Sergey Baksheev
A Bride of Allah
Fonts by «ParaType»
Translator Nikolai Chuvakhin
© Sergey Baksheev, 2018
© Nikolai Chuvakhin, translation, 2018
Years ago, at war, he hated and killed; today, he saved the life of a female suicide bomber. And now, a deadly chase is on. He is hunted by both the authorities and the terrorists; his only friend betrays him. He is to be killed; she is to be blown up in a public place wearing a bride’s dress. Only love can provide the strength needed for the unfair fight.
ISBN 978-5-4496-0476-7
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
Contents
- A Bride of Allah
- Sergey Baksheev A BRIDE OF ALLAH A Novel
- Annotation
- * * * * * About the author
- Chapter 1
- August 31, 7:36 PM
- Dmitrovskaya Metro Station
- Chapter 2
- August 31, 8:05 PM
- Aslan
- Chapter 3
- August 31, 8:09 PM
- Dmitrovskaya Metro Station
- Chapter 4
- August 31, 8:11 PM
- Riga Overpass
- Chapter 6
- August 31, 8:26 PM
- Vlasov’s Car
- Chapter 8
- August 31, 8:33 PM
- Vacant Lot near a Railroad Line
- Chapter 9
- August 31, 8:45 PM
- Grigoriev
- Chapter 10
- August 31, 8:59 PM
- Lyublinskaya Street
- Chapter 11
- August 31, 9:20 PM
- Safe House
- Chapter 12
- August 31, 9:25 PM
- Sviridov
- Chapter 13
- August 31, 9:40 PM
- Vlasov’s Apartment
- Chapter 14
- August 31, 9:55 PM
- Offices of Federal Security Service
- Chapter 15
- August 31, 10:00 PM
- Vlasov’s Apartment
- Chapter 17
- August 31, 10:15 PM
- Vlasov’s Kitchen
- Chapter 19
- August 31, 10:25 PM
- Andrei’s Room
- Chapter 20
- Nord Ost
- Day Two, Late Evening
- Chapter 21
- August 31, 10:45 PM
- Andrei’s Room
- Chapter 22
- September 1, 6:50 AM
- Offices of Federal Security Service
- Chapter 23
- September 1, 7:25 AM
- Vlasov’s Apartment
- Chapter 24
- September 1, 7:30 AM
- Chervyakov’s Apartment
- Chapter 25
- September 1, 7:35 AM
- An Apartment Building on Leningradsky Prospekt
- Chapter 26
- September 1, 7:40 AM
- Vlasov’s Apartment Building, Courtyard
- Chapter 27
- September 1, 7:42 AM
- Leningradsky Prospekt
- Chapter 28
- September 1, 7:46 AM
- Elevator and Courtyard of Vlasov’s Apartment Building
- Chapter 29
- September 1, 7:49 AM
- The Streets of Moscow
- Chapter 30
- September 1, 8:07 AM
- Vlasov’s Car
- Chapter 32
- September 1, 8:55 AM
- The Streets of Moscow
- Chapter 33
- September 1, 9:30 AM
- Aslan’s Car
- Chapter 34
- September 1, 10:30 AM
- A Shopping Mall
- Chapter 35
- September 1, 10:40 AM
- Offices of Federal Security Service
- Chapter 36
- September 1, 11:30 AM
- Sparrow Hills
- Chapter 38
- September 1, 12:30 PM
- Offices of Federal Security Service
- Chapter 39
- September 1, 12:55 PM
- Mayakovskaya Metro Station, Platform
- Chapter 40
- September 1, 1:00 PM
- Mayakovskaya Metro Station, Lobby
- Chapter 41
- September 1, 1:03 PM
- Mayakovsky Square
- Chapter 42
- September 1, 1:07 PM
- Tverskaya Street
- Chapter 43
- September 1, 1:12 PM
- Mayakovsky Square
- Chapter 44
- September 1, 1:14 PM
- Mayakovskaya Metro Station
- Chapter 45
- September 1, 1:14 PM
- Tverskaya Street
- Chapter 46
- September 1, 1:15 PM
- Mayakovskaya Metro Station, Exit
- Chapter 47
- September 1, 3:25 PM
- Offices of Federal Security Service
- Chapter 48
- September 1, 3:35 PM
- A Supermarket Parking Lot
- Chapter 50
- September 1, 3:50 PM
- Paveletsky Station, Front Square
- Chapter 51
- September 1, 3:55 PM
- Il’ich Square
- Chapter 52
- September 1, 4:00 PM
- Paveletsky Station, Square
- Chapter 53
- September 1, 4:15 PM
- Aslan’s Car
- Chapter 54
- September 1, 4:20 PM
- Paveletsky Station, Exit
- Chapter 55
- September 1, 4:30 PM
- FSS Officers’ Volga
- Chapter 56
- September 1, 4:35 PM
- Paveletsky Station, Square
- Chapter 57
- September 1, 4:40 PM
- The Streets of Moscow
- Chapter 58
- September 1, 4:55 PM
- The Nondescript Courtyards of Moscow
- Chapter 59
- Nord Ost
- Days Four, Five, and Six
- Chapter 60
- September 1, 5:15 PM
- A Payphone on a Moscow Street
- Chapter 61
- September 1, 5:30 PM
- Trolley Bus
- Chapter 62
- September 1, 5:35 PM
- The Location of the Car Explosion
- Chapter 63
- September 1, 5:40 PM
- A Street near a Movie Theater
- Chapter 64
- September 1, 5:45 PM
- Movie Theater
- Chapter 65
- September 1, 9:30 PM
- Commuter Train
- Chapter 66
- September 1, 10:40 PM
- A Village Sauna
- Chapter 67
- September 1, 10:40 PM
- The Office of the Police Lieutenant Colonel
- Chapter 68
- September 1, 11:10 PM
- An Old House in the Country
- Chapter 69
- September 1, 11:20 PM
- Safe House
- Chapter 70
- September 1, 11:30 PM
- A House in the Country
- Chapter 71
- September 2, 4:30 AM
- Offices of Federal Security Service
- Chapter 72
- September 2, 6:30 AM
- The Country House
- Chapter 73
- September 2, 6:45 AM
- The Village of Vilenka
- Chapter 74
- September 2, 6:55 AM
- The Country House
- Chapter 75
- September 2, 7:00 AM
- The FSS Volga
- Chapter 76
- September 2, 7:10 AM
- The Country House
- Chapter 77
- September 2, 7:20 AM
- The Village of Vilenka
- Chapter 78
- September 2, 8:35 AM
- The FSS Volga
- Chapter 79
- September 2, 8:50 AM
- Domodedovo City Hospital
- Chapter 80
- September 2, 10:50 AM
- Aslan’s Car on Its Way to Moscow
- Chapter 81
- September 3, 9:10 AM
- Offices of Federal Security Service
- Chapter 82
- September 3, 10:35 AM
- Fatima’s Apartment
- Chapter 83
- September 3, 10:50 AM
- Cinderella Store
- Chapter 84
- September 3, 11:30 AM
- Fatima’s Apartment
- Chapter 85
- September 3, 11:35 AM
- The FSS Volga
- Chapter 86
- September 3, 12:05 PM
- Cinderella Store
- Chapter 87
- September 3, 12:30 PM
- Fatima’s Apartment
- Chapter 88
- September 3, 12:45 PM
- Offices of Federal Security Service
- Chapter 89
- September 3, 12:50 PM
- Fatima’s Apartment
- Chapter 90
- September 3, 1:00 PM
- Grigoriev
- Chapter 91
- September 3, 2:05 PM
- Domodedovo City Hospital
- Chapter 92
- September 3, 2:45 PM
- Sparrow Hills, Vista Point
- Chapter 93
- September 3, 2:50 PM
- Aslan’s Car
- Chapter 94
- September 3, 2:55 PM
- Domodedovo City Hospital
- Chapter 95
- September 3, 3:05 PM
- Sparrow Hills
- Chapter 96
- September 3, 3:15 PM
- The Streets of Moscow
- Chapter 97
- September 3, 3:20 PM
- Sparrow Hills
- Chapter 98
- September 3, 3:40 PM
- Sparrow Hills
- Chapter 99
- September 3, 4:15 PM
- Fatima
Sergey Baksheev
A BRIDE OF ALLAH
A Novel
Translated from the Russian
by Nikolai Chuvakhin
Annotation
Years ago, at war, he hated and killed; today, he saved the life of a female suicide bomber. And now, a deadly chase is on. He is hunted by both the authorities and the terrorists; his only friend betrays him. He is to be killed; she is to be blown up in a public place wearing a bride’s dress. Only love can provide the strength needed for the unfair fight.
* * * * *
About the author
Sergey Baksheev is one of Russia’s famous modern day authors in the genre of suspense thrillers. His novels feature not only an exciting plot, but leave readers questioning the morality of the storyline. Incredible intrigue, gripping suspense, shocking secrets, romance and lust — his writing has it all, appealing to a world-wide circle of readers.
He is the author of 26 novels, and lives in Moscow.
Copyright © Sergey Baksheev, 2012
Chapter 1
August 31, 7:36 PM
Dmitrovskaya Metro Station
A beige Lada, model six, leisurely moved in the right lane of Dmitrovskoe Shosse towards the center of Moscow. Andrei Vlasov has been operating a gypsy cab for a few months now. He deliberately drove slower than the traffic flow, keeping an eye out for a pick-up. The business day was over, the traffic got denser. Annoyed drivers flashed headlights at him and made gestures aimed to show what an idiot of a rookie driver he was.
Vlasov didn’t care about the insulting gesticulation. As soon as he picked up a passenger, he would show the lazy asses what driving in traffic looks like. They are having trouble passing him? Get a helicopter if you’ve got no patience!
His mental exercises in pride were interrupted by a call on his cell phone. He pulled a vibrating Siemens out of his shirt pocket.
“Hello?” he said wearily.
“Andrei, is that you?” Mom, with her usual stupid starter question.
“Who else would it be, Mom?”
“Andrei, make sure to buy some bread for dinner! Rye.”
“Okay, Mom, I will.”
“Just don’t forget! I know you; it will just skip your mind! Buy some right now and come home. You have to eat; you don’t take care of yourself. Unless Mother reminds — ”
“All right, I’ll go get some,” Vlasov reassured her, trying to avoid getting annoyed.
Over the years of living with Mother, just the two of them, he got seriously tired from her nagging. Mom didn’t want to understand that he was twenty-six years old and managed his own schedule. That said, he really could forget about bread; it happened before. It would be better to buy it right away, drive home, and have dinner. The most profitable passengers would be later anyway, when the restaurants downtown start closing.
Vlasov drove under a railroad overpass and parked the car in a narrow alley between two retail pavilions near Dmitrovskaya metro station. Getting out of the car, he habitually looked at the slightly bent front fender and broken turn signal. It was high time to get it fixed and touched up. The fall would start soon, rains and all. Corrosion would grow like spring grass on a sunlit hill. But everything takes time and money.
The small window of a baked goods kiosk gave off a mature smell of fresh bread. A big woman working the counter adroitly stuffed a brick of rye into a plastic bag, matte and rustling, and handed it to him along with change.
It’s got to be hard to stay fit among appetizing smells, though the skinny Andrei. His fingers, as if on their own volition, sank into the flavorful softness. Like an impatient kid, he broke off the end of the loaf; his mouth started salivating even before his teeth tore into the porous crust.
He didn’t feel like going back to the stuffy car right away. Andrei walked into a shady spot, moved his shoulders to unstick the damp shirt from his back. The bag was dangling on his wrist; a light breeze pleasantly cooled his sweating body.
How about some water?
His eyes scanned the small square for a suitable kiosk. Something about the foot traffic was unpleasantly off; it gave him a weird feeling, like a speck of dust in his eye. Okay, here are three men drinking beer by a colorful store display. The bottles are sweaty, just out of a fridge, so there’s got to be water in that fridge, too.
Andrei took a step toward the kiosk he selected, and the feeling of eye sore returned. An indistinct feeling of danger crept in. He’s been through this during the first Chechen war; everything around was still quiet, but something was already wrong.
He tensed without realizing it; shoulders unmoving, a slight turn of the head. His gaze landed on a scared-looking strange woman erratically looking around. Now that was the reason! It was that erratic glancing that made him uncomfortable.
The woman stopped indecisively obstructing the foot traffic. Andrei looked more closely. Dark complexion, straight longish nose, a headscarf covering the forehead, oversize knit cardigan, long, to the ground, dark skirt, hands clasped over her belly, like she was pregnant. From what God-forsaken place has she come into the capital city?
He kept looking. The woman, with a worried expression on her face, was looking at a policeman taking his time checking identification of a swarthy man from the Caucasus. The cop finished his inspection, handed back the papers with visible displeasure, and spotted the scared woman in a headscarf in the flow of foot traffic.
Good thing the cops were harassing the swarthy, Andrei thought. What the hell were they doing in Moscow anyway?
The policeman, looking tired, adjusted his hat and started toward the woman. Vlasov, curious, turned to look: would the woman try to get away? She definitely had a paperwork problem. Should he gently hold her arm to help the public servant extract a bribe out of a provincial from the Caucasus?
The woman, still indecisive, took a step back. No, honey, you aren’t getting away! Andrei smirked and quickly caught up with her. Behind his back, the policeman was clumsily navigating the foot traffic. The scared woman started looking for something inside her clothes; the nondescript cardigan opened up. Andrei suddenly noticed that the woman was young and slender. She was nowhere near forty as he first thought; a girl of barely twenty, just dressed like a villager.
On her stomach under the blouse, Andrei noticed an unnatural bump. Was she really pregnant? His brain was still trying to find an explanation, while the eyes noticed a strange hand movement. Her fingers now held a small black box with a thin twisted wire sticking out of it and disappearing into her clothes.
“Allah akbar!” the girl screamed. Fear in her wide opened eyes, her finger hit a bright button on the little box.
Hearing the call gave Andrei an electric jolt. The two words switched him into the danger mode, when a split second can make all the difference between life and death.
He hit the girl’s arms, pushing them to the sides. Tore the triggering device away from her. More wires were hanging down from under her blouse; the girl was confused, the expression of desperation on her face. Both her hands closed on Andrei’s fist clutching the trigger.
“Allah akbar!” she screeched, scratching with her fingernails.
Andrei threw the trigger away, bloody scratches on his hand. A few scared passerby stopped. Everyone was looking at the girl. She lifted up her blouse and started fiddling with torn wires.
“Allah akbar!” she lamented.
On her waist, there was a wide belt wrapped in tinfoil.
People in the crowd screamed.
“She’s got a bomb!”
“There’s a Shahid[1]!”
“Aaaargh!”
Many tried to run away. Crush, panic, crazy screaming! The policeman reeled back, stumbled, and fell down. Then he got up and hid behind the corner of a nearby building. His hat, left on the ground, was trampled by the crowd.
The three beer drinkers, bewildered, started pointing their fingers.
“Hey, she wanted to kill us!””
“For reals!”
“Let’s rough up the bitch!”
“Kill that snake!”
They surrounded the confused girl. One, wearing a flowery shirt, seized her by her hair and pulled her head back. Another, of a soft constitution, grabbed a beer bottle by its neck. The remnants of beer flowed over his fat arm. Foam was sticking to the red arm hair. The swing-up was accompanied with dirty cussing. Then a blow on the stomach! The blow was awkward and hit the thick belt. The bottle slipped out and broke on the asphalt. Sound of breaking glass and foamy spatter.
“Nah, that’s not how it’s done!” the third one got excited.
He was skinny and muscular, thrill in his eyes, a T-shirt clinging to his athletic frame, a tattoo on his arm. He struck with relish and visible pleasure. His fist collided with the girl’s chest; she fell back, but held up by her hair and pushed forward to meet another blow.
“Allah akbar,” she kept repeating stubbornly. But it sounded like a moan now.
Her helplessness excited the Skinny even more. His next blow hit her in the solar plexus. The girl bent over and gasped for breath. The hitter was pleased and indicated by a hand gesture that he wanted the victim’s head lifted up. This time, the blow was aimed at her mouth, hissing laboriously, “Allah —”. The whisper stopped with the blow, as bright-red blood started flowing from the split lips. The Flowery Shirt still held the girl. His breathing was heavy with excitement, spittle flying around.
“Drop the bitch!” the Skinny ordered. He was genuinely pleased with himself.
The girl was pushed down. She fell on her knees, the palms of her hands landing on the shards of the beer bottle. Her face was contorted with pain, but instead of a scream, her lips uttered another, barely audible, “Allah akbar”. Her headscarf slid off her head; raven-black hair flowed over her shoulders.
A kick landed onto her defenseless body. The girl lost her breath and fell on her side. The Skinny knew how to hit.
The Softie wanted another chance. He was idle for a while and now wanted to catch up.
“Hey, you, take it easy,” Andrei Vlasov asked shyly.
What at first looked like a righteous retribution, suddenly morphed into a brutal reprisal. He saw the girl’s face screwed up in pain. Blood flowing freely across her cheek and chin; her mangled fingers clutching on to her stomach; bloody spots on her white blouse. But no one listened. Human forms jerked excitedly. Kicks kept coming. A crowd of viewers encircled the spectacle. People were slowly getting over the initial shock, fear gradually giving way to anger; they were encouraging each other.
“Hit her!”
“Terrorist bitch!”
“Keep at it!”
“People like that should be killed on sight!”
The policeman, now calm, was watching from a distance, an expression of curiosity on his face.
The crowd went nuts.
The girl helplessly threw her head back; lips pressed together, eyes closed. On her outstretched neck, now in full view, right above her collarbone, Andrei saw a dark spot. At first, he thought it was a drop of dried blood. No, blood can’t dry that fast. It’s still flowing on her skin, looking like the crawl or wet crimson worms.
The spot was a birthmark. Just like the one Sveta had!
The constricting feeling of forgotten tenderness made him lurch forward.
He loved kissing that birthmark. Sveta’s was slightly raised; he could find it even in the darkness. Just by running his tongue over it. He has done that many times. Found the birthmark, touched it gently, and then kissed her on her open quivering lips…
The memories made him lose his breath.
“Enough. You’re going to kill her,” Andrei whispered.
No response. People had their backs to him. Behind the kicking legs he could see the girl’s twisting body. Pain radiating from the writhing figure like a palpable wave hit Andrei on the sides of his head; all he could see was Sveta, the girl he loved.
His darling was suffering. It was impossible to take!
“Bomb!” Vlasov shouted furiously and tossed the plastic bag with the loaf of bread in it into the crowd.
Everyone immediately stepped back. The new wave of panic was stronger than the first one. Shouting pushed people into action. People ran away, some fell, covering their faces with their hands. They were stepped on, trampled, stumbled on. Desperate screams! Stampede!
Andrei Vlasov picked up the battered girl. Her body was fragile and light, but the thick oval belt on her waist dragged her mid-section down making it inconvenient to carry her.
Behind the kiosks, he put the girl into the back seat of his car. The key scratched the face of the ignition lock for a time before it finally went in. A turn of the wrist, and the engine started purring; sweaty hands grabbed the steering wheel. The car backed up and then charged away.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, one man kept his cool in the commotion.
A lithe young man by the name of Aslan Kitkiev stood near a newsstand behind a thick trunk of a tree. His hands twisted an open glossy magazine while his eyes carefully watched what was happening. Aslan wore an impeccable dark suit and a light shirt. He didn’t wear ties; rich bangs covered his narrow forehead, his long dark hair was obviously cared for by a good hairdresser. Only his thick black eyebrows and longish straight nose betrayed a native of Northern Caucasus.
The young man’s normally gloomy look turned downright evil as Andrei Vlasov was stuffing the girl into his car. The beige “sixer” was very close; at the last moment, Aslan moved to intercept, but stopped. He was supposed to have nothing to do with this, just be a random passerby.
