Redback. Lindy Cameron

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СКАЧАТЬ 'but I'd like to have all the first-hand facts verified, first hand.'

      'I will give you the story,' Agent Brand offered.

      'You mean the information.'

      'I mean the story, Mr Wagner. So much of what happened this evening is, was or will be classified.'

      'What? But I'm a journalist. And I was there. I mean, it's not like you can say I wasn't.'

      'We can say anything we like,' Brand stated, as if that was obvious.

      'And we weren't there,' Gideon said. Alan snorted derisively.

      'And if you say we were, I'll have no choice but to hunt you down.'

      Chapter Eleven

      Café Baba, Peshawar, Pakistan

       Tuesday 4.30 pm

      Ashraf Majid was nervous. But it was with anticipation, not foreboding, that he sat alone; waiting. Today, perhaps tomorrow, he would make the most important connection of his life.

      The narrow street, four steps from his lopsided table, was choked with noisy local traffic. In this bazaar of the old city, the human traffic was mostly Pashtuns, Chitrali and Afghan refugees, but there were also sheep, motor bikes, horse-drawn tongas and auto-rickshaws. The shop across the way had suddenly drawn a crowd, but Majid could not determine what the attraction was or why a copperware seller would even have a busy time.

      He folded the roti around the last of the beef and peas, thumbed it into his mouth, and then pushed the empty tin plate away. A young boy appeared with a pot of freshly brewed kahwa, filled from the samovar next door. The boy poured the kahwa into his cup. Majid inhaled the green tea before sipping it, then sat back and continued to wait.

      This was his third day biding time in Peshawar, capital of the North-West Frontier Province. Until Sunday just gone, he'd never been this far north. Born near Quetta, another thin-aired mountain region, but educated in Karachi and Manchester, before training in Afghanistan, it occurred to Majid that he had seen much of the world but not enough of his own country. That, however, was about to change.

      Soon, insha-allah, he would be able to demonstrate his devotion with a long useful life. And if he could offer all of himself, without having to sacrifice his future, then God was indeed great.

      Not that he was a coward. Far from it. If he had to, he was ready to die. But one of his great joys was bearing witness to his actions, so he saw no value in self-destruction. Majid frowned with sudden doubt.

      Had he been tainted by too much time spent in the West? Was he contaminated by a sense of self-importance? He cricked his neck. No. It was far better to prove his worth many times over. And if Kali was right then he, Ashraf Majid, would get the chance to do just that - to use his skills again and again, until old age took them. He would not have to blow them to heaven with the crusaders. He was more than ready to pledge his living to the jihad of Kúrus, so that one day he could freely travel his own land and all the nations of Islam with his sons and their sons.

      Yes, Majid would make Kali proud and impress the Emissary with his resolve. He smiled with joyous expectation.

      Khyber Hotel, Peshawar, Pakistan:

       Tuesday 4.30 pm

      Christ's sake Mudge, sit down. Do you want him to see you?'

      'It's a crowded bloody bizarre, mate. Who's gonna notice?'

      'Bazaar, you doofus. And sit down anyway you're blockin my view of the gun shop.'

      Mudge curled his lip. 'Which bloody gun shop, Spud? There's like a gazillion of em in this town. And hello, we're s'posed to be scoping the chai shop.'

      'It's kahwa not chai in these here parts,' Simon Brody said.

      'Car-wea,' Mudge attempted, then shrugged. 'Car-way, chai, tea, tai-chi, same diff, and who cares? There's no beer without a stupid permit, that's all I bloody know. And how come you're not antsy? You better not be going all yogi on me.'

      'Yeah right,' Brody snorted. 'I've just got my eye on the Winchester that bloke down there's been finishing off,' he explained, pointing down through the balustrade of their second floor balcony to the street-level 'Ali Gupta Guns' opposite.

      Mudge was right about the shops though, Brody acknowledged. Gupta's was only one of three in the immediate vicinity of an area known for its gun traders. Though not as famous, he thought longingly, as the old Smugglers Bazaar at Landi Kotal, or the Karkhanai Bazaar on the Khyber Pass road, or his own wet dream of the legendary Darra Adam Khel.

      Mudge was snorting. 'Well it's a good thing you're keeping an eye on it, Spud, because that wrinkled bastard's only got one of his own. Have you taken a good squiz at him, mate? He's older than dirt.'

      'Well his age isn't hurting his craftsmanship,' Brody smiled, raising his spotting scope to zoom in on the gunsmith. 'It's a beautiful thing he's creating. It's a Model 94.'

      'Whoopee.' Mudge circled his index finger. 'It's just a Winchester.'

      'That's 1894 Mudge, which is even older than old one-eyed Ali Gupta. I reckon he's copying an original too. The engraving on the breech is exquisite. I am over there, as soon as he racks it on the wall.'

      'Exquisite?' Mudge mocked. 'And that's dumber than me standing up here to air me armpits.'

      'Why?'

      'Because, Spud, you can't go traipsing the streets buying guns as long as Ashraf is waiting for whatever he's waiting for in that chai shop.'

      'I am aware of that, Mudge.'

      'I tell you what though, we should go to Darra when this thing's over, mate. My brother reckons every second house there is a gun factory.'

      'Tell me about it,' Brody curled his lip, annoyed all over again at how close he was to one of his personal must-see things in the world while under orders to stay clear of it. Brody's personal seven wonders included London's annual Tri-Services Defence Exhibition and the Cody Firearms Museum in Wyoming, so Darra Adam Khel - a whole village of gunsmiths - was his idea of paradise.

      He took a drag on his smoke. Darra had been supplying weapons to the tribal warriors of the mountainous region bordering Afghanistan for over a century, but the blokes there were much more than just arms dealers. Their specialty was, and had always been, manufacturing - by hand - working replicas of every firearm ever imported, brought or smuggled into this wonderfully lawless frontier.

      'Technically, Mudge,' he said, 'the houses collectively make up a big gun factory. Some guys make the stocks and others make the barrels or the triggers. And they use small forges and really basic tools, like old Gupta down there, and still turn out perfect repros of old rifles and pistols, and new handguns - like Berettas, Magnums and Glocks - as well as semi and automatic weapons.'

      'Christos reckons they make 007-type gadgets like pen guns and stuff too,' Mudge said.

      'Yeah,' Brody rolled his eyes, 'And grenades and anti-aircraft guns. Mind you, while their work is impeccable, their materials are often a bit dodgy; so the guns all look perfect but some only fire once.'

      Brody СКАЧАТЬ