The Warlord's Son

by Dan Fesperman

  Najeeb wondered whether he was referring to Skelly or Bashir, and whether the assessment was Rahim’s or some secondhand version of his father’s. But this wasn’t the time to ask.

  The light swiveled back to Skelly, whose pupils again narrowed to pinpricks.

  “Blue eyes. We don’t see so many of those. My cousin thinks they are all the Evil Eye. If he were here he’d want to kill this one.”

  All this was transpiring in Pashto. Najeeb hoped Skelly didn’t demand a translation, or pull out a notebook. Despite the bantering tone, the moment was finely balanced. Any sudden movement might shove it in the wrong direction.

  “Would you like to sell him to us, then? An American would bring quite a ransom.”

  That brought laughter from some of the others. Bashir apparently felt no need to intervene.

  “What’s he saying?” Skelly asked.

  “He is admiring your eyes.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Then it was Rahim’s turn to wonder about incomprehensible words.

  “What is he saying?” Rahim snapped.

  “He was admiring your eyes.”

  Rahim laughed caustically, wheezing into the chilly night.

  “He wanted to know what you’d been saying about him,” Najeeb continued in Pashto.

  “And you told him?” Rahim asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  Rahim seemed to find this uproariously funny, and he slapped Najeeb sharply on the back, then moved on to the rest of the column without another word. After completing his inspection he stopped on his way back down the line, the beam again finding Najeeb’s face.

  “You were always funny when you had to be,” Rahim said. “Even when you were a boy. Making us laugh so hard that we would put down our slingshots. Very clever. But they won’t laugh as easily on the other side of the mountains.”

  Of course. Now he remembered. Rahim had been the tallest of the village boys, and among Najeeb’s worst tormentors. Slingshots round their necks, chasing him up the gullies from town like starved mongrels, the stones thudding against his back. When he was inevitably run to ground, his only defense was wit, and fortunately wit had often been enough, partly because Rahim had always been inclined to respond favorably, calling a truce now and then when sufficiently amused by some insult or observation.

  The intervening years had been hard on the man. He was weathered and gasping. Perhaps the harsh shadows of the flashlight beam were partly to blame, but Najeeb thought that his face looked more like that of a man in his forties, even his fifties, than that of a contemporary. Knowing what he did of Rahim, and of his people in general, Najeeb doubted that the man would spread the word of this meeting. Not right away, at least. He would instead use his knowledge for whatever leverage it might provide. And when word finally did reach Najeeb’s father, what would everyone think? He had no idea.

  Whatever the case, Rahim had again finished with him and moved on. The flashlight was off, the second tribesman obviously hoping to save his batteries, and Bashir’s men groped their way back into the trucks. Skelly again clutched lightly at Najeeb’s sleeve, feet scuffing in the dirt behind him.

  “Is it just my imagination,” Skelly whispered, “or was that a close call?”

  “You’re right,” Najeeb said. “It was a close call. Probably for both of us.”

  He held back a shudder, hoping that would be the last of the checkpoints. The glimmer of nostalgia had given way all too easily to fear. For seven years he had managed to convince himself that the door to home had somehow remained ajar. Now he was certain that it was shut, and had been all along. If and when Bashir’s column returned from Afghanistan, Najeeb would have to find some other route back to Peshawar, even if it meant jumping off the back of a truck and hoofing it across the mountains alone. Because Rahim, or whoever was on duty next time, would doubtless be operating under new and stricter orders, a mandate that wouldn’t be averted by mere laughter.

  “Hurry up,” Bashir shouted. “In another hour we’ll be across.”

  “Next stop’s the border?” Skelly whispered.

  “If we even stop there. The crossing might not be guarded. Not at this hour, on the route we’re taking.”

  “So, then,” Skelly said, the excitement evident in his voice, “looks like we might really make it this time.”

