The Eye of Shiva

CHAPTER 2

"One year, perhaps more. Perhaps less."

Doctor Singh set aside the folder with the scan results and looked at Ashok Rao, not without sympathy. The background sounds of New Delhi drifted through an open window.

Curious, Singh thought. The man shows no reaction.

"You are absolutely certain," Rao said. "There's no possibility of a mistake."

"I'm afraid not. The tumor is inoperable. The headaches will begin to occur with more frequency. Eventually there will be blackouts."

"Will there be pain?"

"Yes, and nausea. Disorientation. Like a migraine. I'll prescribe medication for you. The symptoms will become more evident in a few months. Over time it will become more and more difficult for you to function. Are you married?"

"No."

"I suggest you make arrangements while you're able to do so."

"Arrangements?"

"For terminal care." Singh had the grace to look uncomfortable.

Rao listened to Singh pronounce his death sentence and resisted an urge to reach out and choke him. Outwardly, there was no sign of his rage. He'd learned long ago to conceal his true feelings. Concealment meant safety.

Rao was the Secretary of the Office of Special Operations for the Research and Analysis Wing, India's CIA. He directed a network of spies, informers and military units that carried out targeted assassinations, false flag operations and counterterrorism. In India, Rao was a powerful man. All of that power could not stop the cancer growing in his brain.

Rao barely listened to Singh's instructions for follow-up appointments and tests. He knew he wouldn't be seeing the good doctor again.

If word of Rao's illness reached the agency, he'd be shuffled aside and forced to resign. That couldn't be allowed to happen. Without agency resources he would never get his revenge. The tests and records were under a false name and Doctor Singh was the only one who knew what Rao looked like. Something would have to be done about Doctor Singh.

A few minutes later Rao stood on the sidewalk outside Singh's building. He wanted to scream at the people hurrying by. Look at me! I'm alive! No one did. If any of them had bothered, they would have seen another aging civil servant in a rumpled suit. Rao was 61 years old. For his age, he'd thought he was in excellent condition. Then the headaches had started a few months ago. And now, this.

He flagged down a cab, a shiny black and yellow Ambassador.

"The temple of Shiva near the market on Peshwa Road. Do you know it?"

"I know it," the cabbie said.

Twenty minutes later, Rao took off his shoes and placed them by the temple entrance before he entered. The temple on Peshwa Road wasn't one of the largest temples in New Delhi, but it sheltered a statue of Shiva unique among the many thousands found throughout the city. Inside it was dim and quiet, calm contrast to the glare and noise outside. The floor under foot was cool stone, worn smooth over hundreds of years by devotees come to worship. Overhead, the ceiling rose in a perfect stepped pyramid toward the heavens. The air was heavy with incense, the sweet fragrance of a thousand flowers.

The heart of the temple was an ancient statue of Shiva in his wrathful form, the god who unleashed divine fire and karmic retribution from his third eye. The figure stood on the crushed bodies of slain demons. Four arms wielded terrible weapons. A belt of skulls encircled Shiva's waist and poisonous snakes of silver coiled around his neck.

Carved into Shiva's forehead was an empty socket for the third eye. Centuries before, the space had been filled with an enormous ruby. The jewel had been stolen in the sixteenth century by the Muslim ruler, then looted from the emperor's treasury during the sack of Delhi in 1739. No one had ever seen it again.

Rao often came to the temple to contemplate the god's image and remind himself of Muslim treachery. For Rao, the Eye was a symbol of the heart of India, violated by Muslims who had ripped the nation apart to create the abomination of Pakistan. A prophecy predicted the downfall of India's enemies if the Eye was returned. Over the last few years Rao had become obsessed with finding the missing jewel.

Rao knelt before the statue. He was about to begin his meditation when he felt someone watching him. He turned and saw an elderly, well-dressed Indian man standing motionless nearby.

The man's gnarled hands rested on the gold handle of a walking cane made of polished rosewood. His shirt was a soft, perfect cream color. Gold cufflinks glittered at his wrists. He wore an expensive gray suit and handmade shoes. His skin was a medium brown. He was thin, with high cheekbones and dark eyes, his face grooved with the passage of years. Rao had never seen the man before. He would have noticed him if he were a regular devotee.

"Many seek Lord Shiva." The man's voice was quiet and powerful. "Few dream of restoring the eye to its rightful place."

"How did you know that?" Rao was shocked. He had told no one of his obsession.

"I know a lot of things about you, Secretary Rao."

Rao's heart began hammering inside his chest. He stood and glanced at the entrance, long yards away. Few people knew who he was. Rao looked for the telltale bulge of a gun under the tailored jacket but there was nothing to be seen. The man's hands rested on his cane. Besides, he was old for an assassin. He seemed to pose no threat.

"You know who I am but you have the advantage," Rao said. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"My name is Krivi. What I want is the same thing you do. I represent an organization that wishes to help you."

Rao laughed. There was no mirth in it. "What organization? You don't know what I want." He thought of Doctor Singh. "Besides, there isn't much that can help me now."

"Oh, but there is," the suited man said. "We know about your medical condition. It's true we can't cure it, but we can prevent the worst effects for quite some time and keep the pain away. Our medical expertise is beyond most capabilities. It will give you time to achieve that which you most desire."