His teeth were gnashing as his narrowed eyes stared at the license plate of the car driving away.
Chapter 2
August 31, 8:05 PM
Aslan
When Vlasov’s Lada disappeared from view, the young man muttered a curse, threw away his magazine, and started walking quickly between apartment blocks. Along the way, irritated, he pushed away a bum in dirty clothes rummaging through garbage. And these were the people he was at war with! Disgusting creatures, lousy pigs, not human beings.
Aslan Kitkiev’s thoughts kept coming back to the scene near the metro station. Why didn’t Aiza do it? Everything was well thought out. Any sign of danger, push the button, and that’s the end of it! Why did the hoe get confused? What was the bitch thinking of? She wasn’t supposed to think. Just do what you’re told, and that’s it!
Has Fatima injected too little into her, or what?
Had the clients not been too cheap for remote control, everything would have been different! Aslan mentally cursed the clients unknown to him, along with the glorious commander who gave him this assignment. After cursing made him feel better, he grudgingly admitted to himself that the clients had nothing to do with this. They paid for an act of terror, and they didn’t care about the technology used. It was Aslan himself who was too cheap. He wanted to save some of the advance payment. There was no one else to blame.
But why would he have to reinvent the wheel? The hoes were worked up in the best way imaginable! They were practically sticking their necks into nooses, they didn’t want to live. With the first two, everything went down smoothly. Two airplanes fell out of the sky one after another.
Aiza, damn her, was a disaster. And it just had to be the hoe that actually knew him well! Bitch, foul bitch! What went wrong with her? Now there were going to be some big problems.
After passing through several courtyards, Aslan made it to the next street over. His fingers found car keys in his pocket, the car alarm chirped, and the young man got inside an unobtrusive burgundy model nine. Hidden behind tinted glass, he quickly dialed a number on a mobile phone.
A woman’s voice answered immediately. Without a greeting, Aslan asked, “Fatima, how did the wedding go?”
“The bride married well,” the woman answered excitedly. “Just now.”
“How many guests?”
“Enough for the celebration to be remembered for a long time.”
There was a pause as the young man passed the phone from one hand to the other.
“Why are you quiet, Aslan?” the woman asked guardedly. “Are you not happy?”
“My wedding didn’t work out.”
“The bride ran away?”
“No. It was interrupted.”
“The uniforms?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Where is she?” the woman started to worry.
“Some idiot drove her away.”
“You know the rules. There is no way back for a bride! Either a wedding or… You had to — ”
“Keep your advice to yourself, woman! I know what I have to do!” Aslan barked.
His fist rammed into the car’s dashboard; his lips moved in a soundless curse. He hated to be lectured by women. The very word “woman” sounded contemptuous when he said it. They weren’t born into the world to tell men what to do.
After he calmed down a little, the young man whispered into the phone, “I’ll find her. And kill her.”
“Are you done with your hysterics?” Fatima asked calmly. “Now listen to me. You can’t come back to the old address. We are meeting as per Plan B. Don’t do anything without me!”
In response, Kitkiev roared something indistinct and ended the call. The damned teacher!
His thumb started dialing another number, but after pushing a few buttons, Aslan started thinking. He’s already said too much, forgetting the code words. The phone flew to the passenger seat; the car abruptly cut into traffic.
After a few intersections, Aslan slowed down. Now he was driving slowly, looking for something. He noticed a couple of payphones and stopped the car about hundred meters away from them. A few minutes later, he wrapped the payphone handset into a newly bought newspaper and dialed a number by heart.
“Lieutenant colonel Sviridov,” a tired voice answered.
Aslan smiled, imagining the unsuspecting expression on the fat-assed policeman’s face. He hadn’t been bothered lately, so he was about to get a jolt.
“This is Aslan.” Kitkiev took a pause, enjoying the shocked silence of his conversation partner, and gave an order, “I need to trace a car by license plate number; owner’s name and address. This is urgent!”
The voice on the other end of the line hissed in annoyance, “I said I didn’t want to be called again!”
“Write down the number,” Aslan said, unfazed.
“Do you have any idea what’s happening in the city?”
“I know. I need a name and an address.”
“I told you last time I wasn’t going to work for you anymore.”
“A friend’s request — is it really work?”
“I am no friend of yours. Because of a single mistake… I have worked it off.”
“Quit whining!” Aslan snapped. He was tired of bickering. “Tomorrow, your video will be in the feds’ hands. What song are you going to sing then?”
For a while, the lieutenant colonel breathed into the phone. Aslan broke the silence.
“Are you awake? Do you want me to drive the tape over to them today?”
“Okay, I’ll do it. But this is the last time. I want your word!”
“You have it. Write down the number. I’ll call back in forty minutes. If you leave office, don’t even think of turning off your cell phone!”
Aslan dictated the license plate number of the beige “sixer” and hung up.
The corners of his thin-lipped mouth came apart; he was pleased with the outcome of the conversation. The young man looked around, fixed his hair, and strolled back to his car.
He tossed the newspaper out of the car window after he picked up speed.
Chapter 3
August 31, 8:09 PM
Dmitrovskaya Metro Station
Colonel Oleg Alexandrovich Grigoriev of Federal Security Service urged his driver again, “Come on, Sasha, step on it! You’ve got the flasher on.”
“I am trying, Oleg Alexandrovich.”
“Orders are not to be discussed!” The colonel adjusted his impeccably knotted tie and brushed an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder.
The black Volga was driving in the left lane along Butyrskaya Street, waving into the opposing traffic lanes every now and then. Despite the flashing light, drivers were reluctant to make way.
Grigoriev sat in the front. His fingers drummed on a brown leather portfolio, which he invariably carried into the field. His large head with closely cropped dark hair abundantly streaked with grey constantly turned this way and that in abrupt little motions. It seemed Oleg Alexandrovich couldn’t move his eyes and had to use his neck instead. There was a third person in the car, first lieutenant Yuri Vladimirovich Burkov. Everyone was in plain clothes. The strawberry blond Burkov sat behind his supervisor and reflexively followed the motions of his head.
“Ah, now that’s good,” the colonel approved an apt maneuver made by the driver. “We are a respectable organization after all. And we’re not going to Rizhskaya. Over there, it’s a huge traffic jam for sure. We, meanwhile, don’t have an explosion on our hands.”
“Oleg Alexandrovich?” Yuri Burkov made an awkward pause.
“What?”
“Why did Tomilin and his guys get sent to Rizhskaya, and we, here?”
“Why? You wanted to see dead bodies?”
“Over there, it’s serious. An act of terror. And we… Could be a crank call after all.”
“That’s what we’re to figure out,” Grigoriev replied firmly, signifying the end of the conversation.
Oleg Alexandrovich suspected that early next year, if not earlier, he would be asked to retire. That’s why he wasn’t given any complicated cases. On acts of terror, investigations can go on for months, even years. But his subordinates didn’t have to know that. His goal was to handle things in a responsible manner. And teach his workers to do the same.
The Volga rolled up to the Dmitrovskaya station.
“Get to the other side!” Grigoriev commanded. “Where the police are congregating, can you see?”
“Oleg Alexandrovich — » the driver tried to appeal to the supervisor’s reason.
“Come on, I tell you! You’ll have to turn around anyway. Turn on the siren and go ahead!”
The car, with flashing lights and wailing siren, abruptly turned around across several lanes of dense traffic. Grigoriev jumped out of the car to look around.
The metro station worked as usual, but many kiosks were closed. A dozen or so of policemen, including a canine unit, intensely looked into the passing crowds. Some were pulled aside for ID checks. People threw disapproving glances and walked faster.
The screw-ups, the colonel thought about the cops habitually. They can’t think, so they show up in numbers. Standing around like prison guards, that’s all they’re good for.
Near the beer kiosk, two senior policemen talked to witnesses. When the Volga arrived, they got tense.
Grigoriev motioned to Burkov.
“Yura, find the sales clerks from all pavilions and talk to them.” He, meanwhile, started walking toward the waiting policemen and introduced himself. “Colonel Grigoriev. From Lubyanka[2].”
“Panteleyev, the head of the local precinct,” the policeman with colonel’s tabs replied, shaking his hand. “This is my deputy, Ignatiev.”
“Where are the prosecutor’s people?”
“On their way. Coming.”
“You mean, crawling? What have you found out?”
“So far, nothing’s definite. Witnesses contradict each other. Looks like someone wanted to incite panic.”
“What the hell? Why incite it here? Just turn on the news.”
“Yes, but — ”
“You reported there was a Shahid woman!”
“We did,” the precinct head agreed. “There was an Eastern woman, looked like a Shahid. She screamed ‘Allah akbar’, but no explosion followed.”
“I can see that no explosion followed!” Grigoriev lost his patience. “Stay on point. Where did the Shahid woman go? What are the witnesses saying?”
“Witnesses… There was panic, people ran away. We only have these,” Panteleyev pointed to the three beer lovers standing nearby, shepherded by two plainclothes operatives.
Grigoriev threw a dirty look into Panteleyev’s face; a verbal chewing-out seemed inevitable, but Oleg Alexandrovich kept his cool and walked over to the witnesses. He picked a fat man with surprised expression on his face and asked him, “What did that suspicious woman look like?”
“A stupid headscarf, ugly, mean. She screamed she’d kill everyone!”
“She screamed about killing?”
“Not exactly. Something about Allah.”
“Going forward, answer precisely.”
“Isn’t it the same thing?”
“That’s up to me to decide. So what exactly was she screaming? Try to recall the exact words.”
“She screamed ‘Allah akbar’! ” the skinny beer lover interjected.
“Yeah, that’s right,” the fat one confirmed.
Oleg Alexandrovich redirected his attention to the skinny one.
“Did she have an explosive device? A large bag or a thick belt under her clothes?”
“She did!” the witness rejoiced. “Something on her stomach. With wires sticking out.”
“Have you actually seen the wires?”
“Yes, she clutched at them. And she had an accomplice, too.”
“An accomplice?” Grigoriev frowned. “Have you seen him?”
“Yes.”
“What did he look like? Can you describe him?”
At that point, the witness in a flowery shirt joined the conversation. Waiving his hands, he explained to Grigoriev, “A typical Chechen! Wild eyes! Screaming! And a trigger device in his hand.”
“Nah, he didn’t look like a Chechen,” the fat one was doubtful.
“Who is he, if not a Chechen? Those bastards blow up everything. They should all be booted out of Moscow and not let back in!”
“Well, I didn’t get a chance to look at him closely. Maybe he was a Chechen.”
“I am sure he was! Young, insolent.”
Grigoriev decided to interrupt the argument.
“Tell me about the trigger device.”
“Sir,” the precinct head interjected, “we actually picked it up at the scene.”
He handed out a plastic bag holding a smashed box half the size of a matchbox.
“Is this it?” Grigoriev asked warily, looking at the splintered pieces of plastic.
The three witnesses replied simultaneously.
“Yes.”
“That’s it.”
“He was about to blow us all up. How did we manage to stay alive?”
“Because we stood up to him.”
“Yeah, were it not for us, there would be nothing left here,” the fat one said assuredly. “Everything would be blown up.”
The precinct head could not hold his indignation and said firmly, “The act of terror was prevented by our officer. It was he who stopped the terrorist on her way into the subway. He’s here.”
Panteleyev pointed out a plain-looking sergeant holding a crumpled hat in his hands. Grigoriev was suddenly interested.
“How did it all start?”
“I was checking papers. Stopped the suspicious-looking individuals. So I wanted to check her papers, too.”
“Because she looked like she was from the Caucasus?”
“Um, yeah. She was dressed strangely, eyes shifty. I came up to her, she started screaming. I pulled the trigger from her hand, and then… then the panic started. So she disappeared.”
Oleg Alexandrovich pulled the case of the trigger device apart without taking it out of the bag. A simple design; a power source, a button, and a switch. No remote control.
“Were there two of them?”
“She had a helper,” the policeman nodded assuredly. Otherwise, I would have handled her.
“What kind of car have they driven away in?”
“I didn’t see that.”
“Have you noticed the car?” Grigoriev asked the civilian witnesses.
“No, we haven’t.”
“Everyone was lying face down. There could be an explosion.”
“The Chechen and the Shahid woman ran over there, behind the kiosks,” the guy in the flowered shirt said.
Grigoriev turned to Panteleyev.
“If the presence of an explosive device is confirmed, our office will take over the case. Get the witnesses and the officer to our office for some Identikit work. And have your people canvass the area. Someone might have seen something coming home from work or looking out the window. In other words, the usual. Got it? Any additional information, contact me directly at this number.”
The colonel took a business card from the breast pocked of his impeccable suit.
“We’re working on this already,” Panteleyev replied uncertainly, putting away the card without looking at it. He looked unhappy, staring into the asphalt under his feet. It was clear that the head of the precinct didn’t like being ordered around by the feds.
“That’s good,” Grigoriev smiled condescendingly. “When you’re done, report.”
Oleg Alexandrovich noticed first lieutenant Burkov standing nearby in a tense pose and took him aside.
“What have you got?”
“Broad strokes, Oleg Alexandrovich, it’s like this. There was a Shahid woman, her bomb didn’t go off, and her accomplice helped her escape.”
“Broad strokes I already know myself. Give me the details! What kind of car did they have?”
Burkov, guilty expression on his face, spread his hands. “None of the merchants had seen the escape car. They’re scared out of their minds, some are in shock.”
“Bad business, Yuri,” Grigoriev signed.
Burkov took out a cigarette and a lighter.
“Put it away!” the colonel ordered quietly, but firmly. “You and I represent an important government organization before the ordinary citizens. By our appearance and actions, they judge the entire Service. Look at yourself. Crumpled pants, stained tie, and about to smoke. No smoking in public! Better yet, quit altogether.”
The first lieutenant crushed the cigarette in his hand, embarrassed, and started looking around for a place to toss it. The colonel reassuringly patted him on the shoulder.
“Keep the office’s image in mind. And one more thing. This is a busy place. Someone definitely saw the terrorists leave. Maybe even remembered the license plate number. Keep working the scene, and I’ll head back. Have to look at everything together. I have a feeling that those airplanes and today’s events are links in one chain. And that chain isn’t complete yet. You find out anything, call me.”
Chapter 4
August 31, 8:11 PM
Riga Overpass
Andrei Vlasov drove onto the Riga overpass and immediately found himself in a standstill traffic jam. Cars barely moved; drivers looked down, bewildered. Between the Rizhskaya metro station and the Krestovsky shopping mall, several cars were on fire. A thick column of black smoke rose up into the sky.
Andrei stuck his head out of the car’s window. Up ahead, a young woman driving a Toyota Corolla looked this way and that and kept asking, “What is this? Why are they on fire?”
“An act of terror, dammit,” a tired-looking cabbie cursed. “A bomb.”
“Maybe an engine shorted out and went up in flames?” Andrei made a guess.
“An engine fire? Are you freakin’ blind? Look at it!”
Vlasov looked and froze.
On a square in front of the metro station, people were wounded. The lightly wounded, their clothes torn, tried to help themselves and others. Some barely moved, but there were dead, too. Immobile bodies broken by explosion left no hope for an alternative outcome.
“What a nightmare,” the Corolla girl moaned, rolled up her window and tried to drive between the lanes.
Vlasov got out of the car. His eyes kept stumbling on the details of the horrible spectacle.
An elderly woman desperately tried to hold together the bloody mess that used to be her abdomen. A severed hand with fingers spread apart was lying on the sidewalk tiles.
“Look over there,” the cabbie pointed.
Andrei turned and shivered. On the roof of a pavilion, there was a woman’s head. The face, deep cuts all over it, eyes gone and mouth open, was turned towards the metro station. Long black hair got into the gaping mouth, clung to the empty eye sockets and the bloody fragments of the neck. The hair must have gotten tangled when the head rolled along the roof like a ball.
If the head is on the roof, the body… Now it was clear what the strange lumps in-between the bodies were. The soot, it seemed, smelled of burned flesh.
The cabbie wheezed. He was throwing up.
The sound of sirens made Andrei tear his eyes away from the terrifying picture. Through the standstill traffic on Prospekt Mira, multiple ambulances and fire engines made their way. He felt a little better. At least someone would get help.
Vlasov returned to his car. On the back seat, the battered girl stirred. With some difficulty, she lifted herself up, a grimace of pain on her now pale face. She saw the fire and black smoke and leaned forward. An expression of interest showed in her eyes.
“Is that a metro station?”
“Rizhskaya.”
The girl’s thick black eyebrows furrowed; she whispered grudgingly, “Zarima is already in paradise, and I…”
She looked up and around. The sight of the traffic jam seemed to somehow improve her mood. Her lacerated fingers picked up the loose wires and tried to connect them. When the naked wires touched, the girl closed her eyes happily and leaned back on the car seat.
The traffic jam started moving. Andrei drove in short bursts, looking at the girl in the rearview mirror. The smile was gone; she opened her eyes, surprised, and tried to reconnect the wires a few more times.
“It won’t detonate. The battery’s gone,” Andrei explained calmly.
The surprise in the Shahid’s eyes turned into desperation. Her narrowed eyes stared at the car’s cigarette lighter. Picking a moment when Vlasov’s attention was on the road, the girl pushed the lighter in. When it popped up, she grabbed the little cylinder with a hot spiral inside and jammed it into her belt. Her clothes began to singe.
Andrei turned to look and braked hard.
“Stupid!” He tried to pull away the hand holding the lighter.
The girl bit him on the wrist. Andrei wrestled the lighter away from her and threw it out the window. On his hand, there were bloody teeth imprints.
“What a beast! Are you tired of living?”
The girl hissed. Big dark eyes gave off lightings of fury. Her headscarf slid all the way down to her neck. She started thrashing, strands of hair falling across her open forehead.
“Hey, Shahid, calm down. You’ll wreck my car.”
The girl opened the right door and tried to get out. But the door was blocked by the bus sitting next to the car in the traffic jam. She threw herself over to the other door and pulled the handle. Andrei looked at her fruitless efforts and smirked, “Sorry, that lock’s broken.”
The girl, hysterical, attacked Andrei; screaming, she went for his throat. Her fingers pressed on with mad determination; her fingernails bit into his skin. Vlasov swiftly swung his elbow backward.
“Get away from me, you idiot! You’ve already been beaten up!”
A powerful swing hit her squarely on the head. The girl helplessly dropped back on the seat. He heard a common sniveling female weep.
Andrei rubbed his throat and glanced around. From the next car over, the fat driver smiled insolently, but approvingly.
He thinks I am manhandling my wife, Vlasov thought, irritated. A wife; what the hell! For him, there’s only one woman in the world! Only one! And this psychopath… Whatever possessed him to get involved with her?
If only she didn’t have that birthmark on her neck. Just like Sveta’s…
Chapter 5
Nord Ost
Day One
Sveta. His darling Svetlanka. How could he forget her?
So many times he was startled by incoming calls on his cell phone. So many times he thought he heard her voice and saw her lithe figure in the street crowd. So many times the simple melody of a popular song brought him back to the day when their carefree life changed forever.
On that October evening, Andrei ambivalently watched TV. A movie was on; something about a werewolf and wolves. Actors worked hard at creating fear, indistinct howling figures and wild green eyes flashed on the screen.
His cell phone chirped an upbeat melody. Andrei, suppressed expectation in his heart, picked it up and wasn’t disappointed; it was Sveta. A few days back, they had a stupid falling out. He tried to call her several times to make up, but Sveta coldly rejected his requests to see her. But now she was calling him!
The beloved voice was unusually incoherent and worried.
“Andrei, I can’t call my mother! It’s always busy. Call her and tell her that I am okay. I just can’t get out.”
“Sveta, hi. I’m glad to hear you,” Andrei felt a happy smile widening on his face.
“Andrei, I am at Nord Ost. There are armed people and women in black masks in the theater. Looks like Chechens. They aren’t letting anyone out.”
