by Cliff Ryder
"Coming up on your mark," the man said over the roar of the wind.
"Ready," Ajza said, and tried to act like her stomach wasn't turning to water. Night jumps had always made her leery, and she'd never jumped into harsh terrain that wasn't part of an exercise. She tried not to think about the waiting rocks and trees.
The man tapped her helmet. "Go."
Ajza stepped past him and threw herself into open space. She felt the slight tug of the static line plying out behind her. Then she was falling toward the dark earth far below, gaining speed with every second.
* * *
Moscow
Sergei Prokhorovs phone rang and he guessed it was his partner Mikhalkov. The old man seemed to hardly sleep these days with the case they were working. When he mulled over an investigation in the middle of the night, often questioning facts but not his gut feelings, Mikhalkov didn't hesitate to call and discuss his thoughts.
For a moment Sergei thought seriously of ignoring the phone. But if it was Mikhalkov and he didn't answer, the old man might show up at his apartment and bang on the door. That had happened before, as well, and Sergei's neighbors had made their displeasure known to him.
All things considered, Sergei didn't want to get dressed and go out into the night. He pulled his cell phone from the nightstand, flipped it open and answered.
"Alexi?" a woman asked.
The voice was unfamiliar to Sergei. He felt certain that if he'd ever heard it before, he would have recognized it.
"Excuse me?" Sergei hoped she would repeat herself. This time he would be ready. He'd listen again, more closely, and see if he could identify an accent or anything unique about her voice. He'd tried the ruse before but to no avail.
The phone clicked in his ear. She was gone.
After a quick glance at the digital clock on the nightstand, Sergei grabbed his pistol and dressed quickly. He paused only to check out his window for any signs of someone watching him. He saw no one.
Paranoia, he told himself. That's all.
* * *
North Caucasus Region Outside Chechnya
Less than ten feet above the ground, Ajza cut the parachute free of her harness and dropped into a roll. Despite her protective clothing, rocks scraped and bruised her as she spent the energy from the drop. The terrain became a dizzying blur, but she made it to a low stand of brush.
The parachute drifted away, black fabric waffling in the gentle breeze. It disappeared in the surrounding trees.
"You can come out," a thick male voice said in Russian.
Ajza didn't move. Her hand strayed to the 9 mm pistol at her hip. She hadn't been able to carry much into the field because no one wanted her identified if she was caught. She was grateful to have the pistol.
"You can come out," the voice repeated in English.
Smoothly Ajza drew the pistol and waited. Using her peripheral vision, she spotted the shadows flitting through the forest.
"Please," the man said, "don't try my patience. If we meant you any harm, you'd already be dead."
A ruby dot suddenly materialized on Ajza's hand. Her immediate thought was to flee, but she knew it was already too late. Three other laser sights joined the first. Reluctantly she got to her feet with the pistol at her side. The laser sights remained on her.
A short, squat man stepped from the shadows as quietly as a forest creature. His beard reached his chest and he wore a coat against the chill of the night. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties. Effortlessly he carried a bolt-action rifle in his right hand.
"Very good. You are an intelligent woman. No one could stand in the face of such adversity." The man smiled and approached.
The other shadows in the forest closed in a little more, taking their lead from the man. The ruby dots disappeared, but Ajza's unease remained.
"Are you all right?" the man asked.
"Yes," she answered.
"Sometimes a parachute drop in the middle of the night can be hazardous," he said.
"I managed."
The man smiled again as he kept coming. "Can you speak Russian?" he asked.
"Yes."
"What about Chechen?"
"Like I was born here." During the long flights over, Ajza had listened to the language CDs that had come in the package with her replacement ID. She was already fluent in the language, but the CDs helped her pick up the local accent. She'd always been good with languages. That was one of the reasons MI-6 had recruited her.
The big man nodded. "Very good." He seemed genuinely pleased. He came to a stop in front of her. "In my years, I have seen too many of your kind come here to die. Most were men."
With an economy of movement that caught the big man off guard, Ajza brought the pistol up and shoved it beneath his shaggy chin. She pressed hard enough that the barrel dug into his flesh. The click of the hammer rolling back sounded loud in the night.
"I didn't come here to die," Ajza said as coldly as she could, trying desperately to sound as if she wasn't afraid. She locked eyes with the big man. "But I'm prepared to."
The man moved the rifle so that the barrel rested against Ajza's chest. "Maybe you have a chance," he said softly. "At the very least, you are going to be dangerous when cornered."
Ajza ignored that because she didn't know if the comment was a compliment. "You have a word for me and I haven't heard it yet," she said.
The man's smile grew huge. "You are young, aren't you? Still believe in those silly games your people teach you."
Ajza didn't say anything.
"Apple," he said in English.
"Queen," Ajza said as she lowered the pistol. She didn't put it away. Beyond the man, nine lean shadows remained partially masked by the darkness.
"I am Ivan." The man rubbed his chin and stared at Ajza as if measuring her.
Ajza cocked a doubtful eyebrow at him.
