by Cliff Ryder
"I am sorry," the woman whispered.
Without warning of any kind, Saleh backhanded the woman in the face and knocked her to the ground. She cried out in pain as she covered her bloody mouth with a shaking hand. Mercilessly Saleh kicked her in the side and drove the breath from her lungs.
Ajza barely restrained herself from interfering. He's not going to kill her, she told herself. If he was going to kill her, he'd already have done it.
"Do not be sorry!" Saleh shouted, looming over the woman. "Sorry does not kill Russians. Shoot better. Hold the weapon firmly. That kills Russians — the murderers of your husbands."
The woman wiped blood from her face and did not look at Saleh. "I will."
"Get up." Saleh turned and walked back to his post. He fisted the AK-47 at his side. "We will do this until you do it right. Load three more rounds. Now."
One of the other men watching the training walked by and deposited three more bullets onto the plank in front of Ajza and the other women. Ajza picked up the rounds and clicked them into the magazine, then slammed the magazine home.
At the end of the line, the beaten woman pushed herself to her feet, then picked up her weapon and loaded it. Blood dripped down her chin from her broken lips as she took her place on the firing line. White knuckles revealed the death grip she had on the weapon.
Saleh watched her closely, but Ajza knew the man watched them all.
"Shoot the targets," Saleh commanded.
Ajza fired once, then twice. She hesitated on the third shot as if taking better aim.
The beaten woman also hesitated. For a moment Ajza thought she was going to turn her weapon on Saleh. After seeing the woman shoot, Ajza doubted she would hit him. Ajza still wasn't certain what she herself was going to do with her third shot, but she felt confident she could kill Saleh.
Then the woman fired all three rounds at the target. All of them went wide and dug holes in the hillside. When she was finished, she placed the pistol on the plank and wept as blood trickled down her chin.
Ajza fired her last round and put her weapon down, as well.
"You still shoot terribly," Saleh announced. "Thank God you will be carrying bombs when you go into battle."
The beaten woman bowed her head as Saleh walked away. "At least then it will be over," she whispered. She wiped blood from her face with a trembling hand. "God, please let it be over quickly."
47
Moscow
Every day Sergei spent in the safe house seemed like a miracle because he expected to be discovered at any moment. He had no problem believing that safe houses existed within the city. During his investigations, he had located such places, but he knew there were dozens of others he didn't know about. He hoped this was one of those that wouldn't be found.
The small apartment was located in the basement under a dance club. Getting in and out was no problem, and he was generally covered by all the traffic going in and out of the club. During the day, enough pedestrians were on the sidewalks that again it was relatively simple to get lost in the crowd.
In order to find the safe house, someone had to know it was there.
Since his arrival, however, Sergei hadn't left once. He'd sat and watched the news. The story about the attack in the streets involving him had been dropped quickly by the television news. When the reporters couldn't find anything to tie the events to, they had no choice but to move on. There was enough unrest in Russia's satellite countries that no story could stay front and center for long. And the ever-present threat of the Chechen rebels remained.
Even the assassination of Gregor Lovyrev by the Chechens hadn't remained at the top of the news. His death had quickly become just another terrorist statistic.
When he wasn't watching the news, Sergei slept and ate. He felt guilty about lying in hiding when Mikhalkov remained somewhere fighting for his life. The mysterious woman had let Sergei know that the old man still lived and that he was all right.
But Sergei didn't know if that was true. He tried to remain calm about it, but in a way he felt he was to blame for Mikhalkov's injuries. The old man hadn't known everything Sergei had about the investigation. The woman limited contact and information. Sergei had no idea what she was doing, but he knew that someone should be checking up on Kumarin.
Despite having safely slept in the apartment for three nights, Sergei kept a pistol in his hand wherever he was. At night the weapon lay under his pillow. Never in his life had he behaved that way. But then, never in his life had he felt so unsafe. This was different, and in no way as romantic or as exciting as the spy novels he'd read had led him to believe.
The apartment was neatly organized and had a selection of entertainment, from DVDs to music to video games. When he'd seen everything, Sergei had been fascinated. Then he'd realized such things were provided because people who stayed in the safe house had little else to do.
In addition to the fully stocked kitchen and entertainment area, the apartment also had a built-in security system. Pinhole cameras provided views of the hallway outside the door, as well as the nearby streets and alleys. Sergei often checked those, too.
The phone the woman had provided him lay on the computer desk plugged into the charger. No matter what he did, he knew he was really waiting for it to ring.
* * *
When the computer pulsed for attention, Sergei muted the television and went to the workstation. He moved the mouse and clicked on the message, then clicked on the video-connection link. The camera atop the computer monitor flickered to show that it was activated. Sergei suspected that he had lived his life in an aquarium the past three days.
As always, the link at the other end of the connection revealed only a solid blue screen. There was nothing to give away anything about the woman. Her voice came through strong and clear.
"How are you holding up?" she asked.
"I am well," Sergei replied, "but restless."
"Feel like getting out?"
The question surprised Sergei into momentary silence. He hadn't expected the onslaught of anxiety that trailed the possibility. "Of course."
