Redback (40 page)

'Dunno, mate, but you're never going to know who rang it now,' Mudge said, pulling out to pass a
taxi and moving to the left to make way for a fire truck.

'Gimme your phone, mate; I'd better call Carter and warn them all to zip up.'

'It's in the glove box,' Mudge said as he planted his foot and sped out of the bazaar area. They
passed the Arbab Niaz Stadium, then turned right to follow the bike that carried Ashraf and Kali up
Younos Road. 'I reckon they might have a plane to catch, Spud. What do you think?'

'I reckon all the planes will be grounded by now,' Brody said and then swore at the mobile. 'HQ
must have gone into lock-down already. All I'm getting is the answering machine with the security
code about Khyber Pass treks.'

'Oh well, at least it means they know something's up.'

Brody nearly dropped the mobile when it rang as he was about to try the backup number.

'Yep, we are going to the airport,' Mudge said as they slowed to make the turn. 'No, hang
on.'

'Shut up a second, mate. I can't hear this call,' Brody requested. 'What? Who's there? Damn. Not
sure, but I think that was Bamm-Bamm. Why have we stopped?'

'Because they have,' Mudge pointed. 'And the little turd's off again. What's he doing?'

Ashraf was clambering up the embankment opposite Himalaya Trek & Tours in the Pesh airport
industrial area; while Kali, still on the bike, peeled off down the service road between the
Himalaya T&T building and the Far Frontier Car Rental lot.

'Colour me lilac if I'm wrong about this,' Mudge said, 'but it's very suss that these whackjobs
are zeroing in on our Batcave.'

'Shit, shit,' Brody swore, giving up on the other numbers for the Operation Northern Arrow unit.
'I can't raise Carter or anyone in there.' Bugger this. Here they were, a couple of hundred metres
from their own command centre, like actually looking at the bloody place, but according to protocol
they could now not even approach it. All message-banks were giving the code to stay clear of
Himalaya Trek & Tours.

'This is stupid,' Brody said, reaching over to the back seat for something to use as a weapon. He
dragged Mudge's cricket bat onto his lap. 'We might not be allowed in, but that doesn't mean we just
have to sit here and do nothing. I'm going after Ashraf. You take the car and see what the little
prick on the bike is doing. Run him over if you have to.'

Brody snatched Mudge's turban off his head then got out of the car and waved him off. Tying the
bat to his back he scarpered up the embankment, about 35 metres back from where Ashraf had gone. A
minute later he dropped to his hands and toes and goanna-sprinted across a ridge near the top before
stopping in long grass when he spotted his target.

Ashraf was about nine metres away, sitting on a rock watching - something.

Brody wished to hell he had his gun so he could shoot the fucking mass murderer right were he
sat. Ashraf seemed unconcerned, totally unruffled by what he'd just done. He looked composed, serene
even, as if he was meditating, or plane spotting, or counting the trucks on Khyber Road. He didn't
look at all as though he had just killed over a hundred people and was now waiting for his
partner-in-crime to finish doing…

Brody glanced down at his Recon Unit's HQ as the entire building lifted, billowed out and then
disintegrated. This time the sound of the explosion took 1.5 seconds to reach his ears. And this
time, SAS Trooper Simon Brody was convinced it also carried, quite audibly, the last collective
breath of his fellow diggers and a dozen American friends.

And Mudge.

Shit. Fuck no; not Mudge.

Brody didn't even realise he was up on his feet, until movement to his right brought him back to
himself and the hilltop.

Ashraf, still unaware he was not alone, despite Brody standing like a flagpole in the open, was
also standing - and smiling; smiling at the outcome of his deadly work.

Brody let out a guttural howl and began running. As he closed the gap, he reached back and
grabbed the cricket bat, drawing it over his shoulder, like a warrior drawing his sword. He felt the
rage, the full-on bloodlust for retribution, and he became that warrior, hell-bent on cleaving his
enemy's head from his body.

Ashraf Majid turned to see a giant Pashtun bearing down on him as if he was Wrath incarnate.
Oh no - Allah be merciful - it was a wailing,
filthy-grey Westerner in disguise.

