Dark Sky Falling

by Richard Ryker

  In the distance, there was the mosque the traitor Kadyrov, a Chechen put in charge by Russians, had built with Russian funds. It was a peace offering from Moscow; yes, we have destroyed your buildings, killed your mothers, raped your daughters, but come, worship in our Russian mosque, paid for by the blood of your ancestors. And they, those Chechens so easily duped by the invaders, would eagerly enter the mosque, its minarets like missiles pointed accusingly toward heaven, its worshippers kneeling over the bones of their families.

  Alyssa slept next to her in a taxi. The girl had spoken little since the episode at the apartment in Moscow, making for a quiet plane ride. The man that Jones sent to retrieve Kamila had died quietly, but Alyssa...she would not stop screaming. You would think she had never seen blood before. Slitting the man’s throat wasn’t the cleanest way to get rid of him, but it worked.

  Her only regret now was that it hadn’t been Jones on the other end of the blade.

  Kamila had heard the knock at the door, and she knew what would come next if she didn’t answer. Americans, Russians, they were all the same, or for that matter all men. Break their way in and take what they wanted and kill you. She had no doubt that Jones or his messenger would have ripped and clawed at her the same way Russian soldiers had. This time she was ready. She was the hunter. They were the hunted.

  Ever since it happened, her head had been quiet. The voices gone. She didn’t need the medicine after all. At least not the ones that were supposed to stop the voices. All it had taken was focus, planning, fighting back. Hurting those who wanted to hurt you. That’s how the voices had stopped.

  Alyssa’s head had come to rest against Kamila’s arm. Kamila moved a wisp of hair from her face and curled it back behind her ear. Kamila had noticed in recent days that the girl no longer wore an expression of serenity when she slept, as she had back home. She was getting older.

  Alyssa would never thank Kamila for saving her life, would never know how much she had sacrificed for her. Who knows what Jones and his men might have done to Alyssa. But they were both safe now. With the help of her aunt in Grozny, Kamila would locate her father among the Chechen rebels and turn Alyssa over to him. She had saved her prized possession from the Americans and the Russians.

  In time, the girl would learn to fend for herself, because in Chechnya you were on your own, living or dying by your own strength and cunning, especially if you were a woman. Sometimes that meant taking risks, or taking from others. The man she had killed, he no longer needed his wallet, which had provided her with enough to schedule the next day’s flight out of Moscow and into Grozny. All before Mr. Jones began doubting where his man was.

  ***

  The sun was gone by the time they arrived at her aunt’s neighborhood near the center of Grozny. Kamila paid the cabbie and approached the apartment building. She pulled a scarf out of her coat and handed it to Alyssa. “Cover your head.”

  Alyssa unfolded the piece of cloth in her hands. It was old looking, faded yellow with little white flowers. It had belonged to Kamila’s mother. Alyssa wrinkled up her nose. “This looks like something a grandma would wear.”

  “You want the people here to beat you? That’s what they do to women who don’t cover up.”

  Alyssa shrugged, put the scarf on her head and tied it loosely.

  “Not like that,” Kamila said with a sigh. She fixed Alyssa’s scarf, then wrapped one around her own head, the way her own mother had taught her.

  There was a plaque with buttons on the wall. She buzzed number 512. No answer. She buzzed again, then again. The third time she held the buzzer down.

  “Old cow,” she said. “Wake up.”

  “Hello,” a groggy voice said, in Russian.

  “Aunt. It is Kamila,” she answered in Chechen.

  “Kamila?”

  “Your brother’s daughter. Kamila. I am back from America. Let me in.”

  “Who is with you?”

  “No one,” Kamila lied.

  There was a click and the door opened.

  “Why did you say no one was with you?” Alyssa asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

  “Because she wouldn’t have let me in otherwise.”

  Alyssa walked toward the elevator.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the elevator. You pushed apartment 512.”

  She pays too much attention.

  “I don’t take elevators,” Kamila said.

  “Are you afraid?”

  “I am not afraid,” Kamila said. “Stop asking stupid questions.”

  They arrived at the fifth floor, Kamila panting from the walk up the stairs. Meanwhile, Alyssa hopped from step to step, and it was evident that she could easily outrun Kamila. She almost seemed excited. About what? Seeing some old lady she had never met? They were only here for one reason—to convince Kamila’s aunt to give Kamila her father’s location. As soon as she had that, she would be gone.

  Kamila knocked on the door and the old woman opened it immediately. Her aunt stared at her for a long time, studying Kamila as if trying to determine if this really was her niece. Finally, she grabbed Kamila’s hands and pulled her closer, hugging and kissing Kamila. Kamila stiffened at the touch of the woman’s lips, as rough and parched as October leaves. The years had scratched deep lines into her aunt’s face, swirling up and around in a sort of frame for her dusky eyes. She looked older than she was, but so did everyone in Grozny.

  “Come in niece,” she said, using the Chechen language now. She pulled Kamila in by her luggage and began to close the door.

  “Wait. There is someone else.” Kamila moved aside and revealed the young girl she had brought with her. The aunt looked from Alyssa to Kamila.

  “You said…”

  “I’m sorry aunt. I didn’t think you would let me in.”

