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СКАЧАТЬ my agas, and may Allah be with you.'

      'Bissalama, Emissary,' Majid said, wishing the Emissary a safe journey.

      Khyber Hotel, Peshawar, Pakistan

       Tuesday 5.25 pm

      'Who are the other dudes?' Mudge asked.

      'The taller of the two short ones is Bashir Kali - alleged master- mind of the British Embassy bombing in Khartoum, architect of that weird two-day shit-fight insurgency in Morocco last year and possible brains behind the equally-bizarre but totally destructive bi-plane incident on Guam,' Brody said.

      'Bashir is Ashraf Majid's best mate since forever. Some intel suggests they might be special mates but as that's not something you advertise round these parts, it's never been verified.'

      Brody lit a smoke and dragged the ashtray closer. 'I mean, these bloody terrorists don't mind blowing themselves up left, right and usually right in the centre of something; but no man, not even a potential martyr, wants to have his good right hand or his dick cut off because he got caught putting them where he shouldn't have.

      'These wanker's make pre-kablooey videos, then walk around with bombs strapped to themselves; but the poofs still have to hide in the closets.'

      'Yeah well if you're a poof, mate, those gazillion virgins in paradise aren't really gonna be your scene, are they?' Mudge noted.

      'I guess not, Mudge,' Brody agreed.

      'Personally, dudes, I don't give a rats about the gay rights of terrorists or any other girly-man fags for that matter. But if that prick down there is responsible for Khartoum and Guam, why don't we just go get him?'

      'For a start, as per, there's no direct evidence linking him to those plots; the same with Ashraf and the British and American Embassy bombings in Morocco and Turkey last year.

      'Secondly Bamm-Bamm,' Brody waved his arm around, 'where are we again? Bashir and Ashraf are Pakistanis. We can't just go picking up or picking on the local citizens.'

      'I hate rules like that,' Kennedy said.

      'I'll bet you do,' Brody said with a laugh. 'The other short arse with Jamal Z looks a lot like Arjuna, but that's unlikely. It's been ages since the Indonesians roamed this far from home except for training. And one thing Dumadi Arjuna doesn't need, is training.'

      'Arjuna? Are you joking? A Jeemah Islamiyah hotshot all the way up here?' Kennedy said.

      'Ex-JI for fuck's sake Bamm-Bamm, remember?' Brody said. 'If they're here with Jamal Zahkri then they're Atarsa Kára, not al-Qaeda, not JI and not even Hamas. That's if it's even him at all.'

      Kennedy looked confused. 'But I thought we'd already confirmed Zahkri's ID.'

      'Let me guess,' Brody said, frowning at Duh-Wayne, 'you were part of Dubya's recruitment drive for more marines and spooks to join the War on Turra and the turrsists,' he said.

      'Yup, I sure was,' Kennedy said, proud and oblivious.

      Yup indeed. Brody looked at the ceiling. But that was after they lowered the IQ level to allow morons like you into places other than Junior's White House.

      'So we're not sure that is Dumadi Arjuna,' Mudge said in a serious voice, demonstrating his superior grasp of the situation, but I'm getting excellent footage of all the subjects. This is such a killer-zoom, Spud mate. Mind you, it's just as well the bastards don't have a deaf guy with them because he'd be lost as. They're all yakking away with their hands covering up their ugly mugs.'

      'They do that a lot,' Kennedy noted.

      Brody shook his head.

      'What about the last tall guy then?' Kennedy prompted. 'Who's he?'

      'Dipthong Marakesh Oobejam,' Brody said.

      'Who?' Kennedy and Mudge asked.

      'No idea,' Brody admitted.

      Chapter Fifteen

      Kingston Club, London:

       Tuesday 1.30 pm

      Adam Lyall, US Deputy Secretary of State, hung up the secure phone in the club's private soundproof Call Room. He was livid; no, murderous. And right now he was tossing up whether to pitch one of the stupid over-stuffed poncy antique chairs out the window or find the closest lackey, in lieu of someone actually responsible, and rip his balls off.

      Goddamnit. It was beyond him how a perfectly planned, perfectly timed top-secret op could be so completely ballsed-up. He spun around and slammed out of the small room, across the marble foyer, into the men's room and over to the urinal. It was somebody's good fortune that the bathroom was otherwise empty, or Lyall may have just pissed on him, or yanked him backwards by the scruff into the stalls and kicked him stupid.

      He'd actually done that once or twice, for no particular reason, most memorably in a bar in Albuquerque one Thanksgiving. He smacked the bejusus out of a drunk marine and left him lying on the stinking wet floor of the john - just for the hell of it.

      Kelman's one-minute call, from somewhere off Laui Island, had heralded the worst kind of bad news. Then the mission commander had confirmed that Ifran, the rebel leader, was shot but not critical and half his cronies were dead or injured. Worse than that, there were two dead operatives and another not likely to survive, one MIA, and no hostages.

      Now there were the big questions: How the fuck could an American soldier go missing from a friggin island smaller than the White House; and where were the goddamn hostages?

      Lyall grabbed for the handle on his way out of the bathroom, just as the door swung outwards away from him. Angry momentum meant Lyall nearly flattened Edward Drake.

      Irritatingly, as this was Her bloody Majesty's land, the kingdom's head of security said, 'Steady on there, chap, where's the fire?'

      'From all accounts,' Lyall growled, waiting until three stiff-lipped gentlemen had passed through the foyer towards the exit, 'all over that flea-spit of an island in the Pacific.' He had to keep his voice low, so the flunkeys and local toffs wouldn't hear, but officials from the Pentagon to Downing Street would be getting their own reports soon enough.

      'Whatever do you mean Adam?' Drake asked.

      Lyall tapped his watch. 'I've got to take another call, but suffice to say the attempted rescue of those hostages was a foul-up beyond…' he waved his fist as he searched for the right expression, 'beyond words.'

      Teddy Drake, still holding the men's room door as Lyall strode back into the Call Room, wondered how on earth the Americans had botched things this time. There'd been no British citizens, except for a few colonials, on that island but nonetheless it was probably time to check in with the office for the official situation - if there was one yet. He was not likely to get it out of Adam, here and now, even if he did wait for him to re-emerge.

      Lyall snatched at the phone on the first ring. It was Kelman again, as arranged. 'Give me the short version,' he demanded.

       'Don't know who started firing first, sir. Think it was the rebs. But as soon as there were bullets, there was no way СКАЧАТЬ