Читать книгу Redback - Lindy Cameron - Страница 16

Café Baba, Peshawar, Pakistan

Tuesday 4.30 pm

Ashraf Majid was nervous. But it was with anticipation, not foreboding, that he sat alone; waiting. Today, perhaps tomorrow, he would make the most important connection of his life.

The narrow street, four steps from his lopsided table, was choked with noisy local traffic. In this bazaar of the old city, the human traffic was mostly Pashtuns, Chitrali and Afghan refugees, but there were also sheep, motor bikes, horse-drawn tongas and auto-rickshaws. The shop across the way had suddenly drawn a crowd, but Majid could not determine what the attraction was or why a copperware seller would even have a busy time.

He folded the roti around the last of the beef and peas, thumbed it into his mouth, and then pushed the empty tin plate away. A young boy appeared with a pot of freshly brewed kahwa, filled from the samovar next door. The boy poured the kahwa into his cup. Majid inhaled the green tea before sipping it, then sat back and continued to wait.

This was his third day biding time in Peshawar, capital of the North-West Frontier Province. Until Sunday just gone, he'd never been this far north. Born near Quetta, another thin-aired mountain region, but educated in Karachi and Manchester, before training in Afghanistan, it occurred to Majid that he had seen much of the world but not enough of his own country. That, however, was about to change.

Soon, insha-allah, he would be able to demonstrate his devotion with a long useful life. And if he could offer all of himself, without having to sacrifice his future, then God was indeed great.

Not that he was a coward. Far from it. If he had to, he was ready to die. But one of his great joys was bearing witness to his actions, so he saw no value in self-destruction. Majid frowned with sudden doubt.

Had he been tainted by too much time spent in the West? Was he contaminated by a sense of self-importance? He cricked his neck. No. It was far better to prove his worth many times over. And if Kali was right then he, Ashraf Majid, would get the chance to do just that - to use his skills again and again, until old age took them. He would not have to blow them to heaven with the crusaders. He was more than ready to pledge his living to the jihad of Kúrus, so that one day he could freely travel his own land and all the nations of Islam with his sons and their sons.

Yes, Majid would make Kali proud and impress the Emissary with his resolve. He smiled with joyous expectation.

Khyber Hotel, Peshawar, Pakistan:

Tuesday 4.30 pm

Christ's sake Mudge, sit down. Do you want him to see you?'

'It's a crowded bloody bizarre, mate. Who's gonna notice?'

'Bazaar, you doofus. And sit down anyway you're blockin my view of the gun shop.'

Mudge curled his lip. 'Which bloody gun shop, Spud? There's like a gazillion of em in this town. And hello, we're s'posed to be scoping the chai shop.'

'It's kahwa not chai in these here parts,' Simon Brody said.

'Car-wea,' Mudge attempted, then shrugged. 'Car-way, chai, tea, tai-chi, same diff, and who cares? There's no beer without a stupid permit, that's all I bloody know. And how come you're not antsy? You better not be going all yogi on me.'

'Yeah right,' Brody snorted. 'I've just got my eye on the Winchester that bloke down there's been finishing off,' he explained, pointing down through the balustrade of their second floor balcony to the street-level 'Ali Gupta Guns' opposite.

Mudge was right about the shops though, Brody acknowledged. Gupta's was only one of three in the immediate vicinity of an area known for its gun traders. Though not as famous, he thought longingly, as the old Smugglers Bazaar at Landi Kotal, or the Karkhanai Bazaar on the Khyber Pass road, or his own wet dream of the legendary Darra Adam Khel.

Mudge was snorting. 'Well it's a good thing you're keeping an eye on it, Spud, because that wrinkled bastard's only got one of his own. Have you taken a good squiz at him, mate? He's older than dirt.'

'Well his age isn't hurting his craftsmanship,' Brody smiled, raising his spotting scope to zoom in on the gunsmith. 'It's a beautiful thing he's creating. It's a Model 94.'

'Whoopee.' Mudge circled his index finger. 'It's just a Winchester.'

'That's 1894 Mudge, which is even older than old one-eyed Ali Gupta. I reckon he's copying an original too. The engraving on the breech is exquisite. I am over there, as soon as he racks it on the wall.'

'Exquisite?' Mudge mocked. 'And that's dumber than me standing up here to air me armpits.'

'Why?'

'Because, Spud, you can't go traipsing the streets buying guns as long as Ashraf is waiting for whatever he's waiting for in that chai shop.'

'I am aware of that, Mudge.'

'I tell you what though, we should go to Darra when this thing's over, mate. My brother reckons every second house there is a gun factory.'

'Tell me about it,' Brody curled his lip, annoyed all over again at how close he was to one of his personal must-see things in the world while under orders to stay clear of it. Brody's personal seven wonders included London's annual Tri-Services Defence Exhibition and the Cody Firearms Museum in Wyoming, so Darra Adam Khel - a whole village of gunsmiths - was his idea of paradise.

He took a drag on his smoke. Darra had been supplying weapons to the tribal warriors of the mountainous region bordering Afghanistan for over a century, but the blokes there were much more than just arms dealers. Their specialty was, and had always been, manufacturing - by hand - working replicas of every firearm ever imported, brought or smuggled into this wonderfully lawless frontier.

'Technically, Mudge,' he said, 'the houses collectively make up a big gun factory. Some guys make the stocks and others make the barrels or the triggers. And they use small forges and really basic tools, like old Gupta down there, and still turn out perfect repros of old rifles and pistols, and new handguns - like Berettas, Magnums and Glocks - as well as semi and automatic weapons.'

'Christos reckons they make 007-type gadgets like pen guns and stuff too,' Mudge said.

'Yeah,' Brody rolled his eyes, 'And grenades and anti-aircraft guns. Mind you, while their work is impeccable, their materials are often a bit dodgy; so the guns all look perfect but some only fire once.'

Brody ground his smoke butt into the wall. Darra was only 40 clicks south of Peshawar, but in the middle of an op it may as well be 400, or in Tasmania. 'I'm really pissed off we're stuck here.'

'We might get lucky,' Mudge smiled. 'Ashraf might get off his bum and lead us to Darra.'

'Where Carter will take over and send us straight back here.'

'He's such a prick, that Carter!'

'Yeah, but he's our prick,' Brody agreed. 'Get the door will you, I think Duh-Wayne is back.'

A rap on the door a second later confirmed that there was indeed someone in the hallway.

'Spud mate, how do you do that?' Mudge asked, heading inside. 'I didn't hear nothing. You must have ears like a hawk.' He bent to press his eye to the tiny spy hole they'd drilled in the door.

'Eyes. 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.'