by Cliff Ryder
Sergei put the photograph back into the file folder he'd carried from the medical examiner's office. "According to the records I've seen on Ivanov, he worked with many people."
"Yes. He acted fearless, but he was not. He was just foolish. He often acted as a face, a go-between for people to make dangerous liaisons. It is a wonder he lived as long as he did."
"But he was not part of Kirinov's organization?" Sergei asked.
"No. A man like Emile Ivanov was an insect compared to Kirinov."
"Has Irina told you why Kirinov was interested in Ivanov?"
"Only that Kirinov was supposed to ensure Ivanov made good on a deal that he had helped put together," Mikhalkov said.
"Kirinov had an interest in this deal?"
"No."
Sergei thought about that and quietly gripped the steering wheel. "Then why would Kirinov be interested in such a deal?"
"That is one of the questions we must find an answer to, Sergei." Mikhalkov shifted uneasily in the passenger seat. His fingers drummed briefly on the car door while he surveyed the crowd around them. "Kirinov was not a man that could be pulled into an action by just anyone. And the rewards — whatever they were — had to be high to pull him back to Moscow."
"Do you have any thoughts about what those rewards might have been?"
Mikhalkov hesitated for a time, then appeared to come to an abrupt decision. "Money would not have pulled Kirinov back to Moscow. Greedy as he was, Kirinov had more than enough money. He would not risk his life for more. Whatever he was after, it was personal."
"Revenge, perhaps?"
"He could have hired his revenge. He could have purchased the death of someone here in Moscow. For a bonus, he could have had his enemies delivered to wherever he was staying and killed them himself. No, this was something more important."
Sergei slid the file into his briefcase and locked it. "Then we find the woman."
Mikhalkov nodded. "We start there. She is but a stop along the trail. However, we must expect resistance along the way. Whoever worked through Kirinov and Ivanov, this person has a lot of power."
Sergei felt a tingle of fear in his stomach. It wasn't often that Mikhalkov was cautious, and he'd learned to take note when the old man was.
34
Outside Chechnya
Ajza sat with her back against a tree only a few feet from a well-traveled footpath. Moonlight reflected from a small pond a hundred yards away. Nocturnal creatures, furred and feathered, made their way to the water to drink and to hunt.
Having her hands cuffed behind her was uncomfortable. She hadn't once asked to be uncuffed because she knew it would do no good. Achmed and his men saw her only as merchandise. Not only that, after being told that Russian soldiers had taken her, they saw her as soiled merchandise.
She'd only been allowed the use of her hands for feeding herself and for personal needs. The rest of the time she'd endured the handcuffs. The metal had scratched her wrists and threatened infection. Her face bore scratches and bruises from the times she'd fallen over the rough terrain.
The men sat and talked among themselves. Achmed eyed Ajza in cold fury. She knew that he ached to break her in spite of the warning Ivan had given him. Although it had been hard and not in her nature, she had managed to avoid looking him in the eye.
Five other women had joined their expedition through the mountains, bringing their total to thirteen. The number was ominous even among the slavers, and there had been some concerns about that.
Ajza sat in the darkness and tried to sink into the rough tree bark. Whenever the fear inside her rose, she thought of the other times she'd been undercover and alone. She'd narrowly avoided death on several occasions while working for MI-6. But there had always been a contingency plan.
Like the plan in Istanbul? she taunted herself. That had worked out really brilliantly, hadn't it? Memory of that only brought on a fresh wave of fear. Concentrate, she commanded herself. Stay focused. In order to get out of this, you have to believe you can get out of this.
At last fatigue settled on her like a warm blanket. Before she knew it, she slept.
* * *
Pain screamed through Ajza as someone roughly dragged her to her feet. Her mind came awake instantly, but her body lagged. She stumbled twice before she could get her feet planted.
Achmed's fist knotted in her hair. His hard scowl hovered only inches from her face. His fetid breath collided with her eyes and made her blink, and his stench clouded her nose.
"What makes you think you are so precious, woman?" the slaver snarled. "What makes you think you will not be treated as the filth that you are?"
The other men circled Achmed and Ajza, eager anticipation in their eyes. The women gazed on in fear and numbed acceptance because they knew they had no control over their lives at this point. Men assigned them worth, and at the moment they were worth nothing. Most were glad that it was someone other than themselves in Achmed's hands.
"Did you hear me?" Achmed shook the hand holding Ajza's hair.
Pain ripped through Ajza's scalp again. This time she cried out before she could stop herself.
"Does this hurt?" Achmed asked. He jerked again. "Didn't the Russians treat you more harshly while you were their guest?"
Ajza stumbled after the man as he yanked her around.
"I looked at you and I examined you," Achmed declared. "Yet I saw no marks left by the Russians. Did you not fight them? Did you not resist? Or did you give yourself to them gladly?"
No answer would have satisfied Achmed, and Ajza knew it. She gritted her teeth against the pain and read his body language so she could anticipate his moves and lessen her pain as he jerked her like a marionette.
"What I don't understand," Achmed told her, "is why the man who sold you to me would lie."
