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Authors: Lindy Cameron

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BOOK: Redback
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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.'

 

Chapter Twelve

Tokyo, Japan
Tuesday 8.30 pm

 

Scott Dreher fought his attacker for only a moment. The scent that graced his
assailant was decidedly female. It was enough to tell Scott that he was probably being rescued not
assaulted. Besides, Hiroyuki Kaga's mistress was unexpectedly and exceptionally strong for someone
so slight.

He now stood beside her in the dark while she, face pressed against a painted glass panel in the
door, kept watch on the alley. When he felt her flinch he leant forward to peer through the
scratched paintwork.

It was another heartbeat before the alley light flickered on again.

Yep, there he was - one very large bald
gaijin
, definitely looking for someone. He was
being quite thorough about it too, checking every door and all the dumpsters.

Holy shit. Whoever he was, and murderer or not, the dude's black jeans, black shirt and black
leather overcoat were pure overkill.

Scott ticked off the black combat boots too, while wondering vaguely where the
gaijin's
rollerblades were, then slapped himself mentally as he finally thought to ask himself,
What the
hell is actually going on here?

Because, although he was undeniably in some kind of serious shit now, he couldn't help but wonder
what would've happened if he'd stayed put in the noodle bar. Would that guy out there simply have
run right by him, oblivious to his very existence, and just gone after Kaisha?

Oh man
. Scott hated these little existential brain farts of his, especially when they
threw up the whole alternate universe theory of never knowing what might've gone down from any given
choice, because you're no longer there to witness what else might have been.

Nevertheless, as usual, he still wondered if he'd done nothing or done something else, where
would he be now? Okay, so he might be feeling guilty about leaving Kaisha to her own fate. Or, yes
possibly, he might even have chased after the big bald guy chasing the petite young woman,
but…

Face it, Scotty-boy, you made a stupid mistake this time. There is a huge likelihood that the
big dude out there and the beautiful mistress in here actually have nothing to do with why you're
even in Tokyo
.

Kaisha was fumbling for his hand.

Except that you are now irretrievably involved in whatever it is, and that guy out there won't
care why
.

'We must go,' she whispered in his ear.

Of course we must
. Scott allowed her to lead him further into the dark. A moment later
they heard the bad guy, for want of a better designation, thumping his body against the unyielding
door. Then Scott fell over something.

'You want him to catch us?' Kaisha hissed.

'Sorry, next time I'll hurt myself quietly,' Scott said, getting to his feet. 'Where are we going
anyway?'

'Don't know where we are. Can't say where we're going.'

'That's very enigmatic Kaisha, but it doesn't instil a lot of confidence.'

'I'm not here to boost your ego, Mr Dreher.' A sliver of light briefly illuminated the right side
of Kaisha's face. She'd apparently found a door that opened, and then closed it again.

'Then call me Scott,' he said.

'Why?'

'Why not?' He shrugged into the dark. 'What's in there?'

'Internet café,' she reported. 'Wait here.'

'Wait for what?' Scott asked, but Kaisha had already gone, shutting the door behind her again.

It suddenly occurred to him that this mess he'd been dragged into might just be a domestic
argument. Okay, a really bloody one, if Kaisha's clothes were any indication. But given what he knew
- or rather everything he didn't - this could be the violent payoff for a sexual convergence gone
wrong. And that meant that this was none of his business. Baldy out there could be the third wheel
in some kind of threesome, or even a four-way kink, if Hiro's wife counted for anything.

It was probably all unrelated to The Plot, as Scott had dubbed this latest investigative crusade.
It was likely his reason for being in Japan, and for organising a secret rendezvous with a computer
game creator, had merely collided with a domestic situation that was running its own course. Yep.
Love and betrayal smashes headlong into international terrorist plot - happens every day.

Except that Hiroyuki Kaga was dead.

And that's what The Plot was all about. Except that Scott had assumed the targets would be
high-profile politicians not software designers.

Whoa buddy, hang on
. Hiro was only allegedly dead. What's more, it was only according to
Hiro's alleged mistress that he even was no longer living, and that his purported end had not come
about by natural causes.

Perfect, Scott! You're hiding in the dark with a woman you've never laid eyes on before, who
tells you that a man you've never met, but were supposed to, was brutally murdered, possibly by the
thug currently out hunting you both in the alley.

Death stalks indeed.

And another thing, she's not actually here any more.

The door opened suddenly, all the way this time, making Scott jump back.

Kaisha was standing there with a dweeby teenager wearing a Stargate T-shirt and SG1 vest, the
pockets of which held at least five computer gizmos and a couple of cell phones.

Scott recognised his younger self in the kid before him. Even Japanese nerds look like nerds.

'You coming?' Kaisha asked.

'Again - where?'

'Again, Scott, don't know but I plan to go far away from this place. Spaceboy here said he will
check the street for the Bad Arsehole, so we can leave. But you can stay if you want.'

'No, no, I'm with you, Kaisha,' Scott surrendered. 'Lead on Spaceboy.'

Kaisha nodded to the kid who weaved ahead towards the front of the noisy and crowded café
which was, conveniently for them, lit only by computer monitors, video game consoles and plasma
screens.

'Bad Arsehole?' Scott said in Kaisha's ear, when Spaceboy indicated they should stop and wait
till he returned.

'Very Bad Arsehole,' she qualified.

 

Dargo emerged from the alley into the side street, just around the corner from
where he'd seen her make contact. The drizzling rain, running off his bald head and down the back of
his shirt, was only marginally less irritating than not being able to find the stupid woman. She -
they - were not in the alley, and if they'd gotten through one of the other doors they could be
anywhere.

