by Conrad Jones
“Stand up Boris,” said the first guard trying to be offensive. Roman’s face flushed with anger. If he got out of the British penal system he would make sure that the fat prison guard and his family were shot. He would make sure that his men killed him last, after making him watch his children die first. He knew that an escape attempt would be made but he didn’t know when or how yet. When it did come he would remember this man’s abuse.
“I said stand up Boris,” the guard repeated angrily.
“You seem to be confused about my name,” Roman answered still seated on the bench, “you must be thinking about when you can buy your next chocolate bar you fat bastard.”
The prison guard was furious and he reached through the bars and grabbed Roman by the hair. He pulled violently ripping tufts from the scalp and hitting the Russian’s head against the bars. Roman did not utter a sound. He waited for the guards grip to loosen slightly and twisted his head upward and sank his teeth into the fat guard’s thumb. His movement was restricted by his handcuffs, but he had no problem biting with crushing force into the warder’s digit. The guard screamed in pain and cursed through gritted teeth, but he couldn’t free his hand. His colleagues tried desperately to reach the prisoner but the main isle of the vehicle was too narrow to let them pass. The stricken guard was so fat that he completely blocked the access to the prisoner’s cell, and he was wedged against the bars. Roman bit harder and he felt his teeth contact bone. Blood filled his mouth and dribbled down his chin, but he wouldn’t let go of the vice like grip. He bit harder still and shook his head violently, feeling a tendon snap excited him further. Roman swallowed and the coppery taste of blood filled his senses. The two free prison guards grabbed the injured man and pulled him backward trying to wrench him free from the Russian’s bite. Roman felt the ligament rip as they pulled, and he bit harder still crunching through the cartilage between the knuckle of the thumb. The combined weight of the guards ripped the remaining flesh and sinew from the ruined thumb, and he bit the top two inches clean off. The screaming guard crashed backward, falling against his colleagues. He was staring wild eyed at the bloody stump where his thumb used to be. He cursed incoherently and started to blubber like a hysterical child. One of the shocked guards grabbed the injured man and dragged him from the vehicle by his feet. Armed police reacted quickly to the commotion from the prison van and they came to the aid of the guards.
“Get pressure on the wound,” a police man said, “he needs a hospital immediately. Where’s the thumb?” The guards ran back into the vehicle and looked into Roman’s cell. They scoured the floor looking for the top of the guard’s thumb, but it was nowhere to be seen. Roman Kordinski sat staring out of the cell window at the beautiful racecourse in the distance laughing like a lunatic as he swallowed the fat guard’s appendage.
“Fucking hell I think he’s just swallowed it,” said one of the police men.
Chapter 44
Khava Bararayeva/ Black Widow
Khava waited in line as the long white tourist train approached the excited crowd. The train engine passed and it made a hooting sound imitating a steam train. Children whooped with delight as the carriages came to a halt allowing them to scramble aboard. The Florida sun was shining and the temperature was already heading for the 90’s, even though it was only eleven o’clock in the morning. Khava climbed aboard the imitation passenger train which transported millions of tourists from their cars, to the theme parks, and back again.
“Good afternoon folks, and welcome to Disney’s Animal Kingdom on this beautiful morning,” said the train driver over the public address system. He was wearing white flannel pants and a bright yellow striped blazer. On his head was a red baseball cap emblazoned with the Disney logo.
“Please move all the way across the bench seats, and allow the other folks to climb aboard. Five people per bench,” he continued his well rehearsed safety guidelines, “Your children must sit in between the adults and must not be seated next to the doors. Keep your hands and heads inside the vehicle at all times and please remain seated. You have joined the train at the Zebra car park folks, so don’t forget where you’ve parked your vehicles. We will have you at Animal Kingdom in just a few minutes and I wish you all a wonderful day, because it’s your day.”