Ajza dodged to the left and blinked tears from her eyes as the pain screamed through her anew. She knew Achmed wouldn't hold back. One woman out of thirteen was no matter to him. Losing her would cut his profit only slightly. Besides that, a large part of the payment for the men was the harsh way they could use their charges.
"Do you know why this man told me these things?" Achmed demanded.
"He told you the truth." Ajza's voice sounded strained and high-pitched in agony. She had to stick with the lie that Ivan had told. One deviation, one back step from that story, and her life was forfeit.
Achmed might kill her, anyway, for sport.
"Lies!" Achmed bellowed. "You gave yourself to the Russians to save yourself! You betrayed your people!" He reached for a curved knife at his hip.
Looking into the maddened glare of the man, not knowing what had set him off, Ajza knew Achmed would kill her.
"If you cannot service me," Achmed snarled, "then we'll leave your body here to rot."
Desperate, Ajza twisted to avoid the knife thrust. She knew she couldn't pull away from the grip he had on her hair, so she drove her forehead into his face. His nose crunched and he howled in pain. When he refused to release her hair, she hammered her forehead into his face again. This time his teeth bit into the flesh above her eyebrow. Blood blinded her left eye and she blinked it away as she quickly stepped back.
Achmed covered his face with his hands.
Frenzied, breathing quickly, Ajza expected to be shot. She didn't want to die and be another loss that would never be explained to her parents. Like Ilyas.
"Do not kill her!" Achmed roared. "I will do it." He wiped the blood from his face. Even in the moonlight Ajza saw his nose was no longer straight. He took a fresh grip on his knife and lunged at her.
Ajza knew she'd never stand a chance if she tried to run. The man would be on her in one moment and her throat would be slit in the next. Instead, she threw herself backward onto her shoulders, crunched her body tight and slid her feet through her handcuffs so her hands were in front of her.
Achmed howled fiercely as he closed in on her.
Drawing her knees up to her chest, Ajza placed her cuffed h
ands behind her head and pushed to add as much momentum as she could. She powered her feet into her attacker's chest and broke his advance. Jarred and shaken, she rolled to her side and got to her feet.
Despite his injuries and having had the air driven from his lungs, Achmed got to his feet just as quickly. He shifted the knife and cursed Ajza loudly. Blood streamed down his face.
If you're not attacking, you're being attacked. That was one of the first things Ajza's martial-arts teacher had drilled into her head. If you stand still, you're a stationary target.
There was no way she was going to be able to talk her way out of the encounter. She also couldn't show too much martial-arts skill — or that would give away who she was, as well.
Achmed slashed at her three times, and three times she avoided the knife. But the slaver came closer each time. Ajza stumbled over a rock, then stooped and picked it up in her cuffed hands. She could manage only an awkward throw that had no power. The rock thudded off Achmed's chest and triggered another vile curse. When he turned back to her, his robe gaped open just long enough to reveal the grenades clipped to his belt.
"Come on, woman," Achmed taunted. "Give yourself to me and I will make your death a swift one."
Ajza scooped up dirt and launched it at Achmed. Then she followed it. The slaver closed his eyes for a moment and stepped sideways, favoring the hand that held the knife as Ajza had expected. Then he focused on her and struck.
Throwing up her hands, Ajza caught the curved blade on the short length of chain between the handcuffs. The razor-edged metal ground against the links. She twisted and ripped the knife free of Achmed's grip.
Moving swiftly, she stepped toward his side and threw an elbow into his throat, temporarily robbing him of his breath. She grabbed one of the grenades from Achmed's belt in both her hands, then roped her arms around the slaver from behind and levered a forearm up against his neck.
When he regained his breath, Achmed cursed her, then called on his men to kill her.
Ajza kept the fear pounding through her body at bay only through sheer willpower. The next moment didn't exist; only this one.
She lifted her hands and revealed the grenade in her hands. Then she pulled the ring and held the release immobile.
"I am willing to die tonight," Ajza whispered into his ear. She wasn't being brave and she knew it. She was out of choices. "Are you ready to die with me?"
35
Faced with certain and violent death, Achmed quickly ordered his men to put down their weapons. To his credit, his voice sounded only mildly hysterical. His composure helped a little, but Ajza didn't feel much better. She knew what the rifles could do up close.
The sound of someone clapping came from the shadows of the brush clinging to the mountainside. "Now that you have Achmed, woman," a male voice called, "what are you going to do?"
"Die in my own way," Ajza replied as she scanned the surrounding countryside. She was surprised at how much she meant that. The situation had gone decidedly south, as she'd known every undercover operation could do at any time.
She and Ilyas had talked about that once. They'd been at his apartment, sitting on the rooftop overlooking London hours after the sun had gone down. They'd both been through MI-6 training at the time, and both had accepted undercover assignments in Muslim countries.
"What will you do," Ilyas had asked her, "if you're found out while on assignment and there's no way out?"
"Die," she'd replied without hesitation. "As swiftly and as painlessly as possible."
On most of their assignments, suicide pills had been impossible. While learning to kill enemies, they'd also been taught how to kill themselves if there was no chance for escape. Spies, no matter what was released in the news, didn't fare well in enemy custody. Especially spies who wouldn't be claimed by their government.
