Ambassador Marco’s Indian Instincts A Novel

Celebrated Somali diplomat Michael Marco is the executor of the Will of his Indian friend Baldev Vaccher, and accompanies Baldev’s daughter Tatiana to Sweden, where unexplained deaths occur in a university town. Returning to an India wracked by terrorist attacks which bear Pakistan’s imprint, Marco is reluctant to be enlisted by the Indian Prime Minister to act as a mediator with Pakistan. Deeply troubled by his own rootlessness and personal loss, but conscious of his responsibilities to Tatiana, Marco is drawn into the vortex of her romantic and emotional highs and lows, compounded by the menace of the Maoist insurgency in Bengal.

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Non-Fiction Tricks of the Trade The Rise, Decline and Future of the British Commonwealth The Jamdani Revolution Towards the New Horizon: World Order in the 21st Century Europe in Emerging Asia Old Europe, New Asia

Ambassador Marco’s Indian Instincts A Novel

Krishnan Srinivasan

The story and the characters in this book are fictitious. There is no intention to portray any individual, personality or policy that exists or has existed.

Copyright © Krishnan Srinivasan, 2017 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without the prior written permission of the Publisher.

Published by Ashok Gosain and Ashish Gosain for: HAR-ANAND PUBLICATIONS PVT LTD E-49/3, Okhla Industrial Area, Phase-II, New Delhi-110020 Tel: 41603490 E-mail: [email protected]/[email protected] Shop online at: www.haranandbooks.com Like us on www.facebook.com/haranandbooks Printed in India at Arya Printers

The author acknowledges the immense help of the Swedish Collegium at Uppsala and the Maulana Azad Institute of Asian Studies, Calcutta.

I Tatiana Vaccher speaks After my father Baldev was murdered last year in Calcutta by the Maoists, Michael Marco came to see me as often as he could. He and Daddy had planned to set up a foundation to look after destitute children both in India and Somalia, and Michael was now trying to administer Daddy’s will, of which he had been nominated as the executor. Cutting through the reams of red tape which affected the most routine matters in India was taking all his time and energy. Because I am Daddy’s only child and the principal legatee of the will, it was natural that Michael and I had many things to discuss and ponder over. Eventually, we found it easier for Michael to move in with me. In spite of our huge age difference, we knew that it would set tongues wagging. It did, of course, since Michael is a black African senior citizen and I am a rangy young Punjabi woman. Many of my good friends gave me questioning looks, though they said nothing to my face. So be it. One morning as we were having our pre-breakfast morning tea, it occurred to me to ask Michael, “Do you think the other three youngsters who were with Satish in Sweden are still alive, Michael?” Michael set down the morning’s copy of The Telegraph, and looked across the room at me with watery eyes. “I think they must be, Tatiana. But you should not still be obsessing about that.” There was a long silence. “How can I help it?” I enquired finally. “It’s only been six months. I have lost a lover and my father, and I live with an open wound to think that those three people are enjoying life somewhere.” “It’s no life to be on the run, Tatiana,” replied Michael. “But if they are alive, they will turn up sooner or later. As far as I can see, they

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have committed no crime except to have run away from potential danger –” “And breaking the terms of their visa in Sweden?” “Yes, that as well, of course.” It was a conversation we had already had innumerable times before. I swept back my loosely flowing black hair with both hands, and stood up, tying my silk red robe closer to keep my legs modestly hidden—though I don’t think Michael would have noticed. Or if he did, he would have thought nothing of it. “I think I had better get myself ready to face another day. Do you have any plans?” Michael sighed and folded the newspaper carefully. “Only to visit the lawyers once again about your father’s will and the estate, my dear. Lawyers always find there is something more complicated left to do. As your dear father Mr Vaccher did everything else in life, he left his estate is perfect shape for you. He was a very wealthy man.” “The best thing he did was that he appointed you as the executor, Michael. I do not know what I could have done without you.” “You never have to say that, Tatiana. You are the child I never had. The few years my good Lord Jesus has left to me I will gladly dedicate to you. Mr Vaccher was right in thinking that would give some meaning to my remaining existence.” I crossed the room and patted his cheek affectionately. “No one can replace my father, but I bless you every minute for being here, Michael. After Daddy was blown up by the Maoists it took such a long time to convince you to move in with me instead of staying in that depressing old boarding house.” “Well, my dear, what do the good people of Calcutta think about an old ugly African black man living with a beautiful young Indian woman? I wonder what is the gossip circulating about us? Whatever it is, it cannot be good for you. That was my only concern.” I perched on the arm of Michael’s upholstered sofa and crossed my legs. “It wouldn’t surprise you to know I don’t give the smallest damn!” “But what would your father have thought?”

