The Warlord's Son (31 page)

“Who are you?” said an older voice. Then the woman, the shortest of the three, came away from the window and pulled off the top of her burqa, leaving Daliya to feel obligated to do the same.

“My name is Daliya. I’ve come from Islamabad.” It sounded idiotic to her own ears, but was apparently exotic to her audience. The other two, she saw now, as they also pulled off their burqas, were young women around her age. The older one must be the matriarch.

“Why are you here in our house?”

“I am sorry, but I am in danger.” She was again groping for a footing, but this statement too seemed to be a hit with the younger ones.

“In danger from those men out there?”

The woman’s tone seemed to signal that an answer in the affirmative would result in a quick banishment, so she said, “No. From the Afridi. From the men of Bagwali.”

The young ones were again impressed, but the old one saw right through it.

“Then you have no need to be frightened in Alzara. You can go back to your truck, and I am sure everything will be all right as long as your driver leaves soon.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” What to say next? “But there is one person I must see first. Before I return. And this may be my last chance ever to see him.”

She gestured toward the window that they’d been gazing out of. This time, at least, she was telling the truth, and for whatever reason— compassion for Daliya’s agitation, the temporary absence of males in the house, or perhaps nothing more than the thrilling prospect of taking independent and even risky action in the midst of a hard and numbing life—the woman agreed to help, a decision eagerly endorsed by the two others.

So they gathered by the window, their four heads bunched as closely as space would allow. The house was old, and sat at a slight angle to the street, and from the window they could see perfectly what was happening on the grounds of the
hujera.
The new arrivals were now headed inside, presumably into the great room, leaving only one man on guard outside.

“And who is this man you seek?” the older woman asked.

“His name is Najeeb. He’s my brother.” Daliya was certain the old woman knew she was lying. She thought it best to withhold the vital information that Najeeb was Afridi.

Suddenly they were distracted by the sounds of shouting from next door—whether in triumph or anger wasn’t clear. Then there was a sort of collective huzzah, as if a rally were beginning, and a few minutes later Najeeb himself emerged—there was no doubting it this time— followed closely by a man with a Kalashnikov.

“That’s him,” Daliya said, her heart leaping. “That’s . . . my brother.”

The armed man led Najeeb to a doorway near the closest end of the
hujera,
ushering him inside, then shutting—but apparently not locking—the door. It was a helpful reminder. These weren’t armies, Daliya told herself, nor was this a jail. It was a guest house, and these were tribes, clans, glorified ruffians, only slightly more organized than a pickup team of cricketers, even if much better armed.

“This man—your brother, you say?” The old woman’s expression suggested she knew the real nature of their relationship. “He doesn’t seem too welcome there.”

“No, I don’t think he is.” Here was the moment of truth, she supposed. Then one of the younger women intervened.

“Look. The
malik
! He is leaving.”

He was indeed.

Perhaps now he would take the so-called grand tour about the town that Allison had mentioned. Next to Daliya, the old woman tutted, a look of disgust on her face. She then seemed to ponder something a moment, as if coming to a decision. When she finally spoke, her voice was tinged by bitterness.

“Yes. The great and powerful
malik.
Wastrel of young men. Come with us to the kitchen, Daliya. I think we may be able to help you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

NAJEEB SAT EXHAUSTED on a cot in the musty darkness, fretting like an actor awaiting reviews after an anxious opening night. He’d played his part as promised, dodging gunfire in the dark and doing as he was told right through dawn. But of all the day’s scenes, the last had been the most difficult and disheartening.

Aziz had bundled him into the back of a truck and brought him here, to the
hujera
of Jamil Rafik-Khan, a pompous, rail-thin man who upon introduction had barely acknowledged Najeeb, obviously as a show of disdain for Najeeb’s father. Yet the man hadn’t shied from trotting him out as a prized centerpiece a moment ago, when rallying the troops for action.

