Redback. Lindy Cameron
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It's eyes like a hawk, you dipstick.'
'Yeah? Well bugger me,' Mudge said, as he opened the door to Agent DJ Kennedy of the CIA. 'Hey Bamm-Bamm. Did you know that hawks can hear with their eyes?'
'Who told you that? Second thoughts, don't tell me,' Agent Kennedy said, handing over a hot stack of metal pannikins and several bottles of soft drink. 'Man, I'd kill for a bourbon. I just got lost in a street full of old sewing machines. It was like an X Files moment.'
'This smells good,' Mudge said, checking out the food. 'What is it?'
'Don't ask.' Kennedy removed the woollen chitvali from his shaved head. 'Any action with Ashraf?'
'Not yet,' Brody replied from the balcony doorway, after a verifying glance. He snapped his attention back to a disturbance just beyond the Café Baba, where their narrow thoroughfare met Qissa Khawani, the old Street of Storytellers, then dismissed it. It was just a barney between the stupid drivers of a couple of chrome and mirror-studded Bedfords trying to pass when there was space for only one.
'I've had word that we should bring him in if nothing happens soon,' Kennedy stated.
Bloody hell, not again. Brody pulled a smoke from his shirt pocket and lit it, as he watched Kennedy shrug his buff frame out of the ankle- length robe he'd worn over his jeans and T-shirt.
Dwayne was a nice enough bloke, but a bit green and way too gung-ho for a job like this. Twice in the last week alone Brody had to remind the newbie field agent that lives depended on their own in-country expertise and that more often than not they, meaning Kennedy in particular, should ignore the most stupid of the ill-informed orders from back home.
Or, as Mudge had put it, 'Fuck those bastards at Quantico, Bamm-Bamm, consult your own balls'. Whereon Dwayne reminded them he was CIA not FBI, so Mudge, to cover his ignorance, had pulled his usual face; the one that said, 'do I look like I give a rat's?'
Then, on Sunday just gone, when Agent Kennedy's latest intel from HQ was so obviously wrong, they'd had to physically restrain the American to prevent him from stuffing up their own month-long op.
The appearance of Ashraf Majid in Peshawar when the CIA had him in Morocco, and when they'd been waiting for someone else entirely meant that, contrary to the Agency's sit-rep, some kind of serious shit was going down right here - under their noses. Dwayne had wanted to rush out, corner the suspect in an alley and beat the info out of him so he could report the facts back to his HQ.
Mudge and Brody had tied him to a chair; and gagged him.
'Bring him in?' Brody now repeated. 'What are you talking about Dwayne?'
'Taking Ashraf into custody to question him.'
'On what authority?'
'Uncle Sam's.'
'Oh right; the ubiquitous but always anonymous Uncle-Sam-in- charge. First, let me remind you that Mudge and I do not do your Uncle's bidding or business. Second, even if we wanted to, we can't; not in this neck of the woods. And third,' he waved at their Spartan accommodation, 'we have no 'in' to bring him to.'
'You know what I mean. Man, you Aussies are so literal.'
'Yeah, well we need to be when working with unspecific Yanks like you.'
'You watch yourself boy. I'm from Atlanta, I ain't no Yankee.'
'It's not an insult, Dwayne,' Brody said. 'From where we sit, all Americans are Yanks.'
'Well I'm insulted,' Kennedy insisted.
'Well get over it,' Mudge said, imitating the American's tone. 'Besides, it's no worse than you calling us Arse-ies all the time.'
Chapter Twelve
Tokyo, Japan
Tuesday 8.30 pm
Scott Dreher fought his attacker for only a moment. The scent that graced his assailant was decidedly female. It was enough to tell Scott that he was probably being rescued not assaulted. Besides, Hiroyuki Kaga's mistress was unexpectedly and exceptionally strong for someone so slight.
He now stood beside her in the dark while she, face pressed against a painted glass panel in the door, kept watch on the alley. When he felt her flinch he leant forward to peer through the scratched paintwork.
It was another heartbeat before the alley light flickered on again.
Yep, there he was - one very large bald gaijin, definitely looking for someone. He was being quite thorough about it too, checking every door and all the dumpsters.
Holy shit. Whoever he was, and murderer or not, the dude's black jeans, black shirt and black leather overcoat were pure overkill.
Scott ticked off the black combat boots too, while wondering vaguely where the gaijin's rollerblades were, then slapped himself mentally as he finally thought to ask himself, What the hell is actually going on here?
Because, although he was undeniably in some kind of serious shit now, he couldn't help but wonder what would've happened if he'd stayed put in the noodle bar. Would that guy out there simply have run right by him, oblivious to his very existence, and just gone after Kaisha?
Oh man. Scott hated these little existential brain farts of his, especially when they threw up the whole alternate universe theory of never knowing what might've gone down from any given choice, because you're no longer there to witness what else might have been.
Nevertheless, as usual, he still wondered if he'd done nothing or done something else, where would he be now? Okay, so he might be feeling guilty about leaving Kaisha to her own fate. Or, yes possibly, he might even have chased after the big bald guy chasing the petite young woman, but…
Face it, Scotty-boy, you made a stupid mistake this time. There is a huge likelihood that the big dude out there and the beautiful mistress in here actually have nothing to do with why you're even in Tokyo.
Kaisha was fumbling for his hand.
Except that you are now irretrievably involved in whatever it is, and that guy out there won't care why.
'We must go,' she whispered in his ear.
Of course we must. Scott allowed her to lead him further into the dark. A moment later they heard the bad guy, for want of a better designation, thumping his body against the unyielding door. Then Scott fell over something.
'You want him to catch us?' Kaisha hissed.
'Sorry, next time I'll hurt myself quietly,' Scott said, getting to his feet. 'Where are we going anyway?'
'Don't know where we are. Can't say where we're going.'
'That's very enigmatic Kaisha, but it doesn't instil a lot of confidence.'
'I'm not here to boost your ego, Mr Dreher.' A sliver of light briefly illuminated the right side of Kaisha's face. She'd apparently found a door that opened, and then closed it again.
'Then call me Scott,' he said.
'Why?'
'Why not?' He shrugged into the dark. 'What's in there?'
'Internet café,' she reported. 'Wait here.'
'Wait for what?' Scott asked, but Kaisha had already gone, shutting the door behind her again.
It suddenly occurred to him that this mess he'd been dragged into might just be a domestic argument. Okay, a really bloody one, if Kaisha's clothes were any indication. But given what he knew - or rather everything he didn't - this could be the violent payoff for a sexual convergence gone wrong. And that meant that this was none of his business. Baldy out there could be the third wheel in some kind of threesome, or even a four-way kink, if Hiro's wife counted for anything.
It was probably all unrelated to The Plot, as Scott had dubbed this latest investigative crusade. It was likely his reason for being in Japan, and for organising a secret rendezvous with