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."