by Cliff Ryder
Sergei felt an immediate adrenaline surge. He remembered watching Lovyrev die on television when the Black Widows visited the club where the Chechen-sympathizing politician had taken his mistress.
"Ah," Pasternak said to Sergei, "you did not know that Lovyrev was connected to this."
Sergei's face flushed when he realized his surprise had shown in his features. Mikhalkov's face remained impassive.
"I knew," Mikhalkov said. "I do not tell everything I know to my trainee. Just as you do not tell everything to the two young men who sit with you in this room."
"Of course you are right." Pasternak leaned back in his chair.
Face still burning, Sergei held his gaze fixed. In his pocket, his cell phone vibrated silently. He slid it from his pocket and glanced at the face.
A message flashed across the viewscreen.
ASSASSIN ON ROOFTOP! GET DOWN!
Immediately panicked, Sergei looked up at the window behind Pasternak. "Sniper! Sniper! Get…"
The window shattered just as the big man reacted. He was too late. His head jerked to one side and his blood sprayed into Sergei's eyes, blinding him. The sound of the rifle shot from across the street echoed within the room.
40
New York
"Pasternak is down," Jacob Marrs stated calmly. He stood at Kate Cochran's side as they watched events unfolding in Moscow.
Kate hated the helpless feeling that shimmied through her as she stared at the two satellite views on the large wall monitor. Half the screen showed regular imaging of the rooftops, but the other half was rendered in thermographic imaging. The yellows, oranges and reds of body heat and the superheated weapon showed on the screen against the cool blue of the office.
Inside Pasternak's Red Onion office, chaos reigned as heavy-caliber bullets cored through the brick walls. Across the street, a two-man sniper team worked diligently to kill everyone in the room. The shooter knelt at a window while the spotter called out the shots.
"Where did those men come from?" Kate demanded.
"Inside that building." The female tech support operator's voice was quiet and controlled. "We're backtracking them now through surveillance-video records."
"That's the sixth floor," Kate said. "They've got heavy security there." She remembered that from the overview she'd received at the time Sergei Prokhorov and his partner had arrived at the Red Onion offices. Room 59 tracked the Russian agent through his cell phone GPS.
"We're hacked into those security systems, ma'am. There are no breaches that we know of. It's possible that they breached the security perimeter without triggering an alarm."
Kate took in a breath and let it out. They'd hacked in without getting caught. Someone else could have done the same. Maybe getting into the building had been easy, but she planned to make getting out a lot harder.
"Trip the security alarms and notify the FSB," Kate ordered. It was the best she could do. If they'd had a support team in the field, they could have tried to eliminate the snipers.
"Alarms sounded and Russian police alerted."
On the screen, the sniper continued firing. Then he and his partner abandoned their gear and opened a box. The thermographic image resolution revealed that they pulled clothing from the box, but not what kind of clothing.
"Try to download the security database," Kate ordered. "Let's see if we can find out what identification those men used to enter that building."
"Yes, ma'am."
It was a long shot and the names were undoubtedly fake, but even knowing them might offer a lead. An operation in the field fed on crumbs once the action turned nasty.
"Do you see Prokhorov?" Kate asked.
"He's moving," Jake replied grimly. "So far, he's still alive."
* * *
Moscow
Sergei lay facedown on the thick carpet and blinked blood from his eyes. The carpet felt rough against his cheek. He realized it was covered with glass fragments. The gunshots continued to ring in his ears. Panic swirled through him, threatening to suck him down into a mindless void.
How many shots? he wondered. Is the shooter reloading? Or is he done?
"Sergei."
When he recognized MikhalkoVs voice, Sergei cautiously lifted his head and peered around. Pasternak's blood still blurred Sergei's vision and tinted everything scarlet.
"Were you hit?" Mikhalkov lay nearby. The old man's face was ashen and he lay with the side of his face pressed to the floor near the desk. He held his pistol in his white-knuckled fist.
