by Alex Lukeman
Six survivors of the attack stood by the van, four women and two men. They held paper cups of tea given to them by the police. All six showed the effects of the blast. The women had blankets wrapped around them, with not much else underneath. The men looked disheveled, their clothes stained by smoke and dust and spattered blood.
All six had a common expression on their faces. Vysotsky had seen it many times before, in Chechnya and Afghanistan. It was the look people got when sudden violence ripped away their illusion of safety, when they couldn't avoid the reality of their own mortality. One moment, life was normal. An instant later normality was gone, and with it the false idea they were in control. Sometimes people picked up the pieces and moved on. Sometimes they didn't.
Flanked by the police captain, Vysotsky strode up to one of the women. She was nineteen or twenty years old. Her long, blonde hair was tangled and dirty. Even under the blanket it was evident she was extremely attractive.
She had large, doe-like eyes. She cringed as he approached.
"Don't be frightened," Vysotsky said. "I only want to ask you a few questions. What is your name?"
"Irina."
"Irina what?"
"Irina Alistratova."
"You were working here last night, Irina?"
"Yes."
"Where were you when the terrorists came into the club?"
"I was tending bar. In the strip bar. That's where I work."
"Tell me what happened, please."
"I don't know what happened." Her voice had an edge of hysteria in it. "I heard shooting, then people screaming. Zhana was just finishing her routine on the stage. Then this man came into the room."
She stopped. She looked shaken.
Vysotsky prompted her. "A terrorist?"
"Yes. He shot Zhana first, I saw the bullets hit her. Then he began shooting at the men who'd been watching her. There was blood everywhere. He was yelling."
"What did you do?"
"I ducked down behind the bar. There's a trap door in the floor, it goes down to a cellar where bottles are stored. Sometimes I go down there to get something for the bar. I opened the door and went down and closed it behind me. He didn't see me."
"The police found her in the liquor room," the captain said. "She was afraid to come out."
Vysotsky nodded. "What did this man look like?"
"I don't know. He didn't look like someone from around here. He had a mask and a big beard. He wore a long raincoat."
"Anything else?"
"No. Wait, he had a little embroidered cap on his head."
Tajik. Or maybe Chechen. Or Uzbek.
"I liked Zhana. She didn't deserve that. She didn't deserve to die like that."
Irina began crying.
"Get someone to help her," Vysotsky said to the captain.
When he'd finished interviewing everyone, Vysotsky hadn't learned much that was new. The best bit of information was about the embroidered headwear. Many Muslims wore a cap of some kind but not everyone wore the round, embroidered variety. Still, it wasn't enough to pin down nationality.
He already knew the terrorists had been armed with Czech Skorpions. That was a little unusual. AK 47's were much more plentiful, the terrorist weapon of choice, cheap and reliable. But the Skorpion was more easily concealed, specifically designed for the kind of close range slaughter that had occurred in the nightclub. It was also more expensive, more complicated, and hard to come by.
Someone had paid a lot for those weapons. That indicated serious backing.
Where had these people obtained the guns? Vysotsky made a mental note to have someone pursue that line of inquiry. The police would do it as a matter of course, but he would put his own people on it.
He decided to visit the prisoner Valentina had brought back from her raid in Kapotnya. So far the man had given them chicken feed. Vysotsky was surprised by his stubbornness, the man hadn't seemed to be the sort who would resist the beatings he'd gotten.
It was time to up the ante in his interrogation.
CHAPTER 22
Ronnie took Selena and Nick to meet his friend with a car.
Louie was a big man, with skin the color of coal. He was heavily muscled, his arms as big around as most people's thighs. His gut hung out over his belt, but Nick wasn't fooled by the appearance of fat. It was the kind of fat you saw on men who played tackle in the NFL. Nick was six feet tall, but he had to look up to meet Louie's eyes.
