prophet, I reckon.' Brody declared, taking photos as they watched the casual progress,
down their street, of one of the West's most wanted men.
Jamal Zahkri al Khudri: American-born, Moroccan-based, arms dealer, drug smuggler, hijacker and
international terrorist.
There wasn't a lot that was known about Jamal Zahkri; but all of what was known was bad.
He'd put his mark on a shit-load of bloody carnage in the last five years: bombs in Paris and
London; plane hijackings in Germany, Australia and Turkey; and hostage-taking all over Europe. The
biggest mystery was his lineage. Born in New York he was variously of Iraqi, Saudi, Turkish, Afghan,
Chechen and/or Canadian descent. The Yanks really didn't want to claim any part of him.
Brody smiled. Zahkri's origins might be unknown, to all bar his long-dead mother, but right now
there was one thing for sure: the murdering bastard was within easy, easy sniping range.
Fuck that! The arsehole is practically in spitting distance .
Brody rubbed his head in frustration, as that was about all they could do. None of them had a
rifle.
'It's too bad spitting would just draw attention to us,' he said aloud.
'There was talk Zahkri had been meeting with Osama's boys,' Kennedy said. 'Guess this clinches
it.'
Brody looked at the CIA's official North-West Frontier Rep in astonishment. 'Where on earth do
you guys get your intel, Dwayne? Osama nearly killed Zahkri years ago for mutiny. The guy's been
running with Atarsa Kára for at least 18 months that we know of.'
'What the hell is he doing here then?'
'Dunno,' Brody shrugged. 'But he's about to join Ashraf, which would support our intel that
al-Qaeda has no part in whatever is really going on here.'
'Fuck. So what do we do about this?' Kennedy asked, primed to bolt out and do whatever it was.
'We watch. We wait. We take pictures,' said Brody.
'Oh, that's crap, man,' Kennedy complained. 'This sitting around is aggravating.'
Mudge snorted. 'Quit whingeing. We've been doing it a month longer than you.'
'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 trade- mark 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
down their street, of one of the West's most wanted men.
Jamal Zahkri al Khudri: American-born, Moroccan-based, arms dealer, drug smuggler, hijacker and
international terrorist.
There wasn't a lot that was known about Jamal Zahkri; but all of what was known was bad.
He'd put his mark on a shit-load of bloody carnage in the last five years: bombs in Paris and
London; plane hijackings in Germany, Australia and Turkey; and hostage-taking all over Europe. The
biggest mystery was his lineage. Born in New York he was variously of Iraqi, Saudi, Turkish, Afghan,
Chechen and/or Canadian descent. The Yanks really didn't want to claim any part of him.
Brody smiled. Zahkri's origins might be unknown, to all bar his long-dead mother, but right now
there was one thing for sure: the murdering bastard was within easy, easy sniping range.
Fuck that! The arsehole is practically in spitting distance .
Brody rubbed his head in frustration, as that was about all they could do. None of them had a
rifle.
'It's too bad spitting would just draw attention to us,' he said aloud.
'There was talk Zahkri had been meeting with Osama's boys,' Kennedy said. 'Guess this clinches
it.'
Brody looked at the CIA's official North-West Frontier Rep in astonishment. 'Where on earth do
you guys get your intel, Dwayne? Osama nearly killed Zahkri years ago for mutiny. The guy's been
running with Atarsa Kára for at least 18 months that we know of.'
'What the hell is he doing here then?'
'Dunno,' Brody shrugged. 'But he's about to join Ashraf, which would support our intel that
al-Qaeda has no part in whatever is really going on here.'
'Fuck. So what do we do about this?' Kennedy asked, primed to bolt out and do whatever it was.
'We watch. We wait. We take pictures,' said Brody.
'Oh, that's crap, man,' Kennedy complained. 'This sitting around is aggravating.'
Mudge snorted. 'Quit whingeing. We've been doing it a month longer than you.'
'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 trade- mark 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
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