The Warlord's Son

by Dan Fesperman

  Najeeb frowned. Obviously this was news to the fixer, and that was fine with Skelly. The fewer who knew, the better.

  “He’s taking in some food and medical supplies, just to put his name on the map. Supposedly the skids are greased for a crossing at Torkham, but keep it under your hat. Don’t want a hundred other hacks hearing about it.”

  “You’d still need passes to get to the border.”

  “Maybe we can round them up this afternoon. Worth a try, anyway.”

  Razaq swept into the room, puffy as a summer cloud in loose white clothes, bald head gleaming. The boy followed closely in his wake with more refreshments.

  “Asala’am aleikum,” Razaq said, shaking hands with a firm grip, then placing his right hand on his heart. Skelly awkwardly returned the gesture, feeling as if he were about to spout the Pledge of Allegiance.

  “Please. Be seated. We will speak English, as long as your interpreter doesn’t mind.”

  Razaq’s English was polished, almost formal, probably because he’d been educated in Europe. Recently he had made a fortune in import-export in the Gulf States, and Skelly figured he must have also cashed in on the arms trade during the fight against the Soviets. Between the Saudis and the CIA, Peshawar had been afloat in enough guns and money to build an army of millions. Not that Razaq hadn’t paid a price, losing a son to assassination and his wife to a mysterious car crash in Dubai.

  “Who are all of your visitors?” Skelly asked.

  “My guests? They are mostly from Afghanistan. Elders and tribal leaders. Village chieftains. All of them are concerned about the situation, so we meet. We exchange the latest news, discuss the future. We talk about what we might do to improve the situation.”

  “Why not just wait for the bombing to do its work?”

  Razaq shook his head.

  “The bombing has only made my work more difficult. I could have given America what it wanted without anyone firing a shot. The people are hungry for new leaders, and weary of the Arab guests who have only created problems.” Skelly noted the reference to Bin Laden and his private army, something that even his editors would understand. “But the bombing has made them angry. Now they’re suspicious of everyone.”

  “Suspicious of you?”

  Razaq smiled. “I am one of them. Why would they be suspicious of me?”

  “And those people who live across the highway. In . . .”

  “Katchagarhi?”

  “Why would they support you when they can’t even see you without getting past an armed guard? They seem hungrier for food than for new leaders.”

  Razaq wasn’t flustered in the least. He seemed accustomed to Skelly’s casual brand of disrespect, as if he would have expected no less from dogs or journalists.

  “ ‘Those people,’ as you call them, share a very important interest of mine. We both wish to go home. Maybe I am more comfortable during the time of waiting, but neither of us wants to be here. And they know I am one of the few who can lead them back.”

  “But why risk it now? You said yourself the bombing had made the job tougher.”

  “Mr. Kelly, have you never felt the hand of fate across your brow?”

  Skelly wondered for a moment if Razaq was joking, but his expression was serious.

  “Can’t say that I have. What’s it feel like?”

  But Razaq wasn’t succumbing to flippancy.

  “As if you’ve just awakened from a dream. The answer you’ve been seeking is suddenly clear in your mind, washed clean by the rain of your sleep. It is a very real moment, and for that instant the way ahead seems clear, and unavoidable. If you let the moment pass without acting, fortune may never favor you again.”

  Skelly was too busy scribbling to react. Perfect stuff, really, just the sort of mystic bullshit his readers would expect. Link it to a description of the old men out front, bowing on their tiny rugs, and he’d have the perfect scene-setter.

  “So you’re certain of success?”

  “That depends on what you mean by success.”

  “You’re sure the people will rally to you. That you’ll be triumphant. Smash your way to Kabul.”

  Razaq grabbed a handful of pistachios, prying a nut from its shell.

  “I won’t be smashing my way to anyplace. My aspirations aren’t military. But I do think certain elements will find common cause. The people are weary of the last five years, and wearier still of war. With me they have a chance for something better. Otherwise all they’re doing is waiting for Masud’s men to sweep down from the north, or for the American Marines to land. And there are many who would still prefer the Taliban to either of those alternatives.”

