October 22, 1999 Chief Executive's Secretariat, Islamabad 16:30 Hours (4:30 PM)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of expensive Attar and unwashed ambition. Six of the most powerful religious leaders in Pakistan sat on the plush leather sofas. They looked like a council of kings.
Maulana Fazl (Head of JUI-F) took the lead. He adjusted his white turban, his eyes gleaming with the confidence of a man who had brought down governments before.
"General Sahib," Fazl began, his voice smooth as honey. "We do not want confrontation. We want cooperation. But the Ummah is angry. The slogans on the street... they are becoming dangerous."
He pulled out a piece of paper. The Demands.
"To calm the anger," Fazl read, "we propose the following arrangement:
Provincial Control: My party will form the government in the Frontier (KPK) and Balochistan.
Senate Seats: 20 guaranteed seats for the Religious Alliance in the next Senate.
Educational Autonomy: No state audit of Madrassas.
Logistics: The restoration of the 'special transport permits' (Diesel Permits) for our charitable wings."
Qazi Hussain (Head of Jamaat-e-Islami) leaned forward, adding his weight. "And in Karachi, the Mayor's office belongs to us. If not... well, Karachi can be a very volatile city."
They sat back, crossing their arms. It was a shakedown. Pure and simple. They were offering me "protection" from the very mobs they controlled.
I looked at the list. Then I looked at them. I didn't speak for a long minute. I let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable.
Then, I chuckled. It was a dry, humorless sound.
"Is that all?" I asked.
Fazl blinked. "It is a fair price for stability, General."
"Stability?" I stood up, walking slowly around the desk.
"Maulana, let me correct your understanding of the situation," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "You think you are threatening a Prime Minister who needs votes. You forget who is sitting in this chair."
I stopped in front of Fazl. "You talk about the streets? Go ahead. Burn them."
"General," Fazl warned, "The blood of the martyrs—"
"The blood of the martyrs will be washed away by fire trucks in an hour," I cut him off brutally. "I am a Military Dictator, Maulana. I suspended the Constitution in five minutes. Do you really think I will hesitate to shoot a few hundred rioters?"
The room went deadly still. They hadn't expected this. They were used to politicians who feared violence.
"And do not think you will become martyrs," I leaned in closer, looking directly into Fazl's eyes. "If you push me, I won't arrest you. You are too famous. Instead, I will systematically eliminate your second-tier leadership. The organizers. The fundraisers. The sector commanders."
I swept my gaze across the room. "I will cut off your feet. You will be heads without bodies, screaming sermons to empty halls because no one will be left to organize the rally. Do you want to test my intelligence agencies?"
Qazi Hussain shifted uncomfortably. They knew the ISI could do exactly that.
"So," I walked back to my chair and sat down. "Let's stop the nonsense about street power. You are not revolutionaries. You are brokers. And right now, I am dissatisfied with your service."
"Service?" Allama Sajid (the Shia leader) asked, offended. "We do not serve you."
"You serve the State," I snapped. "And right now, the State is broke. You want permits? You want governments? Bring me something of value."
I pointed a finger at Maulana Fazl. "You, Maulana. You claim to be the defender of the Sunnis. You have deep ties in the Gulf. The Saudis and the Qataris listen to you."
Fazl remained silent, listening.
"We need oil," I said. "And we have no cash. Go to Riyadh. Go to Doha. Use your 'spiritual connection' to get us oil on deferred payment. Get me a three-year credit facility."
I turned to Allama Sajid. "And you. You take your orders from Tehran. Good. Make yourself useful. Open a backchannel with the Supreme Leader. Tell Iran that if they want a friendly border, they need to lower the gas prices for us. Get me a trade deal."
Finally, I looked at Qazi Hussain. "And you, Qazi Sahib. You threaten me with Karachi? The city is bleeding because your boys and the ethnic gangs are shooting each other."
I slammed a file on the desk. "I don't want threats. I want peace. Call off your armed wings. Stop the strikes. If Karachi stays open for business for one month... then, and only then, will I listen to your demands about the Mayor's office."
I sat back, looking at the stunned group of holy men. "You want a pound of flesh?" I asked. "First, help me feed the elephant."
"And if we refuse?" Fazl asked, though his voice lacked its earlier conviction.
"Then I release the Audit Report of the Auqaf Department to the press tomorrow morning," I said casually, picking up my pen. "And I tell the Saudis that you are the reason their investment is unsafe."
Fazl looked at Qazi. Qazi looked at Sajid. They were trapped. Aditya had turned them from Kings into Envoys.
"We will... make some calls," Fazl muttered, standing up. "But we expect the Diesel permits to be released as a gesture of goodwill."
"Bring me the oil deal first," I said, not looking up. "Then you get your diesel."
"Good day, General."
They shuffled out, looking far less regal than when they entered.
As the door closed, I exhaled. I hadn't won the war. I had just rented them for a few months. But in Pakistan, renting the Mullahs was better than fighting them.
Author's Note
The Utility Argument. Aditya treats the Clerics exactly as they are: Assets. Instead of fighting them on theology (which he would lose), he fights them on utility.
Fazl -> Saudi/Qatar (Oil): Leveraging his Deobandi ties.
Sajid -> Iran (Gas): Leveraging his Shia ties.
Qazi -> Karachi (Peace): Leveraging his street power.
He dismisses their "Street Threat" by threatening their organizational structure (the "feet"), which is a very specific and credible military threat.