May 2, 2000 Army House, Rawalpindi 19:00 Hours (7:00 PM)
General Mahmood sat in my study, looking like a man who had swallowed a bag of nails. He had returned from the desert hunting lodge with a message from the "Masters."
"They want you to slow down, Sir," Mahmood said quietly. "The Saudis are unhappy with the concerts. The Dubai Sheikhs are worried about the port competition. And the Americans... they want the 'Scary Pakistan' back."
He hesitated, then delivered the ultimatum.
"They are threatening to tighten the oil credit line. If we don't stop this 'Liberalization' and 'Peace Narrative', the ships stop coming to Karachi."
I stared at the ceiling fan.
Of course, Aditya Kaul thought bitterly. The Cage.
They didn't want a failed state, but they didn't want a successful one either. They wanted a dependent state. A beggar state that had to ask for oil every three months so it could be told who to shoot at.
"So," I said, standing up. "We are addicted to their oil. And because we are addicted, we must dance to their tune."
"It is the reality of geopolitics, Sir," Mahmood shrugged. "We have no energy independence. We run on Saudi charity."
The Ledger of Sovereignty
I walked to the large map of Pakistan on the wall. My eyes drifted away from the border and settled on the vast, rugged terrain of the southwest.
Balochistan.
"Mahmood," I asked, pointing to the map. "What is the status of the Sui Gas Fields?"
Mahmood frowned. "Volatile, Sir. The area is controlled by Nawab Akbar Bugti. He is a warlord. He attacks the pipelines. We have three Corps stationed there just to protect the infrastructure."
"And the revenue?" I asked, channeling the Auditor within me. "We extract billions of dollars of gas from his land. Where does the royalty money go?"
"To the Federal Ministry of Finance," Mahmood recited the standard answer. "And then the Ministry transfers it to the Provincial Government of Balochistan."
"And does it reach Bugti?"
Mahmood scoffed. "Sir, Bugti is a rebel. He lives in a cave. He doesn't want money; he wants war. The Ministry says the funds are 'allocated for development', but the tribes keep attacking."
I turned around, a dangerous idea forming in my mind.
No, I thought. Tribal chiefs don't want war. They want respect. And they want their rent.
"Get me the file on the Sui Gas Revenue Distribution," I ordered.
"Sir? That is a civilian matter."
"Get me the file, Mahmood!" I snapped. "If the Arabs are threatening to cut off my oil, I need to make sure my own gas isn't being stolen."
The Audit May 3, 2000 02:00 Hours (2:00 AM)
I sat alone with the files. It was a massacre of arithmetic.
For twenty years, the Federal Government had been pumping gas out of Bugti's land to power the factories of Punjab and Karachi.
On paper, the government paid a royalty. In reality? The money went into a black hole in Islamabad. Bureaucrats, middlemen, and corrupt provincial ministers siphoned it off before a single rupee reached Dera Bugti.
The "Rebellion" wasn't ideological. It was an eviction notice. The landlord (Bugti) was shooting at the tenants (The State) because the tenants hadn't paid rent in two decades.
"We are the thieves," I whispered to the empty room.
I closed the file. The solution to breaking the Arab leash wasn't to beg for more oil. It was to unlock our own energy.
But to do that, I had to make peace with the Tiger.
The Call to the Hills May 4, 2000 09:00 Hours
"Prepare the helicopter," I told Brigadier Tariq.
"Sir? Where to?"
"Dera Bugti."
Tariq dropped his notepad. "Sir, are you insane? That is hostile territory. The Nawab has a private army. They have anti-aircraft guns. The ISI advises against any high-value movement there."
"The ISI advises me to bomb him," I said, tightening my belt. "I am going to audit him."
"Sir, you can't land there. He will shoot you down."
"He won't," I said confidently. "Send a message via the secure channel. Tell Nawab Akbar Bugti that the Chief Executive is coming. And tell him..."
I paused, thinking of the tribal code of honor.
"Tell him I am coming alone. No guns. No guards. Just a guest."
The Tiger's Den Dera Bugti, Balochistan 14:00 Hours
The landscape was Martian. Red rocks, jagged peaks, and silence.
My helicopter descended into the valley. I could see them—men in turbans perched on the ridges, Rocket Propelled Grenades (RPGs) aimed squarely at my rotor blades.
If they fired, I was dead.
The pilot was sweating. "Sir, lock on detected."
"Hold steady," I ordered. "Land."
We touched down in the courtyard of a massive, fortress-like haveli. The dust settled.
I stepped out. I was wearing a simple Shalwar Kameez, not a uniform. I carried no weapon. In my hand, I held a single file.
From the heavy wooden doors, a giant of a man emerged.
Nawab Akbar Bugti. He was over seventy, but he stood straight as an arrow. He had a snow-white beard, fierce eyes, and an aura of terrifying authority. He was the Tribal Chief of Chiefs.
He walked towards me, flanked by armed guards. He stopped five feet away.
"You are brave, General," Bugti said, his voice deep and rumbling. "Or stupid. The last General who visited me brought a brigade."
"I brought a calculator," I said, lifting the file.
Bugti raised an eyebrow. "A calculator?"
"Nawab Sahib," I said, looking him in the eye. "I checked the books. Ideally, the State of Pakistan owes you and your tribe 4.5 Billion Rupees in back-dated royalties."
The silence in the courtyard was absolute. The guards shifted uneasily.
"I am not here to ask for a ceasefire," I continued. "I am here to give you a check."
I extended the file.
"And to ask why the hell we are buying oil from the Arabs when you are sitting on a gold mine."
Bugti looked at the file. Then he looked at me. A slow, incredulous smile spread across his weathered face.
"You are a strange Dictator," Bugti said. "Come inside. The tea is hot. And I think... we have business to discuss."
Aditya Kaul walked into the lion's den.
The Arabs wanted to choke me? Fine. I would light my own fire.