by Cliff Ryder
Ilyas's MI-6 identification flashed onto the screen. Other images of Ilyas in training and on the street followed in quick succession.
"How do I know these aren't fakes?" Ajza asked.
"Because you know," the woman replied. "You were trained in many of the same places your brother was." She touched some of the other faces involved. "By some of the same instructors."
The old Israeli who had taught her classes in krav maga was especially memorable. From the look on Ilyas's face, the training had pushed him to the limit, as well.
"Your brother died in Moscow," the woman said.
More images flashed across the screen. The background became Russian. Ajza had been to Moscow enough herself that she recognized some of the landmarks.
Still, the photos could have been manipulated. These days a digital image didn't prove anything. A picture might still be worth a thousand words, but each one of them could have been deceit.
"There was a bomb," the woman said, "in the Presnensky district." She halted. "I'm sorry, but these next few images are pretty graphic. I'd rather not show you."
Acid burned at the back of Ajza's throat. She hadn't seen Ilyas's body when it had been returned to England, but she'd heard what the Human Resources person from the "corporation" Ilyas worked for had told her parents. Her brother's body had been broken and ripped apart, burned over seventy percent and was largely unrecognizable. His ID had been confirmed through DNA and dental forensics.
"Show me." Ajza almost didn't recognize her own voice. It sounded like it was a million miles away.
For a moment the woman looked like she was going to object. Ajza saw the hesitation in her perfect features. Then the severe look softened to a heavy sadness.
"Death," she said quietly, "is always a horrible thing when you've known — and loved — the person who was killed." She touched the screen.
26
London
The first image showed a bomb site. Ajza's mouth dried and sickness swirled through her stomach. Her head felt as though it might detach itself and float away.
"This was taken by a tourist," the woman said. Her dark eyes regarded the scene, and Ajza got the impression that she was seeing it for the first time as well. "Moscow's Federal Security Service arrived quickly, but it was already too late. None of the people involved in the bombing was caught."
The blast range was impressive. Trees had been ripped to pieces and fences lay in disarray over bodies on the frozen ground.
Even though Ilyas had died more than a year ago, his loss bit into Ajza with renewed fury. She wanted to ask which body was supposed to belong to Ilyas at the same time she wanted to debunk the image as false.
"Your brother was almost at ground zero when the explosion occurred," the woman said.
"What created the explosion?" Ajza was surprised that she'd spoken, but even with all the confusion and hurt spilling through her, her training kicked in and chased the answers she knew she'd need.
"We believe it was a bomb. There were reports of a person walking into the area and then blowing up."
Ajza thought of the pictures of the shahidka bombers. She couldn't understand how anyone could cover herself in explosives and walk into enemy territory and deliberately blow herself up.
"They believe this was the result of a suicide bomber?"
"Yes. Nothing else in that area had the potential for creating an explosion like that."
"What about a rocket attack? An RPG-7 or something like that?"
"The FSB's reports are conclusive about the bomb. And the possibility of a rocket launcher also implies a definite target."
"Have the identities of the casualties been confirmed?" Ajza couldn't believe she talked so distantly of the act of violence that had taken Ilyas's life. It's your training, she told herself. You've learned to distance yourself. But it still hurt.
"They have been."
"Ilyas wasn't identified in Moscow?"
"No. The British Embassy worked through channels to claim his body." The woman hesitated. "It would have been easier to disavow your brother."
Then we would never have gotten his body back to bury, Ajza realized. The possibility left her shaken even now. They would never have known what had happened to him. Death was preferable to that.
"Did Moscow know who Ilyas was?" Ajza asked.
"No. Things became difficult for a time. Everyone involved knew that Ilyas was connected to an espionage agency. The papers he carried were good forgeries, but they were forgeries."
Ajza swallowed with difficulty. "Could Ilyas have been the target?"
"If someone had discovered your brother was a spy, he would have been killed somewhere else. Somewhere less public. It would have been better if your brother had simply disappeared."
That was probably true. It made sense. Ajza had never been involved in something as cold-blooded as assassination. That took a mind-set she didn't have.
"For the moment," Ajza said, "I'll take your word for it. But you're taking the word of the FSB."
"We've got someone on the ground in Moscow," the woman replied. "A separate report was generated from an independent investigation. Our agent agreed with the initial findings."
"Based on tourist pictures?"
"Based on forensic evidence left at the blast site."
Ajza knew much of her reluctance to accept the report stemmed from her refusal to acknowledge Ilyas's death. "You said Ilyas was near the center of the blast."
"Yes." Another image, this one obviously shot from the top of a building, showed the surrounding area. Three bodies lay bent, broken and burned on the pavement.
Ajza's eyes blinked and she felt the heat of unshed tears. She felt bad that she couldn't immediately pick Ilyas's body from those lying there.
The woman tapped the screen and the next image took shape. This one was of Ilyas, close enough to recognize his maimed and burned features.
Unable to stay still, no longer able to distance herself from what she was seeing, Ajza stood and walked away from the table. She stopped in front of the window and felt the heat of the blunted sun across her skin.
