The Warlord's Son

by Dan Fesperman

  Then his father leaned back, thumping a hand impatiently on the door as Muhammad flinched.

  “Get them out of here. And don’t try to go back to Alzara, not before morning. Go now!”

  “Yes, sir,” Muhammad said, so eager to comply that he nearly hit Najeeb’s father’s truck before it could move out of the way. Several of the men in the back laughed, shaking their heads. Theirs was the swagger of warriors on the way to battle, bandoleered and ready. Muhammad passed eleven trucks in all, each fully loaded, and as they reached the end of the column Najeeb turned for a better look at the sinuous line as it disappeared into the rising dust, working its way down the slope.

  It wasn’t hard to envision how events would unfold from here. The invaders would take the village by surprise, and the ensuing fight would be not so much a battle as a scrum—a few wild exchanges of gunfire punctuated by the occasional grenade. Each side would lose a man or two, and Rafik-Khan would hold out just long enough to salvage a measure of pride before coming to terms by handing over the prize—not his village, but Aziz. Then the two warlords would go back to the uneasy arrangement of old, with his father having secured the necessary stability for pursuing his latest ambitions.

  For a moment Najeeb felt a pang of sympathy for Aziz, who must have believed that his entire life had been leading up to this moment of glorious defiance. Instead, he would be dead by nightfall. They might even hoist his head as a warning. By dawn he would be just like the men on the gallows, stiff and dewy, his face drained of blood.

  But the pang passed, because Najeeb had other, more pressing matters to attend to, and for once he was not someone else’s tool, or employee. He was working now for himself, and for Daliya, with a final favor still to carry out for a friend and ally. And he felt good about their chances, because if all those trucks and all those men meant imminent trouble for Alzara, they meant something entirely different for Bagwali. For a rare and fleeting moment, the village and his family compound would be virtually unguarded, left in the hands of a few old men. Najeeb intended to seize the opportunity.

  First things first, however. When they were a good half mile past the convoy and somewhere near the tribal boundary, Najeeb told Muhammad to stop.

  “Out,” he said. It wouldn’t do to have a coward at the wheel, not with the business ahead.

  “No,” Muhammad pleaded. “I must stay with the truck.”

  “You want to spend the rest of your life in Bagwali, then? Okay. Drive on.”

  Muhammad opened the door with a sigh. He stepped into the road and began walking without another word. Najeeb climbed across Daliya, then took a moment to awkwardly pull off the burqa, tossing it to the floor. He turned toward her, smiling, then threw the truck into gear.

  Just before rounding the next curve he glanced in the rearview mirror for a last look at Muhammad. The man was shuffling forlornly toward Alzara, where, judging from the rising sounds of gunfire, the battle was just beginning.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE SOUNDS OF BATTLE still crackled from far away as Skelly walked disconsolately down the hill. No sense baking in the sun, he supposed, especially when he felt so marooned.

  He considered again the words spoken by his escort, both last night and a moment earlier—“Najeeb gone.” It was still Skelly’s only clue concerning the whereabouts of his fixer, and the possibilities seemed more bleak by the minute. He felt responsible, having coaxed the young man along on this trip that was ending so badly.

  The gunfire from the distant town—Alzara, he presumed—would at least seem to explain why Bagwali was deserted. Everyone must have gone off to fight. It probably also explained the tension at last night’s dinner.

  But was Najeeb involved in the fighting? Might that be where he had “gone” to? Or had he been disposed of beforehand, meaning he was already gone, and for good?

  Walking down the path, Skelly couldn’t help but marvel at all the tangled threads of power out here in the tribal territories, on both sides of the border. Unravel them and you might solve a century’s worth of riddles that had vexed everyone from the Russians to the CIA. He doubted if even the visiting Arabs had a real handle on the dynamic. People here were motivated by something far more complicated than religious zeal. Or perhaps that was just the sunbaked fancy of a tired old hack in need of a cup of tea and a few bites of bread.