  “So you’ll leave when, then?”

  “In the near future.”

  “And you will be accompanied by what? A hundred men?”

  “I’m sure you can understand that I don’t wish to share further details. Let’s just say that many of the rumors one hears in the city are gross exaggerations. With a hundred men I’d be seen as a war party, and inviting disaster. All the necessary people have been told what to expect, but this won’t be an invasion. There are simply some people I wish to meet with in some of the provinces. Logar, Nangarhār, Paktīā. To see if I can be of any help in the transition to a new order. Assuming that a new order is inevitable, of course.”

  “And no one will harm a hair on your head?”

  This time he smiled slightly, with the air of indulging a fool.

  “Are you familiar with the concept of the blood feud, Mr. Kelly?”

  “Kill one of ours, we kill one of yours?”

  “Except that it is rarely so neat, or limited, especially when betrayal is involved. If harm should come to me, everyone knows there will be blood to avenge. Anyone who assisted my enemies will be held accountable.”

  “You’re saying they won’t touch you, even if you fail.”

  “Failure is not an option, Mr. Kelly.”

  “Is that what the Americans have told you? Have you been promised help?” Sam Hartley hadn’t seemed to think so. Or perhaps he, too, had something to hide. Razaq lowered his gaze. Skelly doubted he’d get an answer, but the man surprised him.

  “ ‘Help’ would be too strong a word, with all the wrong implications for my people. But we have been in touch. We are both aware of each other’s needs.”

  The man obviously thought he’d secured some sort of promise from Uncle Sam. Skelly hoped for Razaq’s sake that Uncle Sam felt the same. Then Razaq stirred, as if about to rise and depart, alarming Skelly enough that he asked the first thing that popped into his head.

  “You’ll be going on horseback, I’ve read, the same way you traveled when you fought the Russians.” He couldn’t help but wonder how massive a beast it would take to heave this load over the mountains. A Budweiser Clydesdale might do it.

  “Perhaps at some point. But for a while at least we’ll travel in cars and trucks, like anyone else.”

  “And what about this sword I’ve read about. Some sort of family heirloom?”

  “My grandfather’s.”

  “You’ll be taking it with you?”

  “And why not?”

  Why not indeed. “May I see it?”

  Razaq again seemed amused by Skelly’s brashness. He spoke rapidly to the boy, who disappeared, and a moment later the younger brother Salim entered holding a long bundle wrapped in white cloth. Razaq stood, more gracefully than Skelly would have expected.

  “It is only a symbol, of course,” he said, taking the parcel in hand. “Nothing to do with luck or superstition. A matter of mere tradition.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  He withdrew the blade in a sweeping motion, deftly draping the cloth across his left arm. Skelly had expected something sleek or dashing, like a cavalry saber or a dueling sword. But if this had indeed been taken from a fallen redcoat, then it was like nothing Skelly had ever seen in depictions of British arms. This weapon looked more like an oversized cleaver—a two-foot blade, perfectly stra
ight along the top and tapering across the bottom, from a three-inch width at the hilt— which was surprisingly delicate and stylish—to a sharp upward curve ending in a fine point. Surprisingly, it was deeply tarnished, as if Razaq hadn’t wanted to rub off the evidence of its age. But the cutting edge shone. Obviously he kept it sharpened.

  “As you can see, merely symbolic. You can’t fight Kalashnikovs with it.”

  Now there was a quote. Skelly quickly wrote it down.

  “Your grandfather used it against the British?” Skelly asked.

  Razaq shrugged, noncommittal. Thus were legends allowed to grow.

  “And the design up near the hilt, is that writing? What does it say?”

  “A few words added later by someone in my family,” Razaq said.

  “Nothing of significance.” He slipped the blade back beneath the cloth. Skelly hoped Najeeb had gotten a look at the inscription. Salim departed with the sword.

  “I trust that will be all?” Razaq said, an order more than a question.

  Skelly shut his notebook to signify compliance, but there was a final piece of business.