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“He expected you to look after me, and the closer you are to me, the better.” Michael shifted sideways in his chair, and looked up at me. “It’ll soon be time for us to have a definite plan on how to pursue your father’s project to help the children in need –” “Here in Bengal, and in Somalia too.” “Yes, in my country as well,” said Michael softly “But first of all I want to travel to Sweden, to Uppsala.” I let my bedroom slipper dangle on the big toe of my bare foot. I saw that Michael was quite taken aback. “To Sweden first, Tatiana? I thought we would concentrate on getting the child project under way before doing anything else.” “It shouldn’t surprise you, Michael,” I replied. “I can’t get my life together until I visit the place where my beloved Shashi was murdered. Once I have been there I will try and get it out of my system. Of course, the grief will never disappear, but this is what I must do.” Actually my idea was not premeditated; it had come to me in the spur of the moment. Michael looked away and reflected at length on what I had said. Finally he replied gently, “If that is the way you feel, my dear, you must go then. I will make the arrangements and send a request to the Indian Foreign Office, so that you receive some help from the Indian Embassy in Stockholm.” “Yes, I’ll go, but you will have to come too, Michael. I am not going there alone, and you cannot sit around waiting for me in Calcutta or Stockholm. You are the only link between myself, Shashi and Uppsala.” “I was there in Uppsala when he died, Tatiana, but I have never seen the actual spot in the churchyard of the old city where the crime took place. The police detective in charge of the case, Magnus Pahlberg, is also dead, knifed by a homeless vagrant called Erik, who killed Shashi as well. And Erik is no more, killed by a speeding truck on a dark highway. Then Shashi’s three Indian friends who were at Uppsala with him, just disappeared. There’s nothing and nobody left. I wonder what help I can give you in Sweden?”

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“You will help me by just being there. By helping me to understand what needs to be understood and which is beyond my capacity.” “If you want me there, Tatiana” said Michael mildly. “I will have to be with you. It is for you to decide if a visit to where Shashi spent his last moments of life will be more painful for you or less.” “It is just something I have to do,” I replied shortly to end the discussion. “And perhaps we can jog the Swedish police and the Indian Embassy into joining up some of the dots.” I knew Michael did not want me to raise my hopes about any fresh investigation into the murder in Uppsala of my dead fiancé Shashi or about finding out what had become of Shashi’s three friends who had travelled to Sweden with him in order to draw attention to a Swedish firm’s employment of Indian child labour. The three, fellow activists like Shashi against the abuse of children, had left the hotel they were staying in in the dead of night and had never been heard of since. Michael’s view was that the mystery would be unraveled in the fullness of time when its moment had come, and this was not a process that could be speeded up. His patience and insight during his diplomatic days as a Somali Ambassador had been legendary and had brought him a high degree of international acclaim as he had brought many international crises to a successful conclusion. A muffled cough was heard, and a Nepali servant emerged cautiously from around the creeper plant that grew thickly over a wooden trellis, a living screen that divided the large sitting area from the equally large dining room in the huge house left to me by my father. I couldn’t be bothered to move from my perch on Michael’s armrest. I didn’t care a shit what the servants thought. “Ah, it’s Thapa, Michael. Another cup of tea? It’s time I left you and got ready. We can talk about our Sweden trip later.” *** “It’s very good of you to come by to see me, Ambassador Johnson,”

