The Warlord's Son (33 page)

“Looks like we have a standoff,” Pierce shouted, still smiling. “Your move.”

Skelly considered their options, most of which seemed to involve bloodshed. Perhaps Pierce had been bluffing before, but these new arrivals probably didn’t know the meaning of the word.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll come with you. Only if Najeeb and the girl can leave.” He didn’t want them to know Daliya’s name. “But first send your army away.”

“The army stays until you’re in the car. But your friends can go.”

Skelly briefly considered the terms, then nodded.

“No,” Daliya hissed. “Do not do it!”

Skelly cast a glance at her. Amazing eyes, and enough spirit for all three of them. No wonder Najeeb had fallen for her.

“Fair enough,” he shouted back.

Pierce nodded, then spoke in a muffled burst of Pashto to the men in the trucks, who lowered their guns, engines still idling.

“Okay,” Pierce said. “Your turn again.”

“Get out of here now,” Skelly said to Najeeb. “Just toss me my bag first.”

Najeeb hesitated.

“C’mon. He won’t keep ’em leashed all day. And while you’re at it, reach in and get the money. Bottom pocket. You’ve earned it. Just leave me a few hundred. We’ll settle up the rest in Peshawar.”

Najeeb seemed to be complying by the sound of it, although Skelly kept his eyes on Pierce and the men in the trucks. The satchel then sailed across the roof of the truck, landing at his feet with a puff of dust.

“We’ll wait for you at the highway,” Najeeb muttered. “Or I can double back and try to follow.”

Skelly shook his head, then looked Najeeb in the eye with all the gratitude he could muster. “Look, you saved my ass. Twice. Let me return the favor. Do it for her.”

He nodded toward Daliya, who reached out a hand as if she might be able to touch him from across the roof.

“Now go.”

The two complied without a further word. The engine started, and the truck rolled away, the others watching without a sound until all that was visible was its dust contrail, tracing a thin brown line along the dimming horizon.

“Well, come on, then,” Hartley said, relaxed now, trying to sound cheerful. “Climb in and we’ll get started.”

Skelly sagged, feeling alone in the sudden silence, his protector gone, along with the lucky Daliya. He wondered how long it would be before he saw them again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

PIERCE ORDERED the other trucks away, and they headed back toward Alzara as Skelly climbed into the Suburban. It was air-conditioned, as chilled as a Houston shopping mall in July. Neither Pierce nor Hartley had said a word to him since he’d put down the Kalashnikov and walked to their vehicle. But at least Pierce had put away his handgun.

Skelly slid across the cool vinyl seat, trying to get comfortable.

“Here,” Pierce said. “Maybe this will make you feel better.”

He held the handgun, offering it to Skelly across the front seat.

“I took out the clip. Consider it a peace offering. But there was no way we were letting you out of here without being sure you heard our side. Off the record, of course.”

“Of course,” Skelly said, still tense from the standoff.

Pierce’s gesture was reassuring, all the same, and Skelly sensed his inner alarms subsiding, although his adrenaline was still surging. If Hartley and Pierce would go to these lengths to control him, then they must have really screwed up. The question was whether Transgas interests had anything to do with it. The only thing worse than letting the world’s most wanted criminal slip through your fingers would be doing it while trying to turn some sort of corporate profit. And while betraying a supposed ally, no less.

The potential repercussions of such news simmered heavily in Skelly’s stomach, like something molten, and in his lingering anger at Pierce he felt the urge to spew it in the man’s face, flaunting it, taking his vengeance by displaying his knowledge of their cunning and their foul-ups, their callous blundering among these hills and tribesmen.

But there was danger in that, too, he knew, and a cautious voice deep within told him to hold on, keep it in check. Don’t spill any secrets until they spilled theirs. For the moment, at least, he held a certain advantage, because they probably wanted information from him even more than he wanted it from them. But, truth be told, there were still gaps in his story, and Hartley and Pierce might be the only people who could fill them.

Pierce started the engine, then took off his sunglasses for a moment, rubbing the weariness out of his face. He glanced back at Skelly, grinning tightly, although the blue eyes still offered only admonishment, the small-bore glower of the cheated. Then, as if he’d already revealed too much, he put the glasses back on, like someone in a limousine rolling up the smoked window, and threw the car into gear.

“You’re probably wondering exactly what it is you saw over there, aren’t you?” Hartley chirped from the passenger’s side.

Sam didn’t seem so tense now, another good sign. Skelly could live with a delay, he supposed, as long as he got something in return. He just hoped they didn’t intend to stay overnight out here.

“I guess you could say that,” Skelly answered. “Got some great stuff, though.”

“How’d you like to know the rest of the story, then?” Hartley said, easing into sales mode. “All off the record, of course.” A furtive glance at Pierce. “But usable as far as helping you shape it.”

“I can live with that.”

“Great.” Hartley smiled. All that was missing was the mug of beer. “Then why don’t we swap a few war stories. And Arlen here can tell you which end is up. The theory being that if you’re going to spill the beans you might as well spill the right ones. We’ll have you back in Peshawar in time for dinner. My treat, even, as long as you give me that debriefing you promised. After you’ve filed, of course.”

