May 18, 2000 A Safe House, Islamabad 02:00 Hours (2:00 AM)
The room was dark, lit only by a single table lamp. Sitting across from me was Khurshid Kasuri, a man with the smooth tongue of a diplomat and the sharp mind of a lawyer. I had pulled him out of obscurity because I needed someone who could lie with absolute sincerity.
"You want me to tell the Iranians... what?" Kasuri asked, cleaning his glasses nervously.
"I want you to fly to Tehran tonight," I said, handing him a secure briefcase. "You will meet President Khatami. You will tell him that tomorrow morning, the Pakistan Army is going to shell the border region of Taftan."
Kasuri dropped his glasses. "Sir, shelling Iran? That is an act of war!"
"It is an act of theater, Khurshid," I corrected. "The Saudis want a Sunni Wall. They want to see Pakistan bare its teeth at the Shia menace. If I don't give them a show, they will burn Lahore to the ground."
I pointed to the map. "We will fire 500 artillery rounds into Sector G-14. It is an empty desert. Just rocks and scorpions. I need the Iranians to evacuate that specific grid."
"And then?"
"And then," I smiled grimly, "I need them to scream. I need their Foreign Minister to go on TV and cry about 'Pakistani Aggression'. I need them to burn a Pakistani flag in Tehran."
Kasuri stared at me. "You want them to help us... by pretending we are attacking them?"
"I am asking them to help me save my country from a Saudi-funded civil war," I said. "Tell Khatami that if he plays along, I will guarantee the safety of the Shia minority in Pakistan. If he refuses, the riots will get worse."
Kasuri closed the briefcase. "It is madness, General. But it is brilliant madness."
The Fireworks May 20, 2000 Pak-Iran Border, Taftan Sector 06:00 Hours
The desert silence was shattered by the thunder of 155mm Howitzers.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The Pakistan Artillery Corps pounded the empty dunes. Dust plumes rose hundreds of feet into the air, looking terrifying on camera.
PTV cameras were rolling. The reporter, wearing a flak jacket, shouted into the mic:
"Pakistan responds to Iranian provocation! The Army is targeting militant hideouts! The Defenders of the Faith are awake!"
In Tehran, the Iranian state media played their part perfectly. They broadcast footage of the smoke, claiming an "Unprovoked Invasion." They lodged a protest at the UN. They recalled their ambassador.
It was a perfect symphony of fake hate.
In the drawing rooms of Riyadh, the Sheikhs watched CNN. They saw the smoke. They saw the "Sunni Army" attacking the "Persian Rival."
They smiled. The dog was barking at the right postman.
The Pilgrimage May 21, 2000 King Abdulaziz International Airport, Jeddah 11:00 Hours
The jet touched down. The heat of the Arabian peninsula hit me the moment the door opened.
Usually, a coup leader gets received by a Deputy Minister.
Today, the red carpet was rolled out. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning on a gold-tipped cane, was King Fahd himself (flanked by Crown Prince Abdullah).
I walked down the stairs. I was wearing a traditional Sherwani, not a uniform.
I approached the King. I remembered General Mahmood's words: Bend the knee.
I bowed low—lower than a Head of State usually does. I took the King's hand and pressed it to my forehead in a gesture of deep, deferential respect.
"Welcome, Soldier of Islam," the King said, his voice raspy. He embraced me—the triple kiss on the cheeks.
The cameras flashed. The image was beamed instantly around the world: The Saudi King embracing Musharraf.
It was the Certificate.
The Switch
We sat in the Royal Terminal, drinking Qahwa scented with cardamom.
"We were concerned, General," Crown Prince Abdullah said smoothly. "We heard rumors that Pakistan was losing its way. That it was becoming... secular."
"Rumors, Your Highness," I lied, keeping my head bowed. "Pakistan is the Fortress of Islam. The shelling yesterday... it was a reminder to our neighbors."
"It was a strong message," the King nodded approvingly. "We saw it. We are pleased."
The King gestured to his aide. The aide made a phone call.
"The riots in your cities," the King said, as if discussing the weather. "We have heard they are... unfortunate. We pray for peace."
"Your prayers are all we need, Majesty," I said, choking down my pride.
The Silence May 21, 2000 Islamabad 15:00 Hours (Pakistani Time)
Brigadier Tariq stood in the Situation Room in Islamabad.
For five days, the phones had been ringing off the hook with reports of burning tires and mob violence.
Suddenly, at 3:00 PM—exactly one hour after the photo of Musharraf and the King was released—the calls stopped.
The Mullahs in Lahore received a text message. The funds from the "charity accounts" had been frozen. The order from the masters had changed.
Pack up. Go home.
Tariq watched the monitors. In Karachi, the mob that had surrounded an Ahmadi mosque suddenly dispersed. The leader told the crowd, "The General has renewed his pledge to the Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques. We give him a chance."
It was terrifying. The violence didn't fade away; it was switched off.
The Aftermath Jeddah Guest Palace Midnight
I stood on the balcony, looking at the Red Sea. I had "won." The riots were over. The Ahmadi families were safe for now. The oil credit line was restored.
But I felt dirty.
I had wasted a million dollars of ammunition shooting at sand to please a King. I had begged for peace in my own country from a foreign monarch.
This is the price, Aditya thought, gripping the railing. This is what it means to be a client state.
I looked at the reflection of the moon on the water.
Enjoy your victory, Your Majesty. I bent the knee today. But I am using your oil to build my economy. And the day I don't need your oil...
I turned back into the room.
The day I don't need your oil, I will stop the shelling. And I will start the music.
"Brigadier," I called out to my aide. "Get the plane ready. We go home. I have a summit to prepare for. And tell Khurshid Kasuri to send a basket of mangoes to the Iranian President. He played his role well."