The Warlord's Son (18 page)

He’d been hoping she wouldn’t ask that.

“Just me and my fixer,” he said brightly, knowing that even that wasn’t true. “Meaning anything I get will be an exclusive. More brownie points for later.”

“Jesus, Stan. I thought you were finished with all that.”

With taking undue risks, she meant. As if the trip itself hadn’t been one. But she knew, in the way that most people back home didn’t, that journeying to a war zone wasn’t necessarily a foolhardy venture. The TV types who did stand-ups on the Marriott rooftop would have been taking a greater risk commuting on the D.C. beltway. Joining a possible war party single-handed, however, reeked of uncertainty. Even Skelly suddenly wondered what the hell he’d gotten into. But having told his desk, he now felt locked in. Amazing how quickly your judgment could change after just a few days in-country. He’d arrived as a cautious suburbanite, still spooked from the horrors of Liberia.

“I know,” he said, conceding the point. “I thought I was finished with it, too. Then the opportunity presents itself and you figure, well, what the hell am I here for anyway?”

“Yes, well.” (He knew she was resisting the urge to say “I told you so.”) “You still don’t have to do it, you know. You can always tell the desk it fell through.”

“I may not have to make that part up. This isn’t the most organized bunch in the world. But I have a feeling it will all be pretty tame. And if I spend a couple of weeks across the border the paper will pretty much have to bring me back afterward. They might even treat me a little better afterward.”

“Well, don’t push it. Coming home sooner would be great. But I don’t want it to be in a box.”

“Jesus, Janine.”

“Sorry. Not trying to jinx you. Just worried.”

“Worrying’s fine. I’m worried, too. Which means I’ll be careful.”

They said good-bye a few minutes later, but Skelly was still wondering about the whole idea of being more careful. He remembered the men in black turbans standing at the border. They’d looked willing to shoot just about anyone. He decided that if a new fixer didn’t show up, he’d bow out. Bashir might not like that, but it simply wasn’t worth the risk. Of course, how would he tell Bashir if no one around them spoke English? Goddammit, Najeeb.

He had better try and get some sleep. He looked at the clock, barely able to read the dial of his watch in this dimness. Even if he nodded off right away he’d only get about two hours, so he decided on a shower. More refreshing, and it might be the last one for days, even weeks.

The shower was terrible, of course, the water spurting everywhere from a cracked valve while a lizard scrambled across the tiles toward a high window. As he dried off he heard a shrill squawk from out back. It sounded just like a peacock, and for the next hour the bird kept up the noise, shrieking every few minutes, usually just as he was dropping off. But he must have finally drifted off anyway because he was suddenly awakened by the beeping alarm. It rescued him from the middle of a vivid dream. Janine had been telling him she was pregnant, while holding the hands of two other small children he didn’t recognize. No, it had been Larissa, not Janine. He rubbed his eyes and groggily sat up. The place was still. No more peacock.

He dressed quickly, then grabbed his gear and trooped around the walkway behind the iron railing. The taxi hadn’t arrived yet, but it was only 2:38. Five minutes passed, and still nothing. At 2:50 he began to fret, but finally at 2:53 a cab rolled up.

The driver asked for double what he should have, of course, but at this hour Skelly had little choice. They arrived at the rendezvous point fifteen minutes early, which was just as well, giving him a chance to calm down. But there was no fixer there to greet him, and the camp seemed preternaturally still—everyone asleep in the mud huts, finally at peace, a waxing half-moon trying to shine through the haze, orange in the night sky. In a few more weeks it would be Ramadan, he remembered, wondering how that would affect the goings-on.

Ten minutes later a second cab approached—his new fixer, he hoped, wondering if Najeeb would at least have the decency to come along for introductions. It appeared that he did, because Najeeb was the first one out of the back. Skelly would normally have paid their fare, but not under these circumstances. Then he saw that there was no one else. Christ, had the man come up empty? Skelly opened his mouth to begin a tirade, but Najeeb opened both hands in a placating gesture, saying, “It is okay. I am coming with you.”

Skelly hadn’t felt so relieved in ages. He fairly spluttered, suddenly elated.

“But, I—what happened? What about your girlfriend?”

It sounded funny calling her that—such an offhand reference for such a serious young man, and it was obvious from Najeeb’s expression that matters were still grim, even if he said otherwise.

“It is okay,” he said. Then, taking a deep breath, “I think she will be fine.”

Hardly convincing, but Skelly wasn’t about to try and talk Najeeb out of it.

“And I got a satellite phone.” He held aloft the small briefcase.

“You’re a miracle worker. That’s phenomenal. Oh, wait.” He paid for Najeeb’s taxi, again feeling generous. He even felt confident enough to send his own cab on its way, now that everything seemed to be coming together. If you kept trying, matters had a way of working out, he reminded himself. Hadn’t that always been the case? And suddenly he felt better, figuring that fortune was back on their side.

