Tariq, the Foreign Minister of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, was currently engaged in the most high-stakes diplomatic maneuver of his career: he was measuring the distance between two samosas with his thumb and index finger.
"Kamran," Tariq said, his voice trembling with suppressed rage.
A young waiter in a crisp white uniform stiffened. "Yes, sir?"
"Kamran, look at this platter. Really look at it." Tariq gestured to the silver tray resting in the center of the massive mahogany conference table. "The Americans are sitting on the left. The Iranians are on the right. If the American reaches for a samosa, and he perceives that the Iranian has a samosa that is slightly closer to his side of the table... we have a geopolitical incident. Do you want to be responsible for World War III, Kamran?"
"No, sir. I just thought..."
"You do not think, Kamran! You place the snacks with geometric neutrality!" Tariq aggressively nudged the pastry two millimeters to the left. "We are the mediators! We must project order! Stability! Flawless hospitality!"
BOOM.
A muffled explosion rattled the thick glass of the Serena Hotel's VIP conference room. Kamran flinched, dropping his notepad.
Tariq didn't even blink. He calmly walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and peered down at the street below. A mob of roughly four thousand people was actively setting a replica of an electric bill on fire, while riot police fired tear gas canisters into the intersection. Someone was throwing a brick at a water cannon.
"Ah," Tariq sighed wistfully, humming a few bars of Dil Dil Pakistan. "The vibrant, noisy heartbeat of our democracy."
With a swift, practiced motion, he grabbed the heavy velvet curtains and yanked them totally shut, instantly transforming the chaotic reality of a developing nation into a serene, temperature-controlled bubble of denial.
Tariq turned back to the room, clapping his hands together. "Perfect. Now, where is the mineral water?"
Before Kamran could answer, Tariq's pocket vibrated. It wasn't his sleek, government-issued iPhone. It was his left pocket. The burner phone.
Tariq's infectious, host-with-the-most smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He waved Kamran away and pulled out a heavy, indestructible Nokia brick. The screen glowed green.
The Caller ID didn't have a name. It just said: The Boys.
In Pakistan, nobody ever said "the military establishment" or "the intelligence agencies" out loud. You just looked over your shoulder, lowered your voice to a whisper, and referred to them as "The Boys."
Tariq opened the text message. It read:
The American must endorse the $3 Billion IMF bailout today. If he leaves without signing, do not bother coming back to Rawalpindi. We will find a new Foreign Minister by Thursday.
A bead of sweat rolled down Tariq's forehead, completely ruining his freshly applied matte foundation.
He looked around the room. He was a man trapped in a burning house, tasked with hosting a dinner party for two guys who wanted to stab each other, and a third guy who owned the mortgage to the burning house. If Brad didn't give Pakistan the IMF money, the country would default by next Tuesday. If he asked Brad for the money, Wei might get offended and recall the $4 billion in infrastructure loans China had just given them to build a highway that currently ended in a goat pasture.
And Reza... well, Tariq just hoped Reza didn't try to smoke in the room again.
Tariq took a deep breath, shoved the Nokia back into his pocket, and forced his face back into a beaming, thousand-watt smile. Panic was for countries that didn't have nuclear weapons. Pakistan had nukes, aggressively spicy food, and the blind, terrifying optimism of a man falling off a cliff who genuinely believes he might learn to fly before he hits the ground.
"Kamran!" Tariq shouted, marching back toward the table. "Bring out the mint chutney! The spicy one! We are going to charm the pants off these foreigners!"