“Betrayal is a skill here,” Najeeb said finally. “An art. Even an honorable one, in its way. Maybe because it is always expected of an adversary.”
“But who are your adversaries?” Skelly asked, turning back toward Razaq. “Beyond the obvious ones, of course. And who are your friends? And what is it you’re really after? Surely you can lay it out for me now that we’re here?”
Razaq lowered his gaze, as if collecting himself. Then he turned toward Najeeb, who could have sworn he detected a glint of anger in the man’s expression.
“Perhaps I can,” Razaq said. “But for the moment there are still too many of us in this room for me to feel comfortable.”
Skelly stopped writing and looked up, seeming surprised to find Razaq staring at Najeeb.
“All of this must be terribly dull for your interpreter, Mr. Kelly,” Razaq said, holding his gaze, “especially since I am speaking in English, making his services unnecessary. So before we continue why don’t you send him along. He can arrange the night’s lodgings for the two of you.”
“Sure,” Skelly answered uncertainly. “Go ahead, Najeeb. I’ll be along later.”
Razaq called for a sentry, who led Najeeb into the night. Now what had all that been about? Najeeb wondered. Perhaps he, too, needed a cultural translation, a refresher course now that he was back in the hills.
Did Razaq’s anger have something to do with his father? With a new war in progress, his family’s little frontage on the border was again strategically vital, presenting all sorts of new business opportunities. Razaq had crossed without incident, but so had Bashir. Maybe that was the problem.
“Come this way,” the sentry said brusquely, and Najeeb followed him down the verandah. It was bitterly cold. Distant campfires now flickered on the facing hillside—Bashir’s men, he supposed, no longer even bothering to hide their presence. Maybe Bashir was watching at this very moment, gazing down through his night-vision binoculars.
So what were their choices now? Stay with Razaq and expect the worst, or try to go back to Bashir and be blasted by a mine. Was there a third way, some route out of this mess altogether? He would pray, asking for guidance, then sleep on it. Perhaps his dreams would bring an answer.
But the sight of the campfires told him that any answer had better come soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SKELLY SQUATTED in silence, his toes going numb in the cold. The only sound in the room was the hissing of the lantern by the door. Razaq hadn’t said a word since Najeeb’s departure, and the big fellow suddenly struck Skelly as a pouting Buddha, affronted by this latest twist of the cosmos. The man’s best-laid plans were going to hell in a handbasket, and he obviously blamed his visitors. How else to explain Najeeb’s abrupt banishment, unless it was some sort of tribal class snub.
“You will excuse me for a moment,” Razaq said, breaking the silence, then rising with surprising grace to leave the room, headed God knows where while a baffled Skelly waited.
Skelly decided to stretch his legs, stamping his feet as the blood rushed to his toes. His back was stiff. It must be forty degrees down on that floor. He rubbed his arms for warmth, stepping to the doorway in hopes of another glance at Azro, but the stern glare of a sentry nudged him back inside.
The hiss and pop of the lantern was even louder by the door, and Skelly could smell the burning fuel. It was an oddly comforting sensation, calling him back to boyhood campouts and weekends in the woods, pleasant images that brought warmth—an evening campfire with a column of sparks rising to the treetop blackness, marshmallow impaled on a whittled stick, gentle voice of his father reminding him not to hold it too close to the flame, Skelly ignoring it because what he really wanted was the burst of fire, a tiny conflagration he could blow out, then consume in a gooey crunch of blackened ash.
The sentry stirred, and Skelly stepped back from the doorway, feeling the cold again. In lulls like these he could sometimes detach himself just enough to view the scenery with a fresh outlook, as if borrowing the eyes of some old and distant relative who’d never ventured beyond the seat of a tour bus. It was a fine way of reawakening to all sorts of sights he’d already stopped noticing.
But this time the trick failed him, and he only slipped farther into memory—still warmed by that campfire, his father’s presence palpable just over his shoulder. A quarter turn and he would see the man’s face, the young version, ambered by firelight. Instead he saw the face as it had looked only a year ago, on a visit to the nursing home. His father lived there alone. Skelly’s mother was dead eight years, killed by a stroke while he traipsed across Africa. He’d met his father in the TV room, joining eight other residents in staring at the blaring box. Drawn, translucent faces lit blue and orange by the jolting image, no one saying a word. His old man irretrievable, swimming deeper in his memories than even Skelly could go. Every resident was equipped with either a walker or a wheelchair, and two canes were propped by the door—enough metal to build a B-17, he remembered thinking. His father blinked, turned toward the television, where a news report from Poland was flashing past. Then he blinked again, barely stirring. An agonizing half hour passed without the least sign of recognition before Skelly waved good-bye to the nurses and strolled to his car, crossing a vast empty parking lot by a roaring expressway.
“We will have tea now.”
It was Razaq, returning in a regal billow. A servant in tow carried a steaming tea tray. Get back to work, Skelly. Clear your head and take out your notebook. Remember to ask about Najeeb. Remember to ask about Hartley and Pierce, and about Bashir and that whole Bin Laden business.
