The Warlord's Son (14 page)

She checked her watch. It was now 4:20, but just as her mood hit bottom she heard an approaching
click-clack
of heels in the corridor, then the rattling of the knob. In walked Professor Bhatti, shocked but seemingly happy to see her visitor, although her expression of concern deepened as Daliya began to tell her story.

DALIYA HAD CHOSEN her audience better than she could have known. Professor Rana Bhatti was a great believer in pushing one’s limits, especially when those limits had been imposed by men. When the department’s second-in-command had departed the previous fall, she had actively campaigned to be named his replacement, even while knowing that the very insistence which won her the title of “acting” assistant head would ensure that she would be passed over when the job was filled permanently. She knew also, though, that unless she made some noise, they would ignore her altogether.

She was short, another handicap to overcome, but that only seemed to make her more determined. She was also one of the department’s most worldly professors, spending two months every few summers in Boston, among American colleagues at Harvard, and after each such trip she returned with another increment in hustle and determination. When she got going on a topic you could hear her voice above all others, even if all you might see was her lustrous head of raven hair, which she covered only for important faculty meetings and trips out of town. In other words, it was hard to imagine anyone in Daliya’s world likely to be more sympathetic to her situation.

Yet Professor Bhatti looked anything but overjoyed once Daliya completed her account.

“You really shouldn’t be here, you know,” the professor finally said, her voice about three decibels lower than normal. She glanced nervously toward the door, as if security police might barge in on them at any moment. “If your parents ever found out.” She shook her head. “Your father, he is . . .” Her voiced trailed off, but Daliya knew exactly what the professor was thinking. If her father were to learn that Professor Bhatti had aided her in her escape, the professor would lose her job, no matter how far down the ladder he was at the ministry. That would forfeit any chance for advancement, all for the whims of a wayward young woman. All those rungs climbed with such tenacity and endurance would be cut from beneath her in one decisive stroke.

But at age forty-three, Professor Bhatti wasn’t so far removed from her own youth that she had forgotten what it was like to be staring up from the bottom of that same ladder, dismissed and disregarded.

“Tell me,” she said at last, “is this just aimless escape? Wandering around with no real idea of what you’re after? Or do you actually have some kind of plan in mind?”

“I’m not sure,” Daliya said hesitantly. “That’s why I came here. I figured you were the one person who might tolerate a little indecision. I need time more than anything.” She noted the beginning of a frown. “Not much. Just enough to catch my breath, figure out what comes next. But I promise you there’s nothing random about my intentions. And to be truthful . . .” She spoke slowly. “You might say that I do have at least the beginnings of a plan. It’s just that it’s so crazy that I couldn’t begin to carry it out without first talking it over with someone else. And I can’t think of anyone better for that than you.”

Professor Bhatti sighed and tutted, twirling a pencil in her right hand. She pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply as she eyed the phone. The number for the girl’s parents was somewhere in a nearby file drawer, she was certain. It would take about ten minutes and this whole drama would be over, or at least her part in it would. She had a lecture to prepare, a career to maintain, a busy week ahead with no room for aggravation and certainly no allowance for foolishness like this. Then she looked across the desktop at Daliya, at those eyes that not only pleaded but demanded. Implored.
Insisted.
Where had she seen such a defiant spirit before? The answer was easy, and the answer disarmed her completely.

“I ran away once, you know,” she finally said, in a voice so low that Daliya had to lean forward to hear it.

“You, Professor Bhatti?”

The professor nodded, sighing with a slow stream of smoke.

“I was about three years older than you, of course.” Brief frown of disapproval. “And it had nothing to do with any kind of boyfriend. Or banishment. Or anything like what you’re up against.” A pause, three seconds that seemed like twenty. “But there was an aunt who took me in. She helped me stay on my feet while I made peace with my family. It was hard, really, and pretty awful for a while. But I came out of it okay. Stronger, even. Or I might not be here at all.” She paused again, one last breath before the leap. “Come on, then.” She rose to her feet, grabbing her shoulder bag. “The less you’re seen here, the better. I’ve got a sofa bed. We’ll talk more when we get there. You can stay the night, or longer if you need to.” Then she smiled slyly, smoke snorting from her nostrils in a burst of low laughter. “Just try not to need to.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

SKELLY HAD ALWAYS hated border towns, and in times of war they were even spookier and more disheartening, grimy little outposts where the hopeless and disinherited collected like motes of dust against a screen.