  “Yes,” Najeeb said, wishing he was as pleased about it as Skelly.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE TRUCKS CLIMBED slowly in the dark with their headlights switched off, picking their way around curves and occasionally sledding the rocky shoulder. Skelly sat with his suitcase between his knees, squeezing his fingernails into the soft cover. He couldn’t see more than a few feet. It felt like they were on an amusement park ride in slow motion, weaving and plunging in a way that turned his stomach, although he’d never been prone to motion sickness.

  Toward the end of the next hour the sky brightened behind them as they rolled through a small, sleeping village of mud huts and corrugated rooftops, every window dark.

  “Parachinar,” Najeeb offered.

  “I remember it from the map,” Skelly said. “We’re five miles from the border.”

  Najeeb must have been right about the lack of sentries at this hour, because ten minutes later they topped a rise past a smattering of darkened signs and a pair of low white buildings with flagpoles—customshouses, no doubt. The trucks didn’t even pause, although Skelly heard the hollow sound of radio voices issuing faintly from the cab.

  “Welcome to Afghanistan,” Najeeb whispered.

  “Sacrifice country heartly welcomes you with pleases,” Skelly recited to himself, recalling the sign at Torkham. He reached awkwardly behind him to pull out a notebook with a stubby pencil jammed into the binding rings along the top. He checked his watch, pressing the tiny knob to illuminate the dial. It was 6:04. He scribbled the time and date on the first page, followed by the word “Afghanistan” in block letters. His handwriting was probably crooked and shaky from the motion of the truck, but it was his equivalent of planting the flag at the summit, and he slid the notebook back into his pocket with a sense of a duty fulfilled.

  A mile or so later the trucks pulled to the shoulder, such as it was, and the men spilled into the road.

  “Are we already in Jaji?” Skelly said, looking around for buildings.

  “Morning prayers.” Najeeb joined the others while Skelly kept his seat, serenaded by the singsong mutter of the men below, barely visible as they bowed and bobbed. They looked like they were speaking into the ground, casting spells on the land itself. He listened intently for the wail of a muezzin, but empty bluffs ranged high to either side, sealing them off from any village. Looming to their rear was a huge dark peak, probably the mountain he’d seen on the map called Sikaram.

  The sky brightened, and the sun finally pierced the horizon with a blazing crescent of orange. After so much bumping around in darkness it had the feel of an all-clear signal, and Skelly’s muscles relaxed. The toll of the long hours of watchfulness seemed to finally catch up to him. Already he regarded with nostalgia his last shower, standing beneath the drippy spigot while the peacock shrieked out back at the Grand. Nodding with the motion of the truck, he drifted into dreamless sleep.

  A burst of gunfire awoke him. It seemed that only seconds had passed, but his body told him otherwise. He felt awful—groggy, a lump in his throat that made it hard to swallow, his back stiff and sore against the slats of the truck. He blinked against the sunlight, then heard more shots. They weren’t close, thank goodness, but the bed of the truck was empty, and he turned with a start, wondering for a panicky moment if he’d been abandoned.

  But no, there they all were on a bare brown knoll just ahead—more than twenty men in turbans and skullcaps, peering into the distance over a pile of stones that might have been the ruined battlement of a castle. Bashir stood at the fore with a huge pair of black binoculars. Skelly roused himself, standing woodenly on the tilted bed of the truck. He st
retched, feeling a little better, then reached for a water bottle in his satchel, unscrewing the cap for a long swig. Better still. He hopped noisily to the ground, drawing frowns from Bashir’s assembly, then stepped behind the truck and unzipped his fly, peeing down the slope, watching the gold stream spatter and trickle down the rocks, black wetness against the dust. His little contribution to history. Zipping up, he walked toward where the action was. Only Najeeb nodded in acknowledgment. Then more shots sounded from down the mountain.

  “What’s happening?” he whispered.

  “A firefight.”

  “Razaq?”

  “Or maybe just some shepherd boy, shooting at rabbits.”

  More shots. A long burst, then three single reports in quick succession, drawing the men’s attention farther right, although Bashir’s binoculars didn’t waver. The men began to talk among themselves.

