Skelly set the alarm on his watch for just before 3 a.m., then phoned the desk again for a backup wake-up call, only to learn that no one would be on duty at that hour. He wondered if he would even be able to call for a taxi then—Christ, everything was falling apart—so he spent the next fifteen minutes getting the deskman to arrange for a car to be out front at 2:50. No, better make it 2:40. Less than three hours from now. He should sleep, he supposed, as if such a thing was possible. Hardly even worth getting undressed.
That thought summoned a fresh burst of anger at Najeeb. What if no replacement showed up? Should he even go? Would any of Bashir’s men speak English? For that matter, how would he even know he was meeting up with the right group? He might rendezvous by mistake with a gang of smugglers, or a band of religious fanatics heading into town to bomb the embassy.
But at least Razaq spoke the language. Skelly might have to stake everything on meeting up with him at some point, on hoping that the so-called rear guard would eventually join the main body. Then he recalled Bashir’s tantalizing allusion to the expedition’s supposed true quarry, the world’s most wanted man.
If anyone would be able to deliver on something like that, he supposed, it would likely be some fringe player such as Bashir, hidden in a refugee camp yet seemingly well connected. Maybe the man was even a CIA plant. Wheels within wheels, indeed. Skelly momentarily felt the excitement of being near the beating heart of something faceless and powerful, the dread animal crawling at the core of every major event, yet rarely showing its face. Might Skelly get a glance? Could be. Then the moment passed, and he again felt lost, uncertain.
Because there was another possibility, too, equally plausible. Bashir might be a fraud, a con artist, a brigand. He might have saved the calling cards from some earlier chance encounter. Or worse, he’d stolen them from some journalist. But if that was true, why hadn’t he already robbed Skelly? Perhaps he was waiting for Skelly to be fully packed for travel, when he’d be loaded with expensive equipment and all of his cash.
Enough of such worries. Maybe a new fixer would actually appear. For now he supposed he had better check in with the foreign desk.
He got the connection on the fifth try. The foreign editor was out for coffee, so he talked to the assistant, who was thrilled to hear of Skelly’s plans, or at least he was until he heard Skelly didn’t have a sat phone.
“Don’t worry. Razaq has one,” Skelly said, letting them assume that he would be traveling near the great man himself. He decided not to mention the possibility of bumping into the leadership of al-Qaeda— partly because he wasn’t sure he believed it himself, but partly also because the editor seemed pleased enough as it was. No sense raising their expectations unreasonably when Skelly was already rising on the charts, a star reborn. And for a heady moment he recalled what it had once felt like to have people waiting eagerly for his dispatches, confident that he would deliver the goods. Maybe this time he’d give them the biggest story of all.
“Have you called your wife, by the way? She was checking on you this morning, making sure you were okay.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
He truly was overdue, he supposed, so after hanging up he dialed Janine, this time making it through easily. Fuzz and static, then a few clicks. It was midafternoon where she was, so she was probably picking up in the kitchen.
“Hello?”
“Hi, sweetie.”
“Stan?”
“Well, who else?”
“My God, how are you? I’ve been wondering if you even made it. Then I saw your byline yesterday. Sounded pretty hairy.”
“What? Oh, the demo. Just a few hotheads really.” And nothing compared to what I’m about to get into, he thought.
“So what’s it like over there?”
“The usual chaos and starvation. Anger and shouting. ‘Why are you doing this to us?’ and that sort of thing. You know the drill.”
And she did, having been posted to four different locations around Asia by the Australian economic mission before she’d met up with Skelly in Jakarta. She knew all about the volatile mix of demos and hotheads and starvation.
“Spoke to your editor this morning. He said your stomach was a problem.”
“Nothing serious. Just a runny egg.”
“You took your Cipro, I hope.”
“Popped a couple the other day. Seems okay now.”
“They say yogurt’s a help.”
“They say, but they don’t have to eat it. How’s Brian?”
“Ear infection, so he’s drugged and down for the count. Was up half the night crying, but he’s okay now.”