Torkham was no different, although at least the backdrop was spectacular. It was wedged into the last pinch of the Khyber Pass, steep granite cliffs looming to either side. The border fence blocked the ravine like a dam. Beyond it, the valley opened wide and flat, a promising landscape of open skies and far-ranging movement that had lured centuries of travelers and invaders.

The town was small, and its main bazaar was right along the road. Fawad’s caravan threaded its way through several hundred men in white robes and skull caps who drifted aimlessly among the shops and stalls, as if awaiting the opening of the gates, or imminent news of peace.

The buses pulled to the shoulder by the last building on the right. It was the customshouse, a white hut atop a small green knoll, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. A dozen police, clubs at the ready, swarmed in to head off the gawking crowd while the journalists sat tight, hoping against hope that Fawad could deliver on his promise of easy passage. He disappeared inside the customshouse with a handful of transit papers, accompanied by two of his men. Ten minutes later he emerged looking grim and impatient. Then he stepped aboard
Flying
Titanic,
the lead bus, to ask for everyone’s passports and papers.

A collective groan went up, Skelly loudly joining in. Now they’d be waiting for hours. Any ride to Jalalabad would be made in the dark.

The reporters unloaded, breaking open water bottles and stretching their legs, and the curiosity of it all was too much to bear for the milling men in white, whose excited chatter rose to a wail as they encircled the buses, pushing back the policemen. Skelly guessed they were stranded refugees, although supposedly most of the recent human traffic was headed deeper into Pakistan, fleeing the bombing. Perhaps these fellows knew something nobody else did, but he doubted it. The only thing worse than being stuck in a war was being stuck in the middle of nowhere, without food or family, as these men had doubtless discovered.

The press of the mob made it hard to move, but maybe he could interview a few, pick up a story. He looked for Najeeb, although he hadn’t yet decided how to deal with the awkward issue of the man’s allegiance. Would a spy for the ISI ever actually admit to it? If not, what proof did Skelly have other than the accusation of Lucy’s fixer, who by the look of things had already been arguing with Najeeb?

The crowd surged closer, gaining momentum as it picked up the scent of all those Westerners, the very smell of prosperity. The border police had other ideas. Half a dozen more arrived to hastily form a cordon. One shouted commands through a bullhorn, and the mob complied with shocking ease, as if accustomed to such treatment. Their noise subsided. Yet, to a man the refugees kept gazing at the journalists, eyes pleading, but for what?

The caravan’s arrival had also roused the slumbering trade of the pushcart boys, who for a few hundred rupees would cart your luggage through the border gates to taxis and buses waiting on the opposite side. At least that was the idea. A glance across the last hundred yards of Pakistani territory revealed no vehicles on the Afghan side except a battered truck. Probably no one had crossed the border in that direction for weeks. Nor would any of the journalists need their luggage carried if the buses were allowed to pass. This did little to deter the boys, who slipped nimbly past the police and began bidding for business, shoving their rickety carts through the masses as each announced his presence with the ubiquitous “How are
you,
sir.”

Skelly inspected the fence. It was topped with razor wire, coiled from one bluff to the other. The huts and stalls behind it were spiked with drooping black flags and tattered banners painted with slogans. There was a large hand-printed signpost to the right, half in Pashto, half in English, but too far away for Skelly to read more than a word or two. The one vehicle, a multicolored truck, was stacked with military equipment and rocket grenades, racked like bowling pins. Deployed around it were eight grim-looking fellows in long beards, scowling through the fence. They wore white robes and black turbans, and each carried a Kalashnikov or a grenade launcher. Some wore bandoleers.

