“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 through 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.
THE SUN WAS UP when he next opened his eyes, a dusty orange ball that had roused everyone but him. He still felt fine, even better than last night, and he immediately reached for more water. There was only bread to eat, but for now that seemed like enough.
Najeeb smiled when he saw Skelly up and about. Skelly smiled back, finding it interesting that Najeeb wasn’t shy about showing emotion now, even in front of his gruff uncle. Good for him.
Najeeb walked over and placed a hand on Skelly’s forehead. He was obviously pleased with the result.
“Thanks,” Skelly said. “Thanks for getting us out. For not leaving me.”
Najeeb nodded solemnly, perhaps even a little embarrassed, so Skelly said nothing more.
“It was my duty,” he said.
Skelly noticed now that Aziz was watching. Karim, too.
“Where to today?” Skelly asked brightly, trying to lighten the atmosphere, which suddenly seemed strained. Not that he needed to lighten his own mood. In the freshness of morning he was as excited as he had been as a boy before setting out on an epic car journey across America, knowing his father would be stopping only for gasoline and historical markers until they reached their destination.
“Aziz has a truck waiting a few hours from here. We’ll take that the rest of the way.”
“Won’t we be crossing the border first?”
“We did that last night. We’re camped a mile or so inside Pakistan.”
Skelly was mildly disappointed to have missed the moment. Or maybe he figured he should have known the difference.
“All looks the same, I guess.”
“Up here the border does not matter,” Najeeb said. “Tribes matter. Tribes and clans, and whoever is in charge.”
At that moment the idea of borders struck Skelly in the way it must have always been clear to the locals: a construct of foreigners, some marking made long ago by a British geographer in a drawing room, or out on a verandah, gin and tonic at the ready and a mosquito net overhead, wiping his brow as he traced the contour lines. Then, later, some lord or earl presenting the handiwork to the chieftains and
maliks,
who nodded, then went about their business exactly as before.
“What time will we reach Peshawar?”
Skelly relished the idea of a hot shower. But even more, he craved having someplace to get down to work. His laptop was gone, but he could borrow one. Or he would write in longhand if he had to, then fax it from the hotel. Once he nailed down the details, he’d have a story that would be quoted on the BBC, CNN and every major newspaper— the sensation of the month, perhaps of the year—and he would have an adventure for the ages in his memory banks. He was now glad they were across the border, out of danger and heading for the home stretch.
“We are not going to Peshawar,” Najeeb said. “Not today, anyway.”
Najeeb’s somber tone worried Skelly as much as the message.
“What’s going on?” He eyed Aziz, hoping the man didn’t speak English.
“I am not sure myself.”
“But it’s Aziz’s idea? Or Karim’s?”
“Not Karim’s.” Najeeb seemed amused by the idea of Karim calling the shots. “Aziz insists we have to see my father. Partly because we would not be welcome on any other passage. Bandits and rivals. We would be at their mercy. You especially. We would need an armed escort like Bashir’s to make it across.”
“I thought you weren’t exactly welcome at your father’s anymore.”
“It is true, what you say.”
“But they’ll let us pass?”
“They will receive us, for certain. Your presence ensures that.”
“Mine?”
“As a Westerner, an American. In my company you will be viewed as a guest, subject to
malmastiya.
And because you are on the run from Kudrat and his Arabs there will also be
nanawatay
to consider.”
“Nana
what
? And what was the first one?”
“
Malmastiya.
And
nanawatay.
They are part of
pashtunwali,
the closest thing we have to law, or a constitution. It is our code of behavior.
Malmastiya
obligates us to provide hospitality. Even to our enemies, as long as they come in peace.”
“And
nanawatay
?”
“Refuge. Asylum. You will have an honored lodging in the
hujera
for as long as you care to stay.”
“But I don’t want a lodging. I want passage. This story won’t hold forever.”
“Tell that to my father. He will be your host. But do not push him. And do not refuse his hospitality, unless you want to stay even longer. If he offers too much food, eat it anyway. If the bed is too soft, sleep there anyway.”
“Sounds more like hostage-taking than hospitality.”
“You think there is a difference?”
“In most places.”
“Not here. The more generous the hospitality, the more controlling the host. If you go for any walks, you will be sure to have an escort.”
“What about you? Will you have a problem?”
“Not as long as I remain in your company. I am afraid that now it may be your turn to protect me.”
He owed Najeeb at least that much, story or no story. Perhaps he could even pay for Najeeb’s freedom. But now didn’t seem like the proper time to bring that up. Not with Aziz and Karim around.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”
Najeeb nodded grimly. “There is one other thing I should explain. Aziz has been my father’s rival for years, while pretending to be his ally. It may work to our advantage, or it may work against us. But keep it in mind, whatever happens.”
Skelly wondered what must have been discussed around the campfire in the hours before he awakened, or yesterday during their long journey on horseback, when he was barely cognizant of what was going on. Already he could sense that Najeeb was withdrawing, marshaling his thoughts and energies for whatever lay ahead, retreating behind his Pashtun mask of blankness.
THE TRUCK WAS WAITING, as advertised, and it felt good to dismount. Skelly’s rump was bruised, and his thighs ached. The fever, however, showed no sign of returning, and the simple but filling breakfast had boosted his strength.
Less than an hour of driving brought them to the crest of a ridge, where a narrow road twisted below in a series of unpaved switchbacks. Beyond was a village by a sparse grove of green trees. A stream ran through it, glinting in the sunlight.
“Bagwali,” Najeeb said. “My village.”
Halfway down the slope they passed a pair of barefoot boys wearing slingshots around their necks. A mottled dog, rib cage outlined on its fur, sauntered past with a hungry look, its tongue dangling close to the ground. The boys stared openmouthed at the truck, oblivious to the rolling cloud of dust and exhaust. Najeeb’s expression seemed almost mournful.
In the village below, Skelly now saw two red mini-trucks streaming toward them on a dirt track, leaving a long brown contrail. Two men sat in the open bed of each, guns at their sides. The trucks could only have been responding to their arrival. They must have easily stood out on the side of the mountain.
“Here they come,” Najeeb said in a flat voice. “Our welcoming committee, preparing to say hello.”
“Let’s just hope they also know how to say good-bye,” Skelly said, watching the trucks with growing apprehension.
Najeeb had no answer for that.