The Warlord's Son (21 page)

“There!” he hissed. “Another one. You see?”

Najeeb translated the warning for the frozen Skelly, then watched the narrow beam probe like a searchlight before settling on a second green box just ahead. Two more steps and Skelly would have tripped it.

“Jesus!” Skelly hissed, gingerly backing away while Najeeb tried to control the horse, which still wanted to move forward.

“Easy,” he cooed, patting the horse on the neck.

“What’s that biblical verse about passing a camel through the eye of a needle?” Skelly said. “Now I know what it meant.”

Najeeb kept his eyes on the horse’s hooves, watching them clop on the stony ground like clumsy hammers. But they managed to get safely past both mines, plus two more during the next hundred yards, the boy pausing to illuminate each as if they were stops on a guided tour. Then he spoke up, delivering good news.

“He says that’s the last one,” Najeeb said.

“Good. Now we worry about the guns.”

They’d come to within a quarter mile of the town, where a few windows were lit dimly by kerosene lamps and cookfires. Najeeb smelled wood smoke, the char of grilled meat. A moment later a voice called out in Pashtun from just ahead, and the boy froze, raising the stump of his left hand in a signal to halt. The mines hadn’t frightened him a bit, but now his whole body was rigid. He shouted back in reply, the voice shrill and tight in the cold air.

“What’s happening?” Skelly whispered.

“Razaq’s sentries. The boy’s telling them there are three of us, all unarmed.”

After a pause that seemed interminable, the sentry gave the all-clear. The boy dropped his handless arm to his side and continued, and by the time they reached the edge of the village a welcoming party had assembled—five bearded men in skullcaps and turbans, each scowling and holding a gun, indistinguishable from the fellows who’d been traveling with Bashir.

One came forward, and Najeeb recognized him as Razaq’s younger brother, Salim, who had greeted them at the warlord’s house in Hayatabad. Salim, too, was scowling, but at last he spoke up, keeping everything in Pashto for a few sentences before he turned and stalked away.

“He’s gone to tell Razaq,” Najeeb said.

“Did you tell him we’ve come from the rear guard?”

“I think we had better break that news to Razaq himself.”

“What do you think he’ll do with us? Kick us out? Send us back up the hill? I’m sure as hell not going without a guide.”

“He won’t kick us out. Not tonight. It wouldn’t be permitted.”

“By who?”

“By every law he was ever raised with.
Pashtunwali,
the code of the Pashtun. He is obligated by
malmastiya
to show us hospitality, because now we are his guests.”

“Uninvited guests.”

“Guests all the same. We will be safe here.”

“As long as Razaq is safe, you mean.”

“Yes.”

They said nothing more until Salim returned, nodding for them to follow.

The town of Azro looked just like Jaji, but the presence of Razaq’s men seemed to have cleared the streets of the requisite crowds of boys and animals, and the place was quiet. Salim led them to a brightly lit doorway where a hissing camp lantern hung from a hand-carved wooden pillar. Two sentries slouched at the entrance, barely stirring as Skelly and Najeeb followed Salim into a long room of whitewashed walls. Heavy dark beams were slung across the low ceiling.

Razaq squatted on the floor, legs crossed, at the end of a red rectangular Oriental rug. Six other men were seated around it—some sort of
jirga
must have been in progress. Piled in the middle were the remains of a dinner, platters and bowls of rice, tomatoes, braised chunks of mutton. A stack of bread sat near Razaq. The entire village had probably contributed, even if it meant giving the last scrap from the larder. That, too, was tradition.

There was an empty tea tray with a blackened pot, and Razaq gestured for a refill, then turned to Salim for an explanation, although by now it was obvious that he recognized his visitors. Razaq nodded as he listened, but at the conclusion he did not rise to greet them, nor did anyone else. A bad sign, Najeeb thought, doubting that Skelly realized it. Then Razaq addressed them in English.