Brody brought Mudge's cricket bat down, but Ashraf had raised his left arm so the blow smashed
into his elbow instead of his head. So Brody belted the Pakistani across the shoulders, and again
across his back, and again, and again. With each blow he screamed, over and over, 'Why?'

Majid was screaming too now; desperately trying to protect his head and face. He fell to his
knees, struggled up again and waited until the mad man swung backwards before trying to run.

Brody hammered the bat into Ashraf's knee, and then hit him for a six - right off the top of the
embankment. Brody did not hang around to watch where Ashraf landed, but followed him straight over
the edge; half-running, half-sliding back down to the road.

Majid rolled and crashed and bumped, finally coming to a crumpled stop; but with his open hand
miraculously on a brick-sized rock. When the lunatic with the bat skidded into his feet, and loomed
over him for the kill, Majid rolled and raised himself up. He smacked his rock into the other man's
head.

Brody reeled away, fell and slid headfirst on his back the rest of the way to the road.

Majid somehow managed to get up again but realised after a couple of steps that his knee was
either crushed or dislocated. His left arm was most certainly broken. He would probably not survive
another round with this Westerner, but was saved from making the decision not to pursue him by the
sound of an approaching motor. The timing of Kali's return for him could not have been more perfect.
He turned to greet his friend.

Except that it wasn't Kali.

Or rather, the first of the two approaching motorbikes wasn't ridden by Kali.

Majid, oddly, took in a lot of detail in the next second but had no time at all to react. The
rider was another unholy Westerner, probably an American soldier working secretly in the building
they'd just destroyed. He also was disguised in local garb, but without a turban or cap. His hair
was sand coloured. And his left arm, flung straight out, felt just like an iron bar as it struck
Majid in the face on the way by. The man did not slow, stop or make any manoeuvre to return.

With a broken bloodied nose to add to his injuries, it was sheer determination that enabled
Ashraf Majid to get up yet again. He slung his injured leg over the back of the second motorbike -
Kali's motor-bike - and told his friend to take them away in the other direction.

Mudge meanwhile, had skidded and dropped the motorbike he'd stolen and hotwired from the rental
lot, and was running over to where Brody was sitting up in the dirt on the roadside swearing and,
well, swearing a lot.

Hong Kong
Monday 3.20pm

The legendary Jamal Zahkri al Khudri, scourge of the West, America's worst
nightmare, hijacker, smuggler, terrorist, murderer, and great Emissary to the blooded warriors of
Kúrus, stood on his lofty five-star hotel balcony and smiled at the world that lay beneath
his feet. It was as if the view of the wondrously crowded and complicated city of Hong Kong was his
alone. For a lesser man, it would have been humbling. But Jamal Zahkri, whose title in truth should
be 'conman extraordinaire', was a man of so many faces, facets and personas that it would be
difficult to decide which of them should feel so satisfied.

His long-time associate Samir poured more champagne for them both and put his feet up on the
railing, and casually brushed at the leg of his jeans.

'I could get used to this if I wasn't already so.'

'And it will only become more so, Samir my friend. In a few short weeks, business will be booming
like never before.'

Zahkri gestured expectantly when one of the three mobile phones on the balcony table began
ringing. 'Speak of the devils. I do believe our colleagues are touching base.'

Zahkri answered the call with, 'I await your news.' He listened, smiled, thanked the caller and
hung up.

'All is well on the frontier I trust,' Samir said.

'According to our observer, someone has apparently made an unbelievable mess in two or three
places on the frontier,' Zahkri grinned. 'So yes, all is better than well.' He picked up one of the
other two mobiles and dialled a number.

'Dárayavaus, it is I,' Zahkri said, with his customary flourish.

'You do love saying that, don't you?'
said the man on the other end.

'I do indeed my brother. I believe even
I
am inspired by it.' Zahkri flinched when the
pecan that Samir had thrown hit him on the chin.

'And what news do you have for me this morning?'

'Morning?' Zahkri echoed. 'And where does morning place you on this fine and beautiful afternoon
of mine, oh Bringer of the Future?'