They settled themselves on the rug, the servant pouring tea, then departing. Skelly realized he was hungry, and took a wedge of bread from the tray, chewing off a bite, then balancing the rest on his knees.
“There is something you should know about your translator,” Razaq began. “Several days ago, not long after speaking with my youngest son in the lobby of the Pearl Continental, he was seen coming and going from an unmarked door in the Saddar Bazaar.”
“I know,” Skelly said. “Local office of the ISI. He told me all about it.”
Razaq plowed on.
“And did he also tell you what they asked of him in return for letting him go?”
“No. Why don’t you tell me?”
“I am not privy to that. But I would guess they wanted information. They probably wanted to know what my son told him, and they will probably expect a full report from the field.”
“Is that so surprising?”
“Not at all. And I would not have given it a second thought if he had not come across the hills in the company of this man Bashir, arriving in my camp like his personal courier.”
“We’re no friends of Bashir’s, and Najeeb would have preferred to have skipped the trip altogether.”
“Or so he tells you. But tell me something. This telephone that you brought. The one on your horse. May I see it?”
Skelly shrugged. “Sure.”
Razaq’s request was only a formality, because when he motioned toward the door the servant immediately reentered carrying the phone, which he had already removed from its carrying bag. He placed it by the tea tray while Skelly took another bite of bread. Razaq made a show of turning the phone this way and that, then placed it back on the rug.
“A very nice model,” Razaq said. “Do you not think so?”
“Nice enough. But I’m no expert.”
“Ah, but some of my other American friends are. The ones who provided my own telephone, for instance. Which is just like yours. Identical. Do you not find that curious?”
“Maybe it’s a popular brand.”
“Or maybe it has been acquired through similar channels.”
“Or by a similar agency. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“I am trying to say you should ask Najeeb how he came by it. Perhaps he is not in the ISI’s permanent employ, but he may have made promises that you are not aware of. I know for myse
lf that he has already betrayed his own father to these people, so why would he not betray you or me just as easily?”
Well, now. That got his attention. Skelly thought this issue had been put to rest, but maybe he should have asked more questions. Was this why Najeeb always bristled at any mention of his family? Or maybe Razaq was exaggerating, or trying to distract him. Don’t forget the story, Skelly.
“Okay, then. I’ll ask him. But I have questions for you, too.” Razaq spread his hands to show he had nothing to hide, but he couldn’t resist another goading glance at the phone, as if it might be recording their every word. Skelly ignored it and got straight to the point.
“What exactly are you trying to accomplish with this expedition of yours, anyway? And no more of this peace and brotherhood bullshit, if you don’t mind. Convening the elders to discuss a better tomorrow is great, but if you were hoping to pick up fifty recruits here in Azro, then obviously you’re raising a war party.”
“Perhaps I am. Or was. Not because I thought I could win any great victories, and certainly I never expected anything so grand as capturing Kabul. My only wish is to establish a base of operations, a stronghold for myself and my people, so we will still have a voice in our own affairs on that inevitable day when the Taliban retreats and the Northern Alliance arrives.”
“And so you’ll have a top seat in any new government?”
“You find that objectionable?”
“I find it enterprising. And I’d guess that your American backers— the ones who gave you the nice phone—do, too.”
“They did until recently. In the past week they seem to have changed their minds.”
“The Americans?”
Razaq nodded.
“Maybe they decided to put their money on Karzai in the south,” Skelly said.
Razaq smiled, patronizing him. “If their true interest was in the future of Afghanistan, perhaps I would believe that, too. But their plans for me have nothing to do with my interests, or my country’s. They want to put me in place as a sheriff, a posse. Someone to seal the border once they begin chasing their prime suspect. The one everyone here calls the Sheik.”
“Bin Laden?”
“Whatever you wish to call him.”
“But the border’s long, and your part of it is small. Even if you succeed.”
“Unless they know of someone on the other side who is willing to welcome him, once he has worn out his welcome here. Perhaps that part of the border is also small, small enough even for someone like me to block it, or to influence where any crossing should occur.”
“Making you the gatekeeper.”
Razaq said nothing, but nodded slightly, as if conceding the point.
“Bashir mentioned Bin Laden,” Skelly said. “He seemed to be convinced that we might ‘cross paths,’ or something like that, with a few Arabs. All very cryptic. Then to sell it he showed me a few business cards from a couple of Americans. Friends of mine. One of them, anyway. Sam Hartley and Arlen Pierce. Heard of them?”
At last it was Razaq’s turn to look surprised. He even seemed to sag a bit, covering his reaction with a sip of tea.
“Mr. Hartley. Of course,” he said finally, recovering his composure. “The man from the pipeline company. I would guess that half the men in Peshawar have one of his business cards by now. And most of them have probably been promised one thing or another.”
There was no mention of Arlen Pierce, however, and when it seemed that this might be all Razaq had to say on the subject, Skelly offered a prod.
“I ran into Hartley in Peshawar. Over at the Pearl. Your name came up.”
