October 25, 1999 Army House, Rawalpindi 18:00 Hours (6:00 PM)
"Sir, with respect, this is a waste of tea and biscuits."
Brigadier Tariq stood by the window, watching the security sweep at the main gate. He looked annoyed. In the world of the Pakistan Army, protocols were written in stone, and I was about to break a big one.
"Explain," I said, adjusting the cuffs of my civilian suit. I had chosen a charcoal grey suit, not a uniform. Tonight, I wasn't the Chief of Army Staff. I was the Chief Executive.
"Imran Khan," Tariq spat the name out like a piece of bad tobacco. "Sir, the boys in the Political Wing call his Tehreek-e-Insaf the 'Tonga Party'."
"A Tonga Party?" I suppressed a smile.
"Yes, Sir. Because all of his party members can fit into a single horse carriage. He has zero seats in Parliament. He lost everywhere in '97. He is politically dead."
Tariq turned to me, his face serious. This was the "Deep State" speaking.
"And more importantly, Sir... the ISI does not like him."
"Why?" I asked, testing him. "Is he a traitor? Is he corrupt?"
"No," Tariq said, and for the first time, he looked genuinely uneasy. "That is the problem. He has no file."
I paused, looking at my reflection in the mirror. Aditya Kaul knew exactly what that meant. In the Indian bureaucracy, we called it a 'clean skin'. In the Pakistan Army, it was called a 'liability'.
"He doesn't steal money," Tariq listed the grievances. "He doesn't own sugar mills. He doesn't chase women anymore. He doesn't drink. Sir, we have no leverage. A man without a weakness cannot be controlled. The Army never allows a man into the corridor of power if we don't have the keys to his handcuffs."
It was a chilling summary of Pakistani politics. The System preferred a crook it could blackmail over a saint it couldn't control.
"Tariq," I said, walking over to the desk. "You are thinking like a soldier. I need you to think like a psychologist."
I picked up the file labeled 'Accountability Bureau'.
"You are right. We cannot control him. That is why we won't let him win."
Tariq looked confused. "Sir?"
"We need a face, Tariq," I explained, lowering my voice. "I am about to launch a purge against the Sharif family, the Zardaris, and the Sugar Cartels. If I do it as a General, the world will call it a dictatorship. They will say I am crushing democracy."
I tapped the file. "But... if I have a national hero standing next to me? A man who has been screaming 'Thief!' for three years? Then it's not a coup. It's a 'Justice Movement'."
"So... he is a front?"
"He is a battering ram," I corrected. "He is naive, Tariq. He is obsessed with corruption. We will use his obsession. We let him tear down the old politicians. We let him be the bad cop."
"And afterwards?" Tariq asked. "What if he wants power?"
I laughed, a dry, cynical sound that I knew would comfort the Brigadier.
"When the time comes for elections, we simply do what we always do. We tell the people that the 'Tonga Party' is too small. We tell him the Electables didn't support him. We put him back in his box."
"We use him, and then we discard him?" Tariq asked.
"We utilize his credibility to stabilize the state," I said diplomatically. "Whatever makes you sleep better, Brigadier."
Tariq relaxed. He could understand betrayal. He could understand utility. What he couldn't understand was genuine reform. I had to speak his language to get my way.
"And his wife?" Tariq asked. "The Goldsmith girl."
"That," I said, "is our insurance policy against the West. While our Foreign Office begs for meetings with clerks, she can have dinner with the people who own the banks. I need her to open the backchannel to London."
The intercom buzzed on the desk.
"Sir," the guard reported. "Subject 'Captain' has arrived at the main porch."
"Excellent." I stood up. "Come, Tariq. And tell Begum Sehba to join us. Tonight, we are not interrogating a suspect. We are welcoming a friend."
The Presidential Porch 18:15 Hours
The black Mercedes pulled up under the colonial-era archway of the Army House. The floodlights hit the polished chrome.
I stood at the top of the stairs, with my wife, Sehba, beside me. She looked elegant in a chiffon sari, the perfect image of a modern, liberal Pakistani first lady. This was also a calculated move. I needed Imran and Jemima to see us as a couple, not an institution.
The car door opened.
Imran Khan stepped out first. He was forty-seven, but he still moved with the athletic grace of a fast bowler. He wore a crisp white Shalwar Kameez and a black waistcoat—his signature look. He looked like a Greek statue carved out of Pathan granite. He radiated a stubborn, intense charisma that sucked the air out of the room.
Then, he reached back and helped her out.
Jemima Khan. Twenty-five years old. The Heiress. She looked nervous. She was wearing a modest Pakistani suit, her head lightly covered with a dupatta, trying her best to blend into a country that had treated her terribly.
They walked up the stairs together. The Sportsman and the Socialite. They looked guarded. They expected the General to be arrogant. They expected a lecture.
I walked down one step to meet them—a breach of protocol that made the guards twitch, but signaled respect.
"Welcome, Kaptaan," I said warmly, extending a hand.
Imran took it. His grip was firm, his eyes scanning mine for any sign of deceit. "General. Thank you for the invitation."
"Mrs. Khan," I turned to Jemima, offering a slight, respectful bow rather than a handshake. "It is an honor. I believe you have met my wife, Sehba."
"Welcome to our home," Sehba said, stepping forward with a genuine smile, breaking the tension instantly. "I have heard so much about your charity work in Lahore."
Jemima relaxed, her shoulders dropping an inch. "Thank you, Begum Musharraf. It is... kind of you to receive us."
"Please," I gestured towards the open mahogany doors where the golden light of the chandelier spilled out. "Dinner is waiting. And Kaptaan... I ordered Peshawari Qahwa, not tea. I know you hate the milky stuff."
Imran cracked a small, surprised smile. "You did your research, General."
"I always study the pitch before the match," I said softly, guiding them inside.
As the heavy doors closed behind us, shutting out the guards and the cynical Brigadier, the real game began. I didn't just need his face for the posters.
I needed his fire. And I needed her phone book.