October 30, 1999 GHQ, Rawalpindi 10:00 Hours
The mood in the Corps Commanders' conference room had shifted. Two days ago, it was hostile. Today, it was predatory. The Generals sat like wolves who had cornered a wounded deer. They believed the strike had broken me. They believed the "Edhi stunt" was just a desperate PR move to hide my surrender.
I let them believe it.
"General Mahmood," I turned to the ISI Chief, keeping my voice calm but weary. "The ambulance network is moving food, but it is not a long-term solution. We cannot run a country on charity. We need to end the strike."
Mahmood leaned back, swirling his pen. He exchanged a knowing look with General Aziz.
"Sir," Mahmood said smoothly. "The solution is simple. The Transport Union and the Mill Owners just want their grievances addressed. Return the confiscated trucks. Release the sugar. Restore the subsidies. The wheels will start turning in an hour."
I looked at him. I knew exactly what he was saying. Surrender, and we will let you rule.
I knew that the "Transport Union" was just a front for the NLC officers sitting in this very room. I knew the "Sugar Cartel" was their retirement fund.
I stood up and walked to the window, turning my back to them. I needed to sell the lie perfectly.
"I cannot return the seized goods immediately, Mahmood," I said, my voice tight. "It will make the State look weak. If I bow down to a few truck drivers today, the Mullahs will eat me alive tomorrow. I need to save face."
"Face does not fill the treasury, Sir," Aziz pointed out dryly.
"No," I turned back, a dangerous glint in my eye—the glint of a man who was ready to cut a deal. "But money does."
The word hung in the air. Money.
Every spine in the room straightened. The wolves smelled fresh meat.
"What are you proposing, Sir?" Mahmood asked, his tone shifting from arrogant to interested.
"I will not give them the sugar back now," I said, walking back to the table. "But... the planting season is approaching. Tell the Mill Owners that if they end the strike today, the government will announce a 'Modernization Subsidy' for the next harvest. We will double the support price."
I saw it. I literally saw the dollar signs flash in their eyes. Doubling the subsidy meant billions of rupees in pure profit—future profit.
"And the Lawyers?" Mahmood asked. "The Bar Councils are barking loudly. They call themselves the defenders of democracy."
"The Black Hyenas," I scoffed. "They don't want democracy; they want grants. Tell the Law Ministry to release a 'Legal Aid Fund' for the Bar Associations. Give them new libraries, new cars, new chambers. Stuff their mouths with gold so they can't shout."
The tension in the room evaporated instantly. The Generals relaxed. They smiled. They saw a Chief Executive who had finally learned the game. I wasn't fighting the corruption anymore; I was financing it.
"That... is a pragmatic approach, Sir," Aziz nodded, looking at his colleagues. They were already mentally calculating their cut of the future subsidies.
"However," I raised a finger. "I have one condition."
"Name it," Mahmood said benevolently. He thought he had won.
"I need to maintain the illusion of 'Accountability' for the public," I said. "If I stop the raids completely, I look compromised. I need to keep my attack dogs visible."
"You mean Zulfiqar Cheema?" Aziz frowned. "He is a headache."
"He is a useful idiot," I lied. "I will keep him. And I am bringing in another one. Shoaib Suddle."
The room went quiet for a second. Shoaib Suddle was a legend—or a nightmare, depending on which side of the law you stood. He was the only police officer in Pakistan who was more feared than the criminals.
"Suddle?" Mahmood laughed. "He is a boy scout. He will try to arrest everyone."
"Let him try," I shrugged. "He will keep the media busy while we... handle the business. I will put him in the Police Bureau. Let him write reports on 'Police Reform' that no one will ever read."
The Generals chuckled. They thought it was a brilliant move. Keep the honest cops busy with paperwork and "Reform Committees" while the real power brokers looted the treasury.
"Agreed, Sir," Mahmood stood up, saluting smartly. "I will make the calls. The strike will end by tonight. The boys will be happy."
"I'm sure they will," I said, offering a tight smile.
The Smirk 11:00 Hours Chief Executive's Office
As the door closed behind them, the smile vanished.
I walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of water. My hands were shaking, not from fear, but from adrenaline.
They had taken the bait. They were so blinded by the promise of next season's harvest—the billions in future subsidies—that they didn't realize I had just bought myself six months of time.
"Next season," I whispered to the empty room, a cold smirk forming on my lips.
"You idiots. By next season, the laws will be different. By next season, the subsidy will be linked to a digital audit. By next season, you won't be running the NLC."
And they had let me keep the weapons.
Zulfiqar Cheema was the Hammer. Shoaib Suddle was the Scalpel.
They thought I was putting Suddle in a corner to write reports. They didn't know I was about to give him the authority to digitize the police records.
Once Suddle finished his "paperwork," there would be no more hiding.
I sat down at my desk and pulled out a fresh file.
"Enjoy the profit while you can, gentlemen," Aditya Kaul thought. "Because I just signed the death warrant of your business model, and you thanked me for it."
I pressed the intercom. "Get me Dr. Shoaib Suddle. And tell him to bring his plans for the Highway Police. We are going to build a force that doesn't salute Generals."
The strike was over. The war had just begun.