“Did it indeed?” Razaq lowered his gaze, again raising his teacup but not sipping this time. “I am curious, Mr. Kelly. What sort of thing does Mr. Hartley say to a fellow Westerner about someone like me?”
“He wasn’t very optimistic about your chances. I think the words he used were, ‘The fix is in.’ Then he advised me not to get mixed up with you.”
“Perhaps it is because he finds me frustrating. Mr. Hartley would prefer that I show a little more zeal where his commercial interests are concerned. I have made it clear that my own agenda comes first. But I think he knows I will be receptive to his overtures when the proper time comes.”
“So who’s this friend of Bashir’s you’re worried about farther up the road? This Haji Kudrat.”
“A friend of the Taliban. Who tomorrow will no longer be a friend of the Taliban, if that is what suits him.”
“Very flexible of him. And no friend of yours, I take it.”
“Our families have a history, as you might put it. But I would not worry so much about Haji Kudrat. Not with the backing I have.”
“And you still believe in this backing? Even with Bashir on your tail and a poor turnout by the locals?”
“Considering the role they want me to play, why shouldn’t I believe in it? Bashir is a complication, a dangerous one. But I have dealt with complications before, and so have the Americans.”
Razaq either truly believed it or was putting up a brave front. Either way, he was in too deep now to do anything but continue, and either way Skelly now had a fine story to tell. Ideas began taking shape in his head in the form of headlines, circling his mind like impatient petitioners in a waiting room: “Pro-West Warlord Crosses Border, But Support Mysteriously Fizzles.” “Warlord Enters Afghanistan; Has a Rival Preempted His Plans?”
Razaq stood. Obviously the interview was over.
Skelly also stood, his toes again numb. He reached for the telephone, but Razaq’s voice cut him short.
“I must request that you not yet file any dispatches.”
Skelly straightened, prepared to argue his case. “Why? Obviously your enemies know you’re here. A day-old report in my paper won’t make any difference.”
“All the same, I will keep your phone awhile longer. It will be returned, of course, when we reach our destination.”
Skelly bit his tongue, lest he say something intemperate. So much for his exclusive, he thought furiously, and so much for his plans to check in with Janine tonight. Another fine beginning, and God only knew what tomorrow would bring.
Razaq was on his way out the door, phone in hand, but Skelly had one more question.
“You never told me where we’re headed,” he said. “Tomorrow, I mean.”
“North. Onward to Nangarhār Province. Twenty-five kilometers in all, and a full day in the saddle. In the evening there will be another jirga in the town of Heserak, where others will join me.”
“And if there’s another poor turnout?”
“Then we will never reach Heserak without a fight. It is Haji Kudrat’s road we will be traveling, and the valley leading to Heserak passes through the Ali Khel Gorge. If he intends to stop us, that is where he will try.”
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
“It was always a lucky place for me against the Russians. A few rounds of RPGs and you could stop an entire tank column. One day we got three.”
“Three tanks?”
“Haji Kudrat and I, fighting together.”
“How quickly they forget.”
“As you said. He is a flexible man. And he may yet change his loyalties, once he sees the sort of backing I have.”
If you still have it, Skelly thought, wondering what Hartley and Pierce were up to.
“Tell me this, then. If you really don’t want the story out, why talk to me at all? I mean, hell, I might find a carrier pigeon and send it out in longhand.”
Razaq smiled for the first time, although it was the pained smile of a man with too many worries.
“Perhaps I have decided that you may have your uses, after all. If for some unforeseen reason I fail, Mr. Kelly, I want someone who will be able to hold others accountable.”
Meaning the Americans? Perhaps the man had a few doubts, after all. But Skelly didn’t like being thought of as some sort of insurance policy.
“Be ready to leave at su
nrise,” Razaq said. “You and your translator.” He spoke the last word with a sneer, then disappeared through the door.
Skelly would be ready, all right. He wouldn’t miss this one for the world.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NAJEEB LAY AWAKE under his blankets in the dark. The only sound from the town was an occasional passing conversation, and he didn’t like what he was hearing. For the past half hour he had been trying to dream up a way out of this mess, and he was pretty sure he had come up with one.
A flashlight beam shone through the slatted door, and the next voice he heard was Skelly’s.
“Damned dark out here, isn’t it?” Skelly stepped inside, clipping his light to a dead electrical wire dangling from the ceiling. “Jesus, it’s filthy in here.”
“I don’t think this hujera is used much anymore, except by boys and animals.”
“Are we the former or the latter? After two days without a shower I’m not sure.” Skelly groped for his sleeping bag.
“They came and took our phone while you were gone. The generator, too.”
“Heard about the phone,” Skelly said, tossing aside the bag, then looking straight at Najeeb. “Razaq had it. He was asking where you got it. Said I should ask you, but he seemed to have a pretty good idea.”
So that was why Razaq had been upset. Najeeb wondered whose informants had been talking to whom and what they had been saying about him. Whatever the case, it was time to level with Skelly. Otherwise they were finished, and he found himself deeply regretting the possibility.
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