“Nord Ost?” The beginning of the sentence blocked out the rest. Sveta was watching a musical? So she’s not alone. But not with him. “Who are you with?”
“It’s not important!” the girl shouted, irritated. “Tell Mom I am alive and well, just can’t get out of here. I don’t know when I’ll be home. That’s it, I can’t talk anymore.”
Short beeps banged into his ears like large drops of water falling into a metal bowl. Andrei blindly stared into the TV. He gradually began to understand what he just heard. Armed people in a theater! Men and women. Chechens! How did they get there? This was Moscow, not Grozny! It couldn’t be! It was unthinkable!
Was this some kind of prank?
Andrei, bewildered, kept dialing Sveta’s home number. Short beeps. Just like she said. Finally, he heard her mother’s voice.
“Hello, Polina Ivanovna. This is Andrei. Is Sveta home?”
“No, she’s off to see a play.”
“A play? Nord Ost?”
“Yes. Everyone says it’s a great musical, so she went. How come you’re not with her?”
“Um, it sort of happened that way,” Andrei mumbled. Sveta is in that theater, and that’s not a joke, he thought.
“Did you two have a fight?”
“Sveta called me and asked to tell you not to worry.”
“Why would I worry? Sveta’s a big girl. Are you not telling me something?”
“No. It’s just that she could be late.”
“With you? Does she want to stay at your place tonight?”
“I am just telling you what she asked me to. I’m home.”
“Oh, you youngsters! What are you up to? Have her call me, okay?”
“Of course; I’ll tell her. Goodbye, Polina Ivanovna.”
Andrei tried to call Sveta’s mobile. No answer.
The movie was interrupted by a news flash. The female newscaster was saying imperturbably, “It just came to our attention that in Moscow, a group of armed individuals has taken control of a theater during the showing of the Nord Ost musical. Shots were heard in the building. All spectators and performers are held hostage. Right now, the theater is surrounded by special services and police. Negotiations have started, but the terrorists’ demands are still not clear. There’s no information about casualties. Expect an update in fifteen minutes.”
Andrei, confused, lowered the hand holding the mobile phone, which he held by his ear all this time. The screen came alive again with the gloomy frames of the werewolf movie. After the shocking newscast, characters’ fears seemed ridiculous.
Andrei pushed a few buttons on the TV remote. Different channels repeated the scant information about the attack on the theater on Dubrovka.
Was it really that serious? No, it couldn’t be! Moscow was a peaceful city; there couldn’t be a large number of armed bandits. It was probably just a couple of crazy idiots with handguns; they would be easily neutralized soon enough.
In the next news update, TV was reporting live from the scene. Armed people, it was said, were numbered in dozens; they threatened to blow up the theater if the war in Chechnya is not stopped.
“Those Chechens again! Monsters, there’s no life around them,” Andrei’s mother cursed on the spur of the moment. She, in her nightgown and bathrobe, came out of her bedroom when she heard the troubling newscast. “When are they going to be over with? Praise God you’ve finished your service. I was so worried…”
The woman launched into her customary speech about how she was scared and worried while Andrei served in the army.
The scar left by a Chechen bullet on Andrei’s shoulder started itching. The old memories reminded of themselves with a chill. What must Sveta be going through? She was scared often; she was even afraid of mice. If she lost it, the terrorists would kill her in a blink of an eye. He knew what they were capable of.
He immediately thought that had he been there, everything would be different. He would calm her down and think of something. There is no such thing as a no-exit situation.
Andrei maniacally watched the news, flipping channels, and with every second, he realized more and more clearly that this wouldn’t be over soon. It would be serious business.
Late at night, he heard police sirens and looked out the window. Along Volgogradsky Prospekt, a convoy of armored vehicles and military trucks was moving downtown. The authorities must be preparing for resolution by force. In that case, there was no way to avoid casualties.
He thought it best not to think of the worst. He couldn’t wait! He had to act!
Andrei found the army dagger that he had hidden in a toolbox. The heavy handle comfortably fit into the palm of his hand; the steel blade gave off cold specks of light. Andrei put on a hooded windbreaker and unlocked the front door.
“Where are you off to?” he heard Mother’s sleepy voice.
“Sleep, I’ll be back soon,” he assured her and slipped out of the apartment.
He wanted to be with the woman he loved and he was convinced that if he couldn’t save her all by himself, he would get into the building during the breach and protect her from any danger.
The interior of the Lada, damp with the moisture of the autumn night, made a surprised squeaky noise as he plopped onto a faux leather seat. Andrei stepped on the gas and drove into the Volgogradsky. On the intersection with Melnikov Street, he hooked an illegal left and immediately faced a police cordon. He parked the car in a nearby courtyard, went around the cordon, and came up to the front of the theater.
The giant Nord Ost sign was brightly lit. Under it, bullet holes were visible in the foyer windows. The entire Dubrovka was full of cars and buses. Numerous TV crews tried to get footage, soldiers smoked by the armored vehicles, careful to stand on the protected side, policemen kept away the gawkers and tried to maintain vehicle access.
Can’t get in through the front, Vlasov thought.
Behind the theater was some kind of industrial plant. Andrei stealthily scaled the fence. He could see soldiers there as well, but it was dark, so he walked by a long wall trying to get closer to the theater. When he found a shallow pit around a basement window, he moved aside the unattached latticework and jumped into the pit. He pulled off his windbreaker and used it to press the glass in. When he was in the basement, he looked around.
It was a low-ceilinged utility basement. Pipes of different sizes with valves and taps on them came in from different sides. A big bunch of pipes went out towards the theater.
Andrei broke through the flimsy wall above the pipes. Now there was about fifty centimeters of crawl space between the pipes and the ceiling. Andrei carefully crawled on the grey pipes. Every now and then, he would flick on a cigarette lighter to look around. The pipes were hot and dusty, wrapped in wire mesh that sometimes caught on his clothes. Soon, the bunch of pipes curved and went into a wall.
Andrei carefully felt around the obstacle. Here, just as in the beginning, the wall was just a few barely cemented bricks. He could see light through the cracks. Andrei pulled out the dagger and started prying the bricks out one by one. After he removed two bricks, he saw a room with concrete walls. This had to be the theater’s basement.
He was close!
Never mind if he’s found, he thought. They’d think he was a theater employee hiding in the building and put him with the hostages. The important thing was to be close to Sveta.
Suddenly, one of the bricks slammed into the floor. There was the sound of footsteps in the room. Andrei held his breath.
The man in the basement didn’t think long. A handgun appeared in the opening above the pipes. Its barrel was pointed at Vlasov.
Without thinking, Andrei stabbed the hand. There was a scream, then furious cursing. Vlasov picked up the dropped handgun and quickly crawled backwards. When he was behind the curve, a burst of machine gun fire erupted above the pipes. The banging was unbearably loud. Andrei curled into a donut, shielded his face, and felt tiny shards of concrete bite into his clothes.
When the shooting was over, he heard the hissing of water. Up ahead, hot water sprang out. The crawl space was quickly filling with steam. It looked like the machine gun fire damaged one of the pipes.
The return trip took much longer. Andrei had to crawl feet first, because there was no room to turn around.
Vlasov waited until gloomy morning and exited the plant pretending to be one of its workers.
Chapter 6
August 31, 8:26 PM
Vlasov’s Car
After he got out of the traffic jam on the Riga overpass, Andrei Vlasov made a fortuitously easy dash along the third belt road and turned off into Volgogradsky Prospekt. Music on the radio suddenly stopped; it was urgent news. A fast-talking female voice said, “News flash. Twenty minutes ago, there was an explosion in Moscow, at the Rizhskaya metro station. There are dead and wounded. Their numbers are still being ascertained. The city’s emergency services are conducting rescue work. One theory is that the explosion was set off by a female suicide bomber. To remind, a few days ago, female terrorists calling themselves Shahids blew up two passenger airplanes departing from the Domodedovo airport. About hundred people died. According to the law enforcement authorities, there were four Shahid women deployed in Moscow to conduct acts of terror. If that’s the case, another explosion is to be expected soon, for the fourth suicide bomber is still at large.”
The newscaster caught her breath; there was the sound of shuffling paper.
“We have just received new information. Near the Dmitrovskaya metro station, an unidentified woman attempted to detonate an explosive device. Police officers intervened. There was no explosion, but the terrorist managed to escape. Her description has been sent out to all police stations. Moscow’s law enforcement is working extended shifts. Stay with us; we’ll keep you posted on any developments.”
At the mention of police officers preventing the explosion, Vlasov smirked. The girl in the back seat quieted down and listened intently. Andrei glanced at her. Looking scared, her whole body curled into a ball, tangled hair, ridiculous clothes. And that stupid headscarf to top it off. A scarecrow, really.
“Hey, scarecrow! Does it feel good to be in the news?”
The girl kept quiet.
“Are you Chechen?”
She shot him a glance. But the rage was gone quickly. She was too weak for rage.
“You don’t have to answer. I can see you are. And don’t you cast lightning with your eyes. I know how much you people love us. Just as much as I love you.”
They rode in silence until the turn to Lyublinskaya Street. Near the Tekstil’schiki metro station, Andrei pulled over. Out the window, there was the usual throng of people between the subway station exit and bus stops. Only police presence was much heavier.
“Get out, you wanted to,” Vlasov waved his hand toward the station.
The girl curled even tighter, trying to hid behind the car door. Her eyes stared at the uniforms near the station.
“Get out, I said!” Andrei raised his voice. “Get away from me!”
The shouting worked like a strike of a whip. She straightened up, there was determination in her eyes.
“I have to be in heaven. I am a bride of Allah. Get me a battery.”
“A battery? To you? What a bitch!” Andrei flared up.
He made a fist and punched himself on a thigh.
The Lada jerked forward running a red light over a pedestrian crossing. Andrei sped along Lyublinskaya Street; the girl was mumbling non-stop, “I want to go to paradise, I can’t live anymore. I must die and go to paradise. Zarima, Mareta, and Yahita are there already. They are well. Get me a battery. I can’t live here! Get me a battery, I’ll take some infidels with me, and Allah will reward me for my suffering. I want to go to paradise!”
Andrei turned into an empty alley, then drove on to a dirt road. On one side, there was a concrete fence, on the other, a railroad. When the car reached a dark spot, he braked hard, jumped out of the car, and pulled the door open.
“Do you think I am helping you, bitch? Do you really think I am going to help you kill my people? Who do you take me for, bitch? I fought against you in your shitty mountains. I shot at your bearded degenerates. Here!” Andrei pulled on his shirt and poked his finger into the bullet wound scar. “That’s a Chechen mark. And a buddy of mine, Sasha Petrov, didn’t come back. Stabbed while in captivity. They cut his belly open side to side and left him to die.” He leaned toward the girl and hissed, “Since then, I’ve been killing your prisoners.”
The Chechen seemed to be glad to hear this muddled outburst.
“So kill me, too! You’re Russian, you’re so brave and strong, so kill me. I am your enemy.”
Andrei wanted to take a swing at her smiling face, but stopped at the last moment and only pushed her rudely.
“I will if I have to! I know how to do that. I do…”
Chapter 7
Nord Ost
Day Two
Vlasov couldn’t stay still. He kept thinking about Sveta. She’d been a hostage for eighteen hours now! How was she holding up? When was it going to be over? Where were the supposedly highly acclaimed special forces?
Heavy thoughts gave way to rainbow-colored hopes. If she thought of him at the moment of need, it had to mean she still thought of him as the closest person in the world. Sveta reached out only to him and her mother. That said a lot. She put her hope in him, she believed in him, and maybe she still loved him.
If only she made it out alive! Then everything would straighten out; indeed, until recently they felt good about being together.
Thinking along these lines, he watched the news all day long on different channels. Suddenly, it was announced that a hostage was killed, a young woman between twenty and twenty-four years of age. The camera showed a covered dead body being carried out of the theater on a stretcher. His heart started racing. What if that was Sveta? She was twenty-two.
He was instantly overwhelmed with a hot wave of rage; he couldn’t see straight. If that was she, he would avenge her! If Sveta was dead, he would have revenge on her killers!
Even fighting in Chechnya and losing friends, he never felt such burning hatred toward the opposing fighters. That was war, armed men died. Nothing to be done about it; those were the rules of war.
But what did that have to do with his darling Svetlanka? She was always opposed to that war and felt for the Chechens!
Andrei’s body tensed, teeth clenched, veins snaked on his temples. No, he wouldn’t let it go! The bandits had to be spoken to only in the language of power. They understand no other language. The only valid response to their threat is a counter-threat!
Andrei turned on his computer and barely finding the right keys, typed, “Baraev, a woman I love is among your hostages. If she dies, I will kill ten Chechen women. And I am not going to go to Chechnya for that. I will kill them here. I will kill the innocent. Just the way you did. That will be my revenge! You do respect blood revenge, don’t you, Baraev?”
Once again, he drove up to the ill-fated theater. He rubbed elbows with journalists and when no one was watching, stuck his message under a windshield wiper of an NTV van. After a few minutes, the message was noticed. Someone took it, read, and quickly walked off to somewhere.
Andrei tried to find out the name of the dead woman. No one seemed to know. He kept asking if anyone had seen the deceased hair color. One photographer said her hair was fair and short; he even took a few pictures.
“Where are they? Show me!” Vlasov demanded.
“Can’t; already sent them to the editor,” the photographer shied away.
Fair! Short! Like Svetlana’s, Andrei kept torturing himself. Her hair color went so well with her name.
He tried to call Polina Ivanovna, but her phone was dead.
She must be around here somewhere, among the hostages’ relatives. But that simple thought was quickly displaced by another. What if she had already been told about her daughter’s death and asked to identify the body?
Andrei walked every street in the neighborhood, looked into the faces of hunched women, but haven’t come across Polina Ivanovna. He kept dialing Sveta’s number, then Polina Ivanovna’s, then Sveta’s again, but all he ever got was an unending series of beeps. Along with the soulless sounds, his body was pierced by fear; Sveta was dead!
Fear and pain gave way to determination; he must take vengeance!
Chapter 8
August 31, 8:33 PM
Vacant Lot near a Railroad Line
Andrei turned away from the girl’s prostrate form on the car seat; his trembling fingers were having a hard time pulling a cigarette out of a crumpled pack. The lighter wouldn’t work, either. The car’s lighter would be handy right now, he thought, too bad I threw it away. Finally, the end of the cigarette caught a tiny lick of flame. Andrei pulled on the cigarette with delight.
The suicide bomber wailed covering her face with the palms of her hands. This typically female reaction to life’s troubles calmed Vlasov down. Or was it the strong tobacco in the cigarette? Lately, he smoked much more than he used to, and stronger stuff, too.
Between sobs, the girl moaned, “I don’t want to live, I don’t…”
Without turning, Andrei said through his teeth, “Shut it, will ya? I’m not going to give you to the cops. Just take off your belt and get lost.”
“I don’t want to live,” the girl kept saying, rubbing on her wet eyes.
“Okay, the railroad is over there. Go throw yourself under a train.”
“Suicide’s a sin,” the terrorist said earnestly and even stopped bawling. Her rounded eyes looked at Vlasov in amazement. How can anyone not understand this?
“Righteous, are you? So what was it you wanted to do by the metro station? What do you call that?”
The girl sat up, put the palms of her hands together, and started droning in a monotone, “I must die for my faith. I shall take the enemies of Allah with me; then I shall go to paradise. Paradise is a good place. There is no pain and no humiliation. There are flowers, divine fragrances, and everlasting happiness.”
“Exactly what enemies were you planning to destroy? Did you actually see those people by the metro station? Women with children, shopping for the start of the school year!”
“All infidels are enemies of Allah. Your women raise soldiers who kill our children.”
Andrei cringed; he’d heard those “songs” before.
“Soldiers are killing children. Yeah, sure, they’ve got no one else to fight, just children. What are you, a black widow?”
The girl suddenly stopped crying and said dejectedly, “No, I didn’t get a chance to be a wife.”
“Got it. Your guy fought against the federal forces, so he got wasted?”
“No, he wasn’t fighting.”
“Had to be a good man,” Vlasov winced sarcastically. “What happened to him?”
“He was killed in a raid.”
“Happens,” Andrei yawned ambivalently.
“What? Happens?” The girl, indignant, jumped out of the car. “They hit him with the butt of a rifle on the head and shot him like a dog. Prostrate, on the ground! He wasn’t even armed!”
Andrei flicked away the cigarette butt.
“Don’t you make a soldier angry when he’s got his finger on a trigger! He may be in a uniform, but he’s just a kid, and he pees himself when he walks into your courtyard, with hostile mugs all around! So you and your guy had to stick your highlander pride up your ass when you got raided. Got it?”
Andrei’s stare met the girl’s; flames of rage ran toward each other and snuffed out like a brush fire when one wave of fire meets another. Andrei looked down and said calmly, “Take off that belt.”
“I can’t,” the girl said desperately.
“What do you mean, can’t? Don’t make me angry!”
“It was put on so that I can’t take it off myself.”
Vlasov leaned forward. “Show me.”
The girl, ashamed, covered herself; her swarthy face reddened.
“Stop playing hard to get!” Andrei spread the girl’s clasped hands and opened her cardigan. His fingers carefully lifted up the loose blouse. On the girl’s slim waist, there was a weighty foil-wrapped bundle shaped into a wide belt. “Um, nice package.”
The girl pulled the blouse down, “Don’t look!”
“Hands off, okay? Don’t make me angry! I am not trying to play your lover.”
The girl closed her eyes in embarrassment and bit her lower lip; her face bore an expression of suffering.
“Take off your cardigan,” Andrei ordered.
The girl, ashamed, clasped her hands and shook her head no.
“Come on, take it off. No need to cover. I don’t care about your curves.”
“They tied it up from behind.”
“Okay, so turn around.”
The girl obediently took off her cardigan and leaned forward, her face to the car seat.
Andrei lifted up her blouse; on her back were large bruises.
“Ouch! That’s quite a beating you got by that metro station.” He looked closer; along with fresh bruises, there were older, yellow marks. “Where did you get those? Did our military do that? Did you try to fight for your fiancé? Special forces have hard boots.”
The girl sobbed silently; her body started shaking as she wept. Andrei bared her entire back. Under her fine skin, he could see the protrusions of her vertebrae; on both sides of her spine, there were traced of multiple beatings. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Andrei looked askance; he could see a part of her breast and on it, a dark bite mark.
The girl moved her elbow covering her breast; her shoulder blade lifted up on her back.
“What are you looking at? Untie it!” she hurried him rudely.
Andrei bent over the knots; his fingers couldn’t grab on the nylon cord.
“It’s tied fast. Can’t untie.” He pulled with his teeth, but soon gave up. “Looks like this belt wasn’t supposed to come off. Too bad I don’t have a knife. I’ll try a screwdriver. Hold on.”
He opened the trunk; for a while, tools clanged as he rummaged through them. Andrei came back with a small screwdriver. The girl faced him sitting up. Hardened expression on her face, she watched the lights of a commuter train speeding by. When the train’s rattle died down, she said tiredly, “It wasn’t yours.”
“What? I don’t get it.” Andrei inquired.
“It wasn’t the military who beat me up.”
“Who then?” Andrei looked at the girl, surprised.
There was no answer. The suicide bomber turned her back to him and shouted rudely, “Untie it!”
“What do you think I am doing? You better, um, wipe your face. You’ve got dry blood on your lips. I’ve got tissues between the front seats.”
Andrei made an effort and broke the cord in two places with his screwdriver. The belt came off. He weighed in his hand, ran his fingers over it.
“Solid preparation. About three kilos. They’ve cut up enough wire to cause mayhem! Explosives alone are about two kilos. You know what would be left of you? Maybe your head.” Andrei thought of the woman’s head he saw on a pavilion’s roof near Rizhskaya. “Girl, you would fly all the way up to heaven. With no help from God. Only you fiancé wouldn’t recognize you, I’m afraid.”
