May 15, 2000 Chief Executive's Secretariat, Islamabad 11:00 Hours
The high of the Bugti deal lasted exactly ten days. Then, the Empire struck back. But they didn't use sanctions, and they didn't use tanks.
They used the pulpit.
"Sir," the Interior Secretary ran into my office. He was trembling. "It has started."
"What has started?"
"The riots. In Chenab Nagar, Lahore, and Faisalabad. The mobs are attacking Ahmadi neighborhoods."
He placed a stack of faxes on my desk. They were police reports.
Sector 4, Lahore: Electronics shop owned by an Ahmadi looted and burned. Owner beaten to critical condition.
Faisalabad: Mob of 2,000 surrounded a place of worship. Police standing by.
Sheikhupura: Report of a home invasion. Three women assaulted. Rape confirmed.
I felt the blood drain from my face. Rape. They were raping women to "defend the faith."
The Puppet Masters
I looked at the television monitors. The screens were filled with bearded men screaming into microphones. I recognized them.
Maulana Fazl-ur-Rehman (Maulana Diesel). Qazi Hussain Ahmed (Jamaat-e-Islami).
They were the "Merchants of God" I had rented a few months ago. Now, their lease had expired, and they had a new paymaster.
"It's not just the riots, Sir," Brigadier Tariq said, his voice low. "Listen to the slogans."
I turned up the volume.
"Musharraf is a Qadiani Agent!" "The General is an Ahmadi in uniform!" "Death to the Apostate Ruler!"
The Saudi Angle
The door opened. General Mahmood (ISI) walked in. He didn't look surprised. He looked resigned.
"You warned me," I said, my voice cold with fury. "You said the Saudis were unhappy."
"They are terrified, Sir," Mahmood said, sitting down. "Our intelligence station in Riyadh sent a cable. The Saudi Royal Family is panicking."
"About cricket matches?"
"No. About Iran."
Mahmood walked to the map. "The Saudis believe that a modern, independent Pakistan will eventually drift towards neutrality. If we stop hating India, we might stop hating Iran. And if Pakistan stops being the 'Sunni Wall' against Iran... the Saudis lose their security buffer."
He pointed to the Dammam region on the map.
"The Eastern Province of Saudi Arabia. It holds their oil. It also holds a Shia majority. They are terrified that if Pakistan becomes soft, Iran will embolden the Shias in Dammam to revolt. They need us to remain radical. They need us to remain their dog on a leash."
"So they burn my cities?" I asked, gripping the edge of the desk.
"They are reminding you who owns the street," Mahmood said. "They wired funds to the Madrassas three days ago. 'Zakat' money. Millions of Riyals. The order was simple: Create chaos. Brand the General an infidel."
The Advice
I looked at the reports of the rape in Sheikhupura again. The bile rose in my throat.
This wasn't politics. This was savagery funded by petrodollars.
"Get me Shoaib Suddle," I ordered. "And get the Rangers. I want these Mullahs arrested. I want Fazl in handcuffs by tonight."
"No, Sir," Mahmood said sharply.
I froze. "Excuse me?"
"You cannot arrest them," Mahmood said, his voice steady. "If you arrest the Ulema while they are claiming you are an Ahmadi... you prove them right. The army will mutiny. The soldiers in the barracks believe these sermons. You will trigger a civil war."
"So I let them rape women?" I shouted. "I let them burn shops?"
"You swallow your pride," Mahmood advised, the cold pragmatism of the Deep State taking over.
"You need a certificate, Sir."
"A what?"
"A Certificate of Faith. You need to go to Riyadh. You need to perform Umrah. You need to be seen standing next to the King, praying in the Kaaba. You need to bend the knee."
Mahmood leaned forward.
"If the King blesses you, the Mullahs will shut up. The funds will stop. The riots will end. But you must go to them. You must show the world that you are their man."
The Cage
I sank back into my chair.
I was Aditya Kaul. I was a secular man from Delhi. And I was being forced to fly to a foreign kingdom to beg a monarch to tell my own people that I was a "good Muslim."
It was humiliating. It was medieval.
"This is the leash," I whispered. "They pull it, and I choke."
"It is the cost of doing business, Sir," Mahmood said, standing up. "We are a rented state. The landlord is asking for the rent."
I looked at the picture of Jinnah on the wall. The founder of the nation who wanted a state where religion was a personal matter.
"Prepare the jet," I said, my voice dead. "We go to Saudi Arabia."
Mahmood nodded and left.
I sat alone in the silence. I had outsmarted the Transport Mafia. I had charmed the Indians. I had bought the Bugti tribe.
But against the Weapon of Faith? Against the accusation of being an "Ahmadi"?
I was powerless.
I will go, Aditya thought, a dark resolve hardening in his heart. I will bend the knee. I will take their photo.
But I will never forget this. You want a Sunni Wall? I will build you a wall. But one day, I will make you pay for every brick.