Espionage Diary

That night, spies descended on my hotel room for ‘happy hours’. Besides Dulat and Durrani, the celebrants were former Pakistan High Commissioner Aziz Ahmed Khan and ex-RAW chief C.D. Sahay. (Former Intelligence Bureau special director K.M. Singh and the ISI’s ex-chief Ehsan-ul Haq preferred to report to their bosses. Yes, their wives.) Sahay is a teetotaller, but Aziz was well and truly liberated, telling ribald jokes, his face turning ruddy with each roar of laughter. Dulat is an inscrutable drinker; Durrani nods his head continuously, like a doll at Shankar’s Museum in Delhi. We stumbled up to the terrace for dinner, and along with the uxorious gentlemen (and the wives), talked volubly about the popularity of Pakistani TV serials. “That’s in north India,” I interjected, uninvited. “In the northeast, Korean serials are the most popular.” A hush descended on the table, as if I had just set Indo-Pak relations back a decade.

January 2017 at a hotel on the Chao Phraya river in Bangkok: despite six months apart, Durrani has grown used to me. He still has a fauji’s disdain for journalistic recklessness and indiscipline. One breakfast we shared a table, and he opened up about the memoir he had long been toiling over. My alarm bells sounded: a ‘scoop’ must be guarded more closely than any secret. His memoir should not clash with our book. “It may confuse the readers,” the publisher, with an eye on sales, later agreed. Durrani emailed me the PDF of Pakistan Adrift in December and I sighed in relief. It’s as reliably turgid as any bureaucratic memoir; what need has the ISI for the rack when it can break a captive thus?

Our last sessions were in October 2017 at a hotel in Sukhumvit, Bangkok, again following an ‘intel dialogue’ between the two countries. The Pakistanis were in a foul mood. The Indians had been combative, inflicting on them the most unkindest cut of all—presentations. It perhaps negated the idea of Track 2. We knew the Pakistanis were keeping their GHQ informed about the dialogue, but we didn’t account for the Indians wielding a ‘muscular’ brief from their top dog.

Each spy chief had had his doubts as the book progressed. Durrani never said as much, but on a couple of occasions it was clear that he was getting cold feet. Dulat twice privately wondered whether it was worth going ahead. He never exp­lained his anxiety, but I could guess— word had leaked to the government and it was unhappy. (This explains the anaemic press coverage upon the book’s release; one major newspaper at the last minute withdrew its plans for a Sunday spread).

In these final days, Durrani was slow to warm up, and had to be defrosted. We chatted about this and that—I had loads of questions—and as we sat in a business lounge, a young Russian voice rang out, calling for General Durrani. The gentleman had recently organised a conference in Russia on Afghanistan that Durrani had attended— the Russians in the last few years had devoted attention to him, as India inched closer to the US —and hey presto, the same gentleman was in our hotel, on holiday. Durrani perked up immensely as they exchanged hugs and introductions. The Russian soon departed for sightseeing, and Durrani plunged into the discussions with renewed vigour. Dulat smiled at me and winked.

(The writer is a former editor of The New Indian Express and an author)