He looked for a place to toss the explosives, but put it in the trunk.
“I’ll dump it into the river. Otherwise, kids may find it. Or you, silly, change your mind and get that battery.”
He closed the trunk and looked at the girl standing next to the car.
“All right, goodbye, suicide bomber. Now you’re harmless. Maybe you’ll live a while longer, and I have to go.”
Chapter 9
August 31, 8:45 PM
Grigoriev
Oleg Alexandrovich Grigoriev sat behind the driver and thoughtfully looked trough the papers in his leather portfolio. He was no longer concerned about the slow driving. The colonel was more concerned about the troubling events of the last few days; steady movement was helping him concentrate.
Terrorists surfaced in Moscow again. True to their new custom, they were using the most monstrous and most effective weapon, female suicide bombers; someone even came up with a catchy moniker for them, brides of Allah. Had to be decent image makers at work.
How were they able to keep producing those “living bombs”? How much of a fanatic fighter for the illusory idea of independence did one have to be to sacrifice themselves in this barbarous way? Unless it’s something else altogether; fear, hatred, revenge? Perhaps every case had its own motive, but one way or another, the intelligence reports were being confirmed. Another batch of “brides of Allah” had been dropped into Moscow.
How many were there? Most likely, four. That’s what the source in Chechnya said. Unfortunately, he could provide no details, so there was no way to intercept. And now, the results.
First, there was an explosion on a bus stop on Kashirskoe Shosse, which at first received no attention because there were no casualties. That must have been a test of the explosive device. Then, there were horrible crashes of two passenger airplanes that departed from the Domodedovo airport with a brief interval between them.
By now, it was clear that both crashes were caused by onboard explosions. The nature of damage to the planes suggested the use of an explosive device without an outer shell filled with wire fragments, similar to those commonly used in suicide bombings.
And today, two suicide bombings near metro stations, one of which, unfortunately, had been successful.
Analyzing information at his disposal, Grigoriev was beginning to conclude that the same group of terrorists was behind all cases. The entirety of facts suggested that someone brought to Moscow four female suicide bombers. Two of them blew up the airplanes, the other two were supposed to blow up subway stations. One blew herself up on her way up to the Rizhskaya station, too scared of the police patrol to go inside; the other for whatever reason failed. Most likely, a faulty detonator or a dead battery. This kind of thing happened, and it was easy to fix.
But the terrorist escaped.
The colonel winced, thinking about a living bomb hiding in the city, ready to explode at any time in a public place. He wanted to call home and tell his family to stay inside. His wife, to be honest, would be home anyway, but his daughter was getting ready for her wedding, so she spent a lot of time in public places.
Grigoriev dialed the number of his daughter, Lena. “The subscriber you’re trying to reach is not answering or is unavailable,” a soulless voice informed him. This could mean anything, even that the person was already—
No, the colonel cut off the stream of troubling reasoning. Because of this job, the darkest thoughts get into his head. His daughter could simply be on the subway, where mobile communications don’t reach, Oleg Alexandrovich reassured himself. But immediately, there was an old man’s pain in his chest; his daughter was on the subway! Where the suicide bombers were headed.
He wanted to drop everything and go look for his daughter. But what kind of example would he set for his subordinates? He could not incite panic! For that, stupid journalists were more than enough. He must find and neutralize the suicide bomber.
Find and neutralize! Sounds good, but how?
His cell phone started vibrating in the sweaty palm of his head; Russian national anthem started playing. It was Lena’s joke; she downloaded the ringtone into his phone and set it up to ring when any of the co-workers were calling. So that had to be an office call.
“Oleg Alexandrovich, I have a description of the suicide bomber,” Yura Burkov was chattering excitedly.
“How did you manage that?”
“Interviewed strictly by the book! First the policeman who was on duty near the station, then other witnesses.”
“Are you sure they aren’t confused?”
“The policeman remembered a lot; the others concurred.”
“This is good. Get it to the office and give it to the press.”
“To the reporters?” Burkov asked shyly.
“Yes. And quickly.”
“What about secrecy?”
“Wrong case for that, Yura. Let’s make the opponent nervous; they’ll make a mistake or get scared and drop their plans.”
“She may go in hiding.”
“So be it. People’s lives are more important. And our job is to figure out where she is and find her there, wherever that might be.”
“Got it, Oleg Alexandrovich.”
“Now describe her.”
The colonel listened to the terrorist’s description and hung up.
This was a small success. This was how cases got cracked, step by step. Now his colleagues in the Northern Caucasus would have new information. When added to the previously available data, it might lead to finding out the Shahid’s name and known associations. The identities of the two airplane suicide bombers should already be established. They were caught on security cameras at the airport. Also known were the names under which they registered for the flight. The investigating team at Rizhskaya would likely dig up something, too. Forensics from the plain crashes had already come in, DNA analysis was being conducted.
All that would definitely provide some food for thought and help trace the remaining terrorist.
The colonel smiled for the first time today. This was an analytical problem of the kind he liked. He’d have something to do in his office at Lubyanka. Grigoriev snapped his portfolio shut and impatiently tapped the driver on the shoulder, “Sasha, step on it.”
Chapter 10
August 31, 8:59 PM
Lyublinskaya Street
Andrei Vlasov walked around the gloomy-looking girl and got behind the wheel. The sound of closing car door put some distance between him and an unneeded dangerous problem. The car made a three-point U-turn on the narrow lane and slowly drove over the bumps toward the asphalt. In the rearview mirror, Andrei could see the girl’s figure shrink.
She put her cardigan back on, adjusted her hair, and tied the headscarf. Then the twilight hid her from sight.
Good thing it was over, he sighed with relief. What had got into him? He just helped a terrorist escape retribution! The crowd would have torn her apart, and rightly so. He, the fool he was, had to intervene. He had to forget this stupid story as quickly as possible.
Andrei turned on the radio and immediately got a newscast.
“A detailed description of the suicide bomber who escaped from the Dmitrovskaya metro station has been released,” the newscaster was saying. “She appears to be twenty to twenty-five years old, approximately 170 centimeters tall, slender, of dark complexion, oval face of European type, arched eyebrows, brown eyes, the bridge of the nose narrow and straight, wide mouth, triangular chin, long black hair. She was wearing a brown skirt below the knee, a gray cardigan with blue geometric patterns, a light blouse; on her head, a green checkered headscarf. She is assisted by an accomplice, a young man. His description is still being finalized. Law enforcement authorities are asking anyone who has information about the terrorist to call 02.”
Not bad this time around, Andrei thought, surprised. He wouldn’t be able to give a better description of the girl himself. Except maybe add something about bruises on her back and that damned birthmark on her heck.
He didn’t like the sound of the word “accomplice’. What a role he’d been given! Wait a bit, and he’d be promoted to mastermind.
He was getting worried.
As soon as the damn Chechen shows her face in public, she’d be grabbed. The police are out in numbers, the description fits perfectly. If she is arrested, she would tell on me, Andrei kept reasoning. She definitely would. If she doesn’t want to, the pressure will do the trick. The security services can do that, they have a lot of experience. She’d cover the real masterminds to avoid her family getting hurt, but she’d tell on me for sure. What’s her reason to keep quiet about me? None. And if she remembered the car, I’ve got about five minutes left as a free man.
What a bind! How would I explain the idiotic act I pulled near that metro station? That was aiding and abetting terrorists, pure and simple.
Vlasov sighed heavily and cursed through his teeth.
I can’t leave her alone now! She’d sink herself and drag me down with her.
The Lada quietly driving along Lyublinskaya Street suddenly made a U-turn over the double solid, tires squealing, and sped back. Turning into the now-familiar alley, Andrei turned on the headlights. The high beams highlighted the figure of a girl wearing a long skirt standing on the side of the road. Without the thick belt under her clothes, she looked taller and more slender. But her headscarf made her look like nun in the dark.
Andrei drove up to her and braked. She apathetically continued to walk.
“Wait! Where are you going?” Vlasov shouted.
The girl, it seemed, didn’t notice him. Vlasov lowered a window and baked up the car.
“Where are you going to go now?” he asked in a calmer tone.
The girl looked at him ambivalently, but kept on walking without a word.
“To your people? Here in Moscow?”
The girl shook her head no.
“Good idea. Forget this foolishness and go home.”
The girl still walked barely shuffling her feet, while Andrei drove along.
“Do you have money for the trip?” He looked at her skeptically. “Nah, where would you get it? You were going on the longest trip, the no-ticket-required kind.”
The girl was still silent. Andrei lost his patience, stopped the car and jumped out.
“Wait, you!” He stood in her way, irritated. “At least take off your headscarf, stupid! Otherwise, the first cop you come across will grab you! Your description is already on the radio.”
She stared into his face in confusion. Andrei took her by the elbow and steered her toward the car. The limp female body offered no resistance.
“Okay, here’s the deal. We’re going to my place. You spend the night there. Tomorrow, I’ll get you new clothes and send you home.”
Andrei pushed in the door lock safety and closed the door on the girl’s side. When he got behind the wheel, he turned to her.
“Take of that damn headscarf, will ya?”
The narrow palm of her hand pulled the headscarf down to her knees. The girl shook her head; long black hair fell onto her shoulders.
Andrei said approvingly, “Now that’s better.”
The girl closed her eyes in exhaustion; he head fell back on the seat. Her pale lips opened slightly, and her chin made several jerking motions.
Chapter 11
August 31, 9:20 PM
Safe House
Aslan Kitkiev looked at the apartment number again. Everything was right; building 18, apartment 64. He remembered the address ever since he left for Moscow, but hasn’t been here yet. The apartment was a backup location to be used in the event of a partial failure of the operation. It had to have a supply of medication and food for two weeks, enough to sit around without going outside.
Aslan had a key, but he preferred to push the doorbell button and take two steps back. While the lock was clicking, the young man held his hand inside his coat. The palm of his hand was wrapped around the ribbed grip of his handgun.
The door was opened by a woman of about forty. A shock of unnaturally white hair framed her round face with prominent slightly crooked nose, straight black eyebrows, and thin brightly painted lips. At the roots, her hair was black for about a centimeter. Massive earrings pulled down her earlobes. She wore a variety of necklaces, rings, and bracelets. Her pink blouse accentuated not only her large breasts, but also the folds on her stomach.
The woman quickly glanced around and retreated into the apartment. Aslan quietly came in, looked into the only room and into the kitchen. Only after that his right hand left the inside of his coat.
“Where did you leave the car?” the woman asked.
“Don’t ask meaningless questions, Fatima! There are more important things now,” Aslan snapped and went into the bathroom.
“Nevertheless,” Fatima repeated her question when Aslan came out of the bathroom.
“Are you still harping on about the car? What a bore! The next street over, near the store.”
“You’ve finally learned the basics. Now tell me about the girl.”
Aslan hated to report to women. Although Fatima had been posted to Moscow years ago and conducted several operations here, it was he who was appointed the head of the group. She would have to report first. But the failure of his mission made Aslan more agreeable on the small stuff. In addition, no one else was there to see it.
He sloppily dropped into the only armchair (let the woman stand!) and briefly told her about what happened to Aiza near the metro station.
“Too bad they didn’t kick her to death!” Fatima barked.
“Since that didn’t happen, we have to leave!”
“Why?”
“Woman,” Aslan hissed, lowering his eyes to fat knees peeking out from under her skirt, “Aiza may already be captured and spilling her guts on us as we speak!”
“She doesn’t know about this place.”
“No, but she knows us!”
“What about the money?”
“We’ve done a lot already.”
“Especially you. We won’t get anything for blowing up that glass booth on Kashirskoe Shosse.”
“I know. But three brides out of four succeeded. The airplanes were my work! Or have you forgotten? Hundred fifty thousand bucks would be enough for now.”
“We can’t leave her alive! That’s bad example. Did she come by the old place?”
“No. Vakha is posted there. If she shows up, he’ll let me know.”
“Just don’t bring him here. Remember the rule? Only you can see me.”
“And the girls.”
“They don’t count. They are here today, gone tomorrow. Were it not for today’s mishap… Where could Aiza be?”
“I think she’s still with that guy.”
“Did you find out where he lives?”
“Yes.”
“Is he a cop?”
“No. A common idiot.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s reliable. Our source from the police headquarters came through.”
“That one?”
“Yeah,” Aslan smiled. “It was my idea to recruit him.”
“Show me his address on the map.”
Aslan opened a Moscow road atlas.
“He lives here, on Volgogradsky Prospekt. I wanted to go there, but you said to do nothing until I saw you.”
Fatima faltered, but finally said in a decisive tone, “No. We won’t stick our necks out at night. Too risky. We’ll go there in the morning, when everyone’s off to work.” She opened a curtain slightly and looked out the dark window. “I still hope the girl would push the button. Aiza wanted to die so badly.”
Aslan’s face spread in a greasy smile, “I tried my best.”
Fatima threw him a contemptuous look, but didn’t say anything. She found a remote control and turned on the small TV.
“Let’s hear the news. You’ll see my work, and maybe Aiza would show up, too.”
“What is she doesn’t?”
“The Russians have a saying, there’s no bad thing without a good thing. Tomorrow is September 1, the beginning of the school year. We’ll find her in the morning and send her to a school. I’ll up the dosage, and she’ll do what she must.”
“Are you still drawn to schools, teacher?”
“Why not?” Fatima lowered her voice. “I’ve discussed a school with you-know-who a while ago. And if tomorrow we — ”
“School; girls with bows,” Aslan smiled. “That would be way better than a metro station.”
Chapter 12
August 31, 9:25 PM
Sviridov
“I’ve had it! I’ve had it! I’ve had it!” Lieutenant colonel of police Sviridov clenched his fists and imagined smashing his office furniture. He wanted to turn the desk over, break down the cabinet, kick around chairs and file folders full of paper. He wanted to take out his handgun, empty it into the fire safe’s iron door and throw it at the head of the first person to enter his office. He also dreamed, fearfully, of running up to a window and throwing himself out of it. Frame breaking, glass crashing. And a long fall, hands spread, in a cloud of glistening shards.
A whole range of emotions running wild reflected on Sviridov’s exhausted face. But his body remained motionless.
Today, the Chechens reminded him of an old sin again.
He got a call from Aslan, the wheeling-dealing bastard who took a video of it all four years ago. He gave him a job to do and said he’d call back. Until the last second it seemed that the callback wouldn’t happen. The Chechen would get lost, disappear, vanish, and everyone would forget about a long-gone moment of weakness experienced by Gennady Sviridov, a normal police officer.
But the callback came. The lieutenant colonel mumbled the details of registration of a certain VAZ-2106 automobile, wiped hot sweat with a shaky hand, and released a volcano of curses that up to that point were held inside. Rage boiled on the inside, but on the outside, it manifested only as grimaces of pain, moving of lips, shaking of fists, and pieces of broken pencil on his desk.
In the adjacent offices, his colleagues were working; the lieutenant colonel didn’t want any questions from them. He was afraid of them and he was afraid of Aslan.
Gennady Sviridov convulsively pulled out a desk drawer. The plastic tray crashed onto the floor, file folders and notebooks mixed up forming a disordered pile. His hand pulled out of that pile a small burgundy day planner. Inside it, against the back cover, was a black-and-white photo. The lieutenant colonel carefully spread it on his desk.
Two young police lieutenants, uniform hats pushed back carelessly, were laughing into the camera. Pashka Borovkov and Genka Sviridov. The best friends, happy to have received their long-awaited lieutenant’s tabs.
The lieutenant colonel’s body shivered, the palm of his hand spread tears on the stubble-covered cheek. Shivers and tears have become frequent visitors in the life of an overweight forty-year-old man with thin greasy hair.
* * * * *
Twenty minutes later, Gennady Sviridov left his office. He slowly drove home in his dark-blue Volkswagen; suddenly, a yellow Mazda passed him on the right and braked abruptly in front of a red light. His foot hit the brake, his body shifted forward and leaned on the steering wheel; the policeman’s car almost clipped Mazda’s bumper.
Sviridov jumped out and yelled at the insolent driver. The bottled-up emotions came out in flares; drops of spit were landing on the tinted glass, his fist banged on the car’s roof.
A window smoothly rolled down.
“Pops, go away,” a young unshaved Caucasian snapped insolently.
Another one smirked crookedly over his shoulder.
“You sucker, do you have any idea where I can send you?” Sviridov was boiling over. His hand was checking the pockets of his plain clothes for his service ID. The insolent face of the Caucasian now represented everything that was wrong in his life.
“Well, where?” The driver got out of the Mazda, glanced around, and suddenly hit Sviridov in the face with his fist.
His nose was smashed, his head fell back; Sviridov fell.
The Mazda drove away.
Other cars carefully drove around an awkward fat man rolling on the asphalt. Drivers looked in disgust at a staggering man in dusty suit with a porous red nose.
The lieutenant colonel returned to his car and wiped his bleeding nose with a handkerchief. The bout of rage exhausted Sviridov; the “cold shower” of the beating suddenly calmed him down.
“I can’t live like this anymore,” Gennady Sviridov decided firmly.
In the lieutenant colonel’s head, a plan to liberate himself from bonds of fear began to form.
Chapter 13
August 31, 9:40 PM
Vlasov’s Apartment
Andrei Vlasov opened the door of his apartment with one hand, while using the other to hold the exhausted body of the Chechen suicide bomber. Were it not for his help, the girl wouldn’t be able to walk. She was shaking; large drops of sweat rolled off her hollow-cheeked face; her hair was stuck to her forehead, as if she got wet in the rain.
“Come in, we’re here,” Andrei helped the girl to come in and sat her down on a stool. He took a deep breath and shouted into the apartment, “Mom, it’s me!”
Yekaterina Fedorovna walked into the hallway shuffling her slippers. A well-worn house robe enveloped her full shapeless figure; under the robe, there was a T-shirt, which she wore around the house for years. She got out of her good clothes as soon as she returned home from work.
The woman looked at her son’s hands gloomily. “Have you brought bread?”
“I forgot, Mom, sorry.”
“Like always; whatever I ask, he does nothing! Can’t buy a piece of bread for his own mother.”
“Calm down, Mom. Do you have any idea what’s happening in the city?”
“Ten reminders, and he still forgets! What kind of life is that?”
“Mom, we’ll have to do without today. Let me come in. The girl’s hurt.”
Yekaterina Fedorovna stood in the middle of the hallway, blocking the narrow passage. She moved her stare to the girl, as if she just noticed her. Her eyebrows shifted toward each other; the lines on her forehead deepened.
“Who’s she? You didn’t say anything about her.”
“Mom, I’ll explain later. We have to help her out.”
“I haven’t seen her before. What’s her name?”
Andrei looked at the girl, perplexed; he still hadn’t asked her name. The girl looked up and whispered, “Aiza”.
“What a name has God given you. You’re not Russian, are you?”
Andrei gently pushed Yekaterina Fedorovna aside.
“Mom, questions can wait. Let us through.”
“Where did we get such wonder?”
“Mom, later!” Andrei said firmly.
He led Aiza into a small room, sat her down on a couch, and closed the door to block his mother’s curious stare.
“Sit still. I’ll figure something out. Name’s Andrei, by the way.”
“I am sick,” the girl whispered, her eyes closed. “Very sick.”
“What’s wrong with you? Can I get you a medication?”
“Pill.”
“What?”
“Get me a pill,” the girl whispered.
From the hallway, Yekaterina Fedorovna’s deliberately loud grumbling was head.
“Forgot his mother altogether! Only thinks of himself. Brings home who knows whom, God forgive me. Where did he find this tramp? In the farmer’s market?”
Andrei made a calming gesture for Aiza.
“Don’t pay attention, okay? She doesn’t mean it… I’ll get you water and find some meds.” He stepped out of the room and face his mother, gradually displacing her into the kitchen. “Where do we keep the meds?”
Yekaterina Fedorovna retreated, but continued to grumble, “I can’t even get bread from my own son.”