But Najeeb had been more upset by the actions of Aziz, whom Rafik-Khan had introduced to the rabble as a sort of holy convert, a new brother in arms. Aziz returned the favor by talking down to Najeeb before the assemblage, then putting words in his mouth— words of betrayal and upheaval, and of undying devotion to Rafik-Khan. Najeeb took his cue and nodded compliantly, mumbling a few halfhearted words of assent as the men cheered his disloyalty. It was then that he had spotted the two Americans standing at the back of the room, or so he guessed, judging by their looks and their manner of dress. They were somber and unsmiling, as if merely there to observe, but they weren’t taking notes, so they must not have been journalists. He’d never seen them before, either at the Pearl or at the embassy, but he figured Skelly might know them. And for whatever reason their presence only disconcerted him more. Aziz, sensing that his costar might be about to crumble, had then ordered Najeeb sent away for “rest and preparation.” So here he sat, his performance over unless he could dream up some other way to make himself useful.

Throughout the morning Najeeb had considered telling Aziz everything he knew—all about Karim, and his father’s plan to turn the tables on this little revolt. But Aziz would only have seen the confession as yet another ruse, a desperate pack of lies cooked up by Najeeb to save his skin. Also, for whatever it was worth now, Najeeb had vowed not to betray his father a second time, even if his father had used him as casually as he might have used a hammer from a workbench, and only to further another of his dubious schemes—trafficking this time in humans rather than in opium, timber or weapons. But given the choice between his father and Aziz, he now thought his father was the lesser of two evils.

Neither man would need or want Najeeb’s loyalty now, however. Through pratfall and pride, he had achieved this landscape’s most hazardous status. He was alone, unarmed and expendable, with an imperiled foreign journalist as his only ally.

There was Daliya, too, of course, yet another well-meaning if ineffectual innocent. For all he knew, by now she was either dead or back with her parents, virtually imprisoned. The mere thought of her brought his frustrations to a peak. But instead of anger there was only the emptiness born of exhaustion.

Feeling that he had to do something, he stood up with a sigh and tried the door. Unlocked. There was still a guard just along the wall, and another was posted at the front gate. But even if he could vault the walls before being shot—a slim chance at best—where would he go for refuge in Alzara? He supposed it was yet another sign of his obsolescence that he no longer merited close attention, so he shut himself back inside, determined to think matters through. He figured that his father’s attempt to turn the tables would take place before nightfall, because that was when Rafik-Khan’s men intended to strike. That left Najeeb no more than a few hours to come up with a means of escape, unless Aziz disposed of him first.

He was startled by a knock at the door. Perhaps his time was already up. But it was only a boy, who looked around twelve but of course had a Kalashnikov slung on his back. He was giggling, as rare a sight here as a waterfall.

“There is a
duma
here for you. Sent by the Malik Rafik-Khan. As a gift.”

A dancer, in other words, or more commonly, a whore, usually the wife of the village barber, if for no other reason than tradition, so far as Najeeb knew. This must be someone’s idea of a joke, possibly Aziz, seeing if his nephew could still get it up even when robbed of his future.

“I don’t want a
duma.
”

“Well, you can’t refuse one,” the boy said, obviously enjoying his empowerment. “Not when she is a gift of the
malik.
” He shouldered his weapon provocatively, as if signaling that further resistance would produce sterner consequences.

“Whatever you say, urchin. Send her in.”

The
duma
was covered head to toe, already a departure from tradition, which held that the
duma
was the one woman in town who might walk uncovered in the streets, showing her face to men. Because what was she, after all, but damaged goods and the property of many? This one at least smelled better than the usual selection.

When Najeeb was a boy he had looked forward to such visits, not that they occurred frequently. They were initiation rites arranged by his father, to assure the patriarch that his heir’s vital parts were in working order and would someday be up to the task of propagation. But Najeeb had long since outgrown that level of curiosity, and at the moment the thought of being entertained by a strange woman only seemed tiresome.

