The Warlord's Son

by Dan Fesperman

  The vital question then became where to spend the night. In Peshawar it was especially problematical for a young woman on her own. Any hotels other than a handful of the best ones would regard a Pakistani woman traveling alone as virtually a prostitute, subject to questioning and possibly arrest. All of the finer hotels, however, were booked solid with foreign journalists.

  The police? No thank you. They would only turn her over to her aunt and uncle.

  It was then that she thought of the office at her uncle’s computer store. Her cousins always locked up by eight, and because she occasionally held the fort at lunch she had her own key. There was a small couch for customers, and a locked washroom just down the alley that they shared with two other stores. It would be the perfect hideaway until morning, a haven where she could collect her thoughts and plan her next move. And perhaps somewhere in the piles of paper atop her desk she could find Najeeb’s or Rukhsana’s home phone numbers.

  The office was stuffy, creepy. An aging fan that normally ran throughout the day was still, and the becalmed air smelled of cigarette butts, dusty carpeting, unwashed teacups and the warmed plastic of the computer monitors. She considered switching on the fan, but worried—irrationally, she knew—that it might somehow draw attention to the place, as if connected to a sensor at her uncle’s house that would bring the whole family running. She flicked on the fluorescent ceiling light just long enough to spot the best way to the couch, then turned it off and negotiated the path in the dark. Exhausted, she sagged onto the dirty cushions. The upholstery was rough, smelling of cigarettes, so she cradled her hands beneath her cheek. By bending her knees slightly she could just fit.

  But the moment she shut her eyes the evening’s events reeled back, unspooling across her eyelids like a lurid news bulletin. She had tried leaving Najeeb’s apartment around lunchtime, only to be spooked by the sound of a door opening on the floor below, the tread of heavy footsteps on the stairs. That convinced her to play it safe, or so she thought, waiting for nightfall when she presumably wouldn’t be seen. Perhaps Najeeb would even make it home first.

  Darkness came, and Najeeb didn’t, so she steeled herself for a quick exit, making as little noise as possible. She made it down the stairs without a hitch, then pushed open the door. No one was around. The night felt fresh and free. There would be a host of explaining to do, and plenty of lying, but with Rukhsana’s help she’d make it.

  Shortly after reaching the sidewalk, a shadow darted toward her from the left. She barely had time to turn before seeing the glint of metal. But it was the smell that gave the man away, the same as the night before. His breath was a violent emanation of hashish and garlic, and his body reeked of grime.

  A callused hand clamped across her mouth, it, too, carrying the distinctive smell, yet also with a dusty hint of rosemary, as if he’d been hiding in a thicket of the stuff. His free hand shoved something hard against the small of her back—the handle of his knife?—pressing her spine as he shoved her forward, stumbling and turning at the same time, as if he was positioning her to make her a more inviting target. The hand at her back fell away, and in turning she saw the blade sweeping toward her in a wide arc. She tried to lunge away, wanting to scream now that the other hand had come loose from her mouth but feeling as if all the air was squeezed from her lungs.

  It was then that a second shadow joined them—another hand darting across her attacker’s arm, grabbing the wrist of the knife hand. There was a grunt, a thump, and all three of them piled down like derailed boxcars, heaping onto the dusty bare ground by the sidewalk just beyond the pooled light of the street lamp. Daliya scrambled to her feet, suddenly free of them. Then it was as if they had forgotten her altogether, the two men rolling atop each other, grunting and gasping. No words, only a series of animal noises and a wet, tearing, meaty sound, like the one a butcher makes when hacking into a slab of lamb, followed by a cry as forlorn as any she’d ever heard. She was still briskly backing away, hesitating in flight, feeling she should thank this man for her deliverance.

