POV: Tariq (Islamabad, Pakistan)
At 2:00 PM local time, Tariq was hiding under his desk in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
He wasn't hiding from an assassin or a domestic riot. He was hiding from his secretary, who was currently holding a blinking telephone receiver that connected directly to the Ambassador of the United Arab Emirates.
"Minister Tariq," the secretary whispered loudly, peering under the mahogany desk. "The Emiratis are very insistent. They saw the news about the IMF stalling our bailout. They would like their three-billion-dollar loan repaid. Today."
Tariq curled into a tighter ball. "Tell them I am meditating! Tell them I have taken a vow of financial silence!"
Pakistan's fragile economic recovery was officially in freefall. The American naval blockade of the Persian Gulf had sent global oil prices into the stratosphere, and Islamabad simply could not afford to keep the streetlights on. Tariq was out of options. He had failed to pawn Wei's $34,000 tea, he had hung up on the Pope, and the country was teetering on the edge of sovereign default.
Suddenly, Tariq's left pocket violently vibrated. The Nokia brick.
The Boys were calling.
Tariq squeezed his eyes shut, answered the burner phone, and pressed it to his ear. "General, please, I can explain the WebEx incident—"
"Tariq! My beautiful, brilliant Foreign Minister!" Tariq blinked. The voice on the other end wasn't angry. It sounded... jubilant. It was the Chief of Army Staff himself, Field Marshal Asim Munir.
"Sir?" Tariq squeaked, crawling out from under his desk.
"Have you seen the New York Post, Tariq? Have you seen what the American President said?"
Tariq scrambled to his computer and aggressively refreshed his news feed. He clicked on a breaking interview from Donald Trump. He read the quote out loud.
"Something could be happening over the next two days... Pakistan's army chief, Field Marshal Asim Munir, is doing a great job. He's fantastic, and therefore it's more likely that we go back there."
Tariq's jaw dropped. "He... he called you fantastic, sir."
"He called me his favorite Field Marshal, Tariq! Do you know what this means? It means Islamabad is back in the game! The Americans want a second round of talks! Call the Serena Hotel. Tell them to restock the mint chutney. I want Brad and Reza back at that table by Friday!"
"But sir, the Iranians are furious about the blockade—"
"I don't care if you have to promise the Iranians a free Netflix subscription, Tariq. Get them in the room. And Tariq?"
"Yes, Field Marshal?"
"If you secure this peace deal and the IMF releases our money, I will personally buy you a new suit. If you fail, I will trade you to the UAE to cover the loan interest."
The line went dead. Tariq stood up, his matte foundation completely revitalized by the terrifying thrill of geopolitical relevance. The "Fantastic" Field Marshal had spoken. The tapestry of democracy was back in business.
POV: Reza (Tehran, Iran)
Foreign Minister Reza was staring out his office window at the sprawling, smog-choked skyline of Tehran.
The U.S. Central Command had just issued a statement that the naval blockade of the Iranian ports was "fully implemented." They weren't lying. Not a single merchant vessel had made it past the American destroyers in the last twenty-four hours. Ninety percent of Iran's maritime economy had been choked to death overnight.
The heavy oak doors of his office burst open.
Hamid, the aggressively enthusiastic IRGC minder, marched in holding a large, olive-green metal tube over his shoulder like a bazooka.
"Minister! Glorious news!" Hamid beamed, gently resting the tube on Reza's antique Persian rug. "The Chinese have bypassed the blockade again! A covert flight just landed in the eastern desert!"
Reza's eyes lit up with desperate hope. "Did they bring cash, Hamid? Gold bullion? Unmarked Euros? The UAE is demanding loan repayments from Pakistan, and the global markets are crashing. We need hard currency to subsidize the bakeries!"
"Better than cash, Minister!" Hamid proudly patted the metal tube. "Beijing has sent us three hundred man-portable air-defense systems! State-of-the-art Chinese MANPADs! We can shoot down American helicopters!"
Reza stared at the anti-aircraft missile. He looked at Hamid. He looked back at the missile.