“Here they come,” Najeeb said.

Skelly turned and saw three men with guns slung on their backs walking toward them up the nearest alley through the camp. None was Bashir, but one spoke to Najeeb. It didn’t seem as if any of them spoke English, meaning Najeeb had arrived in the nick of time—another serendipitous turn of fortune.

“They said to follow them.”

They walked into the camp, this time with a sense of excitement. And when they reached the teahouse, Bashir was waiting. Three trucks were parked nearby, each with about six men loaded in the back.

“You will ride in the last one,” Bashir said, not bothering to greet them. Counting the drivers and a few others in the cabs, Skelly figured there were twenty-two men in all. To his relief, there were no other reporters.

It was time to get moving.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THEY BROKE FREE of the haze while climbing a high plateau southwest of the city. The skies opened up to Najeeb like a black velvet blanket, sparkling with starlight. He and Skelly sat with four of Bashir’s men on the truck’s open flatbed, their backs against the slatted sides, faces bathed by the sudden coolness. The only sound apart from the grind of the engine was the sizzle of gravel in the wheel wells.

Skelly, shoulders jostling to Najeeb’s right, asked where they must be by now. Najeeb shrugged, but he knew all too well. Even the smells were familiar—a sharp bite of resin, the duskiness of dry stone. It was pitch-black, but he could have painted the colors of the landscape from memory, forming the shapes of the hills like a sculptor molding clay. He was glad he’d called his office just before leaving the apartment. No one had been in, but he’d left a recorded message, stating his probable destination. If he never returned, at least someone would know where to look for him. Assuming that anyone bothered. Daliya would, that he was sure of. But only if she could. And for a despairing moment Najeeb looked eastward, as if he might spot some sign of her on the blackness of the horizon where the new day would begin. With every mile they grew farther apart. But there was hope, too, mixed with his sense of loss. Somewhere she was still out there, and still on the move. He was certain of it despite all evidence to the contrary. And if at some point he needed her, not even her family would be able to hold her back.

“I think we’re stopping,” Skelly said.

The engine had shifted to low gear, brakes groaning.

“Probably a checkpoint,” Najeeb said. His stomach made a slow roll.

“Border patrol?”

“Private checkpoint. Tribal people.”

Skelly said nothing. Perhaps he’d figured it out by now, remembering the route of Bashir’s finger on the map at Katchagarhi and Najeeb’s audible intake of breath as the dotted track had crossed into his father’s lands, right about where they must be now.

A wave of nostalgia breasted his apprehension, taking him by surprise. He nearly shuddered, it was so strong. If he got off here and walked into the night he knew he could find his way home by morning, even in the darkness. Would they turn him away? Shoot him? Welcome him back without a further word? Probably none of those reactions. His father had always had a flair for the unexpected.

The engines stopped, ticking in the night, no one speaking. Pitch-dark, but a fine dust boiling up lazily from the road, tickling their noses. Then a voice called out from the truck just ahead, answered by another on the ground. Bashir spoke up, loudly enough for all to hear.

“Everyone out. This will only take a minute.”

If he was lucky, Najeeb thought.

It was too dark to see faces, and Skelly clutched after him like an invalid as they stepped down from the open tailgate, dropping onto rough ground. They trooped forward in a shuffling column as the beam of a tiny flashlight flicked on, illuminating Bashir and a man who was apparently a sentry, a tall bearded fellow in a fat white turban, wearing a brown jacket for warmth.

If the man gave them any trouble they could easily overwhelm him, but that could produce months, even years of trouble ahead for Bashir and everyone with him, not to mention their families. Safety in numbers meant little when pitted against the dangers of a blood feud. That was presumably the code Razaq was counting on to get his men into Afghanistan without harm, although he almost certainly would have sent advance word of his passage.

The sentry had been faced away from them, but now he turned into the light, and his features were familiar.

“Do you know him?” Skelly asked.

“I’m not sure. I think so.”

“Is that good or bad?”

Najeeb looked toward Skelly, unable to read his face in the dark.

“Hard to say. I’m not exactly welcome here anymore. I should have told you.”

“It’s all right. I’d pretty much guessed that. I figured it wasn’t every son of a
malik
who moves to the city and starts working for foreigners.”

The flashlight made the rounds, held by a second man working with the sentry. He pointed the narrow beam at one face after another, each man reacting with only a squint.

Najeeb wondered about this pair, almost certain that he recognized the tall one giving orders. Perhaps only an hour ago the man had been at his father’s
hujera,
smoking and chatting, or listening to the radio. By now perhaps even the TV worked better, with a satellite dish to pull in a proper picture. The music videos from India would be quite a hit.

