The Chronicler

By Jvalant Nalin Sampat

His designation is ‘the Chronicler’. He stores memories. Set in the immediate future, as Pakistan’s economy collapses, China invades Pakistan and is knocking on the doors of India. China is determined to change the power equation in the world. Inadvertently, the Chronicler harbours memories that could change the map of the world and the course of history. Caught in the vortex of a high-stakes game between governments, spy agencies, and powerful organizations across international borders, can the Chronicler save himself and the information as he races against time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Niyogi
• Release date: Oct 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9789389136203

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THE CHRONICLER

Off the western coast of India, 160 nautical miles from Mumbai

*

It had been only two months since Captain Nandan Dubey had assumed command of the INS Shastri . A Car Nicobar class patrol vessel, it was one of the smallest ships in the Indian Navy, with a displacement of 325 tonnes manned by a crew of 45 sailors and 4 officers. Along with the other vessels of its class, it remained close to the shore to prevent any 26/11 kind of terror attack, and to keep the Indian waters free from piracy along the trade route.

Like all captains, Dubey too wanted the ultimate prize—he wanted command of an aircraft carrier. Twenty odd decks, not just one. A crew of thousands, not in double digits. As he sipped some Darjeeling chai, he thought to himself—15 more years, maybe 20. His thoughts were interrupted by his second in command, Officer Patil, who barged in saying, ‘Captain, we might have a situation.’

Dubey immediately stood up, keeping his chai aside. ‘Might? Either we do, or we don’t.’

‘I am pretty sure that we do have a situation. It’s a rather large yacht that’s hailing us.’

The senior officer was stumped. ‘A yacht? In these waters? Like the ones millionaires use?’

‘More like billionaires in this case. It is pretty bloody big, sir.’

Captain Dubey frowned. ‘Did they identify themselves? It could be some Russian oligarch and his retinue on their way to Goa. Probably the crew joined in and now the entire bunch is high on cocaine. Hail the coast guard and tell them to help them out.’

Patil shook his head. ‘Sir, the captain on the comm said that he would speak only to the captain. He didn’t sound Russian.’

Dubey sighed. ‘Great. Let me speak to him. Let’s go to the comm unit.’

Captain Dubey put on the headphones and grabbed the mic. ‘This is Captain Dubey of the INS Shastri. Identify yourself. Over.’

The voice at the other end said, ‘Are we in Indian territorial waters? Over.’

‘Yes, you are. Now identity yourself and your vessel. Over.’

The voice replied, ‘I am Captain Aziz from the Pakistani Navy. Over.’

Dubey winked at Patil and sarcastically said, ‘The Pakistani Navy is now on board yachts? Turn around and head back, before we take some action that you will regret, Captain Aziz. Over.’

‘Negative. This is the yacht of the Prime Minister of Pakistan. Over.’

‘I suggest that you take it back to him in one piece. Over.’

Captain Aziz was insistent. ‘Captain Dubey. I don’t think you understand. The Prime Minister is on board. Along with some cabinet ministers. And the Navy and Air Force chiefs. We seek political asylum in India. Over.’

Dubey dropped his jaw and looked at his junior, Patil. He didn’t realize the mic was still on and inadvertently blurted out, ‘What the fuck!’

Not knowing what to say, Patil shrugged his shoulders and lifted his hands up and outwards.

Captain Aziz on the comm said, ‘Did you just say what the fuck? Over.’

Captain Dubey gathered his wits. ‘This is most irregular, Captain. We would need to board your vessel to verify your claims. And my men will be armed…’ He paused for a second and continued, ‘Heavily. Over.’

The voice at the other end was perfectly calm. ‘That is totally acceptable. Over.’

Captain Dubey stood on deck as the INS Shastri approached the stationary yacht. When they were within shouting distance, a familiar figure appeared on deck of the yacht. ‘Captain Dubey, I am Prime Minister Ishtiaq Khan. While your men verify our claims, why don’t you join me for a cup of tea?’

