The Warlord's Son (28 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

AT A CRUMBLING aid agency outpost atop a crumbling hill, Karen Wilkins sat at a borrowed desk shaking her head, certain now that she really had seen everything. Seated before her was a new twist on an old ruse—a woman disguised as a man—and if Wilkins hadn’t seen it with her own eyes she wouldn’t have believed it possible, not here, not in this wild countryside where no stranger went unchallenged and no woman on her own went unmolested.

Yet there was a certain logic to it, she supposed, especially if you were as bold and desperate as the young woman who now sat before her, clearly exhausted but just as clearly relieved to be on safe ground. And clearly, as well, the woman had done a convincing job of making herself resemble a callow young man. Wilkins’s first reaction had been to order her from the building, because a male face within these walls always set her wards aflutter, tossing their chadors and burqas back into place like schoolgirls who’d been caught skinny-dipping.

“I’m sorry,” Wilkins had announced sternly in a burst of Pashto, “but this area is for women only, and you should know that.”

She’d wondered if this one would even understand her, because he’d looked Punjabi. No beard and no turban. Just a white pillbox skullcap, plus those luminous brown eyes that she envied among all these people, men and women alike—placid pools that invited empathy even when concealing treachery. Quite an asset, such eyes, not least when your own were as blue and easy to read as the skies, betraying every shift in mood and emotion.

Yet, when the face finally spoke, the voice emerged softly, wearily, even timidly, halting Wilkins in her tracks.

“Please, I need your help. And I am a woman, not a man.”

And so she was—an attractive young woman at that, once you got past the severe haircut and the clothes, hanging upon her frame like dirty sails. Wilkins had heard outlandish tales that this sometimes happened in the slums of Peshawar—young women frustrated with their lack of opportunity dressed for a while as boys, taking odd jobs that they would never have a shot at as females. But never out here. Not in the Tribals.

“So tell me . . . Daliya, was it?”

“Yes. Daliya Qadeer.”

“You’ve been on the run for how long now?”

It was the very question Daliya had just been asking herself, because it seemed like weeks. Yet she had set out from Islamabad only that morning, trying to reach the village where she was hoping Najeeb would end up.

She had considered contacting the place first by telephone, just as Najeeb had advised on a night that now seemed ages ago. He had given her the number for a PTT office in his home village of Bagwali, and told her to ask for his mother, Shereen. But even if the message got through, Daliya told herself, how would a mother react to the idea of some strange woman pursuing her son? Especially in that culture. Not well, she decided. So instead she formed a plan of independent action, knowing only that she must somehow reach the village of Bagwali and hope for the best.

It was a long shot, she knew. But far preferable to the alternative of returning home. At worst, she would have an adventure before heading back to her parents in defeat. And when she’d heard the news on the radio that afternoon at Professor Bhatti’s, plus later updates stating that the captured Mahmood Razaq had been hanged—or so the Taliban was claiming—she was sure she was on the right track, even though none of the reports said anything about an American journalist or his young Pashtun translator.

So on she traveled, intent on reaching this very woman, Karen Wilkins, at this office, within a mile of the famous Jamrud fort at the eastern entrance of the Khyber Pass, just off the Grand Trunk Road. The destination had been the idea of Professor Bhatti, who’d pegged Wilkins as a likely and able confederate, having met her at a conference a few months earlier.

“She’s got contacts out there,” the professor had said, speaking of the tribal frontier as if it were Siberia. “And she’s an Englishwoman, with access to her own trucks and bodyguards, so she can actually move around a little. Mention my name.”

Daliya did just that, and the response was impressive. Wilkins smiled, eyes twinkling, and seemed to lower her guard just a bit. Then she frowned, the eyes crinkling with a hint of disapproval.

“Did Professor Bhatti advise you to dress up like this?”

“Well, no . . .”