Skelly made his way closer, pulling free of the crowd and climbing the grassy lawn of the customshouse. This was a better vantage point. Quite pleasant, in fact, the air cool in the shade of a spreading plane tree, although the sounds through the open door of the customshouse weren’t encouraging—shrieks and shouts, some self-important official working himself into a frenzy of obstruction—so Skelly concentrated on the view. The opposite bluff glowed like molten copper in the late-afternoon sun, and a breeze from the bazaar blew in the smell of frying kebabs and the fuzzy sound of music playing too loudly on cheap speakers, the whine and sway of desert rhythms. Up here one could easily imagine he was at a government rest house in the 1800s, stopping for tea on his way across the Empire.

A few enterprising boys were now making the rounds among the journalists on the lawn. One, no taller than four feet, stopped in front of Skelly clutching a fistful of Afghan currency. He was peddling it in small, banded stacks, not even pretending to be offering the proper exchange rate, which was about forty thousand afghanis to the dollar. This was strictly a souvenir trade, low-denomination bills that were practically worthless.

“How much?” Skelly asked, figuring this might be the closest he ever got to the place.

“For
you,
sir? Two hundred rupees.”

A buck-sixty, then, for a penny’s worth of cash, but the boy knew his market—journalists desperate for a piece of Afghanistan. Skelly had seen at least three others making a purchase.

“Fair enough,” he said, handing over the rupees, the boy adding them to a shockingly thick stack. Skelly inspected the worn bills, swirls of Dari on pastel reds and greens, with drawings of minarets, fortresses and stout men on horseback.

He supposed that this would be a good time to seek out Najeeb. Confront him about this spying business and get it over with. But first he wanted a better look at the fellows in black turbans standing just across the border. They had moved to the fore of the iron fence, gazing silently toward the journalists. One burst of gunfire would do an awful lot of damage from this range, and he wondered if they were tempted. A man’s voice spoke up from over his shoulder.

“Fun-looking bunch, aren’t they?”

Skelly turned.

“Roy! Good to see you!”

Roy Canady was a stocky New Zealander who worked as a producer for one of the American networks. He knew his stuff far better than the pretty faces the honchos put before the cameras, and he’d always preferred the company of print reporters, regaling them with tales of buffoonery by the various anchors and up-and-comers he squired around places like this. Skelly liked him immensely but hadn’t seen him since Rwanda, where they’d shared a six-pack of awful local beer, flushing out the stench after watching bloated corpses float down the muddy River Kagera.

“Great to see you,” Skelly said, shaking hands.

“Just couldn’t resist one more war?”

“Manpower shortage.”

“Tell me about it. Everyone’s budget’s in the toilet. Think we’ll make it across?”

“By when? Next Tuesday?”

“That’s just about their pace. Bloody unbelievable in there.” He nodded toward the customshouse. “More cash changing hands than a camel auction, but they’re still spending ten minutes a passport, studying every picture like it’s Charlie Manson. Typical.”

“I take it you’ve been here before.”

“Third time this week. And maybe a dozen more before that, going back twenty years.”

“So who’s the welcoming committee? Taliban?”

“Definitely.”

“How can you tell?”

“Black turbans, for starters. And all those banners. Religious slogans. But this one’s my favorite.” He pointed right, toward the sign Skelly had noticed earlier with some of the words in English. “Taliban’s idea of a touristy welcome.”

Skelly was close enough now to make out the words, and he read them aloud:

“Faithful people with strong decision entry Afghanistan. Sacrifice country heartly welcomes you with pleases.”

“Lovely translation, isn’t it? Makes you want to bring the wife and kids.”

Skelly laughed.

“You sound thrilled to be back.”

“Gives me the heebie-jeebies just being this close. Lots of bad memories from over there. The longer the border stays closed, the better, far as I’m concerned.”

There was a new outburst of shouting from the customshouse, but Canady’s attention had been drawn in the opposite direction.

“Uh-oh,” he said, shouldering a satchel. “Looks like we’ve worn out our welcome.”

The border police had turned their attention to the journalists and were motioning them back onto the buses. Skelly spotted Najeeb, who seemed to be pleading with one of the officers to lay off. If he was ISI, he ought to get quick results, but the policeman shoved him away.

“Najeeb! Over here!” Skelly had put off their talk long enough. He also wanted to do a few interviews. Work the edge of the crowd. Anything to salvage something out of what was turning into a wasted day—although from a personal standpoint he supposed the ride alone had been worthwhile. How many people could say they’d spent their afternoon breezing through the Khyber Pass?

