The crowd surged closer, gaining momentum as it picked up the scent of all those Westerners, the very smell of prosperity. The border police had other ideas. Half a dozen more arrived to hastily form a cordon. One shouted commands through a bullhorn, and the mob complied with shocking ease, as if accustomed to such treatment. Their noise subsided. Yet, to a man the refugees kept gazing at the journalists, eyes pleading, but for what?
The caravan’s arrival had also roused the slumbering trade of the pushcart boys, who for a few hundred rupees would cart your luggage through the border gates to taxis and buses waiting on the opposite side. At least that was the idea. A glance across the last hundred yards of Pakistani territory revealed no vehicles on the Afghan side except a battered truck. Probably no one had crossed the border in that direction for weeks. Nor would any of the journalists need their luggage carried if the buses were allowed to pass. This did little to deter the boys, who slipped nimbly past the police and began bidding for business, shoving their rickety carts through the masses as each announced his presence with the ubiquitous “How are you, sir.”
Skelly inspected the fence. It was topped with razor wire, coiled from one bluff to the other. The huts and stalls behind it were spiked with drooping black flags and tattered banners painted with slogans. There was a large hand-printed signpost to the right, half in Pashto, half in English, but too far away for Skelly to read more than a word or two. The one vehicle, a multicolored truck, was stacked with military equipment and rocket grenades, racked like bowling pins. Deployed around it were eight grim-looking fellows in long beards, scowling through the fence. They wore white robes and black turbans, and each carried a Kalashnikov or a grenade launcher. Some wore bandoleers.
Skelly made his way closer, pulling free of the crowd and climbing the grassy lawn of the customshouse. This was a better vantage point. Quite pleasant, in fact, the air cool in the shade of a spreading plane tree, although the sounds through the open door of the customshouse weren’t encouraging—shrieks and shouts, some self-important official working himself into a frenzy of obstruction—so Skelly concentrated on the view. The opposite bluff glowed like molten copper in the late-afternoon sun, and a breeze from the bazaar blew in the smell of frying kebabs and the fuzzy sound of music playing too loudly on cheap speakers, the whine and sway of desert rhythms. Up here one could easily imagine he was at a government rest house in the 1800s, stopping for tea on his way across the Empire.
A few enterprising boys were now making the rounds among the journalists on the lawn. One, no taller than four feet, stopped in front of Skelly clutching a fistful of Afghan currency. He was peddling it in small, banded stacks, not even pretending to be offering the proper exchange rate, which was about forty thousand afghanis to the dollar. This was strictly a souvenir trade, low-denomination bills that were practically worthless.
“How much?” Skelly asked, figuring this might be the closest he ever got to the place.
“For you, sir? Two hundred rupees.”
A buck-sixty, then, for a penny’s worth of cash, but the boy knew his market—journalists desperate for a piece of Afghanistan. Skelly had seen at least three others making a purchase.
“Fair enough,” he said, handing over the rupees, the boy adding them to a shockingly thick stack. Skelly inspected the worn bills, swirls of Dari on pastel reds and greens, with drawings of minarets, fortresses and stout men on horseback.
He supposed that this would be a good time to seek out Najeeb. Confront him about this spying business and get it over with. But first he wanted a better look at the fellows in black turbans standing just across the border. They had moved to the fore of the iron fence, gazing silently toward the journalists. One burst of gunfire would do an awful lot of damage from this range, and he wondered if they were tempted. A man’s voice spoke up from over his shoulder.
“Fun-looking bunch, aren’t they?”
Skelly turned.
“Roy! Good to see you!”
Roy Canady was a stocky New Zealander who worked as a producer for one of the American networks. He knew his stuff far better than the pretty faces the honchos put before the cameras, and he’d always preferred the company of print reporters, regaling them with tales of buffoonery by the various anchors and up-and-comers he squired around places like this. Skelly liked him immensely but hadn’t seen him since Rwanda, where they’d shared a six-pack of awful local beer, flushing out the stench after watching bloated corpses float down the muddy River Kagera.
“Great to see you,” Skelly said, shaking hands.
“Just couldn’t resist one more war?”
“Manpower shortage.”
“Tell me about it. Everyone’s budget’s in the toilet. Think we’ll make it across?”
“By when? Next Tuesday?”
“That’s just about their pace. Bloody unbelievable in there.” He nodded toward the customshouse. “More cash changing hands than a camel auction, but they’re still spending ten minutes a passport, studying every picture like it’s Charlie Manson. Typical.”
“I take it you’ve been here before.”
“Third time this week. And maybe a dozen more before that, going back twenty years.”
“So who’s the welcoming committee? Taliban?”
“Definitely.”
“How can you tell?”
“Black turbans, for starters. And all those banners. Religious slogans. But this one’s my favorite.” He pointed right, toward the sign Skelly had noticed earlier with some of the words in English. “Taliban’s idea of a touristy welcome.”
Skelly was close enough now to make out the words, and he read them aloud:
“Faithful people with strong decision entry Afghanistan. Sacrifice country heartly welcomes you with pleases.”