"Hamid," Reza said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, terrifyingly calm whisper. "I have a budget deficit of four trillion Rial. My citizens cannot afford lentils. And Wei has sent me shoulder-fired rockets?"
"To defend the airspace of the revolution!"
"I cannot pay the teachers' union with surface-to-air missiles, Hamid!" Reza erupted, throwing his hands in the air. "I cannot walk into the central bank and deposit a MANPAD! The Chinese are playing us! They are giving us weapons so we stay distracted fighting the Americans, while they buy up all the copper mines in Africa!"
Hamid looked deeply confused. "But... the tube looks very intimidating?"
Reza grabbed his encrypted phone and pulled up the contact list. He had to stop this. If he didn't get the blockade lifted by the weekend, he was going to have a full-scale domestic revolution on his hands, and all he would have to defend himself were smart air fryers and Chinese rocket launchers.
He clicked on a number he swore he would never call again. Tariq (Do Not Answer).
POV: Brad (Washington D.C., USA)
"I want a Trumpian Grand Bargain, Brad. Nothing less."
Vice President JD Vance was pacing the length of Brad's Pentagon sub-basement office, holding a cup of black coffee and looking uncomfortably well-rested.
Brad, who was currently operating on his fourth piece of Winterfrost Nicorette and sheer patriotic spite, massaged his temples. "Mr. Vice President, with all due respect, we have their economy by the throat. CENTCOM says the blockade is 100% effective. Why do we need a grand bargain? Let's just wait until they beg for a localized ceasefire."
"Because the President went on the record with the New York Post," Vance replied smoothly, stopping to examine Brad's wall map of the Middle East. "He promised the world we'd be back at the negotiating table in Pakistan within two days. He promised his 'favorite field marshal' a win. The optics of us sitting here doing nothing while the global economy tanks are terrible."
Brad's desktop computer chimed with an encrypted flash-alert from the CIA. Brad opened the email.
SUBJECT: CHINESE ARMS PROLIFERATION - TEHRAN
SATELLITE INTEL CONFIRMS BEIJING IS AIR-DROPPING MANPADS AND AIR DEFENSE INFRASTRUCTURE TO IRANIAN REVOLUTIONARY GUARD. CHINA PUBLICLY PREACHING DE-ESCALATION WHILE PRIVATELY ARMING THE REGION.
Brad stared at the screen. Wei. It was always Wei.
China was officially calling for "peaceful coexistence" at the United Nations, while secretly overnighting anti-aircraft missiles to Tehran to ensure the region remained a chaotic, burning dumpster fire. If Iran managed to integrate those air defense systems, the U.S. Navy's air superiority over the Strait of Hormuz was going to get very complicated, very fast.
Brad's cell phone rang. It was an international number. Pakistan.
Brad put it on speakerphone so the Vice President could hear.
"Brad! My dearest, most reasonable American brother!" Tariq's voice echoed through the office, sounding borderline hysterical. "Have you packed your bags? Have you bought your travel-sized toothpaste? The Serena Hotel has upgraded the breakfast buffet!"
"Tariq, what do you want?" Brad sighed.
"Reza just called me! The Iranians are cracking! They want to talk!" Tariq practically sang. "But they will only do it if the Americans agree to return to Islamabad. The Field Marshal guarantees your safety. He guarantees a breakthrough! We can have this wrapped up by Sunday!"
Brad looked at JD Vance. The Vice President gave a slow, deliberate nod. The Trumpian Grand Bargain. Brad looked back at the CIA alert about the Chinese missiles. If they didn't get Reza back to the table and lift the blockade soon, Wei was going to turn Iran into an impenetrable fortress just to spite the West.
"Listen to me very carefully, Tariq," Brad said, leaning into the speakerphone. "Tell Reza we will be wheels-down in Islamabad in exactly twenty-four hours. But I am warning you right now..."
"Yes, Brad? Anything!"
"If you bring out the Ring Light for an Instagram selfie while we are discussing uranium enrichment, I am going to feed your phone to a stray dog."
"Understood completely! Pure professionalism!" Tariq cheered. "See you on Friday!"