“This is quite a surprise, Mr. Kelly, and although you are welcome here as my guest, I cannot say that it is a pleasant surprise. But as long as you are here, please.”

He gestured to his right, where two of the men scuttled away on their haunches to make room. Razaq stood, and Skelly approached clumsily with outstretched hand. Razaq seemed reluctant to shake it, but finally did, and when Skelly then placed a hand over his heart Razaq followed suit.

“My apologies, gentlemen,” Razaq said in Pashto to the other six. “But I must speak with our guests alone. We will finish our business later.” They stood without a word, eyeing Skelly suspiciously as they filed toward the door.

Najeeb settled into place while Skelly took out his notebook.

“I must say, Mr. Kelly, that I seem to have vastly underestimated you. But tell me, if you will, by what route you came, and who was your escort? Or did you simply come alone, with your tribal friend here?” Razaq took a bite of bread, glancing significantly at Najeeb, who suspected that Razaq knew plenty about him and his past. Had the man learned some of the juicier details from Tariq at the ISI, perhaps? Or from his American friends?

“Well, actually . . .” Skelly hesitated. “We came with what we were
told
was your rear guard. A little more than twenty men. We’ve been following you since early yesterday.”

Razaq stopped chewing. Skelly seemed on the verge of an apology, but Razaq’s stony expression stopped him. The man’s mood seemed quite grave now that the parlor trick of the journalist’s sudden appearance had turned into something more complicated.

“A rear guard, you say. And who is leading these men?”

“Some fellow who calls himself Bashir.”

“Bashir? The smuggler who lives in Katchagarhi?”

Skelly didn’t have an answer, so Razaq looked to Najeeb, who nodded.

“You knew he was a smuggler?” Skelly asked, sounding hurt.

“It would be his obvious occupation,” Najeeb said. “Living in the middle of the camp with all those trucks and weapons.”

“And given that he works for Haji Kudrat,” Razaq said.

“Who’s Haji Kudrat?” Skelly asked.

The name was familiar to Najeeb, but only vaguely, as someone to be reckoned with. He had a dim memory of a face from some long-ago council of his father’s. Had Haji Kudrat been some sort of trading partner?

Razaq hadn’t answered, so Skelly asked again.

“This Kudrat,” he said. “I’m presuming he’s not a friend.”

“That remains to be seen. But he is an important man in Nangarhār Province, which is our destination tomorrow. And knowing that his man Bashir is on the road behind us, well, that might explain several things.”

“Such as.”

“This was supposed to be the first of my great rendezvous points, Mr. Kelly. Do you remember all of those visitors you saw at my house?”

“The ones on the lawn?”

“On the lawn. In the kitchen. They were practically everywhere but in the women’s quarters. They were from Afghanistan, mostly. From the north and south of here, in Nangarhār and Paktīā provinces, and also from here in Logar Province. For three weeks these men came to pay tribute, village elders and tribal
maliks.
Some of them were old fighters who had been with me against the Russians. One was the elder of this town, of Azro, and he gave me his solemn word that he would greet me here today with a full fifty men, ready to join up.”

“To join your army that isn’t really an army, you mean?”

“However you wish to put it. Yet I arrived this afternoon to find that he is away on other business, somewhere farther up the valley. A most unfortunate snub. And as a result, do you know how many men have come to join my cause here in Azro?”

Skelly shook his head.

“Seven. Only seven. And now you tell me that twenty others are on the hilltop, looking down on us and our cookfires.”

By now Razaq was smoldering. It probably would have been best to let him ride out the moment in silence, but Najeeb could tell that Skelly had no intention of letting up. The man’s pencil made a scratching sound as he rapidly took notes, flipping a page as he opened his mouth for another question. He was like a sparrow in pursuit of a crumb, and Najeeb feared for him, remembering that hungry sparrows often didn’t notice an approaching predator until it was too late.

“You’re saying you’ve been betrayed, then,” Skelly asked with appalling bluntness.

