The morning of March 22nd, 1947, was historically significant for a reason that had nothing to do with Vikram's plans.
Lord Louis Mountbatten — Admiral of the Fleet, great-grandson of Queen Victoria, and the last Viceroy of India — arrived in Delhi to oversee the end of British rule.
His aircraft touched down at Palam airfield at 10 AM, and the event was covered by every newspaper and radio station in the country.
Vikram was not at the airfield. He was in non's office, delivering the Kashmir docunt along with the finalized Bengal proposal.
non read the Kashmir assessnt first. His reaction was markedly different from his response to the Bengal proposal — less analytical admiration, more visceral alarm.
"You're predicting a Pakistani military invasion of Kashmir," non said, his voice tight.
"I'm assessing it as a high-probability scenario, sir."
"Based on what? You keep claiming sources and analysis, but Rathore — this isn't analysis. This is prophecy. You've described specific tactics — tribal irregulars, autumn tiline, advance through Uri — with a level of detail that implies either genuine intelligence or..." He trailed off, clearly struggling with the implications.
"Or what, sir?"
"Or sothing I can't explain." non set the docunt down and looked at Vikram with an expression that was equal parts frustration and reluctant fascination. "I've worked in intelligence-adjacent roles for fifteen years. I know what real intelligence analysis looks like. It's cautious, hedged, full of qualifiers. This reads like an after-action report — as if you've already seen the invasion happen."
'Because I have,' Vikram thought. 'But I can't tell you that.'
"Sir, the logic is straightforward. Pakistan's military leadership cannot accept an independent Kashmir or a Kashmir allied with India.
They lack the regular military capability for a conventional invasion — their army is still being partitioned from the Indian Army.
But they have access to tribal militias in the Frontier Province — experienced fighters, motivated by religious zeal and the promise of loot.
Using tribals provides deniability. The autumn tiline is dictated by geography — mountain passes are impassable during monsoon. And the Uri approach is the only feasible invasion route from the west."
non stared at him. "You've thought of everything."
"I've tried to, sir. India cannot afford to be surprised. Not on this."
A long silence. Then non nodded slowly. "I'll ensure Patel sahab reads this today. Along with the Bengal proposal." He paused. "You know, Rathore, there are people in this building — British intelligence officers, IB operatives — who would give a great deal to know how you know what you know."
"Which is exactly why they must never find out."
"Agreed." non's expression hardened. "Be careful. You're playing a very dangerous ga."
'You have no idea,' Vikram thought. 'But then, the stakes are worth it.'
---
Vikram left North Block at noon and walked into a Delhi that was buzzing with excitent about Mountbatten's arrival.
The streets were busier than usual, crowds gathering near the Viceroy's House — the massive palace on Raisina Hill that would soon beco Rashtrapati Bhavan, the President's residence.
Flags flew, both British and Congress. The atmosphere was electric with anticipation and anxiety.
But Vikram's mind was elsewhere.
He had a eting to arrange — perhaps the most unusual eting he would conduct in this new life.
He needed to find soone specific. Soone who, in the original tiline, had been one of India's most brilliant but underutilized assets.
Soone whose talents had been wasted by an independent India that didn't know what to do with him.
His na was Rashwar Nath Kao.
In 2026, every Indian intelligence professional knew the na R.N. Kao. He was the founder of RAW — the Research and Analysis Wing, India's external intelligence agency, established in 1968.
Before that, he had served in the Intelligence Bureau, distinguishing himself with quiet brilliance in operations ranging from the integration of Hyderabad to the monitoring of Chinese activities in Tibet.
He was, by universal consensus, the finest intelligence officer India had ever produced.
In March 1947, R.N. Kao was twenty-nine years old and serving as a junior officer in the Imperial Police.
He was stationed in Delhi, assigned to routine law-and-order duties.
Brilliant, ambitious, frustrated by the limitations of colonial policing, and completely unknown to the political leadership.
Vikram intended to change that.
Finding Kao required so detective work. The original Vikram's mories were no help — he had never crossed paths with a junior police officer.
But Vikram knew from his 2026 knowledge that Kao had been posted to the Delhi police in this period, and a few discreet inquiries at the local police station — presented as "Congress party business" — yielded an address in the Civil Lines area.
He found the house at 3 PM — a small governnt-allotted bungalow, modest but neatly maintained.