  “They’re asking how many men he has,” Najeeb explained.

  “Who, Razaq?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wouldn’t they already know?”

  “One would think.”

  Bashir lowered his binoculars and replied in Pashto.

  “He says fifteen, maybe sixteen.”

  “But we’ve got more than twenty. Why have a rear guard bigger than the main body?”

  Bashir looked over sharply, then surprised Skelly by speaking in English.

  “Save your questions for Razaq. And do not worry. He will pick up reinforcements in Azro. Or that is his plan.”

  Skelly tried to mask his surprise.

  “What’s happening down there?”

  “A skirmish. Someone testing him. Nothing serious. Whoever it is has already withdrawn. Probably just a local faction, wondering who he was.”

  “Probably?”

  “Sometimes that is the best you can do here.”

  “And the town down there. That would be Jaji?”

  “Yes. We will be stopping there, once Razaq moves on. From there we proceed on foot. The roads beyond are too narrow for trucks.”

  “Aren’t we lagging back a little far to do Razaq any good?”

  Bashir scowled, squinting in the morning sun. This was the first time Skelly had seen the man in full daylight, and there was a definite spark to him. Or maybe it was being out in the field that livened him up. Skelly had met soldiers like that, men who seemed subdued until you placed a weapon in their hands and put them on the march.

  “We don’t want to run right up his back, now, do we?”

  “I guess not.”

  But if some armed group were to slip in behind Razaq from east of Jaji, Bashir wouldn’t be much help up here. Skelly wondered if Najeeb was thinking the same thing, but his fixer’s expression had slipped back into unreadable Pashtun blankness.

  “So I guess we won’t be joining up with Razaq’s main force anytime soon, then?”

  “On the contrary. Tonight I promise to grant your wish. You will see the man himself.”

  “Razaq?”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll be joining him in Azro?”

  “Please. No more questions You will have what you want tonight.”

  The men began reboarding.

  “By the way,” Skelly said, “you speak very good English.”

  “Yes,” Bashir answered, his sparkle more evident than ever even though he hadn’t cracked a smile. “I do.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  DALIYA SLEPT until midmorning, awakening on the couch to find Professor Bhatti gone. There was a note on the kitchen table:

  “Water in the kettle. Tea, sugar and bread in cabinet. Milk in fridge. Help yourself. But do NOT leave the apartment until I have returned.”

  Daliya smiled despite a twinge of guilt. The idea of eating breakfast by herself in this island of peaceful seclusion seemed heavenly right now. She stretched luxuriously. A window was open, and a breeze blew in from the streets. On the sidewalk below, two young women walked past, pushing strollers in the dappled shade.

  She’d had a fine night of sleep despite a steel bar running across the middle of the mattress, which rolled against her spine every time she shifted. She and the professor had shared a simple dinner of bread, rice and salad, and Daliya told her mentor all about Najeeb, and the difficulties with her family. Thankfully the professor didn’t pry much for further details, and for the balance of the evening Daliya had allowed herself to be a child again, coddled and tolerated as if she were merely winding down from an especially loud tantrum.

  But she had awakened with her mind full of ideas and new possibilities. And for all of the uncertainty of her current position, she was sure of one thing—her future would include Najeeb, even if she had to be the one who insisted. Why? There was no other choice, really, not in the way she now viewed the world. Having broken so many other boundaries together, they would simply have to break a few more, even if it took extraordinary efforts on her part. Najeeb’s loyalty to this sort of future was not in question, she felt, whether he knew it yet or not.

  Of course, there was one major problem with such assessments, even apart from her own predicament. Where was Najeeb? And if he had made it into Afghanistan, when would he return, if at all? She pondered all this as she folded up the couch, leaving the sheets on, hoping it wasn’t too presumptuous of her to expect another night’s lodging and refuge.