"You're about to have a visitor."
A digital image appeared on the monitor. The man in the image had short-cropped black hair and a hard face. It was hard to discern his nationality. A slight scar on his cheek pulled at the right corner of his mouth, giving him a tiny smirk. His eyes were so dark they looked black.
"I do not know him," Sergei said.
"His name is Viktor. You're not supposed to know him. When you're finished with this assignment, you still won't know him. Viktor is there to keep you safe."
"Safe from what?" Sergei asked irritably. "I can keep myself safe." And that is why you have been living in this safe house, he chided himself resentfully.
"Kumarin has trained soldiers working for him. Some of them are Spetsnaz. You need an extra pair of eyes."
Sergei couldn't argue with the logic. He had crossed paths with the Russian special-forces soldiers in the past while working domestic disturbances. Thankfully there had been only one Spetsnaz at a time and they hadn't been trying to kill him.
"Where is Viktor from?" he asked.
"It doesn't matter," the woman replied. "He's good at his job."
Sergei couldn't help wondering if the woman thought he was not good at keeping himself alive. He wanted to point out that he'd survived this long.
"I need you to watch Kumarin," she said.
"Spy on him?"
"Yes."
"Don't you have people who can do this?"
"You're a member of the FSB. You're familiar with the players who surround Kumarin. If he decides to go to ground somewhere…"
"What do you mean, go to ground?" Sometimes the American language was confusing to Sergei. He imagined Kumarin throwing himself on the ground and supposed that wasn't what the woman was talking about.
"In case Kumarin decides to hide," the woman said, "you'll have a better chance of finding him."
"Gener
al Kumarin is not a man who hides," Sergei said. "He has a reputation for standing up to adversity."
"Except when he's certain he's going to get crushed or if he knows he doesn't voice the popular view. I've done research on him, and I've read his psychological profile."
Sergei nodded and filed away that tidbit, as well. Obviously the woman had a lot of resources at her fingertips.
"A lot of pressure is coming to bear in the matter. The man Kumarin is dealing with isn't known for his patience."
That caught Sergei's attention immediately. "You know who it is?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"When the time comes, I'll let you know."
Irritation flared within Sergei again. He didn't like information being kept from him. However, he knew the woman wouldn't tell him until she was ready to.
"How is Vasily?"
"Recovering. Doing surprisingly well, I'm told."
Sergei felt immediately relieved.
"It will be some time before he's up and around," the woman went on, "but the doctors think he will make a full recovery."
"That's good." Sergei glanced at the muted television. "I have been thinking it might be a good idea if we increase pressure on Kumarin." It was something Mikhalkov would have done and Sergei felt pleased with himself for thinking of the tactic.
"You have something in mind?"
"Yes."
* * *
Sergei pulled up the files the woman had sent him. The two men who had entered the hospital to kill Sergei and Mikhalkov had been identified. The driver Sergei had killed had also been identified. Knowing the man's name and that he had family made his death weigh more heavily on Sergei's mind. Nightmares had haunted his sleep, replaying his assassination of the man — no other word truly fit — over and over.
"Russian media has not identified the men who came to the hospital," Sergei said. "You say they are Spetsnaz."
"They are. Kumarin probably expunged the records of those men."
"I know. But I'm thinking those men should be identified in the Russian media. Especially their ties to Kumarin."
The woman hesitated. "Getting information to the Russian media can be problematic."
"I can do this."
"Not all these news services would be willing to publish or broadcast news like this. You'll be drawing a lot of attention to yourself."
"If I went through conventional routes, true, but there are independent news services — watchdogs, if you will — that broadcast news over the Internet." Sergei had been surprised by how many of them Mikhalkov had known, and surprised even further by how much those independent reporters had known and were willing to risk. "They look for things like this. The broadcasts might only be small at first, but perhaps a larger television station will pick it up. The new Russia loves conspiracies almost as much as the West. Either way, Kumarin monitors such things."
"That's a good idea," the woman said. "How soon can you do it?"
"An hour or two after I am away from this place." Sergei was amused and irritated at how protective he was of his hiding place.
"All right."
Movement showed in one of the security monitors as a warning buzz echoed through the apartment. A man approached the door and stood waiting.
"It appears I have company," Sergei said.
"That's Viktor," the woman responded.
"If you say so." Despite the woman's confirmation, Sergei slid his pistol into his lap so smoothly he was sure she did not notice.
A knock sounded at the door.
Sergei got up and answered the door while keeping the pistol — safety off — tucked behind his thigh. The man in the hall made no effort to step inside. He wore a black turtleneck and black slacks, heavy black boots and snug, black gloves. His dark hair was cut short and combed forward, forming a widow's peak above two sharp eyebrows. He could have been forty or fifty. His gray eyes regarded Sergei flatly.
"I am Viktor," the man said in a well-modulated voice. He spoke Russian. His face held no emotion. "Are you going to invite me in?"
For a moment Sergei thought of vampires, recalling that they couldn't cross the threshold of a home unless they'd been invited. If the hallway had been dark and he had arrived at night, Sergei knew he would have been even more reluctant to let the man in.
