Calcutta: Dateline 1955

By Joseph W. Michels

The year is 1955. Alan Harper, a 25-year old freelance journalist, recruited by the CIA fresh out of college, is serving as a covert agent based in Cairo after finishing a two-year training period at Camp Peary, the CIA “Farm”. In October of that year, after only nine months in the field, he’s suddenly reassigned to Calcutta, India, and tasked with uncovering the clandestine network used by foreign powers to support local leftist political parties attempting to prevail in Calcutta’s municipal elections.
When power brokers in Calcutta learn an American investigative reporter is heading their way panic ensues. They worry an exposé article in a major U.S. newspaper or magazine can affect the political landscape of the city in ways they wish to avoid. Persons benefitting financially under the current city administration wish to stop the reporter; persons involved in running the clandestine network he’s tasked to uncover also wish to prevent him from doing his job.
Harper finds himself the target of desperate efforts at preventing him from reaching Calcutta—efforts that morph into attempts on his life once he arrives. Nevertheless, Harper sticks to his “cover”, using reportorial stratagems to get the story, thwarting one attempt on his life after another as he proceeds.
It is a time of Cold War intrigue, of non-alignment, of Hindu Bengali refugees flooding into Calcutta from East Pakistan, of street demonstrations, of political party competition—with all actors intently focused on the next election.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781663215222

Joseph W. Michels

JOSEPH W. MICHELS came to fiction writing after a long career as an archaeologist and cultural anthropologist. KAGNEW STATION: DATELINE 1956 is a sequel to the ALAN HARPER TRILOGY. The author became acquainted with Kagnew Station in 1974 while directing a large archaeological project in the region. The project’s headquarters was two blocks from the entrance to Kagnew Station and the project’s staff made extensive use of the base’s facilities.

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Copyright © 2021 Joseph W. Michels.

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except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue

in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Credit for cover art photo:

Copyright © Mazur Travel/shutterstock.com

Credit for author photo:

Copyright © 2020 Joseph W. Michels

Credit for Calcutta map:

Copyright © 2020 Joseph W. Michels

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-1521-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1522-2 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:  12/23/2020

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

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CHAPTER ONE

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Harper checked his watch again. Five minutes to go. P.J. Meyer, his Cairo Station contact, was a stickler on procedure and wouldn’t look kindly on his showing up early. But Harper was edgy, this was an unscheduled meet—his first since going operational nine months earlier. Impatiently, he slipped on his light blue sport jacket, readjusted the shoulder holster holding his silenced 22 caliber semi-automatic that he wore on his left side, then smoothed the crease on his tan khaki pants.

He left his room located on the second floor of the residential hotel and walked to the stairs. But instead of heading down to street level he climbed up to the third floor and stepped out into the hallway. Cairo Station booked Room 312 by the week, ostensibly for out of town sales personnel, but in reality it was meant to serve as a discreet setting for meetings such as the one he was about to have with P.J. Meyer.

Harper knocked at exactly two o’clock. The door opened and Meyer gave Harper a quick glance then motioned for him to step inside. The room looked just like his own—furnished in age-darkened wooden furniture harking back to the 1920’s era when the hotel had first opened. Harper walked over to the overstuffed armchair and sat down, letting his gaze take in the rest: the elaborate bed frame that seemed to dwarf the quilt-covered double bed; the massive stand-alone armoire; the delicate writing table and chair, and the rickety night table valiantly supporting a fragile porcelain lamp. He waited for Meyer to begin.

Meyer walked over to the writing desk chair, turned it so that he could face Harper, then sat down. He picked up a thick envelope from the desk and held it out for Harper to take.

What is it? asked Harper as he reached for the envelope.

It’s your new orders, said Meyer absently.

Harper looked at him questioningly as he opened the envelope and removed the contents. Calcutta? Why in hell are they sending me to Calcutta, India?

Meyer simply shrugged.

Come on, Meyer! What’s going on? I’ve been working the Middle East for less than a year…is Cairo Station disappointed with my product…is that it?

Meyer shook his head, Unlike most of the others, you’re not a handler…someone who’s tied to the region because of the agents under their care…so you’re available. And you’ve got the right cover for the mission.

Harper shook his head in frustration and studied the document. It says they want me to discover the key links in the chain of command involved in the mobilization of unrest in Calcutta, then report back…Christ, don’t we have assets already in place there?

