The Warlord's Son (4 page)

But even from here Razaq’s son looked too soft and well groomed for such rough business. And who was that other man, hovering nearby, a step or so apart from the crowd? He was turning away now, heading for the elevators as if going up to his room. But when the doors opened the man didn’t board. Instead he took a cell phone from his pocket, punching it only twice—meaning a programmed number, someone he called frequently. He spoke a few words, leaning low, then pocketed the phone and sauntered back toward the door, milling with a few people who had just gotten off the second elevator. Then he placed himself back within earshot of the celebrated Haji din Razaq, who was still talking with Najeeb, neither of them heedful of the eavesdropper. Perhaps it was a bodyguard. Interesting nonetheless. Skelly was reminded of all the history he had read during the long flight overseas. Peshawar was quite a place for intrigue, a listening post and trip wire for every stripe of empire and invader, as well as a prime staging ground for smugglers and agitators. Chart the world’s various spheres of influence and they all seemed to cross here, no matter what the era. So maybe he could scare up some decent copy even if he never set foot across the border. Just look at them over there, up to God knows what. Snoops, lurkers and pretenders, milling and babbling as one but probably with a dozen conflicting agendas. This was far preferable to Islamabad, with its ministerial briefings and bland flock of diplomats, not to mention the TV crews that paid a thousand dollars a day just to do stand-ups on the Marriott rooftop.

Yes, Skelly decided, he was going to like it here just fine.

CHAPTER FOUR

NAJEEB NODDED to the armed guard outside the hotel as he swerved his motor scooter into late afternoon traffic, tucking between a minibus with three men hanging off the back and a pickup overloaded with logs, probably the latest haul of the timber mafia that was stripping the countryside clean.

All in all, he’d had a successful meeting, pocketing seventy-five dollars after finagling an interview for the following morning at Mahmood Razaq’s house.

That, of course, raised the possibility that he and Skelly might join an overland expedition into Afghanistan. Hard living and gunfire were two things he’d rather avoid, but their chances of being invited along were almost nil. Others had already asked and been turned down. Razaq was vain but not foolish, and the last thing any guerrilla force needed was an advance guard of camera crews and scribblers, lighting the night with klieg lamps and shouting into satellite phones from the mountaintops. It would be the one sure way for Razaq to alienate the locals he needed to win over. His only hope of success would be to assert enough Pashtun tribal authority to trump any lingering fealty to the Taliban. If the bearded elders who ran the show up there were known for anything, it was pragmatism, and this wouldn’t be the first time they had changed mounts at the first sign of a lagging gait.

Even at that, Razaq’s enterprise struck Najeeb as foolhardy. His enemies would be forewarned and waiting, and it might take only a few days for some local band of enforcers to rudely shove him back into Pakistan. Not that they’d do him any harm. Razaq was still a figure to be reckoned with among the tribes astride the border. Kill him and you’d have a blood feud on your hands. So they would shoo him like a fly, him and his so-called warriors, a band of money changers and office boys if you believed what you heard in the streets.

Razaq wasn’t exactly in his prime, either. A dozen years earlier he’d fought the Russians with energy and cunning, living off the land and sometimes escaping on horseback, and it was widely reported that he carried an old British saber that his great-great-grandfather had liberated from a dead redcoat at Jalalabad a century earlier. Now he was plump as a Buddha, rarely stirring from the embroidered cushions of his parlor, more attuned to interest rates and import quotas than to the small-bore tactics of leading scared young men across hostile ground.

But even failure might serve its purpose, marking Razaq as a leader willing to risk his life for his country’s future, just in time for the changing of the guard. Or maybe he would be lucky enough to cross the border just as the Taliban crumbled. Then his rivals-in-exile would be left stewing over their teacups, from Quetta to Peshawar, jealously watching the whole thing unfold on the BBC while Razaq galloped gloriously into Kabul. So give the man three points for guts while deducting two for hubris.

The traffic stalled as Najeeb neared his turnoff, but he spotted a narrow opening to the right. Another two blocks and he would be home free. But as he got under way, a jeep loaded with military police pinched in front, forcing him wide, squeezing the hand brake. There was an incoherent shout from the jeep as Najeeb eased past, left foot grazing the pavement for balance.

Scream all you want, Najeeb thought. I can make it and you can’t. Then there was another shout, the word “Halt!” unmistakable. He considered gassing it on through, but a glance over his shoulder revealed four staring policemen, hands at their holsters. He stopped, and an officer stepped down, gesturing angrily. What law could Najeeb possibly have broken? As if there were any laws in this motorized scrum.

