The Third World War: A Terrifying Novel of Global Conflict

45

Ahmed Memed sat in the corner of the room and heard the music, tinny and mournful, drifting up from the market below. He spread his hands, momentarily seeming unsure where to put them, before resting them on his knees. Muda sat next to him, his eyes cast down on the carpet. Across the room, also on the floor, but sitting more awkwardly, were Brigadier Najeeb Hussain and General Zaid Musa. They had the power of Pakistan's armed forces behind them, but they deferred to Memed because he was their legitimacy.

'I will tell you some truth,' said Memed. 'It should not have happened like this, but it has.'

For a few moments, he let a silence grow. His eyes were on Hussain, the man who last saw Qureshi alive and who should have read his mind. Muda, the assassin, was motionless. Hussain glanced towards Musa, but Musa's eyes were on Memed.

'War always contains bad things,' continued Memed, shifting his look to Muda, then down to his own hands. 'One way or another that is what happens. If we have resolve, we will win.'

Musa shifted to a more comfortable position. 'We will have your support?'

'They are not Pakistan's only weapons. They belong to the war. We must not lose the weapons we have. If we use them, it will show our resolve.'

Memed stood up. Muda was on his feet too, the bulge of his weapons showing through his loose, cotton shirt. 'You must work with our allies and you may have a problem with China,' said Memed, smoothing down his robe. 'I will help you.'

Musa and Hussain listened to the cleric and his assassin walk down the wooden stairs of the run-down tenement block in Rawalpindi. Hussain got to his feet and watched them emerge into the crowded, ragged streets where they would not be recognized. He felt Musa at his side, watching as well. Their figures in the window darkened the room.

Musa shook Hussain's hand. 'We've won,' he said, smiling. He slapped his hand against the window frame. 'We've bloody won.'