October 15, 1999 Chief Executive Secretariat, Islamabad 48 Hours After the Coup
Power is an illusion. I sat in the most powerful chair in Pakistan, but I couldn't get a straight answer about the price of wheat.
"Sir," the Federal Secretary of Finance said, sliding a glossy folder across the mahogany desk. "The economic situation is... challenging, but stable. We are arranging a meeting with the IMF delegation next week."
I opened the folder. It was trash. It was a summary of a summary. Bullet points. "Positive indicators." "Resilient market." It was the kind of bureaucratic fluff we used to write in India to keep the Ministers happy so they wouldn't ask difficult questions.
I looked up at the Secretary. He was a man named Mr. Qureshi. polished, silver-haired, wearing a suit that cost more than my annual salary back in Delhi. He was smiling the smile of a man who thought he was talking to a soldier—a dumb grunt who only understood tanks and guns.
He thinks I am Musharraf, I realized. He thinks I don't know how to read a balance sheet.
"Mr. Qureshi," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Where is the raw data?"
"Raw data, Sir?" Qureshi blinked. "Sir, the Chief Executive does not need to burden himself with the raw ledgers. That is for the clerks. This executive summary has all the—"
"I didn't ask what I need," I cut him off. "I asked where it is."
I stood up and walked to the window. The Margalla Hills looked beautiful, but the city below was rotting. I knew it. "You say the situation is stable. But I know that the foreign exchange reserves are below $1 billion. I know we are defaulting on the Eurobonds next month. And I know that the wheat procurement target was missed by 40%."
Qureshi went pale. "Sir... who... who told you this? The Intelligence reports?"
"I don't need Intelligence reports to smell rot, Qureshi," I snapped. "You forget that before I sat in this chair, I commanded an Army Corps. I have spent thirty years catching Quartermasters trying to steal rations and fuel from the depot."
I walked back to the desk and slammed the file shut.
"I know exactly what a supply scam looks like. Whether it is a Havildar stealing diesel or a Secretary stealing wheat... the math is always the same. The numbers don't add up."
I walked back to the desk and tossed the glossy folder into the dustbin. "This is garbage. You are feeding me sanitized reports because you think I will just sign whatever you put in front of me."
I pressed the intercom button on the desk. "Brigadier Tariq?"
"Yes, Sir?"
"Escort Mr. Qureshi out. And seal his office."
"Sir?!" Qureshi gasped, standing up. "You can't... I am the Federal Secretary! The Civil Service protection—"
"There is no Constitution right now, Qureshi," I reminded him, leaning over the desk. "I suspended it yesterday. You have no protection. You serve at my pleasure."
I looked him dead in the eye. "You have two hours to bring me the real files. The ones you keep in the safe. The ones that show the real debt, the real default risk, and the names of the sugar cartel hoarders. If you don't..."
I let the silence hang. "If you don't, I will have the Military Police audit your personal assets. And I hear you have a very nice villa in Dubai."
Qureshi was trembling. The arrogance was gone. The bureaucrat had met a bigger bureaucrat. "I... I will get the files, Sir."
He ran out of the room.
The General's Shadow 18:00 Hours (6:00 PM)
I was reading the real files (which were terrifying—the country was bankrupt) when the door opened without a knock.
Only three men in the country dared to enter without knocking. Lt. General Mahmood Ahmed, the Director General of the ISI.
He walked in, carrying a distinct air of cold menace. He didn't look like a subordinate. He looked like a partner. Perhaps even a senior partner.
"Sir," Mahmood said, sitting down without being asked. "You were harsh with Qureshi. The Bureaucracy is nervous. We need them to run the government."
"We need them to work, Mahmood, not lie," I said, not looking up from the file.
"The boys are asking questions," Mahmood said softly.
I stopped reading. "Which boys?"
" The Corps Commanders. They are hearing rumors that you are looking into the... 'Special Funds'."
This was the warning. The ISI had "Special Funds"—money from smuggling, from black budgets, from foreign agencies. It was the lifeblood of the Deep State. If I touched that money today, I would be dead tonight.
I closed the file. I had to play this carefully. I had to be the fox, not the lion.
"Mahmood," I said, taking off my reading glasses. "I am not looking into your funds. I know how the game is played."
Mahmood relaxed slightly. "Good. Because the Afghan operation needs liquidity."
"But," I raised a finger. "We are broke, Mahmood. The State Bank is empty. If the economy collapses, there is no Army. There is no ISI. There is no Pakistan."
I leaned forward. "I am going to fix the economy. That is my domain. You run your shadows. But do not block me on the economy. If I ask for a file on the Sugar Mills, I want it. If I fire a corrupt civilian, you stay out of it."
Mahmood studied me. He was assessing the threat. He saw a General who wanted to fix the books, not the spies. He decided it was an acceptable compromise... for now.
"Agreed, Sir," Mahmood stood up. "You fix the money. We will handle the enemies."
He turned to leave. "Oh, and Sir?" he paused at the door. "Be careful with Qureshi. He is corrupt, but he is our corrupt man."
"He works for me now, Mahmood," I said.
Mahmood didn't smile. He just walked out.
I exhaled, realizing I had been holding my breath. I had survived the first skirmish. I had drawn a line. Economy is mine. Security is yours.
It was a dangerous deal. But it bought me time.
I looked at the stack of real financial files Qureshi had brought. The numbers were a nightmare. The debt was suffocating. But buried in the mess, I saw something. A pattern in the import data.
"Oil," I whispered. "We are paying 20% above market rate for oil imports."
I picked up a red pen. Aditya Kaul was about to go to war. Not with India. But with the Oil Cartel.
Author's Note: Slow and steady. Aditya realizes he can't touch the ISI (yet). He strikes a temporary truce: "I fix the money, you keep your secrets." This gives him the space to start his "Kingdom Building" in the economic sector, which is his actual strength as an IAS officer.