Redback. Lindy Cameron

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СКАЧАТЬ Aussies never do real names,' Brody interjected before Mudge could launch into his awful Duh-Wayne limerick; then continued the lie. 'It's like friendly code. And in our line of work it's safer that way.'

      'Yeah?' Kennedy said, as if Brody had made sense; then he shook his head. 'Do you have to go to special classes to learn how to think so convoluted though?'

      'No mate,' Brody laughed. 'But there is an Aussie slang-gene.'

      'So why did you think we call you Bamm-Bamm?' Mudge asked.

      'Because I'm all muscle?' Kennedy suggested. 'So how do you get to 'Mudge' from Jason…'

      'You don't,' Mudge snorted, as if that too was bloody obvious. 'I come from Mudgegonga, mate.'

      Kennedy closed his eyes as if he didn't want to go where that statement had taken him.

      'Bugger me!' Brody exclaimed looking down at the street. 'Of all the gin-less joints, ours is getting screwier by the day.'

      'What?' asked the other two men.

      'We're sitting in this flea pit waiting - according to your intel Bamm-Bamm - for mid-ranking al-Qaeda stooges to front, but all these other bastards keep turning up instead.'

      'Like who?' Kennedy slid from his bed onto his knees and stuck his head out the door.

      'Like Jamal Zahkri,' Brody stated, grinning like he'd won the eighth at Flemington.

      'You're kidding me?'

      'Nuh. Here, take a look.' Brody tossed the scope over and picked up his camera instead. 'He's about mid-street, on the right. Him and three other blokes are approaching Ashraf's home away from home.'

      Kennedy zeroed in on the relevant 'blokes' and focussed on the tallest one. 'Christ!'

      'Wrong prophet, I reckon.' Brody declared, taking photos as they watched the casual progress, down their street, of one of the West's most wanted men.

      Jamal Zahkri al Khudri: American-born, Moroccan-based, arms dealer, drug smuggler, hijacker and international terrorist.

      There wasn't a lot that was known about Jamal Zahkri; but all of what was known was bad. He'd put his mark on a shit-load of bloody carnage in the last five years: bombs in Paris and London; plane hijackings in Germany, Australia and Turkey; and hostage-taking all over Europe. The biggest mystery was his lineage. Born in New York he was variously of Iraqi, Saudi, Turkish, Afghan, Chechen and/or Canadian descent. The Yanks really didn't want to claim any part of him.

      Brody smiled. Zahkri's origins might be unknown, to all bar his long-dead mother, but right now there was one thing for sure: the murdering bastard was within easy, easy sniping range.

      Fuck that! The arsehole is practically in spitting distance.

      Brody rubbed his head in frustration, as that was about all they could do. None of them had a rifle.

      'It's too bad spitting would just draw attention to us,' he said aloud.

      'There was talk Zahkri had been meeting with Osama's boys,' Kennedy said. 'Guess this clinches it.'

      Brody looked at the CIA's official North-West Frontier Rep in astonishment. 'Where on earth do you guys get your intel, Dwayne? Osama nearly killed Zahkri years ago for mutiny. The guy's been running with Atarsa Kára for at least 18 months that we know of.'

      'What the hell is he doing here then?'

      'Dunno,' Brody shrugged. 'But he's about to join Ashraf, which would support our intel that al-Qaeda has no part in whatever is really going on here.'

      'Fuck. So what do we do about this?' Kennedy asked, primed to bolt out and do whatever it was.

      'We watch. We wait. We take pictures,' said Brody.

      'Oh, that's crap, man,' Kennedy complained. 'This sitting around is aggravating.'

      Mudge snorted. 'Quit whingeing. We've been doing it a month longer than you.'

      'Yeah, but I so want to shoot someone.'

      Chapter Fourteen

      Café Baba, Peshawar, Pakistan

       Tuesday 5.25 pm

      Ashraf Majid was about to ask for more tea when he noticed the boy with the pot was rooted to the spot, his mouth agape. He looked to see what had caught the child's attention.

      Majid's past and future collided in that moment, with the sharp and silent intake of his next breath. The Emissary had arrived, escorted by Kali and two others. Majid's life was now different.

      Bashir Kali ushered his companions into the teashop. Majid stood to welcome the men, noting that all but one wore the shalwar qamiz, the local garb of baggy pants, loose shirts and dark vest. But, while they could disappear in a moment into the crowded streets outside, the Emissary cut such an imposing figure that he would always stand out. So even here, in public in Peshawar, he chose to wear his trade- mark dark-blue Egyptian-style galabeya tunic and loosely wound white turban.

      Majid was almost overwhelmed. Even without his signature robes, there would have been no mistaking the man who now stood before him.

      Jamal Zahkri al Khudri was legendary. He was hero not just to the recruits of Rashmana and the blooded warriors of Kúrus but to all mujahedeen, to jihadis in all the nations of Islam, to the faithful across the world. Even before he became the Emissary of Dárayavaus, Jamal Zahkri was the crusaders' greatest curse, America's worst nightmare, and his wondrous acts had left a searing scar across the West.

      The tea boy, on words growled from the old man on the day bed, quickly ran to drag an extra stool across the uneven floor.

      Majid offered his seat, the tallest, to the Emissary and waited. The silence was broken by the man himself.

      'Sit, my brother,' Jamal Zahkri requested. He actually spoke to him in English.

      Majid did as he was told and sat on the stool to the Emissary's right. It was only then that Kali and the other two men took their places, and they all began talking and ordering food.

      Majid could not help that he was speechless with awe but he hoped it would pass soon, so he could appear less like an idiot. It was in those moments, though, that he recalled the Emissary most likely did not speak more than a few words of Urdu. English then, sadly, was the common language for so many who had come to the cause through Rashmana. Kali had told Majid that the Emissary deliberately sought his high-level recruits from amongst those educated in the West.

      Of course there was the rumour, which most chose to disbelieve, that Jamal Zahkri was himself not simply born in the United States, but that he was half Anglo-American. Certainly his blue eyes hinted at the possibility but then Majid had met many Chitrali, and even a Mongolian once, who had the same blue - but not so deep and wise as the man beside him. This possible lineage also clashed with other stories that his father's father came from Istanbul or perhaps Syria.

      When the roti, rice and two huge curries, one with panar and palak and the other with meat, were laid on the table the men took to eating as if they had not done СКАЧАТЬ