“It’s what, a little after three?”
“Yes. But you’re up late. Been writing?”
“Came up empty today. Wasted trip to the border. Going back again in a few hours. With any luck this time we’ll get across.”
“Into Afghanistan?”
“Yes.”
“Good Lord. With who?”
“Some warlord’s rear guard. Well behind any possible action.”
“Let’s hope so. Did you hear about the Frenchman, the scribbler from Le Monde?”
“No.” Skelly wasn’t sure he wanted to.
“Got caught sneaking across in a burqa. Posing as a woman.” Janine laughed.
“What did they do with him?”
“Locked him up overnight, then kicked him out. He was six foot five.”
Skelly joined in the laughter. This was Janine at her best, talking the lingo of the field. As a foreign service worker she’d traveled in the same circles as Skelly, swapping the same quirky stories. She knew the survival tricks as well as he did. But after several years of being marooned in the Midwest she had, alas, adapted just as gamely to its vagaries as those of Bangkok or Hong Kong, and she was now an inveterate mall shopper and carpooler, signing Brian up for everything from infant swimming lessons to day school, three years ahead of schedule. This, too, was a demonstration of her flexibility, he supposed, but it somehow lost its appeal when occurring on such familiar ground. Their conversation tonight at least took them back to the subjects they preferred, or that he preferred anyway.
“Oh, I saw the Stephensons the other day at the supermarket. She wished you luck.” A pause. “Are you sure about this Afghanistan trip? Sounds chancy. What other hacks are going?”
He’d been hoping she wouldn’t ask that.
“Just me and my fixer,” he said brightly, knowing that even that wasn’t true. “Meaning anything I get will be an exclusive. More brownie points for later.”
“Jesus, Stan. I thought you were finished with all that.”
With taking undue risks, she meant. As if the trip itself hadn’t been one. But she knew, in the way that most people back home didn’t, that journeying to a war zone wasn’t necessarily a foolhardy venture. The TV types who did stand-ups on the Marriott rooftop would have been taking a greater risk commuting on the D.C. beltway. Joining a possible war party single-handed, however, reeked of uncertainty. Even Skelly suddenly wondered what the hell he’d gotten into. But having told his desk, he now felt locked in. Amazing how quickly your judgment could change after just a few days in-country. He’d arrived as a cautious suburbanite, still spooked from the horrors of Liberia.
“I know,” he said, conceding the point. “I thought I was finished with it, too. Then the opportunity presents itself and you figure, well, what the hell am I here for anyway?”
“Yes, well.” (He knew she was resisting the urge to say “I told you so.”) “You still don’t have to do it, you know. You can always tell the desk it fell through.”
“I may not have to make that part up. This isn’t the most organized bunch in the world. But I have a feeling it will all be pretty tame. And if I spend a couple of weeks across the border the paper will pretty much have to bring me back afterward. They might even treat me a little better afterward.”
“Well, don’t push it. Coming home sooner would be great. But I don’t want it
to be in a box.”
“Jesus, Janine.”
“Sorry. Not trying to jinx you. Just worried.”
“Worrying’s fine. I’m worried, too. Which means I’ll be careful.”
They said good-bye a few minutes later, but Skelly was still wondering about the whole idea of being more careful. He remembered the men in black turbans standing at the border. They’d looked willing to shoot just about anyone. He decided that if a new fixer didn’t show up, he’d bow out. Bashir might not like that, but it simply wasn’t worth the risk. Of course, how would he tell Bashir if no one around them spoke English? Goddammit, Najeeb.
He had better try and get some sleep. He looked at the clock, barely able to read the dial of his watch in this dimness. Even if he nodded off right away he’d only get about two hours, so he decided on a shower. More refreshing, and it might be the last one for days, even weeks.
