The Warlord's Son

by Dan Fesperman

  “Well, now.”

  Tariq eyed him closely, seeming to reappraise.

  “Maybe I’ve underestimated you. Either way, your life seems to get more interesting all the time. The police have been here, you know. Or didn’t you? Maybe they trashed the place. Or tidied it. Or both. But they weren’t just asking about dead bodies. They’re more interested in your friend. Your Daliya has an important father.”

  Najeeb nodded, fearful of what would come next.

  “Is she . . . ?”

  “Missing. Has been for more than a day. Last seen with you. An overnight visitor, I’m told.” Tariq smiled.

  Usman reentered from the kitchen, offering a cup of tea. Najeeb eased onto a cushion opposite Tariq, more confused than ever.

  “In fact, if it weren’t for me,” Tariq said, “the police would have been here waiting for you instead. They would very much like to arrest you.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it certainly doesn’t look good for you, does it? Spending the night with her—bad start right there. Then she vanishes, and on the same day a man is stabbed to death in front of your apartment. The man who was leaving you love notes from the Koran. Which the police didn’t seem to know either, by the way, so I’m wondering how you did? Although maybe I should have guessed it after I heard about the knife. Which reminds me. Usman, would you please show Najeeb what you found in his kitchen?”

  Usman snapped open a briefcase and pulled out three large knives of varying lengths and shapes. They looked like the ones from Najeeb’s kitchen. In fact, they were the ones from Najeeb’s kitchen.

  “Notice anything missing?” Tariq said.

  “There is a fourth one.”

  “It’s in police custody, because it was found beneath the body.”

  “Did you put it there?” he asked, not that he expected a straight answer. Framing him would be the perfect way to control him.

  “Of course not. In fact we’ve decided to take these other three off your hands for a while, to help you out a bit. Imagine how bad it would have looked if the police had found them. Afraid we can’t do anything about fingerprints, however, though we’re working on it, of course.”

  “Of course.” He wasn’t sure who to believe now.

  “But I do wonder how you’re so sure that dead fellow was your mystery messenger. Care to explain?”

  He didn’t. The less he said now, the better, at least until he had time to sort things out, if that was even possible.

  “But I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Personally I could care less, although it doesn’t strike me as your style, even if the knife suggests otherwise.”

  “Who was he, then?”

  “Nobody we were interested in. Meaning he wasn’t with any of the known rabble-rousers. Just some tribal piece of trash. From your part of the Khyber, in fact. Ever heard of a village called Kandao?”

  Najeeb nodded. It was only a seven-mile walk from the house where he’d grown up. Rowdy boys quick to throw stones and steal bread. But hardly a hotbed of religious fanatics. There was a small, battered mosque there, but no more than a handful of people who could read enough Arabic to do anything other than utter a few of the standard prayers.

  “Well, that’s where he was from. Which doesn’t exactly help you out, either. In fact, between him and the missing girl, if things get any worse I might have to cancel our little arrangement altogether.”

  “Arrangement?”

  “Regarding Razaq and his excursion. You’re leaving tonight.” Tariq glanced at his watch. “In a few hours, in fact.”

  “I’m not going. Our deal is off. And I have to find a replacement for the American before it gets any later. So if you don’t mind.”

  “Don’t mind at all,” Tariq said, standing. “And as for those knives, Usman, why don’t you put them back in the kitchen where they came from. Then we’ll have to wait here until the police come. Couldn’t have you destroying possible evidence. Unless of course you decide to change your mind.”

  Najeeb sighed, then sat back down. Tariq kept his feet, stepping toward Najeeb’s desk.

  “I thought you might see it my way. Which is why I brought this.” He reached into the shadows and pulled out a second briefcase. “It’s a satellite phone. Our mutual friend Javed tells me your client didn’t have one, and I’m hoping he hasn’t come up with one since this afternoon.”

  Najeeb shook his head.

