The Warlord's Son by Dan Fesperman Page A

plane before a sea of glaring faces, but at least Tariq had upgraded his seat to business class. Najeeb tried to calm down, telling himself that the worst of the experience was behind him. But in the brief time that it took for the big plane to taxi to the head of the runway his relief turned to shame and confusion, and as the wheels left the ground he vomited furiously into a bag, his shrunken stomach offering up the little that remained from a farewell lunch, lovingly served by his mother eight hours earlier. After clearing customs the next morning at JFK he tried phoning home, either in warning or in penance, he wasn’t sure which, leaving messages of every sort at the tiny public telephone office in his home village. But the authorities must have acted quickly, because by the following day when he tried again his father had already left word for him to cease calling. And his mother, an unfamiliar voice warned, “will be unable to call you anytime soon.”
    It was months before he heard the further consequences of his betrayal, and then only in vague reports of arrests and government raids, although his father rode out the storm with the usual bribes and accommodations. But it wasn’t until the following May, the end of the academic year and graduation, that Najeeb faced the full realization of what he’d forfeited. The tip-off came when no one showed up at the airport to meet him. No driver or cousin or uncle. He hired a cab and made the lonely ride west with a creeping sense of desolation, hoping vainly that his diploma might soften the blow, a conquest abroad that would allow for atonement.
    It was not to be.
    At the edge of his father’s lands the taxi came upon a red Toyota Land Cruiser parked astride the pavement. A distant cousin, Riaz, stepped from the truck, rifle in hand. Riaz said little, apart from telling Najeeb that he must turn back. Then he handed over a small bag of Najeeb’s belongings, plus a letter from his mother and a sealed envelope of cash. The taxi turned around without a further word, and Najeeb got off in Peshawar, stepping into the haze that had never seemed to abate in all the days since.
    And now he was again face-to-face with the man who had made it all possible.
    “Congratulations on your promotion,” Najeeb said disdainfully, still standing. “Or was it just a relocation?”
    “I’m not sure either word is correct.” Tariq set down his pen and folded his hands, squinting upward in appraisal. Satisfied that Najeeb had nothing further to say, he gestured to an undersized wooden chair.
    “Be seated.”
    The chair was hard and uncomfortable, probably by design.
    “You finished your university years successfully, I trust?”
    “I have a degree, if that’s what you mean.”
    “The University of . . . North Carolina? If memory serves.”
    Najeeb nodded, flashing on a wispy vision of vast green lawns between colonnaded brick buildings. Tanned young women gliding beneath yellow pin oaks with books in hand, slim thighs scissoring in dappled sunlight. A bell tower tolling on a fall Saturday with golden leaves fluttering heavenward in a breezy blue sky.
    “Tell me about your meeting this afternoon with Haji din Razaq.”
    Najeeb was amazed, then decided he shouldn’t be. Of course they’d be watching Mahmood Razaq, plus everyone in his family. A son’s visit to the Pearl Continental, the very center of activity for foreigners, would be too enticing to pass up. The question was whether they were working for Razaq or against him, and why.
    Najeeb, if anything, was relieved. At least this time the questions weren’t about him or his family. It emboldened him to be a little resistant.
    “Who wants to know?”
    “I do.”
    “Because you’re ISI now? Or have been all along?”
    A theatrical frown. Here came the standard disclaimer, Najeeb supposed, or some lecture about how all of us were only doing our duty, and you had best do yours. But Tariq surprised him.
    “Think whatever you