His hand engulfed Nick's as they shook. It wasn't the first time they'd met. Louie had created Ronnie's Hummer and he'd built Nick's Suburban.
"Ronnie says you blew up the ride I built for you."
Louie's voice was deep and resonant, with a soft Carolina accent.
"I didn't blow it up. Somebody that didn't like me did."
"Man, what do you dudes do for a living? Last time Ronnie came by it took me three days to fix the bullet holes and all the other problems."
"Sometimes we piss people off," Nick said.
"That so?"
"He needs something new to get around in," Ronnie said.
"You wouldn't happen to have a Mercedes, would you?" Selena asked.
"Nope. But I might have somethin' else you'd like."
At one time Louie's building had been a car dealership. Big glass windows in the front had been blacked out. The showroom had been converted into a combination office and parts depot. Floor to ceiling shelves filled with parts lined one wall.
Louie beckoned and they followed him back into a cavernous garage.
"This one's ready."
Louie stopped by a gleaming convertible that made Selena gasp.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"It's a Bentley Continental GT Speed."
"Oh my God," Selena said. "I haven't had a chance to drive one of these yet."
"What's so special about it?" Nick asked. "I mean it's obviously a luxury car..."
Louie looked at him disapprovingly.
"You don't know much about cars, do you?"
Selena ran her hand along the gleaming fender. The car had a massive, perforated grill. The paint was a deep, dark blue that made you feel as though you could drown in it. The tan leather looked soft as butter, inviting you to sit down.
"You want to tell your man about it?" Louie said.
"This is an unbelievable car," Selena said. "It's got a twelve cylinder engine and more than six hundred horsepower. It'll do better than two hundred miles an hour."
"Okay, I get it," Nick said. "Nice car. Do I need to point out it's a convertible? Not the best thing if somebody's shooting at us. Anyway, we need something a little less conspicuous."
"How about a Dodge Viper?"
"Nice, but no thanks. Still too conspicuous."
"You want something boring," Louie said, sadly.
"Not boring to drive and not slow. Boring looking, maybe. Armored, like the suburban was."
"What's that one over there with the doors off?" Selena asked.
"That's a Volvo V90. Yeah, that might work. Nobody looks twice at a Volvo. I haven't finished with the armor yet, but the engine's done."
They walked over to the car. Louie leaned in and popped the hood.
"You didn't want the Viper but this one has a Viper engine in it. The suspension is tweaked. There are a lot of upgrades you can't see, like racing brakes and improved steering. I put a racing dash in it. You've got full instrumentation."
"It looks like a station wagon," Nick said. "Something someone's mom would use to pick up her kids after school."
"You wanted boring."
"Is it fast?" Selena asked.
"I'm gonna guess about one seventy, maybe one seventy-five. It would be faster except for the weight of the armor. I use ceramics and Kevlar. It's not as bad as the old steel stuff, but it's still heavy. It'll stop anything short of a fifty caliber."
"Has it got a radio?" Nick asked.
Louie looked at him and shook his head.
CHAPTER 23
Th
e club was noisy, crowded, anonymous, the kind of place where no one knew your name. That was what Valentina wanted, a place where no one knew her. Tonight she could pretend she was free. Tonight she could be someone other than a pawn in a game over which she had no control.
She sat at the bar, a slab made of polished black marble, lit with blue and red neon light that highlighted tall pyramids of bottles on the back bar. Everyone knew about the terrorist attack on Pluto but it hadn't hurt business. Three bartenders were in constant motion, pouring, blending and mixing. On the packed dance floor, hundreds of sweating people gyrated to the thumping, monotonous beat of synthesized music.
She contemplated the drink in front of her, a lethal combination of vodka, ouzo, and a dash of absinthe, stirred and strained into a large martini glass. It was a deceptively beautiful pale green and tasted of licorice. The drink was only her first, but she already felt the effects of the liquor. A second would push her to the edge. She hadn't decided if she wanted to go there tonight.
