Musharraf rose and walked to the window, not for drama, but to reset the geometry of the room. He wanted the Station Chief to understand something that most men in suits never fully accepted:
this was not a morality debate.
It was an alignment debate.
He turned back, his voice steady.
"Let's stop pretending we're strangers," Musharraf said. "I understand Pentagon interests. I'm a soldier, not a preacher. And I didn't arrive here by accident. People in your world nodded when the time came. So don't treat me like an outsider who suddenly wandered into strategy."
The Station Chief didn't react. He didn't need to. His stillness was acknowledgment without admission.
Musharraf continued, tone sharpening into clarity rather than anger.
"You're worried my moves are accelerating instability," he said. "I'm telling you the opposite: I'm trying to reduce instability where it's unnecessary."
The Station Chief replied carefully. "The Pentagon is concerned your initiatives—corridors, leagues, mass gatherings—create exposure at a moment they may need maximum cooperation from you."
Musharraf gave a short, humorless laugh.
"Cooperation I understand," he said. "But what they want is cooperation without autonomy. They want a Pakistan that follows orders and stays permanently tense with India—because that tension keeps everyone predictable."
He stepped closer to the table.
"Here is the reality," Musharraf said. "If India and Pakistan settle their ties—even partially—you don't lose influence. You gain bandwidth. You gain a stable platform."
The Station Chief's eyes remained steady. "And what exactly do you think you can offer that compensates for the risk?"
Musharraf didn't hesitate.
"A bigger pie," he said. "Iran."
The Station Chief's expression didn't change, but the air did. Iran was a word that rearranged rooms.
Musharraf held his gaze.
"Let this region cool down," he said. "Let me close the war-front with India so my state isn't bleeding attention and legitimacy in two directions. Give me space to normalize the eastern flank, and I can help you manage the western flank with far more leverage."
The Station Chief measured his words. "The Pentagon doesn't look at this as a simple trade."
"It never is," Musharraf replied. "But soldiers understand prioritization. You cannot keep every front hot and call it strategy."
He leaned in slightly—still calm, now brutally pragmatic.
"And if your fear is capability," Musharraf added, "then listen carefully: the old model is finished. Tanks are loud. They're slow. They make headlines before they make results."
He tapped the folder lightly, as if punctuating a new doctrine.
"Your weapons are still being used on the ground," he said. "But the future isn't armor rolling through dust. The future is eyes in the sky and precision. Drones. Satellites. Surveillance that sees before it bleeds."
The Station Chief didn't like hearing it stated so plainly—because it sounded like negotiation, not obedience.
"You're asking for technology," he said.
"I'm asking for alignment," Musharraf corrected. "If you want cooperation, you don't sabotage the stability that makes cooperation possible. You help me modernize how I control space—so incidents don't become wars, and wars don't become religion."
The Station Chief paused, then said, carefully, "Your initiatives create targets."
Musharraf nodded once.
"Yes," he said. "And that is why I need your world's tools—because the people trying to manufacture incidents don't fight like armies anymore. They fight like networks."
He let the final sentence land without raising his voice.
"So here's the bargain," Musharraf said. "Let India and Pakistan breathe. Stop feeding the spoilers. And you will get a partner who can deliver a larger strategic outcome than this subcontinent's old hatred ever gave you."
The Station Chief stood, smoothing his jacket—routine posture, non-routine implications.
"One more thing," he said. "The Pentagon's fear isn't only about your enemies. It's about your allies."
Musharraf's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
"They worry that when pressure increases," the Station Chief replied, "everyone will claim to be your ally while pushing you toward choices that serve them."
Musharraf held that in silence—because it was both warning and confession.
"Good night, General," the Station Chief said, and left.
Aftermath
Musharraf remained standing, alone with the folder. Mahmood entered quietly.
"What did he say?" Mahmood asked.
Musharraf didn't look up.
"He didn't deny anything," he said. "He didn't admit anything."
Mahmood waited.
Musharraf closed the folder and stared at the border map—at the thin line that men killed for, and the thinner line that peace required.
"But he confirmed the rule," Musharraf said. "When you build stability without asking permission, you become a problem—not just for enemies."
He paused.
"And in this era," he added, "they don't fight you with tanks."
He looked at the map again, then at the corridor line like it was a nerve.
"They fight you with incidents," Musharraf said. "And with the technology that makes incidents look accidental."