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  Shaida introduced them: Mo, Ibrahim, Ikram, Abdullah and Rafaaq (‘Tubby’). Her brother Mo looked sullen and suspicious and completed the stereotype of a disaffected Muslim youth by sporting a beard and a white cap advertising his devotional commitment. The others were more welcoming but shy and polite, and, unlike Mo, they wore Western dress and were clean shaven. The conversation was halting and uncomfortable at first, but they were determined to tell their stories. All very similar: second generation – fathers factory workers, school at the local comprehensive, aspirational families pushing them to get good grades. Then degree courses at unfashionable universities within commuting distance from home, in subjects their families had judged to be useful and leading to good careers: accounting, business studies, law. But now frustration: no jobs, apart from pizza delivery or serving in cafés, scrounging for tips, or doing something menial in a distant relative’s shop.

  Steve responded: ‘Young people everywhere are struggling to get into work. The local council and the union do what they can. The Labour Party has been campaigning against these zero hours contracts and dead-end jobs and to get this Tory government to invest in jobs for young people.’ It sounded lame and tediously party political and he knew it. He dared to glance at Shaida for support – she had a proper job – but she was signalling detachment and was clearly on the side of the young men.

  Mo, who had retreated into taciturn contempt, spoke at last. ‘The trouble is, you people don’t respect us. If I put in for a job with “Mohammed” on the application it goes straight in the bin, or they hit the delete key. You know that. Why give us all this crap about “jobs for young people”?’

  Steve took a different tack. ‘All I can say is that at our company – where Shaida and your dad work – we have no discrimination. One third black and Asian. Management and shop floor. But you need a proper trade like electrical or mechanical engineering. Did they never tell you that at school?’

  Mo shifted the angle of attack. ‘What exactly do you do at Pulsar? I hear you make weapons – is that right?’

  Steve looked nervously at Shaida.

  ‘Sure. Among other things. We supply the armed forces. Do you have a problem with that?’

  ‘I have a problem with killing Muslims.’

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘Israel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘India?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘What a joke! I can’t believe we know more than you do. Everyone in town is talking about this big contract coming your way.’

  The conversation was taking a turn Steve hadn’t anticipated and was becoming seriously awkward. Shaida’s eyes were fixed firmly in the middle distance as if to disclaim responsibility for having lit the fuse that had led to this explosion.

  The mild-mannered Tubby tried to help out, steering the conversation on to less controversial topics, and the ways that Steve could realistically help. When the time came for Steve to go, Abdullah asked if he would come back, perhaps to see a bigger group. ‘There’s a meeting room in the cultural centre behind the mosque. Would you be happy coming there?’ It was agreed but, before Steve left, Abdullah asked if they could have a group photo. Even Mo was persuaded to shuffle into the corner of the picture. Shaida mumbled a ‘thank you’ to Steve on his way out and flashed a smile, her first of the evening.

  Despite the smile Steve felt some unease as he left. The meeting had shaken some of his earlier belief that the good community relations enjoyed in the factory were reflected more widely in the town. The Asian councillors in his group had always exuded a breezy self-confidence, telling their colleagues that they had ‘their own people’ safely tied up. Their comfortable majorities seemed to bear this out. Or so he’d thought.

  Kate touched down at Mumbai for the second time in three days, returning from Delhi for another round of meetings before leaving for London. Jet lag and constant travel were playing havoc with her metabolism; night and day fused into a vague, timeless, sleepy blur. But she had a warm feeling of satisfaction from a programme that seemed to be going well and the prospect of meeting again the anonymous texter who had sent the message ‘You were brilliant’ after her first round of meetings in Mumbai. She had a shrewd suspicion who it was and her cynical side dismissed it as the work of a charmer who was employing the technique of telling a woman how clever she is rather than how pretty. But it had aroused her interest, whatever the motivation.

  The schedule of meetings had included a brief visit to the Indian PM, a rare honour for a minister some way below Cabinet rank. There were platitudes all round but the important thing was that the meeting had happened, and favourable reference made to the prospective arms contract. She had caught in his eyes a glint of the political steel that had taken him from poverty and a career starting as a tea boy to leadership of the world’s biggest democracy. He had in turn been fascinated by the article in a leading Indian daily – and planted by the High Commissioner through a friendly journalist – describing her as the rising star of British politics.

  There was, however, one aspect of the meeting that troubled her, and the High Commissioner even more so. The Prime Minister anticipated all of her questions and interventions and, when discussion turned to the potential contract and collaboration and the capabilities of the technology to be supplied from the UK, he seemed to know considerably more than was in the public domain. She and the High Commissioner both noticed that as he discussed these subjects he periodically turned to the thin, ascetic-looking man behind him as if for confirmation that he was on the right track.

  An alert first secretary who sat at the back of the meeting had identified him as Sanjivi Desai, who had been a prominent member of the National Security Adviser’s team in the days of the previous BJP administration. He was, apparently, known at the time as brilliant but ideological. Desai had since left India for a university in the USA. There he had electrified the foreign policy community with an academic article that argued the case for nuclear weapons as part of an offensive military strategy rather than simply for deterrence. The article had since been largely forgotten and India had adopted a ‘no first use’ strategy (while Pakistan had not). The High Commission team was clearly taken aback by Desai’s resurrection but unable to cast more light on it.