  But what if the wrong man won? Or what if the right man turned out to be even more dangerous? For he, too, was strange to her. So she turned and ran, faster than she had ever run before, fighting off the ridiculous unbidden notion that her mother would strongly disapprove of such unwomanly behavior, her daughter sprinting and sweating like some athlete. She didn’t stop for five blocks, despite the stares she drew after reaching the crowds at the fringe of the bazaar. She knew she must be a sight, her eyes blazing with panic, and for once in her life she wished to be covered head to toe. Then she turned a corner and stopped, panting, sweat running between her breasts and down her spine. And she began to walk, trying to control her breathing, looking straight ahead. Thus was Daliya on her way, seeing no possible path that might return her to her former life.

  As she lay exhausted on the filthy couch, she inventoried her sins of the past several weeks. The lies and subterfuge were a beginning, and the visits to Najeeb’s apartment ranked high. But all those might be covered up or explained away if not for the overnight stay. That was what would damn her in her parents’ eyes. It was the point of no return, the unpardonable sin, the irreparable breach. Meaning she would now have to either go it alone or make her way forward with Najeeb, which was like no choice at all. Najeeb was her future, whether he had yet made up his mind or not. So she had better find him as soon as he returned from Afghanistan. In the meantime, she needed a place of temporary refuge, and she thought of one just as she was dropping off to sleep.

  She came awake suddenly at the sound of the call to prayer, a loudspeaker squalling plaintively from just down the block. The dim predawn light bathed the office in pale gray. Her mouth was sticky and dry, her hair a mess, and her clothes smelled just like the couch. She washed up as well as she could at the sink in the bathroom down the alley, spooked by rats that scurried for cover as she approached the door.

  When she stepped back into the office she considered making tea, but wanted to leave as little sign of her presence as possible. Besides, it was time she got moving. Her search for phone numbers had been fruitless, but at least now she had the beginnings of a plan. Just before locking the door behind her she considered writing a note for Rukhsana, taping it to the door of the neighboring office, where her friend worked. But there was no telling who might open it first. Besides, Rukhsana was still answerable to parental authority.

  One thing Daliya didn’t lack was money, and once the banks opened she would have even more. A weekly allowance from her father arrived via wire transfer—a secret they’d kept from her mother—and it had accumulated to a middling sum that might get her by for weeks. She’d supplemented the total by setting aside most of her salary from her uncle. She also had a credit card, yet another offering from her father. He’d made her swear never to use it except in an emergency, but surely this qualified. She decided to hold off using it for as long as possible, however. No sense in furnishing anyone with a map of her movements.

  She had decided that her next stop would be Islamabad. Getting there was another matter. Traveling alone by bus wouldn’t be impossible, but it would attract unwanted attention. A taxi, then. But not just any taxi, hailed in the streets. Those drivers would be too unreliable, perhaps even too dangerous—or so she believed in her frazzled condition. She knew of only one location where she might do better, and fortunately it was a place where her presence wouldn’t necessarily be cause for suspicion. It was the lobby of the Pearl Continental. Najeeb had taken her to the hotel’s cafe once, for cake and tea. Wildly expensive, but it had provided a glimpse of how the foreign visitors lived, and she had watched them arranging for cars from a fleet of white Mercedes out front. Better cars, and better drivers.

  It went without a hitch. The concierge quickly arranged the trip and took her cash. She was grateful she had dressed well for her trip to Najeeb’s apartment, a journey that now seemed a lifetime ago. While waiting for the car she tried calling Najeeb again at the Frontier R
eport, but got only the vague information that he might be away for a while, and when her inquiries grew more insistent the reporter who’d answered grew curious, prompting her to hang up. There was no way to know whom she could trust.

  Yet, with each new move this morning she experienced a burgeoning sense of crossing new boundaries, of breaching the forbidden, and found that this boldness thrilled more than it intimidated. Was this how it was for men? she wondered. This to-hell-with-everyone sense of simply striking out on your own? Or had it become routine for them, a part of their nature? She hoped that the feeling would last, because she was certain she would need it to sustain her through the uncertainty of the days to come.

  But as she sat in the office in Islamabad, awaiting the arrival of Professor Bhatti, her doubts again gained the upper hand. It was nearly four o’clock. A full two hours had now passed. Maybe the professor wasn’t coming, and maybe she wouldn’t help. Calm yourself, she thought. Of course the professor would help. Wouldn’t she?

