October 22, 1999 (Friday) Army House, Rawalpindi 08:00 Hours
The file on my desk was thin, but it weighed more than a tank division. It was a joint alert from the Intelligence Bureau (IB) and Military Intelligence (MI).
"Sir," the MI Director said, his voice low. "The sermons are starting. The loudspeakers in Lal Masjid, Binori Town, and Data Darbar are all broadcasting the same message."
I opened the transcript. The words were carefully chosen—legal enough to avoid arrest, but venomous enough to incite murder. "This General is a stranger to our values. Look at his lifestyle. Look at his wife's head, which remains uncovered. Brothers, we fear a Qadiani conspiracy has seized the Presidency."
I felt a chill go down my spine.
The Nuclear Option
In Pakistan, the word "Qadiani" (a slur for the Ahmadiyya community) is not just an insult. It is a death warrant. In 1974, the State declared them non-Muslims. Since then, labeling a public figure a "Qadiani" or "Sympathizer" is the ultimate weapon. It tells every soldier in the barracks, every guard at the gate, that killing their Commander might guarantee them a place in Heaven.
"They are testing the water," I whispered.
I looked at the profiles of the men behind these sermons. I knew their history. These weren't just priests; they were political hitmen.
I closed my eyes and remembered the history books I had read as Aditya.
The History of Betrayal
These were the same men—the Shylocks of Faith—who had sold their souls to every dictator before me.
1979: When General Zia-ul-Haq wanted to hang an elected Prime Minister, Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto, these Mullahs stood up. They didn't plead for mercy. They found obscure religious texts to justify the execution. They traded a man's life for a seat at the table.
1988: When Benazir Bhutto became the first female Prime Minister, these same men unleashed a campaign of filth. They didn't attack her policies; they attacked her womanhood. They called her "Westernized," "Indecent," and "A threat to Islam." They printed fake photos. They declared that a nation led by a woman would burn in hell.
The Sectarian Game: I looked at the names of the Shia and Sunni leaders in the report. Usually, they killed each other in the streets. But when it came to squeezing the State for power? They were partners. They played the "Good Cop, Bad Cop" game with the government, extracting funding, land, and influence as their price for "keeping the peace."
They were merchants. Their currency was blood. And now, they were demanding their pound of flesh from me.
The War Room 10:00 Hours
"Sir, this is mutiny!" General Aziz Khan (Chief of General Staff) was pacing the room like a caged tiger. "If we let them say this over the loudspeakers during Friday prayers, the troops will hear it. A doubt planted today becomes a bullet tomorrow."
Aziz slammed his fist on the table. "Give the order, Sir. I will send in the Rangers. We will drag these Imams out of the mosques before the Khutbah (sermon) starts. We will smash the loudspeakers. We will show them the power of the State."
The other Corps Commanders nodded. They were secular men, mostly. They hated the Mullahs. They wanted a crackdown.
"No," I said quietly.
The room went silent.
"Sir?" Aziz looked at me as if I were insane. "You are letting them question your faith? You are letting them call you a traitor?"
"I am letting them speak," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Think, Aziz. If I send the Rangers now, what happens? They want footage of soldiers entering mosques with boots on. They want tear gas shells landing on prayer mats. If I arrest them today, I turn a political blackmail attempt into a Holy War."
"But we cannot sit silent!" Aziz argued. "They are mobilizing the street!"
"Let them," I said, my voice hardening. "I want to see who comes out. I want to see how deep the rot goes. Intelligence says they are planning a delegation. Let them come to me."
"It is a risk, Sir," the DG MI warned. "The streets are getting hot. They are burning tires in Raja Bazaar."
"Let it burn," I said cold-heartedly. "Fire purifies. We wait."
14:00 Hours (2:00 PM) After the Prayers
The sermons were delivered. The venom was spewed. The city of Islamabad was tense. Shopkeepers pulled down their shutters. Rumors flew that the General was about to be toppled by a "Religious Coup."
I sat in my office, watching the CCTV screens. I saw the convoys forming. They weren't hiding anymore.
From the Red Mosque, the hardline clerics emerged. From the Political Seminaries, the shrewd politicians in turbans emerged. Sunnis, Shias, Deobandis, Barelvis. Men who had spent the last decade issuing Fatwas of death against each other were now sitting in the same Pajeros, united by a common hunger for power.
They were coming to the Army House.
"They are here, Sir," Brigadier Tariq announced, his face pale. "The delegation. It includes everyone. Maulana Fazl, Qazi Hussain, Allama Sajid... the entire syndicate."
I stood up and walked to the window. I saw the line of luxury SUVs entering the gate. The guards saluted them—nervously.
These men had brought down Bhutto. They had crippled Benazir. They had justified Zia. They believed they owned the soul of Pakistan. They believed I was just another transient General who would bow down, pay the "Jizya" (tax) of power, and give them what they wanted.
I turned to Brigadier Tariq. "Let them in."
"Where should we seat them, Sir? The Conference Room?"
"No," I adjusted my tie. "My office. I want them to smell the authority."
I sat down behind the heavy oak desk. Aditya Kaul knew the history. He knew that you don't fight a merchant with a sword. You fight him with a ledger.
The door opened. The Shylocks walked in.
Author's Note: This chapter sets the stage.
The Severity: We established that the "Qadiani" label is a lethal threat, capable of turning the Army against its Chief.
The History: By referencing Bhutto and Benazir, we show that these Mullahs are seasoned regime-topplers. They are not to be underestimated.
The Strategy: Aditya's "Wait and Watch" approach is dangerous but necessary. He needs them to unite so he can decapitate the Hydra in one strike.