Safe House "Falcon," Islamabad Midnight
The location was off the books. No official logs, no military guards in uniform. Just the "Blue Force"—Shoaib Suddle's most trusted men in plain clothes—guarding the perimeter.
Inside, the atmosphere was heavy.
Sitting opposite me were three elderly men. They wore simple achkans and Jinnah caps. They looked like ordinary grandfathers, but in the eyes of the Pakistani Constitution, they were heretics.
These were the leaders of the Ahmadiyya Community.
The Scalpel's Report
"Dr. Suddle," I nodded to the Inspector General.
Shoaib Suddle placed a thick file on the coffee table. He didn't sugarcoat it.
"Gentlemen," Suddle said, his voice clinical. "Regarding the riots in Sheikhupura and Faisalabad. We have arrested 143 individuals."
He opened the file to a page marked with red tabs. Photographs of bruised, handcuffed men stared back.
"These seven," Suddle pointed, "are the ringleaders of the home invasion in Sheikhupura. We recovered the stolen jewelry. And... forensic evidence links them to the assault on the women."
The Ahmadi elders looked at the photos. They were used to police inaction. They were used to FIRs that were never filed.
"What are the charges?" one elder asked softly. "Disturbance of peace? They will be out on bail in a week."
"No," Suddle said, his eyes hard behind his glasses. "We did not charge them under the Penal Code. We charged them under the Anti-Terrorism Act (7-ATA)."
The elders looked up, stunned.
"Terrorism?"
"They created terror in society," I interjected, stepping forward. "Therefore, they are terrorists. Under 7-ATA, there is no bail. The trial will be in a military court. They are looking at the death penalty or life imprisonment. They will never see the sun again."
I saw a flicker of shock in their eyes. For the first time in twenty years, the State had used its iron fist for them, not against them.
The Confession
"I wanted you to see this," I said, sitting down. "Because I need you to know that the State is not complicit in the rape of its daughters."
"But you let the riots happen, General," the eldest leader said, his voice trembling with suppressed grief. "You went to Saudi Arabia. You shook hands with the King who funds the hate. You bought peace for your government by selling our safety."
The accusation hung in the air. It was true.
"I did," I admitted quietly. I didn't try to defend it. "I bent the knee. Because if I hadn't, the riots wouldn't have been in three cities. They would have been in thirty."
I leaned forward, my hands clasped.
"I am a General, but I am fighting a ghost. The men who attacked you... half of them are brainwashed students from Madrassas funded by foreign money. The other half?"
I glanced at Suddle.
"Unregistered Afghan refugees," Suddle confirmed. "Mercenaries. They were paid 500 rupees to throw stones and burn shops. We are deporting them, but the mindset... that is harder to deport."
"I cannot change the Constitution today," I said brutally. "I cannot repeal the Second Amendment without triggering a civil war that will kill us all. I admit my weakness."
The Question
I looked at them with the exhaustion of a man trying to hold back a tide.
"But I can enforce the law. I can hang the rapists. I can jail the arsonists."
I paused.
"Tell me. Beyond the law... what can I do? What actions can I take right now, within my power, to ensure your security? How do I protect you?"
The Request
The elders conferred in whispers. Finally, the youngest of the three, a man with the sharp eyes of an intellectual, spoke up.
"General, we know you cannot give us religious freedom. The Mullahs own the streets."
"But," he continued. "We are educated. We are scientists. We are economists. We are administrators. Pakistan has ostracized its most literate community."
He looked me in the eye.
"We don't want a public declaration. We want... anonymity. We want to serve the state, but the state fires us the moment our faith is revealed."
"And Rabwah," another elder added. "Chenab Nagar. It is our home. The police there are hostile. They let the mobs in."
The Solution: The Invisible Corps
I thought for a moment.
"Dr. Suddle," I turned to the IG. "Transfer the local police in Chenab Nagar. Replace them with a Special Unit of the Motorway Police. Tell the media it is a 'Highway Security Outpost' because the city is near the river crossing."
"Understood," Suddle noted. "They will report directly to Islamabad. No local interference."
Then I turned to the elders.
"As for service..."
I thought of Dr. Abdus Salam, the Nobel Laureate who was humiliated by his own country. I thought of the brain drain.
"I am creating a new division," I announced. "The National Strategic Planning Bureau. It will handle economic data, scientific research, and logistics."
I lowered my voice.
"It will be a 'Classified' department. Personnel files will be sealed under the Official Secrets Act. No one—not even the ministries—will have access to the religious declaration forms of its employees."
I looked at them intensely.
"Send me your best. Send me your economists who were fired. Send me your scientists who were shunned. I will hire them. I will protect them. And in this Bureau, the only religion will be Competence."
The Agreement
The elders stood up. There were tears in the eyes of the oldest man.
"You are asking us to work from the shadows," he said.
"I am asking you to be the invisible pillars of a building that is trying to collapse," I corrected. "Will you help me hold the roof up?"
The elder extended his hand.
"For Pakistan, General. Always for Pakistan."
The Departure
As they left, concealed in tint-windowed vans, I felt a strange mix of shame and pride.
I couldn't give them justice in the daylight. So, I gave them a sanctuary in the dark.
"Sir," Suddle gathered the files. "The Military Courts will sentence the Sheikhupura rapists by next week. Do you want it publicized?"
"Yes," I said, walking to the door. "Put it on the front page. 'Terrorists Sentenced to Death'. Don't mention they attacked Ahmadis. Just say they attacked Citizens."
I walked out into the night.
One day, Aditya promised the ghost of Dr. Salam. One day, we will say the name. But until then... we work.