The Warlord's Son (15 page)

Lucy looked crestfallen. Her champion had not only fallen, but had seemingly surrendered without a fight. Najeeb and several other translators surged forward to take up the battle, but by now the police again had their sticks out, and more reinforcements were arriving in jeeps.

“Christ, what do we file?” a woman shouted to Skelly’s right.

“Color,” he answered. “Bullshit and color. Total waste of time.”

As if to goad them further, the gates were now opening at the border. The men in black turbans stepped aside to allow the first of Fawad’s trucks to pass. The next four soon followed, while the journalists watched longingly in sudden silence, as if their best friends were disappearing over the horizon. The cameramen and photographers, realizing this might be the only newsy moment of the day, scrambled for a shot, pushing more violently than any of the policemen, setting off an angry scrum of elbows and jostling equipment. By the time the cameras were rolling, the last truck was passing through. It was Fawad’s, packed full with his armed consort. The warlord must have been miserable leaving behind his adoring audience—he had apparently been too embarrassed to even say good-bye.

“Fuck him,” a reporter shouted. “If he can’t even deal with a bunch of paper pushers they’ll eat him alive over there.”

“Good,” someone answered. “It’ll strengthen the Pashtun gene pool.”

The policeman with the bullhorn shouted for everyone to reboard. But there was a snag. A tire had gone flat on
Flying Titanic,
and the driver anxiously blocked the door, waving a wrench as he pleaded with everyone to wait until he could change it.

Skelly could only laugh. The sun was setting on the plains of Afghanistan, his notebook was empty, his fixer might be either a spook or an informant, and his editors were doubtless already reserving space on tomorrow’s front page for a Jalalabad dateline that would never materialize.

Najeeb was still off with the other fixers, pleading in vain for more time, so Skelly decided it was an opportune moment to tell Chatty Lucy exactly what he thought of Javed. But as he set off in her direction a bony hand clasped his shoulder, and he turned to see a familiar face. It was the fellow from outside Razaq’s house, the one with rheumy eyes who’d made a pest of himself, the leech with onions on his breath and no apparent influence. But if that were so, what was he doing here, among all these Westerners? And how had he made it all the way to the border? Had he been riding with the journalists?

The man smiled crookedly, exposing a bent row of brown teeth as he extended his right hand. Skelly again smelled onions on his breath, but no hashish. He shook hands reluctantly, the grip dry and callused.

“How are
you,
friend?” At least he hadn’t said “sir.”

“Okay,” Skelly answered, already looking for a means of escape.

“I am Idris.”

“Hello, Idris. I am Skelly.”

The man nodded, still grinning. Apparently that was the extent of his English, which made his presence all the more puzzling.

“Him again?” It was Najeeb, looking none too happy.

“He says his name is Idris. I get the idea he has something to tell me.”

Idris spoke in Pashto, Najeeb answering tersely. They went back and forth for a few seconds, Skelly expecting that at any minute they’d raise their voices and he would have to break it up. But their tone was even, their eyes locked.

“He is asking again if you want to accompany Razaq.”

“With the so-called rear guard? Same as before? Tell him no thanks.”

“I did. He said that he is sure that others will want to come instead, then.”

“Good for them,” Skelly said, although he couldn’t help but experience a pang of doubt at the mention of competition. What if Idris was telling the truth, and others took him up on the offer? For all Skelly knew, the man had been making the rounds for the past half hour, lining up an entire gallery of reporters.

Idris again spoke up as Skelly eased away. But this time it was Najeeb who grabbed Skelly’s sleeve.

“You may actually want to hear this,” Najeeb said. “He says that the woman, the one over there”—Najeeb pointed at Chatty Lucy—“she wanted to come along, but Idris refused.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t trust her translator.”

“Is that so?” Idris now had his attention, and Skelly faced him. The smell of onions was stronger than ever, but the man’s remark about Javed seemed to indicate he wasn’t a complete flake. Assuming Najeeb was telling the truth, of course. With translation, how could you ever know for sure? Idris dropped his voice to a raspy whisper, pointing toward Javed.