Meyer shrugged once again, You’d think so, but apparently we’ve been focused on the national political scene, which has meant our people are primarily based in New Delhi; the remainder are in Bombay monitoring economic developments. Calcutta seems to have only recently emerged as a problem for us…something that’s been building up slowly over the years beginning with partition in 1947 as Bengali Hindu refugees from East Pakistan poured into the city. We felt the Indian government was doing a good job…setting up hundreds of tent villages on the outskirts of the city to accommodate the flood. But police suppression of demonstrations over the past two years is believed to have caused troubling disaffection among the city’s middle classes.

So, I take it the thinking back at Langley is that there’s some sort of organized covert effort at radicalizing the refugee population with the hope thereby of undermining the government party in future city elections, said Harper.

Well, they almost pulled it off in 1952, said Meyer soberly. The government party prevailed but leftist opposition candidates performed respectably.

But from what I’ve read, argued Harper, anti-Americanism in India has somewhat quieted down since last summer’s well-regarded performance by Eisenhower during the successful Geneva Summit. I’ve even read there’s been something loosely characterized as a kind of Geneva Spirit alive within various segments of the Indian population.

That’s where the urgency of the mission comes in, countered Meyer. Our assets in country report that leftist organizations that had been laying low in the months leading up to the date of the Geneva Summit are now emboldened to ratchet up pressure, worrying that democratic forces intent on maintaining government party rule have unduly profited from this so-called Geneva Spirit. The next national election affecting Calcutta is set to occur in 1957…only two years from now. Langley believes we need to get a handle on the matter, or watch the city become a center of power for leftist politics nationally.

Harper leaned back in his chair, took a moment to digest the import of what Meyer had related, then said, Talk about why Langley thinks I’m the right agent for the mission.

Meyer looked down at his feet, thinking, then looked up, I won’t kid you, Harper, the fact is you’re available…that’s the bottom line. But you’ve done good work for Cairo Station these past nine months and that also counts…especially since it was your first covert assignment since finishing up your two years of training at the Farm. If I had to guess, I’d probably imagine they also factored in your youth—being only twenty-five—and the fact your journalism degree was earned at the University of Chicago—an institution well-known for exposing its students to a somewhat heady intellectual atmosphere. I say that because the mission will in all likelihood involve associating with educated, highly intellectualized segments of Calcutta society…university students, faculty, political party hacks, and disparate remnants of the Raj—Anglo-Indians and the expat British community.

So, basically, my cover story—that I’m there to write up a feature length piece on the city’s political unrest and its origins—and my agency mission don’t actually diverge in any important way…am I right?

I guess you could say that, replied Meyer, but a prudent journalist would back off from inquiring too diligently about who it is that’s pulling the strings, given the obvious dangers, while that’s precisely where we want you to go.

Harper nodded.

In the envelope, you’ll find all relevant travel documents, began Meyer, anxious to turn to more practical matters. We have you on tomorrow evening’s 6:00 p.m. flight to Bombay. You’ll arrive in Bombay early the following morning, Saturday, at which time you’ll switch to the Imperial Mail for the train trip to Calcutta where you’ll have a first class single-birth compartment. The train leaves Bombay station at 5:00 p.m., giving you more than ample time to make your way over from the airport. The run itself will take about thirty-seven hours, putting you in Calcutta’s Howrah Station at about 6:00 a.m. Monday morning.

And in Calcutta? asked Harper, somewhat put off by all the handholding.

A room has been reserved for you at the Sheffield Hotel located just off Park Street. It’s not particularly glamorous…more like the hotel we’re now sitting in, and about the same age. But from what I gather, it appeals to the Brits, a number of whom make it their home, as well as to the occasional foreign correspondent or western businessman in town for a short stay. You’ll fit right in.

Harper picked up a packet of currency he’d removed from the thick envelope.

Yes…there’s a generous quantity of Indian rupees to get you started, together with a cash reserve in U.S. dollars that you can convert to rupees as needed, said Meyer.

I’ll still need an Indian visa, said Harper as he put the money back in the envelope.

That’s been attended to, replied Meyer as he stood, signaling the meeting had come to an end. A visa has been prepared for you. All you have to do is stop off at the Indian consulate and they’ll have it entered into your passport…of course with the all the customary formality to be expected at such government offices.

Harper also stood, One other thing, do you expect I’ll be returning to Cairo once this assignment is over?

