October 27, 1999 Chief Executive's Secretariat, Islamabad 21:30 Hours (9:30 PM)
The applause on the television monitor died down. Tariq Aziz, the legendary host of Neelam Ghar, had just delivered the performance of a lifetime. He had looked into the camera, tears in his eyes, and asked the nation to forgive "Daughter Jemima."
In the studio, the audience wept. It was a masterstroke of emotional manipulation.
"We did it, Sir," Brigadier Tariq said, a rare smile on his face. "The street sentiment is turning. The Mullahs can't attack her now without looking like monsters."
"Good," I said, reaching for the remote. "Now let's see how the real world reacts."
I switched the channel to PTV News for the 9:00 PM bulletin.
The smile on Brigadier Tariq's face vanished instantly.
BREAKING NEWS: Islamabad High Court grants pre-arrest bail to Seth Gulzar and the President of the Transport Union.
Anchor: "In a late-night hearing, the Honorable Chief Justice declared the military raids 'unconstitutional' and a violation of fundamental human rights. The Court has ordered the immediate release of all seized sugar stocks."
Visual: Seth Gulzar walking out of the court, flashing a victory sign. He looked straight at the camera—straight at me—and smirked.
Headline 2: Nationwide Strike Intensifies. Bar Councils Announce 'Black Day' against Dictatorship.
I turned off the TV. The silence in the room was deafening.
"They have the judges," I whispered. "Of course they have the judges."
I had forgotten the first rule of South Asian power: The Thief and the Judge often play golf at the same club.
October 28, 1999 The Morning After 08:00 Hours
The breakfast table was usually a place of refuge. Today, it was a battlefield.
The newspapers were spread out before me like casualty reports.
The Dawn: LAWYERS MOVEMENT BEGINS: "Generals Go Back to Barracks."
The Jang: TRANSPORT LOCKDOWN: Trucks carrying banners "Save Democracy from Dictatorship."
I looked at the photo on the front page of The News. It showed a convoy of NLC (National Logistics Cell) trucks—my trucks, the Army's trucks. They were parked across the Grand Trunk Road, blocking traffic.
But they weren't blocking it to stop the strike. They were the strike.
Hanging from the back of a military truck was a banner: Civil Liberties Must be Protected.
It was a farce. It was a comedy written by the devil. The Army's logistics wing was protesting against the Army Chief, funded by the Mafia, and protected by the Courts.
"I am besieged," I muttered, pushing away my plate of eggs.
The quote from my IAS days in the Mussoorie Academy floated into my mind. A British diplomat had once said it during a lecture on South Asia:
"Prussia was not a country with an army, but an army with a country. Today, that honor belongs to Pakistan."
I had laughed then. I wasn't laughing now.
I realized the rot wasn't just deep; it was structural. The Army, the Bureaucracy, the Judiciary, the Feudals—they weren't separate pillars. They were a single organism. A parasite that had grown so large it was now feeding on the host.
And I? I was just a foreign virus they were trying to expel.
"I can't win," I said aloud. "If I arrest the judges, I become a tyrant. If I let them go, I become a joke."
The Consolation
A hand touched my shoulder.
I looked up. It was Sehba. My wife. Or rather, the General's wife.
She was wearing a simple cotton suit, her face free of makeup. She had been watching me quietly for days—watching the man she married change into someone else. Someone who read files at 3 AM and quoted Hindu poets at shrines.
"You look like you are about to sign a surrender treaty," she said softly, pouring me a fresh cup of tea.
"I am fighting a hydra, Sehba," I confessed, my voice ragged. "I cut off one head, and three more grow. The Judges, the Truckers, the Generals... they are all in bed together. They have the money, they have the law, and they have the street."
I slumped in the chair. "Maybe I'm not the man for this. The System is too strong. It protects its own."
Sehba sat down opposite me. She looked deep into my eyes, her expression shifting from concern to a fierce, protective steeliness.
"And who are you, Pervez?" she asked sharply.
"I am the Chief..."
"No," she cut me off. "You are the outsider. Have you forgotten?"
She leaned in, her voice intense. "You are the first Urdu-speaking General to lead a Punjabi Army. You have always been the different one. When they were boasting about their lands and their family names, you were studying maps."
She pointed a finger at the newspapers.
"These men? These 'Establishment' types? They are born military lads. Their fathers were Generals, their grandfathers were Colonels. They have never fought a real war. They sit in the mess halls and trade favors."
She grabbed my hand, her grip surprisingly strong.
"But you? You faced the fire in '65. You were injured. You faced the humiliation of '71 and you survived. You crawled through the mud while they played polo."
I stared at her. She didn't know I was Aditya, but she had inadvertently hit the truth. I was an outsider. Just like Musharraf was an outsider in the Punjabi elite, Aditya was an outsider in this entire country.
"Do not tell me," Sehba said, her eyes flashing, "that a man who survived the wars of bullets is going to be defeated by a few fat Generals and a corrupt Judge. These men are chicken heads, Pervez. They are soft. You are real."
She stood up, smoothing her sari. "Stop trying to play their game. They own the game. Break the board."
The Second Avenger
I sat there for a long time after she left. The tea went cold.
Break the board.
She was right. I couldn't fight the System using the System. The NLC was corrupt because it was part of the Army. The Police were corrupt because they were part of the State.
I needed a network that was outside the State.
"I need a logistical network," I analyzed, my brain shifting into high gear. "I need a fleet of vehicles that can go anywhere. A fleet that the police cannot stop. A fleet that the judges cannot ban."
I closed my eyes and visualized the map of Pakistan.
The trucks were stopped. The trains were slow. What else moved on the roads?
Then, I saw it.
White vans. Thousands of them. With red sirens.
They were everywhere. In the slums of Orangi, in the deserts of Thar, in the mountains of Swat.
They didn't carry guns. They carried the sick and the dead. And they were commanded by a man who was more powerful than any General.
A man who had no bank account, no house, and only two sets of clothes.
"Edhi," I whispered.
Abdul Sattar Edhi. The Saint.
He ran the world's largest volunteer ambulance network. He had an army of 5,000 drivers who knew every back road and alleyway in Pakistan. He was untouchable.
If the NLC was the "Company of Wolves," Edhi was the "Legion of Angels."
And even the Taliban didn't shoot at Edhi.
I picked up the phone. I didn't call my Chief of Staff. I called the operator.
"Get me the number for the Edhi Foundation in Karachi," I ordered. "And get a helicopter ready. I am going to Kharadar."
"Sir? To the slums?"
"Yes," I stood up, the old arrogance returning to my veins. "The Generals have closed the highways. So, we are going to use the ambulances."
I smirked.
"Let's see the Chief Justice issue a stay order against a dead body."