A servant answered the door and inford Vikram that "Kao sahab" was resting but would be available shortly.
Vikram waited in a small sitting room, studying the space for clues about the man he was about to et.
Bookshelves filled with an eclectic mix — detective novels, political philosophy, military history, and several books on intelligence tradecraft that were unusual reading for a junior police officer.
A shortwave radio on a side table, partially disassembled — Kao apparently liked to tinker with electronics.
A chess board with a ga in progress, played against himself.
'Perfect,' Vikram thought. 'Exactly the kind of mind I need.'
R.N. Kao entered the room ten minutes later — a tall, lean man with an angular face, sharp eyes, and the composed bearing of soone who was always observing, always calculating.
He wore a simple white shirt and trousers, his hair neatly combed. His expression was courteous but guarded — the default setting of a man trained to trust no one.
"Mr. Rathore?" Kao extended his hand. "I'm told you're from the Congress party. How can I help you?"
"Thank you for seeing , Mr. Kao. I apologize for arriving unannounced." Vikram shook his hand, noting the firm grip and the cool, assessing eyes. "I'm here on a matter that is... sowhat unusual. I'd appreciate your patience as I explain."
"By all ans. Please sit."
They sat facing each other. Vikram took a mont to organize his approach. He couldn't tell Kao the truth — not yet, perhaps not ever.
But he needed to recruit this man, quickly and completely, for a purpose that would define both their lives.
"Mr. Kao, I'll be direct. I'm aware of your background — your education, your police service, your... extracurricular interests." He glanced aningfully at the intelligence tradecraft books on the shelf. "I believe you're wasted in your current role. India is about to beco independent, and the new nation will face threats — external and internal — that the current security apparatus is completely unprepared for."
Kao's expression didn't change, but sothing shifted behind his eyes — a flicker of interest, carefully controlled.
"That's a bold statent, Mr. Rathore. Particularly from soone I've never t."
"I work with Sardar Patel," Vikram said simply. The na landed like a stone in still water — Patel's reputation preceded him everywhere.
"The Sardar is building a team. Not a political team — a strategic team. People who can help India navigate the dangers of the coming years. I'm here because I believe you should be part of that team."
Kao was quiet for a mont. Then he said, carefully, "What kind of dangers are you referring to?"
"Pakistan. US. Internal subversion. The five hundred princely states that may or may not join the Union. The communal violence that will accompany Partition — if Partition happens." Vikram paused. "And threats we can't yet see. The world is changing, Mr. Kao. The Cold War between Arica and Russia will define the next half-century. India will be caught in the middle, pressured by both sides, targeted by both sides. We need the capability to see these threats coming and respond to them before they beco crises."
"You're describing an intelligence service."
"I'm describing the foundation of one. Not the Intelligence Bureau as it currently exists — a colonial relic designed to spy on Indian nationalists. Sothing new. Sothing built from the ground up for an independent India. An organization that can conduct foreign intelligence operations, counterintelligence, covert action, and strategic analysis at a level that matches the best in the world."
Kao leaned back in his chair, studying Vikram with an intensity that was almost physical. "And you want to help build this?"
"I want you to lead it."
Silence. The ceiling fan rotated. Sowhere outside, a vendor called out his wares — "Sabzi-wallah! Taza sabzi!"
"You're very young, Mr. Rathore," Kao said finally. "And you're proposing sothing extraordinarily ambitious.
An intelligence service of the kind you're describing requires enormous resources, institutional support, and political cover. It requires trained personnel, communication networks, safe houses, budgets.
The British built their intelligence apparatus over centuries. You're talking about creating sothing comparable in... what? Months? Years?"
"Years," Vikram said. "But we start now. We start small — a handful of trusted people, operating under Patel's direct authority. We build capability gradually, mission by mission. And the first mission..." He leaned forward slightly. "The first mission is Kashmir."
For the first ti, genuine interest broke through Kao's professional reserve. "Kashmir?"
"Pakistan is going to attempt to seize Kashmir by force. I have detailed intelligence on their probable strategy and tiline. India needs eyes and ears in the Northwest Frontier Province — among the tribal leaders, in the Pakistani military, in Hari Singh's court. We need to know what's coming before it arrives. And we need the capability to act — covertly, deniably — to influence events on the ground."
To be continued..
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