"Let's hope that it never comes to that," her brother had said. And he'd grinned in a way that made everything seem like a joke.
"I will not die broken at the hands of these pigs," Ajza declared now. That was the truth for her and the woman she pretended to be.
"May I approach?" the man asked.
"Only so far." Ajza turned toward the voice, certain where it was now, and hunkered lower behind Achmed.
"Keep hold of the grenade," Achmed said nervously. "Keep a tight hold."
"Shut up," Ajza ordered.
"Let him keep talking," the new arrival said. Amusement and displeasure dripped from his words. "I don't think you will have to wait long to hear him beg for his life."
Ajza listened to the thuds on the ground as they approached, then recognized them as hoofbeats only a moment before the man rode into view astride a black horse. The man had a military bearing as he sat the large animal. Except for the scars on his face and the patch over his right eye, he would have been handsome.
Even in the shadows, Ajza knew the man at once. He was the man she was looking for.
* * *
"I am Mayrbek Taburova. Do you know who I am, woman?" Taburova studied the woman taking refuge behind Achmed. Fear etched the slaver's face as the woman held the grenade beneath his quivering chin.
"Yes," she replied. She peered at him. Fear widened her eyes, but she mastered it enough to hold Achmed prisoner and stand her ground. "You fight for Chechen independence from the Russians."
"That's right." Taburova kept a tight rein on the horse. He shifted slightly in the saddle and caused the leather to squeak. Briefly he gazed at the other women huddled together with their heads pressed to the ground. None of them had the fire this woman had. They were sheep. But the woman in front of him was a wolf. "What are you doing here?"
"I was captured. They were bringing me to you. To be one of the Black Widows."
"Do you not wish to be a Black Widow?" Taburova asked.
"I wish to kill the Russians who killed my husband. If not them, then I wish to kill others like them."
"You could have come to me. I would allow you to do those things."
"I have not been treated well at the hands of men since my husband's death. His father and brothers turned their backs on me. I have no reason to trust any man."
"Perhaps you could trust me."
"And perhaps you could trust me," the woman returned. "Lend me your horse so that I may make my escape from these disease-ridden rapists."
"You are very brave."
"I am not brave. I am frightened. I do not wish to live in fear. I have had enough of that."
"I can teach you to be brave," Taburova said. "Perhaps I can teach you how brave you already are."
"I will never be brave. My husband loved me. He took care of me. Now…now there is no one."
Taburova nodded and smiled as he leaned over the pommel. "My Black Widows are like you, have been through the same hardships you have faced, and they have learned to be brave. When they pass from this world to the next, the gates of heaven are thrown wide in welcome."
"So I have been told."
"Do you believe?"
"Yes. There is nothing else left for me to believe in. God is all I have left."
"At least you are left with that. What is your name?"
"Ajza."
"I like that name. It is a good name," Taburova said.
"It was my grandmother's name. And her grandmother's before her."
"Tradition gives value to things." Taburova nodded at the grenade. "Does your hand grow tired?"
"Not yet," Ajza said.
"I would not like to lose you before I get the chance to know you."
"Nor would I like to sell my life so cheaply," Ajza said. "I would not attain heaven for killing a slaver, but neither will I submit to having his dirty hands on me." She gazed at Taburova pointedly. "Or the hands of anyone else."
"I do not blame you." Taburova glanced around the camp. "I came here tonight for recruits into my Black Widow camp." He focused on her again. "The other women I am going to take with me because no one else will have them. However, since you have cre
ated an option for yourself, I will ask you. Would you be willing to come with me?"
"To trade one death for another?"
"To trade an embarrassing death for a noble and honorable one. A death made holy by God himself and manufactured by me so that you can take as many of our enemies with you as possible."
The woman hesitated. Taburova expected that. No matter how prettily painted, death was still death.
"My husband was killed six months ago," Ajza said. "He fought the Russians."
"A noble death," Taburova said.
"His family never liked me. They treated me badly, and I have no wish to live without him."
"How have you lived?"
"In the city. I worked in offices. My husband's family moved to London and I went with him, but his grandfather's stories of our country drew him back. I had skills when I returned that I didn't have when I left. But they are not enough to keep me alive. And there are too many men who will take advantage of a woman alone."
"Tell me your husband's name. Perhaps I have heard of him."
"Ramzan Gazuyeva. He fought with Asian Maskhadov until Maskhadov was killed."
Only one of the names meant anything to Taburova. Too many others had died without becoming known to him.
"I fought with Basayev," Taburova said. The two Chechen leaders held different armies and followed different paths. But they both fought for Chechen independence from Russia.
"My husband could never agree with Basayev."
Taburova sighed. "I could never agree with Maskhadov. Yet, it seems, both of them are dead and we struggle on."
The woman said nothing.
"I will make you an offer," he said.
"I am listening."
"Come with me and I will make certain you are given a chance to kill your husband's enemies."
"If I am to become a plaything for your men, humbled and disgraced, I would sooner die on this mountain," Ajza said.