The train jerked as it pulled away and began the short journey to the theme park entrance. Khava didn’t know why she had picked this one to visit, because they all seemed the same to her. She had driven the rental car down Buena Vista drive and passed Down Town Disney, where four of her Mujahideen brothers had taken the lives of hundreds of Kufur (non-Muslims), two years earlier. They had disguised themselves as Disney characters and then detonated their suicide vests inside the crowded resort. The political repercussions were colossal then, and they would be again this time. A mile further on she saw the sign for Animal Kingdom and decided that it would be her target. Animal Kingdom was the fourth theme park to be built on Lake Buena Vista, Florida. When it first opened its’ gates in 1998 it became the largest Disney theme park in the world, covering over five hundred acres. Khava’s dark sunglasses hid the tears that welled up in her eyes, as she stared at the thousands and thousands of cars parked as far as the eye could see. It was a national holiday and children were enjoying a week off school. Disney was a Mecca for families the world over to visit. Khava looked at the giant ‘tree of life’, which was situated in the centre of the theme park, its branches towered above the park in the distance. The tree was carved with the shape of hundreds of species of animals, from top to bottom. Only as you approach it can you start to distinguish the carvings from the trunk. The huge tree was once the icon of Animal Kingdom but is now dwarfed by the artificial snow topped mountain that encapsulates a rollercoaster ride called ‘Expedition Everest’. Khava was amazed at the sheer scale of the theme park. She wiped a tear from her cheek and tried to be brave. The truth was that she was frightened, more frightened than she had ever been before.
Four days before she was resolute that her destiny was to kill herself, and as many Westerners as possible, but now she wasn’t so sure. Khava was selected for this mission from a group of female volunteers, and then groomed with the details of the plan by the legendry Muslim warrior Yasser Ahmed. Yasser spent hours with her alone reciting historical events and milestones from times past. The struggle Islam had faced since its conception was now more prevalent than it had ever been. Yasser had convinced her and others that their own existence was absolutely crucial to the global status of Islam. Their actions here on earth would be rewarded tenfold when they arrived to greet their God. When the time to leave had come, Khava was driven to Grozny airport, and sent on a flight to Moscow along with two other Chechen women. They were never introduced to each other even though they knew of the others existence. During the journey to the airport they had sat in silence, each one of them lost in their own thoughts of what was to be. At the airport they were separated and given tickets and documents that would keep them apart to protect each individual mission. Khava had never been on a plane before, now she had four flights in front of her. From Moscow she had flown to Amsterdam where she changed planes to fly to Chicago. She was amazed at the size of Chicago airport, especially when she had to board a train to travel from one terminal to another. Khava felt lost and alone in the huge international terminus, and it was there that her doubts started to eat at her. Standing on a long moving walkway she bypassed boarding gate after boarding gate. They all looked alike, just the faces of the people waiting were different.
Khava passed a waiting area designated for an American Airlines flight to New York. The passengers were forming a line at the gate as they were called to board. Near the back of the line was one of the women that she had travelled to Grozny airport with. One of Yasser Ahmed’s Black Widows. She caught her eye as she walked and they stared at each other for a moment. Khava saw recognition in her eyes along with something else. There was a deep sadness there too. Khava recognised the emotion in her, and it was an empt
y desperate feeling of hopelessness. The travelator carried her away from the New York boarding gate and the moment was gone. Khava was alone again. She waited forty-five minutes in line to pass through security checks before she boarded her flight to Florida. Khava was picked up from the airport by Yasser’s affiliates and taken to a Best Western hotel in Kissimmee. There she was given the keys to a hire car, a one day Disney pass and her instructions. She had never felt so alone in her short miserable life than she did now. Not even when her husband had his throat cut in a bar in Grozny by a Russian soldier, who had made a drunken pass at Khava. Her husband had obviously sprung to her defence and paid with his life. Khava was hysterical as she watched her husband bleeding to death on the filthy wooden floor. Before he had even stopped twitching the Russian soldiers dragged Khava through a fire exit and raped her in the alleyway outside. The authorities recorded the death of her husband as a bar brawl for which no one was arrested or charged, and rape was never registered. Destitute and disgraced she became filled with a bitter hatred. Giving her life to aid in the struggle against the Christians and Jews was a natural option. They had taken everything she had ever loved from her and now was her time for revenge.
“Please leave the carriages from the right hand side folks, and check that you have taken all your belongings, especially the children with you!” the train driver interrupted her thoughts as they arrived at the gates to Animal Kingdom.
Chapter 45
New York
Zareta Katharina walked slowly along a promenade on the shores of the mighty Hudson River. She was heading for Battery Park where she was going to take a New York water taxi to Ellis Island, and the Statue of Liberty. Zareta had arrived in New York late the previous evening; too tired to even eat she had slept through until midday. The flights from Chechnya had taken twenty-seven hours in total, leaving her drained of energy. The connecting flights were uneventful except for catching a fleeting glimpse of another woman from Grozny, at Chicago airport. She too was to become a Chechen Black Widow and a martyr of Islam. Zareta had thirty-six hours until she completed her mission, and she decided to spend them exploring the colossal metropolis that was New York. She had never experienced anything like it before, and she never would again.
