The Warlord's Son (26 page)

“Najeeb,” he said breathlessly, tugging at a sleeve. “Who are they back there? Do you see them?”

Najeeb turned slowly, then shook his head, seemingly unimpressed at first, then turning quickly back toward the gallows, as if prodded by a new sense of urgency.

“The Arabs,” he said. “Don’t look at them. Don’t let them see you.”

Somewhere nearby a generator roared to life. A string of lightbulbs switched on, garishly lighting the scene, throwing long shadows from the five bodies into the field behind the trees. Skelly glanced left. No sign now of the Arabs, or of anyone on horseback. Shouldn’t he have heard them galloping away?

Then Kudrat spoke, his voice pealing loudly over the heads of the mob, turning every face toward his. His message was brief, presented sternly. Najeeb translated without prompting.

“You see before you the fate of traitors.”

Skelly would have expected something better, a touch of the poetic, or a quote from the Prophet. Some rhetorical flourish to give his account a punchy ending. But on further reflection he supposed that it fit. Blunt and businesslike, just like the executions. A chilling man who killed, then strode onward to the next transaction.

Then another man stepped forward by the lights, older than Kudrat but wearing an identical black turban.

“The local imam,” Najeeb muttered. “He is quoting the Koran. ‘Let evil be rewarded with evil.’ Plus a few other lines.”

“That one will do fine,” Skelly said, taking out his notebook and jotting it down.

The rest of the man’s speech was as predictable as that of an evangelist at a tent revival, he supposed; standard fire and brimstone. Damn them all and pass the plate. He realized that the adrenaline of the previous moments was flagging, and now all he wished to do was to crawl back into his bed. Let the pills do their work, then when daylight arrived he would try to track down the satellite phone. He was certain that Bashir would want to oblige, provided Kudrat would let him.

When the imam finished, some of the crowd began to drift away. Their earlier joy was drained. Perhaps they had begun to consider the possible consequences. Or maybe they were already bored.

Then Kudrat stepped forward with raised arms, and everyone halted. So there was more still to come, then. As Kudrat began to speak, Skelly sensed the crowd perking up, as if some new twist had reclaimed its attention.

“What is it?” he whispered to Najeeb. “What’s happening?”

Najeeb held up a hand, intent on hearing, which Kudrat didn’t make any easier by slipping into a low tone, not gentle or calm but stern and foreboding, no longer king of the rally but still its master and executioner.

“There are two more,” Najeeb said in a low voice. “Two more traitors to be hanged.”

For a few harrowing seconds Skelly was sure the two would be Najeeb and himself. But no one came to grab them, and everyone looked to the right, where there were the sounds of a struggle, then a shout. He was appalled to see Bashir being hauled forward along with one of his top men. Bashir yanked and struggled, and for an astonishing moment he broke free, only to be grabbed by men up front who seemed only too eager to assist Kudrat. Bashir reacted with an outraged shout in Pashto—no more English from him now—and as he continued he disappeared in a hail of punches and kicks, the muffled sounds of the blows creating a ripple of amusement in the crowd, appreciative of this encore performance after so little drama during the first five killings.

By the time Bashir’s face surfaced again he was nearly to the gallows, with a streak of blood on his right cheek. His mouth opened and he cried out.

“Traitors,” Najeeb said. “He is calling everyone traitors.”

“Why are they doing this?” Skelly asked. Everything was dissolving—his story, their means of escape, perhaps their very chance for survival—all of it being led to execution along with Bashir, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why.

“I suspect it is because either he or Kudrat has ambitions we don’t know about,” Najeeb said, leaning to speak into Skelly’s ear. “And I suspect that they may have something to do with your friend.”

“Sam Hartley?”

“I would not say his name again in present company.” Najeeb’s manner was as grave as his own.

The rope went around Bashir’s neck. He was still shouting—incoherently now, the pale pink mouth flashing like the belly of a landed fish. Then he stopped issuing sound altogether as the noose tightened and the volunteers hauled at the line. Bashir jolted upward. A foot. Then a yard. Then another. For a few moments he kicked like an angry child, then he went still, his tongue lolling.

The men around them began to drift away now that this last bit of entertainment had ended with such a whimper. Najeeb took Skelly’s arm, and they turned to go as well, both of them too stunned to speak. Then Kudrat approached from the left on a course to intercept them, red beard bobbing with every step. He spoke, and a few of his men turned to listen, although most paid it no mind, perhaps because the action was done for the night. Kudrat’s message was in Pashto, and Skelly tried to glean the gist of it by watching Najeeb’s face. The results weren’t promising. His fixer’s mouth went tight in a grim line, and his eyes seemed bottomless. Maybe they’d been expelled, told to scram even before it was light, and they’d have to spend the next few hours picking their way through the fields of unexploded bombs.