Razaq glowered, shifting on his haunches. “You speak of betrayal as if it is something dishonorable, Mr. Kelly.”

“How else would you describe it?” Still scribbling, still forging ahead. Najeeb would have placed a hand on his arm in warning, but he was too far away. Although Razaq, to his credit, seemed to be calming, as if he, too, now sensed the absurdity of this foreigner in their midst, peppering the players with nettlesome questions as they postured and preened for battle.

“It is dishonorable only in the sense that a Westerner might understand it,” Razaq said. “Perhaps your friend here, Najeeb Azam, the son of a
malik,
could explain it for you. He can tell you all about betrayal, and what it means in our culture.”

The words took him aback. Najeeb was now more certain than ever that Razaq knew chapter and verse of his family dramas. But the insult had gone right over Skelly’s head. The American was still in pursuit of his story, pencil poised, eyes imploring. He really seemed to be expecting some sort of cultural explanation, so Najeeb tried to oblige.

“It is complicated,” he said. So was their current predicament, he wanted to add, but didn’t dare. How to explain, for example, that here it was perfectly acceptable to receive two guests with courtesy and generosity, yet still have them tracked down and killed the moment they left your territory? From here on out, Skelly and he might well be in danger from anyone they encountered, no matter who emerged victorious from whatever strange storm was brewing. But look at Skelly, eager to learn yet slouched and uncomfortable on the carpet. He was more accustomed to interviews done on chairs and couches, seated upright at desktops and conference tables with men who lied for different reasons, playing by different rules. Deceit here took shapes he never would have dreamed of.

“Betrayal is a skill here,” Najeeb said finally. “An art. Even an honorable one, in its way. Maybe because it is always expected of an adversary.”

“But who
are
your adversaries?” Skelly asked, turning back toward Razaq. “Beyond the obvious ones, of course. And who are your friends? And what is it you’re really after? Surely you can lay it out for me now that we’re here?”

Razaq lowered his gaze, as if collecting himself. Then he turned toward Najeeb, who could have sworn he detected a glint of anger in the man’s expression.

“Perhaps I can,” Razaq said. “But for the moment there are still too many of us in this room for me to feel comfortable.”

Skelly stopped writing and looked up, seeming surprised to find Razaq staring at Najeeb.

“All of this must be terribly dull for your interpreter, Mr. Kelly,” Razaq said, holding his gaze, “especially since I am speaking in English, making his services unnecessary. So before we continue why don’t you send him along. He can arrange the night’s lodgings for the two of you.”

“Sure,” Skelly answered uncertainly. “Go ahead, Najeeb. I’ll be along later.”

Razaq called for a sentry, who led Najeeb into the night. Now what had all that been about? Najeeb wondered. Perhaps he, too, needed a cultural translation, a refresher course now that he was back in the hills.

Did Razaq’s anger have something to do with his father? With a new war in progress, his family’s little frontage on the border was again strategically vital, presenting all sorts of new business opportunities. Razaq had crossed without incident, but so had Bashir. Maybe that was the problem.

“Come this way,” the sentry said brusquely, and Najeeb followed him down the verandah. It was bitterly cold. Distant campfires now flickered on the facing hillside—Bashir’s men, he supposed, no longer even bothering to hide their presence. Maybe Bashir was watching at this very moment, gazing down through his night-vision binoculars.

So what were their choices now? Stay with Razaq and expect the worst, or try to go back to Bashir and be blasted by a mine. Was there a third way, some route out of this mess altogether? He would pray, asking for guidance, then sleep on it. Perhaps his dreams would bring an answer.

But the sight of the campfires told him that any answer had better come soon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

SKELLY SQUATTED in silence, his toes going numb in the cold. The only sound in the room was the hissing of the lantern by the door. Razaq hadn’t said a word since Najeeb’s departure, and the big fellow suddenly struck Skelly as a pouting Buddha, affronted by this latest twist of the cosmos. The man’s best-laid plans were going to hell in a handbasket, and he obviously blamed his visitors. How else to explain Najeeb’s abrupt banishment, unless it was some sort of tribal class snub.

