Love Is for Tomorrow

by Michael Karner

  The silhouettes of chairs and tables jumbled in the hall. It gave him a good idea of how many militants he would face tomorrow.

  Antoine walked to the kitchen. The door was left slightly ajar. He opened it. Someone had left the lights on. Filthy luminescent tubes buzzed and flickered overhead. Pots and dishes hung from a rack. Water dripped into the sink, pinging like fingers on the strings of an instrument.

  Then he found what he was looking for: Big kitchen knives. He took one out and held it, getting used to the weight and balance. Then he closed his grip around it tight.

  He approached the back of the room. There was a freezer to the left and a door to the storage room. He entered the storage room. Inside were cleaning supplies and white serving uniforms.

  Antoine went back to the mess hall. He crouched by the doorframe, where he had a good view outside. He killed the lights, waited and listened.

  After a minute, nothing had happened.

  Antoine stood knife still in hand.

  He stopped at the rack with the cleansers.

  Antoine’s hands touched the folded cloth on the rack. It felt surprisingly washed and clean. He took it from the shelf and spread it out in front of him. There was another set of clothes in plastic bags, a militant’s uniform.

  The kitchen staff’s attire was about his size. He put away the knife to change his clothes and began with his jacket and shirt.

  He awoke huddled on the floor of the storage room.

  Antoine found a field ration to eat in the kitchen now that it was getting lighter. He washed it down with bottled water. He was still eating when he heard voices outside and the door to the canteen opening. Antoine took the leftover food with him and withdrew to the supply delivery area. Some vehicles were still parked there from the previous day. He leant against one of the trucks and waited, passing as a kitchen staff member waiting for delivery of new supplies.

  They arrived after an hour.

  Two trucks drove in, bringing foods from the farmers. They reversed back to the dais with loading ramps and canvas cover open. The kitchen staff arrived too. Some had gone out for a smoke and noticed him, so he nodded but kept his mouth shut. He stayed within eyeshot but didn’t engage in conversation. New personnel probably came and went regularly, but his presence would raise some curiosity. They would pester him with questions and one too many would sooner or later blow his cover. He looked over to them, as they stood in a circle, five men, shifting between legs in the chill morning air.

  “Cigarette?” one of them asked Antoine in Russian.

  The Chechen language was a lost relic and Russia had made sure to replace it with its own, even here.

  He took a moment, looking at the arrived supply trucks, as if to consider their offer.

  “No, thanks.”

  He gave them a smile and it got returned. Then they turned around, lit their smokes and laughed about something.

  The fact that there was work to do bailed him out. The equivalent of a petty officer arrived to bark orders. Staff scurried. Some put out their smokes. Others kept them in their mouths, trying not to lose them. There was enough to do to keep attention away from the new guy.

  Someone handed Antoine a box. He followed another man. Once inside, he disappeared into the white-clad crowd of personnel.

  Breakfast came. It had taken up most of the early morning hours to prepare the meal. The night patrols were coming in from their tours and the day shift headed out to replace them. All of them ate and packed their bags with provisions for the day.

  Antoine stood at the counter and doled out the meal. He tried to keep a head-count.

  Another staff member nudged him when he put rations on a plate.

  “This one,” he said, indicating the next man in line. “You want to give him more.”

  “Why?” Antoine asked.

  “He is Spetsnaz,” the man said. “One of the former Vostok battalion.”

  Antoine took a second scoop and loaded the plate. He gave it to the soldier and looked him in the eyes. They both held the plate. Antoine couldn’t bring himself to let go. He had to swallow his contempt first.

  The Spetsnaz snatched the plate. He snorted and went away but Antoine could feel his poisonous glare following him until he left the line.

  His kitchen colleague noticed.

  “You must be new here,” he said to Antoine. “Better pay some respect to them. It’s healthy. You show respect, you don’t lose your teeth. Otherwise it will be soup for you for the next weeks.”

  “I am new here,” said Antoine.

  “Is that why you have no beard?” the man asked.