“Well, do your dance if you have one,” he said, sitting on the cot. “Then go. I’m not interested in anything else.”

“Are you certain of that?”

The voice took him aback, as did the accent. He knew only one woman who spoke Pashto so poorly, but surely it was a trick of his weariness. Then she pulled back the top of her burqa, and he saw that it was really her.

“Daliya!” He stood, reaching for her.

“Quiet. We don’t have much time.”

“How did you . . . ?”

“Later. I’ll tell you all of it later. The longer I stay, the bigger the risk.”

But by then she was in his arms, and his despair was replaced by the warmth of relief. Having held himself in check for hours he could now let go, and for a moment neither said a word as they savored each other’s touch and smell, eyes brimming with the emotion not only of reunion but of all they had endured.

“All hell is going to break loose in an hour or two,” Najeeb finally said, still holding on tight. He had at least a dozen questions, but urgency shoved them aside. “You’ll need to get as far from the town as you can. So however you got in, I hope you can still get out.” He stroked a hand across her cheek, pushing back a strand of hair. “I just wish I could go with you.”

“You can,” she said. “That’s why we have to hurry. Look what I brought.”

She opened a small plastic bag. Folded tightly inside it was her farewell gift from the three women next door, a blue burqa just like the one she was wearing, only several sizes larger. It had belonged to the taller of the younger women.

“Put it on,” she said, then saw his look of disbelief. “I don’t care what you think, just put it on. The boy outside has been bribed. His grandmother hates the
malik
because he has already cost her a son. So hurry.”

THEY WEREN’T SPOTTED going out the door. Najeeb shuffled his feet awkwardly, finding that the garment bound his knees. You could never run in one of these things, he thought, and the rectangle of mesh across the front of the hood kept drooping below eye level. He hoped no one would see his sandals, clearly those of a man. A guard noticed as they rounded the corner of the
hujera
and shouted, doubtless believing he’d discovered a pair of skulking whores, who’d been known to use the rear entrance.

But he didn’t pursue them, and the boy threw open the rear gate as promised, still wearing his impish grin. Within seconds they were in the alley. Najeeb had trouble keeping up with Daliya, who was fairly skipping toward a small lane that cut back toward the main street. He wondered how one ever got used to these things. Thinking that he heard footsteps pursuing them, he turned to glance over his shoulder, but the sliding hood blocked his view and he nearly tripped. Daliya had disappeared around the corner and he redoubled his efforts to keep up.

“He’s gone,” she hissed angrily, head turning both ways as she scanned the street. “No. He only moved, the coward. It’s my driver. Come on.”

Najeeb got his first look at Muhammad, who was slouched behind the wheel of an aid agency truck a full block down the street from the
hujera.
He leaned his head out the window, waving uncertainly, as if unable to tell if this was Daliya headed his way.

“It’s me,” she said. “We have a passenger. Let’s get out of here.”

Muhammad didn’t seem happy about the extra rider, and Najeeb kept his mouth shut, letting Daliya take the seat in the middle. They crowded together three abreast, not even leaving enough room for Muhammad to wedge his Kalashnikov against the hand brake, so he placed it on the narrow ledge behind him, against the rear window of the truck’s cab. When Muhammad turned the wheel back toward the office, Daliya spoke up.

“Not that way. Just get us out of town.”

“No,” he said firmly, his sense of aggrievement boiling over. “The truck cannot leave the town. It is not permitted.”

“Oh, come on. I’m sure you must take it to Jamrud sometimes.”

“Only with Miss Karen. Not with you.” Digging in his heels. “It is
not permitted.
”

“It’s permitted now,” Najeeb said.

From Muhammad’s expression it was hard to tell what shocked him more—a man’s voice issuing from a burqa or the barrel of his own gun aimed at his face. Najeeb loudly chambered a round to show he meant business, and Daliya flinched. But Muhammad was already turning the wheel in the preferred direction.

“Okay, then,” Muhammad said weakly. “We go to Jamrud. Just this time.”