Meyer shrugged, Who can say? I certainly wouldn’t count on it.

Harper nodded, shook Meyer’s hand, then walked out of the room.

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Harper chose not to return to his own room, preferring to head for his usual hangout—the Cafe Europa, located only a short distance away on a street off Talaat Harb Square. It was early October and the weather was slightly cooler than it had been, making the walk manageably comfortable. As he walked, he allowed his thoughts to dwell on what needed to get done in the short time before his flight. Obviously, he’d have to pack and settle his bill with the hotel. Then there were the people he’d have to tell…fellow journalists and members of the expat community he’d befriended during his nine month stint. He knew they’d be somewhat perplexed since it was widely believed the Middle East was a tinder box, with tensions expected to grow to a crisis level in the coming months.

Keeping to his cover as a freelance journalist intent on putting together newsworthy stories that one of the western news agencies might be inclined to buy, it would make little sense to his circle of friends for him to have chosen to pick up stakes and head to Calcutta—a destination heretofore of little news value to European or American audiences. He’d need to come up with a compelling reason or risk compromising his cover.

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Cafe Europa was like any one of a number of coffee houses in cities scattered across the globe—one that catered to a western expat community hungry for a taste of European coffee and cuisine, and Viennese-style pastries. This one had the obligatory dark wooden interior, mirrored coffee bar, a floor of colorful ceramic tile, and a generous scatter of tables that seated four. Harper made for a table at the rear where Abbot, a UPI stringer, and Henderson, a Reuters correspondent, were seated.

Hey, Harper…pull up a chair, called out Abbot. Abbot was about five years older than Harper, and like Harper was still trying to prove himself. Henderson, on the other hand, was a well-seasoned newspaper man who’d been pursuing news stories in distant lands for years.

Harper gave a little wave in acknowledgement, then joined them.

We’re making up imaginary obits reporting on the unexpected death of James Dean, America’s icon to rebellion, said Abbot with false solemnity. Henderson argues his death in a car collision a couple of days ago will inspire endless debate about its significance…is it the end of something, the beginning of something, or just bad luck.

Yeah, I heard about it, said Harper as he signaled the waiter.

We’re going to rent a car and drive over to Suez tomorrow…see if we can pick up some fresh information on military movements into the Sinai…you want to come along? asked Abbot.

I’d like to, replied Harper, but I’ll be leaving town tomorrow.

You heading west…to Sallum…to check on what’s happening with the border closing between Egypt and Libya? asked Henderson.

No…though I think there’s a big story there…actually I’m leaving for India tomorrow evening.

India? You’ve got to be kidding, said Abbot.

Yeah…I’ve been handed a generous commission by a midwestern newspaper for a feature-length piece on how last summer’s Geneva Summit played in a key cold war country like India. They’ve booked me first class all the way to Calcutta as an enticement.

Why in hell would a metropolitan paper in the midwest even care about such a story? exclaimed Abbot. Christ, I’d wager most of their readers couldn’t even find India on the map!

Just then, the waiter brought over Harper’s coffee and a plate of pastry delicacies.

Harper took a sip of his coffee, then said, The editor who reached out to me…I’d met him a couple of years ago while doing a class assignment for a journalism course…explained the paper was anxious to enhance its national reputation by publishing groundbreaking international pieces. I argued for a piece on Egypt/Israel relations, but he felt that topic was over-reported given the daily provocations by one side or the other. No…he felt the story he wanted me to write would offer a fresh perspective on the Geneva Summit and its aftermath.

Henderson sighed, I don’t know, Harper, it seems a bad career move. You’ve been doing some interesting work on the Middle East beat, especially your take on the real significance of the current dustup between Egypt and Libya. And now, with all hell about to break out over the Suez Canal this is the place to be for a fledgling foreign correspondent.

I take your point, Henderson, replied Harper, but what I’m counting on is for events here in the Middle East to remain off the boil until I get back…maybe in a couple of weeks or so…or perhaps a bit longer. In any case, taking this commission will guarantee me a byline on a story that might gain some national prominence. And, hell, it’s more money than I’ve ever earned before as a freelance journalist.

Henderson nodded sympathetically.

Well, guys, I need to take care of a number of details if I’m to make it out of here by tomorrow evening so I’d appreciate it if you both would spread the word should anyone inquire, said Harper as he put some money down and stood up.

