The Main Enemy Milton Bearden (read full novel .txt) 📖

with the Sikhs. But everybody knows it was Sundarji himself who caused all the problems—he was behind the incident at the Sikh temple, you know.”

I did indeed know that two years earlier General Sundarji had stormed the Sikhs’ holiest shrine in Amritsar, the Golden Temple, setting off one of the bloodiest Sikh uprisings in a decade of uprisings. And I knew that the Indians, like the Pakistanis, always saw their neighbor’s hand in their internal problems.

As if on cue, Akhtar added, “The Indians are mucking around in the Sindh, stirring up trouble for us there. I’m certain they’re going to do something dangerous—you have to pass that along to Casey. We need his help. We need to know if the Indians are planning to move up to the border.”

“I’ll pass your concerns along,” I said noncommittally. I was seeing firsthand the depth of distrust between the Indians and Pakistanis. There was no limit to what one side was willing to believe of the other. The intensity verged on the psychotic, and it would not be the last time that I would be drawn into escalating tensions between the two countries. The split between India and Pakistan was like a bad divorce, all the more acrimonious because of their long bond and cohabitation.

As I prepared to leave, I decided to tell Akhtar that Casey wasn’t well. There was still no official word on his condition, but I wanted Akhtar to hear it from me rather than from the press or from his attaché in Washington.

“General,” I said, turning back to him at the door, “I’ve just heard that Mr. Casey was taken ill three days ago. They’re running some tests in the hospital. Bob Gates is acting DCI now, and I’ll pass your concerns directly on to him. It’s a good thing that he was just out here for a visit. He’ll have a leg up on the situation.”

Akhtar was suspicious. “You’re sure it’s just some tests?”

“So far as I know,” I answered.

I could see Akhtar had his doubts about Casey’s tests being routine. The pessimist in him was taking hold—he seemed to sense that he was losing his good-luck charm.

“Please call if there’s any news at all.”

“I will,” I said, leaving a troubled General Akhtar behind to deal with the Indians on the border and the possible loss of his man in Washington.

Later that morning, I notified Langley of the level of tension building in Pakistan as the new Indian exercise got under way. I didn’t know at the time that the tension would almost spin out of control in a matter of weeks. Nor did I have a feel for just how serious Bill Casey’s situation was at that time, physically and politically.

First Chief Directorate Headquarters, Yasenevo, January 1986

Leonid Shebarshin had been following the drama unfolding on India’s border with Pakistan with special attention. He knew that the Pakistanis would see a massive conspiracy behind the Indian exercises, that they would become convinced the exercise had been mounted to draw their attention, and that of their American friends, from the ongoing war on their western border to a possible flare-up on the eastern front. He knew the Pakistanis would also conclude that the plot to destabilize Pakistan had been hatched in Moscow and that everything would evolve according to some grand plan.

But the KGB general also knew that South Asia had a way of getting mired all by itself, without the master hand of the Kremlin behind every plot, real or imagined. The truth of the matter was that the Indians were carrying out their Brasstacks exercise on their own and that Moscow had no hand in pushing them to create a diversion to ease the pressures in Afghanistan. Never mind that it might be working out that way; it just wasn’t part of a grand plan.

Nevertheless, Shebarshin would have to follow Brasstacks closely. That old South Asian bugaboo—miscalculation and overreaction—could always pop up. And that could heat things up, probably more than anyone would like.

Islamabad, January 29, 1987

I sat alone in the ISI reception room, waiting for Akhtar to join me for the “urgent” meeting he had called to discuss “events on the border.” He was referring to Brasstacks and to Pakistan’s response. General Sundarji and Zia had made a series of troop moves and countermoves that by mid-January had escalated tensions to the point at which the slightest movement could have sparked a war.

On January 19, the New Delhi press screamed, PAK MASSING TROOPS ALL ALONG BORDER, and Indian Prime Minister Gandhi expressed “tremendous concern” about the Pakistani buildup at a press conference the next day. Over the next week, both Indian and Pakistani intelligence fed their respective press corps a steady stream of inflammatory rumors of the other side’s preparations for war. The Indians became convinced that Zia had stealthily maneuvered an armored corps into position for a lightning strike into India’s Punjab, with the goal of separating Kashmir from the rest of India. As tensions grew, there were press reports of Pakistani Army engineers mining the bridges around Lahore as a means of stopping the Indian advance that was now so sure to come. On January 23, India mobilized its forces, and Pakistan followed suit. The stage for another war between the two South Asian neighbors was set. That same evening, Zia directed his prime minister, Mohammed Khan Junejo, to call his counterpart in New Delhi to open a dialogue to deescalate. Then, against the counsel of his advisers, Zia announced he planned to attend a cricket match in New Delhi. And almost as quickly as it had arisen, the tension dissipated.

Akhtar strode into the reception room with his note taker, Colonel Riaz, trailing two steps behind him. He was talking as he entered.

“The president pulled it off,” Akhtar said, beaming.

“Pulled it off?” I was a little taken aback by Akhtar’s smug sense of triumph.

Akhtar frowned. “Yes. It was close, but Zia’s nerves were steel. He held back his troops from their forward