"Please come in." Sergei swung the door wide and stepped back.
Viktor walked into the room, moving smoothly, as though he was on ball bearings. "Hello."
"Hello, Viktor," the woman said. "There's been a slight change in the agenda, but nothing that should offer any complications."
The man's facial expression didn't alter. "You know I don't like to change anything in the middle of an operation."
"Yes, I do. If this wasn't worth doing, we wouldn't. If it works, it should accelerate things there for you."
Viktor considered that for a moment, then nodded. "All right." He glanced at Sergei. "Are you ready?"
Sergei nodded, but he couldn't help wondering if Viktor knew the woman or just worked for her blindly as he did. Viktor spoke Russian and English flawlessly, without an accent. Either could have been his native tongue.
"A moment, please." Sergei sat at the computer long enough to pull up the files on the three Spetsnaz soldiers who had been identified, then burn them to an SD-RAM chip. He pocketed the chip in his wallet behind his FSB credentials. "All right."
"Do you have a Kevlar vest?" Viktor asked.
"Yes." Sergei felt embarrassed that he hadn't thought of that.
"Please put it on."
Sergei retreated to the small bedroom and took the bulletproof vest from the chair beside the bed. He stripped off his shirt, then buckled the vest on and pulled the shirt back over the vest. He returned to the living room and found Viktor patiently waiting.
"I'll lead the way to the car," Viktor said. "Stay behind me two steps, one step to the right. Remain there. I need to know where you are at all times."
"All right."
The gray eyes focused on Sergei a moment longer. "Please be sure you do this. It would be easier to do this with a two-man security detachment. Even better with four. But it would be more conspicuous. For now I'm all you have."
"Of course." Sergei felt like an awkward child and resented it. Except if he made a mistake here, he was going to die.
Properly anxious, he followed Viktor through the door and back into the world. He hoped death wasn't waiting.
48
Outside Chechnya
The baby's plaintive cry woke Ajza. She lay quietly for a moment and thought Maaret had woken and tended the child, but then the baby cried out again. The fire in the stove had burned down to coals and did not give off much heat. Only a dim orange glow broke the night.
Ajza regretted leaving the warm bedding, especially when the cold darkness closed in around her. She pulled on her hiking boots out of habit. She'd been trapped without shoes while running for her life before and didn't want to repeat the experience.
She rubbed her arms to increase circulation and body heat as she walked across the room to Maaret's space. Ice crystals from freezing humidity clung to the sheet hung in front of the space. It crackled as Ajza eased under it.
The baby lay on his back, arms outspread. His face wrinkled as he let out another wail. He had squirmed out from under most of the bedding and now lay exposed. He wore only a diaper and a badly fitting, handmade nightgown.
Maaret hadn't moved. For a moment Ajza feared the younger woman had died. Then Maaret's thin chest lifted and fell with an asthmatic wheeze. She'd taken sick two days ago. There was no cold medicine in the camp. Maaret had been afraid of giving the illness to her son.
Moving quietly, Ajza picked up the child and pulled him to her chest. He felt ice cold to the touch. Shifting the baby to one arm, Ajza laid a hand against Maaret's forehead. She was burning with fever.
No wonder you moved, little boy, Ajza thought. Mommy's way too hot.
Ajza tucked the cover ar
ound Maaret and hoped the fever would soon break. Despite her illness, the men in the camp had forced her to complete her training and chores.
As she stepped out of Maaret's space, one of the other women's sheets moved. The woman had been woken by the baby's cries, too, but she hadn't done anything about it.
Ajza returned to the common area. She sat near the stove, held the baby close and fed the fire some of the branches they'd gathered earlier. Within a few minutes the fire blazed up and radiated more warmth.
When she discovered the baby had wet himself, Ajza changed him, using one of the makeshift diapers from a pile Maaret washed in the stream every day.
She also retrieved one of the baby bottles containing goat's milk that Maaret had prepared. In her malnourished state, Maaret wasn't able to produce enough milk for her son.
Ajza fed the baby, amazed at how good the simple task made her feel.
The baby ate well, then Ajza snuggled him closer to give more heat to his body. He felt much warmer, and he slept. She hoped he wouldn't catch whatever illness his mother had. His breath whispered milky soft against her cheek.
After a time she slept, too, and she felt calmer than she had in a long time.
* * *
Ajza jerked awake, discovered she'd fallen asleep with the baby in her arms and pulled him closely to her. Then she heard a woman's hoarse shout again and realized what had roused her from sleep.
"There!" the woman shouted. "There she goes!"
Men yelled at each other, and from the tone Ajza knew they were in pursuit. Their words carried anger and excitement.
Cautiously Ajza wrapped the baby in the blankets and got to her feet with him in her arms. She limped at first because her left leg had gone numb from sitting. She thought she would have known she was losing feeling in her leg.
One of the women stood at the back windows of the building. She peered anxiously down the mountainside. Beyond the dirty, cracked glass, three men with lights and a dog hurried down the incline. One of the men fell and discharged his weapon. The bright glare of the muzzle flash split the night and caused the woman to draw back from the window in fear.