  “Perfect, then. Very easy to use, instructions enclosed. It will be a great way for you to stay in touch with us, and for us to stay in touch with you. We’ll be able to listen to any calls you make. Just don’t ask me to explain how the technology works, because I can’t. Only results interest me.”

  “So I’m just supposed to leave. Even with Daliya missing.”

  Tariq shrugged.

  “It’s not like I haven’t done you any favors. The police would like nothing better than to get a crack at you. We’re all that’s preventing them.”

  “Oh, yes, you’ve been very fair. I also appreciate the way you’ve had me followed.”

  “Followed? Surveilled, maybe. Once or twice. But followed? I hate to tell you this, but you wouldn’t be worth the resources.”

  “Then why bother to put the Clerk aboard Fawad’s press bus?”

  “What? Javed? Surely you haven’t let roly-poly little Javed rattle you. Just because he went along for the ride?”

  “There was no need for it.”

  “And you think it was because of you?” Tariq laughed, incredulous. “I’m afraid you’ve overestimated your importance. Javed’s as well. Journalists are his little sideline. And because we sometimes like to know what they’re up to, we tolerate his moonlighting. Frankly, he likes the extra cash—and who wouldn’t? The bastards pay better than we do. And if that happens to also put him in position to view another target, well, even better. But believe me, you’re not a target. Just a tool.”

  Then who was the target? Fawad? Skelly, even?

  “Then why all the attention, if I’m just a tool?”

  “Haven’t you heard? There’s a war on. We’re part of it, like it or not, and there are pieces moving across the board that we have to keep up with, if only to find out who is really making the moves.”

  “Who besides you, you mean?”

  “You really don’t understand, do you? You’re just like all the other dumb bastards who think we secretly run the country, and Afghanistan as well. I’m in the information business, nothing more. What my superiors do with it, or who they sell it to, or whose heads they hold it over, none of that matters. All I care about is acquiring it. From the likes of you and from the likes of Javed.”

  “So you don’t even care who wins.”

  “If anyone ever won, I might. But name me just one winner you’ve seen, especially in Afghanistan. The Russians? The Taliban? Maybe for a while, but look at them now. The United States? They’ll be gone soon enough, and they won’t even leave with the man they came for. He’ll either die in a cave or go someplace where they won’t be able to follow him. Nobody wins, everyone just plays, and we’re the professional spectators.”

  “So there are no true believers at ISI?”

  “Did I say that? You’re not listening. Sure there are. And sometimes one of them asks me to believe along with him, so I kneel at his side and pretend for a while. But the true believers don’t last. Eventually some new creed comes along and they fall out of fashion, which leaves only the purists like me. Which is why I’m interested only in the product, the information. And that’s why I’m interested in you, because you can help me get it. Which reminds me. One other favor, if you don’t mind.”

  As if he could actually say no.

  “Keep an eye on Bashir. Let me know what he’s up to.”

  “He’s leading the rear guard. That’s what he’s up to.”

  “Of course he is. How else do you think we knew you’d be leaving in a few hours?”

&nb
sp; “Bashir works for you, too?”

  Tariq shrugged.

  “For us and for others. Which is why we want to keep an eye on him.”

  Najeeb remembered the calling cards, the ones Skelly had been so excited about, thinking that they gave the man credibility. He’d forgotten the names but knew that one worked for a pipeline company and the other for the U.S. State Department. He’d seen the same two logos on cards presented to his father, at times, back in the days when promises and dollars were easy commodities. Doubtless they were back in fashion.

  “So who am I really supposed to watch, then? Bashir or Razaq?”

  “Both. And anyone else who seems interesting. Including your client.”

  “You sound like you don’t have a clue what’s going to happen.”

  Tariq’s smile had a malicious twinkle.

  “Just about any outcome suits our purposes, as long as I’m kept informed. But one thing about Bashir you should keep in mind, as long as you’re still working for Mr. Stanford J. Kelly. Bashir hates Americans. Always has. He even killed a few once. Although that was years ago.”

  “Then why would he agree to take an American with him?”

  “Very good question. Let me know as soon as you have the answer.”