Kudrat was finished now. He turned away without another glance at them, which Skelly hoped was a good sign. If they were so unimportant, then why go to the trouble of doing something unpleasant to them?

“What did he say?”

Najeeb wouldn’t look at him. “You do not want to know all of it.”

“I do. Every word.”

Najeeb sighed and looked him in the eye.

“He asks that you think of this moment in your dreams tonight, because tomorrow there will be another trial. Yours.”

Skelly supposed that he should feel a bolt of fear, or terror, but his mind had seen and heard all it could hold for one evening, and the idea of a tomorrow seemed remote, far across a weary chasm of fever and sleep. A gurgle from his stomach told him that he must have absorbed the blow somewhere, but for the moment all he could do was offer the phrase that had leapt to mind earlier, when Bashir—was the man really
dead
now?—had burst into their room with his flashlight. Then he spoke it, in the barest of whispers.

“First the sentence, then the trial.”

“I will do what I can,” Najeeb said, placing a hand on his shoulder like a brother, or a father, a strength of grip that in Skelly’s weakened state was nearly overpowering. “I am very sorry. I will do what I can.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

NAJEEB LAY AWAKE in the dark listening to Skelly’s ragged breathing, amazed that the man could sleep. He supposed it had more to do with exhaustion and illness than with the ability to relax under threat of a death sentence. Perhaps the humane thing to do would be to withhold his medicine, for what could be worse than awakening fine and recovered only to be harangued and hanged, strung up by people whose shouting he wouldn’t even comprehend. Najeeb wondered how much he should even translate, appalled at the idea of deciphering their hatred to the bitter end. Far better if Skelly were to remain delirious, barely cognizant.

Or perhaps other options remained. The door was still unlocked. But when he had opened it a few minutes earlier he had found two burly men posted outside, eyes and gun barrels glittering in the lantern light. In another hour the sky would begin to lighten. He wondered if any of Bashir’s men were disillusioned enough to help him try something. He doubted it. They seemed to have taken their leader’s execution in stride. Another day, another boss.

He must have drifted off to sleep because the next thing he knew someone was beating on the door. He sat up with a start, blinking. There was pale light at the crack beneath the door, then a full wash of misty brightness as the door swung inward, the opening filled by two dark shapes, one of which reached toward him. A painfully strong grip took hold of his shoulder.

“Come with us.”

Najeeb barely had time to put his sandals on as the men pulled him toward the door.

“Just wait. Hold on.”

“Come. Now.”

“Hold it.”

Skelly was still asleep, breathing quietly now. Najeeb hated the thought of the man awakening alone. No breakfast and nothing to look forward to but an execution, surrounded by babble.

“I have to stay.”

“Come!”

The second man kicked him in the backside, driving him out the door like a goat. He began to wonder if this wasn’t the prelude to yet another trial. Or perhaps with him they’d skip the preliminaries altogether. He was merely the American’s paid minion, who could be dispatched with no audience other than the two ruffians who’d spent the night outside his door.

But once he came along they loosened their grip. They walked him to a little grove of eucalyptus where the remains of a campfire sighed and whined. A small man crouching next to it placed a teapot on the coals, then piled sticks at the other end, blowing at the reddening bundle.

“Wait here,” a guard said, then both men left.

Najeeb squatted by the fire to warm himself. By now the little man had coaxed a flame, which built as he added sticks, hissing and crackling, the sound of morning itself, with the air redolent of smoke. The man ignored him, so Najeeb said nothing. Then he heard footsteps approaching from behind and turned to see an oddly familiar bulk against the eastern brightness. Or was it the smell he recognized, an aromatic sharpness of someone who has been striding through open countryside just before dawn, a dewdrop bouquet of rosemary, goat dung, sweat and sandal leather.

“Najeeb, my son. Rise.”

It was an order he knew from long ago, from naps in the hills and overnight hunting expeditions. The man might as well have been his father, though by all rights he might also have been a rival.

“Aziz?” Najeeb stood, fully awake now.

“Tracking you down again, just like the time when you were twelve, following those eagles over the passes until you stumbled into Shinwari country. They’d have cut your balls off, and these fellows will do the same if they get half a chance. Fortunately the two outside your door were a little more agreeable. Let’s get you out of here.”

The man had aged—hardly a surprise—but the old light in his eyes looked different. It was as if someone had knocked the glass from a lantern. The flame still burned strongly, but the gleam on the surface was gone, the spark that had once shone from dawn to dusk.

Aziz seemed to be appraising him as well.

“You’re a man now.”

