Delhi — Mid-September 1947
The whistle had become routine.
That was the lie Delhi told itself to keep breathing.
Ram was still at the Secretariat when the morning's diplomatic pouch arrived—thick, sealed, and heavier than paper should have been. Kishan placed it on the desk with the careful tenderness of a man handling a live coal.
"From External Affairs," Kishan said. "Summaries. Reactions."
Ram didn't open it immediately. He watched the corridor beyond the open window: clerks moving with files, a peon carrying tea, an orderly wiping sweat off his neck with the corner of his cloth. Ordinary motion. The kind of motion that made a country look stable even when it was not.
Patel entered without ceremony and stopped at Ram's shoulder. He didn't ask what the pouch contained. He didn't need to.
"The world is writing its first opinion," Patel said.
Ram exhaled slowly. "And opinions become policy."
He broke the seal.
Inside were clipped pages—telegrams condensed into clean language, foreign newspaper reactions translated into Hindi and English, and short notes from India's missions abroad that read like weather reports about an approaching storm.
Kishan began reading in the same tone he used for casualty lists—flat, controlled, sparing.
"Washington," he said. "Americans express concern about stability and humanitarian crisis. They speak of relief, of 'responsible governance.' They also request assurances—security, trade continuity, and… alignment."
Patel's mouth tightened. "Assurances."
Kishan continued. "They say the violence is a 'test' of whether the new states can govern themselves."
Ram's fingers tightened on the paper. Judgment disguised as care.
"And Moscow?" Ram asked.
Kishan turned the page. "The Soviet note is colder. They call this the collapse of imperial management and frame violence as inevitable cost of colonial division. They speak of self-determination—then ask, indirectly, what India intends to become."
Patel let out a short breath. "They will offer friendship with a hook."
"London," Kishan read next, and his voice shifted almost imperceptibly—the way a man's voice changes when he names a former master. "The British position is public sympathy, private defensiveness. They emphasize 'orderly transfer,' regret the violence, praise the discipline measures at stations, and deny responsibility."
Patel's eyes narrowed. "Of course they do."
Kishan glanced down. "They mention Commonwealth continuity. Trade. Military arrangements. 'Advisory support.'"
Advisory support. Another word for access.
Ram set the pages down. "And the others?"
Kishan nodded and kept going: cautious notes from France about commercial engagement, messages from China that were polite and guarded, reference to the United Nations receiving petitions and questions, and a constant background hum from foreign correspondents in Delhi writing the same story with different adjectives: a nation born in blood, can it survive its birth?
Patel spoke quietly, as if reminding the room that emotion was fuel the wrong people could steal. "They want India stable. Not strong."
Ram's gaze stayed on the papers. "Stable means predictable."
Patel nodded. "And predictable means manageable."
The words landed and stayed.
A clerk knocked and entered, carrying another file—thin, official, stamped with Ambedkar's ordinance seal.
"Prime Minister Sahib," the clerk said, "Home forwarded this. Urgent."
Ram opened it expecting riot updates.
It wasn't riots.
It was worse.
SUBJECT: NEW ATTEMPT — 'ACCESS' REQUEST NO LONGER SEEKS SIGNATURE.METHOD: ROUTED AS PROCEDURAL CONSENT UNDER 'RELIEF COORDINATION.'SOURCE: INTERNAL FACILITATION.
Ram read it twice. No signature meant no obvious crime. No villain at a desk with a pen. Just "procedure," a river quietly diverted.
Patel leaned in and read the header once. His voice dropped. "They stopped asking. They started taking."
Kishan hovered, unsure whether to speak.
Ram closed the file slowly. "Get Nehru."
Kishan hesitated. "Prime Minister Sahib—Panditji is meeting the press and foreign correspondents—"
"Then interrupt," Ram said. "This becomes their story if we don't close it first."
Patel stepped forward, anchor steadying the moment. "Call Ambedkar's office. If they're using 'relief coordination' as a loophole, we kill the loophole. Today."
Another knock—sharper.
This messenger wore the posture of foreign affairs. He bowed quickly and spoke in careful English.
"Prime Minister Gupta, the British High Commissioner requests an audience. The American mission has sent a note asking for a private briefing. The Soviet representative also—"
Patel's eyes narrowed, almost amused. "All in one morning."
Ram didn't smile. He could feel the shape of the trap: concern offered as help, help offered as influence, influence offered as access.
"We will see them," Ram said. "In sequence. On our terms."
Patel's voice was low. "And we say the same thing to all: India is not a vacuum."