“He says that the man there is ISI,” Najeeb said, seeming just as stunned as Skelly. “He says he tells you this, but not her, because he knows the man would never translate his answer.”

Skelly was still suspicious. “Ask him if he trusts you.”

Idris listened to the question, then shrugged, muttering an answer.

“He says he does not know me, but he supposes I can come as long as you vouch for me.”

Skelly eyed Najeeb. If the man was lying, why would he have concocted such an ambiguous answer? Najeeb looked back intently, as if realizing this was a moment of truth.

“Tell him I vouch for you. But that I still have questions about him. What is he doing here, for starters.”

Idris responded by checking his flanks, as if fearful of eavesdroppers. He motioned them back toward the edge of the crowd, to the rear of the buses where there were no journalists. Then he resumed speaking, keeping his voice low.

“He says he is here for Mahmood Razaq. He says Razaq wanted to know about Fawad’s trip, to know whether he made it safely into Afghanistan.”

“And his other boss? This rearguard commander. What’s his name?”

“He cannot say that here, he is not permitted,” Najeeb said. “You can only learn that by meeting with him.”

“Then why would this man want to meet with me, or with any reporter, when Razaq doesn’t seem to want any of us coming along?”

Idris made a hand motion as if snapping a camera in response to Najeeb’s translated question. Then he spoke briefly.

“For publicity, he says. His commander wants publicity. He knows no one will tell his own story if Razaq is the only one who tells it.”

A jealous underling, then, greedy for attention. It sounded just stupid enough to be true. Skelly looked at Idris, who beamed goofily back at him, yellow teeth aglow in the amber light. No matter how ham-handed it all seemed, this would hardly be the first time Skelly had encountered such a rank amateur in media relations in a place like this. A Kosovar guerrilla leader had once called Skelly’s colleagues together to proudly claim credit for an ambush that had killed five Serbian military police, a blunder that prompted a retaliatory artillery strike within twelve hours that flattened the man’s home village.

What the hell, Skelly thought. Why not give it a try.

“I suppose he’s still proposing a meeting in Katchagarhi?”

“Yes. In the camp, he says. Away from the authorities. And away from Razaq.”

“Ask him if tomorrow morning would work.”

Idris shook his head.

“Tomorrow’s too late.” Najeeb lowered his voice. “He says Razaq is leaving tonight. A few hours after midnight. But I wouldn’t take his word for it.”

Now it was Skelly’s turn to make sure no one was listening. This was news.

“Do you believe him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I underestimated him. He certainly made his way here all right.”

“That’s what I was thinking. So we would have to meet his boss tonight, then?”

“Yes. And in Katchagarhi.”

“What do you think? We could head out there when we get back to Peshawar. Check the lay of the land. If it looks too risky at the camp, we can always say no. And if it works out, we’re already packed and ready to go, with all our supplies.”

“Only a few days’ worth.”

“But with plenty of money to buy more, once we’re inside.”

Najeeb gave him a sharp glance, as if he wished Skelly hadn’t mentioned money around Idris, whether the fellow spoke English or not. Not that Skelly’s relative wealth wouldn’t already be known. The journalists were like walking ATMs, and at any gathering outside Islamabad they were among the wealthiest people you’d find. By Katchagarhi standards Skelly would be a veritable Bill Gates.

Idris spoke again, a note of pleading evident even through the language barrier.

“He is asking again if we are coming.”

“Tell him yes,” Skelly said, deciding on the spot. If it seemed hare-brained later they could always back out. But with Razaq refusing all comers and Fawad gone in a cloud of dust, for the moment Idris was the only game in town.

Idris smiled broadly at Najeeb’s answer, then extended his hand to seal the dubious arrangement.

“Thank you, sir,” Idris said emphatically, as grateful as a shopkeeper after his first sale of the day. Then he shook his head slightly, as if to say, “Not to worry,” and parted by offering what may well have been his only remaining words of English.

“Katchagarhi,” he said. “It is not a problem.”