“You will excuse me for a moment,” Razaq said, breaking the silence, then rising with surprising grace to leave the room, headed God knows where while a baffled Skelly waited.

Skelly decided to stretch his legs, stamping his feet as the blood rushed to his toes. His back was stiff. It must be forty degrees down on that floor. He rubbed his arms for warmth, stepping to the doorway in hopes of another glance at Azro, but the stern glare of a sentry nudged him back inside.

The hiss and pop of the lantern was even louder by the door, and Skelly could smell the burning fuel. It was an oddly comforting sensation, calling him back to boyhood campouts and weekends in the woods, pleasant images that brought warmth—an evening campfire with a column of sparks rising to the treetop blackness, marshmallow impaled on a whittled stick, gentle voice of his father reminding him not to hold it too close to the flame, Skelly ignoring it because what he really wanted was the burst of fire, a tiny conflagration he could blow out, then consume in a gooey crunch of blackened ash.

The sentry stirred, and Skelly stepped back from the doorway, feeling the cold again. In lulls like these he could sometimes detach himself just enough to view the scenery with a fresh outlook, as if borrowing the eyes of some old and distant relative who’d never ventured beyond the seat of a tour bus. It was a fine way of reawakening to all sorts of sights he’d already stopped noticing.

But this time the trick failed him, and he only slipped farther into memory—still warmed by that campfire, his father’s presence palpable just over his shoulder. A quarter turn and he would see the man’s face, the young version, ambered by firelight. Instead he saw the face as it had looked only a year ago, on a visit to the nursing home. His father lived there alone. Skelly’s mother was dead eight years, killed by a stroke while he traipsed across Africa. He’d met his father in the TV room, joining eight other residents in staring at the blaring box. Drawn, translucent faces lit blue and orange by the jolting image, no one saying a word. His old man irretrievable, swimming deeper in his memories than even Skelly could go. Every resident was equipped with either a walker or a wheelchair, and two canes were propped by the door—enough metal to build a B-17, he remembered thinking. His father blinked, turned toward the television, where a news report from Poland was flashing past. Then he blinked again, barely stirring. An agonizing half hour passed without the least sign of recognition before Skelly waved good-bye to the nurses and strolled to his car, crossing a vast empty parking lot by a roaring expressway.

“We will have tea now.”

It was Razaq, returning in a regal billow. A servant in tow carried a steaming tea tray. Get back to work, Skelly. Clear your head and take out your notebook. Remember to ask about Najeeb. Remember to ask about Hartley and Pierce, and about Bashir and that whole Bin Laden business.

They settled themselves on the rug, the servant pouring tea, then departing. Skelly realized he was hungry, and took a wedge of bread from the tray, chewing off a bite, then balancing the rest on his knees.

“There is something you should know about your translator,” Razaq began. “Several days ago, not long after speaking with my youngest son in the lobby of the Pearl Continental, he was seen coming and going from an unmarked door in the Saddar Bazaar.”

“I know,” Skelly said. “Local office of the ISI. He told me all about it.”

Razaq plowed on.

“And did he also tell you what they asked of him in return for letting him go?”

“No. Why don’t you tell me?”

“I am not privy to that. But I would guess they wanted information. They probably wanted to know what my son told him, and they will probably expect a full report from the field.”

“Is that so surprising?”

“Not at all. And I would not have given it a second thought if he had not come across the hills in the company of this man Bashir, arriving in my camp like his personal courier.”

“We’re no friends of Bashir’s, and Najeeb would have preferred to have skipped the trip altogether.”

“Or so he tells you. But tell me something. This telephone that you brought. The one on your horse. May I see it?”

Skelly shrugged. “Sure.”