Ram's mind moved fast—not with panic, but with architecture. If the world wanted a story, he would give them one that protected the Republic.
"Nehru handles the public message," Ram said. "He speaks of peace, relief, restraint."
Patel nodded. "And you handle the spine."
Ram held up the "access" file. "I handle the doors."
Kishan returned breathless. "Prime Minister Sahib—Panditji is coming."
Patel stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Ram. Remember Liaquat's pushback. They fear being managed."
Ram's jaw tightened. "So do we."
Patel's stare was unblinking. "Then don't speak like the British."
The line hit cleanly because it was true. Fortresses could protect. Fortresses could also turn a state into a clenched fist that never opened again.
Ram nodded once. "Mutuality in diplomacy. Absolute control in internal security."
Patel's eyes softened by a fraction—approval without surrender. "Good."
Outside, the Secretariat corridor hummed. In Delhi Station, the whistle would blow again. Somewhere on a road, someone would still be dying. And somewhere in a quiet office, someone would still be trying to turn "help" into "access."
Ram walked toward the conference room where foreign missions waited, and as he moved, he felt the Republic's newest truth settle into him:
Partition had tested whether India could survive.
Now the world would test whether India could be owned.
The Foreign Envoys The British High Commissioner
The British High Commissioner arrived first, dressed in correctness. His face held the practiced expression of a man trained to look sympathetic without admitting culpability. He offered condolences as if condolences were currency.
"Prime Minister Gupta," he began, "allow me to express His Majesty's Government's deep regret at the tragic disturbances. We are… profoundly concerned."
Ram inclined his head just enough to be polite.
Patel did not incline his head at all.
"We are also," the High Commissioner continued, "encouraged by your government's recent measures—discipline at stations, relief coordination. It is imperative, of course, that order be restored in a manner that maintains confidence."
"Confidence of whom?" Patel asked.
The High Commissioner's smile held. "Confidence of the public. Of investors. Of… international partners."
Ram watched him carefully. The words were gentle. The implication was not.
"India is restoring order," Ram said. "By relief and law. Both."
"Quite," the High Commissioner said. "In that spirit, Britain stands ready to assist. Advisory capacity. Logistical expertise. Communications support, if needed. You will appreciate, Prime Minister, that in such emergencies—"
Ram's eyes did not move, but his attention sharpened. Communications. Always communications.
Patel's voice was calm and hard. "Advisory support. Communications support. You mean access."
The High Commissioner blinked once. "I mean cooperation."
"Cooperation has conditions," Patel replied. "And conditions become control."
The High Commissioner turned slightly toward Ram, as if seeking the softer man.
Ram didn't offer softness.
"We welcome humanitarian assistance," Ram said. "Food, medicine, tents. We do not outsource sovereign functions."
A faint tightening at the High Commissioner's jaw betrayed irritation. It vanished quickly.
"Of course," he said. "Of course. Still, the international view—"
"The international view," Ram interrupted, voice even, "does not govern Delhi Station."
The room cooled by a degree.
The High Commissioner recovered smoothly. "Quite. Still, there is concern that India's internal measures may become… overly rigid. Emergency powers can sometimes—how shall I say—take on a life of their own."
Patel's eyes narrowed. "That is a lesson Britain knows well."
Silence.
The High Commissioner's smile became thinner. "I meant no offense."
Patel did not soften. "Offense isn't the issue. Presumption is."
Ram decided to close the loop before it widened.
"We appreciate Britain's concern," he said. "Our position is simple: humanitarian help is welcome. Advice is heard. Decisions remain ours."
"And the Commonwealth?" the High Commissioner asked, carefully casual.
Ram did not give him what he wanted—a long explanation, a negotiation, a foothold.
"India will engage with the world," Ram said. "As India."
The High Commissioner rose, realizing he would not get more than that. He bowed his head slightly, politeness like armor.
"I shall convey your views," he said.
Patel watched him leave and spoke only when the door closed.
"They still speak like landlords."
Ram's voice was quiet. "They still expect keys to rooms they no longer own."
Patel's gaze sharpened. "Then we keep the keys."
The American Mission
The American representative arrived next—less imperial, more pragmatic, the posture of a man whose country had not ruled India but wanted to shape what India became.
He spoke in warm terms: relief, democracy, friendship. He also spoke in the language of leverage: stability, markets, alignment.
"Prime Minister," he said, "the United States recognizes the scale of your crisis. We can assist—food shipments, medical support, technical advisers. We are concerned about humanitarian conditions and the spread of unrest."
