September 15, 2000 Islamabad 10:00 Hours
The screens in the Situation Room were usually reserved for border skirmishes or nuclear tests. Today, they were broadcasting a financial massacre.
It wasn't a cricket match. It was a coordinated assault on the very idea of the League.
On Screen 1 (Mumbai): A mob of men in saffron headbands stormed the Dadar branch of the State Bank of India. They weren't looting cash; they were dragging people out of the "League Investment Line."
A young college student was kicked to the ground, his "Mumbai Sultans" share certificate ripped from his hands and set on fire. The mob chanted: "Death to the Pakistan-Lovers! Break the Enemy's Bank!"
On Screen 2 (Peshawar): The mirror image. Men in black turbans from the JUI-F surrounded a branch of MCB. They beat the glass doors with bamboo sticks.
A shopkeeper who had just bought shares in the Peshawar team was being whipped. The Mullah on the megaphone screamed: "This is gambling! This is Hindu money! Burn the paper of the Infidels!"
The Panic
Shaukat Aziz rushed into the room. He looked like a man having a heart attack. He was clutching a phone that wouldn't stop ringing.
"Sir, it's a run," Shaukat gasped, his face pale. "It's a run on the banks."
"The shares are locked for five years, Shaukat," I said, gripping the edge of the table. "They can't sell. It's in the contract."
"They don't care about the contract!" Shaukat shouted, losing his usual Citibank composure. "They are scared! They are storming the branches demanding their 250 Rupees back. They are saying the Mullahs will kill them if they hold the paper."
He threw a fax on the table.
"And the whales are surfacing. The Ambani representative called. The Beximco Group called from Dhaka. Shah Rukh Khan's manager is on hold."
"What do they want?"
"Out," Shaukat said grimly. "They are invoking the Force Majeure clause. 'Civil Unrest'. They want to withdraw their capital before their brands get tainted. If the controlling partners pull out... the League collapses by noon."
The Red Phone 11:30 Hours
The secure line rang. It was the hotline to New Delhi.
I picked it up. "Prime Minister."
The voice of Atal Bihari Vajpayee sounded decades older than it had last week. There was no poetry in his tone today. Only the exhaustion of a man watching his city burn.
"General," Vajpayee rasped. "My police in Mumbai are overwhelmed. The Shiv Sena has paralyzed the financial district. They are targeting the banks facilitating your scheme."
"It is foreign money, Prime Minister," I said urgently. "We have the intercepts. The money is coming from Dubai. They are paying the rioters to stop us."
"I know," Vajpayee said heavily. "My Intelligence Bureau tells me the same. But knowing the arsonist does not put out the fire."
"My coalition partners are panicking, General," he continued. "They are saying this 'Peace Dividend' is too expensive. The blood is on the streets. They are demanding we cancel the Reserve Bank's clearance for the cross-border accounts."
"We cannot blink, Excellency," I said, my voice tight. "If we cancel the league now, the extremists win forever. We prove that hate is stronger than the market. We prove that Riyadh and Dubai decide our future, not Delhi or Islamabad."
"The market is bleeding, Pervez," Vajpayee whispered, slipping into a first-name familiarity born of crisis, but clearly still speaking to the Dictator, not the time-traveler. "Lakshmi is fleeing. If the riots don't stop in 24 hours, I will have no choice. I cannot let my banks burn to save a cricket tournament."
The line went dead.
The Wolves in the Room GHQ, Rawalpindi 14:00 Hours
The Corps Commanders Conference was emergency-summoned. The mood was poisonous.
These were the same men who, a week ago, were calculating their profits from security contracts. Now, they were watching the footage of burning banks and blaming me.
"This is a disaster," General Mahmood (ISI) slammed his file shut. "I warned you, Sir. You tried to mix oil and water. You cannot sell Indian shares in Peshawar."
"It is not organic anger, Mahmood!" I snapped. "It is the Saudis! It is the UAE! They are funding this!"
"Does it matter?" the Corps Commander of Peshawar interjected aggressively. "My city is burning. The Frontier Corps is having to tear-gas our own people to protect a bank selling cricket tickets! The soldiers are unhappy. They don't want to shoot Mullahs to protect Shah Rukh Khan's investment."
General Aziz, usually my staunchest ally, looked at the floor.
"Sir, the Welfare Trust is worried. We have invested heavily in the stadium upgrades. If the League is cancelled... the Army loses millions. The officers are asking questions. They are saying we have been humiliated."
"We don't cancel," I said, but the words felt hollow in the heavy air.
"Then what?" Mahmood challenged, standing up. "Do we shoot the rioters? If we kill ten bearded men in Peshawar today, tomorrow ten suicide bombers will attack our convoys. Is cricket worth a civil war?"
He leaned forward, his eyes cold and pragmatic.
"The Saudis have sent a message through back channels, Sir. They say they can 'help restore order'. All we have to do is... stop this foolishness. Cancel the League. Return to the fold. Be the 'Sunni Wall' again."
The Walls Closing In
I looked around the table.
The Generals were getting cold feet. The investors were fleeing. The Indian Prime Minister was wavering.
The "Peace Bubble" I had inflated with greed was being popped by the sharp needle of fear.
"Give me time," I said.
"You don't have time," Mahmood said ruthlessly. "The Ambani Group is holding a press conference at 5:00 PM in Mumbai. If they announce they are pulling out of the franchise... the stock crashes. The public will storm the stadiums to burn them down."
I sat alone as they filed out. The room felt incredibly small.
I had weaponized the greed of the common man. But I had underestimated the desperation of the Kings in the desert. They weren't fighting with economics anymore. They were fighting with fire.
And right now, everything I had built was burning.