His steely gaze was met with an equally steady one from the Director General of the ISI, Azhar-ul-Islam Tayyab. The atmosphere in Nawaz’s cabin was tense. Both men were seated. The air conditioning was doing its job well enough, but there was a stifling silence for a few moments. ‘I know nothing, Wazir-e-Azam,’ Tayyab replied, his liver-spotted hands resting on the table. He did a good job of remaining unfazed. He headed a highly efficient organization, which had the reputation of being one of the deadliest in the world. He had been instrumental in building the ISI to what he proudly thought of as a ‘state within a state’. This wasn’t the first time a prime minister had sat opposite him, questioning him about some of his lesser-known activities. ‘Tayyab,’ the prime minister growled as he wiped away beads of sweat from his thinning, henna-dyed-orange hairline. ‘There are better ways to tackle a problem than play dumb.’ Tayyab simply shrugged. ‘Wazir-e-Azam,’ he said, leaning in, his voice intense, ‘whatever it is you suspect me of you know very well you would’ve done the same.’ ‘No,’ Nawaz replied.
