May 22, 2000 Royal Terminal, Jeddah 08:00 Hours
The meeting was brief but decisive. I sat with Crown Prince Abdullah one last time before boarding the plane.
"Your Highness," I said, laying out the new strategic doctrine. "You asked for a Sunni Wall. But a wall needs bricks."
"Explain," Abdullah said.
"Right now, 70% of the Pakistan Army is deployed on the Indian border. We are pinned down in Kashmir. If Iran moves against you, or if internal trouble starts in the Gulf, my hands are tied. I cannot send you a single division because they are facing Indian tanks."
I let that sink in. The Saudis treated the Pakistan Army as their personal mercenary reserve. They hated the idea that their "guards" were too busy fighting someone else.
"I need to cool down the Indian border," I said, framing peace as a military necessity. "If I secure a ceasefire with Vajpayee, I free up three Corps. That is 200,000 battle-hardened Sunni soldiers."
I looked him in the eye.
"I can re-deploy them to the Afghan border... or to the Gulf. At your disposal."
Abdullah stroked his beard. He didn't care about Kashmir. He cared about his own throne. A Pakistan Army free from the Indian front was a powerful asset for Saudi security.
"Make the border quiet, General," Abdullah agreed. "But do not make it friendly. We need your guns available for us, not rusting in peace."
"Understood," I lied.
The Ticking Clock Air Force One (En route to Islamabad) 10:00 Hours
As the plane climbed over the Red Sea, I stared out the window.
The Saudis thought I was freeing up the army for them. They were wrong.
September 11, 2001.
The date flashed in my mind like a neon warning sign. It was fourteen months away.
When the towers fall, the Americans will come. They will come with rage and B-52 bombers. They will turn Afghanistan into a parking lot.
If I am still fighting India in 2001, Aditya calculated, Pakistan will be crushed between the American Hammer in the West and the Indian Anvil in the East.
I had to close the Eastern Front. I had to make India a neutral neighbor before Bin Laden changed the world.
"Brigadier," I called out. "Get me Khurshid Kasuri on the secure line. It's time to open the back door."
The Wheat and the Way Foreign Office, Islamabad May 25, 2000
Kasuri looked at the plan and whistled. "Sir, this is... unconventional. Official trade with Iran is sanctioned. If we send wheat, the Americans will object."
"We are not sending trade," I smiled. "We are sending 'Zaireen' (Pilgrims)."
I pointed to the logistics map.
"Iran is under sanctions. They have oil, but they have a shortage of wheat and rice. Pakistan has a surplus this year. We are going to allow Shia pilgrims to travel to the holy shrines in Iran (Qom and Mashhad). And... every bus that crosses the Taftan border will be remarkably heavy with sacks of grain."
"Unofficial aid?"
"Gift of the faithful," I corrected. "It builds goodwill with Khatami without signing a trade deal."
"And the Indian part?" Kasuri asked, pointing to the most dangerous clause in the file.
"That," I leaned back, "is the masterstroke."
The Corridor June 1, 2000 Wagah Border, Lahore 09:00 Hours
The iron gates of Wagah usually opened only for the flag-lowering ceremony—a display of aggression where soldiers stomped their feet and glared at each other.
Today, the gates groaned open for a different reason.
A convoy of ten buses stood on the Indian side. They were filled not with diplomats or cricketers, but with ordinary Indian Shias—men in black, women weeping with devotion.
For fifty years, an Indian Shia wanting to visit the shrines in Iran had to fly via Dubai or travel by sea. The land route through Pakistan was sealed.
Until today.
The Crossing
I watched the live feed in my office.
The Indian buses rolled across the Zero Line. The Pakistani Rangers didn't stop them. They saluted.
The passengers looked terrified. They had been told that Pakistan was a land of terrorists who hated them.
Instead, as the buses entered Lahore, they were met by the Motorway Police—Shoaib Suddle's new "Blue Force."
The new police cars, gleaming and modern, escorted the Indian buses onto the M-2 Motorway.
The Journey
It was a surreal sight. Indian license plates speeding down the Pakistani highway.
They stopped at a service station near Multan. The locals—simple Sunni farmers—didn't see "Indian Enemies." They saw "Guests of the Prophet's Family." They brought out food. They brought out water.
Aditya watched the reports coming in.
Lahore: Indian pilgrims given free tea at Liberty Market.
Multan: Local shopkeepers refusing to take money for fruit.
Quetta: The Frontier Corps escorting the convoy safely through the Bolan Pass.
The Destination Taftan Border (Pakistan-Iran Line) June 3, 2000
The convoy reached the Iranian border. The Iranian border guards were stunned. They were expecting Pakistani pilgrims. They saw Indians.
And underneath the luggage of the pilgrims, in the cargo hold of the Pakistani escort trucks, were tons of premium Basmati rice and wheat.
A gift from Islamabad to Tehran, delivered by the hands of Indians.
The Triangular Bond
In Tehran, President Khatami received the report. Pakistan had facilitated the safe passage of Indian citizens to Iranian shrines.
In New Delhi, Prime Minister Vajpayee received the intelligence. Pakistan had allowed Indians to travel 1,500 kilometers through its territory without a single security incident.
And in Islamabad, I closed the file.
I had just stitched the three nations together with a thread of faith.
To the Saudis: I justified it as "monitoring the Shia movement."
To the Indians: It was a gesture of supreme trust.
To the Iranians: It was a lifeline of food and connection.
"The borders are soft," I whispered. "The armies are watching, but the people are moving."
I checked the calendar. 15 months to 9/11.