‘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 motorbike - 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.
Chapter Forty-Three
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.
The wider world was not her purview, but the FBI’s Brenda Janeway was, nevertheless, explaining to latecomers what was going on. ‘Terrorists or insurgents have attacked our Consulate in Peshawar in northern Pakistan.’
‘Good God almighty,’ van Louden said. ‘What next, for pity’s sake?’
‘The front half of the Consulate building has been virtually obliterated. It was lunchtime there, and it’s Monday so the place was open, occupied, working. God only knows how many have been killed,’ Janeway said. ‘If the devastation in the street outside is any indication I think the death toll, of both Americans and the local population, will be in the hundreds.’
President Brock, apparently deciding it was time to take command, said, ‘Get everyone in here who should be here so we can discuss what kind of action needs to be taken against these damn Pakistanis. I think the time has come for an air strike.’
Chiang Mai, Thailand
Monday 2.15 pm
Gideon took a moment to escape the chatter that was still going around the lunch table nearly three hours after it had started in the kitchen. Coop, Triko and now Ruth were regaling Jana with stories of adventure and derring-do from the Redback Chronicles and it was all getting a bit much for Gideon’s innate reticence. She put her feet up on the coffee table, lay back and placed an open magazine over her face so she could take a snooze.
A tingling sensation, that she’d not quite gotten used to yet, slithered its way around her ear. Shaking her head at the untimely interruption, she pressed her earlobe and said ‘Go ahead Link.’
‘Gideon, got bad news I’m afraid.’
‘Hi Oliver. Is there any other kind?’
‘Some serious shit has gone down in northern Pakistan. I’ve been monitoring the area because some of the other Redbacks have mates in the region. Triko’s brother is also up that way, somewhere, too.’
‘What kind of serious shit?’ Gideon realised everyone around the dining table had turned to watch her talk to thin air. As it was unusual for home-base to use the Link to make contact when they weren’t on mission, Gideon wasn’t surprised they were all curious.
‘There’s been a terrorist attack on the American Consulate in Peshawar. It was a huge bomb, about 15 minutes ago, around noon their time. High death toll already, and counting.’
‘Shit. Okay Oliver, hang on a sec,’ Gideon returned to the table. ‘Triko, do you have any idea where your brother is at the moment?’
‘Which one?’ Triko shrugged and tried not to look worried. ‘Alex is in East Timor with a Peacekeeping Force, Jason is in Kandahar.’
‘Good,’ Gideon said with relief. ‘I’ll just sign off from Oliver and then explain.’
Chapter Forty-Four
Peshawar, Pakistan
Monday 12.35 pm
Mudge and Brody, riding flat-chat along any southern street of Peshawar they could gain access to - no matter how crowded or narrow - had still only managed to make it half way into the Old City. They’d rightly assumed that all traffic along Khyber Road near the Consulate would be a no-go zone; and that by now the army would have roadblocked everywhere in the cantonment and west towards the airport. But why the southern route into the Old City was also bedlam so soon after the attack was a mystery.
Mudge pulled the bike over on Qissa Khawani, the Storytellers’ Street, ironically almost out the front of the Café Baba in which Ashraf had awaited his fellow conspirators.
‘This is useless mate,’ he said. ‘I don’t even know where we should be going, let alone how to get there.’
‘Please tell me you’ve still got your phone, mate,’ Brody said, realising he had a cracker of a headache.
‘I’ve still got my phone, mate,’ Mudge said, taking it from his pocket and handing it back.
‘Good, there’s about 100 missed calls from Bamm-Bamm,’ Brody said. ‘Obviously he’s not in a million pieces all over this godforsaken country.’
He hit reply button and waited, until, ‘Oh, mate, I feel,’ he leant left, spewed his breakfast onto the road, and then finished his statement, ‘awful.’ ‘Brody!’ said a voice on the other end of the call he’d just made. ‘Thank fucking Christ! Where the hell are you guys?’
‘Just near our old stake-out at the Khyber Hotel. Where are you?’
‘Pinned under a motherfucking bed, hanging over a coc
ksucking blown-up stairwell in a goddamn collapsed arsehole of a hotel; that’s where.’
‘You sound a bit pissed off, mate,’ Brody noted.
‘Come get me outta here,’ Dwayne Bamm-Bamm Kennedy shouted.
‘Righto, hang on to your nuts.’
‘I can’t feel me fuckin nuts, Brody. Don’t make me swear at you too.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Brody said, unexpectedly thrilled that he was still able to be annoyed by this annoying American. ‘What hotel are you in?’
‘Ashraf’s friggin hotel, of course, you, you - And I’m under it, not in it.’
It took Brody and Mudge ten minutes to get to the Hotel Marhaba, which wasn’t actually all there anymore. It looked like a giant’s hand had punched in the front of the building and ripped the guts right out of the middle three floors.
The street resembled a massive rubbish dump with squashed cars, chunks of concrete, broken bits of unrecognisable things, thousands of strips and pieces of cloth and twisted plastic and metal. There were people everywhere. Walking wounded staggered out of the rubble, rescuers clambered into the ruins to help, men and women shouted instructions or wailed in anguish or pain.
Brody redialled Kennedy’s mobile, as they headed into the destruction. ‘We’re here B-B. I’d say we’re coming in to get you, but you’re right - there is no in. Can you give us a clue?’
‘I was half way down the north-end staircase when the building went boom.’
‘Righto, just stay where you are,’ Brody said, redirecting Mudge to their left.
‘Oh very funny,’ Kennedy said.
‘Just keep talking, so that Mudge can listen out for you,’ Brody instructed as he followed his friend up over what used to be a bus, and up onto a broken section of concrete that had been the hotel’s first-floor balcony.
They hauled themselves into the cavity of the obliterated building and stood listening for…anything. The wailing sirens down on the street made hearing anything difficult.
‘I think I’m still on some stairs. And I wasn’t kidding about the bed, at least I think it’s a bed that’s got me pinned to the wall,’ Kennedy was saying.
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