Battery Park was vibrant when she arrived. The twenty-one acre green space is the southernmost tip of the New York, borough of Manhattan, facing the harbour. The park is named after the artillery battery that was built by the British Army to protect the city in the seventeenth century. Zareta drifted through the busy park toward the pier, which was once a fireboat station, she sat and watched the ferries whilst drinking frothy American coffees for an hour before she boarded one herself. A medium sized latte cost more money than she had needed to feed herself for a week in Chechnya, but she was given money to spend and she couldn’t take it with her so she intended to spend it. There are no pockets in a shroud. Once onboard the ferryboat Zareta headed for the rear viewing deck. She stood there looking at the buildings in awe of the sheer scale of the city. As the ferries sail closer the Statue of Liberty the true size of Manhattan Island and its huge skyscrapers becomes apparent. The skyline is a truly amazing site to behold, especially for an untraveled eye. Zareta stared at the Chrysler building in wonder, and she thought it was difficult to believe that it was once dwarfed by the twin towers of the World Trade Centre. The sun glinted from its’ glass exterior. The thought of the towers brought her back to earth with a mental bump. The true purpose of her mission returned to her and it made her stomach turn. Chechnya and the constant state of war now seemed so far away. Yasser Ahmed’s well rehearsed rhetoric had cemented her resolve, but now alone in this incredible city the Jihad was no longer as crucial as it had once seemed. Doubts niggled at her faith. Two young boys chased each other around the passenger deck laughing, and they reminded her of her own lost children. As she looked at the city from the harbour there is an invisible space where the towers once stood, which is hidden by the surrounding buildings. The events of 9/11 returned to her to challenge her doubts.
Zareta felt that the decision to commit an act of terrorism had not been a simple one for her. When the Russian-Christian, Zionist invaders committed atrocities in her homeland then she felt that their attacks were wrong. The crusades had never ended. Islam was constantly under attack from Western cultures determined to annihilate the Muslim faith. ‘What was the difference in that, and what she was about to do?’ asked the voice in her head. Most of us would agree that terror attacks of any type are wrong; killing people, especially defenceless citizens with no political or religious inclinations is unacceptable to any human being. The problem comes when the injustices suffered by Zareta and her people are perceived to be worse than their revenge attacks. Cries for the death penalty as the ultimate deterrent in the legal system are heard more clearly by the relatives of a murdered victim, than an impartial bystander. Zareta, and Chechen women like her were robbed of their sons, fathers and husbands for two decades. The phenomenal size and power of the Russian armed forces left Chechen Muslims with no other military options than to use ambush, guerrilla tactics and suicide bombings to force their struggle onto the world stage. If Zareta’s mission was completed successfully then it would stop the Western world in its tracks. Muslim terrorists had demonstrated repeatedly that the enormously complex global transport system that we now share, which carries literally millions of people around our planet, ironically offers freelance terrorists more opportunities for sabotage abroad than at any other time in history, especially if those terrorists are prepared to commit suicide in pursuit of their goal. Zareta thought about the devastation caused by two groups of terrorists armed only with box cutter knives, who flew those planes into the twin towers. So twisted was her interpretation of Islam that their sacrifice steeled her resolve. She could not turn away from her people’s struggle now, and there was nowhere else for her to turn but to her God.
Ellis Island came into view and the ferry slowed as it approached the dock to allow passengers to disembark. The Island had become a magnet for tourists who wanted to visit the museum there for nostalgia’s sake. The ancestors of America’s diverse population mostly entered the country through the immigration processing centre, which was based on the Island. Many of America’s Italian, Jewish and Irish population would be able to trace their ancestry through Ellis Island. The engines went into reverse and the water behind the boat boiled and foamed white as the propellers thundered.