'It places me at breakfast with friends in London; where it is presently raining ducks and
monkeys.'

Zahkri could hear the laughter of his friend's friends. And now that he knew
where
Dárayavaus was, he could even guess the identity of at least one of those fellow
breakfasters.

'Well I shan't disturb you, dear brother. I merely rang to let you know that the Atlas team has
again surpassed expectations and your new
agas
have completed your Trust. The game is well
and truly on.'

'Excellent, that is such good news. And what about you, will you be travelling again
soon?'

'Yes, Samir and I have decided to leave for the islands of leis and larva on the morrow. That
will give us plenty of time to prepare for the procession.'

'Then, again I say excellent.'

'
Harika
indeed,' Zahkri joked. 'To which I would add:
Atarsa
kára,
Dárayavaus
.'

The Bringer of the Future laughed heartily,
'Fear the people indeed, my brother.'

The White House, Washington DC
Monday 3.20 am

It honestly seemed that no sooner had he dozed off, he was woken again for no good
reason. This was the third time - Nate van Louden checked his watch - in the last two hours that
someone had politely knocked on the door. He growled 'enter' and swung his legs off the couch to sit
up.

It was his own Chief of Staff risking life for his intrusion; so it was possible there was a good
reason for the disturbance. 'I realise it's probably daylight somewhere in the world Harry,' van
Louden grumbled, 'but I'm sure it's still only three in the morning here.'

'Yeah, sorry Nate, but it
is
a little after midday in Pakistan where there's been some
kind of incident. We're about to get a live feed from a Consulate official in the north of the
country, via a CNN satellite phone for some reason.'

Van Louden sighed. 'I am seriously over incidents, Harry.'

'I don't blame you, Nate. If it's any consolation, I was about to wake you anyway with some good
news. But now everyone who's still here has been summoned to the Situation Room.'

Van Louden stood and stretched, rubbed his face vigorously and picked up his suit jacket. 'Lead
on and, please, some good oil for a change would be nice.'

'Marcus Boulier came on line from Paris 15 minutes ago,' Harry said, as the two men left the
sitting room and headed down the narrow corridor.

Van Louden snorted. 'You mean that sanctimonious French spy.'

'Yes him,' Harry laughed. 'But I now suspect his Smug Bastard Medal might be well earned. They've
captured Ilia Dushenko.'

'You're kidding? Just like that?' Van Louden stopped walking. 'All these years of committing
terrorist acts all over several countries, and now they just pick her up. What did they do: finally
decide to drop in on her parents on the off chance she'd gone home for dinner?'

'No,' Harry laughed. 'But this time every law enforcement officer and agency in Europe knew
exactly who they were looking for, and were actively on the lookout for her. She had no idea she'd
been posthumously incriminated by Justin. She apparently wasn't even in hiding.'

'That's unbelievable.'

'Well I swear, Nate, that if the world gets any smaller, I'm joining the space program and
getting the hell off this rock.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Even though Dushenko snared Justin in her web in Luxembourg, she was picked up four hours ago in
a hotel in Paris. Nate, the woman was staying not half a mile from where we were on Friday. What's
more, or more creepy, is that she was there when we were. We could've passed her on the street.'

Van Louden shook his head in disbelief. He pushed open the door to the plasma-screen-panelled
Situation Room from which the POTUS and his many advisors could, literally, monitor the world. In
this Centre of the Universe, the nation's most senior decision makers accessed a mind-blowing amount
of information, images and real-time incident data from anywhere and everywhere, 24/7.

Someone had gotten Garner Brock himself out of bed, and the man was not a happy camper. Van
Louden registered the faces of the others who were here still, or here again: Vice President Conte,
EAD Brenda Janeway, three of the Joint Chiefs, both the Secretary and Deputy Sec of State, and a
handful of aides. The incident in Pakistan was obviously not a small one.

All 32 individual screens on the video wall were operational with images and information
streaming in from all over the country and the world. But right now everyone's attention was
focussed on one screen and its grainy satellite feed. A hand-held camera on the far side of the
world panned away from the dishevelled American who'd been talking, to a scene of utter ruin and
wreckage.