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PAKISTAN
UMAR Shirani, Pakistan’s army chief of staff, unlocked the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of gin. The kitchen lights were off but the illumination filtering in from the hallway created a dim reflection in the window over the sink. At seventy-one, he was still a bull of a man. An expanding waist was evident behind the casual slacks and golf shirt, but so were the thick arms, barrel chest, and broad shoulders. The scar acquired in the 1971 war with India was still visible—a puckered line that started on his right temple and disappeared into his thick mustache.
Saad Chutani had no such scar. Nor did that pathetic fool Ahmed Taj. They were nothing more than useless bureaucrats. Bookkeepers whose talents were limited to flattery, intrigue, and speechmaking. They had never fought for their country. They would never shed a single drop of blood for Pakistan. All they could do was maneuver in the shadows, quietly chipping away at men greater than themselves.
Shirani put the glass to his mouth and felt the rare sensation of alcohol burning his throat. Allah had put a great hurdle in front of his loyal servant. He would understand.
The aging soldier exited the kitchen and started for his study. The house was nearly ten thousand square feet, decorated and redecorated countless times by his young wife. The wildly expensive furniture and art had recently turned modern, and while he despised it, he knew it wouldn’t last more than a few years. Soon she would use U.S. dollars meant for fighting terrorism to create a new theme.
The house seemed unusually quiet as he strode through it. His wife had wisely withdrawn to the east wing. She’d learned to read her husband’s moods and knew that her presence would only create a convenient target for his rage.
But where were his security men? Had they too retreated in the face of his anger? Sometimes he thought the younger generation consisted of nothing but pampered cowards. How was his country to survive when he was surrounded by nothing but traitors and weaklings? Men like Saad Chutani and Ahmed Taj?
Shirani could not dispute that the president was a skillful politician. His ousting of the formidable former ISI director in favor of Taj was a first step toward bringing the powerful intelligence agency to heel. Underestimating Chutani’s abilities would be extremely dangerous, but overestimating them could lead to paralysis. While in some ways impressive, nothing the politician had accomplished would have been possible without the constant involvement of the Americans.
The critical difference between Shirani and Chutani was that the president actually believed in America. He genuinely treated its leaders as friends and partners. He took their money like they all did, but instead of subverting it, he used it on Washington-sanctioned programs. It was all part of his twisted dream of turning Pakistan into a U.S. clone. Into a place where Shirani’s daughters would be free to behave like prostitutes and Allah would become a quaint mythology.
Chutani was dangerous but also far too impressed with himself. While he had been successful in infiltrating Pakistan’s intelligence -apparatus and bribing the poor with public projects, his position was not unassailable. His American-sponsored drone attacks and commando raids had strengthened Pakistan’s growing fundamentalist -insurgency. And he was not the master of the army. Not yet.
The truth was that Pakistan had been controlled by a civilian government for too long. The country had a lengthy history of coups and the undeniable fact was that Pakistan performed better under military rule. The time had come to act.
Shirani climbed the stairs lost in thought but by the time he reached the top landing, the continued silence began to intrude. The army provided numerous servants and guards—men he’d handpicked for their skill and loyalty. While the size of his home had the ability to obscure them, it was unheard-of for him to travel its full length without at least a glimpse of the people tasked with keeping his household operating.
Shirani felt a dull surge of adrenaline. Had he underestimated Chutani? Had the politician managed to defeat his security? Was he looking to do something more tangible than just humiliating the commander of his army?
Shirani slowed, staying on the carpet runners as he continued toward the back of the house. The overhead fixtures had been removed in the last remodel, leaving the hallway lit only by weak, widely spaced lamps. He told himself he was being paranoid—that Chutani didn’t have the courage to do something this overt—but it did little to steady his nerves.
He put his drink down on a low chest and opened one of the drawers. Inside, he found one of the many guns that had been strategically placed around the house. The mechanism was well oiled, and the round entering the chamber made almost no sound at all.
Shirani found himself wanting to call out, to discover that his men were just giving him space. He wasn’t confident enough to do so, though. Instead, he crept forward, taking a deep breath before stepping into his study with the Heckler & Koch P7 stretched out in front of him.
“I hardly think that will be necessary,” Ahmed Taj said in Urdu.
He was sitting near the unlit fireplace, legs crossed and hands -steepled in front of him. Like at the end of their last meeting, he refused to avert his eyes.
“Where are my men?”
“I wanted to speak privately.”
“How . . .” Shirani started, but then fell silent. While Taj was still dressed in his familiar rumpled suit and faded tie, he seemed completely transformed. His posture was ramrod straight and his normally dull eyes had turned cunning. Was it possible that everything Shirani knew about the man was a lie?
The realization that he had seen only what Taj wanted him to see came like a blow to the chest. It seemed so clear now—the increasing sophistication of T
aliban activity, Durrani’s death, the well-coordinated attacks on the army’s nuclear facilities. How had he been so blind?
Taj calmly pointed to the weapon in Shirani’s hand. “Put the gun down and sit, Umar. We both know that if I wanted you dead, you would have been long ago.”
Taj watched the man as he laid his firearm on an ugly Western table and sat. Umar Shirani was in many ways his polar opposite. The general was a creature of privilege, having been born into a wealthy family with strong ties to the military. It was this that had made him complacent and all too easy to undermine. In the end, men like him possessed a fundamental belief in their own superiority. To them, life was a competition they couldn’t lose. An endless game of jockeying for position in an entitled hierarchy.
“First, let me apologize for the army being relieved of its duties guarding our nuclear arsenal. It was certainly not my intention.”
It was a lie that Shirani would immediately see through. The goal was less to convince the army commander that the ISI had no interest in reigning over Pakistan’s missile capability than to set a civil tone. Taj needed an ally, not another competitor.
“Of course,” Shirani responded noncommittally. He looked around him, undoubtedly out of a futile hope that he wasn’t alone. That his men would enter and help the old soldier retain the upper hand he was too arrogant to realize he’d lost years ago.
“Our country is rotting, Umar. From both inside and out. The -regional instability caused by the Americans is spreading. Sectarian violence has grown to a point that it’s at the edge of our control. And while we’ve been successful at subverting U.S. financial aid, we’ve also been seduced by it.”
Shirani just nodded.