Najeeb appeared at his shoulder, and they stepped downhill into the street, where more policemen were motioning toward the buses. The refugees, sensing they were no longer the focus, began closing in again from behind. This could get nasty. A few reporters had broken through to the crowd and were hastily doing interviews among tightening knots of the men in white. Skelly spotted Chatty Lucy among them, out there with her fixer.

“A colleague told me that she thinks you’re ISI,” Skelly shouted above the din into Najeeb’s ear. Might as well take the direct approach.

Najeeb looked shocked, even angry. If it was an act, it was a good one.

“It was the Canadian woman’s translator, wasn’t it?”

“How’d you know?” He looked Najeeb in the eye. Najeeb looked straight back.

“Because
he’s
ISI.”

A policeman pushed Skelly in the back. He wheeled quickly, ready to shout until he saw the raised billy club.

“Tell him we can’t do our jobs.”

“I tried,” Najeeb said, nudging Skelly out of harm’s way. “They’re worried because it’s almost dark. They want everyone out of here. They say some of the refugees have guns.”

“Bullshit.”

“Probably. What did her fixer say?”

“That I should fire you. That you can’t be trusted.”

Najeeb scowled.

“The man had me hauled in two days ago, right after I first met you. Or his boss did.”

“Hauled in where?”

“To the ISI. To the office where he works. I can take you to the alley. If you knock, Javed is the one who comes to the door. It’s some kind of listening post. His boss is named Tariq, and he was asking for information about Razaq.” He paused. “And about you. They’re watching everyone, me included.”

“And you agreed to help?”

Najeeb shook his head, but this time he didn’t look Skelly in the eye.

“Is that what you two were talking about on the bus?”

Najeeb nodded, seeming relieved that Skelly had noticed the confrontation.

“If he really works for the
International Daily,
” Najeeb said, “then how come his byline never appears? Ask your friend that.”

Good point. But Najeeb could be making it up as he went, Skelly supposed. Knock on the door of the ISI office and maybe Najeeb would answer. He’d already admitted to having been there. But dealing with fixers was a lot like picking them. Gut feelings counted for plenty, and Skelly’s gut told him Najeeb was telling the truth. At best he’d now have a little more leverage with the man, maybe even enough to pry loose the tight lid Najeeb kept on everything. It was time they started establishing some sort of rapport.

“Fair enough,” Skelly shouted, still fending off the policemen. “But, look, if you really want me to trust you, you’re going to have to stop getting so huffy whenever I ask a few questions.”

“Yes, okay.” Najeeb looked chastened. “I understand.” He seemed about to say more, but didn’t.

By now the police had pushed all the journalists into a semicircle against the buses, having rounded up the stragglers who’d sneaked into the crowd. The journalists by now were pent up and frustrated with the day’s aggravations, and their tempers began to boil over. Some began pushing back, loudly demanding access to the crowd.

“Let us do our job!” several shouted. A few reporters in the middle of the crowd consulted with their fixers about what to do next. Skelly and Najeeb were just about to join in when they heard Chatty Lucy nominate Javed to take their case to the authorities.

“Watch,” Najeeb muttered as Javed sallied forth. “He’ll only make sure that we have to leave right away. The less contact these refugees have with Westerners, the better, as far as the ISI is concerned.”

Skelly had witnessed such confrontations before—well-paid translators negotiating on behalf of their clients with intractable officials. Sometimes money changed hands, and even then they were usually vigorous standoffs, with waving arms and raised voices, a marketplace haggling that often produced some sort of compromise, especially if the concluding handshake was sweetened with a folded wad of cash.

This one looked altogether different—Javed listening patiently, then nodding, turning his face away from the journalists as he placed a hand lightly on the policeman’s shoulder. The policeman leaned closer, listening, then both of them nodded, shaking hands without a smile or frown.

“Christ, it’s like they’re pals,” Roy Canady said, just to Skelly’s left. Javed then strolled back to the gathering and calmly announced, “I am sorry, but we must leave immediately. There will be no interviews. No passage. Only Fawad’s men and the aid trucks will be allowed across the border.”