A week later, in a quieter corner of the Willingdon Club, Jinnah sat with another Englishman: Colonel Robert Macready, retired, moustache still aggressively military, eyes clear despite the whisky in his hand.
Macready had commanded men in France in 1917 and now commanded only his memories and an occasionally unreliable liver. He watched Jinnah with the bemused respect of a soldier watching a politician who actually seemed to know which end of the gun the bullet came out of.
"So, Jinnah," Macready said, after listening to the outline, "you've gone and joined the ranks of us old crocks. Want a piece of country to die on, do you?"
"I am merely choosing a more scenic place to work myself to death," Jinnah said, taking a sip of his soda water. "But there is a practical matter where your experience comes in."
"Oh?" Macready asked. "What is that? Need advice on trench foot?"
"Men," Jinnah said simply. "I will need staff beyond the usual servants. Men who have seen war, know discipline, and can remain calm when rumors fly. Men with families, preferably. I do not want desperate bachelors looking for excitement. I want people who prefer stability."
Bilal noted the unspoken layer beneath the request.A settled workforce was not only loyal—it was predictable. And predictability, in time, became both labour and market.
Macready nodded slowly, tapping a finger on the table.
"Old soldiers," he said. "World War men. Plenty of those about. Some Anglo-Indians, some British chaps who stayed on after demobilisation because going back to a cold flat in London didn't appeal. Railway guards, signalmen, wireless operators. They haunt the rail colonies and cantonment bazaars."
"Wireless operators," Jinnah repeated. "Those interest me particularly."
Macready's eyes narrowed slightly. He set his glass down.
"Wireless?" he said. "Why the special interest? Planning to listen to the BBC out in your sugarcane fields? Or are you planning to coordinate something a bit more active?"
Here it comes, Bilal said. Keep it simple. No talk of 'communications grid' just yet.
"In the countryside," Jinnah replied calmly, "telegraph lines do not always reach where one needs them. And when they do, they are easily cut. When trouble comes — flood, plague, some local disturbance — the man who can send a message quickly has the advantage. I have no desire to be cut off from Lahore, or from the nearest station, simply because someone cut a wire or a tree fell on a pole."
Macready grunted. The explanation made sense to a military mind.
"Fair," he said. "In France we used to say: 'No wireless, no orders; no orders, no army.'"
"Precisely," Jinnah said. "I may not have an army, Colonel, but I will have responsibilities: tenants, staff, perhaps a small clinic. Communication is the backbone of security. A man with a wireless set and a clear head is worth three policemen with lathis who arrive two days late."
Macready chuckled.
"You're not wrong," he said. "And you want these men to come with families?"
"If possible," Jinnah replied. "A married man with a wife and children tends to prefer order over adventure. He is less likely to indulge in heroics that leave me with a mess to clean up. I want guardians, not gladiators."
"You really are planning to build a little regiment out there," Macready said, half-amused. "Not with rifles, but with pumps, ledgers, and radio sets."
"I am planning," Jinnah said, "to not be at the mercy of the nearest police outpost every time something unexpected happens. If that looks like a regiment to you, blame the War for teaching you to see everything in formations."
Macready laughed, then grew thoughtful. He pulled a small notebook from his pocket.
"I do know a few fellows," he said. "Wireless chaps from the War. Some stayed on with the railways, some with the Post & Telegraph. A few are freelancing — installing sets for merchant ships, that sort of thing. Anglo-Indians mostly. Names like D'Souza, Carvalho, Mohan. Good with their hands, good with Morse, bad at politics. They just want a steady wage and a roof that doesn't leak."
"Those," Jinnah said, "are exactly the men I want."
"All right," Macready replied. "I'll make some discreet queries. I'll tell them you want someone to mind a wireless set in the middle of canal country, with decent pay and no shells falling. Some of them will think they've died and gone to heaven."
He hesitated, closing the notebook.
"Just one thing, Jinnah," Macready added, his voice lowering slightly. "You're aware that the moment you start stringing aerials and operating wireless sets in rural Punjab, someone in the Political Department will raise an eyebrow? They get nervous about private signals."