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said Michael Marco affably in his soft African lisp. “Do sit down and make yourself comfortable.” Vincent Johnson sat opposite Michael and carefully placed a large bouquet of flowers on the floor. “On the contrary, sir, it is good of you to receive me at such short notice. I was returning to my post as Indian ambassador in Bhutan and took a chance that you might be free. The flowers are for the lady of the house.” “Thank you. She will be here presently. And you were right. I have nothing much to do these days, so the shorter the notice, the better. Certainly nothing more important than to see an old friend, if I may presume so much.” “Of course, Ambassador Marco. It’s my privilege that you think of me that way. We are together in mourning the loss of my diplomatic mentor and your great admirer Chandrashekhar Rishikesh. The Maoists in Bengal have much to answer for. They killed a really great soul who was working for their best interests.” “And they killed my friend Baldev Vaccher in the same explosion. He was also a supporter, in his own way, of the welfare of the poor villagers and the forest people. To refer to the Holy Bible, it’s a case of forgive them, O Lord, for they know not what they do. They murdered two of their most influential supporters. Mr Vaccher entrusted the care of his daughter Tatiana to me in his will, which is how I come to be living here in this great luxury.” As if on cue, Thapa arrived with a tray of Darjeeling tea, cashew nuts, walnuts, a silver nut-cracker and cream biscuits. Leaving the refreshments on a low centre table, he silently withdrew. “I have a message for you from the Foreign Secretary in New Delhi, Ambassador Marco.” “Flowers and a message!” exclaimed Michael with a childish grin on his wrinkled round face, “we are greatly favoured today by the Indian Ministry of External Affairs.” “These are only a reflection of the great respect you are held in by my government, Ambassador Marco. As you may know, the Foreign Secretary has just been changed; there was some scandal concerning the sad events in Uppsala and Mr Imtiaz Mahmud has been

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transferred to Juba in South Sudan. Mr Dipak Sarkar has taken his place as head of the foreign service and the senior-most diplomat in India. He sends his regards and greetings to you.” “That is most kind of him. I am much obliged. Please reciprocate them.” Michael leaned forward to pour out the tea into two china cups. “Given your familiarity with what happened in Uppsala with the death of Shashi Satish, the Foreign Secretary would be happy to inform you about everything he knows about the matter, but he would prefer to do so personally. So he enquires when you might be able to visit him in New Delhi. He very much hopes you will come soon. I may mention at the outset, sir, that I have no knowledge about what he wishes to convey to you. I am simply the messenger.” “And the message is duly noted and appreciated, Mr Ambassador. It just so happens that I may have to be in New Delhi shortly to obtain visas from the Swedish Embassy for Ms Tatiana Vaccher and myself. When I do, I’ll check if the Foreign Secretary has any time for me. I wonder if you knew that the late Mr Shashi Satish was Mr Rishikesh’s son and Ms Tatiana Vaccher’s fiancé? Ms Vaccher is anxious to see the place where her fiancé died.” “I had heard something about those connections but without any detail. The Foreign Secretary would be delighted to see you. Everyone in our Foreign Ministry considers it a privilege to meet such a famous diplomat.” “Such praise is wholly unmerited. I was blessed with large slices of good fortune in my career and with friends who were prone to exaggerate my contributions. But returning to the Sweden visit, I would like to ask the Foreign Ministry to help Tatiana if she should need any assistance during her stay there.” “Certainly. That should be no problem at all. Please mention it to the Foreign Secretary, and I will send him a message as well when I get back to Bhutan.” Tatiana came in with a billow of perfume wearing a string of big pearls, a long green embroidered shirt over blue jeans and high Prada heels. Both men rose, Michael with a small stagger and using the arms of his chair for support.

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Vincent Johnson picked up and handed over the bouquet with a small bow. “Good afternoon, Ma’am. My name is Vincent Johnson from the Ministry of External Affairs. Please accept my sympathies on your terrible personal tragedies of the past few months.” “Thank you,” replied Tatiana simply. “I’ll take these to Thapa to put in a vase. Excuse me.” “And I must go now, Ambassador Marco,” Johnson said. “Do you by chance, Mr Ambassador, know anything about the three friends of Shashi’s who were in Sweden with him, and who have not been heard of since?” “The three other Indian activists for children’s rights? It was strange how they vanished into thin air, wasn’t it? Everyone has gone very quiet about it. But the Foreign Secretary may have some information for you when you meet him. You must ask him.” Michael smiled warmly again. “Another reason for me to get to New Delhi as soon as possible.” They shook hands and walked together to the front lobby. Thapa appeared from the pantry to open the outside door and escort the Ambassador to his car. Michael stood in the doorway in a crumpled dark suit, tie askew, shirt collar button undone, perspiring and screwing up his eyes against the glare of the high Bengali sun. *** Vincent Johhnson speaks I saw him, unmistakably him, from a distance at the check-in counter of the Air India flight to Delhi, in a shabby suit looking the worse for wear, stooping, petitioning, and with a self-deprecating smile on his face. I paused and looked again; here was one of the world’s leading diplomats, a model for people like myself who were still climbing the greasy pole of the civil service. Michael Marco collected his boarding pass and shuffled away. I made no haste to join him since I was on the same flight and there would be time enough for a conversation in the business class lounge. The security check was of an unusual intensity, which was not surprising due to the repeated warnings of terrorist attacks which had

