Free The Warlord's Son by Dan Fesperman

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