-high frequency radio waves had found both commercially profitable and militarily useful applications. He had taken over Smith & Smith, the once great manufacturer of military equipment, when it ran aground. Renamed Pulsar, it retained a highly skilled workforce, some valuable patents and an excellent network of export outlets and overseas investments dating from the days of Empire. Calum rebuilt the business, strengthened by his inventions, and over the last ten years massively expanded exports to NATO countries and others for which he could get export licences. Like other successful British technology companies, his had struggled to raise capital to expand and he had been tempted to sell out to US competitors who were only too keen to get their hands on his technology. Indeed, the MOD was very anxious that the latest smart adaptations to his aircraft-borne missiles did not fall into the wrong hands. Fortunately for their peace of mind, and his, he had secured some American private equity investors who were willing to commit substantial sums, long term, without interfering, on expectation of exceptionally good returns, which he had, so far, delivered.

  On the other end of the phone was his well-established link to government: Rear Admiral Jeremy Robertson-Smith, a military hero, UK plc’s arms salesman extraordinaire and now a freelance consultant operating on the blurred boundaries of business and state. A legend promoting UK defence sales (much of it made by his former employer), his fingerprints were all over a decade of successful defence deals, and many British companies, including Pulsar, were in his debt (as he was not slow to remind them).

  His soubriquet, the Red Admiral, appeared to have originated during a secondment by the MOD, via NATO, to help the Yeltsin government sort out the chaos in the former Soviet navy whose formidable military assets, some of them highly dangerous, were rusting in port or being stolen. The Red Admiral ensured that the equipment was put out of harm’s way and managed, in two years of operating out of St Petersburg, to negotiate some lucrative deals including one that saw India, through a brilliant official called Desai, who was familiar with Soviet kit, acquiring a state of the art aircraft carrier and other vessels on the cheap. The Russians ensured that the Red Admiral was well rewarded, a fact not reported to HMRC or the MOD.

  ‘Things are now moving fast,’ said the Red Admiral. ‘My friends in government have already sounded you out on a possible collaboration with India. I have been asked to brief you on the big picture. We both know some of the key players. The deal is this: the UK is still trying to prise the Indians away from Dassault, their chosen bidder for a new fighter. We are offering the Eurofighter. I don’t need to tell you that there are thousands of jobs in the UK supply chain if we can swing it. What the Indians really want is your little toy, the MRP3, strapped onto the wings.’

  ‘Why the MRP3?’ Mackie asked. ‘There are other airborne missile systems.’

  ‘They know that. The reason you are the key is this technology you have developed for using high frequency electromagnetic waves for simulating the after-effects of a nuclear blast, when all electronic systems are disabled within a radius of several miles. They believe that if the pulsar mechanism can be incorporated into the MRP3 it can be used to disable missiles in flight. You see where I am going?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘The Indian military establishment has nightmares worrying about extremists getting their hands on Pakistani nuclear weapons and firing them off at Indian cities. India has a powerful second strike capability, which is an effective deterrent to rational military men and politicians in Islamabad. But a deterrent can’t work with people who belong to a death cult. India is desperate for an anti-missile shield of the kind the US has, and Israel. They have done a lot of work already and have good lines into Washington and Tel Aviv. They have been trying for almost a decade to develop an anti-missile defence system to cover, at least, Delhi and Mumbai. They have tested an interceptor missile – the Prithic – several times and it works for high altitude ballistic missiles. But critics think it will take another decade, perhaps longer, to develop a half-effective system with all the paraphernalia of ground radar, telecommunications and data links. Meanwhile, the Pakistanis are acquiring M-11 missiles from China and the technology to help fool anti-missile defences. The Indian government is getting anxious. They are already talking to the Israelis about purchasing their successful David’s Sling system and the present lot don’t have hangups about dealing with Israel.

  ‘Britain isn’t big in this whole area of anti-missile defence. But we have you. And you in turn have your Indian partners, Parrikar Avionics, which makes the issue of getting access so much easier. And preliminary discussions between our military attachés in Delhi and the Indians suggest that they are very – repeat very – interested.

  ‘Their boffins think your technology could help them cut corners. Very smart people. But they need our help. The Americans are keen that we should offer it. Trump’s people see the Indians as “good guys” taking on militant Islam and the Chinese too. The PM is keen as well. The post-Brexit export drive. And as a sweetener the Indians are dropping hints that if we give them access to the technology they want, they will also take off our hands the second of those bloody aircraft carriers that Gordon Brown ordered and we can’t find any use for.’

  Calum was used to the Red Admiral’s style: orders from the bridge; debate not encouraged. But he had to intervene. ‘Look, this is way beyond my pay grade. I’m just a wee techie. You’re getting carried away, man. There is a vast amount of work to be done, testing, refining, software development.’

  ‘Well, you can divvy up the work with your Indian opposite numbers. I believe they are very smart.’

  ‘Well, may be, may be. Don’t forget I have a company to run and investors who won’t want me straying outwith our core business activities. They don’t
know much about India – believe it involves a lot of dirty politics. Religious headbangers. Backhanders flying everywhere. They have been trying to encourage me to sell off our investment in Parrikar Avionics. And, to be frank, I am tempted. So far it hasn’t made us much money.’

  ‘Surely they understand that India is a coming power. We have to be there. And their best people are world class. Anyway, think about it, Calum. We want to send a delegation to India, soon, led by a minister, to talk to the key people about this package. You are essential. I believe the Indians have been told you are coming.’

  ‘You bastard, Jeremy!’

  ‘Yes, but my friends also keep you in business, Calum. Sorry! But I had to drop that in.’

  ‘OK, but the detail, and the money, has to be right.’

  After the call Mackie felt a sense of relief. Notwithstanding the bluster, the company’s order book was dangerously low. Defence cuts in the UK and USA had hurt. He had lain awake at night for weeks, preparing himself for difficult conversations with shareholders and the workforce. Maybe he was now off the hook.

  His thoughts switched to how the workforce could absorb a big new contract on a very tight schedule. Calum Mackie was a gifted inventor and scientist and a shrewd businessman. But people management was not his thing. His private life was reclusive and monastic – bed, work, bed, work. He hated face to face confrontation and had no feel for the subtleties of personal relationships. He preferred to operate at one remove from his staff, working through the very small number of people whom he trusted and who could penetrate his moods and his accent. He was also, privately, a committed socialist from his Clydeside days, a Labour donor and a believer in trade unions.