Will do, old friend, said Abbot, but don’t be surprised if events reach a crisis stage while you’re gone. Maybe you could persuade your editor to allow you to break off your reporting over there should that happen…let him know you’ll finish up just as soon as things begin to settle down here.

Harper laughed, Sure…and I’m supposed to believe you’ve actually encountered such soft-hearted editors while making your own requests for special consideration?

Go to hell, Harper, said Abbot with a grin.

Harper headed for the front entrance, but didn’t make it as Nigel, a Brit expat, came through the door and accosted him.

You got a minute, Harper?

Yeah, I guess so, what’s up?

Just made the drive back from Sallum…caught some action on the border.

What kind of action? asked Harper as he led Nigel to a nearby table.

Egyptian border patrol captured two Libyan soldiers well inside Egyptian territory…at least that’s what I learned from the patrolling unit after they’d handed the men over to garrison personnel; what I saw was the jeep arriving at headquarters with the two Libyans sitting in back, restrained.

Jesus, I’d sure like to follow up on that, said Harper wistfully.

Nigel looked at him, a puzzled expression on his face.

Listen, friend, I don’t have time to go into it right now but the fact is I’m leaving for India tomorrow evening…Abbot and Henderson can fill you in.

They’re putting the screws on you…right? Gonna fly in some celebrity correspondent to cover your beat now that it promises to get hot.

No, nothing like that…at least as far as I know. It’s a special feature they’ve asked me to research and write—a kind of follow-up to the Geneva Summit.

Sorry to have to put it to you, mate, but the Summit is old news. Some editor is pulling your chain.

Well, it’s a little more than that, replied Harper somewhat defensively. And they want India to serve as a backdrop.

Careful mate…they’ll be having you writing for women’s magazines soon if what they want is local color.

Harper shrugged, It is what it is…anyway, there’s good money in it, a chance for a byline on a serious thought piece, and I’m counting on this place not to blow up until I return.

You fancy that, do you? Well, uncle Nigel will see what he can do, he countered with mock seriousness.

All kidding aside, Nigel…I’ll be based in Calcutta—any chance you can supply me with a contact among the Brit expats there? asked Harper.

Nigel stroked his chin, Does it have to be a journalist?

No…in fact, the person might be of more help if he was connected in some way to the city’s international business community.

Nigel sighed, I can’t help you there, but the man I’m thinking about might be able to put you together with the kind of person you’re seeking. No, the guy I have in mind is a professor at the university…an historian, I think… though possibly I may be mistaken on that point. His name is Mason…been in the city for a half dozen years or so and seems to like it.

So he’s not a holdover from before Independence?

No, he came shortly afterwards…possibly to drink in the dying flavor of the Raj. I expect he’s in tight with the civil service types who stayed behind to keep things on an even keel, many of whom have retired by now but are reluctant to go home.

How do you know him?

Nigel shrugged, Mason and I read history at Oxford as undergraduates…kept in touch over the years. I’ll shoot off a cable to him…let him know you’ll be calling on him.

Thanks. Now, I really do have to get going, said Harper as he got up from his chair.

One last thing, old boy, said Nigel, on the off chance you get hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of the university’s many colleges and have difficulty finding the distinguished Professor Mason perhaps you’ll allow me to inform him where he can find you?

Tell him I’ll be staying at the Sheffield? replied Harper who then turned and headed for the entrance, intending this time to actually make his escape.

CHAPTER TWO

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The consular affairs section of the Indian Embassy was located in a building within walking distance of Cafe Europa so Harper set out on foot. As he proceeded north on Talaat Harb Street he reviewed his conversations in the coffee house. Going over each of his rejoinders to their predictable skepticism regarding the merits of his decision to take on the assignment, he felt he had successfully allayed any sense that somehow his imminent departure from Cairo was so out of character as to call into question whether he was being honest about his motives…at least he hoped he had.

The doorman at the entrance directed him to a counter at the left of the cavernous public room—a room where both Indian nationals and foreign travelers assembled to press their demands for documents from Indian clerks who stood proudly erect behind the long waist-high counters.

Harper’s man was a Mr. Menon from southern India, or so he intimated in the course of their dealings. A man of small stature who wore a crisp, well-pressed dark suit, white shirt and tie. He waited for Harper to state his business.

I’m here to secure a visa, said Harper, handing the man his passport.

What is your date of departure? asked the clerk.

Harper shrugged, Actually, it’s tomorrow evening.

The clerk shook his head, "That