  Back in Mumbai the ministerial party would stay in a hotel near the international airport for the early morning flight back to London. For the rest of the day, they would travel to the Parrikar factory, located in the city outskirts, for an inspection visit.

  Kate hadn’t been a minister long enough to have seen many factories and her vision of an Indian factory was that it would be – well – Indian: noisy, dirty and teeming with people. Parrikar Avionics proved to be as far from that world as it was possible to be: full of computer controlled machines and robots; industrious, uniformed staff busying themselves purposefully; a factory floor so clean you could have eaten off it; a quiet hum permitting normal conversation; and odourless beyond the smell of fresh paint. It resembled what she imagined factories to be like in Japan or Germany.

  She tried to restart the conversation with Deepak that had been cut off at the hotel.

  ‘I believe you are an engineer by training.’

  ‘Was. Now I try, not very successfully, to make money.’

  ‘Can’t help you there. I am a medieval historian.’

  ‘I know. But a good way to understand politics.’

  Throughout the visit Deepak stayed by her side, attentive and efficient but conveying nothing in his conversation or body language to suggest any interest beyond professional correctness. On her return to the hotel Kate was left wondering whether she had read too much into the first encounter and into that anonymous text. But, shortly after arriving back at the hotel, another text arrived: ‘Farewell dinner? 8pm? Car outside. Black Bentley. D.’ She had a ‘wash up’ with her officials and her business delegation but persuaded herself, without a great deal of resistance, that the national inter
est might be better served by getting to know Mr Parrikar a little better. She explained her change of plan to Susan, who reacted with customary aplomb, though the upward movement of her eyebrows managed to convey the message ‘Lucky you. But be careful.’

  After a bath and change of clothes, she took the lift to the hotel lobby a few minutes after 8pm. The black Bentley was waiting at the entrance. The chauffeur sped off into the night, arriving after a rather hair-raising drive at an expansive villa with a luxuriant garden. Deepak Parrikar was waiting at the door to greet her.

  ‘This is the company’s VIP guest house,’ he explained. ‘I stay here when I am at the factory. Sorry about the air of mystery. I thought you might prefer a private dinner here instead of the hotel restaurant with all your hangers-on.’ If she had any reservations, it was too late. And, anyway, she hadn’t.

  He had obviously made discreet enquiries about her dietary tastes – she was an enthusiast for good North Indian cooking – and she was served the best, most subtle Mughal meal she had ever tasted: gently spiced lamb in biryani with almonds and sultanas, with aubergine and dal accompaniments. Conversation flowed.

  ‘A little bird told me that you were quite a celebrity at Oxford. Much sought after. Modelling too.’

  ‘Yes. I enjoyed myself. But don’t believe everything you read in newspapers. How about you? And don’t tell me you spent your years in London and the States in a self-denying monastic order.’

  They flirted with their eyes, trying not to catch the attention of the uniformed staff serving the meal, as they talked about the visit – the deal was agreed bar the formalities, was his assessment – and went on to their large overlapping circles of friends and his favourite haunts in London. When the servants had cleared away the meal and retreated to their quarters she broached the subject that they had hitherto skirted around. ‘You haven’t mentioned Mrs Parrikar. I believe there is a Mrs Parrikar?’

  ‘Yes, there is. Her name is Rose. She spends most of her time in Delhi. She is a very talented writer and does a lot of scripts for Doordarshan, like your BBC. And our children are there, with Rose and my mother-in-law. Perhaps you should tell me about Mr Thompson.’

  ‘Where to start? You know his background: inherited wealth, property market and all that.’

  ‘Yes, I do know all about that. I also heard that he had… or has?… quite a reputation.’

  She hadn’t expected to get into the intimacies quite so soon. Or so easily. But why not? she told herself. ‘Let’s just say that we have an excellent partnership, a grown-up marriage. Stable. Solid. We adore our girls and provide them with a good family life. We know each other’s strengths and weaknesses and don’t let the weaknesses get in the way.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  Kate hesitated. She welcomed an invitation to take their after-dinner coffee to the veranda, listening to the unfamiliar racket of cicadas in the garden. She decided to take the plunge. ‘He has a roving eye,’ she answered candidly. ‘Always has. At the beginning I retaliated a few times when I wanted to get even. But it made me feel guilty. And I didn’t like the men much. So I have a lot to be satisfied about and leave romance to my girlfriends. And you?’

  ‘Similar. I did the rounds in London and Harvard. A lot of nice girls but nothing special. When I came back here my energies went into building up the business that my father had asked me to run. Then – this is India – my family and friends started agitating about marriage. Late twenties and still a bachelor: a problem in danger of becoming a scandal. My parents started asking about suitable girls: a degree from a reputable college; wheaten complexion; preferably a virgin (but this is difficult to guarantee these days); a dowry (but we are rich enough not to be greedy).’

  Kate was intrigued. ‘I thought dowries were old hat in the Indian middle classes.’