Zareta was reminded of the day her sons were killed by invading Russian soldiers. They had entered her village to look for the perpetrators of a road-side bomb attack, which had killed nine Soviet soldiers the previous day. The culprits were miles away high in the mountains near the border of Dagestan, when the soldiers arrived looking for recompense. The Chechen men from the village were lined up and questioned by the Russian officers. No one imparted any useful information to them, which frustrated them further. Zareta’s teenage sons were led away from the town square, with a group of boys of a similar age, to a small stone bridge, which separated one side of the village from the other. The small bridge had room enough for one vehicle at a time to pass over it. Beneath it the River Yagi flowed through a deep gulley thirty-feet below. The water was a torrent as it passed beneath the bridge, where it entered a deep water hole becoming almost still before flowing over the next series of falls into the valley below. The deep water hole was clear, and the rocks it contained were visible beneath the surface. Despite her hysterical pleas for clemency the soldiers tossed a local boy from the bridge to entice information from the villagers. The sad truth was that the local inhabitants rarely knew anything of the whereabouts of the rebel Mujahideen. The presence of Arab Muslims amongst the Chechens fighters raised suspicion from the indigenous Muslim community and vice versa. The twelve year old plunged into the deep freezing water below the bridge and he disappeared from sight. Long seconds passed until he surfaced again, but he was face down and still. Blood coloured the water around him se
eping from a deep wound on his skull, as his body headed toward the next waterfall. His clothes snagged on the sharp rocks at the edge of the pool and he remained snagged on them for a moment, before the current finally tipped his body over the edge and out of view. His mother had screamed like a banshee, and she had hammered at a Russian soldier with clenched fists only to be pistol whipped to the ground, losing two decaying teeth in the process. Her husband had long since been taken away from the village by the Russians never to return, and the rest of the villagers remained silent. They were too scared to come to her defence.
The soldiers grabbed Zareta’s eldest son Akmad and they wrestled the skinny little kid toward the wall. A big Russian soldier picked him up by his ankles and dangled the terrified teenager over the opposite edge of the bridge above the raging torrent. Zareta’s younger son picked up a tree branch and attacked the offending Russian with it. The branch struck the soldier in the mouth, wiping the sick smile from his face, and splitting both the top and bottom lips simultaneously. The soldier was furious and he swung the dangling boy in a vicious arc toward his younger brother. Their heads collided at speed and the force of the impact shattered the younger sibling’s cheek bone. He was knocked headlong over the low wall. The soldier bellowed in rage and tossed the older boy over the bridge onto the rocks below, just yards away from where his brother had landed. Despite the thirty-foot drop onto the jagged rocks, which had twisted and cracked their bones, they managed to cling onto the rocks, and each other as the raging torrent tore at them. The water seemed desperate to drag them from the purchase that they held on the slippery rocks. The Russians laughed as the young brothers clung on for dear life, and one of them offered a bet as to which would succumb to the power of the waterfall first. Zareta jabbered uncontrollably attracting the attention of the cruel Russian soldier, who had tossed her beloved offspring from the bridge, as if they were garbage. She screamed abuse at him as she was dragged to the edge of the wall by the Russian with the broken lips. He forced her against the stone bridge and bent her over the wall, forcing her to watch her injured children clinging to the rocks. He barked questions to her about the whereabouts of the insurgents but she did not have any answers for him. Zareta felt as if her heart would break as her youngest boy’s strength failed, and the river dragged him away from the gulley and tossed him like a leaf down the rocks into the deep water beneath the bridge. The soldier laughed in her ear, and the bristles on his unshaven face scratched at her neck and cheek. She felt sick as his fetid breath reached her nostrils. The world seemed to freeze and she felt like she was no longer an active participant on planet Earth. Zareta stared at her son and felt nothing but numbness inside her. She felt the material of her dress ripping but her muscles refused to respond, even when she realised his erect penis was pressed against her. Her eldest son maintained his grip on the rock while the Russian took her there, bent over the wall in front of the whole village. She felt nothing but the pain of a bereaved mother, and thankfully the ordeal didn’t last long. None of the other soldiers joined in the rape, which was unusual in this war where the systematic dehumanising of the female Chechens was implemented on a daily basis. No one tried to help her because no one really could, without risking their own lives. The rape of Chechen women by Russian soldiers was as much an everyday occurrence as Chechen men disappearing. They were just casualties of war. When he had finished he zipped up his pants and pulled out his pistol. Then he shot the boy who was still clinging to the slippery rock twice, once in the shoulder, and again in the back of the head. He tumbled down the waterfall to join his dead brother in the pool below the bridge.