  “You have a child?”

  “No,” Kamila snapped. “Of course not. This is Anna’s daughter.”

  “Anna who died in America?” the woman stepped forward toward Alyssa. “Why did you bring her here?”

  “She has nowhere else to go. Her father has died as well,” Kamila said, knowing Alyssa could not protest, since she had no idea what they were saying.

  “Poor thing.” The old woman passed the back of her fingers over Alyssa’s cheek. “She is so beautiful, just like her mother.”

  Kamila straightened. “I don’t think she looks like anybody.”

  “Just like her mother,” the old woman repeated. “Come inside little one.”

  Alyssa responded to the woman’s prodding and followed her into the apartment.

  Kamila looked after them. “Don’t help me with the luggage or anything.” She followed them in and closed the door.

  The aunt had already removed the girl’s coat and scarf and had her sitting at the kitchen table. “Are you hungry little one?” she asked in Russian.

  “She can’t understand you. She doesn’t speak Russian either.”

  “They didn’t even teach her Russian?” She shook her head. The aunt looked at the girl and asked Kamila, “How do you say hungry in American?”

  “It’s not American. It is English. The word is hungry.”

  The aunt attempted to repeat the word without success. Alyssa stared back without responding. She repeated the word again to the girl, who still did not respond.

  “She’s asking you if you are hungry,” Kamila said.

  Alyssa shook her head. “Yes.”

  “Da,” the aunt repeated the word in Russian, smiling.

  Kamila sat down at the table. “I’m hungry too, aunt.”

  Her aunt stood straight and screwed up her eyes at Kamila. “What have you been feeding this baby? Nothing?” She poked Kamila in her abdomen. “Keeping it all for yourself? You can help make supper.”

  Kamila helped with the broth and bread while her aunt talked about all the people who had died since Kamila had left. Everyone figured Kamila would never come back, just
like her sister. There were so many new buildings now, built right on top of the bodies. “Pretty buildings to cover the pretty bodies,” Her aunt said, smiling.

  Kamila clenched her eyes at the old woman’s comments. How could she talk that way about everyone who had died? Her aunt had lost her own son and grandchildren in the first attack years ago. Now she was no different from the thousands of other old Chechen women who hid in their little apartments while the world around them crumbled. While Russians were ravishing their daughters and nieces.

  The aunt rambled on, saying everything and saying nothing. Kamila lost herself in the droning of the words until an unexpected silence stirred her attention. Her aunt had asked her a question.

  “What?”

  “I asked you, what are you going to do with the girl? Why bring her back here?”

  “To see my father.”

  “Your father?”

  “Of course, that’s why I came here in the first place. You would know where he is.”

  “I haven’t talked to my brother in a very long time. Are you sure you want to get involved with all of that?”

  “All of what?”

  “The rebels. You could get hurt.”

  Hurt? Since when did that matter? There was nothing they could do now that they hadn't already done to her. “I don’t care about that,” Kamila answered.

  “But the girl—”

  “That’s why she has me. To protect her.”

  “Why don’t you leave her here with me while you go see your father?”

  Kamila said, “Is the soup ready?”

  “You can pour it.”

  There were only two bowls, and the woman would have to drink hers from a cup. Kamila’s hands were shaking as she poured the soup. It was her aunt and her ramblings about the dead, this city she didn’t recognize anymore, all this talk about what might happen to Alyssa if Kamila wasn’t careful. What was her aunt up to anyway, asking about keeping Alyssa? She wasn’t the aunt’s to keep, she was Kamila’s.

  If the aunt didn’t stop talking, Kamila would shut her up, for good.

  Chapter 24

  Marcus awoke in an abandoned office. His eyes focused and he recognized the paint hues and carpeting of the American Embassy. He tried to move but his wrists were locked behind his back.

  “Hello sleepyhead,” Dmitry said.

  Dmitry sat next to Marcus, handcuffed too.

  Marcus turned his head to the left. Stormy was there.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Did they hurt you?”

  “No, only you,” she smiled.

  The last thing Marcus remembered was approaching Kamila’s motel, hoping Alyssa might still be there. There were two men, and a dead body. It all had something to do with Jones and Kamila. Had Kamila killed the man?

  “We need to get out of here.”

  “We’re handcuffed, Marcus. And the guards said Jones’ would be here soon. Maybe if we can talk to him—”

  “Not going to happen,” Marcus replied.

  There wasn’t any talking sense to Jones. Especially now that one of his own had been killed. It was just like Jones to take a risk like this—locking up American citizens, practically in plain sight of other Embassy staff. But Jones probably owned half the security personnel through favors—or blackmail.

  Marcus sat up on his knees, sliding up the wall for support. He stood and walked across the room to the large wooden door. Locked. The room was empty except for a barren cherry wood desk and swivel chair. He slid down the wall and sat back on the floor.

  He pressed his back against the wall and tried to slide his hands under his legs. No chance. His arms weren’t long enough to get the cuffs around his legs.

  “What are you doing?” Stormy asked.

  “Getting my hands in front of me.”