“I’ll get you bread, okay? I will!” Andrei lost it. “Borrow from the neighbor! Just be quiet.”
“What am I being punished for? Others have normal kids, and mine… He even yells. Yells at his mother!”
Andrei decided to ignore his mother’s nagging. It was completely impossible to win a verbal confrontation with her. He found the meds and came back into the room with a glass of water. The girl, curled up into a ball, shivered in the armchair.
“Here. I found aspirin and dimedrol. You’re probably stressed out. Nerves. A couple of tablets should help. Take them.”
The girl obediently picked up the pills.
“Can you do it yourself? Here’s water. I’ll be right back.”
Andrei stepped outside the apartment and rang the doorbell of the apartment next door. The door was answered by a chubby disheveled guy wearing a faded T-shirt and rumpled gym pants.
“Hey, Andryukha!” he barked, blowing a heavy dose of vodka vapors into his neighbor’s face.
“Hi, Vityok,” Vlasov cringed and took half a step back. “Can I borrow some rye bread?”
“Andryukha! Have you heard what kind of shit’s going on?” Viktor Chervyakov waved his hand over his shoulder. Inside his apartment, a TV was blaring. “The Chechens blew up another bomb. Near Rizhskaya. Dropped a whole bunch of people. You know what I would do to those bastards?”
“Why do you think it’s the Chechens?”
“Who else?”
“Maybe bandits’ turf war?”
“By blowing up bombs near metro stations? Nah, those guys are no more. The TV says, a female suicide bomber.”
“Maybe so. Can I have some bread?”
“Good thing I don’t ride the metro. My truck is my other home.”
“Have you got bread?”
“Come in. We’ll throw back some vodka. Vodka is liquid bread!”
“I can’t right now. Give me some bread; Mom’s getting to me with her endless nagging.”
“We won’t be long. We’ll talk a little, watch some TV.”
“I can’t. I’m not alone.”
“Ha, good deal! Who’re you with?”
“Will you give me some bread?”
“Okay, okay, right away.”
Viktor disappeared into a dark hallway. He came back shortly. One hand was clutching a quarter-loaf of bread, the other, a bottle of vodka.
“Thanks.”
Andrei took the bread, but the neighbor started tailing him.
“The damned Shahid blew up near the metro,” he muttered from behind. “The TV says it’s confirmed. Lots of casualties. She wanted to blow it up on a train, but — » he stopped when he noticed Aiza curled up in the armchair through the slightly opened door. “Who is it you got there?”
Andrei walked on to the kitchen.
“Mom, I’ve got bread!”
The door squeaked. Yekaterina Fedorovna stuck her head out of her room and threw a dirty look to Viktor and Andrei.
“I don’t need anything!” she shouted and slammed the door.
“Hello!” the neighbor said as the door was being slammed. “And goodbye. What’s got into her?”
“Nah,” Vlasov waved him off. “Just ignore it.”
From behind the wall came a new wave of irritated grumbling. The tension on the neighbor’s face disappeared; he definitely liked the fact that Andrei’s mother locked herself in her bedroom.
He looked at the girl curiously, quickly figured out her highland origin, and frowned. His fist clutching a bottle of vodka pushed open the room’s incompletely closed door.
Chapter 14
August 31, 9:55 PM
Offices of Federal Security Service
Only the uninitiated think that today’s FSS is but a pale shadow of the former KGB. In the early 90s, when everything old was crumbling, it might have been the case, but now, with the new president at the helm, the power of the all-powerful agency was restored, and in some respects even expanded.
The secretive organization once again operated like clockwork. Officers didn’t need to worry about reporters’ attacks, so common in the past. Moreover, the internal security service protected the officers and could easily put a muzzle on a scribbler running wild. Once again, young capable people started joining up, and they didn’t want money as much as they wanted to belong to an elite caste of the chosen. They, like their likes in other developed countries, were attracted to the mystery of the special services. Thank you Hollywood; the filmmakers embellished the intellect and bravery of special service agents and intelligence operatives as much as they could.
Speaking in modern terms, a positive image of the all-powerful organization was created; ordinary citizens didn’t shy away from cooperating with it, so the quality of investigative work improved greatly.
This is what colonel Grigoriev was thinking with some satisfaction, as he was sitting at his office computer reviewing the materials collected during the investigation of the two airplane explosions. Success was obvious.
In a matter of days, the identities of suicide bombers who carried out the bloody acts were established. The path of their relocation from Chechnya to Moscow was tracked. Two days before the explosions, both took the same flight; apparently, the organizers were introducing them to the boarding routine and rules of behavior onboard. The details of ticket purchases became known, as well as those of terrorists’ boarding the planes bypassing security checks. The criminally negligent officials and the involuntary accomplices have been apprehended.
But all of this didn’t make the colonel happy. The immediate supervisor of the suicide bomber girls, the one who accompanied them and gave them their final instructions, somehow remained in the shadows and never came to light. Moreover, it wasn’t even clear if that person was a man or a woman. In one case, a middle-aged woman was seen around, in the other, a young man spoke to the terrorists. Witnesses couldn’t give a usable description of either.
By juxtaposition of facts, it was finally clear that the group included four Shahid girls. As was the rule in these situations, they were brought in from a region beholden to an influential field commander who worked off foreign sponsors’ money in this fashion.
With two of the girls’ names known, it was possible to define the circle of suspects. Files on potential suicide bombers were kept meticulously. By now, a few potentials have been identified.
Oleg Alexandrovich once again looked through the descriptions and photos from the database.
A wondering youthful face, then a weary-looking mature woman with crow’s feet around her eyes. Most photos were from identification documents and didn’t provide a full picture of what the person looked like, but a complete professionally compiled description enlivened the picture, made the person visible and palpable.
The colonel clicked through the photos of young women and rubbed his tired eyes in desperation. None of them matched the description of the only terrorist still at large.
Grigoriev was waiting for new photos from the colleagues in the Southern Federal District. They have received the latest data on the terrorist and were running them hastily.
Oleg Alexandrovich threw some instant coffee into an unwashed cup and poured boiling water over it. He didn’t want to go to the end of the hallway to wash the cup. Generals had secretaries, but he didn’t make it to general. And never will. Soon, he’ll retire. The upper echelons have already made the decision.
Colonel Grigoriev took a sip of hot coffee and smiled. Someone young and ambitious must be eagerly waiting for him to vacate his position. They’re probably already trying on the stars on the tabs and evaluate the fit of his office chair for their butt.
Oh well, that was bound to happen. Meanwhile, the colonel still held his office, so he must identify, find, and neutralize the terrorist. In that order: identify, find, and neutralize. Most importantly, identify. This was the problem only he could solve. Others could find and neutralize, but the colonel wanted to do his last job, from beginning to end, by himself.
In the corner of his computer screen, a new message icon started blinking. The colonel clicked on it, and a color photo of a young woman unfolded on his screen. He barely looked at it, and before he read any accompanying text, he realized that was she. He remembered her description too well to think otherwise.
So that’s what you look like, a bride of Allah, the colonel thought; but aloud, he read, “Aiza Guzieva, 20 years old.”
His screen showed a fresh face of an attractive black-haired girl. Precise arches of eyebrows, childish wide open eyes, straight nose, brightly painted lips, and thin craning neck. Aiza looked to her right; the photographer caught her unaware, probably in motion; a strand of wavy hair broke out of the hairpins, its sharp end almost touching the corner of her mouth.
The girl wore a white headscarf wrapped around her neck. This was good, the colonel thought with satisfaction. Today, the terrorist wore a headscarf, too, although of a different color; it would be easier for the witnesses to identify her.
Grigoriev dialed an office extension and called Burkov into his office.
“Yura, this is out target,” Oleg Alexandrovich pointed at the monitor when the first lieutenant came in.
“Are you sure?” The first lieutenant stared at the girl’s happy face in confusion. “She’s attractive. Why wouldn’t she want to live?”
“When we find her, we’ll be sure to ask. Meanwhile, find all possible contacts Aiza Guzieva could have in Moscow. Relatives, fellow villagers, acquaintances. You know the drill.”
Oleg Alexandrovich finished his coffee, looked at the brown residue on the bottom of his cup, and stuffed the cup into the bottom drawer of his desk. He was too busy to wash it now.
“I am forwarding the terrorist’s vitals to you, print the photo out in color,” the colonel opened his e-mail and clicked. “Send the photo to the police precinct where the witness is based. Get in touch with him. Let’s see if he identifies her.”
“Got it,” Yuri Burkov mumbled, throwing a sideways look at the clock on his boss’ desk.
“And don’t you even look at the clock!” Grigoriev noticed the look. “The night is young. If you’re done quickly, I’ll let you go see your wife for three hours. I used to be young, I understand.”
“Oleg Alexandrovich — ”
“What, three hours is not enough? Or did you want to catch a nap, too? Pick one, marathon runner.”
“I didn’t — ”
“Stop the gabbing! Proceed with your assignment. I’ll be bunking around here.”
The colonel looked at the well-worn leather couch with round armrests. This antique probably sat there when the office wasn’t even called KGB; it was MGB before. Back in those times, it was customary to stay at work until the mustachioed leader of the world Communism, who preferred night moon to morning sun, turned the lights in his office off for the night.
When he was alone, Oleg Alexandrovich called home. He was worried about his daughter.
“How’s Lena?” he asked when he heard his wife’s voice.
“God, you still remember your daughter’s name!” his wife said sarcastically. “Do you remember she’s got a wedding in two days?”
“I do. But does the groom?”
“What are you talking about?” his wife started getting upset.
“Okay, got it. No joking about the holy. Is Lena home?”
“Do you want to talk to her?”
“I tried. Her phone wasn’t answering. Where is she?”
“Home. Just got here. When are you coming?”
“What a silly question,” Grigoriev sighed, relieved. “Are you watching TV?”
“Makes me want to throw up. When is it going to be over?”
“When I am home.”
“So get here already,” his wife tried joking.
“Service first. Rest later.”
“Your daughter is about to get married!”
“We’ll have to wrap it up by then, Valya. I’ll let the terrorists know they have until Saturday to surrender.”
Chapter 15
August 31, 10:00 PM
Vlasov’s Apartment
Viktor Chervyakov stepped into the room and stared at Aiza. Vlasov came in behind him.
“Where are you going? Let’s get out of here!” Andrei literally pushed his neighbor into the hallway and closed the door. “What did you want?”
“I, um — » Viktor brought up the vodka bottle, “think we should have a drink.”
“Some other time.”
“Sure, some other time and now!” Viktor proceeded to the kitchen as if he owned the place. The bottom of the bottle plopped on the kitchen table’s plastic surface. The neighbor smiled. “Why put off until tomorrow what can be done today? With all this terrorism, I am in such a foul mood, I just don’t want to live!”
“You too, huh?” Andrei looked at his neighbor gloomily. “Then strap on some explosives and go see Basaev. A symmetric response.”
“Huh? I mean, what the hell is happening in Moscow? First, an airplane, now the metro. I’ve got to have a drink.”
“And everything will be alright?”
“You can’t blow up a metro station with vodka,” Viktor concluded seriously.
“Okay, let’s drink. Today was a stupid day indeed.”
Andrei pulled out two glasses and put them on both sides of a salad bowl. Forks chinked as he put them on the table, kitchen stools creaked, skillfully measured vodka gurgled.
“Okay, to health?” Viktor offered.
“Yeah.”
The buddies drank and ate some salad. Andrei cut up the bread he brought.
“Now we found a use for the bread,” Viktor smirked.
“Yeah,” Andrei gave another indeterminate answer. The troubled expression on his face made it obvious that his mind was elsewhere.
“Turn on the TV, the news is about to start.”
“Don’t want to; I’ve had enough. I’ve seen it live. Let’s have a quiet time,” Andrei answered quickly, putting away the remote.
Viktor poured another round. When they drank, he smiled slyly and asked, “Who’s that broad you got there?”
“Nobody,” Andrei shrugged. “I just met her today.”
“And right away, you dragged her home? A brave one. But she looks strange.”
“She’s sick.”
“Not in the head, accidentally?”
“Haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Wow! What’s her name?”
“Aiza,” Andrei signed calling out the unusual name.
“So she’s not Russian after all; I thought so! She’s not Chechen, is she? She looks like one!”
“So what if she is?” Vlasov flared up. “What do you care?”
“I can’t stand them, you know.”
“Who? Girls?”
“Of course not! The nosy Caucasians.”
“While working for Armenians?”
“I am a delivery driver. What am I to do if they took over the vodka business?”
“Find a job delivering sausages.”
“The best sausage is vodka. It feels you up and makes you happy. And Armenians aren’t like Chechens or Azeris. But I don’t like them, either. And I take my revenge on them! In my own way. They suffer!” He flicked on the bottle. “I get by.”
“You’re stealing?”
“Not from the government; only from the Armenians. May they rot in hell!”
“And if your company gets bought by Russians tomorrow, will you stop pilfering?”
“Let it go, okay? I don’t bring home swarthy women.”
“And I just did! Okay, let’s have another drink.”
“That’s better.”
Vityok tossed back another one, leaned forward, and squinted, “Have you forgotten how you wanted to kill all Chechen women? It wasn’t that long ago. Back when the Nord Ost thing went down. You even asked me for an address. Remember? For the first victim.”
Vlasov slowly wiped his moist lips with a palm of his hand; he dropped his head onto his interlocked fists. Little knots of muscles bulged on his wrists. While in service, he realized a terrifying truth: killing people is not very difficult.
One can actually get used to it.
Chapter 16
Nord Ost
Day Two, Afternoon
I have to avenge! They killed, and so must I! I’ll kill! Vlasov kept telling himself on his way home.
He didn’t remember coming home from the theater held by terrorists after leaving a threatening note on the TV van. In his empty head, only one thought rolled around ringing like a steel ball, They’ve killed Sveta! I’ll avenge her! I’ll avenge!
His eyes saw the number on his apartment door, but the hand holding the keys went back into his pocket. His hard-to-control body rocked hesitantly and turned to the neighbor’s door. His tense finger kept pressing the doorbell button even after the door opened.
Viktor Chervyakov, the neighbor, looked at Andrei hardly recognizing him. His buddy’s dull eyes, it seemed, looked inward; his stooping figure oozed cold like a stone statue. Chervyakov’s hand took Vlasov’s wrist and pulled the petrified hand off the doorbell button.
“Are you crazy?”
Vlasov’s eyes lost some of their sticky dullness; he recognized his neighbor and gloomily came closer. His hand grabbed at the shirt on Viktor’s chest; his sunken stubbly cheekbones started moving nervously.
“Where is she? Where is that bitch?”
“Who? You really need to sleep it off.”
“That Chechen woman. With the kids. Where is she?”
“What Chechen woman?”
“She used to live in our building.”
“Let go, will ya?”
“She was renting an apartment here. She’s been driven out after the house explosions in Moscow. You brought your truck to help her move.”
Andrei lowered his hand. Viktor straightened his shirt and flexed his neck.
“Oh, that one. She hired me all right.”
“Where is she now?”
“What do you want with her?”
Andrei suddenly exploded.
“They kill, so I will kill, too! Baraev spilled blood first! Now it’s my turn.”
“Quiet, you! Don’t yell.” Viktor stuck his head out, looked around, and pulled Andrei into the apartment. The door lock clicked. “This is serious; you can’t do it on the spur of the moment.”
He carefully looked over his neighbor, as if trying to figure something out, then asked quietly, “You want your revenge?”
“Yes,” Vlasov exhaled.
“Kill?”
Andrei nodded curtly. Viktor rubbed his hands nervously; his eyes shifted around looking for something usual and necessary.
“Come into the kitchen. Let’s talk.”
In the kitchen, Viktor took an opened bottle of vodka out of the refrigerator and poured generously into the glasses. They drank in silence, without clanking the glasses.
“Good decision, Andryukha. I would do it myself! But you’d be better at it.”
“Where does she live?”
“Why do you want her?”
“I don’t care, as long as she’s Chechen.”
Viktor took a pause, but not a long one.
“Okay, I’ll tell you. But don’t get me involved.”
“I can handle it myself.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. If something goes wrong… don’t tell on me.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not a baby.”
“Good deal; now listen.”
Viktor gave detailed directions on finding the building and apartment to which he moved the Chechen single mother with children.
“Just don’t do anything rash! Do it properly,” the neighbor urged before saying goodbye.
“I’ll manage,” Vlasov promised heading out.
“When?”
“Now.”
“Maybe — » Chervyakov started to worry.
Andrei turned around abruptly and pulled Victor closer.
“He started it. Now it’s my turn.”
“Of course,” Viktor mumbled, shivering as he took in his buddy’s insane look.
The neighbors said their goodbyes at the apartment’s front door. Viktor Chervyakov stood still and listened to the heavy stomping of his old buddy Andrei Vlasov’s shoes. The footsteps were getting more distant, but not dying down. Then, the building entrance door slammed resonantly. In the silence that ensued, Viktor, trying to control the shivers of excitement, knocked on the wood of the doorframe three times; he wanted Andrei to succeed.
If everything goes right, he’d throw another address his neighbor’s way. After all, the swarthy did take over mother Moscow!
Chapter 17
August 31, 10:15 PM
Vlasov’s Kitchen
“Yeah, Andryukha, you were right back then! They kill us, we kill them!”
Viktor moved closer and tried to look up into his neighbor’s eyes. Andrei, looking down, kept turning his empty glass in his hands. The glass bottom knocked on the plastic tabletop.
“Those bastards blow stuff up for big bucks; you wanted to do it for an idea. Revenge is a noble business. If someone did that to my girlfriend, I would… Remember Nord Ost?”
Andrei jumped up from behind the table; his chair fell over on the floor.
“I remember everything! I remember too much! I don’t know what to do with those memories! They are in me, burning me, burning — ”
Viktor hastily splashed into the glasses the remained of vodka.
“Drink it down, Andryukha! And forget everything!”
Yekaterina Fedorovna stuck her head out of her bedroom and winced.
“Another bash. Go easy on the furniture. Who’s gonna replace it? And they’re gonna it all the bread.”
“That bread really got to you, didn’t it?” Andrei grabbed the remains of the loaf and rudely pushed them into his mother’s hands. “Take it and hide it. And go to bed, don’t be in the way.”
“Got drank, didn’t you? Have some food after you drink. There are dumplings in the fridge. I’ll boil them.”
“I’ll do it myself, Mom.”
Andrei almost pushed his mother into her bedroom and came back; he grabbed the glass, vodka splashed out on his fingers. Andrei licked the wet palm of his hand.
“Tomorrow is Sveta’s birthday.”
“Will you go to her?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s drink to her,” Viktor lifted up his glass.
“To Sveta!” Andrei said and tossed back the glass. His lips pursed; he noisily inhaled through his nose. Vlasov looked at his buddy from under his eyebrows. “Now go.”
“Do you want to spend some time with the girl?” Viktor asked playfully, picking at the salad. “She doesn’t look right.”
“I told you. She’s sick.”
“Call her out here. We’ll cure her.”
“No. Go home.”
“And she’s dressed like a scarecrow, too. Hey, should I run and get another bottle?”
“Just go, okay?”
“Are you in heat?”
“Go, Vityok.”
“Look here, Andryukha. A pussy’s a pussy, but I wouldn’t do it with a Chechen. If her uncle isn’t a bandit, her brother just might be. Or she is a Shahid herself.”
“Nobody is asking you to do anything.” Andrei nodded toward the exit. “Go, I’ll explain everything later.”
Viktor reluctantly started down the hallway. Along the way, he, as if by accident, looked into Andrei’s room. The girl fearfully looked at the two men; her tense hands rested on her knees. Viktor winked at Aiza with a smile; he squinted and ogled the girl.
At the front door, he whispered to Andrei, “Have you changed your tactic? Now you suffocate the enemy by hugging?”