  Antoine stroke over his chin. “That?” He grinned. “No, that’s because I was forced to blend in in Russia the last couple weeks.”

  The man looked at him. “Well, shaving is allowed, I suppose. A shaved beard can grow again. A lost head, not so much. Bekhan,” the man said to him. “My name’s Bekhan.”

  “Ruslan,” Antoine said.

  They shook hands.

  “That was Dzhalal Abramov,” Bekhan said. “I saw him once lay a block of concrete on his bare back, while his buddy smashed it with a sledgehammer. The concrete broke, his back didn’t.”

  Bekhan nodded into the direction of the line.

  “Trouble never comes alone,” he said. “That’s Abukhan Zakayev. He’s one ice cold bastard.”

  “What did he crush on his back?” Antoine asked.

  “He was swinging the hammer,” Bekhan said.

  Antoine turned so as not to face Zakayev. He handed him the plate with an extra portion like he had with Abramov. Zakayev passed by without recognizing him.

  “They are all veterans who have had enough,” Bekhan said. “You should see their ceremonial pictures from the day they were disbanded. Their chests laden with awards. Multiple Medals for Courage, Orders for Merit to the Fatherland and Orders of Courage. Like Nazyr here.”

  The next Spetsnaz came into view.

  “Nazyr Basayev.”

  Antoine overheard him speaking.

  “Can you imagine our comrades fighting in Ukraine as we speak?” Nazyr said to his colleague.

  “Yeah, been there, done that, getting paid schnietz compared to us now,” the other said.

  “That’s why we left,” Nazyr said.

  “Damn right it is. For some people war is war, for others - dear mother.”

  “Do you know the other one?” Antoine asked Bekhan.

  “Yes. Abdulbek Akhmadov. Lost his right eye in South Ossetia. He hasn’t been the same since. Even Chuck Norris fears him.”

  Antoine took a pen from his pocket and drew four streaks on a scratchpad. He watched them and took note of which table they chose. Khabib hadn’t been one of them. He was not among his men. He preferred to dine more exquisitely, especially for his last supper.

  Antoine turned to Bekhan.

  “Do you know where Khabib is eating?” he asked.

  “Why do you want to know that?” Bekhan said. “Be glad that the Hero of the Russian Federation isn’t here. There’s a rumor how he got it: Forty-two terrorists, one hundred twenty-nine hostages and one hundred seventy-one body bags. Mission accomplished. Just be glad he isn’t here. Without a cat, mice feel free.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MASTER OR DEAD MAN

  “You either become a master or a dead man.” - Russian saying

  Military base near Tsentaroy, Russia

  Once the soldiers were finished eating, the rest of the morning comprised washing dishes and cooking lunch. Antoine kept his ears open and his mouth shut.

  Lunchtime came faster than expected. It was even harder when the Spetsnaz arrived. His pulse rose and he could feel his veins pounding. He was deaf to the kitchen noise and orders swirling around. All he could see were the striding steps of Spetsnaz boots. His palms itched. He took a plate and loaded it accordingly, once, then twice.

  “Spicy?” he asked Nazyr.

  The man in line didn’t even give a hint of a
nod. His eyelids simply twitched.

  Antoine emptied a bottle of hot sauce over the meal.

  He then put another scoop on top. The plate was overflowing like the top of a volcano. His hands were shaking and he brushed the glass of water on Nazyr’s tray. He let the plate fall onto the tray to try to catch the glass, but his numb fingers failed to grab it. Nazyr darted one step backwards to avoid getting splattered with the meal, but the glass fell forward. Water sloshed out of it and it broke against the tray. The floor in front of Nazyr was a puddle. Even worse, his hands and sleeves were wet.

  “Ty che, blyad,” Nazyr shouted. He was staring at Antoine and then at his clothes.

  “I’m sorry, I really am,” Antoine said.

  “Derr’mo,” Nazyr said. “Idis Priyada, mu’dak.”

  “Hey, I already told you I’m sorry,” Antoine said.

  Nazyr gave him another poisonous look and was about to go. The other Spetsnaz were hungry too.