“Lovely translation, isn’t it? Makes you want to bring the wife and kids.”
Skelly laughed.
“You sound thrilled to be back.”
“Gives me the heebie-jeebies just being this close. Lots of bad memories from over there. The longer the border stays closed, the better, far as I’m concerned.”
There was a new outburst of shouting from the customshouse, but Canady’s attention had been drawn in the opposite direction.
“Uh-oh,” he said, shouldering a satchel. “Looks like we’ve worn out our welcome.”
The border police had turned their attention to the journalists and were motioning them back onto the buses. Skelly spotted Najeeb, who seemed to be pleading with one of the officers to lay off. If he was ISI, he ought to get quick results, but the policeman shoved him away.
“Najeeb! Over here!” Skelly had put off their talk long enough. He also wanted to do a few interviews. Work the edge of the crowd. Anything to salvage something out of what was turning into a wasted day—although from a personal standpoint he supposed the ride alone had been worthwhile. How many people could say they’d spent their afternoon breezing through the Khyber Pass?
Najeeb appeared at his shoulder, and they stepped downhill into the street, where more policemen were motioning toward the buses. The refugees, sensing they were no longer the focus, began closing in again from behind. This could get nasty. A few reporters had broken through to the crowd and were hastily doing interviews among tightening knots of the men in white. Skelly spotted Chatty Lucy among them, out there with her fixer.
“A colleague told me that she thinks you’re ISI,” Skelly shouted above the din into Najeeb’s ear. Might as well take the direct approach.
Najeeb looked shocked, even angry. If it was an act, it was a good one.
“It was the Canadian woman’s translator, wasn’t it?”
“How’d you know?” He looked Najeeb in the eye. Najeeb looked straight back.
“Because he’s ISI.”
A policeman pushed Skelly in the back. He wheeled quickly, ready to shout until he saw the raised billy club.
“Tell him we can’t do our jobs.”
“I tried,” Najeeb said
, nudging Skelly out of harm’s way. “They’re worried because it’s almost dark. They want everyone out of here. They say some of the refugees have guns.”
“Bullshit.”
“Probably. What did her fixer say?”
“That I should fire you. That you can’t be trusted.”
Najeeb scowled.
“The man had me hauled in two days ago, right after I first met you. Or his boss did.”
“Hauled in where?”
“To the ISI. To the office where he works. I can take you to the alley. If you knock, Javed is the one who comes to the door. It’s some kind of listening post. His boss is named Tariq, and he was asking for information about Razaq.” He paused. “And about you. They’re watching everyone, me included.”
“And you agreed to help?”
Najeeb shook his head, but this time he didn’t look Skelly in the eye.
“Is that what you two were talking about on the bus?”
Najeeb nodded, seeming relieved that Skelly had noticed the confrontation.
“If he really works for the International Daily,” Najeeb said, “then how come his byline never appears? Ask your friend that.”
Good point. But Najeeb could be making it up as he went, Skelly supposed. Knock on the door of the ISI office and maybe Najeeb would answer. He’d already admitted to having been there. But dealing with fixers was a lot like picking them. Gut feelings counted for plenty, and Skelly’s gut told him Najeeb was telling the truth. At best he’d now have a little more leverage with the man, maybe even enough to pry loose the tight lid Najeeb kept on everything. It was time they started establishing some sort of rapport.
“Fair enough,” Skelly shouted, still fending off the policemen. “But, look, if you really want me to trust you, you’re going to have to stop getting so huffy whenever I ask a few questions.”
“Yes, okay.” Najeeb looked chastened. “I understand.” He seemed about to say more, but didn’t.
By now the police had pushed all the journalists into a semicircle against the buses, having rounded up the stragglers who’d sneaked into the crowd. The journalists by now were pent up and frustrated with the day’s aggravations, and their tempers began to boil over. Some began pushing back, loudly demanding access to the crowd.
“Let us do our job!” several shouted. A few reporters in the middle of the crowd consulted with their fixers about what to do next. Skelly and Najeeb were just about to join in when they heard Chatty Lucy nominate Javed to take their case to the authorities.
“Watch,” Najeeb muttered as Javed sallied forth. “He’ll only make sure that we have to leave right away. The less contact these refugees have with Westerners, the better, as far as the ISI is concerned.”
Skelly had witnessed such confrontations before—well-paid translators negotiating on behalf of their clients with intractable officials. Sometimes money changed hands, and even then they were usually vigorous standoffs, with waving arms and raised voices, a marketplace haggling that often produced some sort of compromise, especially if the concluding handshake was sweetened with a folded wad of cash.
This one looked altogether different—Javed listening patiently, then nodding, turning his face away from the journalists as he placed a hand lightly on the policeman’s shoulder. The policeman leaned closer, listening, then both of them nodded, shaking hands without a smile or frown.
“Christ, it’s like they’re pals,” Roy Canady said, just to Skelly’s left. Javed then strolled back to the gathering and calmly announced, “I am sorry, but we must leave immediately. There will be no interviews. No passage. Only Fawad’s men and the aid trucks will be allowed across the border.”
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?” I
dris 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.
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