The Warlord's Son (6 page)

He pushed open the door, but the room was dark, and as he reached for the lights Daliya cried out, startled.

“No! Leave it off. He cut my face, just a few minutes ago. He might still be out there.”

Najeeb glanced backward, seeing no one, then stared ahead into the darkness for Daliya, finally spotting her on the cushions against the far wall. As he drew nearer he saw tears on her cheeks, reflecting the glow of street lamps from the window. There was also something darker beneath her right eye, where she held a washcloth to her face.

He leaned down to touch her, console her, suddenly shaky himself. It was the most disturbing moment yet of an odd and disturbing day, but things were about to get worse. As his hands reached her quivering shoulders he saw a cream-colored envelope lying unopened on the cushion beside her.

It was just like the one he’d received that morning.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE PEARL CONTINENTAL’S lunch buffet must have been just what the doctor ordered, because Skelly’s stomach rallied throughout the late afternoon and on past dark. By eight-thirty he felt sufficiently recovered to try a platter of Szechuan chicken at the Pearl’s Chinese restaurant, tweezering aside the hot peppers with his chop-sticks as a precaution.

The dinner cried out for a beer, but of course there wasn’t any, not there or at any other restaurant in Pakistan. You could order a drink in your room by calling a special number, but how much fun was that? So Skelly took the elevator to Peshawar’s one and only bar, a windowless room with a speakeasy atmosphere tucked away on the top floor.

An armed guard stood at the entrance by a small sign: “The Gulbar. Non-Muslim Foreigners Only.” Skelly nodded and pushed through, nearly choking on cigarette smoke. The place was tiny, with a dozen small round tables of brown Formica. The bartender, a local in a red vest, was watching a cricket match on an overhead TV, muttering with disapproval as a tiny white ball skipped toward a yellow mesh fence.

The tables weren’t even half filled, and Skelly surveyed the landscape for a familiar face. Two Japanese women were in the corner, probably TV hacks judging from the makeup. A pair of scraggly, chain-smoking Nordics in multipocket vests sat by the door. Then, from a table in the back, a fleshy American face smiled pinkly and called out his name.

“Skelly! So the rumors of your resurrection were true. Come on over!”

It was Sam Hartley, which didn’t surprise him a bit.

Hartley was a businessman, or that’s what he’d called himself since leaving the diplomatic corps twenty years earlier. Even in his government days he’d been something of a puzzle, a gregarious roustabout of dubious portfolio—economic liaison one year, cultural attaché the next. Now he was a glorified corporate advance man, going everywhere the multinationals wanted to set up shop but were still too timid to send in the regulars. If journalists were the Greek chorus for world strife, Hartley’s ilk were the talent scouts and stage mothers, impresarios of every subplot involving money or corporate influence. But his knowledge and connections made him the perfect source for gossip and rumor, and he was always eager to share as long as you never quoted him by name, perhaps because he often picked up more information than he imparted.

“Jesus, you old warhorse,” Hartley said. “How the hell are you?”

“Tolerable. And more than a little jet-lagged. Yourself?”

“Reasonable enough, considering. Shipped over last month on a day’s notice. Been waiting for the bad guys to blow town, just like everybody else. Jesus, Skelly, when was the last time? Manila? That botched coup?”

“I skipped that. Jerusalem, I think. Somebody had just blown up somebody else.”

“Well, that narrows it down. No, wasn’t it the assassination? The nut who shot Rabin?”

“Yes. Lobby of the American Colony. You were drunk, telling Kuwait war stories.”

“Yes. That awful Hilton the Iraqis trashed. No electricity or food. Had to walk fourteen flights of stairs. Jesus. Hack hotels I have known.”

But Sam Hartley had never been a hack, of course. He only slept in all the same beds, out on the leading edge of American private interest.

“Let me buy you a round, Skelly.”

“What’s the beer?”

“Murree. And only Murree. Local, believe it or not. Special brewing permit from the mullahs. Gives you quite a headache if you’re not careful. I’m sticking to Scotch. No ice, even though they claim the water’s bottled.”

“Make it a Murree, then.”

Hartley signaled the bartender, tipping an imaginary mug.

“So whose vital interests are you representing now?” Skelly asked. “Some arms dealer with a heart of gold? Or are you here to open Kabul’s first Toys R Us?”

“Actually, a combination of those two would be just the ticket. Grand opening with Geoffrey the Giraffe in a turban. Free Stinger missiles to the first hundred children.”

“Limit one per customer.”

“That would be a first!” Hartley roared with laughter. “No. Just more of the usual. Trying to get my foot in the door but stuck on the porch like the rest. What about you?”