The professor, in fact, had found the whole idea outrageous, even dangerous, although in the end she offered her grudging assistance as Daliya clipped her hair in great clumps upon the floor. Daliya had then bound her breasts with an Ace bandage and donned a baggy new
kameez,
feeling she was stepping into a realm of freedom she had always yearned for on the streets. Now she would be able to board any bus she pleased, speak her mind to strangers, stroll any avenue at any time of day, and demand her money’s worth from every merchant.

But the moment she walked into the streets in her new getup she tensed, certain that she would be unmasked within seconds or that her voice would betray her even as she cast it an octave lower, straining like a singer for the proper projection while awkwardly adopting the rough vernacular of men. She had hoped that a few hours of practice would make it second nature, but it never happened, if only because every few minutes seemed to bring a fresh threat of exposure.

The worst such moments still loomed vividly. There was the man on the bus from Islamabad to Peshawar who’d eyed her intently the whole way, a smile playing about his eyes as if he were reading her thoughts and could see through her garments. Or the fat, hairy one, all sweat and stomach, who’d pressed against her when boarding the microvan to Jamrud, pushing just hard enough to feel the yielding softness beneath the wrapping around her chest. He’d shot her a look of surprise, as if she might be some sort of freak, then the look had turned to a knowing leer, but he’d mercifully disembarked at Hayatabad without a word to anyone.

There had been at least a dozen close calls, and during each of them she had been fearfully certain she was about to be revealed or, worse, denounced and attacked, stripped of her
kameez
and exposed as the freak she was. The anxiety had destroyed her appetite, and she had foresworn food and spoken only when necessary, her voice sounding contrived and falsely throaty.

Yet she had survived, and now here she was, seated at the very refuge her professor had recommended. And as she told her story to Wilkins she realized that she could finally relax. The revelation came upon her so suddenly that she felt light-headed, and began to slide from the chair, unfolding like a creased sheet of cardboard returning to its original shape. Tears of relief brimmed but did not spill—one last reserve of discipline hanging tough—but her descent to the floor continued inexorably until she reached her knees.

Wilkins came quickly round the desk to catch Daliya beneath the armpits, rough, strong hands and a milk-white brow furrowed with concern.

“Jamila, bring a glass of water! Quickly!”

The sound of scurrying in the corridor, then a hand appearing to Daliya’s left with a sweating glass. She sat up, sipped, then gulped, feeling better already. She’d reached bottom and was now swimming for the surface, racing past the bubbles.

“There now,” Wilkins cooed, squatting on the floor next to her. “Are you all right?”

Daliya eased from her knees onto her rump. Wilkins stayed within reach, as if Daliya might yet shatter.

“Why don’t you lie down for a while? I’ll get you a cushion.”

“No, thank you. I really am okay. But tea would be nice. And maybe some biscuits.”

Wilkins nodded to her assistant, who hurried off to comply. To make the rally complete Daliya stood, if a bit unsteadily, then sat back down in the chair. Yes, much better now. She picked up the glass from the floor and drained it. A few moments later the tea arrived, steaming and sweet. There was bread on a plate, and she tore off a piece.

Wilkins waited a few minutes, not returning to her desk until she was sure Daliya wouldn’t slide right back to the floor. Brow still furrowed, she began tapping a pencil on her chin, seeming to realize for the first time exactly what sort of responsibility she was about to accept.

“So Professor Bhatti sent you here, then.”

“Yes.”

Wilkins thought that over some more, the pencil still tapping.

“How old are you, Daliya?”

“Twenty.”

The pencil froze in midbeat.

“And your parents, do they know you’re here?”

Daliya shook her head.

“They live in Islamabad?”

Daliya nodded.

“My father works for the government.”

Wilkins set down the pencil with the greatest of care, as if it had suddenly turned into a stick of dynamite.

“Doing what, if I might ask?”

“He’s an assistant to the deputy minister for commerce.”