Captain Dubey uncharacteristically scratched his head. I had aced most of my classes at the Naval Institute, prepared for every scenario in the simulation tests. But no simulation prepped us for this! Still, I have to appear to be in control.

‘Sure. Once my men are satisfied and we seize any and all weapons on board, I will join you for a cup of tea.’

The Prime Minister smiled. ‘I think you will like it. It’s Indian after all.’

Patil tapped his captain on the shoulder and asked, ‘Can I Instagram this?’

Ministry of External Affairs, New Delhi, India

Miss Dasgupta was a fairly junior officer in the ministry. Who better to feed to the wolves? She scanned the room and saw a lot of seasoned reporters. She tried maintaining her poise. Momentarily hesitant, her voice quivered a little; she regained her composure promptly, tapped the microphone twice, and addressed the press with a prepared statement—‘Members of the press, good evening. Thank you for joining us on such a short notice for the press briefing. Earlier today, the Prime Minister of Pakistan, Mr Ishtiaq Khan, along with some members of his cabinet and his Air Force and Naval chiefs, has applied for political refuge here, in India. We are in the process of assessing the implications and ramifications of granting them political refuge. The reason for their request, as many Indian as well as international news channels have already come to the knowledge of, through various satellite feeds, is that the People’s Republic of China has sent in troops and tanks into Pakistan with the tacit approval of the Pakistani Army Chief, General Ahmed. The Government of India would not like to speculate on whether this is a soft coup by the Chief of the Pakistani Army, or if it is a complete takeover of Pakistan by the Chinese forces, until we have clarity on the issue from China itself. We are in touch with the Ambassador of the People’s Republic of China here in New Delhi. Thank you for waiting. I am sure you have many queries, but I shall not be taking any questions on this matter right now. Members of the press will be updated when we have more clarity on the matter.’

The press ignored her last statement, and as numerous camerapersons jostled to get a better angle, a whole bunch of questions started pouring in:

‘Is China trying to encircle India with their String of Pearls?’

‘Why has the Pakistani leadership sought refuge in India, their sworn enemy?’

‘Is there fear that the Chinese will invade India next?’

‘This is the same leadership which has the blood of thousands of Indians on their hands. How can you let them into India?’

New Delhi, India

Lekha Tandon was having a tough time selecting the saree for today’s session. Red would be too socialist, while green would come across as too environmental. She chose a neutral light blue and turned to her lover.

‘Honey, is this good enough?’

His reply was instant. ‘Anything and everything suits you, as does nothing.’

She found herself blushing at this. They had met at a bar in Gurgaon only a week ago. Things could not have been better. She was finally a judge at the Supreme Court—one of the youngest women (at 41) to occupy that position, and now her personal life was also moving in the right direction. After having devoted her entire life to her career, she seemed to have found the one. It didn’t matter that he was younger. Who cares about that these days?

As Lekha searched for her socks under the bed, she noticed a gift wrapped package. She picked it up, and in surprise, with arched eyebrows, she asked, ‘What is this?’

‘A gift for you my love, for your first day at the Supreme Court.’

‘You shouldn’t have.’ She removed the gift wrapping to unveil a box marked Stuart Weitzman. ‘You bought me designer shoes?’

She slipped on the heeled shoes and turned towards Omair, ‘How do I look?’

‘Taller.’

Lekha smiled and blew a kiss. ‘I love them! I shall take you to dinner at whichever place you want tonight—my treat.’

Omair smiled back as he watched Lekha leave the apartment. In a minute, Omair had put on his not-so-fancy Bata shoes—standard issue for his agency personnel, and in a couple of minutes, he was following Tandon down the flight of stairs. He waited in the lobby for her to get into her government-issued new SUV. ‘Slick car!’ Omair mumbled to himself. Giving himself a bit of a head start, Omair revved the engine of his rented yellow Tata Nexon. He had wanted a less prominent colour, but this was the last car available. It was paid for in cash and rented under the identity of a ‘Vikram Patel’, an Indian diamond merchant from Antwerp, Belgium, currently on a business trip to Delhi. And that is who she knew him as—‘Vikram Patel’.