  Antoine indicated his uniform and took out another plate.

  “See, nothing happened, right?” he said.

  “I guess not,” Nazyr said. “You are a lucky fool.”

  “Please move on, you are holding up the line,” Antoine said.

  “What?” Nazyr shouted. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m really not,” Antoine said, taking up the next meal.

  “Schas po ebalu poluchish, suka,” Nazyr said.

  Antoine forced a smile. “I am glad this counter is between you and me right now.”

  The soldier snorted and left with his tray in hands.

  “You are dead,” Nazyr said through gritted teeth.

  Antoine grinned. Then he took the bottle of hot sauce and let it disappear in the dust bin.

  “Spicy?” he asked the next one and opened another bottle.

  He grabbed underneath his kitchen staff clothes and turned off the voice recorder. Priya would create a whole voice profile for him, which he could use to impersonate Nazyr. He hoped it would be ready in time.

  His lunch duties were over. Antoine left his post. He changed his outfit and put on the olive green shirt, camouflage baggy pants and boots he had left in the storage room.

  With the new set of clothes a lot more doors would open for him. He would only need one: The one to follow his target.

  The Spetsnaz left their tables. They went out to breathe fresh air and stretch their legs. Antoine tailed them.

  As he observed them from a distance, Antoine transmitted the recorded audio back to his team. Priya would know what to do with it. It was only a question of whether she could do it in time.

  Nazyr strayed on his way back to the billets. He walked slower than the rest, going slightly bent and holding his stomach.

  Antoine couldn’t help but smile as he saw the pain he had inflicted, pain that was crucial for everything. It would make or break their whole plan.

  Nazyr entered the billets.

  Antoine followed him.

  Inside, a doorkeeper wearing the same outfit as Antoine read the comics. He snapped to attention once he saw the Spetsnaz approaching, a good second too late.

  It was obvious from his distorted face that the elite soldier couldn’t care less. The cleaning reagent Antoine had put in his food was doing its magic. The Spetsnaz was coughing and clutching his stomach.

  “Damn, what was I eating?” Nazyr said.

  The man hurried down the corridor and crashed through the restroom doors. Antoine waited till they closed again, then entered behind him.

  Nazyr would be too focused on his own misery to notice him. The Spetsnaz headed to the toilet. If Antoine didn’t strike now, he might lose him.

  He moved to wrap his arms around Nazyr’s neck, when he saw the red “occupied” sign on the next toilet stall. Someone else was there with them.

  Antoine stopped in his tracks. He turned to the washbasin and braced himself against it, panting hard. He looked up into the mirror, where he saw his target disappear inside a stall. Antoine took a deep breath to organize his thoughts.

  He sank his head over the sink and ran his hands through his hair.

  The crackle in the speakers above the mirror made Antoine look up. He listened to the voice. They were about to go on a mission. Preparations needed to be made, packing of all the gear, loading ammo and putting on their special operation suites. It spoke of Spetsnaz only. That meant combat suits, jump gear and high altitude oxygen masks. It would start in half an hour.

  Antoine heard a curse from the toilet cabin. His target was running out of time, but so was he.

  The door of the Spetsnaz’s cabin clanked open. Antoine turned away and rushed outside to not getting seen by him. There weren’t many places to hide. He could just turn the corner and hope the Spetsnaz’s went in the other direction.

  The door opened behind him. Nazyr hurried down the hallway, into his room.

  Antoine stalked after him, but heard voices inside the room. Half of the man’s group was already there, getting ready for the mission. They laughed at their comrade’s late arrival. Gear clashed against the lockers.

  Antoine disappeared into a corner and leaned his back against the wall. He exhaled hard.

  Nazyr returned. Antoine wasn’t ready, Nazyr was rushing to the showers. Antoine dashed into the shower room, right after the Spetsnaz. Nazyr didn’t care who was coming after him. He was busy tearing off his clothes and getting under the shower.

  They were the only ones there. A waist high wall separated the wash basins from the showers. It was enough to hide a body should anyone enter too soon.