Valentina had dressed in a tight fitting black leather outfit that molded to her voluptuous curves. She wore heavy eye shadow, vivid red lipstick, and a black wig. With her green eyes it was a killer look and she knew it.
She felt the man's presence before he spoke.
"Excuse me, don't I know you?"
Valentina turned to look at him. He was tall, muscular, with blonde hair cut stylishly long. He had blue eyes that caught the lights. He wore a stylish blue silk shirt, open to show off a heavy gold chain around his neck, and American blue jeans.
"I don't think so," Valentina said.
"I'm Grigori."
She could feel the alcohol working. His voice was low pitched and friendly. His accent placed him somewhere to the south. Sudden heat bloomed in her groin.
It's been a long time. He's good-looking. Why not?
"Valentina."
"Can I buy you a drink, Valentina?"
"All right."
Grigori signaled a bartender.
"I haven't seen you here before," Grigori said.
"That's because I haven't been here before."
The drinks came. Grigori looked out at the dance floor, then turned back.
"You like to dance?"
Valentina looked out at the mob on the dance floor and shook her head.
"Not tonight. Too many people."
"I'm celebrating tonight," Grigori said. "I just got promoted to crew boss. We're working on that new building going up on Kuznetsky Prospect."
"The one that looks like a big dildo?"
Grigori laughed. "That's the one. What do you do, Valentina?"
"I'm a secretary in a bank. It's a boring job."
"I never would've guessed you were a secretary. Not in that outfit."
"I don't wear this to work. You like it?"
"You are very beautiful in it."
Valentina knew what he really meant was he would like to see her without it. It was just a line, but she liked hearing it just the same. The drinks were beginning to get to her. She decided she would have sex with him. She wondered how long it would take him to proposition her.
After another few minutes of meaningless bar conversation, Grigori made his move.
"It's noisy as hell in here," he said. "Why don't we go somewhere quiet?"
"You have someplace in mind?"
"I live not far from here. Maybe you'd like to see my apartment?"
Took you long enough.
"Do you have something to drink there?"
"Of course."
"Then let's go."
Grigori threw some notes onto the bar. They pushed through the throng and outside.
The air was cool after the heat of the day. Valentina took a deep breath.
"I love the nights in Moscow," she said.
"We go this way," Grigori said.
He walked close beside her. Outside, away from the thick atmosphere of the nightclub, she could smell his cologne. So far it was the only negative. She wouldn't have pinned him for someone who used cologne.
Three blocks from the club they came to an alley running between the buildings. At the far end, she could see traffic going by on the next street over.
"If we go this way, it's a shortcut," he said. "My apartment is only two doors down from the other end."
The alley was dark. Even with the drinks in her, Valentina felt a tinge of warning. She didn't know this man. But then again, he had no idea who she was, either.
They entered the alley. Halfway through, two large men stepped out of the shadows in front of her.
She sensed the punch Grigori threw at her head before it landed. His fist grazed the back of her head, knocking off the wig. Her adrenaline kicked in, vanquishing the alcoholic buzz. She pivoted and drove her elbow hard into his gut. She followed through on the pivot with a kick to the knee of one of the other men. She heard bone and cartilage crunch.
He shouted and fell. Then the other one was on her. She took a hard blow to the ribs that shook her. He moved in and grabbed her around the waist. She brought her hands up in a quick, arcing circle, and slammed the palms against his ears.
He cried out in pain and let go of her, clutching his head. She stepped back and kicked him in the groin, as hard as she could. He doubled over and she slammed the hardened edge of her palm against the back of his neck. Something cracked. He went down.
A fist slammed into her kidney, knocking her sideways.
Grigori.
She turned to face him. He wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed, choking her, pushing her back against the wall of the alley. His eyes were red, glazed with hatred. The face she'd found so attractive only moments before was distorted and ugly with rage. She tried to knee him in the groin but he held her too close.
