Redback by Lindy Cameron

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