Wilkins paused, perhaps calculating just how much she might stand to lose either by helping Daliya or by sending her away. In either course of action there was no telling where the young woman might go next. The only safe solution was a phone call straight to the parents. She supposed she could ferret out the number easily enough.

But what was her mission here, if not to help women, even if this one happened to have lived a life of privilege and wealth? You could tell that from her skin, and from the way she’d nearly dissolved after a mere day of traveling. Yet why be so quick to return her to the crutch of patriarchy when she was just beginning to steady her legs?

Wilkins had been in Pakistan ten months now, and she hadn’t yet tired of writing her friends back home about how backward the place was in its attitudes toward females. But she also wrote them about how rewarding the work could be, assisting these tribal women who were stretched to the limit by the strict codes of purdah. And if Daliya wasn’t as needy as they were, well, she was at least willing to make leaps that Wilkins’s other wards would never dare. So why not help her, too? Risk be damned.

“So where are you trying to go from here?”

“Bagwali. There are . . . people there, who I have to see. It’s personal.”

“Yes, I know the place.”

Daliya brightened, the sugar from the tea spreading through her system.

“You’ll never get there dressed like that, though. They’ll eat you alive before you even make the next five miles.”

“What about traveling in a burqa? I brought one.”

“In a group it might work. I could send you out with a few others. Or how about this—I can take you myself. Not to Bagwali—I’m not really welcome there, I’m afraid. I’m a bit too brash for the taste of the elders—but to Alzara, the next best thing. We have a district office there, a small clinic for mothers and babies. I can drive you there. Not tonight, it’s too late. But you could stay at my place, then I’ll run you by in the morning. Or by midafternoon at the latest. Too many appointments in the morning, I’m afraid. From there, of course, you’ll be on your own.”

“How far is Alzara from Bagwali?”

“No more than five miles. But distance isn’t the problem. Bagwali is an Afridi village. Alzara is Shinwari, right near the tribal boundary. Which means it’s not usually the happiest of places, and sometimes it’s a jumping-off point for little wars and disputes. The good side is that you can actually move around Alzara as a woman, because everyone’s so poor. Nobody with enough airs to make a fuss. The bad part is that there’s no way you’re traveling over to Bagwali from there, not by yourself and not with me. And even if by some miracle you found a way to slip across the tribal boundaries without any trouble, you wouldn’t want to be seen alone in the streets. Not in Bagwali.”

“Without another woman, you mean?”

“I mean not at all. Bagwali is something of an aristocratic town. By local standards, of course. Poor but elevated, or that’s the way they see themselves. Meaning unless there’s a wedding or a funeral you’d better keep your pretty little burqa’d head indoors if you know what’s good for you.”

“There have to be some exceptions.”

Wilkins shook her head.

“Tell me, have you ever heard of osteomalacia?”

Daliya shook her head. “It sounds like some kind of bone disease.”

“It is. It’s also called rickets, and in most places only children get it. Not enough vitamin D, so their bones go soft. Well, out here, especially in places like Bagwali, there are adult women who get it. It’s because they’re indoors all day. Every day. Especially in families too poor to have a walled courtyard. No sunlight, so no vitamin D. Appalling, isn’t it? And that’s the culture you’re up against. Still interested in going?”

It sounded horrible. But having come this far, it would have seemed absurd not to take one more step. At the least she might pick up some news in Alzara, if such news ever traveled beyond the boundaries. With luck she might find a way to send a message.

“Yes, I’m still interested. I’ll ride to Alzara with you.”

“Well, you’ve got spirit, which is more than I can say for nine out of every ten women who walk through that door.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Just don’t blame me later if it all goes to hell. You’re about to step back into the past about five hundred years. Try not to get stuck there.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

HIS FATHER still looked regal, Najeeb gave him that. And in the past seven years Malik Mumtaz Azam Khan seemed to have aged hardly at all.