"We are concerned too," Ram replied. "We live here."
The American smiled. "Of course. And we recognize the importance of your government's discipline measures. Still, there is global interest in whether India will remain committed to democratic ideals."
Patel's mouth tightened faintly. He hated tests administered from abroad.
Ram answered smoothly. "India will remain committed to India's ideals."
The American's eyes flicked, assessing. "And those ideals include… cooperation with the international order?"
Ram let the silence hold long enough to make the question feel exactly as it was: a probe.
"India will cooperate where it serves India," Ram said.
The American nodded as if this was reasonable. "We also want to ensure that your new government is not… drawn into arrangements that might compromise long-term stability. The world is changing. There are competing ideologies."
Patel's eyes narrowed. "You mean the Soviets."
"I mean," the American replied carefully, "that nations are choosing paths."
Ram recognized the shape of the offer: choose the American path, and the aid arrives with open hands. Choose otherwise, and the aid arrives with questions.
"And if India chooses neither?" Ram asked.
The American's smile did not change, but something behind it tightened. "In practice, Prime Minister, neutrality can be difficult to sustain."
Patel spoke, voice flat. "We have sustained difficulty for two hundred years. We will manage."
The American laughed lightly, trying to keep the room warm. "A fair point. Let me be direct, Prime Minister. Our government needs assurances that assistance will not be… misused. That order will be maintained. That extremist elements will not—"
Ram felt the word that was coming before it arrived: communists. Or radicals. Or anti-Western forces. Any label that allowed suspicion to become policy.
"Assistance will be used for relief," Ram said. "With documentation. With transparency. You may observe distribution, if you wish—through agreed channels."
The American's eyes brightened. "That would be excellent. We can assign—"
"And," Ram continued, "we will not grant foreign missions operational access to internal communications or decision-making systems."
The American's mouth opened slightly, then closed. "I was not asking for operational access."
Ram held his gaze. "Then we understand each other."
A pause. Then the American shifted, smoother again.
"Very well. On a related note," he said, "we are also receiving requests from various organizations—private groups—offering expertise in communications security. They are… quite capable."
Ram's blood cooled. Private groups. Expertise. Capability. That language was always a soft glove around a hard hand.
Patel leaned forward slightly. "No."
The American blinked. "No, Sardar?"
Patel did not correct him. Let them misname him; it was easier than letting them mistake him.
"No private group will touch our state communications," Patel said. "Not in this crisis. Not ever."
The American held up his palms, diplomatic surrender. "Understood. Understood. We only wish to help."
Ram's voice remained polite. "Then help with medicine and grain."
The American rose, gathering his papers. He had gotten what he came for: a measure of Ram's spine, a sense of Patel's immovability, and a map of where pressure might work later.
As he left, he said softly, "Prime Minister, history will watch your choices."
Ram answered without emotion. "History is already watching our funerals."
The door closed.
Patel exhaled. "They want to feed us and own the spoon."
Ram looked down at the "access" file waiting on the edge of his desk. "Someone is already trying to own the kitchen."
The Soviet Representative
The Soviet representative arrived last. He was less charming, more direct, the posture of a man whose country had suffered war and believed moral language was a tool, not a sanctuary.
He opened with ideology, as expected.
"Prime Minister Gupta," he said, "the violence you face is the inevitable consequence of imperial partition. The British divide, then wash their hands. It is not surprising."
Ram kept his face neutral. He did not disagree with the diagnosis. He simply refused to let diagnosis become permission.
"The consequence is real," Ram said. "We still have to govern it."
The Soviet representative's eyes were sharp. "Governance is not merely administration. It is alignment. Your India is being courted by powers that would shape you into an instrument."
Patel's mouth tightened faintly. "As would yours."
The Soviet man did not deny it. "We do not hide that we seek friends."
Ram understood the difference: Americans offered friendship as a smile with conditions. Soviets offered friendship as a bargain with ideology attached.
"We seek sovereignty," Ram said.
The Soviet representative nodded as if sovereignty was a clever word. "Sovereignty requires strength. You have shown strength with discipline. But you also face internal sabotage. Old imperial networks do not disappear. They become private."
Ram felt a thread tighten inside him. The man didn't know about the "access" network. Or did he?
"You speak of sabotage," Ram said evenly. "Do you have intelligence?"
The Soviet representative smiled faintly. "Information travels. Foreign advisers offer 'communications help.' That is not help. That is penetration. You already know this, Prime Minister."
Patel's eyes narrowed. "You speak as if you're warning us."