"I do not know."
"Find out."
Reluctantly, irritated that Mikhalkov made no move himself, Sergei rolled onto his back and waited for the next bullet to crash into him. Surely a moving target would draw the sniper's attention. Sergei looked down his body. He appeared intact.
"No." He tried to keep the relief he felt from his voice. "I am not hit."
"Good. I think the sniper is gone."
"Why?"
"Because we are not dead and there is no more shooting."
Sergei scanned the room. The two young bodyguards were dead. A bullet had nearly taken the head from one man's shoulders, and the other had his stomach turned inside out. Sergei shuddered at the sight. The fist-size holes in the wall let in daylight and the street noise below.
"How is Pasternak?" Mikhalkov asked.
Sergei found the big Mafiya man on his back behind the blood-spattered desk. Pasternak's chest moved slightly.
"He is alive," Sergei said.
"Mikhalkov," Pasternak whispered hoarsely.
"Yes?" Mikhalkov crawled over to the Mafiya boss, keeping a wary eye on the door.
"You have killed me." Pasternak drew his pistol and pointed it at Mikhalkov's head.
Mikhalkov made no move to defend himself. Sergei shoved his pistol at Pasternak, but Mikhalkov shook his head.
"I did not kill you," Mikhalkov said. "You know who killed you."
Pasternak's hand shook. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "They followed you here."
"Perhaps, but they would have found you, anyway." Mikhalkov ignored the pistol in his face and examined Pasternak. "Even if medical help were to arrive now, you would die. You will not survive your wounds."
Weak curses slipped from Pasternak's lips.
"Tell me who did this to you," Mikhalkov said. "Let me be your vengeance."
Bloody spittle blew from Pasternak's mouth as he attempted to laugh. "You will only get yourself killed."
"I am a hard man to kill. You know that from experience."
Pasternak's breathing grew more labored. Sergei hated the sound of it. Listening to someone die was hard.
"Tell me about Kirinov," Mikhalkov coaxed.
"This is not Kirinov's arrangement," Pasternak wheezed.
"Then who?"
Pasternak worked to get the name out. "Kumarin. Yuri Kumarin."
Sergei couldn't believe what he was hearing. "This man has the same name as the general?"
General Yuri Kumarin had been one of the staunchest foes of Chechen independence.
"You…you have such a lamb, Mikhalkov." Again Pasternak attempted to laugh. "It is a wonder that you have not lost him."
"I like Sergei," Mikhalkov replied. "I keep him around. I see promise in him." He shook a cigarette from his pack with a bloody hand. He lit a cigarette and passed it to Pasternak. "Tell me about Kumarin."
"From the beginning, this was Kumarin's project." Pasternak inhaled the cigarette weakly. "That's what he called it. A project. I am Mafiya. I do not do projects."
"What was the project?"
"I was to arrange…a shipment of weapons. Kirinov bought them from a weapons dealer."
"You were supposed to bring them into the country?"
"Yes. It seemed easy enough."
"Who were the weapons for?"
"I do not know. Ivanov met the man. He told me he had an eye patch." Pasternak tried to touch his own eye, but his motor control was almost gone.
&nbs
p; "Did Ivanov get a name?"
"No."
"Does this man have the weapons?"
"I do not know."
"How can you not know?"
"Because I…no longer have…the weapons." Fresh blood spilled from the corner of Pasternak's mouth. "Only…a few days ago…they were stolen."
"Who took them?"
"I do not know." Pasternak shuddered and wheezed.
"What happened to Ivanov?"
"The man I was…to sell the weapons to…he killed Ivanov. Shot him…and dropped him…through the window."
"Why?" Mikhalkov asked.
"I was told to raise…the price…of the weapons. That man…he did not care…for that idea." Pasternak swallowed hard and sucked in a painful breath. "He must have been…very certain of himself. That he would…get his weapons."