When the light illuminated Skelly’s face, the American’s pupils narrowed, but he kept looking straight ahead. To his credit, he didn’t look scared. Only excited, as if this was something new, and therefore worthwhile.

“English?” the tall sentry asked.

“American,” Najeeb answered, and the beam swiveled to him. There was a pause, as if the sentry were placing his face, followed by low laughter.

“You’ve returned.”

“Yes.”

“And now you go.”

“Yes.” What was this one’s name? Of course, now he had it. “You’re Rahim.”

“You remember. Very good. What shall I tell your father of this?”

“You can tell him nothing, if you wish.”

Another pause. Thinking it over. Although Rahim had never been the contemplative type.

“Yes,” Rahim said at last, seeming in a jovial mood. “I think that is best. Best for you, anyway. But when you return I hope you have a better story for me. A better excuse. Or at least a better escort.”

Najeeb wondered whether he was referring to Skelly or Bashir, and whether the assessment was Rahim’s or some secondhand version of his father’s. But this wasn’t the time to ask.

The light swiveled back to Skelly, whose pupils again narrowed to pinpricks.

“Blue eyes. We don’t see so many of those. My cousin thinks they are all the Evil Eye. If he were here he’d want to kill this one.”

All this was transpiring in Pashto. Najeeb hoped Skelly didn’t demand a translation, or pull out a notebook. Despite the bantering tone, the moment was finely balanced. Any sudden movement might shove it in the wrong direction.

“Would you like to sell him to us, then? An American would bring quite a ransom.”

That brought laughter from some of the others. Bashir apparently felt no need to intervene.

“What’s he saying?” Skelly asked.

“He is admiring your eyes.”

“I’ll bet.”

Then it was Rahim’s turn to wonder about incomprehensible words.

“What is he saying?” Rahim snapped.

“He was admiring your eyes.”

Rahim laughed caustically, wheezing into the chilly night.

“He wanted to know what you’d been saying about him,” Najeeb continued in Pashto.

“And you told him?” Rahim asked.

“Not exactly.”

Rahim seemed to find this uproariously funny, and he slapped Najeeb sharply on the back, then moved on to the rest of the column without another word. After completing his inspection he stopped on his way back down the line, the beam again finding Najeeb’s face.

“You were always funny when you had to be,” Rahim said. “Even when you were a boy. Making us laugh so hard that we would put down our slingshots. Very clever. But they won’t laugh as easily on the other side of the mountains.”

Of course. Now he remembered. Rahim had been the tallest of the village boys, and among Najeeb’s worst tormentors. Slingshots round their necks, chasing him up the gullies from town like starved mongrels, the stones thudding against his back. When he was inevitably run to ground, his only defense was wit, and fortunately wit had often been enough, partly because Rahim had always been inclined to respond favorably, calling a truce now and then when sufficiently amused by some insult or observation.

The intervening years had been hard on the man. He was weathered and gasping. Perhaps the harsh shadows of the flashlight beam were partly to blame, but Najeeb thought that his face looked more like that of a man in his forties, even his fifties, than that of a contemporary. Knowing what he did of Rahim, and of his people in general, Najeeb doubted that the man would spread the word of this meeting. Not right away, at least. He would instead use his knowledge for whatever leverage it might provide. And when word finally did reach Najeeb’s father, what would everyone think? He had no idea.

Whatever the case, Rahim had again finished with him and moved on. The flashlight was off, the second tribesman obviously hoping to save his batteries, and Bashir’s men groped their way back into the trucks. Skelly again clutched lightly at Najeeb’s sleeve, feet scuffing in the dirt behind him.

“Is it just my imagination,” Skelly whispered, “or was that a close call?”

“You’re right,” Najeeb said. “It was a close call. Probably for both of us.”

He held back a shudder, hoping that would be the last of the checkpoints. The glimmer of nostalgia had given way all too easily to fear. For seven years he had managed to convince himself that the door to home had somehow remained ajar. Now he was certain that it was shut, and had been all along. If and when Bashir’s column returned from Afghanistan, Najeeb would have to find some other route back to Peshawar, even if it meant jumping off the back of a truck and hoofing it across the mountains alone. Because Rahim, or whoever was on duty next time, would doubtless be operating under new and stricter orders, a mandate that wouldn’t be averted by mere laughter.

“Hurry up,” Bashir shouted. “In another hour we’ll be across.”

“Next stop’s the border?” Skelly whispered.

“If we even stop there. The crossing might not be guarded. Not at this hour, on the route we’re taking.”

“So, then,” Skelly said, the excitement evident in his voice, “looks like we might really make it this time.”

“Yes,” Najeeb said, wishing he was as pleased about it as Skelly.