  The university was where Daliya, in the ancient days of her previous life, had always felt the most free to speak her mind, and of all her teachers none had been more encouraging than Professor Bhatti. With the professor’s encouragement, Daliya went toe to toe with the boys, arguing and bantering, and often as not emerging the winner. The anger that flashed from their eyes announced her triumphs with regularity, as did the professor’s nods of approval.

  But what she craved most from the professor now were a few kind words, the offer of a hot shower and the refuge of confession. Too much to ask, probably. Perhaps the professor wouldn’t even remember her name. If she left now and went to her parents’ house it would be awful, but safe. Even the comfortable prison of a disapproving home would be preferable to this cold uncertainty.

  And if Professor Bhatti was so exalted, and was indeed the right person to turn to, then how come the university hadn’t given her a better office? The woman shared it with another teacher, even though she was supposedly the acting assistant to the department head. The ceilings were high, and there was plenty of shelf space, but the walls needed painting, and the other professor’s clutter seemed to be encroaching like some weed that would eventually take over.

  Even her father, with his relatively low standing at the ministry, at least had a private office, plus upgraded electrical outlets and his own desktop computer. Professor Bhatti had only a laptop and an old phone, the sort with push buttons and a rotary dial. And her office was next door to the men’s room, with its almost constant comings and goings, the sounds of creaking hinges and flushing coming through the wall. Daliya had pushed the office door shut upon arrival, hoping to be seen by as few people as possible. She hadn’t yet decided what to do if the other professor showed up first.

  She checked her watch. It was now 4:20, but just as her mood hit bottom she heard an approaching click-clack of heels in the corridor, then the rattling of the knob. In walked Professor Bhatti, shocked but seemingly happy to see her visitor, although her expression of concern deepened as Daliya began to tell her story.

  DALIYA HAD CHOSEN her audience better than she could have known. Professor Rana Bhatti was a great believer in pushing one’s limits, especially when those limits had been imposed by men. When the department’s second-in-command had departed the previous fall, she had actively campaigned to be named his replacement, even while knowing that the very insistence which won her the title of “acting” assistant head would ensure that she would be passed over when the job was filled permanently. She knew also, though, that unless she made some noise, they would ignore her altogether.

  She was short, another handicap to overcome, but that only seemed to make her more determined. She was also one of the department’s most worldly professors, spending two months every few summers in Boston, among American colleagues at Harvard, and after each such trip she returned with another increment in hustle and determination. When she got going on a topic you could hear her voice above all others, even if all you might see was her lustrous head of raven hair, which she covered only for important faculty meetings and trips out of town. In other words, it was hard to imagine anyone in Daliya’s world likely to be more sympathetic to her situation.

  Yet Professor Bhatti looked anything but overjoyed once Daliya completed her account.

  “You really shouldn’t be here, you know,” the professor finally said, her voice about three decibels lower than normal. She glanced nervously toward the door, as if security police might barge in on them at any moment. “If your parents ever found out.” She shook her head. “Your father, he is . . .” Her voiced trailed off, but Daliya knew exactly what the professor was thinking. If her father were to learn that Professor Bhatti had aided her in her escape, the professor would lose her job, no matter how far down the ladder he was at the ministry. That would forfeit any chance for advancement, all for the whims of a wayward young woman. All those rungs climbed with such tenacity and endurance would be cut from beneath her in one decisive stroke.

  But at age forty-three, Professor Bhatti wasn’t so far removed from her own youth that she had forgotten what it was like to be staring up from the bottom of that same ladder, dismissed and disregarded.

  “Tell me,” she said at last, “is this just aimless escape? Wandering around with no real idea of what you’re after? Or do you actually have some kind of plan in mind?”