"Then," Jinnah said, "we will ensure that every set is formally registered, every operator known to the Telegraph Department, and every message as uninteresting as possible unless necessary. I have no desire to play secret agent. I simply want what every sensible estate should have: eyes and ears that extend beyond its boundary."
Macready nodded, satisfied.
"Spoken like a man who's seen a riot and doesn't want another," he said. "Very well. I'll send you names. You can choose."
The View from Montgomery
In Montgomery, some days later, the Commissioner sat at his desk, reading yet another telegram that had travelled down the invisible ladder from Delhi through Lahore to his small corner of the Empire.
TO: COMMISSIONER MONTGOMERY DISTRICT
FROM: CHIEF SECRETARY PUNJAB GOVT
PROMINENT BARRISTER MR M A JINNAH OF BOMBAY MAKING ENQUIRIES REGARDING PURCHASE OF ESTATE IN YOUR DISTRICT NEAR MAIN LINE AS DESCRIBED STOP
HEALTH GROUNDS AND PARTIAL RETIREMENT FROM ACTIVE POLITICS STATED REASONS STOP
BOMBAY REPORTS HE IS CONSTITUTIONALLY MINDED AND DISINCLINED TOWARDS ANTI STATE METHODS STOP
YOU ARE TO FACILITATE LEGITIMATE ACQUISITION AND SETTLEMENT AS FAR AS POSSIBLE WITHIN EXISTING RULES STOP
SIMULTANEOUSLY KEEP DISCREET WATCH ON ACTIVITIES AND REPORT ANY IRREGULARITIES OR POLITICAL ORGANISATION ARISING AROUND ESTATE STOP
AVOID UNNECESSARY INTERFERENCE BUT DO NOT BE BLIND STOP
The Commissioner — an older ICS man called Harrington, who had spent too many summers in too many dusty districts — leaned back in his chair. The fan overhead whirred rhythmically, stirring the hot air.
"Jinnah," he said to his assistant. "Now there's a name I didn't expect to see in my canal files."
The assistant, a Punjabi Muslim officer in provincial service, raised his eyebrows.
"That Jinnah, sir?" he asked. "The one who fights with Congress in the papers? The one who wears the suits?"
"The very same," Harrington said. "Apparently he's decided my district is a good place to retire his lungs and his temper."
The assistant smiled faintly.
"If he buys land here," he said, "the local lawyers will have a fit. They will want him to take all their cases. The Bar Room will become unbearable."
"Well," Harrington replied dryly, "better they pester him than me."
He tapped the telegram again.
"Right," he said. "The instructions are clear enough. We treat him like any other wealthy, semi-retiring gentleman who wants an estate. We show him plots, explain the rules, charge the proper fees. The Governor seems to want him happy."
"And the part about 'keeping an eye'?" the assistant asked.
Harrington shrugged.
"We do what we always do," he said. "We instruct the tahsildar to be observant. We listen to the police inspector without believing every rumour. If Mr. Jinnah builds a house, hires doctors, and drinks tea on his verandah with his Anglo-Indian wireless men, we file that under 'harmless eccentricity.' If he starts drilling men with lathis, we send longer reports. Until then, we let the man breathe."
He smiled thinly.
"Frankly," Harrington added, "if a barrister of his calibre wants to spend his money making my district more orderly instead of less, I shall count it as Providence. Most of my landholders can barely sign their names, let alone organize a proper filing system."
There you are, Bilal said, when Jinnah received response from Montgomery, delayed, through Jinnah's imagination. They've bought the retirement story . About as good as it gets.
Good, Jinnah replied inwardly. They will watch. It is easier to build under observation when your observers are convinced you are tired and predictable.
Bombay, Lahore, Montgomery — telegraph wires hummed, papers moved, names were underlined and then put aside. On the surface, the story was simple: a tired barrister, distrustful of mass politics, looking for clean air and controllable work.
Underneath, in the shared skull of a twentieth-century lawyer and a twenty-first-century game developer, a different description had already been filed:
Server acquired.
Network nodes identified.
Watchers pacified.
The Monocle was in the drawer. The Map now had a red circle on Montgomery. And the Accountant had just bought them time.