They were going to spin him, in other words, just as he’d expected. No problem. In fact, Hartley’s words were music to his ears. Everything about the preceding moments—Pierce pulling his gun, the armed men in the trucks—had seemed to spell doom and danger, but Skelly was now beginning to believe that things would be fine. He was almost ashamed at his growing sense of relief, because he knew that it came partly from being back among his own people, his own tribe, returned to a world where everyone not only spoke his language but knew the same cues, the slang, the rules of the game.

He pulled out a notebook, propping it on his knee, with the whole backseat to himself. The cushioning of the black vinyl seats felt like a mattress at the Ritz after the places he’d been sleeping lately. And in a Chevy, no less. They might just as easily have been rambling down Pennsylvania Avenue toward Capitol Hill. Just three fellows bearing secrets with a scandal to manage, probing each other for weaknesses while the clock ticked.

“You really can’t mention us in this piece, you know,” Pierce cut in. Nothing warm in his voice. “Not just by name, but by position. None of this coy ‘unnamed pipeline company official’ or ‘Western diplomat’ bullshit. Got it?”

“No problem.”

Pierce raised up for a glance at him in the rearview mirror, and Skelly felt like he’d just been hooked up to a polygraph.

“But maybe you could tell me for my own benefit exactly what roles you two have been playing out here?”

“Well, my ID is from the State Department,” Pierce said. “It says I’m a contract security officer, escorting our friend here, who’s an official representative of the commercial interests section.”

“And unofficially?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Look,” Hartley chirped, playing the peacemaker, “why don’t we figure out what it is you need explained?”

“You could start by telling me what you were doing in Alzara. And what it had to do with Razaq, or with the possibility that some Arabs might still be on the loose, including the big man himself.”

“Let’s just say that some of our interests were in play in Alzara,” Hartley said. “And for the moment they happened to coincide with the interests of some of the tribesmen.”

“Tribesmen who didn’t fare too well, from what I’ve heard.”

Hartley and Pierce looked at each other, and Pierce spoke up, turning in the seat. His voice was tense, almost a snarl.

“Hey, Skelly, look at me. And look at your friend Sam here. Tell me, do we look happy? Satisfied?”

“Hard to tell with those shades on.”

Pierce yanked them off as the Suburban slurried into a curve. Pierce was agitated, all right, deep creases of hard-won dissatisfaction. And those eyes again.

“So what do you think now?”

“I think you’re pissed off. Meaning somebody must have fucked up.”

“And you figure we’ll just spell it out for you, huh?” Pierce was shouting now. Hartley looked down at his lap, face reddening. “What you’re seeing in our faces is damage control. Covering our ass. But we’re also trying to rally and get back into the game. And if you come along and lob some bomb of a story into this mess, full of half-truths and speculation about things you saw, or
think
you saw, then you’ll just be making it tougher for all of us. For your friends, and for your country. Understood?”

“So you’re appealing to my patriotism.”

“I’m appealing to your pragmatism. I’m saying wait for the dust to clear and you’ll have an even better story. With our full cooperation.”

“Meaning, give you enough time and you’ll be able to come up with a good-enough cover story so it won’t look like the profit motive cost us Bin Laden, or killed Razaq. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

It was a shot in the dark, and Skelly almost immediately regretted having let Pierce goad him into it. But it must have scored a direct hit, because Pierce slammed on the brakes.

The truck skidded to a halt, dust clouds boiling past the windows. Pierce got out, snatching the keys from the ignition and slamming the door behind him. Hartley watched with mouth agape as Pierce stalked forward, fuming, then jamming his hands in his pockets. Skelly instinctively looked for the handgun, which was still on the seat. He nudged it into his open satchel, hoping Hartley hadn’t noticed.

“Jesus, Skelly,” Hartley said with a tired sigh. “What’d you have to set him off like that for?” Hartley then opened the passenger door and climbed glumly from the Suburban, the wife trying to calm her enraged husband on behalf of an unruly child. He shut the door behind him, and the two men walked away from the car, Hartley with his hands out in a pleading gesture, Pierce shaking his head vigorously, his mouth moving.

With all the windows shut, Skelly couldn’t hear a word. He tried opening his, but they were power windows, of course, and with the keys gone the button was useless. Now their voices were raised, but the words were muffled and indistinct. Pierce looked back toward Skelly, his face under control once again. Hartley was the one shaking his head now. Then Pierce leaned into Hartley’s face, mouth in motion, voices no longer audible. A minute or so later they climbed back in, keys jangling as Pierce shoved them into the ignition and cranked the engine.

Hartley said nothing, looking straight ahead, ashen. Perhaps Pierce had decided to give the man up to Skelly, a burnt offering to save his own skin, or Uncle Sam’s. Poor Hartley. But better for Skelly’s story if the result was that both men turned against each other. Much better than if they’d simply clammed up.