"It is as good a name as any," Ivan said. "And perhaps, with capricious fates, it is my own."
"Okay, Ivan," Ajza replied, "now that we both know we're who we're supposed to be, let's be about our business."
Ivan studied her for a moment longer. "Do not let your need to be confident overshadow your need to be afraid. The men you are going to go among are not used to strong-willed women. If they see you as a threat or as a challenge in any way, they will choose to break you." He shook his big head. "These women they influence are only chattel. Do you understand? They are only the property of the men."
"I know that," Ajza said.
The grin left Ivan's face and he shook his head sadly. "The people who sent you here are either desperate or foolish."
Ajza's face grew hot and she wanted to respond bravely, wanted to tell him that perhaps she'd been sent because only she could complete the mission. But she couldn't get the words out. Stubbornly she held his gaze and tried not to show the fear that flowed through her.
Ilyas had died in this country, and he'd been hunting the man she'd been sent here to ferret out. That thought remained uppermost in her mind, and not even her anger over her brother's death or her need for some sort of justice could move it aside.
"Come along, then," Ivan said as he turned toward the forest. "We have a long walk ahead of us and I do not want to grow too attached to you."
31
Moscow
Moscow cooled and quieted at night. Not even the capitalist economy managed to turn that around. In the old days the Russian soldiers had kept the streets clear of loiterers. These days crime had replaced the military and kept the night in check.
Sergei thought about that as he approached the pay phone next to the convenience store off Red Square proper. The location was a short distance from his apartment building. He'd walked, instead of taking the car the police department had assigned him. Sometimes they checked mileage, and sometimes they checked the GPS locaters in the vehicles. Also, it was easier to tell if he was being followed if he was on foot.
He held a cup of coffee in one hand and dropped coins into the
pay phone with the other. The warmth soaked through the cup and into his flesh. The scent tickled his nose and washed away some of the fog that curled stubbornly through his brain. He wanted to be sharp for the conversation.
He punched in a number he'd memorized and waited. The phone was picked up on the other end and a man's voice said, "We'll call you back," in Russian.
Sergei hung up and stood at the phone. He hated the vulnerability he felt while standing there, but there was no help for it. He also hated the insecurity that filled him.
For four years he'd worked for a clandestine agency he knew next to nothing about. Most of the time he'd merely done reconnaissance or interviews or poked around in the criminal underworld he knew. Then he'd reported back with whatever he'd discovered and never heard anything again.
All he knew was that the party he'd called was powerful and could reach into FSB's administration when necessary. Sergei's superior had assigned the extra details to him. He'd also ordered Sergei never to talk about anything he learned about whomever he worked for.
"It would be better," the man had said, "if you don't go asking questions, either."
"Why?"
"Because the man who sat at this desk before me started asking questions. That's how I got his job."
"They killed him?"
"Worse," the man said with a grim face. "They reassigned him to Siberia."
Even though he was expecting it, the strident ring of the phone startled Sergei. He spilled hot coffee across his hand, then cursed at the pain. But he scooped up the phone.
"I am here," he said.
"Thank you for coming," the woman said. "I know it's late there."
Meaning that it was not late where she was? he noted.
"You have only to call," Sergei said. "You know that."
"Yes, but your involvement and dedication is appreciated." She spoke English, which he was fluent in.
A car drove by. Automatically Sergei turned inward and raised the coffee cup to shield his face. He watched the car in his peripheral vision.
"We have a situation in your country," the woman said.
Sergei's stomach tightened. Any involvement he'd had with the woman and her cohorts had been limited to information about people in Moscow or passing through the city. He'd only been required to keep an eye on them. His job with the FSB had been more dangerous.
But the people he'd kept tabs on had sometimes disappeared or been assassinated. He wasn't sure if the agency was responsible for those assassinations or had just failed to prevent them. Neither scenario left him feeling comfortable.
"Someone is trying to smuggle a cache of American weapons into Russia," the woman said.
Sergei's pulse sped up a little. He said nothing. He'd learned not to respond unless asked to.
"We've been able to trace some of the money," the woman told him. "A few hours ago we found out some of that money came from a man named Joseph Kirinov. We know you're familiar with Kirinov."
Sergei hesitated only a moment, wondering how much she knew. "Yes."
"I'm told your partner shot Kirinov yesterday."
"That is correct." Sergei wondered how the woman had access to information so quickly. The old paranoia he'd learned from his father crept into his mind.
Remember this always, my son, his father had said. The KGB is always watching. They wait for us to make mistakes.
"Kirinov was at the hotel to see a woman," the voice said.
"Yes." Sergei's hand holding the coffee cup shook as he wondered how much to say. "Her name is Irina…"
"Rachmanov. Yes, we're aware of her."
Sergei felt embarrassed. "I did not know her last name."
"Why?"
"My partner did not tell me her last name."
"We'd noticed that Irina Rachmanov wasn't arrested."
"My partner — we— felt it would be better if she weren't." Sergei lied because he wasn't going to let Mikhalkov take the blame for the decision. Sergei could have arrested the woman himself at any time.
