The Warlord's Son

by Dan Fesperman

  A police jeep approached, bathing the scene in a blue strobe keeping time with Najeeb’s heartbeat. Doors slammed. An officer shouted for order. The flashlight went out, and for a moment the crowd’s attention was diverted by a bullhorn voice calling for everyone to disperse. The crowd turned to see what the police would do next, and Najeeb took advantage of the moment to squeeze past two men and kneel quickly by the body as a knee bumped his back. He groped through the shadow and plucked the envelope from the bag, barely maintaining his balance as the onlookers jockeyed to hold their positions. Bent across the body, he caught a whiff of hashish from the man’s clothes, then stood, elbowing his way back through the crowd as the first of the policemen brushed past him. He walked briskly toward his building, expecting a cry or a hand on his shoulder, certain that his theft would be unmasked. But it had apparently gone undetected, so he stuffed the envelope in his pocket. The paper felt just like the others, and he was visited by a fleeting but unshakable sense that Daliya and this messenger must somehow have crossed paths. The sensation was so vivid that he whirled around, scanning the dim ground for more blood, or further signs of struggle. Was Daliya watching from the edge of the crowd? She wouldn’t have dared. There were only men here, and emotions were running high.

  A second jeep arrived with reinforcements, and officers in berets backed the crowd away, billy clubs raised as a few foolhardy souls shoved back. Najeeb glanced again toward his darkened windows, suddenly fearful of what he would find upstairs. Someone turned on a bright light, and he glanced over his shoulder a final time to make sure no one was in pursuit. This time he saw the flash of a familiar face watching from the edge of the mob. The man quickly turned away, but couldn’t resist another look, as if to see if he had been recognized. Then he nodded slightly, a sheepish hello.

  It was Karim, a sight almost as astonishing as that of the dead malang. Najeeb shouted his name above the din, and Karim waved a hand, an emphatic gesture that seemed to plead with Najeeb not to risk attracting any further attention. They worked their way toward each other around the perimeter of the crowd as more policemen shoved toward the middle.

  Karim clasped Najeeb’s hand. Then they hugged, as men always did in greeting in the village of Bagwali, no matter what their class or status. Karim then bowed slightly, showing his respect. The man was very much off his turf, and looked it—the weathered face of the countryside, crooked yellow teeth and rheumy eyes. He was in his mid-forties but looked closer to sixty, another customary mark of the Pashtun hinterlands.

  It was only the third time Najeeb had seen Karim during his seven years of exile, and on both previous occasions the man had been carrying messages from Najeeb’s mother, Shereen, and also from his uncle, Azizullah Akbar Khan, who Najeeb had always known affectionately as Aziz. Uncle Aziz had dispatched Karim on those occasions, and he did so without the knowledge of Najeeb’s father, meaning that everyone involved had been risking his neck, even Najeeb’s mother.

  A second envoy had also made contact over the years, a boy named Jameel. But Jameel brought messages only from Najeeb’s mother, meaning that Karim was loyal first and foremost to Uncle Aziz.

  Aziz was the youngest of four brothers, of whom Najeeb’s father was the eldest and therefore the heir. The middle brothers died in their teens, ensuring plenty of rivalry between the two survivors, a rivalry that would have grown even more intense in later years if Aziz had ever fathered sons of his own. That’s how brothers most often did battle in their adult years—through their sons. But Aziz’s three wives bore him only daughters. Thus, deprived of a lineage, Aziz signaled his apparent surrender in the fraternal wars by befriending Najeeb, becoming his boyhood guide across hunting paths and caravan routes, indulging him in ways that a father never would have dared. And so, when the great breach had occurred between Najeeb and his father, Aziz had resumed his rivalry in silence by opening the channels of communication to the banished son. What better way to undermine the father than to subvert the loyalty of the son—even a son in disgrace. And if the boy’s mother also participated in this forbidden back channel, what did that say about her relationship with Aziz?

  Or perhaps it had all been innocent, a pair of adults who simply believed that Najeeb’s punishment was too harsh. That’s what Najeeb preferred to think, if only because he knew that upheaval and scheming had long been the norm among his people. You only had to listen to the old songs and poems to know that, verses rife with themes of deceit.