Then Pierce spoke up, his voice calmer now.

“Okay, Skelly. A proposition.”

“I’m listening.”

“What would you say to the idea of us setting you up with someone who knows even more than we do—somebody connected, who not only knows where the pieces fit, but would also speak to you on the record? With a name and everything.”

So Pierce was going to let someone else do the dirty work. Someone who would no doubt pin the blame on Hartley and Transgas, while glossing over any official U.S. involvement.

“As long as it’s no later than tomorrow.” No way was he letting Pierce maneuver him into a delay.

“Is an hour from now soon enough?”

“Sure, but . . .”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Hartley said, sounding rattled.

“You know him, Sam. Our friend across the hills?” An unreadable look passed between them.

“Jesus, Arlen. I dunno.” Hartley shook his head, looking out the window toward nothing in particular.

“You don’t trust the guy?” Skelly asked.

“It’s not that,” Hartley said. “It’s just . . .”

“Just what?”

“Yeah, just what?” Pierce said, the edge creeping back into his voice. “Don’t worry, Sam. We’ll still have you back in town before the Gulbar closes.”

“So who is this source anyway?” Skelly asked.

“Just that,” Hartley said weakly. “A source. All of us use him sometimes.” He shrugged. “Maybe Arlen’s right.”

“Damn right I am. But only if you’re game, Skelly.”

Skelly checked his watch, already plotting how the next twenty-four hours might proceed. They’d get back to Peshawar later than expected, but still in plenty of time for a long shower and a good meal—not that he’d be likely to get his room back at the Pearl. He could live with the Grand just fine, though. By midday tomorrow he’d have culled and consolidated his best stuff, and by nightfall he’d have filed his story and would be negotiating with his editors for space. Although for once he was certain he would get all he needed.

“Sure,” he said finally. “I’m game.”

Pierce nodded, saying nothing, and a few miles later he turned left onto a track even bumpier than the road they’d been on, pointing the big truck west toward the lowering sun.

THEY DROVE for nearly an hour, saying little and climbing steadily as the sky darkened. Hartley seemed to have gone pale, looking sickly in the green glow of the dashboard lights, as if realizing at last that there was no way to stop the story from coming out. So much for that job offer, Skelly supposed. But he hoped they’d be stopping soon.

“We must be getting pretty close to the border by now,” he said.

“Pretty much,” Pierce said.

“We’re not crossing it, are we?”

“Relax.”

But Skelly couldn’t help remembering how he’d already crossed it once without knowing it.

“I’d be interested to see where we are on the map,” he said.

“Sam will show you once we’re back at the hotel, I’m sure.”

Hartley barely grunted in reply, still gazing out his window into the evening. A short time later Pierce picked up a radio handset lying beside him on the seat and spoke into it in Pashto. Skelly wondered if he had used it to summon the two trucks earlier, the ones that had arrived before Najeeb and Daliya drove off. He wondered where the two of them were now, and hoped they were in Najeeb’s bed, enjoying themselves. He felt a stab of jealousy, of longing for some companionship of his own. But home seemed like a million miles away.

After a short delay someone answered in a crackle of static. Pierce replied, then set the radio down, nodding.

“Good,” he said. “The gang’s all here.” A mile or so later, the road growing bumpier, they rounded a downhill curve to see a grizzled fellow with half his teeth missing and a gun blocking the way, squinting into the headlight beams. Pierce pulled alongside him, speaking out his open window in Pashto.

The man nodded, expressionless. Then he pulled out a radio just like Pierce’s and mumbled into it.

“How’s your Pashto, Skelly?” Pierce said, turning in the seat.

“Nonexistent.”

“Then I’ll see if he’s got anybody who can interpret.”

“I guess you’d do in a pinch.”

Pierce snorted.

“It would have to be more than a pinch.” He spoke again to the sentry, who got back on his radio, then spoke to Pierce.

Pierce turned in his seat toward Skelly.

“Okay, fella. You’re on. Straight down the hill and right around the corner.”

“You’re not coming?”

“No need. They’ve got an English speaker.”

“I meant for introductions.”

Pierce shook his head.

“Like I said, no need. Only make him nervous if all three of us went.”

Skelly hesitated. Hartley didn’t make a sound.

“Well, do you want the lay of the land or not?” Pierce asked. “Your choice, but we’re on a timetable. The less time we’re stuck out here in the dark, the better.”

So Skelly got out, making sure he had a pencil, a notebook and his satchel. Then he headed down the hill, the sentry falling into step behind him. After about twenty yards he heard Pierce’s radio crackle again. He wondered how Hartley put up with the man, but supposed that was another reason Hartley made the big money. Hard to believe that only days ago he’d been feeling burned out enough to seriously consider a career like Sam’s. All it had taken to recharge Skelly’s battery had been this story, and the excitement again stirred inside him. Frankly he needed it just now, to help tamp down a darkening bubble of apprehension. He wished Najeeb was still with him, someone who would have been the better judge of what moves to make, not to mention a better translator than whoever this source was likely to offer.