“Not a problem,” Skelly said. He’d certainly heard that one before.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE TAXI PARKED on the shoulder, the driver agreeing to wait only after Najeeb promised they’d pay an extra thousand rupees. Idris was along for the ride, having met them twenty minutes earlier at Skelly’s new room at the Hotel Grand, which was anything but. It was nearly ten o’clock. If Razaq’s so-called rear guard was indeed leaving at 3:30 in the morning, as Idris had insisted during the drive from the hotel, then Najeeb figured he would be lucky to get four hours’ sleep, and presumably at least part of the trek into Afghanistan would be on foot. This was no aid mission that would be barreling down the highway. It was a military infiltration that would be setting out in the dark.

Najeeb hadn’t been home since early morning, and wondered what he would find when he finally got there. He had tried again to call Daliya as soon as his cell phone showed a signal, but he got only a recording saying the subscriber was not available.

His greater worry now was how Skelly and he would survive the following hour. He’d been to Katchagarhi just once, with the Swiss TV crew, but that had been in daylight with an armed guard. Now they’d be walking down unlit, unmapped streets and alleys with no assurance of security beyond Idris’s promise that everyone would be fine.

“You will follow me,” Idris said now. The cabbie rolled up his windows and pressed down the locks, keeping the engine idling despite the muggy closeness of the night air. Skelly stepped in behind Idris, and Najeeb followed Skelly. They set off down an alley that looked like all the others, mud huts to either side, most of them windowless, some topped with plywood or corrugated sheet metal. Out here on the edge of the camp, where the highway street lamps provided a dingy yellow glow, there were children everywhere, running barefoot through the dust.

But within a block the crowds thinned, and so did the light. They turned left, then right, down an alley barely wide enough to spread your arms in both directions. It smelled of raw sewage, of rotting animals. Idris and Skelly didn’t say a word. By now they were beyond the range of the streetlights, and when they turned left into a wider lane a few moments later they entered a world lit only by dung fires. Najeeb heard voices behind the mud walls. He smelled burning kerosene and a heavy, smudgy smoke. From the right, the sudden squall of a colicky baby poured out from a dim hole in the wall. He stepped in something wet and oozy, his nose tickling on a cloud of dust. His eyes stretched wide as the blackness deepened. It was the same way he’d once felt after dropping a flashlight in a cave.

“You still there?” Skelly asked nervously from just ahead.

“Right behind you.” He kept his voice low. No telling who might be listening. Any words of English were likely to attract unwanted attention. “This is insane.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Skelly said. “But too late now.”

There was a sudden jingle of small bells and a heavy clopping from ahead, coming fast, then faster. A leathery animal smell, then a rush of air and a hoof landing heavily only a few feet away, followed by the wisp of what must have been a horse’s tail against his right hand.

“Jesus!” Skelly said. “He damn near ran me over.”

“Stay closer!” Idris hissed in Pashto. “And stop speaking. It will only bring others.”

Too late for that, Najeeb thought, not caring to imagine which “others” Idris was referring to.

A few times he thought he detected the faint shuffle of bare feet behind them, or maybe it was his imagination. No, there it was again. Someone was following them. Probably just children, but even they might not be harmless if there were enough of them. He’d seen a reporter picked clean by just such a pack of thieves in another camp, right out in daylight, although it would never occur to most children here to do anything other than gawk at a foreigner, as if some exotic bird had been blown in on a zephyr. But it was too dark for gawking here.

They rounded another corner, the alley narrowing again as Najeeb nearly stumbled in a rut. He reached out, touching a sleeve as Skelly flinched. If Idris were to suddenly sprint away they might spend their entire night wandering here, trying to find a way out, although he supposed that by climbing onto a rooftop you could locate the row of streetlights on the highway.

Turning again, he saw a kerosene lantern blazing just ahead, hissing and sputtering, a cloud of moths tapping the glass. It hung outside a tea shop, the first building Najeeb had seen yet with a glass window and wooden walls. Idris ushered them inside, pointing to rickety wooden chairs by the door. It was a small shop with a low ceiling of hammered tin, barely large enough for two customers. Behind a rough wooden counter were large glass jars filled with green and black tea, next to an old iron scale, the sort where you piled weights on one side and the goods on the other. Toward the back was a darkened doorway to some other room. Next to it were barrels and burlap sacks of more tea, giving the whole place an aromatic mustiness. The only light came from the lantern out front.

