‘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 trademark 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 did 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 mastermind 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 overstuffed 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 those guys were surrendering. And they were shooting at everything; the team had to defend themselves. A few things - quite a lot actually - also got blown to hell by both sides.’
‘Kelman?’
‘Yes sir?’
‘Where are the hostages?’
There was silence on the line for a few seconds. It could have been the satphone delay, but Lyall doubted it.
‘They were all taken off the island by…’ Silence again.
‘I didn’t catch that, son. Who took them?’
‘Someone else, sir. There was another party on the island.’
‘What the hell do you mean? Are you telling me we crossed wires with another of our own departments?’
‘No sir. Rumour has it they were Australians.’
‘What?’ Lyall bellowed. ‘That pissant stole our thunder? And ruined a perfectly good plan?’
‘It looks like it, sir. But, so far, there’s no word on the wire about anyone claiming a rescue. So it could just be chatter fed by shit from those on the line, you know, to cover the debacle.’
‘Shit indeed. And this is not something that’s going to stay under the radar; someone has to take the fall for this.’
‘Already working on it, sir.’
‘Good man. Go to it.’ Lyall disconnected the call, reached for the whisky decanter and poured himself a generous slug.
Redback Page 9