"I am," the Soviet said. "The British taught the world how to rule through wires and papers. They will not stop merely because flags changed."
Ram held his gaze. "And what does the Soviet Union want in return for its warnings?"
The Soviet representative did not pretend innocence. "We want India to avoid becoming an American satellite. We want trade. We want recognition that your struggle is part of a larger pattern: peoples throwing off empire."
Patel's voice was flat. "We threw off one empire. We will not step into another."
The Soviet representative's smile thinned. "Neutrality, then."
Ram answered, calm. "Non-alignment. When we choose, it will be our choice."
The Soviet representative leaned forward slightly. "Then choose to close your doors. Close them completely. Those who offer 'access' will return. They always return."
He rose and left with fewer pleasantries than the others.
When the door shut, the conference room felt suddenly quieter, as if even the walls were exhausted.
Patel spoke first. "He's right about one thing."
"About private becoming empire," Ram said.
Patel nodded. "Yes."
Ram looked at the window again. Delhi moved like a city pretending it was normal.
And beyond Delhi, the country still bled.
A Citizen Outside the Secretariat
Across the street from the Secretariat, a tea vendor named Hari watched the cars come and go.
He didn't know the names of the men inside. He knew only that the cars looked expensive and that the men stepping out wore pressed clothes while the city smelled of ash.
A customer muttered, "Foreigners all morning."
Hari poured tea into a chipped cup. "Foreigners always come when there is trouble."
The customer snorted. "To help."
Hari didn't laugh. He'd lived long enough to know that help was never free.
He watched a British car pass and felt his stomach twist—not hatred, something older: memory. He watched the American car pass and wondered what a country across the oceans wanted from India's burning streets. He watched the Soviet car pass and felt the same question, only colder.
He turned away and stared toward the station direction.
A whistle sounded in the distance.
Hari's hands shook, just slightly, as he poured tea.
Not because of the whistle itself.
Because of what it meant: another train, another line, another chance for rumor to become a knife.
He whispered to no one, "Please, not today."
Secretariat
Ram returned to his office and found Ambedkar already waiting, seated with the posture of a man who did not waste time on dramatics.
Ambedkar's eyes were sharp, tired, and unsentimental. His briefcase sat beside his chair like a weapon.
"You called," Ambedkar said.
Ram held up the file. "They've found a loophole."
Ambedkar took the paper, scanned it once, and his mouth tightened. "Relief coordination."
Patel stood behind Ram, arms folded. "They're using your ordinance's humanity as a key."
Ambedkar's voice was flat. "Then we change the lock."
Ram sat, controlled. "What do you need?"
Ambedkar did not hesitate. "A supplementary rule: any request touching state communications—routing, permissions, equipment, staffing—must be approved by a named committee. Three signatures. One from Home. One from External Affairs. One from Law."
Patel's eyes narrowed. "Three signatures slows everything."
Ambedkar's gaze did not flicker. "Yes. That is the point. Speed is how theft hides."
Ram felt the truth of it in his bones. The access network had adapted because it thrived in speed—emergency speed, crisis speed, speed that made questions feel like betrayal.
"Do it," Ram said.
Ambedkar continued, crisp. "Second: chain-of-custody for liaison communications. If information is exchanged with Pakistan, it is logged. If it is logged, it is auditable. If it is auditable, sabotage becomes provable."
Patel nodded once. "Mutual verification."
Ambedkar looked at Patel as if acknowledging a fellow realist. "Yes. And if Pakistan refuses, that refusal itself becomes information."
Ram remembered Liaquat's tone in the previous chapter—cooperation not obedience—and felt the delicate balance: mutuality in diplomacy, absolute control internally.
"Third," Ambedkar said, "punishment must be clear. Not vague. If an officer authorizes access without the committee, it is not 'error.' It is crime."
Patel's voice was calm. "And enforcement?"
Ambedkar's eyes sharpened. "You have a Home Minister's spine beside you."
Patel did not smile. "Spine is nothing without teeth."
Ram leaned forward. "We can make rules. But they're still attempting. That means someone inside is facilitating."
Ambedkar closed the file. "Then find him."
Patel stepped in, voice low. "We don't hunt without evidence."
Ram nodded. "Not a purge. A case."
Ambedkar rose, adjusting his coat. "Good. Because your Republic cannot begin by devouring its own administration."
He paused at the door and looked back at Ram.
"You are learning," Ambedkar said, not praise, simply observation. "There is a difference between strength and fear. Do not confuse them."
Then he left, and the room felt sharper for his absence.