"Because he knew you would still trade with him even after IvanoVs murder."
"Yes. You see…howit was."
"Do you think he found the weapons?"
"No. They were…well hidden."
Mikhalkov asked, "Who knew where they were?"
"Kirinov. General Kumarin. And me. No one…else." Pasternak smiled. "Of course…there is…the possibility…I was betrayed. After all…you found me." The Mafiya man's head lolled to one side and his eyes stared without seeing.
Mikhalkov touched Pasternak's throat, then shook his head. He took the cigarette from Pasternak's lips and put it between his own. Then he struggled to get to his feet.
That was when Sergei saw the blood pouring down the old man's side. Mikhalkov managed two steps toward the door before he fell. Sergei caught him in his arms and gently lowered him to the floor, holding him as he would a child. He placed his hand over the wound in the old man's side.
Movement at the door caught Sergei's eye. He felt a surge of panic.
A young man peeked around the frame, showing only one eye and part of a terrified expression.
"Help," Sergei said. "I need help. Get help now!"
41
Outside Chechnya
When Ajza stepped from the building, a guard cursed at her and told her to get back. She started to retreat, knowing she couldn't point out to the man that Taburova had told her to report to him without getting beaten. Luckily the other guard knew she was supposed to see Taburova.
"Go ahead," the second guard said. "He wishes to speak with you."
As Ajza crossed the distance to the building she'd seen Taburova enter, she felt the men's hungry and hateful eyes on her. Their faces showed that they suspected Taburova's interests were sexual and some of them resented his power over them, as well as his protection of her. Many of the men were more wolves than patriots. Anxiety knotted Ajza's stomach as she glanced at the building where the horses were kept. If she could get one of them, she had a chance.
The guard watching the door to Taburova's building stopped her with a raised hand. She stood looking down at the ground. Even though she couldn't see the man, she watched his shadow so she could see what he did and react to any attack.
The guard knocked on the door. Taburova told him to enter. The guard announced Ajza's presence and Taburova told him to let her in.
Taburova's building wasn't much different from the other one Ajza had seen. There was no furniture, only a loose gathering of ammunition and food crates, used to keep supplies. Taburova used one of the crates as a chair while he spoke on a satellite phone.
Covering the mouthpiece with a big hand, Taburova said, "Sit."
With nothing to sit on but the floor, Ajza sat against the wall about ten feet away and crossed her legs. After a moment of listening to Taburova's infrequent responses, mostly in the negative, she identified a rhythmic thumping in the background. She guessed there was a generator somewhere below or in back of the building. They had access to electric power.
She heard Taburova give a few orders to whomever he was talking to and finished the call. Then he closed the phone, shoved it into a pocket and regarded her wordlessly for a time.
"You were very brave facing Achmed," he said at last.
Ajza remained silent, then realized he was waiting for her to speak. "I was scared, not brave."
"You took Achmed prisoner."
"He would have raped me and killed me. I will not live like that."
Taburova got up from behind the desk and stood gazing out the window. "I will not lie to you. Most of the women at this camp have been abused. Or made dependent on drugs."
As she watched the big man, Ajza's dislike and fear of him increased. But she kept remembering how he had looked astride the horse when he'd ridden into Achmed's camp and defused the situation there. He had looked like a hero, not a terrorist.
"I have not done these things to the women." Taburova turned to face her and shrugged. "It's true that I have been harsh with some of them. Too many are weak and find it easy to beg for their lives. They disgust me. They are widows of soldiers who gave their blood to free this country. They shame and dishonor the memories of their husbands." He smiled as he looked at Ajza. "But every now and again, I find one such as you who lives only to strike against our enemies."
Ajza sat quietly. She listened to his words and thought that he believed everything he was telling her. Of course, what he was telling her was that she should die for him at a time of his choosing.
"I gave you your life up in the mountains, Ajza," Taburova said. "I can still give you your life."