“Looking for any warlord who’ll take me across. I hear Mahmood Razaq may be going.” Might as well bounce it off Hartley, who would probably know the latest.

“Yes. Unfortunate. We’ve advised him against it.”

“We?”

“Transgas. My current employer. They want to build an oil and gas pipeline through Afghanistan.”

“Didn’t know they had any oil and gas.”

“They don’t. But it’s a prime shipping route. There’s a load of the stuff by the Caspian Sea, but the most direct route cuts through Iran, which leaves a bunch of ayatollahs holding the Off switch. Transgas wants to build an alternate route. Unfortunately, so does Petrotek, and they’ve been lobbying over here since Alexander the Great.”

“And now you’ve got Mahmood Razaq on your team.”

“Possibly. Lately he’s been on the fence.”

“Then I hope you’re hedging your bets.”

“We always do. We even found a way to cozy up to the Taliban. At least until public opinion shamed us out of it.”

“The Taliban?” Skelly was incredulous. “When was this?”

“Back in ’97. Flew four of them into Houston. Damnedest thing you ever saw. Those long beards with suits and ties. Like touring with ZZ Top. Bunch of muttering scolds right there in the penthouse of the Petroleum Club.”

“Ply them with drink?”

“Bottomless Evian. I lived like a monk for a week. And all the secretaries wore long skirts so the guests wouldn’t be offended. Two days of biting our tongues and nodding our heads, and you know what impressed them most? A tour of a beef slaughterhouse. Big beasts lining up to take it between the eyes really got them going.”

Skelly laughed. “I’m surprised the State Department let them in.”

“Oh, the diplos are on our side. Petrotek’s Brazilian. Transgas is the home team. But we’re on our own here, of course. Uncle Sam’s too busy chasing terrorists.”

Skelly doubted it, but didn’t care to argue the point, so he signaled for another beer.

“Careful with that. You’ll feel it in the morning.”

“I’ll be all right. I’m sure Razaq will offer plenty of strong tea. I’m heading out to his place for a morning audience, if he’s still in town. For all I know he’s leaving tonight.”

Skelly watched Hartley for a reaction, but the man offered nothing.

“So he’s really on your payroll, then?” Skelly asked.

“I believe all I said was that he might be on our team. We talk from time to time. And other people talk to us about him.”

“And what do those other people tell you?”

“Between you and me?”

Skelly nodded. He knew the drill. This was for insight, not for quotes. Burn Sam Hartley and entire realms of sources would dry up. But if the tip was good, others might confirm it.

“I’m hearing Razaq wasn’t such a good investment. Not that we’re paying him, of course.” Big wink. Vintage Hartley. “High probability for short-term losses.”

“You don’t think he’ll make it?”

“Not if the fix is in.”

“From where? Washington?”

Hartley shook his head. “I was thinking closer to home.” “Islamabad? The, what’s it called, the SII?”

“I-S-I, Skelly. You haven’t done enough reading by the pool.”

“So they’ve still got a soft spot for the Taliban?”

“Or for Petrotek’s money. And if that’s the problem, then I’m supposed to be able to do something about it.”

And even if Petrotek money wasn’t the problem, Skelly thought, Sam Hartley would hardly mind if a story leaked to the press suggesting that his main rival had sabotaged Mahmood Razaq, fallen warrior of the West. But Skelly would never be able to decipher that kind of a tale for his readers. Too many players with too many agendas. His editors wanted it simple: good versus bad, with an update of the latest score.

“So what’s the story with you?” Hartley asked, having planted the seed and moved on. “I’d heard you’d gotten out of the business, but here you are.”

“I was the only one left who’d go. Nobody wants foreign postings anymore. Too worried about losing their stock options, or falling off the waiting list for private school.”

“Even so. Hardly see any of the old crowd anymore. Not the hacks, anyway.”

“What about non-hacks? Whatever happened to Thad Beeston?”

“Still with DEA. Over here, in fact. Roving around the desert in mufti, or so I’m told. Somewhere near Quetta.”

“Arlen Pierce?”

“Ah, Arlen.” Hartley paused reverentially. “The Dark Lord. Mysterious as ever and still without official portfolio. Knocking around the embassy in Cairo, last I heard, in rooms no one else is allowed to visit. Surprised I haven’t seen him here.”

“Weren’t the two of you involved in something once? Back when you were still on Uncle Sam’s payroll?”

“God, those days are too far back to even remember,” Hartley said.

But Skelly certainly remembered tales of Pierce’s Cairo days— working hand in glove with the regime during a crackdown on Islamic militants, and not in a way that would have made the homefolks proud. Although none of it showed up in the press, of course.

“Last time I saw Arlen was at the Intercon in Amman,” Skelly said. “Trying to pick up Susie Kellman of the
Times
at the hotel bar.”