Patel turned to Ram. "Now we enforce."
Ram's fingers tightened around the cold seal in his pocket. The seal had become an anchor in its own way—not a symbol of glory, but a reminder that authority was useless unless it could say no.
"Start with the desks," Ram said. "Who routed the relief coordination request?"
Patel nodded to Raghavan, who had been waiting silently near the wall.
Raghavan stepped forward, placing a small note on the desk. "We traced the routing. Three offices touched it. One clerk forwarded it without recording the source. He claims it was verbal."
Patel's eyes narrowed. "Verbal is where corruption lives."
Ram looked up. "Bring the clerk. Not with fear. With questions."
Raghavan nodded and moved.
Kishan returned with news. "Panditji is here."
Nehru entered, eyes tired, hair slightly disordered, the smell of press and smoke clinging to him. He looked from Ram to Patel and understood instantly that this was not about speeches.
"You interrupted me," Nehru said, voice controlled. Not anger—injury.
Ram didn't apologize. Apologies wasted time.
"They found a way around signatures," Ram said, holding up the file. "They're seeking access through procedure."
Nehru's gaze sharpened. "Access to what?"
"Communications," Patel replied.
Nehru's face tightened. "Foreign?"
Ram didn't answer directly. "Someone is facilitating. Someone is using relief as a cover."
Nehru's voice dropped. "If foreign missions are involved—"
"They asked," Patel said. "We refused."
Nehru exhaled, and for a moment his idealism collided with the machinery of state. He believed in openness. But openness in a crisis was a door left unlocked in a city full of thieves.
"We must be careful," Nehru said. "If we appear paranoid—"
Ram cut in gently, because gentle was sometimes sharper. "If we appear careless, we won't appear at all."
Nehru held his gaze. Then, quietly, "What do you want from me?"
Ram answered immediately. "Public message. Calm. Restraint. Relief. And a line: India welcomes humanitarian help, but sovereign functions remain sovereign."
Nehru nodded slowly. He could do that. He could soothe the public while Ram built walls behind him.
Patel added, blunt. "And you keep the foreigners busy with words while we clean our house."
Nehru flinched—then accepted the truth. "Very well."
He turned to leave, then paused at the door and looked back at Ram.
"Ram," Nehru said softly, "do not let this crisis turn you into a man who trusts nothing."
Ram didn't blink. "I trust the Republic. That's why I distrust anyone trying to buy it."
Nehru left without another word.
Patel watched him go. "He'll keep the air cool."
Ram's voice was low. "And you'll keep the floor from collapsing."
Patel's expression did not soften. "That's the job."
Delhi Station
At Delhi Station, the corridor held.
Held did not mean clean. It meant controlled.
Rafiq watched two stretcher-bearers carry a woman whose eyes had rolled back in fever. He watched a man sit on the platform and stare at his own hands as if unsure they belonged to him. He watched a child drink water and then vomit it, small body shuddering.
A volunteer murmured, "Another convoy attacked near Karnal."
Rafiq's jaw tightened. Even the best plans didn't stop death. They only changed the shape of it—from mass frenzy to scattered bleeding at bends in the road, from public slaughter to private disappearance.
Rafiq looked up as a plainclothes officer approached.
"Gate Two," the officer said quietly. "Watch the man near the pillar. He's asking about relief routing."
Rafiq's eyes narrowed. Relief routing. That phrase again.
He saw the man—well-fed, clean shirt, too calm. The man asked questions with politeness, the kind that made it hard to accuse him of anything.
Rafiq moved closer and spoke firmly. "Relief routing is handled by the committee. Not at the gate."
The man smiled. "Of course, constable. Just asking."
Rafiq's voice hardened. "Then ask elsewhere."
The man drifted away.
Rafiq watched him go and felt the new fear: not the mob, not the stone, not the knife.
The polite man with questions.
Ram
That evening, Ram sat at his desk as if the desk were the center of the universe. In a crisis, paperwork became gravity.
Raghavan returned with the clerk—young, sweating, eyes too wide. The clerk looked like someone who had always believed the state was an idea, not a machine that could crush him.
Ram's voice stayed calm. Calm was a scalpel.
"You forwarded a request without recording the source," Ram said.
The clerk swallowed. "Prime Minister Sahib, they said it was urgent—relief coordination—"
"Who said?"
The clerk hesitated. "A gentleman. From… from Government House side. He had a letter. He said verbal support existed."
Patel's eyes narrowed. "Name."
The clerk's voice shook. "I don't know his name, Sardar Sahib. He wore—he wore a pin. Like an office pin. He spoke good English."