“I was a man when I left.”

“No. You were still a boy, or you never would have opened your mouth to the government.”

For a moment Najeeb thought Aziz was going to lecture him, and the flame in his eyes flared briefly, only to subside, making Najeeb wonder exactly what price Aziz must have paid for his indiscretion seven years ago.

“I learned my lesson,” he felt compelled to offer. “No more betrayals.”

“Not much of a lesson,” Aziz said gruffly. “Not if you’re going to survive out here.”

The teapot began to steam, and Aziz picked it up, oblivious to the little man who had stoked the flame. Instead of taking offense, the man produced two cups. Aziz had always had that effect on people—a natural leader even if he’d had no sons nor any clan to rule.

“As soon as we drink this, we go. There’s bread in my saddlebags. You can eat as we ride.”

Would it really be so easy? Then he thought of Skelly, perhaps awake by now, alone and bewildered.

“I can’t leave. Not yet.”

“The American?”

So Aziz knew that as well.

“Yes.”

“Has he already paid you for today?”

“It’s not that.”

“So he hasn’t, then. Meaning you owe him nothing. He brought you here, and I’m getting you out. Consider yourself lucky. He’ll be free of his troubles soon enough.”

“I can’t just leave him.”

Aziz sighed, tossing the last of his tea to the ground in apparent anger.

“He belongs to Kudrat. As will I, if we stay any longer.”

“Bribe them,” Najeeb said, the solution suddenly seeming clear. “Bribe the guards.”

“With what? This tea? My promises? Both would be worthless to them.”

“The American has money. It’s in his satchel.”

The way Aziz’s eyes widened Najeeb wondered if he should have mentioned it at all. He seemed to be calculating the odds, and his decision was quick.

“All right. But the guards will want to come with us. At least for a few miles.”

Najeeb realized what he meant. The moment you let someone outbid you for Kudrat’s services, he supposed, was the moment when you knew you had better make tracks.

They walked quickly back toward the room, which fortunately was at the far end of Kudrat’s encampment. After all the festivities of the night before, everyone was sleeping late. Except, of course, the seven men who’d remained up throughout the night—the ones still dangling from the gallows, faces drained of blood and garments sagging with dew. Najeeb shuddered as he caught sight of them, just across the compound.

“We have horses,” Aziz said. “We’ll have to ride across the fields, straight into the sun for a while.”

“There are supposedly bombs in the fields.”

“Then they’ll be less likely to follow us. But at the first sign that they are, we leave your friend behind. It will be him they want, not us.”

“But . . .”

“My rules. It’s the only way I’ll risk it.”

Even after several days among these men, Najeeb was just beginning to realize how out of practice he was at this way of life, how unfamiliar he’d grown with its sudden brutal turns and the disarmingly simple factors that could determine whether you lived or died.

“Let me worry about him, then. He’s sick. I’ll take him on my horse.”

Aziz said nothing more, which Najeeb knew was his form of grudging assent. He went inside to deal with Skelly while Aziz began negotiations with the guards, who’d seemed surprised to see them return.

Skelly still slept. Najeeb felt his forehead—warm but dry, the fever apparently under control if not yet gone.

“Skelly,” he hissed. “Stan.” It was the first time he’d used the man’s Christian name.

The eyes blinked open, bloodshot.

“Where are they? What’s happening?”

“Where is your money? We have to bribe the guards.”

“Bribe?” He seemed to collect himself for a moment, rising up on his elbows. “Are we getting out of here?”

“My uncle has come for us.” No sense telling him that his uncle would rather have ditched him altogether.

“How much?” Skelly fumbled for his satchel, coming awake all at once. “How much do we need?”

“I will check.”

He grimly wondered what to tell Skelly if Aziz hadn’t been able to cut a deal. Perhaps they wouldn’t relent at any price, having seen what had become of Bashir.

Najeeb poked his head out the door, catching Aziz’s eye. The guards looked around nervously, which Najeeb took as a good sign. A few moments later Aziz came through the door. He seemed taken aback by the sight of Skelly, who was rubbing water on his face.

“Can he even ride?”

“I told you. I’ll take him. I’ll tie him to the saddle if I have to. How much do they want?”

“A hundred apiece. But I said fifty.”

“We’ll pay the hundred,” Najeeb said, “just to make sure.”

“They agreed to fifty, so we’ll pay fifty. You’ve gone softer than I thought.”

“It’s his money, and his life.”

“Then he won’t mind paying me the leftover hundred, for my services.”

Skelly was shakily on his feet now, and Najeeb told him the plan. The American reached into his satchel, unzipping an inside pocket and emerging with two crisp fifties, which Aziz eyed with wonder.