  He quickened his pace toward the hujera, the silent escort in his wake. The old man had still barely broken a sweat. Then a flash of sunlight caught his eye in the near distance. A truck was out there, headed their way along the serpentine road from the ridge separating Bagwali and Alzara.

  Was someone already returning from the battle? A truckload of the wounded, perhaps. But it seemed too soon, unless the attackers were already in retreat.

  The sight of the truck seemed to agitate his escort, who slung the gun off his shoulder and chambered a round with a harsh clatter.

  “Easy,” Skelly said, palm outward, as if calming a growling mastiff. “Easy now.”

  The truck drew closer, still about half a mile away as they neared the hujera. They paused to watch as it looped around the village, still coming toward them, the escort now bringing the gun to his waist. On the truck came, finally skidding to a halt a hundred yards away. Someone was moving around inside the cab, although it was hard to tell through the glare of the windshield.

  Skelly’s escort shouted, perhaps in warning, and when there was no reply he raised the gun to his shoulder, shouting again. A head poked from the window, then the barrel of a gun. Skelly dove to the ground, heart jolting, satchel flying.

  His escort fired a deafening blast, and there was an answering shot from the truck. Skelly heard glass splintering, then a short, piercing scream. The old man grunted and fell to his knees, blood spattering Skelly’s pants. He reached over trying to help the man, who was clutching his right thigh. The truck revved its engine, and when Skelly saw it moving closer he grabbed the escort’s gun. Blood was still spurting from the wound, but the man wouldn’t let go.

  “Christ, give it to me!”

  The truck was nearly upon them. But as Skelly finally wrested the weapon free, a voice called out his name.

  “Skelly, hurry! Get in!”

  Not believing his ears, he looked up to see Najeeb looking across the cab. The truck’s windshield was gone, shattered by the old man’s shot. A young man in blue was at the passenger window. Neither of them seemed hurt.

  “Leave him,” Najeeb said. “Others will be coming soon. But bring his gun.”

  Skelly ran to the truck, gun in hand, satchel bouncing on his back. The second man—who Skelly now realized was a woman with a severely short haircut—slid over to make room, and as he climbed in he saw that the shot had plowed through the middle of the front seat, leaving a tangle of shredded foam and vinyl.

  The doors slammed. Skelly was safe. He was elated, incredulous.

  “Where were you? What was happening over there?” he asked, meaning the far village.

  But Najeeb was distracted, glancing sharply toward Bagwali and the family compound. Skelly turned to see the escort’s reinforcements moving toward them. Two were young boys, and two were older men, one of them missing a leg yet traveling with surprising speed with the aid of a crutch—a ragtag foursome, but well armed, and Skelly watched with amazed horror as the amputee dropped the crutch and shouldered his weapon while balancing on one leg like a grizzled flamingo.

  “Get down!” he yelled as the gun boomed, the shot going wide.

  Najeeb floored the gas pedal, the truck fishtailing in a spray of gravel before surging forward. More shots sounded, one of them slamming into the tailgate. From a slope just ahead of them on the right another boy seemed to materialize from nowhere, darting toward them and throwing a stone. Najeeb swerved, and the rock sailed through the open windshield, just missing the woman before crashing into the window, then dropping harmlessly in Skelly’s lap. She was a lucky one, Skelly thought, wondering where the hell Na
jeeb had found her.

  Two more shots missed as they topped a small rise. Then the truck dropped mercifully below the crest, swerving around a rocky outcrop and out of immediate danger.

  Najeeb slowed, checking the mirror.

  “Gone,” he said. “And all the trucks from the village are off in Alzara. They won’t catch us now.”

  “Close one,” Skelly said.

  “The whole day has been a close one.”

  “But now we’re going to make it. Right?”

  There was a pause, as if everyone was waiting for someone to contradict Skelly’s hopeful assessment. Najeeb broke the silence. “Yes, I think we are going to make it.” Then he turned to the woman in the middle. “Daliya, this is Skelly. Skelly, please meet Daliya.”