  “And when I’m done? What happens to those knives in Usman’s briefcase? And to the police? Last time you talked about a visa. It won’t do me much good if I’m in jail.”

  “Do a good job and you won’t have to worry about anything.” He checked his watch again. “But what you need now is sleep.”

  As if I’d even get a wink, Najeeb thought. Tariq cleared his throat, which brought Usman back out of the kitchen.

  “Good luck,” Tariq said. “And stay in touch.”

  The two men left, footsteps echoing down the stairwell. They hadn’t bothered to close the door, and Najeeb wondered if it was even worth the effort. Anyone who wanted to seemed able to get in.

  Besides, in three more hours he’d be leaving for Afghanistan.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE MORE SKELLY THOUGHT about Najeeb’s sudden desertion, the angrier he got. Personal problems or not, no previous fixer had ever similarly abandoned him, and certainly never at such a crucial moment.

  He cursed and fumed in the back of the taxi, loud enough for the driver to keep glancing back, as if fearful that this madman would tear apart the upholstery—or worse, stiff him on the fare. The worry beads clicked against his rearview mirror with fresh urgency at every bump and curve.

  But Skelly paid without complaint, not even arguing when the driver announced a final price five thousand rupees above what they’d agreed to. “Too much waiting at the camp,” the driver explained nervously, raising his hands as if helpless in the matter. Skelly tossed the bills onto his lap, wanting only to rid himself of this entire exasperating day.

  He stood curbside a few yards beyond the steps of the Hotel Grand. While the Pearl Continental was buffered from the highway by a broad expanse of clipped grass and palm trees, with a guardhouse to fend off the unworthy, the Grand sat cheek by jowl with the busy highway in the heart of Little Kabul. Even at this hour there was still plenty of noise and bustle, and the smoke of wood fires was as thick as fog. The Grand’s rooms, at least, faced away from the maelstrom, stacked in a rectangle six stories high surrounding a gloomy inner courtyard. Someone had dug a huge pit in the courtyard, at least ten feet deep, making the whole place smell of damp earth. Perhaps they were building a pool, or maybe there was a problem with the plumbing. Skelly didn’t relish spending the next three hours there, and he lingered by the curb.

  When he finally turned, he saw a man climbing into a truck by the hotel’s plate-glass doorway, perhaps fifteen yards away. A face appeared at the side window, then quickly turned away, but Skelly could have sworn it was Sam Hartley. Any familiar face at this hour was encouraging, so he waved, calling Hartley’s name. But the man didn’t look back—was Hartley avoiding him or had he imagined it?—and the truck swerved sharply across the grit. Skelly got a fleeting glimpse of the driver as the truck passed through the glare of the street lamp, and for a moment he was sure it was Arlen Pierce. Impossible. He must have been thinking of the man because of Bashir’s business cards. But the truck, he saw now, wasn’t of any make or model you ever saw around here. It was a black Chevy Suburban, the sort of big American vehicle you found in embassy motor pools, and it was headed away from Peshawar, in the direction Skelly had just come from. His imagination jumped in five directions at once. Best to have a beer and a shower and try to calm down. Although here there was no beer, of course. Only bottled water or juice. Or Coke, which would only keep him awake.

  He climbed the stairs to the third floor, too impatient for the Grand’s clanking elevator, the size of a closet and the sort with a door you had to pull open. Strolling the railed walkway to his room, he gazed into the muddy darkness of the hole in the courtyard, which seemed to exhale dankness and decay. Maybe they were digging up the sewerage. Wonderful. But he couldn’t shake the image of Hartley and Pierce, if that was indeed who he’d seen, and as soon as he entered his room he picked up the phone, pressed the buttons, and heard the clicks of a rotary dialing signal. Two rings, then an answer.

  “Pearl Continental.”

  “Room 311, please.” That was Hartley’s. Might as well set his mind at ease, even if it meant waking the man up. Seven rings later the call jumped back to the switchboard.

  “I’d like to leave a message for Mr. Hartley in 311.”