The officer stepped closer, and Najeeb finally heard his words above the roar of revving engines and musical bus horns.

“Come with us, please.”

“What have I done?”

“Come with us.”

The officer locked his hands across the handlebars—large hands, capable of plenty of damage, especially if wielding the baton strapped to his belt.

“Get in the jeep. I’ll take your bike.”

“But what have I done?”

“Just come with us.”

A second policeman approached, pistol unholstered. Najeeb raised his hands and climbed from the saddle. They rolled his scooter to the rear of the jeep through a cloud of blue exhaust. Traffic passed on either side, brown eyes staring curiously from open windows at the young man being taken into custody.

Najeeb fleetingly thought of the note he’d posted that morning, his reply with the verse from the Koran. Was he now facing some sort of blasphemy charge? Impossible. If anything the government was headed in the opposite direction, rounding up the more vocal religious fanatics.

“What have I done?” he asked again, shouting above the sputter of a rickshaw. No one said a word. They strapped his scooter to a metal frame on the back of the jeep, then hustled Najeeb aboard.

“It will all be explained,” the officer deadpanned. “No more questions.”

They headed into the city’s ancient center, Najeeb fidgeting under the stare of every passing driver. A young woman riding sidesaddle behind her father on a motor scooter peered through a slit in her white head scarf. Her eyes were astonished. “What foolish thing have you done?” they inquired. “You’re lost to us now.”

She probably assumed he was a terrorist, some rogue arrival from India, or perhaps a hothead who’d been waving the black flag of Jamaat-i-Islami, although Najeeb’s beard was too trim for that bunch. Everywhere these days there seemed to be some sort of security crackdown, and it would be natural to conclude that Najeeb was another fallen leaf swept into the stream toward jail. Heart fluttering, he opened his mouth, but all he could think of to say was another “What have I done?” so he held his tongue. Within an hour it would be dark. Najeeb wondered how long it would be before he was back on the streets.

They turned left toward the cantonment, the greenest part of the city, home to former imperial barracks and officers’ clubs, low-slung buildings with long white verandahs built by the British. Most of them now housed the Pakistani army and security forces, and these policemen were presumably stationed along one of the groomed lawns. But they drove on, into the chockablock haze of the Old City, its narrow and twisting lanes clogged with rickshaws and microvans, the market stalls already stoking their fires for the evening crowds.

The jeep braked to let a horse cart clop past, the nickering beast rolling its eyes. A sugarcane vendor eyed Najeeb suspiciously from a curbside table where he wielded a machete, methodically chopping the long green stalks into stubby treats. Other merchants ignored him, too busy shouting prices and wares. The odor of hot grease drifted past like a humid cloud foretelling rain.

Just before the end of the block the jeep pulled left at the mouth of a narrow alley. The officer grabbed Najeeb by the arm, and they stepped awkwardly in tandem to the cobbles, a second policeman falling in behind. Did that one have his gun out? Hard to say from the reaction of the parting crowd, which seemed to have already written him off. He wanted to shout that he didn’t even know what he had done, but they’d probably heard that before.

The alley was in shadow, cooler and quieter. They descended four steps and continued another twenty yards before stopping at a recessed entrance on the left, at a gray steel door marked only by deep scratches and faded graffiti. The officer knocked politely, as if it were a private club where they would need a password. A tiny tapping answered from within, presumably someone punching in a security code. Then the door opened with a metallic shriek, just wide enough to reveal a short, plump man in a pale blue
kameez.
His face was bland and unsmiling, that of a clerk used to taking orders. He didn’t appear the least bit surprised by Najeeb’s arrival, and he opened the door wider for the policeman, who instead of stepping inside merely offered up Najeeb, releasing his grip.

“Thank you, sir,” said the man at the door, who Najeeb already thought of as the Clerk. “Wait a minute or two, in case he gets frisky. Then you can be on your way. He won’t be needing any further escort.”

Pondering the import of that remark, Najeeb crossed the threshold into a shock wave of air-conditioning, a sour, unfiltered chill. As the door shut behind him he felt as if he had entered a cave, a dim labyrinth where new arrivals habitually lost their way.

The office was windowless, a pallor of gray desks on a crowded plain of black linoleum. Three other heads were bent to their work, one wearing headphones. No one bothered to look up. Large maps covered every wall. In a rear corner was an impressive tower of electronic equipment, lights blinking, as if at this very moment voices were being received and calls intercepted from all points of the city. That, plus an utter lack of identifying logos, placards, labels or nameplates told Najeeb that this could only be a field office of the ISI—not that anyone here would likely admit it. The hair on his arms rose beneath his sleeves. He hoped it was only a reaction to the chill.

