February 2, 2001Jeddah → MakkahAl-Masjid al-HaramAfter Isha
The plane touched down in Jeddah with a quiet finality, the kind that makes even hardened men lower their voices. Musharraf stepped onto Saudi ground and announced his purpose immediately—publicly, formally, and without ambiguity.
"Umrah," he told the waiting cameras.
No policy briefing. No corridor talk. No border language.
Just worship.
Aditya understood the mechanics of it. In this space, piety was not only piety. It was also a shield. A reset of optics, timed precisely before the clerics and agitators could monopolize the narrative back home.
By the time Musharraf reached Makkah, the atmosphere around him was already being curated—quietly, efficiently, and without looking curated at all.
The Haram استقبال
Inside Al-Haram, something unfolded that Saudi handlers could not ignore.
Pakistani pilgrims recognized him instantly—some with disbelief, some with pride, some simply with the instinct of a diaspora that still craves a face that looks like "home" in a sea of nations. They approached in clusters after tawaf, offering salams, handshakes, blessings, and short, emotional sentences that did not need translation.
But it wasn't only Pakistanis.
As Musharraf moved through the crowd, other pilgrims began to come forward as well—Arabs, Africans, Southeast Asians—men who wanted a handshake, a photograph, a moment. It didn't look like a stage-managed reception.
It looked like spontaneous legitimacy.
And that was exactly the point.
Shoaib Suddle's team had not "directly approached" anyone inside the Haram. They had done something more sophisticated: they had ensured the right people were nearby, the right moments were visible, and the right images would exist when Saudi eyes reviewed the day.
They were not manufacturing devotion.
They were manufacturing evidence.
Evidence that whatever politics Musharraf carried, the crowd did not treat him like a pariah.
Aditya watched it all with the cold appreciation of an administrator watching a successful public rollout.
In Islamabad, legitimacy is argued.Here, legitimacy is witnessed.
The Coincidence That Wasn't
Later that night, another "coincidence" arrived—so convenient it didn't even bother pretending to be random.
Amr Diab—a name that moved Arab youth the way a national anthem moved older men—was also in Makkah for Umrah at the same time. Word traveled in that old pre-digital way: murmurs, nods, a few discreet confirmations by aides.
Then the improbable became real.
In a quiet corner near the outer circulation, away from the densest flow, Amr Diab sat down with Musharraf.
No podium. No press statement. No flags.
Just two men talking.
And then, inevitably, photographs emerged—both smiling, relaxed, human. Not the smile of staged diplomacy, but the smile of a conversation that feels almost private even when it isn't.
Suddle's team had done their homework without touching the Haram with visible hands. Through intermediaries outside the holy precinct, they had floated a clean incentive into the air like perfume: if Diab ever wanted to be part of the SPL's next season's cultural programming—opening ceremony appearances, televised theme spots, controlled, high-pay, high-visibility—Islamabad could make it happen.
It was not a large amount in state terms.
But in narrative terms, it was priceless.
A cricket league was becoming a platform not only for South Asia, but for Arab youth attention.
A small payment for a large psychological wedge.
Riyadh Watches the Morning
February 3, 2001RiyadhRoyal ResidenceBreakfast Television
The next morning, while the bureaucracies prepared their briefings, the Saudi King watched his favorite morning show at the breakfast table—quiet ritual, familiar format, safe topics.
Until the host brought it up.
"Amr," the presenter said, "you met General Musharraf in Makkah?"
Diab smiled, easy and confident.
"Yes," he said. "And I was surprised."
"Surprised by what?"
"By how he spoke," Diab replied. "By how much he understood music—melody, rhythm, old compositions. Not many leaders speak about art like they've lived with it."
The host leaned in, delighted.
"So he's a man of culture?"
Diab shrugged modestly, but the line landed.
"I'm saying," he said, "he didn't feel like the caricature people argue about. He felt… present. Human. Knowledgeable."
At the breakfast table in Riyadh, the sentence did what memos often failed to do:
It complicated certainty.
Saudi disapproval had been building through channels and intermediaries—concerns about precedent, clerical backlash, destabilizing experiments. But now the King's household was watching a youth icon describe Musharraf not as a threat, but as someone unexpectedly sophisticated.
A small shift.
Not agreement.
But hesitation.
And hesitation was enough for Aditya's purposes.
Because if Riyadh hesitated, the clerical ecosystem back home would lose a degree of oxygen.
Islamabad's Quiet Satisfaction
Back in Musharraf's temporary suite, Mahmood arrived with a thin folder of overnight summaries: clips, mentions, diaspora reactions, and the Saudi morning-show transcript highlighted in pen.
Mahmood's voice was cautious.
"Sir… this is working."
Musharraf didn't smile.
"It's not working," he corrected. "It's opening the door to a working meeting."
He looked at the schedule for the next day—the audience with Saudi leadership.
"This is not about friendship," he said. "This is about reducing interference."
He paused, then added the bureaucrat's true objective:
"And making sure that if anyone funds street chaos in Pakistan, they do it against a tide—not with it."
Outside, the holy city moved in its timeless rhythm. Inside, Aditya watched a modern rhythm being engineered: crowds, cameras, celebrities, legitimacy—each one a lever, each one placed before the corridor gate opened.
Kartarpur was still ahead.
But first, Riyadh had to be disarmed—politely.
Author's Note
Yes—this is one of the story's intentional contrasts. In public memory, Musharraf is often reduced to a single war label. But historically, he also had a well-known personal relationship with music—listening, discussing, and appreciating it in private circles. In this novel, Aditya uses that cultural literacy as another tool of statecraft: not to "perform," but to disarm people who assume a soldier cannot understand anything except force. You can understand better about Musharraf's talent from this video.
https://youtu.be/BGFaQgIykUE?si=9qVkL5heymTssFpd