“My son,” his father said, in level, rasping tones, the voice strong but as dry and sandpapery as the air of the valley. He stepped forward with arms outstretched, leaning from the waist and placing his arms around Najeeb. It was a light, perfunctory hug with a ceremonial feel, a reserved sort of greeting normally bestowed upon visiting government authorities and rival
maliks.
So Najeeb held back as well, not wanting to surpass the display in either warmth or exuberance, of which there was none. Then they broke apart, his father kissing him lightly with dry lips upon either cheek. There were no repeat hugs, such as old friends would offer each other even when meeting on a village path. Najeeb saw and felt that it was mere formality.

But the memories came anyway, and not all of them were bad. He recalled their days of hunting, and the morning of his first kill at the age of eight, a single shot fired from a rifle he could barely hoist to his shoulder that had brought down a quail, flushed near a Buddhist ruin. A burst of feathers, a sharp echo from the bluff, then silence while his father stepped forward like a stalker, as if certain the bird might yet rise and flee. Upon confirmation of success his father had not smiled, but his eyes had danced, and his hands rested warmly upon Najeeb’s shoulders like a blessing.

But the eyes were not dancing now, and without that liveliness his father’s face was otherwise unremarkable. Handsome for his age, Najeeb supposed, despite the tall forehead where the skin seemed stretched too tightly, and his towering white turban was, as always, immaculate.

The man’s most noticeable aspect had always been his stillness, his bearing. Najeeb’s father had never been one to fidget or grow restless, even after long spells of sitting or standing, well after everyone else had begun squirming like a nest of worms. When he stepped into bright sunlight, he did not squint. In the cold he did not shiver or rub his arms or call for an extra blanket. Nor did he sag or wilt in the most sweltering heat. It was as if he wanted to show he could defy the elements as easily as he defied other men.

And certainly he had never bent or yielded when it came to accommodating his son, which was Najeeb’s chief memory as he stood there, trying to give as good as he got, offering a gaze that was almost a glare even while knowing he would be the first to look away. He turned toward Skelly to begin introductions.

“This is my friend and colleague,” he said, the order of words intentional. “Stan Kelly, whom you may call Skelly.”

“Mr. Skelly,” the
malik
said evenly. Then, in Pashto: “You are welcome here for as long as you like.”

Skelly nodded in response to the translation.

“Thank you, sir. That’s very gracious of you.”

Najeeb translated for his father, while wondering how much English he had picked up through the years.

The
malik
had not come out to meet them, of course. They had come to him, escorted to the great room of the
hujera.
Doing otherwise would have been considered bad form for the
malik,
considering his son’s current status, no matter how long they’d been apart.

The two red trucks had brought the four of them downhill to the town, Najeeb and Skelly riding in one while Aziz and Karim remained in their own, tucked between the other vehicles lest anyone have second thoughts about completing the journey.

The armed men had announced the importance of their arriving cargo by firing Kalashnikovs into the sky, rapid bursts that startled Skelly, who turned abruptly to see if Aziz might have come under fire.

“It is all right. It is because they are happy,” Najeeb said, knowing that wasn’t entirely true. He placed a calming hand on Skelly’s arm, but maintained the expressionless gaze he had been practicing all morning. “They are showing pride of possession,” he said, closer to the truth.

“Their pride in you?”

Poor Skelly. He said it so hopefully.

“Their pride in
possessing
me. And you as well, if I had to guess. They do not get many American visitors.”

“So what’s this going to be like for you? Emotionally, I mean.”

It would likely be the last time in a long while that anyone asked about his feelings, and it was such an American question, seeking innermost thoughts with an almost offhand expectation of an honest answer. All the questions soon to come from his father would be engineered for more practical results. Not that knowing someone’s emotional state wasn’t useful. But you never found it out here simply by asking. Even a query as basic as “Why?” often drew only a response of “Asai,” meaning “None of your business,” a sort of bland Pashtun “Fuck you,” to remind others that in a land of few possessions, thoughts were proprietary.