Andrei, silent, pushed out his laughing buddy and locked the door behind him.
Alone in the stairway, Chervyakov lit up a cigarette. His smile disappeared, his forehead wrinkled up, his lips whispered thoughtfully, “He used to bash their heads in.”
Chapter 18
Nord Ost
Day Two, Evening
His feet plodded through puddles. Cold gusts of wind blew through his clothes; drops of rain ran down his hollow cheeks, getting caught and breaking in his stubble. Andrei Vlasov, consumed by the idea of revenge, paid no attention to whims of nature; before he knew it, he was near the building he looked for. All the way over, he talked to Sveta in his mind. He though she was asking him to avenge her.
He came into a courtyard flanked by two standard five-story apartment blocks. Sveta lived in a building just like these, so Andrei knew the apartments’ numbering. Every time he walked his girlfriend home, he would stand under her windows waiting for Sveta to wave goodbye to him through a window.
He gazed over the façade. The windows of the Chechen woman’s apartment overlooked the courtyard. All windows were dark: no one in the apartment. That was even better; no need to break in, he would wait and do her in the courtyard.
Andrei tried to remember what the woman looked like. All he could remember was an eternally concerned stare of her dark eyes. Would he recognize her? Definitely. She was from the Caucasus after all. She would be his first victim! That was his decision. Why she? What did it matter? She had no time to look for another. He wanted to get it all done today!
Once he decided, he calmed down. His brain was coldly calculating the plan of the murder. The important part was to decide whether he wanted to disguise the murder as a robbery gone bad or to demonstrate right away that it was revenge.
After some deliberation, he decided to stick with option one. It was too early to show that Chechen women were being killed just for being Chechens. After the fourth or fifth instance, everyone would make the connection anyway. And if they didn’t, he would throw a hint to the nosy reporters.
How would he kill her? He wouldn’t use the gun just yet; he might have to use the bullets elsewhere. There are easier ways to kill a single woman.
Vlasov looked around. Along the road, there was a low metal fence, bent in a few places by recklessly driven cars. A few hits with the heel of his shoe, and Andrei was able to pull a piece of rebar out of the ground. Short and heavy: just what he needed. One strike, and that would be it!
Andrei wiped the rod with wet leaves; whatever the reason, he didn’t want to use a dirty rod. In addition, now he could hide it under his clothes. The piece of rebar fit into his sleeve up to the elbow. This way, it was completely invisible. The end stuck out and could be hidden in the palm of his hand. He only had to wait for the victim.
It was still raining; cold, disgusting drizzle. The weather was crappy. Vlasov walked into the other apartment block and up to the top landing. Through the window, he could see the courtyard very well. Wherever the Chechen woman were coming from, she wouldn’t go unnoticed.
Andrei also decided that if anyone sees him in the building, he would put the murder off. He’d find the woman later, elsewhere, and kill her anyway. But right now, he had to be careful. One victim was not enough. He had big plans.
* * * * *
Two hours went by. It was completely dark now, but it wasn’t raining anymore, so the streetlights, it seemed, shone brighter. Finally, he saw a silhouette in the courtyard; a woman and a boy of about six. For a moment, the streetlight highlighted the long-nosed face with a headscarf wrapping around it.
That’s her!
His heart started racing.
During this time, he hasn’t seen anyone. So he could act. But the boy? What to do about him? Should he leave a witness? He quickly came downstairs, feverishly adjusting the operation plan.
When he stepped out of the building, Andrei pulled his hood over his head and looked around. Not a soul. The Chechen woman and the boy were fifteen paces away, their backs to him. The ideal setup. The fog of doubt lifted completely; his mind was terrifyingly clear, his muscles tensed.
He would quietly walk up to them. Push the kid hard. The boy would have to fall face down, so that he wouldn’t see anything. When he falls, Andrei would hit the woman on the head. Better do it a few times to make sure. Then he would pick up her purse and walk away quickly, but without panic.
He wished the kid wouldn’t turn around, or he would have to get rid of him, too.
Andrei wasn’t worried about accidental witnesses. A black hooded figure in a dark courtyard; with a description like that, he’d never be found. He wouldn’t leave any fingerprints, either. He would only take cash from the purse and dump the rest around the corner. Let it be found. A typical robbery. And he would destroy his gloves and jacket. Just to be sure.
“Sveta, I will avenge you!” he thought excitedly.
Vlasov was catching up to the woman quickly, but quietly. He could walk stealthily; he learned that in the army.
Five paces between them. Now, only three. Show time!
The woman stopped and started to adjust something in the boy’s clothing. Andrei, looking only at the back of her head covered with the warm headscarf, took another step, pulled the piece of rebar from his sleeve unsteadily, and raised his weapon.
The kid! He had to push the kid first!
But his hand was already raised high. Now he would have to kill him too.
Chapter 19
August 31, 10:25 PM
Andrei’s Room
After he showed his neighbor out, Vlasov came back to Aiza. The girl’s tension and shivers were gone, her breathing was steady, but she was visibly depressed. She seemed full of sadness and suffering. Upon a close look, he noticed the slight tremor in her fingers and a carefully concealed grimace of pain.
“Poor girl,” Andrei almost said, but he immediately thought back to the outbursts of fury with which the mad girl with TNT wrapped around her waist attacked him in his car. He instinctively touched his neck; the scratches were still hurting.
The bobcat turned into a sick kitten. For how long?
“Have you taken the pills?” Andrei unceremoniously touched the girl’s forehead. Aiza nodded obediently; her sweaty cool skin felt slippery to the touch. “You’re not burning up. Looks like a hangover after a big party. Have you drunk anything since this morning?”
Aiza shook her head no.
“No smell… Have you been injected?”
The girl nodded. Andrei lifted up her powerless hand and rolled up her sleeve.
“Clean,” he concluded after he looked on the insides of both her elbows. “Did you get injected only today? Come on, talk to me!”
“Yes,” the girl said barely audibly.
“Did they say it was for courage, so you feel no fear?”
“Um, yes.”
“That can be fixed. Tell you what, let’s have some vodka! It won’t hurt you. A great antidepressant. I know it from my own experience. In Chechnya, we used to — » Andrei faltered and pulled on the girl’s hand. “Let’s go!”
In the kitchen, he sat Aiza at the table and rummaged on the shelves.
“Here!” He pulled out a bottle of vodka. “ER! Know what it means? Emergency Reserve. To be used only in emergency. Like now.”
He rinsed the glasses and poured vodka.
“Drink.”
Aiza obediently drank, then winced.
“Now that’s good,” Andrei approved. “Now eat something. By the morning, you’d feel cool as a pickle. Speaking of, we’ve got pickles. Great snack. And I’ll boil some dumplings, too.”
He was working the kitchen looking at Aiza over his shoulder and talking almost non-stop. Here are the dumplings, frozen. Now the water is boiling, I am tossing them in. Damn! I almost burned myself; splashes. Now let’s salt it. Do you like dumplings? Mom used to roll her own, but these days, there’s such variety in the stores, just pick. These seem to be okay.
The girl’s face lost its deadly pallor; her eyes came alive. She looked around.
“Do you live here with your mom?”
“Yes. You’ve met her.”
“Do you have a wife?”
“A wife?” Andrei paused, as if looking for an answer to a complicated question. He slowly stirred the boiling dumplings. “I don’t have a wife.”
“A bride?” Aiza asked quietly.
“I did… But not anymore.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sveta. Svetlana.”
“Did you have a fight? Did you break up?” Aiza got interested.
“You could say that.”
“Is she beautiful?”
Andrei turned away, pretending to remove a sore from his eye. He whispered quietly, “Very.”
“Is she nice?” Aiza wouldn’t quit.
Andrei, surprised, look at her. Why did she keep prying? But he answered, “Yes.”
“Then you have to make up! Call her.”
“Now?” Andrei was baffled. “I can’t.”
“It’s late,” the girl agreed and added convincingly, “Sveta will cal you! She definitely will! You’ll see. You’re a good man, she’ll call.”
Andrei instinctively touched the phone in his pocket. It seemed that the phone was about to start vibrating announcing an incoming call.
Just like it did that evening, when he raised a piece of rebar over a woman and a child.
Raised it to kill.
Chapter 20
Nord Ost
Day Two, Late Evening
Suddenly, something stirred inside his jacket. Andrei started, his fingers lost the grip, the raised piece of rebar dropped on the asphalt. The woman turned around, scared, trying to cover the child. Her pose betrayed the helplessness of a hen trying to protect her chick; fear was in her eyes. She understood everything, her fear transferred to the child, he squeaked, “Mama!” The woman’s wide opened eyes awaited execution.
Here eyes were light, a strand of dark blond hair fell from under her headscarf. It wasn’t the Chechen woman; it was someone totally different!
Andrei looked at her stupidly until he realized that his phone was vibrating. He turned the ringer off before he tried getting into the theater. He abruptly pulled the phone out. The woman jumped aside and fell down. The child cried louder.
“Sveta!” Andrei yelled when he realized whose voice he just heard through the phone. “Svetochka!”
“Andryusha, dear, honey,” Svetlana prattled incoherently. “I can’t call my mom. Where is she, did you talk to her?”
“Of course; she’s hanging around the theater. Waiting for you. There’s a bunch of relatives there; they’re getting help. Are you alive?” he asked a stupid question and immediately corrected himself. “Are you okay?”
The scared woman got up from a puddle, picked up the crying child and ran away into a building.
“Yes. Tell my mom to start organizing pickets against the war in Chechnya. Otherwise, we’ll be shot. Tomorrow, everyone has to come out into the Red Square.”
“Sveta — ”
“I can’t talk anymore. If there are no protests, we’ll be shot,” the girl kept repeating.
“Sveta, is anyone standing next to you?”
“Yes.”
“Can I call you later?”
“No.”
The call ended. Andrei stood in the dark courtyard, looked at his phone, and waited for another call. Then, he carried the phone in his hand for a while to be able to answer Svetlana’s call right away. Every now and then, he looked at the display to make sure that the battery isn’t dead and the network is available.
The phone was in working order. But no more calls came in.
She called him “honey”. It’s been so long since she called him that. An eternity.
The hostages may be shot! No, those were empty threats. Just empty threats, he kept telling himself. And immediately remembered: one girl was already dead. And kept beating away a shameful thought: good thing it wasn’t Sveta.
When he got home, Andrei took out a bottle of vodka and quickly drained it. It wasn’t enough.
He closed his eyes and saw the dirty pipes he crawled on, the scared Chechen woman with a child who turned out to be no Chechen, smiling Svetlana, a rusty piece of steel in his hand, someone else’s hand holding a gun, an armored personnel carrier, soldiers in helmets, wailing ambulances, and a body under a sheet on a stretcher.
He fell asleep with his clothes on, his mobile phone in his hand.
Chapter 21
August 31, 10:45 PM
Andrei’s Room
Andrei Vlasov looked at the clock and pulled out the sofa bed he usually slept on.
“It’s late. You can sleep here. I’ll step out.”
Aiza fearfully watched his every move. Andrei explained, “The bed is just for you. I’ll sleep in the armchair. But don’t be afraid; I won’t bother you.” He spread his hands apologetically. “I’d go to Mom’s room, but that’s even worse. She’d grumble all night. Okay, get into bed, I am coming out. Do you want me to turn off the light?”
He left before she could answer. When he returned after about fifteen minutes, the light was still on. Aiza was lying in bed, her hands clutching the edge of the blanket pulled up to her chin, her black eyes intently watching Andrei. Except the cardigan, he didn’t see any clothes removed; the shoulder visible from under the blanked had the blouse on it.
Andrei turned off the light, lowered himself into the armchair, and stretched his legs. His tired eyes caught waves of night light coming in through the open curtains. Each wave was accompanied by a steady noise of a car. Everything was in sync; as the light died down, the noise dissolved into the night. The night city’s lullaby to its residents.
Andrei yawned. Without turning, he asked, “Are you still afraid of me?”
“I’m not afraid of you,” Aiza said, unsure.
“You must be, since you left your clothes on.”
“It’s not about that,” the girl sighed and added barely audibly, “I am not wearing any underwear.”
“I remember. I saw your horrible back. You could at least take off your skirt. It’s got to be uncomfortable to sleep in it.”
“I am not wearing any underwear at all.”
“At all? That’s strange.” Andrei turned to her, surprised. Black hair was spread over the white pillowcase. At least she didn’t put the headscarf back on. He tried joking, “I thought Muslim women were strict about it. All kinds of underpants.”
“I am spoiled,” the girl whispered.
Andrei thought he heard her sob.
“How’s that?”
“I am spoiled. I can’t go home. My mother cursed me.”
“Cursed you… Sounds medieval. What have you done?”
Aiza was quiet. Andrei tried to clam her down.
“If you had a fight with your parents, that happens. Look at me: not everything’s perfect, either. Worst case, you live alone. You’re an attractive girl, find yourself a proud highlander, marry him, and have kids.”
“I’ll never have a husband,” the girl replied quietly.
“Why? Do you still love that guy? That’ll pass. That was a war. We lost a lot of people too.”
“I loved him.”
“Of course you did. You know, many women get married without love. They say, patience now, love later.”
“No one would want me.”
“Why do you keep repeating, no one, never? You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You’re young and, by the way, attractive. Uglier women get married.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“Tell me, if you’re up for it.”
Andrei waited. Aiza was quiet. He yawned, threw his head back onto the back of the armchair. His eyes closed by themselves.
“If you’re not, don’t,” his lips whispered.
What am I going to do with her tomorrow, he thought. Give her a little money and put her on the train to her parents. But she said something strange about her mother. Or let her stay in the city? Get her normal clothes and let her go to her people. I took away the explosive belt, they probably don’t have spares. Damn, the belt! I haven’t taken it out of the car! In the morning, I’ll have to lose it. Okay, let’s change he clothes and her hair style and let her go wherever she would.
What if she’s caught? Will she tell on me or not? She might. Then there’s no way out. Although why? I am not a terrorist! I’ll deny everything! Mom will back me up, I only have to set it up with Viktor.
Vlasov yawned again and heard a quiet voice. He opened his eyes in surprise; he thought the girl was already asleep. But the hesitant voice with long pauses was hers.
“When Doku, my fiancé, died, his relative, Aslan, showed up. He took me away… Mom couldn’t do anything… I have no father and no brothers; there’s no one to protect me… Back then, I didn’t know anything… I thought Aslan wanted to marry me instead of Doku. This kind of thing happens sometimes. But he brought me to strangers. Into the mountains… To bad people… Very bad… I was… It was horrible. They raped me… Several men… I screamed and fought. But they beat me… It’s their marks on my back. They beat me and raped me… All of them together… And Aslan was videotaping everything… That went on for many days… Then Aslan showed the tape in our village…” Gentle rustle of the blanket. The girl was wiping her quiet tears. “Mom cursed me. I couldn’t come back. I wanted to die… I really wanted to die, but Aslan and his people wouldn’t let me. He kept saying I had to avenge Doku and he knew how to do that. I didn’t care… As long as I get to die soon… Then they brought me to Fatima. She had other girls. They wanted to die, too. Fatima said that if I died as a Shahid, that I meet Doku in heaven. I agreed, because Doku knew me when I was pure. Then we were brought to Moscow. Mareta, Yahita, Zarima, and I.”
Aiza went quiet. Silence filled the room.
“You knew the girls that blew up the airplanes?”
“Yes. They are in paradise already.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Fatima says so.”
“Were you supposed to die at the metro station?”
“Fatima went with Zarima, and Aslan drove me. He said he would out me on a train. When the train goes into a tunnel, I would have to push the button. But when near the station he told me to go alone and get on the train by myself. I went. But there was a policeman.”
“I saw that.” Andrei pondered. “The girls that were with you, were they cursed too? Like you?”
“Yes. They were videotaped, too.”
“I thought you were a religious fanatic. Wanted to die for your faith. Do you understand what would happen to you after the explosion?”
“I didn’t want to live; everyone turned away from me. I am dirty, cursed by my own mother. Fatima explained that it wouldn’t hurt. Maybe like a mosquito bite. And I would go to paradise right away. At the gates, two stern angels would meet me and ask, what have I done on Earth? Why do I think I am worthy of paradise? And I would reply, I took revenge upon the infidels. I died for Allah. They would open the gates and let me into paradise. It is fragrant as nothing on Earth, and there are flowers. There are flowers everywhere, birds singing and eternal spring. I would be a pure girl again. I will meet Doku, and he would love me.”
“Nice fairy tale.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Do you really think soldiers ride the metro? You wanted to go to paradise for killing ordinary people!”
“Doku wasn’t a fighter, either,” the girl parried, affronted.
“Okay. Ours, yours, they’re all good for it.” Andrei couldn’t let go of the girl’s sad story. He caught himself thinking he felt sorry for her. “So that’s where you come from to our chagrin,” he sighed. “Why don’t you wear underwear?”
“Aslan forbade it. He liked it better that way. He could lift up my skirt whenever he wanted to — ”
“He did that in Moscow, too?”
Somehow, Andrei wanted to hear that all of that was left behind in the faraway Chechnya, where life is lived by different rules. But the girl answered, “Yes, and in Moscow, too… Both with me and with the others. I hate him… And I’m scared of him.”
“No need to be scared now. I think that Aslan of yours is long gone from the city.” Andrei paused to think. “Look, maybe you should tell everything to the police? You are essentially a victim, not a criminal.”
“I can’t. There would be a trial. I’ll have to tell everything. Everyone would know I was spoiled. It’s a dishonor. Everyone will point their fingers at me. And in prison, I’ll be poisoned.”
“Why?” Andrei was surprised.
“So they say. The federals first convict, them kill you in prison.”
“Well, looks bad whichever way you look at it. Why did you tell me all this?”
“You’re different. You helped me. You’re Russian, but you’re a good man.”
“A rare combination.”
“And tomorrow, we’ll separate forever.”
“Yes, we’ll have to separate in the morning. Where are you going to go?”
“I already figured it out,” Aiza came alive and even lifted herself up on her elbow. “I have a school girlfriend in Volgograd. She went to college there and married a Russian. She’d help me get settled.”
“Volgograd? Do you have an ID to buy the ticket?”
The girl pulled a passport from under the blanket, played with it, and hid it again.
“Aslan gave it back to me today. In case there’s an ID check at the entrance to the station. He said, it they don’t let you in, push the button right away.”
“And you got scared.”
“Only of the policeman. And pushing the button — ”
“Okay, okay,” Andrei interrupted. He didn’t want to go back to the events near the station. “So be it; to Volgograd, to the school girlfriend. Not a bad idea. I think that train departs from Paveletsky station. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out the train schedule and buy you a ticket. I’ll help you.”
Chapter 22
September 1, 6:50 AM
Offices of Federal Security Service
In colonel Grigoriev’s office, the leather couch creaked; this time, the creak was heavy, betraying old age. Oleg Alexandrovich lifted up his bent back, dropped his feet on the floor, and massaged his stiffened neck with a palm of his hand. Say what you will, but sleeping with your body shaped like an arch, feet on one armrest, head on the other, isn’t really comfortable. Judging by historical films, Lenin used to sleep on a similar couch in his office. But the leader of the world’s proletariat wasn’t particularly tall, so he could probably curl into a fetal position to fit between those stupid armrests, designed by an unknown craftsman in the early nineteenth century. Or did Lenin’s couch armrests fold out?
Grigoriev pushed at the pseudo-pillow just to make sure; it didn’t budge. “What’s wrong with me? Like I’m sleeping here for the first time!” Oleg Alexandrovich chided himself and yawned happily. His invigorated feet went into his shoes; Grigoriev got up, craned his neck this way and that, and flapped his arms a few times. Some serious exercise wouldn’t hurt right now, but try doing wearing a suit. Oleg Alexandrovich limited himself to a few bending motions and went to his desk. His eyes rested on the telephone. Since it hadn’t rung over the few hours he was asleep, nothing terrible happened in the city. But neither had there been good news, the kind you could wake up the boss for.
