The room was long, rectangular, and painted spotless white. There were no decorations and furniture, except one long wooden table with a microphone fitted on it. One wooden chair, which seemed to be a model from the late seventeenth century was placed at the end, so that the person could speak into the microphone. One set of speakers and a lamp were fitted into the ceiling, from which white light is focused onto the chair. For the person entering the room from the far end, the chair in focus appeared like his final sitting arrangement before execution; electrocution, to be precise.

The man was in military khakis, donning the camouflage pattern. With a woollen cap tilted to the right, his beard trimmed to a spiky bush and his moustache neatly shaved, he looked like a man whose face no one would remember if he didn’t wear his uniform. With a height of slightly over five feet and normal build, his appearance never instilled fear in his opponents, including his wife. Though he never impressed his wife, he was an illustrious figure amongst the ladies in the army colony, for being the only man with only one wife. Despite fearing his wife, he managed to create an impression that he was a caring husband. Daughter of a powerful landlord and a senior colonel, she was his passport for a position in the army, which he wanted more than anything else in his life.

At the young age of forty, Syed Ashraf Pasha was third in command in the Pakistani army. Though his immediate superior was due for retirement in a couple of years, the current chief had seven more years of service, and Pasha didn’t want to wait so long. He wanted to be the chief in the next three years, and then, as many of his predecessors, he planned to take over the country, and rule as long as he can. Of course, if things changed, he could always settle in Scotland, where he already owned an eighteenth century mansion along with a few thousand acres of estate land. One needn’t strain his brains to understand the source of his wealth, for it was a normal occurrence in many banana republics.

Pasha’s current mission was to get briefed for his next mission. Like most military men, he treated the International Cease Fire Day in a lighter way. And letting peace exist for a period of more than six months in his country would destabilise the only stable establishment of his country, i.e., the army. He was in the secluded building of the armament dealers. He was specially invited by Jules Borg for a briefing.

Pasha walked slowly to the lone chair and settled himself. Trying to sit upright to impress his patrons cum financiers, he took the help of the table’s height. Resting both his arms before him, and clasping his hands, he projected resoluteness through his body language. Despite the chill in the air, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Trying to be casual, he opened the water bottle and poured some into the glass beside it. Sipping slowly, he took out a checked handkerchief from his trousers’ pocket and pressed it on his forehead, like a fashion model making a style statement.

And he waited.

Borg and his cronies, sitting in another room, were watching Pasha on a large screen and making comments that probably could be funny but bordered on hate. Significantly, the Arab was more vocal in commenting on the colour of the soldier.

After making him wait for nearly ten minutes, Borg flicked a switch and the speakers in front of Pasha came to life.

“Good Morning, Major,” Borg greeted Pasha. Startling at the sudden sound, Pasha looked in all directions and murmured into the microphone, “Good Morning.”

All four merchants laughed at his inconvenience. The Arab felt a bit of brotherliness, “I think this is not fair. I mean we can see him and he cannot,” he expressed his concern in a low, hushed tone.

Covering the microphone with his palm, Borg replied sternly, “We are not on a date. And we are not regular businessmen with legal licenses. Listen to us and think,” he lifted his palm off the microphone and spoke into the microphone.

“So, Pasha, how is life in Pakistan? Recently I heard that you are going to lead the intelligence wing, huh?”

“It was only a rumour, Sir. My wife told me,” Pasha played the dim husband role well. Pasha knew that they asked for him specifically and the reason was his image of a coward, but shrewd strategist. As long as it worked to his advantage, he had no qualms about what they thought of him.

“How do you look at the cease fire thing? I mean, your personal opinion,” Borg started the conversation.

“It is a regular annual fare that is needed to relax nerves of many a leader. And many other international deals are also brokered during such an event.”

“And what does your Government think of it?”

“Our Prime Minster is there visiting his banks and making some investments. Anyway, during winter, it was peaceful at our borders. It is difficult to fight in those mighty mountains.”

“Does your army also think the same thing?”

“Winter is a time for us to prepare for summer. We repair all vehicles and other equipment. Resources are transported and armament is replenished, so that everybody is engaged in summer.”

“Are you planning anything big?”

“Big... how big, you mean?” stretching his hands, Pasha asked.

“For how long do you engage India on that border? With their outsourcing industry growing at a higher pace, all western corporations are depending on India, either directly or indirectly. Killing few soldiers at Kashmir border is like scratching a buffalo with a comb. They have plenty of poor people, and they can afford to lose a few thousand lives. The number of lives the Indian army lost in a year due to your skirmishes at border is less than the number of lives lost in road mishaps in a day. Their officers want more budgets and hence they offer few lives to you,” Borg explained. “What I am specifically asking is—are you planning for any big adventure that can tilt the balance to your side, at least for few years?”

Pasha remained silent. He understood the game. He was being guided. It is better to go with the flow than charting a new course he is not familiar with. He nodded his head, conveying his consent to what was spoken by Borg.

Borg repeated the question, “Do you have any plans?”

Pasha put on a blank face. He poured some water from the bottle and slowly took a sip, and swirled it in his mouth, letting the moisture reach all the corners of his mouth. He suddenly had a doubt, on himself - whether he was pretending to be a fool or if he really was a fool. He smiled at himself and said, “Yes,” with doubt in his voice. He wanted Borg to talk for whatever length of time.

In a tone that was filled with irritation, Borg repeated the question.

“Well, a plan is in place to assassinate one of the opposition leaders,” Pasha replied and went back to sipping water.