The shop seemed deserted, and neither he nor Skelly said a word while Idris disappeared into the rear. He emerged moments later, pausing on his way out the front door just long enough to say, “Someone else will take you next,” as if he had suddenly lost all interest in them. Then he was gone, not even the sound of his departing footsteps audible from inside the shop.

“Well, that was strange,” Skelly said, sounding a little peeved. But something about the smell of the tea leaves and the lantern light had calmed Najeeb, who was breathing easier. A small boy ducked inside selling lottery tickets from a thick roll. Najeeb shooed him away. This seemed to attract the attention of someone in the back, who poked a turbanned head through the rear doorway to shout at the boy. Then the head disappeared, and for the next few minutes silence again prevailed.

Nothing happened in the alley outside until a mule cart rolled by a few minutes later. Najeeb saw the metal of gun barrels gleaming in a pile in the back as the wheels creaked past.

“Jesus,” Skelly whispered, “did you see that? Must be enough for a small army.”

“Probably a gunsmith nearby,” Najeeb said. “They make them by hand. Even the automatics.”

“And the government lets them?”

“If you worked for the government, would you come here to shut them down?”

“I guess not.”

Another five minutes passed in silence, and just as Najeeb was beginning to think they had been abandoned another boy arrived. He looked to be about twelve. “You and the American follow me,” he said curtly in Pashto. Najeeb wondered if it was a ruse, but this time the tea merchant stayed in the back, as if he wanted nothing at all to do with the transaction. Najeeb reluctantly stood.

“Come on,” he said to Skelly. “I guess he is going to take us there.”

OF ALL THE WALKS and journeys and detours Skelly had ever made, there had never been one quite like this—on foot without a flashlight through utter darkness, yet in a densely populated place, past cookfires and mud huts, like a Neolithic village of hunter gatherers, and it gave him the shivers. They passed a dimly lit place where, through square windows, he saw several men in a haze of blue smoke seated before grinding equipment and belted machines, the smell of hot metal in the air. A wizened old man who looked like a storybook sorcerer pushed a hand tool down a gun barrel clamped in a vice. Elves and dwarves, for all he knew. This must be the gunsmith.

They kept going. He stared upward in search of stars but saw only blankness, without even a moon. He checked for perhaps the fifth time to make sure Najeeb was still behind him.

“Yes. Do not worry.”

The boy plodded onward. He had taken Skelly’s hand at first, his own sticky and dusty, like some little spirit to guide him through to another dimension. A biblical verse flitted unbidden through his brain. “And a child shall lead them . . .”

Were others similarly afflicted with this coursing highway of banalities and clichés, he wondered—quotes and phrases dislodged from deep memory banks and careening aimlessly. Snatches of old ad jingles and glib voices from his childhood. In the bouncing taxi ride out here he had recalled the phrase “Where the rubber meets the road.” Firestone? Age ten? Good lord, where did it all come from? And why?

They reached a pool of light cast by another lantern, and on its far edge they came to an open door. Inside were lit candles. The boy held out his hand to signal them to wait, then ducked inside.

Skelly heard a light, rhythmic sound approaching from behind, and turned to see a legless beggar moving past, swinging his arms like crutches and scraping along on his knuckles, which had turned the color of the dirt. It was the third man he’d seen doing that since coming to Peshawar, but somehow it seemed even more desolate here, in this abandoned world on the dark side of the moon.

“Mine victim,” Najeeb said. “The camp is full of them. If you think gun smuggling is big, you should see the black market in artificial legs.”

The man had turned the corner, but Skelly could still hear the light
thump
and
swish
of his progress. He supposed that if they waited another five minutes he wouldn’t be surprised to see a headless horse-man gallop past.

The boy reappeared at the doorway, saying something.

“He said to come wait inside,” Najeeb translated.