  “One last thing. More of a request, really.”

  “Of course.”

  “We’d like to come with you. My interpreter and I. Providing our own food and equipment, of course. And if at any point we get in your way or become a hindrance, then obviously you can send us back. But when this is all over you’ll doubtless want the world to know about it.”

  “And the world will learn it best from the pages of the . . . what was the name of your publication?”

  Skelly acknowledged the put-down with a grim smile. He tried unsuccessfully to mirror Razaq’s sardonic expression, but wound up with more of a sneer, a wiseass grimace that said, “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “I think you can understand why for now we prefer a lower profile. I’ve hidden my intentions from no one, of course. That is why I offer time to journalists such as yourself. I have turned away no callers and no questions, lest anyone believe me to be a tool of the Americans.”

  Or of a pipeline company, Skelly thought. Or of any number of other competing moneyed interests.

  “But when the time comes to get down to business, as you Americans say, then I intend to be quite on my own. So I hope you will understand. Afterward? Who knows. I’m sure in a few weeks there will be plenty of time for more conversations like this, and you will of course be welcome in my new home.”

  “In Kabul?”

  Razaq shrugged. “Kabul. Jalalabad. Maybe a village in Logar. But somewhere on the other side of the mountains, inshallah.”

  “Inshallah.” Skelly genuinely hoped the man didn’t come to a bad end. It was always unsettling hearing that someone you’d just interviewed had gotten his head blown off. You could never help feeling you’d been an instrument in his destruction, if only as a tiny wheel in the grand contraption of fate. Salim returned to show them out.

  The old men out front had disappeared, but as Skelly and Najeeb neared the gate a younger man approached. He was wire thin, with an untrimmed beard and dirty nails. He said something to Najeeb, who tried to brush him off. But the man grabbed Najeeb’s sleeve, speaking into his ear in a low voice. Probably begging for a job.

  “What’s he want?”

  “He’s saying he can take us with him. That he can get us in.”

  “Into Afghanistan?”

  “Yes. But he’s a liar. A jackal.” Skelly hoped the man didn’t understand English. “All he wants is your money.”

  “Probably. But how does he propose to get us invited?”

  The man, noting Skelly’s interest, had let go of Najeeb’s sleeve. Skelly smelled onions on his breath.

  “He claims to know the man who’s leading Razaq’s rear guard. But this man is in Katchagarhi, and that’s where we’d have to meet him.”

  “Ah, so there’s the catch.”

  “Yes. This one would cut our throats the minute we left the highway. I doubt he’s even supposed to be here. Probably just a charity case.”

  Skelly couldn’t help but agree. The man’s eyes were red, as if he’d smoked something for breakfast.

  “Tell him thanks but no thanks, and that we’re in a hurry.”

  Hearing Najeeb’s answer, the man shook his head vigorously, making some unreadable gesture with his hands and raising his voice.

  “Christ. He’s worse than a shopkeeper in Cairo. What’s he saying?”

  “That I’m a fool not to believe him. That I’m letting you down, wasting your money.”

  “Well, he’s persistent, I’ll give him that,” Skelly said, quickening his pace as they passed through the gate, finally leaving the troublesome man behind. “Nice to see our cab’s still here. Might as well start rounding up our passes for the border. Oh, and did you happen to get a look at that inscription, the one on Razaq’s sword?”

  “Yes,” Najeeb said. “And I am not surprised he didn’t tell you. It was only two words, and one can only presume they’re supposed to refer to the fate of the enemy.”

  “Two words?”

  “ ‘No Return.’ ”

  “Goodness,” Skelly said, pulling out his notebook. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Perfect.” He scribbled it down, already composing the story in his head. “Great closing line. Let’s just hope it’s not his epitaph.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IT WAS DARK by the time Najeeb returned to his apartment. He was anxious to make sure that Daliya was safe and sound. He was also exhausted. Skelly and he had spent the balance of the day tracking down travel documents, after a phone call to Muhammad Fawad quickly established that the minor player from the plains of Jalalabad would be all too happy to have them accompany his caravan.

