Free The Warlord's Son by Dan Fesperman Page B

time.
    “Oh, I will. But I know how it goes. You always pick up more than you can use. Impressionistic stuff. Gut feelings about people or places. Just a short debriefing over lunch, really, or a drink.” He paused, as if trying to gauge Skelly. “I could even pay a small retainer if that made you feel better.”
    “Actually, that would make me feel worse.”
    “Oh, yes. Journalistic ethics, the great oxymoron. I was hoping maybe you’d outgrown that. It always mystifies me the way you fellows are so eager to swap information—the one thing you have that’s of value—yet the minute someone wants to pay you for it you raise the hideous cross and back away. Just as well for my budget, I suppose. We’ll do lunch, then, and you can pick up the tab.”
    Skelly had to admire the way Hartley made a further meeting seem inevitable, so he nodded, figuring he could blow it off later. Hartley knew that as well, and perhaps that explained his next overture.
    “So, tell me. When this is all over, what do you think you’ll be doing at the paper? Seriously.”
    Skelly shrugged. “If I’ve been a good boy maybe they’ll let me out of the county bureau. But I expect I’ll be too busy for a while covering this mess. Foreign news is finally a growth industry again.”
    Hartley snorted. “Hell, give ’em another month and they’ll be tired of reading about bearded fanatics. They’ll need another war to hold their interest.”
    “Jesus, Sam, even I’m not that cynical, not after 9/11. But if you’re right I guess I can always write editorials.”
    “The ivory tower? Not your style. Believe me, you’d miss the road.”
    “And all the lovely places like the Gulbar?”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “I’m too old for another posting. Even I think so.”
    “Unless you changed employers, found a more rewarding line of work.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Transgas, for example. Always looking for more eyes and ears. Doing what I do.”
    “Whatever that is.”
    Hartley smiled.
    “A lot of schmoozing, really. Same as you, only no demos to cover, and with a bigger expense account. And sometimes people actually tell you the truth, because they know it won’t be plastered on tomorrow’s front page.”
    “Or in my case, 12-A.”
    But the idea had its charms, something Skelly never would have admitted even a month ago. Unless he broke some sort of huge story, Pakistan would be his last hurrah, and within a year his editors would be pushing him to take a buyout. And after that? Working PR for some utility company, perhaps, explaining away rate hikes and industrial accidents. Or worse, flacking for a local politician. At least out here he’d be moving in familiar circles, jazzed by the travel.
    “Let me think about it,” he said, surprising himself. “As long as you’re serious.”
    “Dead serious. I can even start putting in a word for you. When the door finally opens they’re going to want as many troops on the ground as possible.”
    “Keep it to yourself for now. Probably not good form.”
    “Yes, I can understand that.” Hartley still seemed to be recovering from the shock of Skelly’s interest. Of course, now Skelly would really have to give Hartley a debriefing. He began to feel queasy about the whole thing. Years of indoctrination to overcome. Leaving the newspaper business could be as hard as leaving a cult. But Hartley’s offer, if you could call it that, had hooked him at some deep level. Janine would be against it, but he’d cross that bridge later.
    “I’d say this calls for another round, plus a toast,” Hartley announced. “To the future.”
    Skelly raised his glass. “The future,” he replied weakly.
    AN HOUR LATER Skelly was in his room, seated on the edge of the bed with the lights out, reeling slightly from four beers. So many of his colleagues hated hotel living—the disorienting sameness of the rooms, the sad clutter of damp towels and room service trays, chrome lids crashing like