  “You are well?” Karim asked.

  “Well enough. And how is my mother? And Aziz?”

  “Well also. Both of them.”

  Najeeb waited for more, but Karim seemed hesitant.

  “Have you brought a message?”

  “No.” Karim stared at the ground. “I was sent only to check on you. You weren’t supposed to know I was here.”

  “Do you do this often?”

  Karim seemed to consider the question for a moment, then shook his head.

  “No. Not often. Only when your uncle is worried about you.”

  “What do you know about the malang?” Najeeb asked, choosing to ignore the implied warning. “Did you know him?’

  “No,” Karim said quickly, looking away. “I arrived when you did. When I saw you were okay I decided to come back later. Then you saw me.” He shrugged, as if there were nothing further to say.

  “Come inside. I’ll make tea.” Najeeb had at least a dozen more questions, not least because he wasn’t buying Karim’s version of events. But even the binding tie of offered hospitality wasn’t enough to hold the edgy Karim.

  “I am sorry, but I cannot stay. I have other business. And I have no message for you. I must go.”

  Karim quickly clasped Najeeb’s hand, then touched his right hand to his heart.

  “Wait.” Najeeb grasped the man’s arm in the nick of time. “One last question. When you arrived, did you see a woman here? Near the malang, or running from the building? Was there a woman?”

  Karim’s face was blank, noncommittal. “No. No woman. Until the next time, then, inshallah.”

  Najeeb released his grip, and Karim melted into the crowd.

  By now a battered ambulance had pulled to the curb, and the crew was unloading a stretcher. Could Karim have killed the malang? If not, then what had he really been doing here, and what had triggered Uncle Aziz’s concern?

  Perhaps, despite Karim’s denials, this visit was only one of many. Maybe Karim had been watching over him for years. It was a comforting thought, this idea of a guardian angel dispatched by Aziz, and it brought to mind a favorite sura from the Koran, the short one about “the nightly visitant . . . the star of piercing brightness. For every soul there is a guardian watching it.”

  Or maybe Karim had told the truth: This was a rare appearance, and he’d simply come along at the wrong time, knowing nothing about either the messenger or the killing. Which raised another possibility— that Abdullah, Najeeb’s purported ISI contact, had crossed paths with the victim and had decided to get rid of one state security problem even as he kept tabs on another. No guardian angel at work, then, just a lethal government snoop. The possibilities seemed endless. Maybe the contents of the envelope would tell him more.

  He turned toward his apartment, sprinting up the stairs, grateful that someone had replaced the burned-out bulb. Reaching the landing, he saw with a jolt that his door was again ajar, and he paused on the threshold, calling Daliya’s name. There was no answer, so he pushed inside and switched on the light.

  The place was a shambles. Books were pulled from the shelves in a scramble of splayed covers. Every drawer of his desk was open, and his cushions were slashed. Stepping into the bedroom, he saw that his mattress had been pulled to the floor. It, too, was slashed, the batting swelling whitely from the wound. Daliya was nowhere to be seen, thank God, nor was there any blood. Either she was long gone by the time this happened or the intruder had taken her with him. Might she have killed the malang? he wondered. Possible. If s
o, she might have fled anywhere.

  Then he remembered his money, the stash of dollars that represented every hope of escaping Pakistan. Robbery suddenly seemed a plausible motive for this mess, and he rushed to the bathroom where he kept the folded bills in a bandage box, in the medicine cabinet above the sink. Someone had emptied the cabinet’s contents into the sink, and he saw the box in the pile, its top open.

  His heart sank, and he reached for the box, expecting the worst. But the bills were still inside, bundled tightly by a red rubber band, just as before. He leaned against the sink in relief, the only sound the dripping of the shower. Then he counted the money. It was all there, although whoever had tossed the place surely must have seen it. Not even the most diligent servant of state security could have resisted this much temptation, he thought, more puzzled than ever. A religious fanatic, he supposed, might have. But if the malang had made it all the way up here, then why had he still been carrying the envelope?