The ISI was Inter-Services Intelligence, and as did any national bureau of spymasters it had become the popular subject of legend and folklore. Local conspiracy theorists would have you believe the ISI was behind every major disturbance and upheaval on the Indian subcontinent for the past fifty years, but even the most conservative guesses credited the agency with mysterious powers, citing a well-documented ability to command billions of dollars in foreign assistance despite a reputation for working both sides against the middle. The agency might inflame a popular movement one week and extinguish it the next, then select a new set of prospects to begin the cycle anew.

Years earlier, when a military dictator named Zia had became troublesome to the ISI, the dictator’s plane conveniently blew up, disposing of Zia along with five of his generals and, less conveniently, the U.S. ambassador. The ISI offered a few vague explanations of mechanical failure and moved on.

But the agency’s most notable recent adventure was its role as midwife to the Taliban. Now there was an odd feat, Najeeb thought—a coldly secular bureaucracy assisting at the birth of an impassioned army of religious scholars, supplying twenty-first-century savvy and firepower to keepers of fourteenth-century ideas.

With an Afghan war now on and U.S. Marines on the doorstep, the ISI was on its best behavior, operating under a new set of marching orders. Or so everyone said. Now the Taliban was the enemy, and the agency was supposed to be cutting all ties to its pious and prodigal offspring. But by reading between the lines of official pronouncements from Islamabad and news items in the daily papers, it was clear that the agency was finding the going rough, the terrain uncertain. One sensed the grinding of bureaucratic gears as first one and then another key man was sacked or transferred. Priorities were being redrawn, mandates rewritten. All that remained certain was that India was still Public Enemy No. 1, and Kashmir the top prize, even if for the moment the rest of the world was fixated on Afghanistan, and the wavering mirage of security and order along Pakistan’s nine-hundred-mile Afghan border.

“The border is now sealed,” the government regularly proclaimed, while those in the know suppressed laughter, certain that the long-standing ebb and flow of humans and weapons would continue as it had for centuries, as undisturbed by the bombing as it was by the border police. The tribes, which preferred to see no border at all, had their own agendas, and always would.

But the ISI was still masterful at bending and refracting that mirage to its own devices. And if some foreign power wanted to gaze into the shimmer and see a stone wall where there was actually a sieve, then so be it.

All the same, Najeeb was surprised to think that such work would be left in the hands of men like these, stooped and studious, not resembling magicians in the least. Men such as the Clerk, who was now leading him past the gray desks to an opaque glass door, also unmarked, in the rear corner opposite the high bank of blinking equipment.

“Come in,” a gruff voice said before the Clerk could even knock.

The door opened on a man seated behind another larger, gray desk. He was bent over a stack of papers with pen in hand, the front of his round bald head wrinkled with effort, eyes crinkling as if he were either in pain or on the verge of solving a vexing riddle. Najeeb recognized him immediately, and his apprehension turned to anger. The recognition was mutual, and the man smiled slightly before quickly shaking his head, as if to say, “Why am I not surprised?”

His name was Tariq. Or so he had said the first time they met, seven years ago in the sunny offices of a far less notable agency along the marbled boulevards of Islamabad. Najeeb wondered now if the ISI had been the man’s employer all along. He tried to recall Tariq’s last name, then remembered that he had never stated one, and it was doubtful he would now.

Najeeb’s most vivid memory of that day was Tariq’s maddening patience, waiting calmly even as Najeeb had refused to answer questions, hands folded on the desk while a clock hummed on the wall, precious seconds ticking away. There had been a flight waiting. Najeeb had been due back in the United States for his senior year in college, but security forces had pulled him from the check-in line and hauled him into the city, ignoring his angry protests and parking behind the white walls of the ministry. It was after hours, and Tariq had seemingly been the only one left in the building. He had greeted the fuming Najeeb by placing a hand consolingly on his shoulder—“Don’t worry. We’ll have you back in plenty of time. As soon as you’ve answered a few questions.”

It sounded reassuring enough until Najeeb heard the questions, the last of which had been the most alarming of all:

“Tell me what’s going on in the cave. The one in the bluff near your father’s house. Then tell me, in as much detail as possible, how to find it. Do that and you may go. Don’t do that and, frankly, I think we may have some problems with granting your exit.”

Tariq hadn’t seemed to mind when Najeeb didn’t respond. He’d stared down at his papers while the sun traveled lower, until the sky darkened and the office was a tiny pool of fluorescent light in a hushed and empty building, the traffic outside dwindling to almost nothing.