  He turned to one side on the floor in a fetal position. No luck. Maybe another approach. Marcus sat up and kneeled, then fell forward as if praying, his face buried in the carpet.

  “Attractive,” Dmitry said.

  A few minutes later, after removing his size thirteen shoes and contorting his arms and legs in ways that even he didn’t think possible, he had his hands in front of himself.

  “There, just like that,” he said, smirking at Dmitry.

  “Bravo,” Dmitry replied. “Can you do that for me too?”

  Now to find a way out of the Embassy, and Moscow. Kamila was in Grozny, and that’s where they needed to be, too.

  Marcus stood. There was a knock and the sound of keys.

  Jones peeked around the door “You and your friends decent in here, Marcus?” He spotted Marcus and smiled. “Good.”

  “Screw you,” Marcus said.

  “Now, now. Don’t be mad at me. I’m not the one involved in the murder of Embassy staff.” Jones stepped into the room, closing the door.

  “It was your thugs standing over the dead body when we arrived.”

  Jones walked over to the desk and sat on it. He smoothed over the edges of his tie. “Yes, but who is going to believe you?”

  “I have two other witnesses.”

  “Your girlfriend and…who is this?”

  Dmitry didn’t respond.

  “His name is Dmitry. He’s a reporter.”

  “For whom?”

  “Novaya Gazeta,” Dmitry replied.

  “That old rag’s still in publication? I thought they had killed all of you off by now.”

  Dmitry cleared his throat as if to say something, then changed his mind.

  “You knew Kamila was here, didn’t you?” Marcus said.

  Jones shrugged his shoulders. “I might have known a few things…”

  “You lied to us,” Stormy said.

  “We all lie, darling. Take your beau Marcus here. Do you really believe he’s as innocent as he pretends to be?” He turned to Marcus. “Ignorance is bliss, is that what you’re teaching your woman, Marcus?”

  “I’m not anyone’s woman,” Stormy said.

  “You knew where Kamila was staying. You sent your men after her. Why?” Marcus asked.

  “She became too demanding.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me my daughter was here? What is so hard about that?”

  “Things aren’t always so simple, Marcus. You should know that by now. I told Kamila I wasn’t going to get involved in her family issues—”

  “You talked to her?”

  “You could say that.” He paused. “The point is, I try to stay out of other people’s business. And if they try to interfere with mine, then—”

  “You’re hiding something,” Marcus said.

  Jones shrugged his shoulders. “I might have given her a little money. I’m not entirely heartless. But she wanted more than she earned.”

  “Earned?” Marcus said.

  “Not important.”

  “The escort agency,” Dmitry said.

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Not important,” Dmitry said. He turned to Marcus. “He’s running an escort agency. He hired Kamila.”

  “Why?” Marcus asked.

  “She’s good,” Jones said. “You must know that by now. I mean, who was it that was taking care of her in America?”

  The conversation wasn’t going anywhere, except that Jones was trying hard to get a reaction out Marcus. They had gone to Kamila’s apartment to find Alyssa, hadn’t done anything wrong. And that was still the goal, to find Alyssa.

  “Where is my daughter, Jones?”

  “Not my problem. With any luck, far away from here. But since the cat’s out of the bag, yes, I hired Kamila. And she wanted more money. For what, who knows? We pay top dollar, you know.” When Marcus didn’t respond, he continued. “I sent a man over to put her in her place, shut her up. Nothing more. And now he’s dead. Waste of a good employee.”

  So Kamila had killed Jones’s man, most likely in self-defense. Even so, Marcus hadn’t ever consid
ered Kamila capable of killing another person.

  “You’re using Embassy staff to operate your business?” Stormy asked.

  “A little help when I need it. It’s not like I can run the business on my own,” Jones said. He took on a softer tone. “Marcus, I know you didn’t kill anyone. But I have myself to think about, and I’m not about to let my name get mixed up in this little mess your family has made.”

  “It’s a little late for that.”

  Jones tapped his chin, as if considering his options. “Let’s see…I received word today that Moscow police discovered the body of an Embassy staff at the home of a woman known to work for an unauthorized escort service. So, to put it simply, my staff made the unwise decision of getting involved in unscrupulous activities with a local. A Chechen at that. You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Speaking of your wife—”

  Marcus took two steps forward and spat toward Jones’s face but missed, the saliva hitting Jones’s tie. Jones stood and raised his arm as if to backhand Marcus. He stopped, though, and pulled out a handkerchief. “Same old Marcus, no impulse control. That’s something you and Kamila have in common, isn’t it? We can only hope your daughter is spared from what seems to be an inherent flaw in your family.”

  “You don’t get to talk about my daughter, Jones.”

  “How about you, then? What do we know about you? You married a Chechen whose family has known ties to the resistance. Likely terrorists. What else? You used fake documents—”

  “What?”

  “We had them checked out. Your travel documents were fakes. The kind people get who either want to enter the country illegally. Or in a hurry.”

  Stormy gave Marcus a sheepish grin. She’d obtained the expedited travel documents for both of them. Apparently they weren’t exactly official.

  “Oh, and you’ve been seen around Moscow with a reporter from an anti-government newspaper.”

  “Can’t deny that,” Dmitry said.