  Najeeb picked up the phone, almost surprised to hear a dial tone. Then he tried Daliya’s number, waiting in agitation as the ringing continued just as it had throughout the day. He counted the tones to calm himself, pulse slackening, and when he reached twenty he hung up.

  Stepping back to the living room, he pawed through the wreckage of papers beneath his desk, finding Rukhsana’s number scribbled on an electric bill from the previous month. He dialed it, and she answered almost right away. They’d spoken before, but always under happier circumstances, while conspiring to plot another rendezvous with Daliya.

  “I haven’t heard from her since this morning,” Rukhsana said. “Very early.” She sounded peeved about it. “Although I understood why, once she told me where she was. Congratulations.” Her tone was scolding. “She was a fool to spend the night. You wouldn’t believe the cover story we came up with, but her aunt and uncle haven’t called, so they must have gone for it.”

  “I can’t reach her on her cell, and I’ve been trying all day,” Najeeb said. “When I got home my apartment was trashed and the door was open. There was a dead man out front and the police were just arriving, but no sign of Daliya. I was hoping you’d call her uncle’s to see if she’s there. I sure as hell can’t.”

  Rukhsana’s tone changed to one of alarm. “She never turns her cell off. I’ll try them now and call you right back.”

  He waited only three minutes, reshelving books to kill the time.

  “She wasn’t in. They’re worried sick. They’re wondering if they should call the police.”

  Should they? Then the entire story of their relationship would come out, and he would face even more unwanted scrutiny. But where could Daliya be?

  “I don’t know what to do. But, yes, they should call the police, report her missing.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “Don’t mention me, though. Not yet. Not until tomorrow, if you can wait that long.”

  “But they’ll ask where she was last night.”

  “Use the cover story for now. If you have to tell them about me later, the police will understand why you were covering for her.”

  But would they? And would Najeeb lie to the police on Rukhsana’s behalf?

  “Covering for you, you mean,” Rukhsana said coldly.

  “Yes, for me. But if she turns up tonight, there’s no sense getting her in deeper trouble.”

  “But what if she doesn’t? What if she’s not back by morning?”

  “I don’t know. I may be on my way to Afghanistan by then.”

  “Afghanistan?”

  Now he detected a note of mistrust.

  “Journalistic business. Translating for an American.”

  “And you can’t give up your hundred dollars a day, even for Daliya.”

  “It’s a hundred and fifty. And, no, I can’t, because she’s part of the reason I’m earning it.”

  Did he mean that? He thought so. Hoped so. But Rukhsana wasn’t buying it.

  “Yes, you keep telling yourself that.”

  She hung up before he could answer.

  Najeeb sat on a torn cushion, anxiety building in his chest. He tried to think of any reason Daliya might voluntarily disappear, but he came up empty. Then he remembered the envelope and pulled it from his pocket.

  It now seemed malignant. And how could a message carried by a dead malang be anything but cursed? He knew that was his childhood speaking, a village superstition flitting around his brain like a bat.

  He tore it open, pulling out the folded paper of the same creamy bond, covered with the same cramped writing. This time there were two messages.

  “104:1” began the first. “Woe betide every backbiting slanderer who amasses riches and sedulously hoards them, thinking his wealth will render him immortal! By no means! He shall be flung to the destroying flame. Would that you knew what the Destroying Flame is like. It is God’s own kindled fire, which will rise up to the hearts of men. It will close in upon them from every side, in towering columns.”

  The next passage was prefaced by a brief note in Pashto: “For your American friend.” Followed by more Arabic from the Prophet:

  “4:78. Wherever you be, death will overtake you; though you put yourselves in lofty towers.”

  Najeeb crumpled the paper and let it drop to the floor.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A RUMBLE OF THUNDER awakened Skelly just after dawn, and he was thrilled to hear raindrops spattering fatly on the balcony. Finally, a downpour to scrub the sky clean, making the air fit for human consumption. He rolled over comfortably in the darkened bed, listening to the trees whipsaw in the gusting squall.