“It is going to be difficult,” Najeeb said flatly, “but I will deal with it.”

Allowing himself a final show of feeling, Najeeb squeezed Skelly’s upper arm in kinship and reassurance. “Do not worry for either of us. I will not forget your interests. You must remember that, no matter what it seems like I am up to. I will not be able to translate everything once we are with my father and his lieutenants. So be patient, and try not to smile too much. And whatever you do, do not ask if you can leave. Doing so today would be rude. Doing so tomorrow might be acceptable, which would only be worse. Because the moment they let you cross into other lands will be the last moment anyone sees you alive, unless you leave with me. So wait for my cue. Trust only me.”

“And if something happens to you?”

“Then God help you.”

But the more Najeeb tried to bottle up his emotions as they approached the village, the more they boiled up within him—a geyser of nervousness, anticipation, dread and excitement. It would be a struggle, his greatest in ages.

There was nostalgia to deal with, too, especially as they passed through the village, where everybody seemed to be staring back at him from an earlier era. Old men leaned toward the windows with grizzled faces and missing teeth. Underfed curs snarled and barked. There were no women, of course, although he thought he glimpsed a face or two in second-story windows and rooftop parapets.

His home lay just beyond the town in a prime location, literally a stone’s throw from the stream. It was a small compound of mud-and-stone buildings behind a twelve-foot-high wall, with a stout watch-tower at one corner. Somewhere inside was his mother. He peered through the grating of the big iron gate as they passed, but saw no one. He doubted he would be able to see her before tomorrow, if then, for the meeting with his father would take place at the
hujera,
the men’s guest house outside the compound walls.

As the trucks skidded to a halt on the gravel, he looked behind them for Aziz, but only Karim remained. Aziz had vanished, as if he’d never been with them at all. Najeeb could have sworn that none of the vehicles had stopped on their way down the mountain, but he must have been wrong. It was unsettling. He had hoped Aziz would offer an extra measure of protection. Now he would be facing his father alone.

The engines stopped. Truck doors slammed, and the armed men fell in single file behind Skelly and him. He knew his father would be waiting just inside, standing in the long, immaculate room with brightly embroidered cushions arranged at the base of whitewashed walls, just as it had looked during counsels and
jirga
s he had attended as a boy. Except then he had sat quietly to one side, observing and supposedly learning. Now he would be one of those men he had always pitied, subject to his father’s inquisition.

Which is where he stood now, seeing the familiar face, hearing the voice, and watching the way the man’s hands moved, also familiar, remembering now how the gestures once reminded him amusingly of a nightjar as it settled onto its nest, ruffling and preening. The recollection calmed him, and he felt certain he could make it through the day. Age and experience had begun to serve him. Without realizing it, he supposed, he had grown from dove to eagle just as his father had always admonished, and in some hidden place perhaps he had even grown claws, if not yet bared them. With any luck, his father would underestimate him.

The
malik
soon made it clear he was saving the day’s most important business for later, because shortly after introductions he ordered others to show Najeeb and Skelly to their lodgings. Dinner, he said, would be in two hours.

“It will be my honor to serve you both,” his father said, face impassive.

“And in the meantime,” Najeeb said, “I will visit with my mother.”

“Patience. There will be time for that tomorrow. For now, it would be best if you rested. Both of you.”

Don’t move beyond my sight, in other words. And your mother is off-limits. Najeeb’s heart sank. That part of his life seemed to fall away from him, the last survivor of his childhood, now gone.

“Yes, Father. That would of course be best.”

“As you wish. We will meet again this evening.”

How odd to play such a part opposite your father, a stilted role in which you still weren’t sure what the next act would bring. Perhaps his father hadn’t decided either. But the
malik
had never been one to make up a script as he went along. He was an inveterate planner, and Najeeb figured he was saving the dramatics for dinner. So after translating this first exchange for Skelly, Najeeb would rest while he could.