To make sure, Oleg Alexandrovich pulled out his cell phone. The recent calls list was empty. Okay, time to get to work!
The office chair habitually squeaked under the weight of the body landing into it; the colonel moved the computed mouse to wake up his computer. The monitor reluctantly opened its only flat eye. In the middle of the screen was a password entry window. That’s right, if you’re asleep, the enemy may not be. Office computers automatically went offline if left unattended for five minutes.
Oleg Alexandrovich entered the password of the week and pulled up the file on the latest acts of terror in the capital city. To access the file, he had to confirm his password. Here, access rights were case-specific. Each data block had its own, limited circle of users.
When he opened the case file, Grigoriev realized that it had been updated overnight. In the section on Aiza Guzieva, there were several photos now. Among the additions were a standard ID picture and a group photo showing three young well dressed women laughing merrily. All were young and attractive. Aiza was in the middle; her eyes giving off the brightest sparkle of youthful mischief.
On this photo, the colonel paused. He sighed. This beauty could have been ripped into bloody pieces yesterday. He had a daughter of the same age. She was about to get married.
The door opened without a knock, and Yura Burkov stormed into the office.
“Am I on time, Oleg Alexandrovich?” the young man uttered, out of breath.
“Hello, Burkov,” Grigoriev demonstratively looked at the clock on the wall. “Seven oh-five. You’re five minutes late.”
“My fault. The metro is running with extended intervals on my line.” The first lieutenant was confused by his supervisor’s officious tone.
“And I have a new wife; she wouldn’t let me out of bed,” the colonel continued, imitating his subordinate’s apologizing voice. And immediately he gave a small smile. “It’s okay, Yura. How’s the metro? No panic?”
“None. Looks normal. People ride it as if nothing happened.”
“Well, people seem to get used to the acts of terror. Unfortunately.” The colonel frowned, but a second later, looked up abruptly. “Okay! Let’s look at the new data. Come over here. What have we got? Let’s see.”
Grigoriev opened the file on Aiza Guzieva. It contained data on the girl herself, her native village, her immediate family and known associations.
“Good work, and fast, too,” Grigoriev complimented the nameless operatives. “All right… Of all known acquaintances, only one currently residing in Moscow. Umar Osmaev. Former world champion in wrestling, currently, a sports anchor on the radio.”
“I know him. I mean, I saw him on TV,” Yuri corrected himself. “Sometimes, he covers tournaments and broadcasts sports news.”
“Do you think Aiza Guzieva could ask a fellow villager for help?”
“He’s a celebrity. He has no reason to organize explosions.”
“That’s clear. To any Moscow-based Chechen, this activity of their kinsmen is the worst kind of backstabbing. They’re first to get hauled in for questioning, they always have to prove their innocence. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Imagine a village girl, first time in a big city. She knows nothing around here, which is actually understandable, since she’s here to die. Suddenly, the plan collapses, she finds herself in an untenable position, loses contact with people who shepherded her, she urgently needs to hide. Who would she go to?”
“They probably have a safe house.”
“And more than one, too. But that’s the organizers. A suicide bomber wouldn’t know anything she doesn’t have to know. I think she wouldn’t even be able to find the apartment she left yesterday. These girls are disposable.”
“In that kind of situation, anyone would think of relatives and acquaintances.”
“Precisely! And here, it says that Umar Osmaev lived next door and was Guzievs’ family friend.”
“He’s much older that she is.”
“Not that much. He won the world championship in the late eighties, then stayed at the top for a few years. He had to be a hero in his village, and Aiza had to know him. If she were to seek refuge, Umar would be the first person for her to think of. Especially since she has no other options.” The colonel pointed to the list on the screen. “I think our colleagues in Chechnya have done thorough work and missed nothing substantial.”
“Should I check Osmaev’s apartment?” Burkov tensed, ready to run on the boss’ orders.
“Wait,” the colonel reigned in the first lieutenant’s eagerness. “I think I’ll do that myself. I have an idea. Find Osmaev’s address, get me a photo of him, and arrange for a car. You’ve got five minutes. Meanwhile, I’ll have a sip of coffee.”
“Aye! Should I come with?”
“No. Stay here. If anything comes up, get in touch.”
Chapter 23
September 1, 7:25 AM
Vlasov’s Apartment
Aiza, washed up and chirpy, fluttered into the room; her movements were easy and graceful. Andrei stared at the girl in surprise, as if it were a whole new person in front of him. Her fatigue disappeared along with the painful expression of endless desperation and outbursts of hidden rage. Her wide-open eyes gave the room a childishly ingenious once-over; her hand pulled a lace curtain aside, her nose stuck out the window. It seemed that water washed away yesterday’s experience and the towel wiped off the unneeded memories.
Andrei doubtfully looked at the long black skirt and baggy old-fashioned cardigan. From the hallway, he heard the shuffling of Yekaterina Fedorovna’s feet and her grumbling.
“Girls these days! No shame whatsoever; they jump straight into men’s beds.” He could hear her stop at his closed door. Then she said loudly. “Check her registration!”
Aiza pulled the lacy curtain back and tensed up; her thin hand stretched out for the headscarf. Having heard no reply, Yekaterina Fedorovna mumbled something incoherent and reiterated to the bathroom. The girl adjusted her hair and put the headscarf on. Andrei shook his head.
“This isn’t going to work. In these clothes, you won’t go far.”
“It’s not heavy,” the girl’s eyes rounded in surprise.
“But it’s noticeable. And the train for Volgograd leaves at 5 PM, and the station is full of police. Wait, I think I’ve got it.”
He opened his closet and took out a large bag. Plastic rustled as Andrei carefully took out two dresses; a small vial fell out as well. A wave of both hands, and the clothes were straightened out on the bed.
“Try one on.”
“How come you have these?” Aiza picked up the vial and looked at the dresses with considerable interest; one was beige, the other, blue with pinstripes.
“They are my girlfriend’s.”
“Your bride? Sveta?”
Andrei’s eyebrows rose in surprise; how did she know? Doh! He told her last night.
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t she be upset?” The girl felt the fabric and straightened on the creases.
“She wouldn’t.” Andrei made an effort to swallow and added in an artificially chipper tone, “Were she here, she’d happily offer them to you. Try one on. It should fit. You are… of a similar build.”
Aiza chose the blue dress, lifted it up to her shoulders, and looked around for a mirror.
“The big mirror is in Mom’s room,” Andrei figured out the girl’s need. “I only have this.”
He opened up his travel kit; there was a small mirror in its lid. Aiza sat down, flattened the dress’ collar on her knees, and put it away sadly.
“I can’t take it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s someone else’s. I don’t have their permission.”
“Then you can go straight to the cops!” Andrei raised his voice. “Your description is being broadcast on the radio. I heard it again this morning. Is that what you want?”
Aiza, undecided, looked at Andrei, then at the dress.
“Get dressed, Aiza,” Andrei changed to a friendly tone. “You and Sveta are of the same height. I would be pleased to see her dress worn again.”
“How come you have her clothes?”
“She stayed here sometimes.”
“Before the wedding?” the girl widened her eyes in surprise.
“Yes,” Andrei spread his hands. “But we were going to get married.”
“We don’t do that. Before the wedding… That’s a dishonor! I haven’t lived with Doku.”
“So those bandits were first?”
He immediately realized he was being unforgivably tactless. The girl jumped on her feet and moved away to the window; the handkerchief in her hand dabbed her face a few times. Andrei launched into a long speech on longevity, love, and eventual happiness, but stopped. Aiza decisively broke off his hapless tirade.
“Turn away!”
Andrei turned away with obedient relief. Clothes rustled. The open travel kit was in the armchair. In the small mirror, there was a reflection of the girl’s naked back. A thin strand of hair fell out of her bun and stretched between her shoulder blades. Andrei instinctively straightened up; the mirror showed the curve of the waist. His neck craned up further; now he could see the smooth roundness of her buttocks. The dress, like a curtain, slid down the naked body, and the figure in the mirror turned around. Andrei reassumed his initial pose; now he could see the thin fabric stretching on the girl’s perky breasts.
“How do I look?” her voice was coquettish; after all, she was just a girl trying on a garment she liked.
“Great,” Andrei exhaled.
“You haven’t even looked,” Aiza pursed her lips.
Andrei turned around, embarrassed.
“No, really! It’s just great!” the young man’s eyes looked her over, dimly remembering that there was no underwear under the nice dress. His eyes stopped at the girl’s bare feet. Andrei suddenly remembered, “Wait! I’ve got shoes somewhere.”
He dropped on his knees before the open closet and feverishly rummaged in its innards. His hands came back with a pair of black high-heeled shoes.
“Here! These should go well with the dress.”
“I can’t walk in heels.”
“You can try!”
The girl’s bare feet were very close; the hem of her dress was at his eye level. Andrei almost started putting the shoes on her feet, but caught himself. That would be way over the top! Why would he want to crawl at her feet?
The shoes were left at the girl’s feet. Vlasov, trying to look unperturbed, dropped into the armchair and pressed his knees together. Aiza sat down on the bed, her face to the window. Andrei could see only her back, leaning first to the left, then to the right. When the girl stood up, she was suddenly taller. Her legs and her body formed an ideal proportion.
The girl turned around and froze tensely against the window, afraid to move. Her cheeks reddened.
“Now this looks really classy!” Andrei encouraged her. “Try walking.”
Aiza made a few tentative steps, then leaned down and quickly took the shoes off.
“Too tight?” Andrei asked.
“No. I just can’t. I am not used to high heels.”
“Take them with you. You’ll learn later.”
“But if I leave with these, I won’t be able to give it back,” the girl was confused.
“Sveta wouldn’t mind. She’s got plenty of clothes.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
Aiza paused to think; her fingers played with the small vial.
“Is this perfume?”
“Yes.”
“French?”
Andrei looked at the label.
“Yes.”
“Real? From France?”
“Of course.”
“I never had French perfume. May I?” the girl looked at the young man questioningly.
Andrei smiled and nodded.
Aiza quickly dabbed her neck and temples, closed her eyes, and inhaled through her nose. The room filled with the fragrance of a summer night on seashore. Andrei recalled that Sveta liked bright fragrances.
“How is it now?” the girl whispered, her eyes wide open.
“Hair,” Andrei moved his fingers. “Let your hair loose.”
“You think I need to.”
“Just so that they don’t recognize you.”
Her fingers aptly pulled out the invisible hairpin, the girl shook her head, as if saying, No, no, no, the liberated hair dropped down and covered the collar of the dress.
“That’s better.”
Vlasov was amazed at the girl’s transformation. Now she looked like a hesitant college girl from a small southern city. Now anyone could see that there wasn’t, and couldn’t be, any explosives on her; the dress clung tightly to the thin waist and rustled around her hips. The police wouldn’t see a potential terrorist; to them, she’d be an attractive tan girl, back to Moscow from the summer break.
He listened to the aggressive clang of dishes and his mother’s droning emanating from the kitchen and decided, “Let’s go. We’ll have breakfast somewhere else.”
In the hallway, Andrei suddenly felt uncomfortable. The front door visibly separated the apartment’s comfort zone from the wary tension of the outside world. He threw on his windbreaker and muttered to Aiza morosely, “Wait.”
On the balcony, Andrei pulled the army knife from its hiding place and stuck it under his jacket. The cold steel comforted him, as if by lowering his body temperature. At least I’ll have something to cut the cords with, Vlasov said to himself, thinking back to tearing the suicide bomber’s belt with a screwdriver the night before.
Chapter 24
September 1, 7:30 AM
Chervyakov’s Apartment
The disgusting buzz of the mechanical alarm clock made Viktor Chervyakov open his eyes. The palm of his hand covered the rattling metal cap. His first impulse was to throw the insolent soulless device with thin fussy hands looking like a sadist smile into the wall. But the raised hand dropped down powerlessly. That’s been tried before. He ended up buying a new one anyway.
His dull eyes stared ambivalently into a crack in the ceiling paint. He wanted to stay in bed a while longer. But the damn Armenians, the company owners, hated it when the drivers were late for work. Bad traffic was no excuse. He had to get up regardless.
Chervyakov stood up heavily and shook his hangover head; his bare feet plopped on the bare floor. Finally, the salvation of the fridge. The door made a smacking noise; his fingers closed on a much-wanted bottle of beer. Where’s the damn bottle opener? Never mind, a fork will do. The bottle cap twisted unhappily, dropped on the floor, and rolled under the table.
Viktor sat down on a stool and assumed the bugler position; his eyes closed happily. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his outstretched neck as the vivifying liquid was finding its way into his dry throat. The cold made its way into his soft stomach; the wave of hoppy smell hit his nose. That felt good.
When the pleasant flow ended, Viktor shook the bottle incredulously, swallowed the remaining foam, and started thinking. He’d had a fleeting thought yesterday. A smart one. A profitable one. What was it? His bent finger scratched his head; his eyes looked down on his bare knees.
Recall, recall!
Last night, someone set off a bomb near a metro station. That’s right! It was a female suicide bomber. Another one, they said, was going to do the same, and now she’s wanted. Her description was broadcast, they even showed a sketch on TV. Some broad from the Caucasus.
Where was he? At his neighbor’s. And over there—
The gal! That’s right, the gal! At Andryukha’s place, there was an anxious-looking gal from the Caucasus wearing weird clothes. And the conversation was strange, too. He thought—
Damn! She looked like it!
Viktor Chervyakov’s face straightened; his hand went for the phone. His heart beat louder and louder with each beep. He was about to hang up when a weary female voice answered.
Viktor perked up.
“Police? Is there a reward for information on the Shahid woman? Who am I? A resident of Moscow… What do you care what my name is? Are you paying for information, like they would in a decent country? … What does my address have to do with it? … That’s a stupid rule you’ve got! Just tell me, are you paying or not? … Nothing’s been decided? Then make a decision soon!”
Chervyakov, irritated, hung up, jumped on his feet, and started pacing.
“What a bunch of idiots! Explosions every week, and they can’t decide! The whole country’s gonna be gone while they’re thinking! They haven’t decided, have they? Or are they trying to save money? Sure, they aren’t the ones riding the subway, they’ve got bodyguards, they’ve got more important things to worry about. Bastards!”
He came to the window; his eyes habitually looked over the faded tent over his truck’s cargo platform. His workhorse was in its usual spot. Viktor sighed, “If only I could get some money for a new truck…”
Chapter 25
September 1, 7:35 AM
An Apartment Building on Leningradsky Prospekt
An official FSS Volga, siren off, drove up to an apartment building on Leningradsky Prospekt.
“Don’t drive into the courtyard. Wait for me here,” Grigoriev nodded to the driver.
He found the correct entrance and positioned himself under an awning. Now he could call, Oleg Alexandrovich decided. He dialed the home number of Umar Osmaev, former world champion in wrestling.
“Hello, Umar,” he said assuredly after a man’s voice answered. He wasn’t mistaken.
“Hello. Who am I speaking with?”
Right then, the building door opened, and a sleepy-looking woman led out an impatient dachshund. Grigoriev graciously held the door for the lady and came in.
“I am with Federal Security Service, my name is Oleg Alexandrovich Grigoriev,” the colonel said into the phone.
His conversation partner took a pause. Grigoriev decided to wait no longer and said forcefully, “I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Well, if you need to… I’m listening,” Osmaev said reluctantly.
“Umar, do you know a young woman named Aiza Guzieva?” Colonel was coming up the stairs trying to make as little noise as possible.
“Aiza… How do I know that I am speaking to an FSS officer?”
“We can continue this conversation in my office, if you insist.”
“All right, ask your questions.”
“I just asked about Aiza Guzieva.”
“I used to know her. Back in the village I grew up, our families lived close by.”
“When have you last seen her?”
“Not for a while. About for years ago. When I visited my birthplace.”
“What about lately?”
“Since then, I couldn’t get around to it. Over there, it’s a war — I mean, a counter-terrorism operation all over again. I haven’t been to Chechnya lately.”
“What about Guzieva? Did she call you on the phone or otherwise get in touch?”
Grigoriev carefully listened to the interviewee’s tone of voice trying to detect nervousness. But the former sports hero answered calmly.
“No. We haven’t communicated lately. About two years ago, I think, she sent me a New Year’s postcard. That was it. Why are you interested in Aiza?”
“Umar, I need to see you.”
“Well, if you need to — ”
“I would like to do it soon. When are you available?”
“In the evening, after work.”
“What about right now?”
“Right now, I am going to the radio station, I’ve got a live broadcast coming up.”
“This is perfect. I’ll keep you company on your way there.” Grigoriev was at the door of Osmaev’s apartment. His finger gently touched the doorbell button. Open the door please.
The colonel didn’t have to wait; the door opened quickly. Standing in front of him was a shortish stocky man in his mid-thirties with a slight five o’clock shadow on his cheeks. The colonel noted no confusion or even surprise on Umar’s face. No friendliness, either. His gaze was attentive and tenacious. Like staring at an opponent before a wrestling match. His posture was fitting, too. Feet apart, the body leaning forward, powerful hands ready to grasp.
Say what you will, but wrestlers can keep their cool. At least those who win world championships.
“What if he decides to resist?” an anxious thought ran through the colonel’s mind.
Chapter 26
September 1, 7:40 AM
Vlasov’s Apartment Building, Courtyard
“And here’s the address,” Aslan drawled in a sickeningly sweet tone, looking at a number on the concrete wall of an apartment block.
He seemed to be languid and relaxed. Kitkiev even suppressed a yawn, but for him, it was a usual transition from tedious waiting to forceful action. Fatima, gloomy expression on her face, sat in the back and looked around. Her attention was drawn to a five-story school building on the other side of the road. She noted that people already began to collect in front of the building for the start-of-the-school-year formal gathering.
Burgundy VAZ-2109 with heavily tinted windows turned into the courtyard and slowly drove along the line of parked cars.
“That’s his car!” Aslan excitedly pointed out the beige “sixer”. “The cop got it right. Should we wait or pay him a visit?”
In front their car, a young girl walked, flanked by her parents. Her mother carried a flower bouquet; her father, a bright school backpack. Fatima’s gaze followed the huge white bow on the girl’s head; she looked at her watch.
“No time to wait. The gatherings are about to start. We have to charge up the bride and fix her brain before that.”
“You’ve got to be drawn to schools on September 1. How long have you been a teacher?”
“None of your business. Think about Aiza.” Fatima didn’t like to discuss anything than had any bearing on her age.
“So we’ll visit the apartment! Together?”
“You’re going alone,” Fatima said decisively. “It’s your mess.”
Aslan smirked understandingly, pulled a handgun from under his seat, thoughtfully screwed on a silencer. His fingers pulled aside the flap of his coat; the long barrel went into his waistband.
“If she’s inside, I’ll bring her. Have no doubt.”
“Inject a dose right away! Just to be sure.” Fatima stuck a package holding a disposable syringe into his coat pocket.
“Will you let me pull up her skirt?” Aslan’s lips spread in an obscene smile.
“No time for stupid stuff,” Fatima cut him off.
Kitkiev got serious.
“Wait for me, I won’t be long.”
The car door slammed. Aslan slowly looked around the courtyard and started walking toward the building entrance. He noticed nothing suspicious.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, on the corner of the long building, the last in the line of parked cars, sat a dark-blue Volkswagen. For the last few hours, its driver anxiously watched the building entrance through his rearview mirror. When Aslan appeared in front of the door, the driver’s eyes opened wide with fear, but immediately narrowed with rage.
He immediately recognized Aslan Kitkiev. Too much changed in his life after he met the man. He had become an eternal hostage to the smart bastard. But last night, his patience ran out. He came here to cut through the knot of his fears and avenge his ruined life.
Sitting behind the Volkswagen’s wheel was lieutenant colonel of police Gennady Nikolaevich Sviridov.