  Antoine struck with an ankle-pick takedown. He dove down and grabbed Nazyr’s legs above both ankles, pulling fast with a jerk. His victim’s head crashed down against the tiles, but it didn’t knock him out. It was more like the beast of a man was awoken by it.

  Nazyr bucked up and tried to get on his feet again. Antoine leveraged his whole body weight on him and fixed Nazyr’s arms in place. The Spetsnaz threw his head back and cracked Antoine’s nose. Antoine pushed Nazyr’s face against the floor, then got him in a sleeper hold, yanking him around on his back like an anaconda. Nazyr’s limbs went slack. His body was a dead weight.

  Antoine checked if Nazyr was still breathing. He couldn’t find any signs.

  A sudden voice made him jump. It was the speakers. He had ten minutes to hide the body as well as change clothes, his identity and his voice, all without being seen.

  Antoine searched the Spetsnaz’s belongings. There were his billet-and locker keys.

  He opened the door to peek into the hallway. It was empty.

  Antoine returned to Nazyr and dragged him into the lavatory.

  The door of the Spetsnaz’s billet creaked open. Some of his squad members were coming out.

  Antoine hauled the body inside a toilet stall and locked it behind him. He propped the corpse onto the toilet seat and listened.

  Spetsnaz entered the shower and bathroom, looking for their comrade.

  “Nazyr,” one shouted. “It’s time.”

  The man waited in front of the lavatory. He must have seen the “occupied” sign.

  Antoine froze.

  He remembered the conversation back in the canteen. He had recorded it. Priya hadn’t sent him the data for his voice changer yet, so he couldn’t use that. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the recorder. He rewound for a second and pushed “play”.

  “You are dead,” Nazyr’s voice said, like a message out of a grave.

  There was a long pause. Antoine had run out of options.

  “Just make sure to catch up,” the Spetsnaz finally said. “We’re heading out.”

  Antoine saw the boots turn and walk away. He heard the man meet with his squad members in the hallway as they left together.

  Antoine breathed out. He stepped onto the corpse and climbed up the toilet stall to exit without unlocking the door.

  He went to the troops’ billet. He used Nazyr’s key to open it.

  Antoin
e tried Nazyr’s key on the various lockers. He found the right one and the door opened. An arsenal of gear and weapons awaited him.

  He put on a Kevlar vest, pulled the balaclava over his face, put the night vision goggles on his helmet in place. Antoine took out a gun of the locker, locked and loaded. It was an AK-12 with sixty round magazine.

  He stood in front of a mirror. The sight surprised him. He had become one of them.

  He stroked the strange garment of his cloak with his fingers. He had seen it before, at a weapons technology exhibition, hosted by some magnate in China called Zhou. He pulled over the cloak and watched his mirror image disappear. All that remained were blurred lines and a distortion of his background. “Holy…,” he whispered.

  He tapped his microphone and opened his comms.

  “Priya. I got bad news. The terrorists are using cloaking technology. You won’t be able to see them, unless you can make them somehow visible.”

  “Standby,” Priya replied.

  The comm link went quiet. She didn’t have an answer to that.

  “Have you located the bomb yet? Do you know the target location?”

  “They are on the way,” he said. “I have to join them now. Follow my signal.”

  “We’ll lose you if you go on a plane,” Priya said.

  He looked around. A map was on the table, with a square shaped palace close to a river. Antoine stopped. He recognized the layout of the city.

  “They are hitting Moscow,” he whispered. “The Kremlin.”

  A UAZ jeep was parked outside with a personal driver waiting for him. He nodded and got inside.

  Trucks and units of troops rushed past on the street. They all headed in the same direction.

  “Antoine, the sound recording you sent me earlier,” Priya said over his in-ear phone. “I recreated a whole voice profile. It’s downloading to your voice changer.”

  So he still couldn’t speak. It was bad and would only get worse. The mission was about to begin.

  He looked outside. They were on the airfield. Antoine took out his voice modifier. The light on the device was still red. When it changed to green, the transfer would be complete.