Redback. Lindy Cameron
Читать онлайн книгу.
not dare to presume it had the same meaning. 'I am not sure.'
'It is a title of respect from the Ottoman time. It means you are now a commander in my army.'
Majid's chest swelled with a pride he had never known before. 'I am honoured, Emissary, shukran.'
Samir announced, 'It is nearly time to move on.'
Zahkri acknowledged the reminder by raising one finger, but kept his gaze on his new lieutenant.
'Majid, you and your kan kardes, your blood brother Bashir Kali, now share the same rank. Once you have, insha-allah, successfully performed your first Trust together as my agas, I will appoint you 'duumvir'. This is an ancient Roman term for either of two men who exercise joint authority. Do you accept this obligation?'
'With my blood and my mind and my life, Emissary,' Majid swore.
'Harika,' Zahkri said. 'Excellent,' he repeated in English. 'I assume then, Aga Ashraf, that everything is in place and all that is left is to choose the moment.'
'That is the decision I await,' Majid said, tipping his head left and right.
'Your new aga has made excellent preparation for our party,' Kali stated. 'And I, as you know, have brought the gifts.'
'Harika,' Zahkri said again. His tone changed from enthusiastic to reverential as he continued. 'Dárayavaus, Bringer of the Future, has designated this Wadee-Ah - this Trust - for you himself.' Resting his chin in plain sight on his laced fingers for a moment, he added, 'He approves of yom alArba'a - Wednesday. Here in Peshawar that is, what?'
'For us,' Kali indicated himself and Majid, 'it is budh. For the Kashmiri there, it is Bodvar.'
'Bodvar,' the old man on the bed corrected his pronunciation.
'Ha! What a world we live in,' Zahkri exclaimed, clapping as he laughed and got to his feet. 'Ummah - a hundred tongues; but all one under Allah.'
Zahkri turned his back to the street, offered his right hand to Kali and then Majid, and said softly, 'We expect then to hear your work next week; five days 'after' budh, at precisely zawwal. Aga Kali knows where your journey will take you both after that.'
'Atarsa kára, Emissary,' Kali said and touched the fingertips of his right hand to his heart, and then offered up his palm, all with his forearm close across his chest.
The Emissary, and then everyone else, repeated the gesture. 'Atarsa kára, 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