  “Honored and amazed,” Skelly said, grinning and baffled all at once, not sure whether it would be proper to shake her hand and still wondering about the haircut, yet so immensely relieved by their turn of fortune that he wanted to burst out laughing, whooping to the skies in triumph. Then for a panicky few seconds he remembered his notes, thinking he’d left them behind. But, no, they were safe in the satchel, still slung clumsily across his back. He wrenched the bag around front, zipping it open for a reassuring glance inside. It was all there, everything but a few key ingredients. And now they were headed for Peshawar, where he could loose it upon the world.

  THEY TOLD EACH OTHER about the events of the day. Daliya’s tale may have been the most admirable, but Najeeb’s was the most intriguing. Najeeb deciphered for Skelly the details of the previous night’s dinner, and the ruse cooked up by his uncle Aziz, then trumped by his father. He rushed through an account of the war council in Alzara and described the beginnings of the firefight, which he and Daliya had been able to see from the overlooking ridge. It had been clear that his father’s forces would quickly carry the day. Then he wondered aloud what must have become of Aziz.

  More pieces of the puzzle, Skelly thought, already trying to envision where they fit, his excitement building.

  “I’ve sketched out a lot of the story on a legal pad,” he said. “It’s going to be a hell of a tale.”

  They were all smiles now, though for different reasons, even if Najeeb seemed a little subdued since things were calming down. He had chosen a route that avoided Alzara, but said they had already crossed into Shinwari territory. He figured that the number of men in the town meant they should encounter little if any resistance all the way to the Grand Trunk Road, which would give them an unobstructed route to Peshawar. They drove east by northeast as the sun lowered in the western sky, and judging by the clear view across the rolling countryside it seemed that their luck would hold.

  They topped the next rise to see a blessedly empty plain. But a few moments later a lone dark vehicle poked into view from a crease in the hills to their left, angling toward them in a great hurry. Skelly figured it was too far away to do them any harm, but Najeeb kept glancing in that direction, and soon it was apparent that they were on a collision course.

  “I saw that truck in Alzara,” Daliya said, as the huge black vehicle loomed closer.

  “It’s a Chevy Suburban,” Skelly said. “I think I know who’s in it.”

  The vehicles slowed, approaching each other cautiously—two predators off their turf, each probing the mettle of the other.

  “Hell, what am I thinking?” Skelly said, and he leaned out the window, raising his torso and waving both arms while Najeeb brought the truck to a halt.

  “Sam!” Skelly shouted, still waving, and for a moment he worried he’d guessed wrong about the truck’s occupants. Then to his relief one of the smoked-glass windows rolled down and a familiar face emerged. Pale skin, sunglasses and a button-down collar. It was Sam Hartley, all right.

  “Skelly?” Hartley pulled off his sunglasses. Now the Suburban had stopped, too. They were still about forty yards apart.

  “Who else?” Skelly shouted back. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Hartley shook his head with an incredulous smile, then the Suburban lumbered forward halfway across the breach before stopping again, rocking on its springs. Hartley opened the door and hopped out. He wore khaki pants and a blue work shirt, the top buttons undone. It was a jarring sight after days of seeing nothing but kameez, giving Skelly an inkling of how odd Westerners must look here—himself included—not just their pasty skin but all their accoutrements, which now seemed so ill suited for the landscape.

  The driver’s side window rolled down, and a second head poked out, also with reflector sunglasses, but the face was familiar enough for Skelly to tell that Arlen Pierce was at the wheel. So he had been right. Hartley and Pierce had indeed been together on that late night in Peshawar, outside the Hotel Grand.

  But what did it mean? Was Hartley’s job merely cover, or were he and Pierce actually mixing pipeline business with a security mission? Either way, both men probably would have been unhappy about Skelly knowing the whole story. All the more reason to keep pursuing it.

  Now Pierce was out of the truck, so Skelly opened the door and clambered out, too. Najeeb and Daliya exited on the driver’s side. Everyone standing now, but still wary—or was that Skelly’s imagination?

  “They were in Alzara, at the malik’s war council,” Najeeb muttered across the roof of the truck, trying not to be overhead. It was interesting news, worth bringing up right away.

