June 25, 2000 General Headquarters (GHQ), Rawalpindi 23:00 Hours (11:00 PM)
The map of Pakistan was bleeding.
Red markers dotted the western border.
Peshawar: A car bomb outside the NADRA office.
Chaman: A border post attacked by "unknown militants."
Sui: A minor explosion on a feeder pipeline (a warning shot, likely from Taliban sympathizers, not Bugti).
"They are pushing back, Sir," General Mahmood said, his face grim. "The registration drive has rattled the hornet's nest. The Taliban feel squeezed. And... certain elements within our own Frontier Corps (FC) are unhappy that their 'side businesses' are being disrupted."
I looked at the men around the table. The Inspector General of the Frontier Corps (IG FC). The Corps Commander Peshawar. The Corps Commander Quetta.
These men were responsible for the border. But I knew the dirty truth: They were the border.
They didn't just guard the line; they owned it. Every truck of smuggled heroin, every crate of Kalashnikovs, every stolen Toyota that crossed from Afghanistan paid a "tax" to their subordinates. By auditing the refugees and combing the camps, I was cutting off their retirement funds.
I couldn't fire them. They were too powerful. If I tried to court-martial the entire border command, they would topple me before breakfast.
If you can't defeat the corruption, Aditya thought, you have to gentrify it.
The History Lesson
"Gentlemen," I said, walking to the large wall map. "We have a problem. You think the problem is the Taliban. It is not."
I traced a line with my finger. It started in Kabul, went through Peshawar, Lahore, and ended in Delhi.
"The Grand Trunk Road," I said. "Sher Shah Suri built it 400 years ago. For centuries, it was the river of gold that fed this region. Afghan pomegranates went to Delhi. Indian spices went to Central Asia."
I turned to the Generals. "Do you know why it stopped?"
"Partition," the Corps Commander Peshawar grunted.
"No," I corrected. "We stopped it. We turned the Golden Road into a Smuggler's Alley. We traded high-value commerce for low-value contraband."
The Pitch
I placed a dossier on the table.
"I am going to reopen the GT Road," I announced. "I am going to propose a Transit Trade Agreement with India and Afghanistan."
The room erupted. "Sir! India will never agree!" "The security risk!" "Trucks from Kabul going to Delhi? It's impossible!"
"It is inevitable!" I shouted, silencing them. "Listen to the math."
I looked at the IG FC, the man whose troops were currently profiting from smuggling.
"General, how much does a smuggler pay your checkpost for a truck of heroin? 50,000 Rupees? And you have to hide it. You have to worry about the DEA. You have to worry about journalists."
I tapped the dossier.
"Imagine a legitimate NLC truck carrying Afghan marble or dry fruit to India. The official Toll Tax is $200 per truck. The 'Security Escort Fee'—which the FC will provide—is $500 per truck."
I did the calculation in the air.
"There is a demand for 5,000 trucks a month. That is $2.5 Million a month in 'Security Fees'. Legal. Documented. Paid by the traders directly to the Corps Welfare Fund."
I saw their eyes widen.
"And the perks?" I lowered my voice. "The officers who manage this logistics chain... they will be the directors of the trade. Legitimately. You won't be 'Warlords' anymore. You will be 'Trade Facilitators'. You will sit in air-conditioned offices, not bunkers."
The Condition
The greed was taking root. But now I had to set the hook.
"But there is one catch," I said, my voice turning steely.
"The Indians are paranoid. The moment they find one AK-47 or one kilogram of heroin in a truck entering Wagah... they will close the gate forever."
I walked up to the IG FC and looked him in the eye.
"If we want this River of Gold to flow, the smuggling must stop. Not because of morality. But because it is bad for business. You cannot sell heroin if it kills the trade deal that makes you millions."
"I need a guarantee," I said to the room. "Zero contraband. The NLC seals the trucks in Kabul. The FC guards them to Wagah. If a seal is broken, the Commander of that sector goes to jail. Do we have a deal?"
The Calculation
The Generals exchanged looks. They were doing the mental arithmetic.
Current Model: Smuggling drugs. High risk. Secret money. American pressure.
New Model: Transit Trade. "Security Fees." Legal money. Praise from the World Bank.
It was the classic "Mafia Pivot." Like the Italian mob moving from bootlegging to construction.
"If... if India agrees," the Corps Commander Quetta said slowly. "And if the revenue flows to the Welfare Funds... then we can ensure the border is tight."
"India will agree," I promised. "Vajpayee is a Baniya (trader) at heart. He wants Afghan markets. He wants Central Asian energy. He will pay the toll."
The Order
"Good," I returned to my chair. "Stop the attacks. Tell your 'fringe elements' to stand down. Tell them that if they blow up a pipeline now, they are blowing up their own future paycheck."
"Meeting adjourned."
The Aftermath
As they filed out, Brigadier Tariq looked at me with a mix of awe and horror.
"Sir... you just legalized the mafia."
"No, Tariq," I said, loosening my collar. "I just incentivized the police."
I looked at the map again. The GT Road.
If I could get a truck to drive from Kabul to Delhi without being stopped, I wouldn't just be reviving a road. I would be erasing the border.
"Get me the Foreign Ministry," I ordered. "Tell them to draft a proposal for New Delhi. 'The Afghanistan-Pakistan-India Transit Trade Agreement'."
I smiled.
"And tell them to print it on expensive paper. We are selling a dream."