The first time Ajza tried to speak, her voice refused to cooperate. The second time she succeeded. "My brother was there to investigate the shahidka?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any proof of that?"
"Enough, I believe. I can let you see Ilyas's field reports and the dossier on the operation." The woman paused. "When you're ready."
"Do you know if Ilyas knew Taburova?"
"No."
Ajza forced herself to take a deep breath. "You realize that if I take this assignment, my gender is going to prove to be a problem."
"I know that women have no real rights in Chechen society. We also think that your brother's gender may have been a problem. Women can get overlooked. Your brother may have attracted attention. Someone might have made him."
Ajza shook her head. "No. Ilyas was good at role-playing. No one would have known who he was."
A brief moment of feeling foolish passed through Ajza. She couldn't let her hero worship of her younger brother impede her processing of this terrible event. "Something else happened," she said. Even though that was partially stated out of pride, she also knew it felt right.
The woman remained silent for a time. "Even if you accept this assignment, Ajza, you might never find out what happened to your brother."
I will find out, Ajza told herself. She willed her passions to turn ice cold. There would be no pain, no fear and no anticipation until she allowed it. She turned back to the woman and knew that the difference she'd just made within her heart probably showed.
"You said you only wanted exploratory surgery done here," Ajza said.
"Yes."
"I'm going to be honest with you." Ajza knew she didn't have to be so forthright. In fact, what she was about to admit could work against her. However, playing the card also allowed her to see more of what the woman and her organization wanted.
/> "I wouldn't have it any other way," the woman said.
Ajza almost smiled bitterly at that. Both of them were holding secrets and she knew it. "If I find out what happened to my brother — if Taburova was involved in Ilyas's murder — I won't leave him in place. I will kill him."
* * *
New York
"You know," Jake said laconically, "I'm liking her more and more."
Kate stared at the scene in the tea room. Ajza remained unflinching as she faced Samantha.
"She could be a loose cannon," Kate commented.
"At least she's working on our side," Jake said.
"She could get herself killed."
Jake leaned back and laced his hands behind his head. "She's not going to let this get to her, Kate. If her brother's murder was going to seriously jack with her, the Brits would have pulled her from undercover work."
A line of text formed at the bottom of Kate's monitor. At the other end of the connections routed into her office from the tableau in England, Samantha tapped out a Morse-code message against the pressure-sensitive sheet.
RESPONSE?
"Tell her she's in," Kate said. "We'll have a man in place in Moscow to run damage control. But she has us over a barrel here. We can't get someone else in such short time who would fit in over there. She also knows Mustafa's organization. If there's another connect between Istanbul and Taburova, she'll probably see it before any of us do."
"And she knows her brother," Jake said. "Now that she knows where he was killed, she'll try to pick up the trail. At this point, even if we didn't bankroll her, she'd go."
Kate knew that was true. "All right, Samantha, let's clear her and find out what she can do. Tell her you'll be in touch."
Onscreen they watched as Samantha did that.
"Then, if there's nothing more," Ajza said, "I need to go. I'm certain my parents are worried about me. I didn't have time to say a proper goodbye when I left last night."
"Of course." Samantha stood and took the sheet of plastic from the table.
"How will I contact you?" Ajza asked.
"We'll be in touch with you, Ms. Manaev."
"How long should I expect to wait?"
"Will you be ready to go in…"
Kate consulted the timeline she'd constructed for Ajza ManaeVs insertion into Moscow. "Five hours twenty-seven minutes."
"…five hours twenty-seven minutes?" Samantha asked.
"All right," Ajza answered.
"You'll be flying out of Heathrow to Prague. Once you're there, you'll get further instructions."
"I'll be ready. Will I see you again?"
"No," Samantha said. "Unless something goes badly wrong. I'd rather we never see each other again."
27
London
Since they had walked to the tea shop, Ajza felt certain the woman would leave the same way. Only two blocks down, Ajza took shelter in the doorway of a Chinese laundry and watched the shop. She was aware of the two young Chinese girls staring at her back as they tried to make sense of what she was doing there.
Ajza knew the woman had deliberately waited to leave. And she expected the woman would know Ajza might try to follow her.
In the end, though, Ajza had to do it. The woman knew too much and she'd left Ajza knowing next to nothing. The information about Ilyas's death might be an elaborate hoax, though Ajza couldn't see what the woman would get out of that.
But they had promised a lot. Getting out of the country on such short notice wasn't going to be easy. Then again, manipulating Crayle and MI-6 wasn't a simple thing to do, either.
The ease with which the woman and her organization seemed able to do things concerned Ajza most of all. That kind of power tended to corrupt everything it touched. If Ilyas hadn't been involved — and believing that gave her hope she might find answers about his death — she wouldn't have let the woman finish her spiel. She would have gone directly to MI-6.
At the same time she wondered if being discovered trying to tail the woman would be a deal breaker. If the story about Ilyas was true, she needed these people to put her close to Taburova. She might be able to do it alone, given time, but even if she quit MI-6 today, it would be months before she could get to Moscow.