Razaq’s request was only a formality, because when he motioned toward the door the servant immediately reentered carrying the phone, which he had already removed from its carrying bag. He placed it by the tea tray while Skelly took another bite of bread. Razaq made a show of turning the phone this way and that, then placed it back on the rug.

“A very nice model,” Razaq said. “Do you not think so?”

“Nice enough. But I’m no expert.”

“Ah, but some of my other American friends are. The ones who provided my own telephone, for instance. Which is just like yours. Identical. Do you not find that curious?”

“Maybe it’s a popular brand.”

“Or maybe it has been acquired through similar channels.”

“Or by a similar agency. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“I am trying to say you should ask Najeeb how he came by it. Perhaps he is not in the ISI’s permanent employ, but he may have made promises that you are not aware of. I know for myself that he has already betrayed his own father to these people, so why would he not betray you or me just as easily?”

Well, now. That got his attention. Skelly thought this issue had been put to rest, but maybe he should have asked more questions. Was this why Najeeb always bristled at any mention of his family? Or maybe Razaq was exaggerating, or trying to distract him. Don’t forget the story, Skelly.

“Okay, then. I’ll ask him. But I have questions for you, too.” Razaq spread his hands to show he had nothing to hide, but he couldn’t resist another goading glance at the phone, as if it might be recording their every word. Skelly ignored it and got straight to the point.

“What exactly are you trying to accomplish with this expedition of yours, anyway? And no more of this peace and brotherhood bullshit, if you don’t mind. Convening the elders to discuss a better tomorrow is great, but if you were hoping to pick up fifty recruits here in Azro, then obviously you’re raising a war party.”

“Perhaps I am. Or was. Not because I thought I could win any great victories, and certainly I never expected anything so grand as capturing Kabul. My only wish is to establish a base of operations, a stronghold for myself and my people, so we will still have a voice in our own affairs on that inevitable day when the Taliban retreats and the Northern Alliance arrives.”

“And so you’ll have a top seat in any new government?”

“You find that objectionable?”

“I find it enterprising. And I’d guess that your American backers— the ones who gave you the nice phone—do, too.”

“They did until recently. In the past week they seem to have changed their minds.”

“The Americans?”

Razaq nodded.

“Maybe they decided to put their money on Karzai in the south,” Skelly said.

Razaq smiled, patronizing him. “If their true interest was in the future of Afghanistan, perhaps I would believe that, too. But their plans for me have nothing to do with my interests, or my country’s. They want to put me in place as a sheriff, a posse. Someone to seal the border once they begin chasing their prime suspect. The one everyone here calls the Sheik.”

“Bin Laden?”

“Whatever you wish to call him.”

“But the border’s long, and your part of it is small. Even if you succeed.”

“Unless they know of someone on the other side who is willing to welcome him, once he has worn out his welcome here. Perhaps that part of the border is also small, small enough even for someone like me to block it, or to influence where any crossing should occur.”

“Making you the gatekeeper.”

Razaq said nothing, but nodded slightly, as if conceding the point.

“Bashir mentioned Bin Laden,” Skelly said. “He seemed to be convinced that we might ‘cross paths,’ or something like that, with a few Arabs. All very cryptic. Then to sell it he showed me a few business cards from a couple of Americans. Friends of mine. One of them, anyway. Sam Hartley and Arlen Pierce. Heard of them?”

At last it was Razaq’s turn to look surprised. He even seemed to sag a bit, covering his reaction with a sip of tea.

“Mr. Hartley. Of course,” he said finally, recovering his composure. “The man from the pipeline company. I would guess that half the men in Peshawar have one of his business cards by now. And most of them have probably been promised one thing or another.”

There was no mention of Arlen Pierce, however, and when it seemed that this might be all Razaq had to say on the subject, Skelly offered a prod.

“I ran into Hartley in Peshawar. Over at the Pearl. Your name came up.”

