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.
“That’s where the air strike must have hit,” Skelly said. “A bunch of Russian junk, by the look of it.”
“Are they following us?” Aziz shouted, slowing to a canter. Najeeb supposed this would be the moment of truth for Skelly, and he looked back half expecting to see a wave of horsemen, or a fleet of the Toyota trucks, fishtailing through the dust. But there was nothing, only the shepherd boy and his flock.
“No,” he said with relief. “They’re not.”
“Then they’ve decided we’re not worth it,” Aziz said, reining in. “Or Kudrat has radioed ahead for someone else to take care of us. Which is why we’ll turn south as soon as possible. Avoid the villages and try to get to the fringe of his control as soon as we can.”
“So have you made an enemy of Kudrat?”
“He wasn’t a friend to begin with. But he’s not your father’s friend either, and that is what is more important. As you will soon see.”
Najeeb wondered at the ramifications of that remark. Aziz had never spoken quite so openly of this rift in previous years. Perhaps times had changed. There were layers to all this that Najeeb supposed he might never understand. But he could live with that, as long as he made it back to Peshawar. Then the American would have his story and he would have his life back, once he tracked down Daliya.
“How’s he holding up?” Aziz asked, nodding toward Skelly.
“He’ll make it. We need to get some food in him.”
“There will be time for that in a few hours, when we’ve reached the hills. How much will he be paying me?”
The crudeness of Aziz’s pragmatism was still jarring to Najeeb, who realized he’d allowed himself to romanticize the man’s role in his life in the intervening years. Aziz had indeed taught him much, and done much for him, but Najeeb was reminded that no one from his village did anything unless it served some purpose. It was not selfishness, or callousness. It was simply the way of life’s daily commerce, part of the barter of survival. It seemed unduly harsh only if you had been away from it for a long time. Perhaps Skelly would find it amusing.
“I’m sure you will be able to name your price if you get him safely out of here,” Najeeb said. “I’ll even help you negotiate.”
“Just tell me how much he has to work with. That would be a start.”
“Probably at least—” Najeeb was about to say a thousand, because he believed that was the case. Then he checked himself, remembering he was playing under new rules. “At least four hundred,” he said. “But he’ll need some of that to get to Peshawar.”
“Like I said, we won’t be going there. You’re going nowhere but home.”
“Home?”
The word froze him. He glanced over to see if Aziz was joking, but the man was looking straight ahead, eyes on the mountainous horizon, perhaps calculating how many bills he would be thumbing by day’s end.
“Home?” Najeeb said again, almost ashamed to have the word tumble out so weakly.
“I’ll tell you more later. Just keep riding.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SKELLY AWAKENED to the buzzing of a bee, only to discover it wasn’t a bee at all but a whining ember sizzling in the remains of a campfire. Then it popped, spouting a tiny parabola of sparks, a private firework into the night chill.
No one else seemed to be awake. He was flat on his back. He remembered little of the day except for the almost constant jostling on horseback, holding his balance by pressing his face to Najeeb’s back even when the heat and chill of fever had been almost unbearable. He felt wrung out, but dry and cool, as if whatever had gotten hold of him during the past several days had at last relinquished its grip.
He put a hand to his forehead to make sure, which only reminded him of the many caring hands of others over the past years—doctors, his mother, wives and daughters, a village laundress in Monrovia, and now Najeeb. Awakening briefly the night before in Kudrat’s compound, he had seen his fixer watching over him with concern, while Skelly in his delirium had begun believing he could actually handle death, could prepare to meet it gracefully. And what would his late mother have said to that? For that matter, what would she say now, seeing him like this? He remembered how she had cared for him when he was sick, stretched on a bed or sofa, usually with the TV on and a half-eaten bowl of soup on a folding table. Even in Monrovia, during his Liberian misadventure, he’d at least had a cot. All that Afghanistan could offer tonight was a wool blanket on hard ground. But at the moment he didn’t mind. His stomach was finally tranquil, and in the skies a bright plasma of stars rolled silently across the blackness, so wondrously deep and dense it seemed that you could plunge into it.
He shifted on the ground, and someone nearby moved as well, startling him, his body aching with the sudden movement. But he felt well enough to sit up for a look around.
Under a nearby blanket was the unfamiliar bulk of Najeeb’s uncle, Aziz, who had unwrapped his turban to reveal a bushy black mane and was now breathing deeply with his mouth open. Just beyond was Najeeb, and on the far side of the campfire was the uncle’s assistant, Karim—awake, he now saw—probably as the appointed sentry for the wee hours. Wise move, he supposed, although something about Karim had made him uneasy from the beginning. Even throu
gh the haze of illness the man had struck him as overly smug and watchful. Najeeb and Aziz had treated him as an obvious subordinate, paying him no mind. But Karim had noticed them, all right—or so it had seemed to Skelly.
He pushed the button to illuminate his watch. Nearly four o’clock. Looking across the embers again he saw Karim watching intently.
“Where are we?” Skelly asked in a low voice.
Some small creature in the rocks stirred in response, but Karim said nothing, and from his blank stare Skelly realized the man probably hadn’t understood a word he’d said.
Skelly had come across many a person in his foreign travels who, under the same circumstances, would have tried answering in sign language, by frown or gesture or drawing symbols in the dirt, eager to communicate even when language failed, especially at such a lonely hour. Not Karim. He just stared back, impassive as a house cat, then swiveled his head to look down the mountain, off into the darkness.
Skelly spotted a water bottle within reach and suddenly was thirsty. He unscrewed the cap for a long, cool swallow, not caring if it was pure. By now the Cipro must have so thoroughly purged his system of microbes that he would be impervious. The coolness was like elixir, coating his throat and stomach, and he gently lay back down, content to have the rest of the night for further recovery.
So Najeeb had done it, he thought, awash in relief and gratitude. The young man had saved them both, even when it would have been easier to leave Skelly behind. He wondered what he might do to thank Najeeb, to reward him. Surely he would have to pay something extra, although the thought of recompense merely by dollars seemed coarse, even tawdry. All the same, it was probably what Najeeb needed most. He and his girlfriend, wherever she might be. If they had time once they reached Peshawar, Skelly hoped to meet her, although he now seemed to remember something from the haze of his fever about a detour suggested by Aziz.
Skelly then turned on his side, curling up under the thin blanket, the ground more comfortable than he would have expected. And as he drifted toward sleep he again recalled the journey’s most vivid memory—that of the tall man on horseback, with his white pillbox and the salt-and-pepper beard, soulful eyes aglitter in the dim light as he watched the hanging. Skelly had seen him, he was sure of it now. There was also the overland journey with Razaq, the firefight, the capture, the hanging—so much in his notebook and his head. The story within his grasp was huge, the biggest yet to be written here. But saying what? He recalled what Razaq had told him, something about being the force who was supposed to push the Arabs and their charismatic leader out of their Afghan refuge, presumably into some sort of trap. But with Razaq gone, who would do that now? Kudrat? Someone else? And why had the Americans let Razaq go down the tubes if he was supposed to play such a crucial role? Or had that lone helicopter with its feeble missiles been all they could scare up on such short notice? Then there was Bashir, perhaps the key to the puzzle, now dead like Razaq. But Skelly was certain he was close to the heart of it, and he clutched that knowledge to him like a pillow as he drifted toward his dreams.
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