  “I’m not sure,” Daliya said hesitantly. “That’s why I came here. I figured you were the one person who might tolerate a little indecision. I need time more than anything.” She noted the beginning of a frown. “Not much. Just enough to catch my breath, figure out what comes next. But I promise you there’s nothing random about my intentions. And to be truthful . . .” She spoke slowly. “You might say that I do have at least the beginnings of a plan. It’s just that it’s so crazy that I couldn’t begin to carry it out without first talking it over with someone else. And I can’t think of anyone better for that than you.”

  Professor Bhatti sighed and tutted, twirling a pencil in her right hand. She pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply as she eyed the phone. The number for the girl’s parents was somewhere in a nearby file drawer, she was certain. It would take about ten minutes and this whole drama would be over, or at least her part in it would. She had a lecture to prepare, a career to maintain, a busy week ahead with no room for aggravation and certainly no allowance for foolishness like this. Then she looked across the desktop at Daliya, at those eyes that not only pleaded but demanded. Implored. Insisted. Where had she seen such a defiant spirit before? The answer was easy, and the answer disarmed her completely.

  “I ran away once, you know,” she finally said, in a voice so low that Daliya had to lean forward to hear it.

  “You, Professor Bhatti?”

  The professor nodded, sighing with a slow stream of smoke.

  “I was about three years older than you, of course.” Brief frown of disapproval. “And it had nothing to do with any kind of boyfriend. Or banishment. Or anything like what you’re up against.” A pause, three seconds that seemed like twenty. “But there was an aunt who took me in. She helped me stay on my feet while I made peace with my family. It was hard, really, and pretty awful for a while. But I came out of it okay. Stronger, even. Or I might not be here at all.” She paused again, one last breath before the leap. “Come on, then.” She rose to her feet, grabbing her shoulder bag. “The less you’re seen here, the better. I’ve got a sofa bed. We’ll talk more when we get there. You can stay the night, or longer if you need to.” Then she smiled slyly, smoke snorting from her nostrils in a burst of low laughter. “Just try not to need to.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SKELLY HAD ALWAYS hated border towns, and in times of war they were even spookier and more disheartening, grimy little outposts where the hopeless and disinherited collected like motes of dust against a screen.

  Torkham was no different, although at least the backdrop was spectacular. It was wedged into the last
pinch of the Khyber Pass, steep granite cliffs looming to either side. The border fence blocked the ravine like a dam. Beyond it, the valley opened wide and flat, a promising landscape of open skies and far-ranging movement that had lured centuries of travelers and invaders.

  The town was small, and its main bazaar was right along the road. Fawad’s caravan threaded its way through several hundred men in white robes and skull caps who drifted aimlessly among the shops and stalls, as if awaiting the opening of the gates, or imminent news of peace.

  The buses pulled to the shoulder by the last building on the right. It was the customshouse, a white hut atop a small green knoll, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. A dozen police, clubs at the ready, swarmed in to head off the gawking crowd while the journalists sat tight, hoping against hope that Fawad could deliver on his promise of easy passage. He disappeared inside the customshouse with a handful of transit papers, accompanied by two of his men. Ten minutes later he emerged looking grim and impatient. Then he stepped aboard Flying Titanic, the lead bus, to ask for everyone’s passports and papers.

  A collective groan went up, Skelly loudly joining in. Now they’d be waiting for hours. Any ride to Jalalabad would be made in the dark.

  The reporters unloaded, breaking open water bottles and stretching their legs, and the curiosity of it all was too much to bear for the milling men in white, whose excited chatter rose to a wail as they encircled the buses, pushing back the policemen. Skelly guessed they were stranded refugees, although supposedly most of the recent human traffic was headed deeper into Pakistan, fleeing the bombing. Perhaps these fellows knew something nobody else did, but he doubted it. The only thing worse than being stuck in a war was being stuck in the middle of nowhere, without food or family, as these men had doubtless discovered.

  The press of the mob made it hard to move, but maybe he could interview a few, pick up a story. He looked for Najeeb, although he hadn’t yet decided how to deal with the awkward issue of the man’s allegiance. Would a spy for the ISI ever actually admit to it? If not, what proof did Skelly have other than the accusation of Lucy’s fixer, who by the look of things had already been arguing with Najeeb?