As he drove towards the Supreme Court, Omair admired how rapidly Delhi had evolved: the fantastic roads, the metro, and the glitzy buildings. The city seemed to be on the cusp of becoming a first world metropolis. Once the enormous structure of the Supreme Court was in sight, Omair found a parking spot and entered a fancy patisserie to grab a croissant and some cappuccino. Wryly he thought, I have some time to kill myself, and kill I will.

Three hours later, Lekha received a text message on her iPhone. ‘There is another surprise for you, my love. Click open the heel of your left shoe. XX.’ It is a boring case anyway, Lekha thought to herself.

She quietly removed her left shoe under the table and clicked the heel. A mechanism not unlike a Zippo lighter was set in motion. Tandon and 2 more judges on the bench, and 5 lawyers in the room around her died instantly. 9 more were injured.

Within minutes, the Supreme Court building was swarming with cop cars, ambulances, and medics. A yellow Tata Nexon pulled up at the entrance. Its occupant told the nervous guard, ‘Doctor hoon—jaldi jaldi.’ He flashed an ID card. The car, along with an ambulance trailing it, was promptly let in. Omair nodded satisfactorily as the driver of the ambulance honked twice. He revved the engine and exclaimed, ‘Allah-hu-Akbar!’ The two vehicles loaded with plastic explosives rammed into two different corners of the building.

An hour later, the CNN reporter solemnly stated to a worldwide audience, ‘India’s historic Supreme Court has been reduced to ashes. The death toll estimates are over 400, including 277 lawyers, judges, common citizens, and an unspecified number of doctors, nurses, firefighters, and support staff, who had reported to the sight after the first diversionary blast. No group has claimed responsibility for the attacks, but a survivor claims she had heard ‘Allah-hu-Akbar’ uttered by a man who had driven a yellow Tata Nexon into the Supreme Court building.’

Bangalore, India

Vivek Tiwari was running a tad bit late. But this is Bangalore. You are lucky, if you get anywhere on time, he said to himself. Tiwari was a recent graduate from IIM, Ahmedabad, and was hoping for a job in his hometown, Kanpur, but when a 26-year-old is offered a high paying job in a hot start-up, one just can’t turn it down, even though language would be an issue. He called for a cab and curtly told the driver with an unpronounceable name, ‘InfoSoft campus.’ On getting a blank stare from the cabbie, Tiwari rolled his eyes and said, ‘Formerly known as Kings Tower.’ The driver gave him a thumbs-up and started driving.

You either have a death wish, or diplomatic immunity. No one else drives like that, Tiwari thought as he double checked his seat belt. The cabbie had just cut an old lady on a bike, whose mouth was still agape.

The driver noticed his anxiety and flashed him a smile. ‘Relax, everyone from Anansamuplampuram drives like this. Trust me, nothing will happen.’

‘Where is Anansamup... this place, anyway?’

‘It is in Tamil Nadu.’

The cabbie was true to his word and got Tiwari to the InfoSoft campus 20 minutes earlier than scheduled. There was a new Starbucks in the vicinity. They seemed to be mushrooming everywhere. He had more than enough time to grab a quick cappuccino as well. It is amazing how much of Americana has seeped into Bangalore, a city, which, merely a couple of decades ago, couldn’t have been more different. But then, Americana spread around the globe faster than Usain Bolt. Why should India be spared?

As Tiwari smoked a Marlboro and sipped his coffee, he quickly ran over his presentation on his Microsoft Surface. Towards the end, his thoughts were interrupted by a whirring sound coming from right above him. He looked up. That flock of birds is moving too fast. Jeez! Those are not birds—they are radio-controlled aircraft. And it’s not one flock—there are three or four flocks. There must be 40 or 50 planes. He shut down the presentation and switched his