Just then, the woman emerged from the tea shop and strode briskly to the street.
Ajza shifted and readied herself to follow. The woman stopped at the street as a black sedan cruised to a stop. She was inside in a heartbeat and the car continued on its way almost as if it had never stopped.
Before the car disappeared from sight, Ajza's cell phone rang. She plucked it from her pocket, feeling certain it was the woman.
"Hello?"
"Can't blame you for trying," a polite male voice with a definite American accent said, "but you're wasting time we don't have. Good hunting out there, and good luck, Ms. Manaev."
The phone clicked dead in Ajza's hand. She cursed, folded the phone and pocketed it. Then she walked to the street and flagged a cab.
* * *
The woman looked like a university student. Blue-effects dye colored her blond hair. She approached Ajza at her gate at Heathrow.
Shifting her carry-on, Ajza put it between herself and the young woman, who smiled.
"Ms. Manaev," the young woman said, "your aunt sent you a care package." She extended an envelope.
Ajza took the envelope, conscious of the security guards standing at post. "I'll say one thing for you people — you're polite."
"And punctual." The woman blew a pink bubble and popped it, then smiled. "Have a nice day." She walked away.
Ajza located the nearest bathroom. Inside one of the stalls, she tore the manila envelope open and upended it. A new set of identification, credit cards and cash dropped into her palm.
She called Trevor and asked him to do a background check on the ID to verify its stability and to get a lead on the people who'd furnished her with the ID if he could. He was wary of the assignment.
"You realize that they could have given you this ID because it's loaded with packet-sniffers," Trevor said. "Those things, if they're good, can ferret out an Internet link and data incredibly fast."
"Think of it as a challenge," Ajza advised. "Get back to me as soon as you can."
"Will do," Trevor said with a sigh.
Ajza returned to the gate and found a seat to wait for the boarding call. The first stop was Prague. She was supposed to meet her contact there.
Idly she glanced at the television screen in the bar only a short distance away. Several men in Soviet military uniforms and carrying weapons were converging on a downtown shopping area. The object of their pursuit fled through groups of tourists.
Ajza's stomach tightened as she read the dateline scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
Moscow Live. Suicide bomber pursuit.
28
Moscow
Taburova stood in the shadows on the rooftop of an apartment building and watched the action in the street. He tightened the focus on the night-vision binoculars he used. The FSB had responded quickly to the call they'd received. Taburova knew that because he'd placed the call to the security agency and alerted them to the potential bombing.
News teams filled the street, as well. Taburova had called them first. Their response time had been almost as impressive, but their ten-minute lead had dwindled to five. He hadn't called the local news, though. He'd called a BBC team currently in Moscow filming a documentary on czarist Russia for the History Channel. He'd gotten the number from one of his contacts who had approved the government visas for the British journalist team.
The journalists set up around a van at the side of the street across from a nightclub. They used a satellite link to put the story on air live. Of course, that was a violation of their visas, but Taburova doubted the British team would receive more than a slap on the wrist for their indiscretion. Errant journalists would be the least of the problems in Moscow soon.
Clad in full riot gear, the Moscow polic
e closed on the nightclub. They held clear, bomb-resistant shields and carried machine pistols. The nightclub's neon lights played over the shields and the black armor.
Potential visitors to the nightclub immediately shied away and ran to the other side of the street. Several collected by the same building where Taburova stood on the rooftop. They were young and foolish, he decided. Or they were tourists from out of the country. In the end it didn't matter. They were curious and were all potential victims.
"Are you certain that Lovyrev is inside?"
The voice came from Taburova's earpiece. The tension and suspicion in the speaker's voice came through strongly.
"Yes," Taburova answered. "LovyreVs mistress likes to frequent this place. She's American."
"He's always had a weakness for American blondes."
Taburova knew that. His knowledge had decided the night's attack. "It's an understandable weakness."
"I've found they talk too much."
Not unlike some politicians, Taburova thought unkindly.
"Just because the woman prefers this nightclub doesn't mean she's there now with Lovyrev," the man suggested.
"I," Taburova responded smoothly, "have it on the best authority that they are inside." He had bribed one of LovyreVs support staff to stay apprised of the politician's whereabouts. Tonight had been set up in advance. It was an anniversary for Lovyrev and his mistress.
"We'll soon see."
Taburova didn't care for the smugness in the other man's tone, but he let it pass. At this moment in their relationship the man was beyond reproach. But the moment Taburova no longer needed him, things would change.
The police set up a cordon at the nightclub's entrance. They used megaphones to announce themselves, then tossed flash-bang grenades through the door. A moment later the street echoed with deafening thunder. Smoke rolled from inside the building. Then the armored policemen charged inside. Muzzle flashes flickered within the structure. The sounds of rock music vanished, replaced by screams and hoarse shouts.
One of Taburova's three bodyguards tapped his shoulder. He glanced at the man, then saw him indicate the limousine's headlights down in the alley next to the nightclub.
