Redback. Lindy Cameron
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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 so for days.
The Emissary commented on the meat and asked what it was.
Majid flicked his outstretched hand questioningly at the boy and said, 'bakri ka mans, ji ha?' The boy nodded, and Majid, glad to have found an easy way to test his voice, turned back to the Emissary. 'It is goat.'
'Then it is very good goat.' The Emissary added something else, in a language Majid did not recognise, but only one of the other men laughed. This was apparently not done to exclude anyone; but rather to include the small foreign man who was still grinning.
'I reminded our southern friend,' Zahkri explained, switching back to English without hesitation, 'of the last time we had eaten goat together. It was near the Thai-Burmese border, and the meat was hot and tough like the cloven one himself. The flavour of this meal is much more to our liking.'
Majid tilted his head and smiled, yet he could not believe his first conversation with the great Jamal Zahkri al Khudri was about meat.
'Kali tells me you have taken to the Rashmana like a duck.'
A duck? Majid couldn't help but look taken-aback. That his friend should make such a report to the Emissary about his studies being apparently less than fitting, could not be true. First goats, now birds; perhaps there is some code I am missing.
Zahkri looked puzzled with his latest recruit's odd reaction. He glanced questioningly at his other companions, then tore a piece of roti with his right hand, used it to envelop a piece of meat and pushed it into his mouth.
Kali meanwhile launched into a quick exchange in Urdu to find out what was wrong with his best-friend-in-all-the- world. He then laughed out loud and even Majid managed to smile at his own mistake.
'He didn't understand the duck to water reference,' Kali explained, again in English. 'He thought it might be a code.'
Everyone laughed, except the little man who Majid suspected was neither Thai nor Burmese despite the previous reference. He's Malay perhaps or Indonesian, Majid decided.
Jamal Zahkri put his elbows on the table and clasped his hands in front of his face. As all the others followed suit, Majid did the same.
'This,' explained Kali, 'is just in case we are being watched or perhaps filmed. The CIA has been known to use lip readers when they have not been able to leave their bugs.'
'I swept here every day for devices,' Majid stated.
'We know,' said the fourth man in the group.
'Samir has been watching you waiting,' Kali grinned.
'For three days?' Majid was astonished. He looked around to see how this could have been so.
'For three days indeed,' Samir replied. 'And I helped sell a good many copper pots.'
For a moment, Majid thought the Emissary was smiling at his discomfort, but realised he was in reality simply smiling at him.
'It is okay, arkadasim, my friend,' Zahkri said. 'Samir was simply observing your patience and capacity for waiting. He was also making sure that no one else was watching you.'
'And were they? Are they?'
'Oh yes. But that too is okay, Ashraf Majid. Someone is always watching us. It is only when they stop that we should be worried, for it means we are not irritating them enough.'
Majid looked puzzled. 'Should we not then meet behind closed doors, given that we are speaking English?'
'A valid point, but from experience we have learned that whenever we hold secret meetings the Americans seem to think we are up to no good and they invariably send a large missile to ensure we are dissuaded.'
'And with pinpoint accuracy, their not-very-smart-at-all long- range death dealer usually hits the empty house next door, or kills the wedding party up the street,' Kali said.
'Which they then deny,' added Samir, 'while claiming they 'got' a most-wanted but often imaginary terrorist.'
'So we meet in crowded places,' the Emissary said, flicking his hands at their surroundings before reclasping them, 'and we enjoy good food. We speak in English and mix it up with the words of our many nations, and a few others. And while the duck was not a code, the goat . . .' He glanced across the table.
Kali dropped his hands just long enough to say, 'Bakri ka'.
'The bakri ka might just confuse them a little. So, apropos of that, today Ashraf Majid I make you my aga. Do you know this word? '
Majid thought he did, but