There were dusty cushions on the floor along two walls. The room was cramped, about eight by six. Najeeb took a seat and so did Skelly, wondering what sort of vermin might infest the place. There was a strong smell of candle wax and of something vegetal—hashish, perhaps? A large man emerged from an opening to a rear room. He wore a
kameez
cinched with a canvas military belt, and he carried a Kalashnikov, which he propped in a corner as casually as if it were a walking stick or cane. They stood. He looked first at Skelly, then at Najeeb, still without saying a word. Then he seemed to come to some sort of conclusion, and held out a large hand, grasping Skelly’s.

“I am Bashir,” he said in English. “Welcome.”

Najeeb offered his hand as well, but Bashir ignored it. The message was obvious. To him Najeeb was strictly a servant, a tool and an inferior. He shouted something toward the back, and the boy who had guided them came out with a tea tray, steam rising in the dimness. Perhaps the boy was the man’s son. He hoped the tea had been boiled vigorously, but took a warm cup into his hands, blowing across the top and sipping at the sweetness. It seemed to reconnect him to reality, but he ignored the offered slices of round bread that were also on the tray, and the bowl of nuts. This place must be a veritable metropolis for unwanted microbes.

Skelly sized up Bashir. He was not at all like Fawad, whose smooth face and trimmed nails had spoken of privilege and softness, a life in the merchant class and a dilettante warrior. Razaq was a few steps deeper into the warrior class, but obviously out of practice. Bashir, however, looked like the real thing, as if shaped and hardened at the foundry down the street. He had a dark beard with no hint of gray, and Skelly would guess he was in his thirties. Even in this dim light his eyes seemed clear, and when he spoke it was in a tone that announced that he was entitled to your respect, whether you were so inclined or not. So Skelly remained quiet and still, waiting for Bashir to take the lead.

The man spoke first to Najeeb, sternly, rhythmic and singsong, almost as if addressing a child. Najeeb glared back, but said nothing in reply. Then the fixer turned toward Skelly.

“He is instructing me on how to proceed. He says that I shall speak exactly the words that he says, as if they were coming out of my mouth, not as if I were relaying them second hand. I am not to say ‘he says,’ or to add any observations or words of my own. I am only to repeat his words verbatim.”

“Okay,” Skelly said, not sure how to react.

Then Bashir spoke again, and Najeeb complied to the letter, Skelly wondering how the man was supposed to know if Najeeb was doing as told. But why risk disobedience at this point?

So began their odd conversation, carried out with small interim periods of waiting, as if they were on some sort of satellite delay, with Bashir’s message issuing from Najeeb’s mouth in a monotone.

“You wish to come with us into Afghanistan. Or so Idris says. But Idris is an insect. So I need to hear it from you directly.”

Before Skelly could answer Bashir said something more, and the words poured out from Najeeb.

“You will please look at me when I address you. Not at the man who is merely a device, like a telephone box.”

Skelly swiveled his head, studying the man again. Such insolence and arrogance, yet also a deep calm. Or maybe it was merely a sense of control, of being on his own turf and knowing they couldn’t walk out on him, not if they expected to survive. Yet Skelly didn’t feel threatened. He doubted that anyone this haughty would go to such trouble merely to rob and kill them. Why, indeed, would he want to deal with them at all? Especially if they were only going to be tagalong pests who might impede his progress? But he could certainly understand why a man like this would crave publicity.

“Yes, I wish to go to Afghanistan, and I wish to bring my interpreter with me.”

Najeeb translated, presumably using the same verbatim method, as if he were only some sort of filter. Bashir never took his eyes off Skelly, then he nodded and spoke again.

“There will be fighting. I can almost assure you of that.”

“I have seen fighting before,” Skelly replied, nodding. “But why take us?”

“Because Mahmood Razaq will need witnesses, even if he does not know this yet. He will want the world to know what he accomplishes. But he does not want the nuisance of an entourage traveling with his main body. Nor would the men with him respect him for very long if that were to happen.”

“And do you respect him?” Skelly found the pairing odd, to say the least.

“I follow my orders.”

“And following orders means you’ll bring along a scribbler, even if Razaq might not necessarily know about it?”

“I follow orders,” Bashir repeated.

“Why me?” he asked. “And why my newspaper?”