Redback. Lindy Cameron
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game creator, had merely collided with a domestic situation that was running its own course. Yep. Love and betrayal smashes headlong into international terrorist plot - happens every day.
Except that Hiroyuki Kaga was dead.
And that's what The Plot was all about. Except that Scott had assumed the targets would be high-profile politicians not software designers.
Whoa buddy, hang on. Hiro was only allegedly dead. What's more, it was only according to Hiro's alleged mistress that he even was no longer living, and that his purported end had not come about by natural causes.
Perfect, Scott! You're hiding in the dark with a woman you've never laid eyes on before, who tells you that a man you've never met, but were supposed to, was brutally murdered, possibly by the thug currently out hunting you both in the alley.
Death stalks indeed.
And another thing, she's not actually here any more.
The door opened suddenly, all the way this time, making Scott jump back.
Kaisha was standing there with a dweeby teenager wearing a Stargate T-shirt and SG1 vest, the pockets of which held at least five computer gizmos and a couple of cell phones.
Scott recognised his younger self in the kid before him. Even Japanese nerds look like nerds.
'You coming?' Kaisha asked.
'Again - where?'
'Again, Scott, don't know but I plan to go far away from this place. Spaceboy here said he will check the street for the Bad Arsehole, so we can leave. But you can stay if you want.'
'No, no, I'm with you, Kaisha,' Scott surrendered. 'Lead on Spaceboy.'
Kaisha nodded to the kid who weaved ahead towards the front of the noisy and crowded café which was, conveniently for them, lit only by computer monitors, video game consoles and plasma screens.
'Bad Arsehole?' Scott said in Kaisha's ear, when Spaceboy indicated they should stop and wait till he returned.
'Very Bad Arsehole,' she qualified.
Dargo emerged from the alley into the side street, just around the corner from where he'd seen her make contact. The drizzling rain, running off his bald head and down the back of his shirt, was only marginally less irritating than not being able to find the stupid woman. She - they - were not in the alley, and if they'd gotten through one of the other doors they could be anywhere.
But, if they'd reached this street… No, there was no parting of the throngs to his left to indicate they were fleeing in that direction. On the other hand, if they had any sense they'd have taken the short route back around the nearest corner and out of sight. Again they'd be long gone.
Dargo headed right just in case but, as he expected, found nothing out of the ordinary. He sat down on the same stool the woman had chosen in the noodle shop and ordered a sake and some sushi.
Silently cursing the universe for the unforseen fuckups that played havoc with his Work and messed with his equilibrium, he pulled his vid-phone from one of the inside pockets of his coat and dialled the Client.
'Mark number four has been reached,' he said when the call was answered.
'Excellent.'
'There may be a problem.'
'But you never have problems, my friend.'
'Not that I admit to,' Dargo said. 'This one is a woman, a local. His mistress.'
'Is she a witness?'
'No. But she was there, post meeting, and may have information.' Dargo acknowledged the delivery of his food and drink with a nod.
Two men sat on the stools next to Dargo. They ordered loudly then conversed at the same volume.
'She then met with a non-native,' Dargo continued moving his phone to his left ear.
'Interesting. Description?'
'A white guy. English, American or the like. Fortyish, six foot, dark wavy hair.'
'Ah.'
'They ran away.'
'From you?' The Client seemed amused.
'Perhaps,' Dargo scowled. 'She ran first, then he followed. Now they're gone.'
'It's okay. We will monitor the situation. If the mistress presents a problem we will know and either recall you or have her dealt with.'
'Do not recall me. You know my position on repairs.'
'Ah right, only if imperative during the commission and never after the fact,' the Client said. 'I've just sent the file of your next destination and the open e-ticket info.'
Dargo's phone began vibrating. 'It's incoming,' he said and quickly read the message. 'How lovely, I haven't been there in a while.'
The Japanese guy on the stool next to him had no concept of personal space or privacy. He was eyeballing the vid-phone as if he had shares in it. Language proved no barrier to Dargo, as there was no mistaking the look on his face. It said 'get lost, or die where you sit.' The young man turned back to his friend.
Dargo put the phone to his ear. 'I'll get a flight out there in the morning,' he said.
'Good. I'll be in touch with the details when you get there.'
The Client disconnected without further ado. Dargo pocketed his phone and turned his attention to his food.
Chapter Thirteen
Café Baba, Peshawar, Pakistan
Tuesday 5.15 pm
Majid passed the huqqa back to the only other patron who'd spent as long as he had in this place today. The old man, barely disturbing his recumbency on the day bed by the wall, reclaimed the water pipe and gave a toothless smile.
Majid pondered the man's existence: could he not walk at all, or did his days have no purpose? Had he already lived his life to his satisfaction, or was he burdened by it? Was he happy or oblivious? Was he lazy or had he simply become adept at stillness?
Majid's own impetuous nature had lately been tempered by a new patience derived from his studies, but he had yet to master the stillness of self-containment. Barely on the threshold of understanding its value, he couldn't claim it as a quality, but he did enjoy the personal control its practice seemed to be giving him.
For instance, today he would simply wonder about the old man. Tomorrow, if they were both here again, he would engage him in conversation to seek answers. For Majid this was indeed a liberating approach, for if he had no need to return here tomorrow, then he would simply continue to wonder.
All of this of course depended on what happened in the next little while. He had been told to wait each day until six; and wait he had, and would, until the Emissary came or Kali told him otherwise.
From the age of three, Ashraf Majid had shared everything in life, whether mundane or significant, frivolous or serious, with Bashir Kali. Their lives were forever entwined in love and trust, blood and honour. Soon, when they married each other's sisters, their families - their sons - would also be bonded in heart, spirit and blood.
It was Kali who had first met the Emissary while training in Morocco, and on his return home had introduced his beloved friend to the new way. For six months now they had both been following Rashmana, the Words of Kúrus, and now Majid too was to meet the Emissary. If the introduction went well, the friends would be given the go ahead for their first Trust.
The Emissary, by Kali's account a most inspirational man, had in his turn been personally inspired by the greatest of teachers: Dárayavaus himself.
Majid was confident. He felt in his bones that he and Kali would rise together through the ranks to stand with the Emissary before the great Dárayavaus. They would strive for the highest of honours that could be bestowed on a man: the right to sup at the table of his Inner Circle.