  So they had wandered a bureaucratic maze in the smog and heat in search of the proper papers. Skelly was able to secure the passes in a single day only by bribing a section officer at the Department of Home and Tribal Areas, where a pair of crisp fifties soon had them on their way, to the shocked dismay of a Dutch television crew that had been waiting for hours.

  Normally they would have also needed to round up a military policeman to accompany them, with more paperwork and an additional fee. But Fawad was providing his own security, so they used the extra time to buy a week’s worth of supplies. They easily found a generator, plus a jerry can for fuel. Skelly had brought a sleeping bag from America, and Najeeb could make do with a pair of heavy blankets. Sleeping in the cold hadn’t been a problem since he was a boy. But their quest for a satellite phone came up empty. Skelly’s newspaper owned only two, and one was in the snowy wilds of northern Afghanistan while the other was marooned in Jerusalem. Fortunately, Fawad assured them that they could use his, although exactly who provided Fawad’s equipment was another matter. Perhaps Sam Hartley would be tuning in.

  Twice during the day Najeeb tried without success to reach Daliya on her cell phone. Perhaps she’d turned it off to get some rest. Maybe she was still awaiting his arrival.

  He and Skelly parted company well after dark at the offices of the Frontier Report, where they arranged to meet the following morning— “promptly at eight,” Skelly stressed. Najeeb pocketed his pay and climbed aboard his scooter, eager to get home. Last night had changed things for Daliya and him—for the better, he thought—but he wasn’t sure what that meant next. And now he was on the verge of a journey into Afghanistan where, aid mission or not, there was a war on. Missiles and bombs were hitting unintended targets, and practically everyone was armed and ready to shoot. All the more reason to speak with Daliya as soon as possible.

  Rounding the last corner for home he saw a small crowd of men gathered in front of his building in the glow of the street lamp. It could only mean trouble. He came to a stop and slammed down the kick-stand, not bothering to lock the scooter. There were about a dozen men, with more approaching, a tightening circle with everyone gazing down at something.

  “I’ve called
the police,” one said as he approached. “Probably take at least twenty minutes, knowing them.” The others nodded. Najeeb eased past a downstairs neighbor to see a body curled on the ground— a man’s, thank God. He bent closer, unable to see much more in the shadow cast by the crowd. But where was Daliya? He stood, glancing toward his windows—dark, curtains drawn. Surely she would have phoned if something had gone wrong, or if she’d been frightened. Unless things had happened too quickly. He pulled out his cell phone, hemmed in as more men joined in the gawking.

  “Was he shot?” someone asked. A dark liquid oozed from beneath the body. A leather satchel, still strapped to his shoulder, lay to one side.

  “Do we even know he’s dead?” someone asked. Another man knelt to check for a pulse, although the gesture struck Najeeb as futile. He punched in Daliya’s number, and when the line rang he half expected to hear the melodic beep filtering down from his window. But there was nothing, and no one answered. He waited five rings and hung up. Then someone flicked a cigarette lighter, giving everyone a better look.

  The first thing Najeeb noticed was the hair, a long, tangled mess. The man’s face was stained with a deep grime that one found only among the very poor or the very rural. His clothes were ragged, a patchwork garment Najeeb had seen only one other time, worn in the empty hills of home by a wandering malang. The realization chilled him. Malangs were the stuff of legend and myth—or had been when he was a boy. Mendicants and mystics, they claimed a personal relationship with God and spent their days trying to drum up followings, which sometimes grew into cults and, at still rarer times, bloomed into armed uprisings. Tribal chieftains, fearing their potential for instability, spread wild tales about them to keep their children at a distance. Najeeb had grown up believing that any malang would try to eat him, and even the sight of this dead one so close to home gave him the creeps.

  The pressure of the growing crowd was almost unbearable now, and Najeeb decided to head indoors. But as he turned to leave, someone switched on a flashlight just as a person in the crowd jostled the dead man’s shoulder bag. The upper corner of a cream-colored envelope poked out from the bag, just like the ones delivered to his apartment.