Free The Warlord's Son by Dan Fesperman Page A

goes down the tubes, where does that leave Transgas? Sounds like the main man.”
    “Oh, there are a lot more warlords where that one came from. Sounds so . . . unseemly, doesn’t it?” Hartley chortled like a dirty old man who’d just peeped down a blouse. “But it’s the new Great Game, Skelly, just like in Kipling, only now it’s America and the multinationals fighting over the scraps, instead of the Queen and the Czar.”
    “I’m beginning to see what keeps you busy.”
    “Busy and worried. But as long as the Marines get their man, things shouldn’t get too complicated. Still, if they don’t . . .” He shrugged, his voice trailing off.
    “Bin Laden, you mean?”
    “Who else? Imagine the embarrassment if one of our very own warlords ends up hiding him, rolling out the red carpet of Pashtun hospitality for the world’s most hated man.” He seemed to catch himself before saying something more. “Jesus, Skelly, I’d forgotten how you operate. Lube us up and let us rip. Not taping me, are you?”
    “Hell, I don’t even have a notebook on me. And after a few more of these”—he lofted his Murree—“I won’t remember a word anyway. All I’m after is an Afghan dateline. One last merit badge, then back to the ’burbs.”
    There was a huge groan from across the room. The bartender was shaking his head at the TV screen, where the white ball again rolled toward the low fence.
    “Tell you what, Skelly.” Hartley dropped his voice and leaned forward. “If crossing the border is all you’re after, I may know a way in. Another fellow you can visit after Razaq says no. I’ll write the name on a business card. Your fixer will know where to find him.”
    Skelly waited, took the card. He turned it over, pronouncing the name slowly.
    “Muhammad Fawad. He’s going in, too?”
    “Not as a fighter. He’s taking a few truckloads of humanitarian aid. Strictly symbolic and all very private, and that’s how he wants to keep it until he’s inside. Then, of course, he’ll want to make a big deal out of it. He wants to be seen as a moderating force who can work with everyone. Supposedly the skids are greased for safe passage via Torkham, right through the Khyber Pass. One or two hacks know, but you should be in pretty select company. Who’s your fixer, by the way?”
    “Najeeb Azam. Just met him, but he seems pretty good.”
    “Azam . . . of course.”
    “You know him?”
    “I know
of
him. Or of his father, who’s a bit of a player out in Afridi country. Injun territory, completely lawless. Him heap big chief with heap big wampum.”
    “A player how?”
    “The usual warlord stuff. Smuggling. Transport and timber. Maybe some other interests.”
    “Like Transgas?”
    “Or like Petrotek. We’ll find out when it matters.”
    Skelly wondered if this was why Najeeb had bristled when he’d brought up the subject of his tribal roots. Was the son embarrassed? Impatient for his inheritance? And if his dad was so well connected, why was Najeeb working here?
    “When’s Fawad leaving?”
    “Day after tomorrow. Probably won’t stay inside for more than a week, so he’d be perfect for your purposes. And feel free to mention my name.”
    “So he’s another of yours, then.”
    “Frankly, Fawad is one of the few who’s still on the fence, and he seems inclined to stay there. And that being the case . . .” Hartley leaned forward, dropping his voice again. “There’s a small favor I’d like to ask, if you don’t mind. But only if you get in, of course.”
    So here was the price, the proffered quid pro quo.
    “Go ahead.”
    “It would be helpful if we could have another chat once you’re back.” Skelly wondered if that was where Hartley had been headed all along. “After you’ve filed your stories, of course. And I certainly wouldn’t ask for anything you wouldn’t give your paper.”
    “In that case, you can read my stories. They’ll be online, I’m sure.”
    Hartley laughed, not as jolly this