“He always did have a thing for Susie. Who quit, by the way, and is now living in rustic paradise in Tuscany. Little villa with an olive grove and her own private gigolo.”

“Don’t any of these people ever go home?”

“Well, you did. But I suppose that’s attributable to the rare charms of Larissa.”

“Actually it’s Janine now. And Larissa was Belgian.”

“Sorry. And Janine would be number . . . ?”

“Three. But who’s counting?”

“Goodness, time flies. So how old is your oldest, then? Carol, was it?”

“Yes, Carol.” Skelly was shocked Hartley remembered. “She’s . . .” A pause. Do the math, Skelly. The oldest of his five children, born in . . . ’75? No, ’76, right after Mao died. He’d had to cover it, even though the Chinese never granted a visa. Stuck in New Delhi for a week while Susan fumed, but he made it home just in time for the birth. Susan was his first wife. She lived in Toledo now. Ohio, not Spain.

“She’s twenty-five,” Skelly said.

“She was always a smart one. What’s she up to?”

Skelly wished he knew. Carol was pregnant, big as a house. Three years ago she’d dropped out of law school to get married. Broke Skelly’s heart, but maybe she would yet finish her degree. Or maybe he only felt bad because she’d ditched school for the one thing she’d always wanted more, a father figure who wouldn’t leave her behind for months at a time. Pop psychology, but it worked for Skelly.

“She’s about to become a mother, actually. Due in January.

“So tell me,” Skelly said, wanting to change the subject. “If Razaq goes down the tubes, where does that leave Transgas? Sounds like the main man.”

“Oh, there are a lot more warlords where that one came from. Sounds so . . . unseemly, doesn’t it?” Hartley chortled like a dirty old man who’d just peeped down a blouse. “But it’s the new Great Game, Skelly, just like in Kipling, only now it’s America and the multinationals fighting over the scraps, instead of the Queen and the Czar.”

“I’m beginning to see what keeps you busy.”

“Busy and worried. But as long as the Marines get their man, things shouldn’t get too complicated. Still, if they don’t . . .” He shrugged, his voice trailing off.

“Bin Laden, you mean?”

“Who else? Imagine the embarrassment if one of our very own warlords ends up hiding him, rolling out the red carpet of Pashtun hospitality for the world’s most hated man.” He seemed to catch himself before saying something more. “Jesus, Skelly, I’d forgotten how you operate. Lube us up and let us rip. Not taping me, are you?”

“Hell, I don’t even have a notebook on me. And after a few more of these”—he lofted his Murree—“I won’t remember a word anyway. All I’m after is an Afghan dateline. One last merit badge, then back to the ’burbs.”

There was a huge groan from across the room. The bartender was shaking his head at the TV screen, where the white ball again rolled toward the low fence.

“Tell you what, Skelly.” Hartley dropped his voice and leaned forward. “If crossing the border is all you’re after, I may know a way in. Another fellow you can visit after Razaq says no. I’ll write the name on a business card. Your fixer will know where to find him.”

Skelly waited, took the card. He turned it over, pronouncing the name slowly.

“Muhammad Fawad. He’s going in, too?”

“Not as a fighter. He’s taking a few truckloads of humanitarian aid. Strictly symbolic and all very private, and that’s how he wants to keep it until he’s inside. Then, of course, he’ll want to make a big deal out of it. He wants to be seen as a moderating force who can work with everyone. Supposedly the skids are greased for safe passage via Torkham, right through the Khyber Pass. One or two hacks know, but you should be in pretty select company. Who’s your fixer, by the way?”

“Najeeb Azam. Just met him, but he seems pretty good.”

“Azam . . . of course.”

“You know him?”

“I know
of
him. Or of his father, who’s a bit of a player out in Afridi country. Injun territory, completely lawless. Him heap big chief with heap big wampum.”

“A player how?”

“The usual warlord stuff. Smuggling. Transport and timber. Maybe some other interests.”

“Like Transgas?”

“Or like Petrotek. We’ll find out when it matters.”

Skelly wondered if this was why Najeeb had bristled when he’d brought up the subject of his tribal roots. Was the son embarrassed? Impatient for his inheritance? And if his dad was so well connected, why was Najeeb working here?

“When’s Fawad leaving?”

“Day after tomorrow. Probably won’t stay inside for more than a week, so he’d be perfect for your purposes. And feel free to mention my name.”

“So he’s another of yours, then.”

“Frankly, Fawad is one of the few who’s still on the fence, and he seems inclined to stay there. And that being the case . . .” Hartley leaned forward, dropping his voice again. “There’s a small favor I’d like to ask, if you don’t mind. But only if you get in, of course.”