The shower was terrible, of course, the water spurting everywhere from a cracked valve while a lizard scrambled across the tiles toward a high window. As he dried off he heard a shrill squawk from out back. It sounded just like a peacock, and for the next hour the bird kept up the noise, shrieking every few minutes, usually just as he was dropping off. But he must have finally drifted off anyway because he was suddenly awakened by the beeping alarm. It rescued him from the middle of a vivid dream. Janine had been telling him she was pregnant, while holding the hands of two other small children he didn’t recognize. No, it had been Larissa, not Janine. He rubbed his eyes and groggily sat up. The place was still. No more peacock.
He dressed quickly, then grabbed his gear and trooped around the walkway behind the iron railing. The taxi hadn’t arrived yet, but it was only 2:38. Five minutes passed, and still nothing. At 2:50 he began to fret, but finally at 2:53 a cab rolled up.
The driver asked for double what he should have, of course, but at this hour Skelly had little choice. They arrived at the rendezvous point fifteen minutes early, which was just as well, giving him a chance to calm down. But there was no fixer there to greet him, and the camp seemed preternaturally still—everyone asleep in the mud huts, finally at peace, a waxing half-moon trying to shine through the haze, orange in the night sky. In a few more weeks it would be Ramadan, he remembered, wondering how that would affect the goings-on.
Ten minutes later a second cab approached—his new fixer, he hoped, wondering if Najeeb would at least have the decency to come along for introductions. It appeared that he did, because Najeeb was the first one out of the back. Skelly would normally have paid their fare, but not under these circumstances. Then he saw that there was no one else. Christ, had the man come up empty? Skelly opened his mouth to begin a tirade, but Najeeb opened both hands in a placating gesture, saying, “It is okay. I am coming with you.”
Skelly hadn’t felt so relieved in ages. He fairly spluttered, suddenly elated.
“But, I—what happened? What about your girlfriend?”
It sounded funny calling her that—such an offhand reference for such a serious young man, and it was obvious from Najeeb’s expression that matters were still grim, even if he said otherwise.
“It is okay,” he said. Then, taking a deep breath, “I think she will be fine.”
Hardly convincing, but Skelly wasn’t about to try and talk Najeeb out of it.
“And I got a satellite phone.” He held aloft the small briefcase.
“You’re a miracle worker. That’s phenomenal. Oh, wait.” He paid for Najeeb’s taxi, again feeling generous. He even felt confident enough to send his own cab on its way, now that everything seemed to be coming together. If you kept trying, matters had a way of working out, he reminded himself. Hadn’t that always been the case? And suddenly he felt better, figuring that fortune was back on their side.
“Here they come,” Najeeb said.
Skelly turned and saw three men with guns slung on their backs walking toward them up the nearest alley through the camp. None was Bashir, but one spoke to Najeeb. It didn’t seem as if any of them spoke English, meaning Najeeb had arrived in the nick of time—another serendipitous turn of fortune.
“They said to follow them.”
They walked into the camp, this time with a sense of excitement. And when they reached the teahouse, Bashir was waiting. Three trucks were parked nearby, each with about six men loaded in the back.
“You will ride in the last one,” Bashir said, not bothering to greet them. Counting the drivers and a few others in the cabs, Skelly figured there were twenty-two men in all. To his relief, there were no other reporters.
It was time to get moving.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THEY BROKE FREE of the haze while climbing a high plateau southwest of the city. The skies opened up to Najeeb like a black velvet blanket, sparkling with starlight. He and Skelly sat with four of Bashir’s men on the truck’s open flatbed, their backs against the slatted sides, faces bathed by the sudden coolness. The only sound apart from the grind of the engine was the sizzle of gravel in the wheel wells.
Skelly, shoulders jostling to Najeeb’s right, asked where they must be by now. Najeeb shrugged, but he knew all too well. Even the smells were familiar—a sharp bite of resin, the duskiness of dry stone. It was pitch-black, but he could have painted the colors of the landscape from memory, forming the shapes of the hills like a sculptor molding clay. He was glad he’d called his office just before leaving the apartment. No one had been in, but he’d left a recorded message, stating his probable destination. If he never returned, at least someone would know where to look for him. Assuming that anyone bothered. Daliya would, that he was sure of. But only if she could. And for a despairing moment Najeeb looked eastward, as if he might spot some sign of her on the blackness of the horizon where the new day would begin. With every mile they grew farther apart. But there was hope, too, mixed with his sense of loss. Somewhere she was still out there, and still on the move. He was certain of it despite all evidence to the contrary. And if at some point he needed her, not even her family would be able to hold her back.