“No,” Najeeb said. “We go south. Turn up here and head for those hills.”

“They will fire me,” Muhammad squeaked, one last chirp of protest before he fell silent altogether.

Najeeb had never set foot in Alzara before today, but it was easy enough to figure which way to go by the lay of the land, the angle of the sun, and the set of the hills—and because he was only five miles from home. He looked back over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed, wondering how long it would be before someone sounded the alarm at the
hujera,
but the road was empty.

“I guess you can take that off now,” Daliya said, with the hint of a giggle. But Najeeb knew that the danger was only just beginning.

“Not where we’re going.”

“Peshawar?”

“Eventually. With one stop on the way.”

She didn’t need to ask where.

HALFWAY UP THE SLOPE of the high ridge that separated the two villages they saw a glint of sunlight off the windshield of an approaching truck on a high curve. Then a second truck came into view, then a third, followed by more. It was an entire convoy, and each bristled with men and guns. Muhammad lifted his foot from the accelerator.

“Keep going,” Najeeb shouted. “Go right on past them. Don’t look at them and don’t slow down. And if they stop you, we’re just two women coming from the clinic. We live in a tent on the far side of the hill. We’re not going to Bagwali, just to the other side.”

“But their guns . . .”

“You only need to worry about
this
gun. Drive.”

The first truck was approaching, the driver frowning through the windshield and hitting his brakes but not giving any ground. Najeeb lowered the Kalashnikov out of sight, knowing it would be useless to try and shoot their way past this much firepower. He slid it beneath Muhammad’s feet and under the seat as the man whimpered. By pulling the truck onto the shoulder they were able to squeeze past the first of the approaching vehicles, and then the second, but the third one swerved outward to block their way.

Muhammad groaned, slamming on the brakes as they slid to a halt in the dirt, and Najeeb saw his father step from the cab of the facing truck, an imperious look on his face and a gun in his hand.

Najeeb recognized every one of the five men on the back of the vehicle. They all carried loaded RPGs, bulbous green shells sprouting from the barrels like some exotic fruit. The quivering Muhammad could barely roll down his window.

“What are you doing up here?” his father asked, leaning inside and inspecting the cab. “There shouldn’t be anyone on this road.”

“Health clinic,” Muhammad said. “Medical emergency.”

God, he was an idiot, Najeeb thought.

Najeeb’s father slowly swiveled his head, looking closely toward the eye shields of both burqas. Fortunately, women were supposed to hold their tongues in this situation, although Najeeb felt certain that at any moment the man’s hand would reach in to snatch his hood away. Surely his father would see his eyes through the mesh, or recognize his smell, or even his fear—the one emotion his father had always zeroed in on, in the way that an eagle can sense the heat of any living thing, even from a hundred yards in the sky. He heard Daliya’s steady breathing, could feel her next to him, pressed warmly to his side.

Then his father leaned back, thumping a hand impatiently on the door as Muhammad flinched.

“Get them out of here. And don’t try to go back to Alzara, not before morning. Go now!”

“Yes, sir,” Muhammad said, so eager to comply that he nearly hit Najeeb’s father’s truck before it could move out of the way. Several of the men in the back laughed, shaking their heads. Theirs was the swagger of warriors on the way to battle, bandoleered and ready. Muhammad passed eleven trucks in all, each fully loaded, and as they reached the end of the column Najeeb turned for a better look at the sinuous line as it disappeared into the rising dust, working its way down the slope.

It wasn’t hard to envision how events would unfold from here. The invaders would take the village by surprise, and the ensuing fight would be not so much a battle as a scrum—a few wild exchanges of gunfire punctuated by the occasional grenade. Each side would lose a man or two, and Rafik-Khan would hold out just long enough to salvage a measure of pride before coming to terms by handing over the prize—not his village, but Aziz. Then the two warlords would go back to the uneasy arrangement of old, with his father having secured the necessary stability for pursuing his latest ambitions.