November 1, 1999 Chief Executive's Secretariat, Islamabad 14:00 Hours (2:00 PM)
The door opened, and Dr. Shoaib Suddle walked in.
He didn't walk like a soldier, chest puffed out and boots stomping. He didn't walk like a politician, waving and smiling at empty air. He walked like what he was: a Criminologist with a PhD from Cardiff, who happened to wear a police uniform.
He was quiet, bespectacled, and carried a calmness that was unsettling in a city of screamers.
"Sir," Suddle saluted. It was sharp, precise, but lacked the theatrical deference the Generals usually offered.
"Dr. Suddle," I pointed to the chair. "I heard the Generals laughed when I mentioned your name. They think you are a 'Boy Scout'."
Suddle allowed a faint, dry smile to touch his lips. "Boy Scouts are dangerous, Sir. They know how to tie knots. And they know how to light fires."
I liked him immediately.
The Diagnosis
"I asked for a preliminary assessment of the Punjab Police," I said, leaning back. "General Aziz says the force is 'demoralized' and needs more funds. What does the Doctor say?"
Suddle placed a single, thin file on the desk. No fluff. Just data.
"The Punjab Police is not demoralized, Sir. It is commercialized."
He opened the file. "It is not a Law Enforcement Agency. It is a Franchise Business. The position of an SHO (Station House Officer) is auctioned to the highest bidder. The SHO pays his superiors for the posting. To recover his investment, he sells justice."
Suddle looked at me, his eyes magnified by his glasses.
"He sells the FIR (First Information Report). He sells the bail. He sells the investigation. And if the criminal cannot pay, he sells the criminal's body to the family after a 'police encounter'."
I listened, my internal IAS radar pinging wildly.
It's the same, I thought. It's exactly the same as UP and Bihar. The Police Station isn't a government office; it's a toll booth.
"And the politicians?" I asked.
"The Police are their private militia," Suddle said flatly. "The Feudal Lord doesn't need to keep a private army anymore. He just gets his cousin appointed as the DSP (Deputy Superintendent of Police). The State pays the salary, gives the gun, and provides the uniform. But the trigger is pulled by the Feudal."
The Internal Ledger
I stared at the map of Punjab on the wall.
I had been fighting the "Military-Industrial Complex"—the NLC, the Army welfare trusts, the Defense housing schemes.
But Suddle had just exposed the "Civilian-Industrial Complex."
The Sindh and Punjab Police were massive, sprawling industries running on a fuel of bribes. From the Constable on the street shaking down a fruit vendor to the Inspector General taking a cut of the kidnapping ransom, it was a vertically integrated criminal enterprise.
And just like the Army, they protected their own.
If I try to fix this with a hammer, I realized, the police will go on strike just like the truckers. They will stop arresting criminals. Chaos will erupt, and the public will beg for the old, corrupt system back.
I needed a different approach. I needed an island.
The Mandate
"The Generals think I brought you here to write a report on 'Police Culture'," I said, closing the file. "They want you to form a committee, drink tea for three years, and produce a paper that will be eaten by termites."
Suddle nodded. "That is the standard procedure, Sir."
"I am canceling the procedure," I said.
I stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the ribbon of asphalt that was the Islamabad-Lahore Motorway. It was the only piece of modern infrastructure in the country.
"You cannot fix the Punjab Police, Suddle," I said, turning back. "The rot is too deep. If you pour fresh water into a sewer, you just get more sewage."
Suddle looked disappointed. "So, we do nothing?"
"No," I smiled. "We build a new pipe."
I pointed to the Motorway. "I am giving you the National Highways and Motorways. I want you to build a new force from scratch. The National Highways and Motorway Police (NH&MP)."
"A traffic force?" Suddle asked, confused.
"Not just traffic," I corrected. "A prototype. I want you to recruit new officers. Educated ones. Give them new uniforms—blue, not that colonial khaki. Give them new cars. And most importantly... pay them."
I leaned over the desk. "I want you to pay a Constable exactly what a Banker earns. I want their salary to be so high that a bribe looks like an insult."
Suddle's eyes widened. "Sir, the Finance Ministry will scream. That is triple the current pay scale."
"Let them scream," I said. "I will cut the budget of the Information Ministry. I don't need propaganda; I need law."
I walked over to him. "The Generals think you are sidelined on the highway. They don't realize that the highway is the spine of the country. If you control the road, you control the economy."
I looked him dead in the eye. "Create a force where a General gets a ticket if he speeds. Create a force where a Prime Minister cannot make a phone call to release his driver. Can you do that?"
Suddle stood up. For the first time, the calm professor looked like a predator who had found his hunting ground.
"If I have your backing, Sir," Suddle said, his voice steel. "I will ticket your car if you break the limit."
"Good," I smirked. "You have full authority. Fire the corrupt, hire the best. Make the Motorway an independent republic of honesty."
"And the Punjab Police?"
"Let them rot for now," I said coldly. "When the people see the difference between your Blue Uniforms and their Khaki Uniforms... the people will demand the reform. We will not force the change. We will shame them into it."
Suddle saluted. This time, it wasn't just protocol. It was a pact.
The Aftermath
As Suddle left, I sat down and made a note in my personal diary.
Asset Acquired: The Scalpel.
The Generals were busy counting their future sugar subsidies. They didn't notice that I had just handed the country's most vital logistical arteries to the only man in Pakistan who couldn't be bought.
The "Company" was happy. They thought I was distracted.
But Aditya Kaul knew better. You don't kill a monster by stabbing it in the toe. You starve it. You cut off its roads. You audit its books. And then, when it is weak... you send in the Scalpel.