2034: A Novel of the Next World War(64)
When his uncle greeted him at the door, he didn’t mention the delay, and even explained that “his guest” had also arrived late, though not quite as late as his nephew. The house was empty aside from the three of them. At his uncle’s behest Ashni had enrolled in the local primary school, a decision Chowdhury hadn’t felt certain of but that his mother supported, leading to perhaps the first time in decades the two long-estranged siblings had agreed on anything. Chowdhury was glad that at this moment he wouldn’t need to face his mother or daughter as his uncle escorted him into the den.
The room was furnished with a love seat, a wing chair, a bookshelf, and a television in the corner on whose screen a troupe of colorfully attired dancers gesticulated about a stage in what looked like the climactic third act of some Bollywood production. A man stood waiting in the center of the room. Before Chowdhury could catch his name, he noticed that he had only three fingers on his right hand. They shook. Chowdhury was introduced as “my nephew, Sandeep, who works for the American government,” while his uncle introduced his guest as “Qassem, a Persian friend.”
A slight duplicity existed in Patel’s introduction, one which Chowdhury didn’t mind but of which he was certainly aware. His uncle evidently assumed that Chowdhury knew nothing of this Iranian officer. Chowdhury knew a great deal. He had read Major Mitchell’s debriefing from his captivity in Bandar Abbas, which included—among other details—a lengthy description of the three-fingered Iranian brigadier who’d beaten him senseless. What Chowdhury didn’t understand was how Farshad, a former senior-level officer in the Revolutionary Guards Quds Force, had wound up here, on a somewhat quixotic diplomatic mission to negotiate the release of an Indian tanker.
The three of them sat in the den, with Patel strategically placed in the wing chair while Farshad and Chowdhury were forced to share the love seat, a seating arrangement that reminded Chowdhury of the interminable sessions he’d spent in marriage counseling years before. Farshad and Chowdhury had begun to speak of their nations’ current dispute with the same low-level acrimony of one of those matrimonial sessions.
It was, said Chowdhury, unacceptable for the Iranians to claim control over the Strait of Hormuz. The consequences to the global economy, which had already suffered enormously due to the current Sino-American War and now teetered on the edge of a depression, would be devastating, to say nothing of the effects on Iran, which would surely suffer further censure and perhaps renewed sanctions, similar to what they’d endured two decades before during their failed nuclear bid.
At the mention of the sanctions, Farshad clenched his hands into fists. His face reddened. No doubt Farshad’s career, in Iraq, in Afghanistan, in Palestine and Syria, and wherever else he’d fought over the past thirty years, had been inextricably linked to the West’s punitive measures against his country, making Chowdhury’s evocation of sanctions far more personal than a policy disagreement between two nations. And knowing how Farshad had lost control of himself during his interrogation of Major Mitchell, Chowdhury now wondered if he might be the victim of a similar episode. Might he find himself battered to unconsciousness in his uncle’s den by this Iranian?
However, Farshad took a breath. His body language began to change. His shoulders relaxed. His fists opened. His complexion unreddened. Then, in his calmest voice, Farshad said, “I wouldn’t be here if my nation didn’t believe a solution existed to our current problem.”
Chowdhury, seizing upon this, nodded agreement. “We feel the same way. Neither of our countries wish to see a further spread of hostilities. I believe I also speak for our Indian allies when I say that they don’t wish to be brought into this conflict either. They’ve stayed out of our dispute with Beijing, as have our other allies like the Japanese, and it would be foolish for this conflict to take on an even broader dimension due to a”—Chowdhury paused a beat, searching for the correct word—“miscalculation.”
The miscalculation, however, seemed to be in Chowdhury’s choice to speak for Indian interests and in so doing to speak for his uncle, who glowered at him from his place in the wing chair and then silenced him with a dismissive wave. “The fact of the matter is,” Patel began, “that neither of your nations has behaved in its best interest. America’s hubris has finally gotten the better of its greatness. You’ve squandered your blood and treasure to what end?” He looked directly at his nephew but did not wait for an answer. “For freedom of navigation in the South China Sea? For the sovereignty of Taiwan? Isn’t the world large enough for your government and Beijing’s? Perhaps you’ll win this war. But for what? To be like the British after the Second World War, your empire dismantled, your society in retreat? And millions of dead on both sides?” Then Patel turned his attention to Farshad. “Tell me, Lieutenant Commander, how does it serve your nation to provoke us, a neutral power with a population fifteen times the size of your own? We’re more than capable of taking back our ship, if need be. And we’re capable of far more, if further provoked.” Then the retired vice admiral sat a little straighter in his chair, his shoulders rounded backward, his chest filling with air, addressing both Farshad and Chowdhury as though he were again in command on one of his ships and they were subordinates to whom he was issuing a course correction. “You both represent countries that began this war. I represent a country that is capable of finishing it.”