  When he threw open the curtains an hour later on the brightness of a clearing sky, it was evident that the storm hadn’t been up to the task. Leaves and grass were rinsed of dust, almost shocking in their fresh greenness, but the air smelled like a drowned campfire, and the sky was already filmed over in a sticky whiteness, like Vaseline on a lens.

  Maybe it would be better in the hills, and he took heart, remembering that a day of travel lay ahead. Tonight he might well bed down in Afghanistan, without electricity or running water. A regular campout. His gear was piled by the door, and he resolved to check out of his room, even though there was now a waiting list. Jalalabad or bust.

  Najeeb was again late for their appointment at the Frontier Report, damn him, but it was a short drive to Fawad’s house in the heart of the cantonment, next to the local UN headquarters, and when they arrived it was clear no one was leaving anytime soon. Word of the caravan had leaked out overnight, and at least fifty journalists were encamped on the man’s lawn. Mounds of luggage and TV equipment sat beneath huge rubber trees. Correspondents and photographers milled loudly, smoking cigarettes and reading the local papers as they stepped around robed old men, bowing silently on prayer rugs.

  There was a sign-up sheet going around—in case transportation ran short, someone said—and by the time Skelly got hold of it he and Najeeb were at spots 53 and 54. So much for being in on the ground floor.

  A few minutes later Fawad emerged grandly from the house in a billow of spotless blue garments. He was tall, thin, with a bony irregular head that convinced you he’d led a life of hardship and deprivation. He was at least a decade younger than Razaq, with a trimmed beard and black hair turning silver at the ears and sideburns. He seemed taken aback by the spectacle he’d wrought, shaking his head with a frown of concern.

  “We are arranging for more transport,” he announced, hands outstretched as if appealing for patience. The mob quieted, drawing closer for the update. “The buses will arrive very soon. Then we will be under way.”

  The first bus didn’t show for another ninety minutes, and it was a creaky red model with a mere thirty seats. Flying Titanic was painted in jolly script on the side.

  “Now who wants to board that one,” an Australian said to laughter. The smaller Cruising Enjoy arrived moments later, followed by an orange bus from the Nawaz Model School. Skelly wondered how many students would be grumbling about having to walk h
ome this afternoon. By now, at least another fifty hacks had arrived, ants streaming toward the only picnic in town, restive in the broiling sunny haze. Some were already digging into expedition rations as the lunch hour came and went. A tall Swede sat on a cinder block, boiling water on a small propane stove for a pouch of Ramen noodles.

  The horde’s presence, with its money belts and thick folds of currency, attracted a steady incursion of industrious beggars and urchins. A barefoot boy who looked about ten, his face coated in dust, offered to spit-shine shoes while his companion, a head shorter, played a two-note tune by drumming an empty Pepsi bottle with a stick.

  Skelly shooed them away, wishing Najeeb were there to do it. He was probably off in a corner on his cell phone, as he seemed to have been all morning, worse than a stockbroker keeping track of the market. Skelly wondered what had made him so sullen and preoccupied, or maybe he was always like this. Another dusty waif materialized at Skelly’s sleeve, bowing with a jerky motion—“How are you, sir?”— probably his entire repertoire of English. He lit a tin of incense and fanned the acrid smoke toward Skelly, ashy and sickly sweet, supposedly for good luck, but it was the last thing you wanted to breathe on a hot, soupy day.

  “No, get it out of here.” Skelly fanned back and turned away. An Italian woman slipped the boy a hundred-rupee note, which would only encourage him.

  Out in the narrow street, a man wearing a blue UN cap emerged from between the buses, announcing that they were blocking the UN’s driveway. Fawad’s minions scurried to accommodate him, and the journalists groaned at the prospect of further delay. Fawad, sensing he was about to lose the audience of a lifetime, then announced impulsively that it was time to board. The protests of the UN man were drowned out by an ungodly rush and clutter, with everyone shouldering cameras, duffels, sleeping bags and satellite phones while shouting in half a dozen languages. Skelly tracked down Najeeb, but by the time they reached the street all three cargo bays were stuffed full, and a sweating face stared from every window.