"Why?"
"My partner has a history with her," he answered honestly.
The phone connection buzzed for a moment.
"Your partner's career record is spotty," the woman said finally.
"He's been in law enforcement in this country for a long time."
"Do you trust him?"
That was the question Sergei asked himself nearly every day of his life. So far he had always known the answer.
"With my life," he replied, though some days that wasn't by choice.
"We need to know what Rachmanov knows about Kirinov's business."
After a moment's deliberation Sergei brought the woman up-to-date on Irina's information regarding the American weapons. He also relayed Irina's consternation at the use for them.
"Do you think she's told you all she knows?" the woman asked when he'd finished.
"I do not know her well enough to guess," Sergei admitted.
"Does Mikhalkov?"
That was another puzzle. "I do not know."
"Find out," the woman said. "We need that information as soon as you can get it."
"What is going on?"
"At the moment," the woman told him, "you know as much as we do. Be careful working this one. It's close to home for you."
The phone went dead.
For a moment Sergei stood in the cold confines of the telephone booth. The chill ate into his bones, and he knew not all of it was from the weather. He thought about going to get a fresh cup of coffee, but he knew from experience that too much caffeine would keep him from sleeping any more that night.
But after the phone call he didn't think he'd be sleeping, anyway. He walked back for another cup and wondered how close the danger on the assignment was.
He also wondered where the greater danger lay: in what Mikhalkov wasn't telling him? Or in what Room 59 wasn't telling him?
32
Outside Chechnya
Lying flat on her stomach in the brush dotting the mountains overlooking the collection of ramshackle huts, Ajza concentrated on memorizing the layout and tried not to be sick as she gazed through the high-powered binoculars. Several armed men patrolled the perimeter. A few armed women patrolled with them. They treated the people they guarded with cold indifference.
"Not all of the women are captives," Ivan whispered quietly beside her. "A few of them have risen to positions of power within the terrorist hierarchy. Those women are the ones you see with assault rifles."
"Taburova needs women who can take the other women into the cities." The realization that the women sacrificed the others disgusted Ajza. "He has to have guides to take the women to the places where they can do the most damage."
"Exactly." Ivan grinned, but the effort lacked mirth. "Those women who betray the other women are the true shahidka. The true Black Widows."
Ajza quietly agreed. The level of betrayal for such an operation was almost beyond her understanding. Only the fact that anyone would do anything if properly motivated made a believer of her.
The female captives in the camp looked emaciated and hopeless. A few lingered outside to smoke cigarettes and tend the communal fire. Others had retreated to the buildings, but they weren't safe there. The men entered the buildings at will and forced themselves on the women.
The thin, plaintive screams echoed in the foothills Ajza tried to ignore them, but they cut more deeply each time. She couldn't stop imagining how harshly the women were being treated.
"There is nothing you can do for those women at this point," Ivan said.
Azja wanted to say that she knew that, but she found she couldn't speak. Her throat locked up.
"You are doing this as a means to help them," Ivan said. "It is more than many are doing."
They watched in silence for a few more minutes.
"How long has this camp been here?" Ajza asked.
Ivan cocked his head to one side. "Months. Perhaps longer. The gardens they have planted tell me it has been
at least that long."
"You haven't done anything to help them." Ajza tried not to make her words sound like an accusation, but she knew she failed miserably.
"No," Ivan agreed. "I have not."
"You have men."
"I do, and there's not one of them who wouldn't put an end to this if it would do any good."
"What do you mean?"
Ivan rubbed his whiskers with his fingers. The slight rasping barely reached Ajza's ears. "Destroying this camp would only make these men move to another location. To do any good, we must cut off the head. I was told you were sent here to do that." He nodded toward the camp. "Knowing the location of this place makes these men vulnerable. And we can take pictures of the women being trained here. Once they are moved, if we can act quickly enough, they can be picked up before they carry explosives into the city."
"How do you stop them?" Ajza asked.
"Sometimes we simply pick them up and relocate them. Unfortunately this is not always possible."
Ajza looked at the man but didn't ask the question that preyed on her mind.
"When we have to," Ivan said, "we kill them before they are able to be used as human bombs."
Another wave of sickness assaulted Ajza. She wondered about the trail of unmarked graves that undoubtedly wound through the hilly terrain.
"This is war," Ivan stated quietly. "Those women and the terrorists they represent don't reflect true Chechen nationalist interests. We are willing to fight for our freedom and trust that God will watch over us, but will not make war on innocents."
"Those women are innocent," Ajza said.
"Some of them, yes. And that is sad."
Ajza turned her attention back to the field glasses and watched the site again. A door opened on one of the houses and a woman brought out a four-or five-year-old boy. Although she was too far away for Ajza to hear the conversation or read lips, it was apparent the woman had brought the small boy out to attend a call of nature.
"There are children here," Ajza whispered. Although she'd seen the information in the files she'd received, the fact hadn't caught her attention.
