April 15, 2000 Chief Executive's Secretariat, Islamabad 23:00 Hours (11:00 PM)
The meeting was not on the official schedule. There were no logs, no minutes, and definitely no press.
Sitting across from me was Robert "Bob" Black, the CIA Station Chief in Islamabad. He didn't look like a spy. He looked like a weary university professor—tweed jacket, spectacles, soft voice. But I knew better. This was the man who signed the checks for the "Secret War."
Bob was not happy.
"General," Bob said, placing a report on the coffee table. "Washington is... confused."
"Confused?" I poured him a drink. "We just got the IMF loan. The T20 matches were a success. The border is quiet. I thought Washington liked peace?"
"The State Department likes peace," Bob corrected gently. "The Pentagon? They like... balance."
He tapped the report. "We have noticed a disturbing trend in your procurement requests for the next fiscal year. You have frozen the order for the 50 Al-Khalid Tanks. You have delayed the F-16 upgrade package. And you have completely scrapped the purchase of the French Agosta submarines."
Bob looked at me, his eyes cold behind the glasses.
"General, the US Military-Industrial Complex operates on predictability. We allocate production slots years in advance. If Pakistan stops buying heavy armor, it sends a signal that you are... stepping out of the game."
The Double Face
I sipped my water, hiding my disgust.
Here it is, Aditya Kaul thought. The naked truth of the world.
On CNN, they preached human rights and de-escalation. In this room, they were angry that I wasn't buying enough killing machines. They wanted a "Managed Conflict"—enough tension to sell weapons to both India and Pakistan, but not enough to cause a nuclear war.
I was disrupting the business model.
"Bob," I said, leaning forward. "We are not stepping out of the game. We are changing the rules."
"By playing cricket?" Bob scoffed. "Cricket doesn't stop the Taliban. Cricket doesn't secure the Durand Line. You need tanks."
"Tanks are useless, Bob!" I snapped. "Look at the map. My threat isn't an Indian armored division crossing the Ravi. My threat is internal."
I stood up and walked to the window.
"We are launching a new economy. The Cricket Economy. Franchises. Investors. Tourism. Do you know what scares an investor? Not a tank on the border. It's a bomb in a hotel lobby. It's a kidnapping in Karachi."
I turned back to him. "I don't need F-16s to fight a terrorist hiding in a basement in Lyari. If I bomb my own cities, I lose the people. I need a scalpel, not a sledgehammer."
The Pivot
Bob looked skeptical. "So? You want to buy nothing? That won't fly in DC, General. The Lobby will eat you alive."
"Who said I want to buy nothing?" I smiled, walking back to the table. "I want to buy more. But I want to change the shopping list."
I slid a new file across the table. It was the proposal drafted by Shoaib Suddle.
"We are building a new internal security architecture," I explained. "The National Highways and Motorway Police. The Counter-Terrorism Department (CTD). The Dolphin Force for street patrol."
I pointed to the list.
"I need 50,000 Glock 19 pistols. Not AK-47s. Glocks. I need 2,000 armored personnel carriers (APCs) for urban policing. I need night-vision goggles for the police. I need forensic labs. I need secure communication sets for every SHO in Punjab."
Bob picked up the list. He scanned it. "Small arms? Surveillance gear? Body armor?"
"Top of the line," I said. "American made. Raytheon. Smith & Wesson. We will buy it all. And because we are equipping the Police and not just the Army, the volume will be triple what we spent on tanks."
The Negotiation
Bob did the math in his head. The profit margin on a fighter jet was huge, but the volume of equipping an entire police state? That was sustainable revenue.
"It's... a shift," Bob admitted. "But the profit margin on small arms isn't what Lockheed Martin is used to."
"Let the borders get calm, Bob," I said, lowering my voice. "If Pakistan is peaceful, if the economy grows, we will upgrade the police fleet every three years. It's a subscription model."
I leaned in. "And think of the PR. You aren't selling 'Weapons of War' to a Dictator. You are selling 'Law and Enforcement Tools' to a US Ally fighting terrorism. The Senate will love it. The human rights groups will love it. And the Pentagon still gets paid."
Bob stayed silent for a long minute. He looked at the list. Then he looked at me.
"You want to militarize the police?"
"I want to professionalize them," I corrected. "I want a constable in Lahore to have the same gear as a cop in New York. Can you sell that to Washington?"
Bob folded the paper and put it in his pocket. A slow smile spread across his face.
"Law and Order aid," Bob mused. "Congress loves that term. It sounds... civilized."
He stood up. "I'll make the call, General. But if you stop the F-16 program, you better make sure these police of yours actually buy the hardware."
"Oh, they will," I promised. "My new Inspector General is very particular about his equipment."
The Smirk
As Bob left the room, the tension drained out of me.
I fell back onto the sofa and let out a laugh.
I got them.
I had just tricked the CIA into funding Shoaib Suddle's police reform.
They thought they were securing a market for weapons. They didn't realize that by flooding the police with modern equipment, I was shifting the balance of power away from the Army.
For fifty years, the Army had the best guns, the best radios, and the best vehicles. That's why they ruled. The Police were beggars in rusted vans with broken rifles.
But soon?
The Motorway Police would have better radios than the Corps Commander. The Counter-Terrorism Department would have better armor than the Infantry.
I am leveling the playing field, Aditya thought, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. I am arming the civilians with American money, and the Americans think they are just making a sale.
I picked up the secure phone.
"Get me Dr. Shoaib Suddle," I ordered. "Tell him to get his warehouses ready. Christmas is coming early. And tell him... we're going shopping."