"My husband is dead," Ajza replied. She tapped into some of the pain that still resided in her heart at Ilyas's death. She borrowed those feelings of loss and confusion and made the moment real again. Tears filled her eyes and tracked down her cheeks. "I have no life. There is nothing I want."
"You still live," Taburova said. "You are young enough to continue living."
"As a slave to my husband's family? In subjugation at a brothel?" Ajza shook her head. "No. That is not living. That is not the life my husband promised me when I became his."
"If you had truly wanted to die, you could have simply released that grenade up in the mountains." Taburova's dark eye gleamed.
"My heart is dead."
"If so, you would not grieve." Taburova shook his head. "Some part of you still lives, Ajza. You should treasure that feeling."
"It shames me." Coming so easily, the response surprised Ajza. Even though she hadn't grown up in Chechnya, many of the elderly women in Leicester and London lived by the old beliefs. She herself did not, but it was easy enough to emulate.
"Perhaps it is God's way of telling you that you are not yet done. There is much you can do here." Taburova gazed back out the window. "Most of those women out there have no will of their own. No conviction. They have only fear. And I give that to them to be a source of strength. Without fear, they would have nothing." He paused. "That would be a terrible thing. To go through life so empty. Can you imagine something like that?"
"Not until the death of my husband," Ajza replied.
"Then let me give you something else," Taburova said. "For a little while."
Ajza waited.
"Put off your death for a time. Until you feel ready to avenge your husband. Come willingly into this camp and become a shahidka. Become one of my weapons." Taburova walked over to her. "If you do this thing, if you show the same courage you did on that mountain while facing Achmed and his rabble, I will give you my protection as long as you are here. None of the men out there will dare touch you."
Ajza waited. She let herself fill with all the sadness Ilyas's death had left with her. The feelings of a woman like the one she now played would be different, but the emotions had enough in common that she felt her portrayal was accurate.
"To avenge my husband, I will do as you say." Ajza knew there was no other answer she could give that would satisfy Taburova.
"Good." He extended his hand. "I have need of you, Ajza. Not many women like you are left to Chechnya."
For a moment Ajza worried that Taburova was baiting her, that he already
knew she was there on a mission and intended to kill her within the next handful of seconds. She braced herself as she took his hand.
"Do not tremble," Taburova said gently as he pulled her to her feet. "You have nothing to fear from me." He raised his voice. "Maaret."
A slim woman entered from another room. She wore black clothing and covered her head in the Muslim tradition.
"Take care of this one," Taburova said. "She is the one I told you about."
"I will." The woman bowed her head, then turned to Ajza. "Follow me."
The whole way to the door, Ajza kept expecting a bullet in the back of her head. She didn't know if she was more surprised or relieved that it didn't come.
* * *
Taburova stared through the window and watched the two women as they headed toward one of the buildings. There was something about the new woman that challenged him, and he wished he had more time to explore the feeling.
He closed his eye and remembered her as he'd seen her on the mountain with Achmed. Fear had twisted the slaver's features when he realized his death was at hand. Through it all, Ajza had remained resolute. Taburova had seen fear in her face, as well, but fear was a natural part of the world these days.
Still, that kind of bravery was seldom seen anymore. In years past Taburova had seen courage and dedication in the eyes of his followers. They'd been true Chechen patriots fighting to push the Russian yoke from their necks.
Gazing at the men in the camp, Taburova knew that most of them were killers and despoilers. They weren't warriors. They were men who took advantage of others for their own cruel wants. They wouldn't follow him in battle, and the number of those who would had grown thinner. Taburova had led them and they had died.
He had been shot and injured on several occasions. He had lost an eye in the unending conflict. But he still lived. God alone knew why, but Taburova was beginning to think his continued existence was punishment.
His satellite phone trilled for attention. He took it from his pocket, flipped it open and said, "Yes."
"Pasternak is dead." The voice was rough and spoke accented Russian.
42
