February 15, 2001Islamabad → New Delhi (Hotline)23:18 Hours
The night after the blast, Islamabad did not feel like a capital.
It felt like an emergency room.
Televisions ran funerals and accusations on loop. Phones rang with the same vocabulary—rage, blame, pressure. The hawks were already celebrating in coded language. Every ministry was bracing for the predictable demand: freeze everything.
Musharraf refused the drift.
He took the hotline before the narrative could harden into a permanent scar.
Vajpayee answered quickly. His voice carried fatigue, but also steel.
"General," Vajpayee said. "You asked for a test under light. The light has produced blood."
Musharraf let the sentence land. He did not defend himself immediately. He understood Vajpayee's mood: not only grief, but political exposure.
Then Vajpayee said what the entire Indian public was thinking—what every opposition leader would shout tomorrow.
"Tell me," Vajpayee said, voice low, controlled. "Why should I trust the butcher of Kargil after this?"
Musharraf's answer came without hesitation.
"Because the butcher of Kargil knows something you and I share," he said.
Vajpayee went silent.
Musharraf continued, not emotional—precise.
"On Kargil," he said, "the equipment that kept men alive in blood-freezing cold—our side and yours—came from the same British suppliers. Same catalogues. Same logistics chains. Same cold-weather doctrine sold to both armies."
The line stayed quiet.
It wasn't an excuse. It was a method.
Musharraf pressed the point with the logic Aditya trusted more than any speech.
"Excellency," he said, "think like a statesman, not like a television anchor. What benefit do I get by sabotaging my own flagship project?"
Vajpayee's breath came slowly.
"You want me to believe you didn't do it," Vajpayee said.
"I want you to believe the obvious," Musharraf replied. "This attack damages Pakistan's credibility, Pakistan's economy, Pakistan's security posture—everything I'm trying to build. It also damages SPL, which is the most visible soft-power product we've created."
He paused just long enough to let the next line sharpen.
"If I wanted conflict," Musharraf said, "I would not build corridors. I would build trenches."
Vajpayee was quiet for a moment, then replied with the only counterargument that mattered because it was plausible.
"You may not have ordered it," he said. "But you are not alone in Pakistan, General. Perhaps someone under you benefits more from sabotage than you do."
Musharraf's tone remained controlled.
"That," he said, "is the first intelligent sentence you've spoken tonight."
Vajpayee didn't react.
Musharraf continued.
"If there are spoilers inside my state," Musharraf said, "then this is not just an attack on your pilgrims. It is an attack on my authority."
He leaned forward slightly, as if physical posture could travel across the wire.
"So here is my offer," Musharraf said. "Send your investigation team."
Vajpayee's voice sharpened. "To Pakistan?"
"Yes," Musharraf replied. "To Pakistan. They will work with my team. We will interrogate jointly. We will share evidence. We will build one story that can survive public scrutiny."
Vajpayee didn't speak for a moment.
In Delhi, that offer was explosive.
Because accepting it meant admitting a new reality: joint security mechanisms with Pakistan, on Pakistani soil, for an attack that Indian screens were already blaming on Pakistan.
And refusing it meant something else: letting suspicion become policy.
Vajpayee finally spoke.
"You are offering me joint interrogation," he said slowly. "Your generals will resist."
"They already are," Musharraf replied.
Vajpayee exhaled softly. "Then you are inviting internal war."
Musharraf's answer was calm.
"I am inviting institutional discipline," he said. "If they resist, the world will see what they are protecting."
Vajpayee remained silent.
Musharraf added the final piece—the part Vajpayee would recognize as bureaucratic leverage.
"This is not sentiment," Musharraf said. "This is cost."
Islamabad: The Protest
February 16, 2001GHQ / Emergency Session00:40 Hours
When Musharraf conveyed the proposal internally, the reaction was immediate.
A senior general's face tightened. "Sir, Indian investigators inside Pakistan—this is humiliation."
Another added, "This sets precedent."
A third said, colder, "It signals weakness."
Musharraf listened without flinching.
Then Shaukat Aziz entered the meeting room with a thin folder and placed it on the table like a weapon.
He didn't argue ideology.
He argued money.
"Gentlemen," Shaukat said, voice polite, "if this process collapses tonight, the financial loss is measurable."
He opened the folder.
Numbers. Contracts. Rights agreements. Sponsorship pipelines. Diaspora commitments. Tourism projections. The UAE stake. The Saudi patronage ledger. The entire emerging peace economy.
Then, deliberately, he slid forward another page.
"And this," he said, "is the part you will feel personally."
A general's eyes narrowed. "What is that?"
Shaukat didn't blink.
"Clawback clauses," he said. "Personal guarantees attached to certain military-managed logistics contracts. The privileges this process created also created obligations."
The room stiffened.
Shaukat's tone stayed calm.
"If the peace framework collapses because of internal resistance," he said, "some costs will not stay abstract. They will land where contracts land."
A general's jaw clenched. "Are you threatening—"
"I am presenting the file," Shaukat interrupted gently. "You can call it threat if you prefer drama. Finance calls it exposure."
Musharraf watched them absorb it.
In Pakistan, generals could resist many things.
But not numbers that threatened their private arrangements.
Musharraf finally spoke.
"We are not freezing this initiative," he said. "We are hardening it."
He looked around the room.
"You all wanted stability," he said. "Then accept the only thing that stabilizes a narrative after blood: transparency that cannot be dismissed."
One by one, the protests softened—not into agreement, but into grudging compliance.
Because the moment had shifted.
This was no longer about pride.
It was about control—of the country, of the narrative, and of the money that had begun to attach itself to peace.
Back on the Hotline
In Delhi, Vajpayee's voice returned, steady again.
"I will consider your offer," he said. "And I will send conditions."
"Good," Musharraf replied. "Send them quickly. The longer we wait, the hawks write the story."
Vajpayee paused.
"General," he said, "if you are lying, history will not forgive you."
Musharraf's answer was quiet and direct.
"Excellency," he said, "if I were lying, I would not invite you into my house."
The call ended.
And for the first time since the blast, the room in Islamabad felt slightly less like an emergency ward.
Because the next phase was no longer grief.
It was a contest:
Can the two states cooperate under blood?
Or will the hawks keep eating?