She couldn't breathe. Desperate, she drove her thumb into his eye and ripped away to the side of his face. Spurts of sticky liquid and blood drenched her fingers. He screamed, a sound of agony she'd never heard before. Grigori stumbled backward, his hands up over his eyes, screaming.
"Ah, ah, ah!"
She struggled to breathe, holding her throat, trying to catch her breath. Grigori stumbled away from her. The man whose knee she'd destroyed fumbled with a gun. She kicked his arm as he fired. The bullet struck Grigori and brought him down. She knocked the gun away and then kicked the man in the head as hard as she could. He slumped back against the alley pavement.
Sudden fatigue made her legs tremble. Her throat felt like it was on fire. A shout echoed down the alley. Someone had heard the fight, the screams.
"Ruki vverkh! Ne dvigaysya!" Hands up! Don't move!
Silhouetted against the light of the alley entrance was a cop, pointing his pistol at her.
She raised her hands.
Vysotsky isn't going to be happy, she thought.
CHAPTER 24
The next morning she stood in General Vysotsky's office. Angry bruises circled her throat where Grigori had choked her. The back of her head ached where his fist had almost knocked her out. She was hung over from the alcohol and the adrenaline crash.
Vysotsky looked at her with disapproval.
"You look like something my dog dragged in. Sit. You'd better have a drink."
She took a chair at the side of his desk.
Vysotsky took the bottle of vodka from his desk drawer and poured a glass for her. He looked at the bottle, considered, then took out another glass and poured one for himself.
"Spasibo," she said. She drank half a glass.
"What happened?"
"I went to a club."
Her voice was hoarse, rasping.
"Which one?"
"Astronaut."
"That's a pickup joint."
Valentina said nothing.
"All right. You went in the club. What happened then?"
She told him about meeting Grigori and how they'd left the club together.
"You were going to sleep with him?"
She shrugged. "He seemed decent enough
. He said he worked in construction."
"And then?"
"He said the alley was a shortcut to his apartment."
"And you believed him." Vysotsky's voice was disapproving. "You forgot your training."
"If I'd forgotten my training, I'd be dead."
"Hmmf."
"We were halfway down the alley when his two friends showed up. They were hiding in a doorway. Grigori tried to hit me. You know what happened after that."
She drank the rest of her vodka.
"It may interest you to know that Grigori survived. You blinded him."
"He deserved it. He tried to kill me."
"His comrades were not so fortunate. Both of them were in our database. They were Chechen, as is Grigori. His real name is Zelim Kadyrov."
"He didn't look Chechen. His Russian is perfect."
"That's why he was the one chosen to get you out of that bar."
They both assumed the attack was no random mugging.
"Why was I targeted?"
"I think you made somebody nervous asking questions in Kapotnya."
"But those people were Tajik, not Chechen. Why would it be related?"
"The Tajik who survived your raid on his apartment?"
"Yes?"
"We persuaded him to cooperate. A new alliance has been formed among the terrorist groups making trouble. Not Isis, something different. Chechens, Tajiks, Uzbeks, all welcome to take up arms against us together."
"That's not good news," Valentina said.
"No."
"They've never cooperated before. Something's changed."
"We have the man who attacked you to ask about it. Someone had the authority to tell him to go after you and he knows who it is. Soon we will know, also."
"And then?"
"And then you can redeem yourself by bringing this person to us. Perhaps it's the one they call The Spider, the one we've been looking for."
Vysotsky studied Valentina. She had deep shadows under her eyes. She looked terrible.
"Valentina. Talk to me. How did you get yourself into such a situation?"
Her green eyes flashed. She controlled her temper.
"I didn't 'get' myself into the situation. I thought I'd found a companion for the night. Or am I not supposed to have a personal life? How was I to know he was setting me up? He seemed all right. He gave no clues. I had no indication something was wrong. Not until we entered that alley. Even then, I thought I was being paranoid."