Rao couldn't believe this man knew about his illness. No one knew. He'd just found out himself less than an hour before.

"What is it you think I desire?"

"The destruction of Pakistan. Revenge for the death of your family."

Rao was speechless. It was true. Rao's wife and son had died years before, during an attack by Muslim terrorists seeking to drive India from Kashmir. The operation had been planned and carried out with the blessing of ISI, Pakistan's Inter-Services Intelligence Agency. Rao loathed Pakistan. He loathed all things Muslim, especially the jihadists.

He found his voice. "An organization that wants to help me? Why me? What organization?"

"We are a group of patriots unhappy with our government's policies toward Islamabad. Like you, Ashok. We're going to do something about it. Our intention is to provoke war with Pakistan. Our goal is to reunify India and reclaim the land stolen from us during the partition."

Rao looked around. There was no one nearby to overhear.

"That is treason. I could have you arrested."

Krivi laughed. "Treason is a relative word. We both know you're not going to have me arrested. You asked who we were." He gestured at the statue. "We call ourselves the Eye of Shiva. We are the instrument of India's retribution."

Rao looked at the fine suit, the polished cane, the expensive shoes, the outward signs of wealth. In India, as in most places, wealth equaled power. Krivi was a serious man.

"You haven't told me what you want in return."

"You are in a unique position to help us," Krivi said. "You have an extensive network of agents. You know the secrets of the government, what they are doing, what they are planning. You can find and track almost anyone. These are all useful assets. In return, we can add six months to your life, perhaps longer. Before your time is finished, you will have the revenge you seek. You will be a hero of the New India."

Krivi was offering what every Hindu nationalist in India dreamed of. Too good to be true, Rao thought.

"How do I know you are serious? Why should I believe you?" Rao said.

"Why indeed? I don't blame you for being skeptical. I assume you are unhappy with the fact that Doctor Singh can identify you?"

Rao said nothing.

"I see that I am correct," Krivi said. "As a gesture of good faith, we will take care of this small difficulty for you."

He handed Rao a white card of heavy linen stock. The only thing on the card was a telephone number, embossed in elegant black letters.

"Call this number when you are ready. Use your encrypted phone."

Rao looked down at the card, thinking. When he looked up again, Krivi was already at the entrance of the temple.

"Wait," Rao said.

By the time Rao reached the street, Krivi was getting into the back of a silver Mercedes limousine with tinted windows. The car pulled away. The license plate was unreadable.

The next day, Rao read about a fire in Doctor Singh's building. The structure had been gutted and six people were dead, Doctor Singh among them. Krivi had kept his word. Whoever he was, his organization was ruthless and efficient. Rao appreciated ruthlessness and efficiency.

Rao called the number on the card.

"Meet me in Bhuta Jayanti Park," Krivi said. "You know the pavilion near the temple?"

"Yes," Rao said.

"Be there tomorrow. Two o'clock in the afternoon."

Rao put his phone away.

On the other side of New Delhi, on the top floor of one of the new temples of commerce rising throughout the city, Krivi set his phone down on a polished conference table and turned to the man sitting across from him.

Johannes Gutenberg was dressed in an Italian suit made of material not available to the average customer. The jacket fit with perfection across his narrow chest, creating an impression of a larger, more powerful man. Gutenberg owned one of the oldest and largest banks in Europe. He was no relation to the man who had invented the printing press, though he appreciated the use of Gutenberg's invention to produce clean, crisp euros and dollars by the billions.

"Rao has agreed to meet," Krivi said.

"Good. He believed your story about a group of patriots?"

"It's what he wanted to hear. He assumes we are Indian nationalists like him. He'd change his mind if he saw your European face."

Gutenberg laughed. "You're a closet racist, Krivi."

Krivi shrugged. "Most everyone is."

Gutenberg said, "People always make assumptions based on what they want to hear. Do you think he'll find a way?"

"We may have to make a few suggestions, but yes, I think he will. He's motivated."

Gutenberg nodded. "He may balk at launching the missiles when the time comes."

"It's possible, but we've spent a lot of time on understanding his psychology. He'll do it. We'll let him stir things up first. Once things are in motion, it will be easier."

"If he does his job well, the government will do it on their own."

"That's so," Krivi said, "but I don't like leaving things to chance. Rao is our first choice."

"Everyone knows Indian missiles are inaccurate," Gutenberg said. "When some of them land in China, it will be blamed on faulty technology."

"The missiles will go where they're needed," Krivi said. "The lesson will be painful. It will take Beijing years to recover."

"We warned them," Gutenberg said. His voice was dismissive, touched with contempt. "They think they can go their own way, meddle with the financial system. They don't understand who we are. It's past time they learned who was in charge."

"In a way, you can't blame them. We've concealed our existence for a long time," Krivi said. "It's unfortunate their leaders didn't listen."

Gutenberg looked at his watch, a gold Patek-Phillipe. "I need to get back to Geneva."

"You'll brief the others?"

"Of course."

Gutenberg stood. Krivi rose with him.

"It's good to see you, Johannes."

"And you. You must come home soon."

"I'll come before the war starts. Tell Marta I miss her chef's cooking."

The two men shook hands. After Gutenberg had left, Krivi thought about Marta's desserts and the fine, rich chocolate of Switzerland.

He was fond of chocolate.