Ram didn't react to "good English." In Delhi, that meant nothing and everything.
"Describe him," Ram said.
The clerk described: height, moustache, briefcase, the particular confidence of a man accustomed to doors opening.
Raghavan's eyes sharpened. He looked at Patel. Patel nodded once.
Ram's voice remained even. "Why didn't you record it?"
The clerk's face crumpled. "Because I thought… because I thought it would help. People are dying, Sahib. And he said if we delay, trains will stop again."
Ram held the silence long enough for the clerk to feel the weight of his own logic.
Then Ram spoke quietly. "People die when the state becomes careless. Sometimes carelessness is faster than malice."
The clerk's eyes filled with tears. "I didn't mean—"
"I know," Ram said, and it was the truth. "That's why you're still standing here."
Patel's voice was hard. "But you will be transferred. And you will sign a statement. And you will never forward a verbal request again."
The clerk nodded frantically, relieved to be punished rather than destroyed.
When he was taken away, Ram sat back and looked at Raghavan.
"Find the man," Ram said.
Raghavan nodded. "We will. Quietly."
Kishan entered with a fresh packet—this one from the liaison channel.
"From Pakistan," he said.
Ram opened it and read. Liaquat's earlier pushback had now been followed by something else: a formalized acceptance of mutual verification—written in language that insisted on equality, but also hinted at suspicion.
Patel read over Ram's shoulder. "He's protecting sovereignty."
Ram nodded. "As he should."
Patel's eyes sharpened. "Do you see the parallel?"
Ram did. Both states were learning the same lesson from different wounds: doors must be controlled, or someone else will control them.
Ram dictated a reply to Kishan.
"Tell Liaquat: we agree. Mutual logs. Joint sign-off at liaison points. Two-column verification. Chain-of-custody. We treat unofficial channels as sabotage on both sides."
Kishan wrote quickly.
"And add," Ram said, "that our internal ordinance is not an accusation. It is protection against infiltration."
Patel's mouth tightened faintly—approval.
Kishan left with the reply.
Ram looked at the day's foreign summaries again—Washington's concern, Moscow's ideology, London's defensive sympathy, the world's eyes measuring India like a commodity.
He felt the weight of what Patel had said earlier: stable not strong, predictable not sovereign.
A knock.
Raghavan returned, face controlled.
"We intercepted something," he said.
Ram's pulse tightened. "From where?"
"An internal courier route," Raghavan said. "Not official. Not quite illegal on paper. It was framed as 'relief coordination.'"
Always relief. Always coordination. Always the language of virtue used as a crowbar.
Raghavan placed a thin slip on the desk. It looked like an ordinary message until you saw the coded phrasing:
PROCEED VIA SECONDARY CHANNEL. 'ACCESS' CONFIRMED WITHOUT SIGNATURE.CONTACT: 'FRIEND FROM WEST.'NEXT STEP: 'OBSERVE THE WHISTLE.'
Ram read it twice.
Friend from West. Observe the whistle.
A shiver ran through him, not fear—recognition. In his former life, the real assassins never wore masks. They wore affiliations.
Patel leaned in, reading. His face hardened.
"This is coordination with a foreign hand," Patel said quietly.
Ram's voice dropped. "Or a foreign name being used to frighten us."
Patel's eyes held steady. "Either way, it's a hook."
Ram stared at the paper until he saw the shape of the next chapter forming: international eyes on India's crisis, and inside that crisis, a network using the same eyes as cover.
The corridor held. People still died. The death toll still could not be counted; Partition had not fully ended, and bodies were still being found in wells and ditches days after violence passed through. Entire families vanished without records. Trains arrived without manifests, and manifests were written after the fact by trembling hands. The Republic's "wins" were measured in the number of disasters that didn't happen.
But now a different kind of disaster was trying to happen quietly.
Ram slipped the cold seal into his palm and closed his fingers around it.
Patel's voice was low. "What do you do?"
Ram looked up, eyes steady.
"We do what we did at the station," Ram said. "We remove the hidden hand. Not the visible face."
Patel nodded once—anchor satisfied. "And the foreigners?"
Ram's mouth tightened. "We let them watch. But we don't let them touch."
Outside, Delhi's night carried distant noise—carts, dogs, arguments, prayers, and somewhere far away, a whistle rising again. Long. Ordinary. Struggling to become timetable.
Ram listened to it and understood a new, colder truth:
The Republic had survived the first spiral.
Now it had to survive the attention that followed.