But when he turned, someone had already whisked Skelly away to his room. Every possible ally was disappearing, everyone but Karim, who lingered at the entrance, Najeeb’s designated escort. Perhaps that was a victory of sorts. His guardian angel.

“So maybe you can get me a visit with my mother,” Najeeb said, allowing a brighter tone to creep into his voice.

It was a mistake.

“You heard the
malik.
No visits.”

Najeeb scrutinized Karim to see what was up, but could read nothing. Karim turned, and Najeeb followed.

HIS ROOM WAS well furnished, far more nicely appointed than he’d remembered from years ago. It was clear that his father’s position had continued to rise, and his wealth to accumulate, even from the days when he had enjoyed the windfall of the weapons trade and his entry into the heroin market. Never mind the government raid on the production facility, the one that Najeeb’s indiscretions had helped bring about. His father had easily rebounded, with the sort of aggressive diversification that would be the envy of any Western tycoon.

The summons to dinner came with a knock at the door from Karim. They strolled together to the great room, where twenty men were already seated on cushions around a bright and elaborate red carpet, stained here and there by the banquets of twenty years, and threadbare in places. But you wouldn’t have wanted it looking too new, not in this room where so much important business was transacted. That might imply newly minted power, of unproven durability.

Najeeb had a sudden urge to explain all these nuances to Skelly, but he was seated on the opposite side of the circle, looking bewildered and out of place between two men who probably didn’t speak a word of English. Najeeb would try to steal a moment with Skelly after dinner, even if he had to bribe Karim, a prospect that made him indignant.

Aziz was conspicuous in his continuing absence. It was one thing not showing your face during a routine evening at the
hujera,
when your known presence elsewhere might be construed as a minor but forgivable snub. Failing to show for an occasion such as this seemed tailored for insult. Perhaps the rift between Aziz and Najeeb’s father was old news around here, but he noticed many of the men glancing around, as if looking for someone.

The other surprise in the arrangements was the continuing presence of Karim, who instead of standing at the margins as befitted his status had joined the circle, seated only a few men from the
malik.

Serving boys carried in the food, which was sumptuous, a nonstop caravan of lamb, roast chicken, bread, eggplant, tomatoes and sauces. After the thin, rude fare of the past several days it was more than welcome. Najeeb ate heartily and saw Skelly doing the same. He hoped the man’s stomach would be up to the challenge.

Most of the meal passed with small talk. His father made no major pronouncements and didn’t bother to announce either Najeeb’s presence or Skelly’s to the company at large, which was mildly unsettling. As trays of fruit and sweets began to appear, the conversation ebbed, and Najeeb glanced up to see his father looking toward him, the high forehead jutting like the prow of an arriving warship. It seemed that the real festivities were about to begin.

Instead, someone brought forth the hubble-bubble hookah, the pipes already loaded with the mild blend of hashish and tobacco known as
naswar,
which Najeeb hoped wasn’t too potent tonight. As the instrument went round the room he took a few puffs, deciding that a little relaxation might actually help. Poor Skelly, obviously heeding Najeeb’s advice from earlier in the day, also inhaled, seeming to turn a little green as the smoke hit home. Then Najeeb’s father cleared his throat, and everyone went silent.

“Tell me, Najeeb,” he said loudly, “do you still think of your uncle Aziz as your friend? Your protector, even?”

There were no gasps or awkward looks, as there might have been in the dining rooms of New York or London, although Najeeb couldn’t help but notice sidelong glances flickering from face to face, even as heads remained fixed, trained on their lordly
malik.
He realized then that his father must have planned a grander spectacle than Najeeb had anticipated. He only wished he could relay the news to Skelly, because he was now certain that some perilous moments of theater were ahead.

Najeeb decided on a bold approach, meeting the issue head-on.

“I don’t think he is my protector. I know he is.” Then, remembering the dead
malang
outside his apartment building, and certain that his father somehow knew of that event as well, he added, “The
malang
also knows he is.”