  “So you escaped the firefight in Alzara?” Skelly shouted to Hartley, unable to resist a little needling and half hoping for an intemperate but revealing answer.

  Hartley seemed taken aback. He looked at Pierce, apparently in consultation, but the other man said nothing.

  “Yes,” Hartley finally answered. “Got out in the nick of time. The idiots. I’ve had it with these stupid people.”

  Skelly flushed in embarrassment.

  Then Pierce spoke up. “Sam told me you were with Razaq. You’re lucky to be here at all.”

  Skelly nodded. “I’ve had an interesting couple of days.” He probably should have left it at that. But journalists who’ve struck gold can almost never resist offering others a glimpse at their fortune, and Skelly was no exception. “I was at the hanging. A lot of Arabs were there. Some pretty important ones.”

  Pierce seemed to mull that over for a moment.

  “Impressive. Your desk must’ve loved it.”

  “They don’t know yet. The bastards stole my sat phone, so I haven’t had a chance to file. Just as well, I guess, since I’m still trying to figure where all the pieces fit. I thought you two might be able to help me with that.”

  Pierce turned toward Hartley, saying something Skelly couldn’t hear, then shouted back, “Maybe we can. But you’re not going to get very far going in that direction. That way’s not safe. Sam knows another route, so why don’t you follow us? You can ride with us, Skelly. More room. You guys look a little cramped.”

  “Stay with us,” Daliya hissed, surprising both Skelly and Najeeb. Given her luck so far, it seemed like sound advice.

  “That’s okay,” Skelly shouted back. “We’ll follow you.”

  There was further consultation on the other side, the sun moving lower in the sky.

  Najeeb whispered, “He is not right about the way back. This is the best way.”

  “Don’t worry. We can peel off once we’re moving,” Skelly said. “If they don’t like it, that’s their problem. I can catch up with them back in Peshawar.”

  “Look, Skelly.” Another shout, this time from Sam Hartley, whose tone was plaintive. “We really can’t let you go on your own like this. Not until we’ve had a chance to explain.”

  “I’m all ears,” he answered.

  Then Pierce pulled out a handgun. Skelly could scarcely believe it.

  “I’ll lay it all out for you in the car,” Hartley said. “So come on.”

  Najeeb edged toward the open door of the truck, where one of the Kalashnikovs lay on the seat.

  “Stay away from there,” Pierce shouted, turnin
g the gun on Najeeb. “You’re coming with us, too. All three of you. Come on. We’re wasting time.”

  But Pierce hadn’t counted on resistance from Skelly, so when the reporter reached into the truck for the second gun it surprised the man, although not half as much as Skelly surprised himself—chambering a round before anyone could blink, grateful for the little refresher course Najeeb had given him back in the Ali Khel Gorge.

  At first Pierce looked shocked. Then he began to laugh.

  “Good God, would you look at this.” He lowered the handgun. “A hack with a weapon.” He was smiling now, as if to say it had all been a bluff.

  But just as Skelly was convinced they’d won the point, two more trucks emerged over a nearby rise in a scatter of gravel, trailing billows of dust. Everyone watched transfixed as the trucks made a beeline for their tense little huddle, braking to a halt just behind the Suburban, flanking it at angles like the horns of a bull. Each was filled with several men armed to the teeth, dusty and sweating. Straight from battle, Skelly supposed, and it was pretty clear whose side they were on now.

  “Looks like we have a standoff,” Pierce shouted, still smiling. “Your move.”

  Skelly considered their options, most of which seemed to involve bloodshed. Perhaps Pierce had been bluffing before, but these new arrivals probably didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll come with you. Only if Najeeb and the girl can leave.” He didn’t want them to know Daliya’s name. “But first send your army away.”

  “The army stays until you’re in the car. But your friends can go.”

  Skelly briefly considered the terms, then nodded.

  “No,” Daliya hissed. “Do not do it!”

  Skelly cast a glance at her. Amazing eyes, and enough spirit for all three of them. No wonder Najeeb had fallen for her.