  “One moment, sir. I’ll connect you to the front desk.”

  The desk clerk asked for patience, and Skelly heard papers being shuffled, people talking.

  “I am sorry, sir. Mr. Hartley has checked out.”

  “When?”

  Another pause, more shuffling.

  “This morning, sir.”

  “Shit.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. Thank you—wait! Is there a Mr. Pierce registered?”

  “Peace, sir?”

  “Pee-erce. P-I-E-R-C-E. First name Arlen.”

  More shuffling of papers.

  “No, sir. No Mr. Peace.”

  “Pierce. Whatever.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He hung up, then tried Hartley’s cell number, getting only a recording, which meant the receiver was either beyond range or turned off. He couldn’t help but remember the way the signal on his own phone had died just a few miles west of here.

  So had he really seen them? And if so, were they a team? Bashir seemed to think so. But for what purpose? It crossed his mind that he might see them later at the rendezvous point with Bashir. Where else would a pair like that be headed at midnight? Or maybe Hartley had merely driven back to Islamabad, or was flying down to Quetta. Wasn’t there a landing strip nearby? Or maybe all Skelly had seen was a pair of foreign hacks. But in a Chevy? Problematic, unless some place around here rented or sold them.

  Then he had another idea. He fumbled in his satchel for a typewritten list, looking up the number of the American embassy in Islamabad. All but a few diplomatic personnel had been sent away weeks ago, along with their families, but there would still be a duty officer, even at this hour. He dialed the number.

  “United States Embassy.” Midwestern accent, flat and noncommittal.

  “Duty officer, please.”

  “Speaking.”

  “Yes, I’m trying to locate Arlen Pierce. Do you have his cell number?”

  “Who’s speaking, sir?” Wary now. Alert.

  Skelly hurriedly mumbled his name and newspaper, hoping to avoid the usual runaround reserved for the press.

  “Say that again?”

  “Stan Kelly. He knows me.”

  “With?”

  “The Ledger. Look, we’re old friends.”

  “You’re a reporter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just a second.”

  Damn it.

  A pause, the receiver thumping on a desktop, then som
e consultation in the background. Why would there be more than one person of any authority on duty at this hour? Had a bombing occurred, or some other crisis he hadn’t heard about? The BBC at eleven had carried only more of the same—stalemated battlefronts and further claims and counterclaims on civilian losses. But whoever answered the phone hadn’t rejected the name Arlen Pierce out of hand, and Skelly supposed that was something. They were back on the line now.

  “Try this number. Country code 1, area code 202 . . .” Washington, in other words. Then a number that began with 647.

  “That’s the State Department.” It was the old runaround.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, what are you saying, then?”

  “I’m saying you can’t reach Mr. Pierce at this number.”

  “Are you saying he’s not in-country?”

  “Please try the number I gave you, sir.”

  “But . . .”

  Click.

  Well, now. Whenever they said nothing, it meant anything but. You’d have thought by now that they’d have learned a smoother way to lie. A bored “Mr. Pierce? Who’s he?” would have thrown him off the scent. But in Skelly’s experience the State Department’s most skilled dissemblers stayed close to home, or maybe it was just that in Washington they never got out of practice.

  It almost certainly meant Pierce was in the country, in his world of back channels and unofficial contacts—although it didn’t prove he had been the man in the Chevy.

  He phoned downstairs to the Grand’s front desk, but there was no record of any Pierce or Hartley having checked in or out. If the two men had arranged a meeting they wanted to keep secret, though, it certainly would have made sense to do it here instead of at the Pearl, where half the world’s media was gathered. The only hacks staying at the Grand besides him, Skelly had discovered, were a Dutchman, a Belgian and a couple of Japanese, from publications he’d never heard of. And he could see why. The walls of his narrow room were drab and smudged. Every lightbulb was a dim forty watts. The TV was ancient, the bed a mere three feet wide, and the dirty carpet was currently host to a caravan of ants, winding their way to a sprinkling of crumbs lying next to a crumpled chip bag in the corner.