“I think we’re stopping,” Skelly said.
The engine had shifted to low gear, brakes groaning.
“Probably a checkpoint,” Najeeb said. His stomach made a slow roll.
“Border patrol?”
“Private checkpoint. Tribal people.”
Skelly said nothing. Perhaps he’d figured it out by now, remembering the route of Bashir’s finger on the map at Katchagarhi and Najeeb’s audible intake of breath as the dotted track had crossed into his father’s lands, right about where they must be now.
A wave of nostalgia breasted his apprehension, taking him by surprise. He nearly shuddered, it was so strong. If he got off here and walked into the night he knew he could find his way home by morning, even in the darkness. Would they turn him away? Shoot him? Welcome him back without a further word? Probably none of those reactions. His father had always had a flair for the unexpected.
The engines stopped, ticking in the night, no one speaking. Pitch-dark, but a fine dust boiling up lazily from the road, tickling their noses. Then a voice called out from the truck just ahead, answered by another on the ground. Bashir spoke up, loudly enough for all to hear.
“Everyone out. This will only take a minute.”
If he was lucky, Najeeb thought.
It was too dark to see faces, and Skelly clutched after him like an invalid as they stepped down from the open tailgate, dropping onto rough ground. They trooped forward in a shuffling column as the beam of a tiny flashlight flicked on, illuminating Bashir and a man who was apparently a sentry, a tall bearded fellow in a fat white turban, wearing a brown jacket for warmth.
If the man gave them any trouble they could easily overwhelm him, but that could produce months, even years of trouble ahead for Bashir and everyone with him, not to mention their families. Safety in numbers meant little when pitted against the dangers of a blood feud. That was presumably the code Razaq was counting on to get his men into Afgha
nistan without harm, although he almost certainly would have sent advance word of his passage.
The sentry had been faced away from them, but now he turned into the light, and his features were familiar.
“Do you know him?” Skelly asked.
“I’m not sure. I think so.”
“Is that good or bad?”
Najeeb looked toward Skelly, unable to read his face in the dark.
“Hard to say. I’m not exactly welcome here anymore. I should have told you.”
“It’s all right. I’d pretty much guessed that. I figured it wasn’t every son of a malik who moves to the city and starts working for foreigners.”
The flashlight made the rounds, held by a second man working with the sentry. He pointed the narrow beam at one face after another, each man reacting with only a squint.
Najeeb wondered about this pair, almost certain that he recognized the tall one giving orders. Perhaps only an hour ago the man had been at his father’s hujera, smoking and chatting, or listening to the radio. By now perhaps even the TV worked better, with a satellite dish to pull in a proper picture. The music videos from India would be quite a hit.
When the light illuminated Skelly’s face, the American’s pupils narrowed, but he kept looking straight ahead. To his credit, he didn’t look scared. Only excited, as if this was something new, and therefore worthwhile.
“English?” the tall sentry asked.
“American,” Najeeb answered, and the beam swiveled to him. There was a pause, as if the sentry were placing his face, followed by low laughter.
“You’ve returned.”
“Yes.”
“And now you go.”
“Yes.” What was this one’s name? Of course, now he had it. “You’re Rahim.”
“You remember. Very good. What shall I tell your father of this?”
“You can tell him nothing, if you wish.”
Another pause. Thinking it over. Although Rahim had never been the contemplative type.
“Yes,” Rahim said at last, seeming in a jovial mood. “I think that is best. Best for you, anyway. But when you return I hope you have a better story for me. A better excuse. Or at least a better escort.”
The Warlord's Son Page 19