“How much more does he have in there?”

“Enough,” Najeeb said. “Enough to get us all the way to Peshawar if we have to.”

Aziz shook his head.

“No need. Our destination is much closer.”

Najeeb wondered what Aziz meant, but they were running out of time.

“Bring him to just beyond the trees, next to the campfire,” Aziz said. “Karim is there, waiting with the horses.” So Karim was along as well. Najeeb’s guardian angel, back on the job, or so he liked to believe, more certain than ever that the man must have saved him from the
malang,
doubtless at Aziz’s bidding. The thought summoned a fleeting memory of Daliya. Where was she now? Out there somewhere. He was sure of it, and now he’d be riding to join her.

Skelly was still weak, but he managed a few swallows of water before slinging his satchel across his shoulder.

“I hope I’m up to this,” he said.

“You will be. Just hang on tight.”

Skelly nodded gamely.

When they reached the trees there was no time for greetings. Karim and Aziz were already mounted. Getting Skelly aboard was a struggle, but it didn’t look as if he would have to tie the man down. Najeeb felt the American’s arms locked tightly around his waist as they swung into motion, keeping the horses at a walk to avoid attracting attention. Most of the camp was still sleeping. Najeeb wondered where the guards had gone.

Aziz nodded eastward, toward a broad field where the red rim of the sun was just peeping over a low ridge.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We’ve made enough noise already.”

THE FIELD WAS BROWN, fallow, the ground a chalky powder after three years of drought. To their left rose the Kashmund Mountains, higher than anything they’d yet crossed, the distant peaks dusted with snow. To the right, still farther, were the jagged peaks of Tora Bora and the Safed Range. Somewhere in that general direction was their eventual destination, depending on the route Aziz had chosen. But for now they would move due east across the fields.

They rode slowly for the first minute, Najeeb still expecting the guards to join up with them any second. Ahead in the dirt he saw small yellow and white blossoms and wondered what could have sprouted in this dryness. Coming closer, he saw that the flowers were small cylindrical canisters tethered to tiny white parachutes.

“Cluster bombs,” Skelly muttered in his ear. “Hit one of those and we’re dead.”

Najeeb passed the word to Aziz and Karim, who nodded, then wove through the strange crop of bomblets, which now seemed everywhere, as if the entire load had failed to go off, although a few small craters suggested otherwise. Along a line of trees at one end of the field Najeeb saw a shepherd boy who had risen early, waving a stick toward about a dozen dirty sheep that seemed intent on crossing the field, heedless of the explosives.

Then from behind came the sudden pounding of hooves. Najeeb glanced over his shoulder to see two horses at full gallop—the guards, no doubt, foolish in their noisy haste. A gunshot crackled from the direction of the camp, which was now about five hundred yards to the rear.

Aziz cursed.

“Idiots,” he muttered. “Asses! Keep your heads low.”

He and Karim squeezed their heels into the flanks of their horses, and Najeeb followed suit as a second gunshot crackled through the morning stillness. Then came a burst of firing, followed by a sharp cry.

“He’s hit!” Skelly shouted.

Najeeb assumed he meant one of the guards, but didn’t dare turn to look. One of the yellow canisters passed just beneath them, making his heart leap to his throat, but they were still moving forward, the ground passing rapidly beneath them even though Aziz and Karim were pulling farther ahead.

Skelly was hunched closer than ever, his fevered breath on Najeeb’s neck as they nestled like lovers, staying low for survival. Then more shots, and this time the unmistakable whiz of lead streaking past, smacking into the trees just ahead. Najeeb wondered if anyone was in pursuit.

“Are they coming?” he shouted. He felt Skelly twisting for a look, then going loose, nearly falling. A desperate grab clutched Najeeb’s side as the man gasped and grunted.

“Jesus! Nearly lost it. No, no one’s coming. Just the other guard.”

Najeeb heard a small explosion, the air trembling, and glanced over his shoulder in time to see the last of a puff of smoke and a small shower of dirt, perhaps a hundred yards to their rear.

“The other guard,” Skelly said. “Must have hit a bomb.”

Aziz saw it, too, and shouted back to Najeeb. “And you wanted to pay them a hundred. You see?”

The gunfire abated when they reached the line of trees, and in the field beyond there were no bombs. Najeeb rose in the saddle to take his bearings. Far to the right was the field he had noticed on arrival the night before, the one where all the dark shapes had been. It was a graveyard of military armor—tanks with their treads unraveled and artillery pieces blown in half. A turret lay on the ground next to one tank. Another was canted crazily on its side, a gash torn down the middle, as if it had been split open by a knife. There must have been twenty vehicles in all, none unscathed.