But, if they'd reached this street… No, there was no parting of the throngs to his left to
indicate they were fleeing in that direction. On the other hand, if they had any sense they'd have
taken the short route back around the nearest corner and out of sight. Again they'd be long gone.

Dargo headed right just in case but, as he expected, found nothing out of the ordinary. He sat
down on the same stool the woman had chosen in the noodle shop and ordered a sake and some sushi.

Silently cursing the universe for the unforseen fuckups that played havoc with his Work and
messed with his equilibrium, he pulled his vid-phone from one of the inside pockets of his coat and
dialled the Client.

'Mark number four has been reached,' he said when the call was answered.

'Excellent.'

'There may be a problem.'

'But you never have problems, my friend.'

'Not that I admit to,' Dargo said. 'This one is a woman, a local. His mistress.'

'Is she a witness?'

'No. But she was there, post meeting, and may have information.' Dargo acknowledged the delivery
of his food and drink with a nod.

Two men sat on the stools next to Dargo. They ordered loudly then conversed at the same volume.

'She then met with a non-native,' Dargo continued moving his phone to his left ear.

'Interesting. Description?'

'A white guy. English, American or the like. Fortyish, six foot, dark wavy hair.'

'Ah.'

'They ran away.'

'From you?' The Client seemed amused.

'Perhaps,' Dargo scowled. 'She ran first, then he followed. Now they're gone.'

'It's okay. We will monitor the situation. If the mistress presents a problem we will know and
either recall you or have her dealt with.'

'Do not recall me. You know my position on repairs.'

'Ah right, only if imperative during the commission and never after the fact,' the Client said.
'I've just sent the file of your next destination and the open e-ticket info.'

Dargo's phone began vibrating. 'It's incoming,' he said and quickly read the message. 'How
lovely, I haven't been there in a while.'

The Japanese guy on the stool next to him had no concept of personal space or privacy. He was
eyeballing the vid-phone as if he had shares in it. Language proved no barrier to Dargo, as there
was no mistaking the look on his face. It said 'get lost, or die where you sit.' The young man
turned back to his friend.

Dargo put the phone to his ear. 'I'll get a flight out there in the morning,' he said.

'Good. I'll be in touch with the details when you get there.'

The Client disconnected without further ado. Dargo pocketed his phone and turned his attention to
his food.

Chapter Thirteen

Café Baba, Peshawar, Pakistan
Tuesday 5.15 pm

 

Majid passed the huqqa back to the only other patron who'd spent as long as he had
in this place today. The old man, barely disturbing his recumbency on the day bed by the wall,
reclaimed the water pipe and gave a toothless smile.

Majid pondered the man's existence: could he not walk at all, or did his days have no purpose?
Had he already lived his life to his satisfaction, or was he burdened by it? Was he happy or
oblivious? Was he lazy or had he simply become adept at stillness?

Majid's own impetuous nature had lately been tempered by a new patience derived from his studies,
but he had yet to master the stillness of self-containment. Barely on the threshold of understanding
its value, he couldn't claim it as a quality, but he did enjoy the personal control its practice
seemed to be giving him.

For instance, today he would simply wonder about the old man. Tomorrow, if they were both here
again, he would engage him in conversation to seek answers. For Majid this was indeed a liberating
approach, for if he had no need to return here tomorrow, then he would simply continue to wonder.

All of this of course depended on what happened in the next little while. He had been told to
wait each day until six; and wait he had, and would, until the Emissary came or Kali told him
otherwise.

From the age of three, Ashraf Majid had shared everything in life, whether mundane or
significant, frivolous or serious, with Bashir Kali. Their lives were forever entwined in love and
trust, blood and honour. Soon, when they married each other's sisters, their families - their sons -
would also be bonded in heart, spirit and blood.

It was Kali who had first met the Emissary while training in Morocco, and on his return home had
introduced his beloved friend to the new way. For six months now they had both been following
Rashmana
, the Words of Kúrus, and now Majid too was to meet the Emissary. If the
introduction went well, the friends would be given the go ahead for their first Trust.

The Emissary, by Kali's account a most inspirational man, had in his turn been personally
inspired by the greatest of teachers: Dárayavaus himself.

Majid was confident. He felt in his bones that he and Kali would rise together through the ranks
to stand with the Emissary before the great Dárayavaus. They would strive for the highest of
honours that could be bestowed on a man: the right to sup at the table of his Inner Circle.

 

Room 55, Grand Hotel Cravat, Luxembourg
Tuesday 2.15 pm

 

'You are such a beautiful boy.'

'Not any more, Ilia. I believe I'm quite the man, now.'

'So you are, sweet one. And you are my man. Yes?'

'Oh yes forever, if you'll have me.'

Ilia Dushenka smiled at the reflection of her latest conquest in the gilt-framed mirror. He was
sprawled naked and unashamed on the huge bed he'd paid so handsomely for and in which they'd been
making love for two days.

Conquest? She tried not to laugh out loud at the word she'd used for such an easy victory. Justin
West, like all the visiting American college boys, was so like a puppy, so like the lap dogs her
crazy mother used to pamper.

Ilia had chosen Justin because he was pretty, because he had money, and because she knew who his
father and great-uncle were. She could just as easily have seduced either of his friends though, or
even his sexy young stepmother. Now
she
would have been an interesting diversion. But this
time Justin was the one; the latest in a succession of fresh virginal toy boys. They were not meant
to last; which was just as well, as it was not good to get too attached.

BOOK: Redback
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