  ‘Among the highly educated, maybe, but not otherwise. Anyway, the real problem was to marry into a “good family”, Indian-speak for caste. The people my parents mix with are mostly banias – merchants, traders. My father’s parents rub along with them in the business world but when it comes to marriage they made it clear that for all our money we were not socially acceptable. My ancestors are Dalits, “untouchables”. In the USA, our family’s climb from rags to riches would be celebrated as the American Dream. But, here, it is a guilty secret.

  ‘Eventually I met a beautiful Christian girl from the south – Rose – who didn’t have any hang-ups about caste, or colour – she is as black as me. She was attracted, I don’t doubt, to the family wealth, and perhaps even to me. We married quietly in a Christian church: no dowry; no astrologers; just a few friends and family.’

  Kate was glad that she had taken their conversation into their private lives, realising that it had brought them closer. She was grateful too that he didn’t crowd her, engaging her only with his eyes. They talked late into the night.

  She hadn’t talked so freely to a man for a long time and she was encouraged by his easy, natural, candour. She knew she was very attracted to him and sensed that the feeling was shared.

  It seemed easier to stay than go. The packing and the final debrief could wait until the morning. But Kate forced herself to think clearly. She felt herself to be on the threshold of a serious affair and it would send the wrong signal to rush into it impetuously. Without the need for an explanation he seemed to read her mind and speedily summoned the driver when she, regretfully, indicated her wish to leave. Confident that she had done the right thing, she felt able to show something of her feelings.

  The lingering kiss on the doorstep was not, however, as private as the two of them believed. The Bharat Bombay team had been staking out the guest house as well as the offices downtown since they had been tipped off that Deepak was staying there, and a mystery guest had been reported arriving some hours earlier and still hadn’t left. The photographer was every bit as skilled and well equipped as his paparazzi cousins in Europe; there was adequate lighting in the porch area and he captured the moment for posterity.

  Nor was he the only curious observer of the guest house. If the Minister had been naïve enough to imagine that her departure from the hotel had gone unnoticed, she underestimated the resources and resourcefulness of both British and Indian security and intelligence services. By the time Kate had arrived back at the hotel sometime after 2am, a report was on the desks of the British and Indian National Security Advisers recommending that their political masters might wish to be aware of this blemish on an otherwise flawless visit.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE RETURN

  The Times of India, 2 July 2019:

  Lok Sabha has passed legislation applying across India the cow protection law piloted in Haryana in 2016. Cow slaughter is now punishable by up to ten years in prison. A new Cow Protection police force has been established to enforce the law. Members of the ruling party argued in debate that Muslims and Christians who refused to observe the taboo on eating beef should leave India.

  Steve’s second meeting with Shaida’s friends took place in the cultural centre at the back of the town’s main mosque, though Shaida waited outside. Steve had been to the mosque before, campaigning at election time, but he had not been the centre of attention and, this time, he felt much more self-conscious.

  Looking around the room Steve saw mainly friendly, welcoming faces, but there was a small cluster that included Shaida’s brother, Mo, who sat separately, dressed traditionally and affected an air of disapproval and rejection. The earlier discussion had forearmed Steve with many of their concerns and arguments, so he felt altogether better prepared. Different members of the group rehearsed their grievances – jobs, the police, Islamophobia – and he felt confident enough to throw back some challenges to them: why were no women present? Did they unequivocally condemn the sadistic cruelty of some extremist organisations? One of Mo’s group tried to take him down the foreign policy route but this was outside his comfort zone. Steve contented himself with acknowledging that the Blair government had
made a terrible blunder over the Iraq war and this had done great damage to the country’s reputation and the party’s standing with Muslims. This earned him a round of applause, and he hoped it would provide him with an exit route from the meeting. It didn’t.

  There was an awkward silence, only broken when one of Mo’s group, dressed in a long white robe and cap, launched into a bitter and angry tirade. ‘Do you know how many Muslims are assaulted and spat at, in this town that your party runs and claims is some kind of multicultural paradise? Did you know that women have their headscarves torn off? Called “Paki prostitutes” in front of their children? Many, many cases. But not reported.’

  There was a growl of support in the room. Steve was feeling very much on the defensive and wondering how he had got into the position as a figurehead for the police, the council, the Labour Party and the other establishment bodies that these young people saw either as the enemy or as hypocritical neutrals. Sensing the weakness of Steve’s position, Mo tried to raise the ante. ‘What you people don’t realise is that we are on the receiving end of constant biased coverage in the media. Muslims are always a threat; always to blame. We all know the reasons, don’t we, boys? It’s all those Jews, innit, controlling everything.’

  There was a hushed silence. He had overstepped the mark, no doubt deliberately, to provoke Steve into trying too hard to be one of the boys.

  ‘You mean all those Jews like Sadiq Khan, Mo Farah, Moeen Ali and Sajid Javid,’ Steve replied.

  The laughter drained the tension away. ‘Serves you right, you idiot, Mo,’ someone called out. Even Mo felt the need to retreat a little.

  ‘We are not getting at you personally. At least you listen to us. But you need to take on board that some in our community are close to breaking point.’