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taken place with great ferocity in Kashmir and various locations in Northern India. These were attributed to Pakistan’s hostility though no group had yet claimed responsibility. I discovered that Michael Marco was not in the reserved lounge, and hurried to the gate and join him and the rest of the passengers. I slipped into the vacant seat next to him. Most Indians would not choose to sit next to an African if they could avoid it. “Ambassador Marco, this is a welcome surprise,” I began. He turned his lightly scarred face to look at me. There was a flash of surprise and then recognition. “Mr Ambassador Vincent Johnson, you must be on your way to the capital? Well met! Welcome indeed for me.” “What takes you there, Ambassador Marco? And how long do you plan to stay?” “I am no longer an ambassador, Mr Johnson, I cannot use an appellation I am not entitled to. In fact your Ministry has summoned me even before I could set my own visa plans in motion. I am to meet the Foreign Secretary tomorrow.” “If you remain in Delhi, I would welcome the chance to invite you for a meal.” “The Ministry has arranged my accommodation for a night at the International Centre. I will not over-stay my welcome.” Michael Marco was never ironic, never cruel. “So you leave tomorrow itself? Then we shall have no time.” “I return to Calcutta. You remember Mr Baldev Vaccher’s daughter Tatiana? She is pressing me to accompany her to Sweden. I think I told you that she wants to visit the place where her fiancé Shashi Satish was murdered? In fact I am depositing both our passports with the Swedish Embassy in Delhi for our visas.” “That was a dreadful business in Uppsala,” I said inadequately. “I was already posted in Bhutan at that time, and may not be aware of all the facts. Baldev Vaccher was later killed along with Satish’s father in that Maoist bombing at Calcutta was he not?” “He was indeed, Mr Ambassador. Tatiana has been in deep sadness twice over ever since. Perhaps it will help her to get over

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Shashi’s death if she goes to Uppsala. I am not sure about that but I think it’s a chance worth taking.” “And about the other three kids who were with Shashi at Uppsala. You asked me about them, but do you have any private ideas? They just disappeared, didn’t they?” “With over a billion Indians, three more or less don’t seem to matter much,” replied Michael gravely. “They are still out of sight, and no one knows their whereabouts.” I knew that my next question to Michael Marco was unprofessional and indiscreet; “Why do you think the Ministry is in such a hurry to get you to Delhi? It couldn’t be only to inform you about what they know about Shashi Satish, could it?” Michael looked at me steadily with his cloudy brown eyes. “I have no idea, Mr Ambassador. But they have paid for my ticket and it was fortuitous timing. I propose to ask the Foreign Secretary to help us to obtain the Swedish visas quickly.” “Is the situation in your homeland of Somalia improving, Ambassador Marco?” I asked, changing the subject deliberately. “The piracy at sea is much less now, I gather.” “That is so, Mr Ambassador. But it served the purpose of deflecting international attention from the horrors and inhumanity on the land. The Islamists hold much of the country and the only part that functions at all is the former British Somaliland. You’ve perhaps heard of Hargeisa or Berbera? That’s where I shall return one day.” The Delhi flight was called and we both joined the long queue waiting to board, though it matters little whether one is the first or the last to get on a plane. It is a strange aspect of human instinct that there is both a rush to board an aircraft and a rush to get off it. There were several security checks, including pat-downs, on the way to the aircraft. Once on the plane, I turned left towards the business class while Michael Marco slid away towards his economy class seat. It was not possible that the Ministry had sent a person of his renown an economy class ticket. He must have chosen to travel that way and no doubt refunded the savings to the Ministry. He was a person of the greatest scruple.

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