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known.”
    But Sam Hartley had never been a hack, of course. He only slept in all the same beds, out on the leading edge of American private interest.
    “Let me buy you a round, Skelly.”
    “What’s the beer?”
    “Murree. And only Murree. Local, believe it or not. Special brewing permit from the mullahs. Gives you quite a headache if you’re not careful. I’m sticking to Scotch. No ice, even though they claim the water’s bottled.”
    “Make it a Murree, then.”
    Hartley signaled the bartender, tipping an imaginary mug.
    “So whose vital interests are you representing now?” Skelly asked. “Some arms dealer with a heart of gold? Or are you here to open Kabul’s first Toys R Us?”
    “Actually, a combination of those two would be just the ticket. Grand opening with Geoffrey the Giraffe in a turban. Free Stinger missiles to the first hundred children.”
    “Limit one per customer.”
    “That would be a first!” Hartley roared with laughter. “No. Just more of the usual. Trying to get my foot in the door but stuck on the porch like the rest. What about you?”
    “Looking for any warlord who’ll take me across. I hear Mahmood Razaq may be going.” Might as well bounce it off Hartley, who would probably know the latest.
    “Yes. Unfortunate. We’ve advised him against it.”
    “We?”
    “Transgas. My current employer. They want to build an oil and gas pipeline through Afghanistan.”
    “Didn’t know they had any oil and gas.”
    “They don’t. But it’s a prime shipping route. There’s a load of the stuff by the Caspian Sea, but the most direct route cuts through Iran, which leaves a bunch of ayatollahs holding the Off switch. Transgas wants to build an alternate route. Unfortunately, so does Petrotek, and they’ve been lobbying over here since Alexander the Great.”
    “And now you’ve got Mahmood Razaq on your team.”
    “Possibly. Lately he’s been on the fence.”
    “Then I hope you’re hedging your bets.”
    “We always do. We even found a way to cozy up to the Taliban. At least until public opinion shamed us out of it.”
    “The Taliban?” Skelly was incredulous. “When was this?”
    “Back in ’97. Flew four of them into Houston. Damnedest thing you ever saw. Those long beards with suits and ties. Like touring with ZZ Top. Bunch of muttering scolds right there in the penthouse of the Petroleum Club.”
    “Ply them with drink?”
    “Bottomless Evian. I lived like a monk for a week. And all the secretaries wore long skirts so the guests wouldn’t be offended. Two days of biting our tongues and nodding our heads, and you know what impressed them most? A tour of a beef slaughterhouse. Big beasts lining up to take it between the eyes really got them going.”
    Skelly laughed. “I’m surprised the State Department let them in.”
    “Oh, the diplos are on our side. Petrotek’s Brazilian. Transgas is the home team. But we’re on our own here, of course. Uncle Sam’s too busy chasing terrorists.”
    Skelly doubted it, but didn’t care to argue the point, so he signaled for another beer.
    “Careful with that. You’ll feel it in the morning.”
    “I’ll be all right. I’m sure Razaq will offer plenty of strong tea. I’m heading out to his place for a morning audience, if he’s still in town. For all I know he’s leaving tonight.”
    Skelly watched Hartley for a reaction, but the man offered nothing.
    “So he’s really on your payroll, then?” Skelly asked.
    “I believe all I said was that he might be on our team. We talk from time to time. And other people talk to us about him.”
    “And what do those other people tell you?”
    “Between you and me?”
    Skelly nodded. He knew the drill. This was for insight, not for quotes. Burn Sam Hartley and entire realms of sources would dry up. But if the tip was good, others might confirm it.
    “I’m hearing Razaq wasn’t such a good investment. Not that we’re paying him, of course.” Big wink. Vintage Hartley. “High