“Did it indeed?” Razaq lowered his gaze, again raising his teacup but not sipping this time. “I am curious, Mr. Kelly. What sort of thing does Mr. Hartley say to a fellow Westerner about someone like me?”

“He wasn’t very optimistic about your chances. I think the words he used were, ‘The fix is in.’ Then he advised me not to get mixed up with you.”

“Perhaps it is because he finds me frustrating. Mr. Hartley would prefer that I show a little more zeal where his commercial interests are concerned. I have made it clear that my own agenda comes first. But I think he knows I will be receptive to his overtures when the proper time comes.”

“So who’s this friend of Bashir’s you’re worried about farther up the road? This Haji Kudrat.”

“A friend of the Taliban. Who tomorrow will no longer be a friend of the Taliban, if that is what suits him.”

“Very flexible of him. And no friend of yours, I take it.”

“Our families have a history, as you might put it. But I would not worry so much about Haji Kudrat. Not with the backing I have.”

“And you still believe in this backing? Even with Bashir on your tail and a poor turnout by the locals?”

“Considering the role they want me to play, why shouldn’t I believe in it? Bashir is a complication, a dangerous one. But I have dealt with complications before, and so have the Americans.”

Razaq either truly believed it or was putting up a brave front. Either way, he was in too deep now to do anything but continue, and either way Skelly now had a fine story to tell. Ideas began taking shape in his head in the form of headlines, circling his mind like impatient petitioners in a waiting room: “Pro-West Warlord Crosses Border, But Support Mysteriously Fizzles.” “Warlord Enters Afghanistan; Has a Rival Preempted His Plans?”

Razaq stood. Obviously the interview was over.

Skelly also stood, his toes again numb. He reached for the telephone, but Razaq’s voice cut him short.

“I must request that you not yet file any dispatches.”

Skelly straightened, prepared to argue his case. “Why? Obviously your enemies know you’re here. A day-old report in my paper won’t make any difference.”

“All the same, I will keep your phone awhile longer. It will be returned, of course, when we reach our destination.”

Skelly bit his tongue, lest he say something intemperate. So much for his exclusive, he thought furiously, and so much for his plans to check in with Janine tonight. Another fine beginning, and God only knew what tomorrow would bring.

Razaq was on his way out the door, phone in hand, but Skelly had one more question.

“You never told me where we’re headed,” he said. “Tomorrow, I mean.”

“North. Onward to Nangarhār Province. Twenty-five kilometers in all, and a full day in the saddle. In the evening there will be another
jirga
in the town of Heserak, where others will join me.”

“And if there’s another poor turnout?”

“Then we will never reach Heserak without a fight. It is Haji Kudrat’s road we will be traveling, and the valley leading to Heserak passes through the Ali Khel Gorge. If he intends to stop us, that is where he will try.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

“It was always a lucky place for me against the Russians. A few rounds of RPGs and you could stop an entire tank column. One day we got three.”

“Three tanks?”

“Haji Kudrat and I, fighting together.”

“How quickly they forget.”

“As you said. He is a flexible man. And he may yet change his loyalties, once he sees the sort of backing I have.”

If you still have it, Skelly thought, wondering what Hartley and Pierce were up to.

“Tell me this, then. If you really don’t want the story out, why talk to me at all? I mean, hell, I might find a carrier pigeon and send it out in longhand.”

Razaq smiled for the first time, although it was the pained smile of a man with too many worries.

“Perhaps I have decided that you may have your uses, after all. If for some unforeseen reason I fail, Mr. Kelly, I want someone who will be able to hold others accountable.”

Meaning the Americans? Perhaps the man had a few doubts, after all. But Skelly didn’t like being thought of as some sort of insurance policy.

“Be ready to leave at sunrise,” Razaq said. “You and your translator.” He spoke the last word with a sneer, then disappeared through the door.

Skelly would be ready, all right. He wouldn’t miss this one for the world.