Read Online The Warlord's Son by Dan Fesperman - Free Book Online

There’s a carrot, if you’re interested. And if you really help us. You want to go back to America, I understand. Calling the consular section day and night.”
    “Not anymore. They’ve stopped answering and sent everyone home.”
    “But you’d leave tomorrow if you had a visa.”
    “Me and a million others.”
    “But a million others don’t have the chance to accompany Mahmood Razaq.”
    “And I won’t, either.”
    “An opportunity could present itself. And if it does, you should be prepared to take it.”
    “So I can get myself killed?”
    “You know they won’t touch a whisker on his beard. They just want to show him who’s boss.”
    “And so do you.”
    “We have other reasons. And other clients.”
    “And if I’d rather not take advantage of this opportunity?”
    “Then we’ll find someone else, and go back to using the stick.”
    Najeeb said nothing. Tariq stood. The meeting must be over. “Someone will show you out. Your motorbike is in the alley.”
    The Clerk followed Najeeb to the door, punched in a few numbers while shielding the code with his other hand, then shut the door behind him with another screech of rusting steel. So much for the legendary ISI, Najeeb thought, strangely calmed by the experience. It reminded him of a movie he’d seen his freshman year, when he seemed to have done nothing but watch the free films showing on campus every night, as if he might ingest American culture from a spaghetti bowl of celluloid. The movie was
The Wizard of Oz,
and the humbug in the title role now struck him as being a lot like the ISI. Did all of Oz look so bland and harmless once you reached its core, he wondered— quiet, burrowing men in windowless cubicles where everyone watched the clock. Then he remembered what had happened after his previous appointment with Tariq, and his assessment darkened. You ignored these humbugs at your peril. At the moment neither the carrot nor the stick seemed to promise anything but pain.
    It was dark now. His scooter was waiting as promised, and the military police were gone. The market crowds were reaching their peak and his eyes smarted from the wood smoke. But it was good to be out of the frigid office, which had numbed his fingertips. Casting a parting glance at the nondescript door, he wondered how late everyone inside would be working tonight. There was no keyhole or numbered pad outside to allow for independent entry, meaning that unless there was some other entrance at least one person must have to stay here round the clock, babysitting all that equipment with the blinking lights. Would they have bothered to place some sort of listening device on his scooter? Doubtful. He was letting the legend work on his mind. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, he told himself. Just wait to hear from this fellow Abdullah, and take it from there.
    He kick-started the scooter and eased into the crowd. It was less than a mile to his apartment, where he arrived to find that the lights in the stairwell were burned out once again. But he could see well enough to notice that his reply to this morning’s messenger had already disappeared from the wall. Great. Another enemy cultivated. He climbed the echoing stairs while thinking ahead to the morning, wondering what had made Tariq believe that Razaq might actually invite Skelly and him along. And why would they suspect Skelly of being anything other than a typical scribbler?
    Fumbling for his keys, he was alarmed to find his door ajar. He placed a hand on the knob, wondering if he should enter. Perhaps the ISI’s man Abdullah was inside, already making a courtesy call, showing who was boss, or adding a few enhancements to the phone line. Then a voice called faintly from inside, sweet yet frightened.
    “Najeeb? Is that you?”
    “Daliya?”
    “Someone attacked me. Someone on the stairs.”
    He pushed open the door, but the room was dark, and as he reached for the lights Daliya cried out, startled.
    “No!