  Professor Bhatti’s apartment was furnished plainly, but like many homes in Islamabad the decor was of a more Western style, with couches and easy chairs, the end tables piled with newspapers and magazines. To Daliya’s relief, the neighborhood was several miles from her parents’, and because the city’s quadrants tended to be self-contained there was little chance she would bump into them if she had to make a trip to the market or the bank.

  It felt odd being cut off from the rest of the world, although she welcomed the idea of not having to concoct a cover story for a change. She experienced a stab of sympathy for her parents, even for her uncle and aunt, who must be frantic by now. And for the slightest moment she considered the idea of a quick phone call, just to let them know she was safe. Maybe she could even let Rukhsana spread the word. But, no, she finally decided. Matters were too delicate. Even a slight puncture in her bubble of secrecy would let all the air out, and with no word on Najeeb she wasn’t yet willing to take that risk. Besides—and here her tougher side showed itself—her family’s actions had earned them a little anxiety. Let them stew awhile longer, the way she’d had to stew in her misery in Peshawar all these months.

  The kettle was boiling. Daliya brewed her tea sweet and milky, and it felt like perfumed velvet in her mouth, another brief moment of luxury. Then she rinsed the cup and picked up the phone, hoping the professor wouldn’t mind the expense of a toll call to Peshawar. Without giving her name she reached a reporter at the Frontier Report who told her Najeeb had indeed crossed the border into Afghanistan.

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “Because Mahmood Razaq made it across, and Najeeb and the American are with him. Najeeb left us a message.” Her heart sank. There would be gun battles and air attacks. Plus fanatics who might do anything if they caught him, especially if he was in the company of an American.

  “Who is this, anyway?” the reporter asked. “And where are you calling from? May I please have your name? Hello? Hello?”

  Daliya placed the receiver back in its cradle. All the more reason that she now needed a plan of action, she supposed. She jumped as the apartment door opened, but it was only Professor Bhatti. Daliya smiled in greeting. The professor did not smile back. Instead a cloud rolled across her face. She carried a newspaper under one arm, and unfolded it on the table, jabbing a finger at a story on an inside page. It was this morning’s edition of Dawn, and the professor’s sharp painted nails drummed on a small headline in the upper left corner.

  “This is exactly the sort of thing I was worried about,” the professor said, in the same voice she used on students who hadn’t prepared for class. “Take a
look.” She sighed loudly, taking a seat across the table while Daliya scanned the headline:

  “Peshawar Woman Missing after Murder.”

  The details were grim. Her father was appealing for help in locating his daughter, who had disappeared after the stabbing death of a drifter from the Tribal Areas. Thank God there was no mention of whose apartment building it had occurred at, or what Daliya had been doing there. In fact, there was a comment from Rukhsana establishing that Daliya had last been with her—good old Rukhsana, still protective of her reputation. But if that were so, then how had police made the connection between her and a stabbing at Najeeb’s apartment? And why were police also seeking “a young journalist, believed to have fled to Afghanistan.” Fled? That was hardly fair. But what could you expect from the newspapers? Or from the police, for that matter. Odd, however, that the story never mentioned Najeeb by name.

  “Shouldn’t you at least call them?” the professor said. “Your parents, I mean.”

  On the contrary, Daliya was now more resolved than ever to take independent action, if only because the authorities seemed to be in such a muddle. So she shook her head and said, “I think it would be better to wait awhile longer.”

  “Better for who? And forgive me if I was also considering the welfare of your host.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  The professor shook her head in exasperation, with an expression darker than anything Daliya had ever seen in the classroom.

  “I’ll leave, then. Or were you just about to kick me out?”

  “I’m not going to kick you out. Not for another day or two, anyway. But tell me, Daliya, did you at least follow my instructions not to leave the apartment?”

  Daliya nodded meekly.

  “Well, that’s something, I guess.” She pulled off her head scarf and ran a hand through her thick auburn hair.

  “But I do have some errands I need to run,” Daliya ventured. “If it’s all right with you, I mean. As part of my plan.”

  “So you have a plan now, do you?” A challenging tone. Would she now expect an outline, with footnotes?