He nervously licked his dry lips and touched the grip of the pistol in his armpit holster. Touching the service weapon got rid of the nervousness. Sviridov even winced condescendingly looking at Kitkiev. The man’s got no taste; an expensive suit and white socks! You can see a provincial from a mile away. Boy, you should have stayed in the mountains, away from the capital city. Over here, I am the boss!
Chapter 27
September 1, 7:42 AM
Leningradsky Prospekt
A black well-cared for BMW cut into the dense traffic flowing downtown. Behind the wheel, Umar Osmaev looked at Grigoriev.
“Ask away, don’t be shy.”
In his mind, the colonel smiled. Shyness was not a character trait cultivated in his agency. For the last few minutes, Oleg Alexandrovich was thinking up a conversation plan. Even the first question would depend on the decision he was about to make.
In Osmaev’s apartment, he avoided a confrontation with the wrestler. The colonel needed to take a look at the premises, but make it look natural. So immediately after the greetings, he calmly asked for a chance to wash his hands. The wrestler standing in his way frowned at first, but then moved aside.
The colonel thanked him and, after a tirade about how a nation must care for its sports heroes, naively wondered what kind of life former athletes led and under the guise of curiosity peeked into every room. Umar’s face was cool and imperturbable, while his wife and teenage son tensely stared at the insolent stranger.
Grigoriev noticed no trace of the Shahid suicide bomber in the sports broadcaster’s apartment. His belief that Umar Osmaev had nothing to do with acts of terror was strengthened. Provoking him and using surveillance would be of no use. The colonel decided to be open.
“Umar, we need your help.”
The former wrestler pretended to be concerned with heavy traffic and didn’t say a word. Grigoriev hastened to explain.
“The girl I was asking about, Aiza Guzieva, is in Moscow. She was brought here as a living bomb.”
Umar threw a surprised look at Grigoriev.
“Yes,” Grigoriev nodded with conviction. “That’s true. I am sure you know about yesterday’s explosion at Rizhskaya. Anyway, the terrorists also planned a simultaneous second explosion. It was to be carried out by your acquaintance, Aiza Guzieva.”
This time, Osmaev objected.
“It’s impossible! Aiza isn’t religious at all. She’s from a normal family.”
“We don’t know what caused her to participate; it could have been religion or something else, but everything I told you is true. This is the girl I am talking about. Take a look.”
Oleg Alexandrovich opened his leather portfolio and took out a photograph. He chose the best one, where the girl was photographed from aside, a strand of black hair sticking from under a white headscarf.
Umar picked up the photo. His eyes moved between the girls picture and the road.
“She grew up to be a beauty, just like I thought.” Umar put the photo onto the dashboard. “But still, I can’t believe this. She didn’t have a trace of the Wahhabi fanaticism! She was a good student, wanted to go to college.”
Grigoriev sighed and tried to speak without impassively.
“We found out that three months ago, Aiza Guzieva was taken from her home by unknown men. Some time later, a video recording was shown in the village. On tape, Aiza Guzieva was having sex with several men. Those were very graphic scenes.”
The car jerked; Umar’s jaws clenched.
Grigoriev was carefully watching Osmaev. The obvious reaction of the previously imperturbable wrestler pleased him. It looked like it was his first time hearing about the girl’s fate. The colonel waited a minute or two and continued.
“Guzieva has not returned to the village since. Yesterday, she was seen here, in Moscow, near a metro station. She attempted to blow herself up, but something happened. The girl disappeared. We assume Aiza Guzieva broke off from her group. Deliberately or accidentally, we don’t know. But the instigators are definitely looking for her. And we have to find her first.”
“What’s going to happen to her if you arrest her?” Umar asked after a long pause.
“I don’t know. We’re still investigating,” Grigoriev admitted honestly. “But her life depends on who finds her first, along with the lives of many innocent people! If ‘her’ people find her… You have to understand, there is no way back for a martyr.”
“How am I going to find her? How?!” Umar blew up.
“Ask her to meet you.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“We found out that of all her relatives and acquaintances, you are the only one living in Moscow. She knows you’re working on the radio. She has nowhere else to go, so she will seek you out. Maybe she would come by your office or call you there. She may be listening to your broadcasts. The station’s phone numbers are often announced on air. If she makes her presence known, ask her to meet you. And let us know.”
“And then?”
“Then it’s our problem.”
“So my participation is not required?”
“We’ll let you know.”
Osmaev paused and said doubtfully, “Aiza has never been to Moscow. She knows nothing here. Where would I ask her to meet?”
“Near a landmark. There are no people who know absolutely nothing about Moscow. Everyone knows the Kremlin, the Red Square, Pushkin monument — ”
“Mayakovsky! Mayakovsky monument. She knows it.”
“How come?”
“When she was ten, back when Chechen schools still operated normally, there was a poetry recitation contest. She recited Mayakovsky, the passport poem. You must remember, Read and be jealous; I am a citizen of the Soviet Union!”
“I remember.”
“She recited it really well. But she got laughed at; they pulled her down from the stage by the braids. Literally. Back then, the independence delusion was just beginning; the Stalinist relocation and repressions were talked about a lot. Everyone screamed; down with the dictate of Moscow, the Soviet Union is an evil empire, all that.”
“Such were the times. Everyone screamed. Now we’re dealing with the consequences,” Grigoriev sighed.
“She came home looking like someone spit on her. She didn’t understand what she was being punished for. It was someone else’s poetry! Just words written a long time ago, seventy-plus years. I had to console her. I told her it was a good poem, because it resonated with people. Bad poetry provokes no response. I told her about Mayakovsky, told her that there is a square in Moscow named after him, and there’s a sculpture of him there. She remembered this conversation. Later, when I came to visit with my parents, I brought her a postcard of the Mayakovsky monument. She kept it; we sometimes chatted about Moscow and Mayakovsky.”
“Very well. Ask her to meet you near the Mayakovsky monument. It’s not too crowded, the visibility is good…”
“Are you sure she’s going to call?”
“We have to be ready for any development. Also, you don’t have to wait for her call; try hinting on air that you’re looking for her.”
“On air?”
“Why not?”
“I’ll try.”
“So we have an understanding. Pull over, I’ll get out.”
Umar Osmaev pulled over to the curb. The colonel’s Volga that was following the BMW pulled over behind it.
“But I have one condition,” Osmaev gently held Grigoriev back. “I will meet her myself. I will speak to her first, then you.”
“Deal,” the colonel nodded.
“And leave me that photo.”
Oleg Alexandrovich carefully looked at the worried face of the strong man. The hand holding the girl’s photograph came back from the portfolio ready to be snapped shut; the picture landed in the now-empty passenger seat.
Chapter 28
September 1, 7:46 AM
Elevator and Courtyard of Vlasov’s Apartment Building
The cramped cabin of the elevator was coming down smoothly; the unpleasant hum of the boom above was gradually dying down. Andrei Vlasov and Aiza Guzieva stood facing each other. Aiza was gently clutching a bag holding the shoes to her breast; her foggy eyes looked into nowhere as she was daydreaming. Andrei was staring at a strand of black hair almost touching the birthmark on the girl’s neck. Slightly lower, the collar of the painfully familiar dress covered a thin collarbone. If the hair were fair, it would seem that facing him was his darling Svetlana. The feeling was intensified by the fragrance of her perfume.
If anyone else joined them in the elevator on their way down, they’d have to stand closer, Andrei thought. Then his nose might touch her hair, smelling like the hair of the woman he loved. And if he closed his eyes… Just curious, do fair hair and dark hair feel different to the touch?
For a moment, he wished to have someone else in the cabin. But the common sense prevailed; he didn’t need any additional witnesses. Chervyakov, the unpredictable neighbor, was enough. In the evening, after I lose the girl, I’ll have to talk to him, Vlasov decided.
The elevator reached the ground floor without an incident; the doors squeaked open. Andrei, still thinking, kept looking at the girl. Astounded, he saw the girl cower, as if she wanted to hide; her eyes instantly showed fear. It took him a moment to understand what she was scared of; he traced her line of sight.
In front of the elevator stood an attractive dark-haired guy; he wrinkled his nose, as if smelling something unpleasant, and stared at Aiza’s dress in disgust.
“Aslan!” the girl screamed, pressing herself into a corner.
The guy looked at Andrei; it felt like a sting. His narrowed eyes threw a palpable charge of evil. Aslan’s hand slid under his coat; the gun was coming out. The sight of a weapon immediately woke up Vlasov’s nearly forgotten skills. A second too late, and there would be a shot! Terrorists don’t draw weapons to scare.
Andrei kicked the adversary’s hand; the gun fell out of his grip. But one hit wasn’t enough to win. A step forward, a sharp swing, and the palm of his hand cut into Aslan’s neck. The guy wheezed and fell sideways.
Andrei grabbed the girl’s hand.
“Run!”
Aiza froze and looked at writhing Aslan with primeval fear.
“Look at me! Follow me!” Vlasov shouted.
The girl came out of stupor. They jumped over Aslan and ran out of the building.
“To the car!” Andrei commanded and stuffed the confused girl into the back seat.
Only then did he realize that his car was poorly positioned. To get out of the courtyard, he would have to drive by the entrance, from which Aslan, still armed, could emerge at any moment. Vlasov regretted his big mistake; he should have kicked the bastard into oblivion and take away his gun. But returning was an even greater risk.
The engine roared wildly. Faster, faster! To get out of the parking spot, he had to jerk back and forth a few times. The cold engine didn’t respond to frantic attempts at driving too well and died twice. Finally, he was able to steer into the driveway. The car was driving through the narrow space left by parked cars; Andrei watched the entrance.
If only he could pass!
As the car was driving by the entrance, the door opened. Aslan came out. He saw the familiar “sixer”; his hand dove under his coat. Only a few meters were between him and the car!
“Get down!” Andrei ordered the girl, knowing full well that if the shooter was any good, their fate was sealed.
Somewhere close by, a car horn honked. Aslan started and turned to look. It was enough for the “sixer” to pass the most dangerous spot. Hand holding a gun went up; Aslan took aim. Over the sight of his gun, he saw Aiza’s scared face looking this way and that. “Goodbye, stupid,” Aslan smirked in his mind. His finger smoothly pulled the trigger. There was a muffled click; the bullet went through the rear window and burrowed into the front passenger seat.
Andrei’s hand rudely pulled the girl’s head to the seat level by her hair.
“I told you to get down!” At the last moment, he pulled the girl down by her hair.
“It hurts!” Aiza squeaked.
“Happy to hear you still care.”
There was no second shot; the car turned the corner. Aslan ran to his “niner”.
“I’ll catch up with those jackals!” he promised the unhappy Fatima. “I’ll waste them both!”
“It’s always like this with you,” Fatima hissed, falling onto the back seat. Being seen in this stupid situation was no part of her plans.
“Be quiet, woman!”
The gun dropped on the passenger seat; the “niner” rushed into the chase.
Kitkiev looked straight forward. When the “niner” drove by a dark-blue Volkswagen, he didn’t notice that the gun in Gennady Sviridov’s hand was aimed at him.
Chapter 29
September 1, 7:49 AM
The Streets of Moscow
“I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him!” Gennady Sviridov kept saying to himself since the moment he spotted Kitkiev. It didn’t sound like an oath; more like self-hypnosis.
Kill him and get rid of the fear! Kill him and solve all problems at once! Kill him and live in peace! His heart pounded excitedly.
The lieutenant colonel saw a guy and a girl run out of the building and get into a car. Then Aslan came out with a gun. Sviridov made him start with the sound of his car horn. It seemed to help the fugitives. Their car passed by and turned the corner.
Coming up was Kitkiev’s “niner”. It had to pass very close to Sviridov’s car. At this distance, it was impossible to miss.
When the distance between the cars was less than three meters, the lieutenant colonel raised his weapon. Now he would see the profile of the hated Kitkiev. And he would be no more!
There he is, the nosy bastard!
Kitkiev disappeared. The policeman looked at the empty space where his enemy and handler was a moment ago.
The burgundy “niner” flew by; Sviridov’s hand lowered powerlessly. He couldn’t pull the trigger.
He couldn’t do it. Ever since that ill-fated shot in Chechnya a few years back, he hasn’t shot a single bullet!
Immediately, he started finding excuses. He imagined his car window shatter; that would be a pity. The glass shards would be left behind; a serious piece of evidence. Not to mention the bullets from his service weapon; he’d be found out in no time.
Good thing I restrained myself, the lieutenant colonel comforted himself. His shaking hand put the gun back into the holster; his heart calmed down.
And once again, he felt rotten!
* * * * *
Andrei Vlasov turned the corner and braked before turning into the street. For a second, he pondered, where to now? If he went toward the major avenue, he’d hit a traffic jam; Aslan would definitely catch up with him. Although with a lot of people around, he might be disinclined to attack. The hole in the back window eloquently argued otherwise. A better idea was to loop through the familiar courtyards and minor streets; that way, there was a chance to break free.
The hood of the burgundy “niner” showed up behind. There was no more time to think.
“Aiza, lie down on the seat!” Andrei shouted and shot the car across the road into the next courtyard.
He quickly drove along the narrow driveway left by densely parked cars. His mind raced; there was an arch up front and if he jumped through it, he’d be invisible for a few seconds. Then, there would be three options, right, left, or straight into the next courtyard. Where to? Speed was futile. It would be better to take right and then another right, around the corner of the building. If he did it quickly enough, Aslan just might go the wrong way. Then, he would have a chance to break free.
Andrei turned into the arch, then took a right, drove along the building and turned the corner. “Looks like I made it!” he thought excitedly. He slowed down and listened. The sound of the “niner”‘s engine came out of the arch and went straight. It worked!
Now he had to go around the building, return to the first street, and get lost in traffic on Volgogradsky Prospekt.
Andrei was almost all the way around the building, when an old Audi came off the curb. The woman behind the wheel tried to make a U-turn in a narrow spot. “Come on, dammit!” Andrei encouraged her in his mind. “If you can’t drive, why drive a car this long?” The Audi nervously jerked back and forth with no visible progress. Andrei jumped out and started giving the woman directions. Finally, she succeeded and drove away.
Andrei returned to his car, opened the door, and brought his foot inside. At that moment, something made him turn around.
From around the corner, brakes screeching, flew the burgundy “niner”. It’s angular snout turned his way; above the wheel, Aslan’s eyes sparkled with gloating.
He figured it out!
Aslan visibly leaned forward, cursed, and put the foot on the gas. The “niner” rushed forward.
All over again!
Vlasov dove into his car. As soon as he started moving, there was a tap on the rear bumper. The adversary caught up with him. But he couldn’t stop; at any time, shots could come from behind. Aiza rose and looked around, baffled.
“Get down! And stay down!” Andrei roared.
Turning into the street, Vlasov cut the corner by driving on the sidewalk. He ignored the red light on the T-shaped intersection. Aslan tended to corner slow, but quickly caught up on straight runs.
Every now and then, Andrei could see the gun in his hand. But Aslan was in no hurry to shoot, probably waiting for an opportune moment. It seemed that the fit of rage after the lost fight near the elevator had subsided. The adversary turned into a cold-blooded hunter.
The cars merged into the dense traffic on Volgogradsky Prospekt. They slowed down, but not by much. Andrei was making some skillful moves, but Aslan kept one or two cars behind him. Andrei considered crashing into another car and stopping.
But would that help? The terrorist was clearly serious. No number of witnesses would stop Aslan. He would kill them, too, then take advantage of the ensuing confusion and disappear.
Vlasov barged into the left lane. He could try going the wrong way and… But the opposing traffic was dense, too. He had to find an opportune moment to make a sharp left and disappear.
While Andrei was thinking, Aslan’s “niner” caught up with him on the right. The cars drove side by side. The “niner”‘s window rolled down. A black barrel of a pistol with a silencer attached rose up to the head level. On the one hand, there was a certain death from a bullet, on the other, the flow of traffic.
There was no time. Andrei pulled the steering wheel to the left and hit the brake. The car made a U-turn, by some miracle sliding through the flow of the opposing traffic. The angry honking was of no concern to him. Now he had to put some distance between him and the ruthless adversary.
Vlasov barely began to pick up speed, when he saw a traffic cop stepping into the road with his baton raised. Next to him was a patrol car.
Andrei stopped the car in front of the cop and jumped out of the car.
“I am pursued by a terrorist!”
“Where is he?” the policeman stared into the space with an artificial expression of surprise.
Andrei turned around; his confused stare looked over the road. The burgundy “niner” was nowhere to be seen.
“You made an illegal U-turn and crossed a double solid. Your papers!”
“I was forced to.”
“Papers!”
The cop looked at the driver’s license.
“That was a serious violation, Andrei Yurievich. Will you pay the fine on the spot or through the bank? In the latter case, I’ll have to take away your license.”
“On the spot,” Vlasov conceded.
“Have a seat in the vehicle,” the cop nodded to his patrol car.
When he was alone, the officer looked at the road, saw nothing interesting, and looked inside the “sixer” through the open door.
The radio played a newscast. Aiza held a package against her stomach and looked at the policeman with distrust. The officer didn’t like the look.
“What have you got there?” he pointed to the package.
The girl, scared, opened the package. Her fingers carefully, by the heels, took out the shoes. The right shoe was in her left hand, the left, in the right. The girl quickly switched the shoes, aligned them toe to toe, and pushed them toward the policeman.
He smirked, “Thanks, that’s not my size,” and went away, tapping his baton on his thigh.
Aiza didn’t understand his joke. At the moment, she wasn’t listening to the policeman. Her attention was drawn to a familiar voice. The voice was on the radio, calling out team names and scores; suddenly, it said her name.
It was so astounding that the girl dropped the shoes and didn’t understand the phrase right away. Only when the radio started playing music and Aiza repeated several times the words she heard, she started shivering nervously. She received an invitation to meet!
There could be no mistake. The words were said by a man whom she idolized. He named a place where she had never been, but knew of and saw it on photographs.
When Andrei Vlasov returned to the car and hastily drove off, the traffic cop saw him off with a long stare. Something seemed strange to him. Maybe the small hole in the back window. But he didn’t get a chance to look at it closely.
Back to his car, the cop nodded derisively to his partner, “People are losing their minds with all that terrorism.”
“So what? We’ll make more money that way,” the officer behind the wheel drawled philosophically. Then he straightened up, “Pull over that Audi. It just ran a red light.”
Chapter 30
September 1, 8:07 AM
Vlasov’s Car
First few minutes after the encounter with the police, Andrei drove fast making many unnecessary turns. Every now and then he looked back. The burgundy “niner” with tinted windows was nowhere to be seen. Andrei gradually calmed down; his calm transferred to the car, and it rolled slowly and aimlessly along the wide avenue.
It was time to get his thoughts together.
“Good deal; now we have to hide not only from the cops, but from your friends as well.” Andrei looked at Aiza’s shrunken figure in the rearview mirror. The girl was silent, her lips pursed. Andrei looked at the bullet hole in the glass and grunted. “They seem to be of a decisive disposition.”
“It was Aslan,” the girl whispered.
“You didn’t have to explain. He was aiming at you. You’re of no use to them alive! Do you understand that?”
The girl looked down. Vlasov, irritated, slapped the steering wheel
“How did he find us? The bastard was waiting!”
“I don’t know. He walked me to the metro station last night.”
“He had to have seen everything. Did he follow me? One way or another, we can’t go back home.”
Andrei drove for a few blocks, then stopped near a travel agency.
“Give me your passport.”
Aiza anxiously pressed the package with the shoes to her chest; the passport was probably in it, too. Vlasov smiled.
“Don’t be silly. I’ll buy you a ticket. These days, they don’t sell you train tickets without an ID.”
Andrei opened the door to get out. Aiza reached over to him; there was a request in her move.
“The radio,” she whispered.
“Turn it on? Just don’t to anywhere. Promise?”
The girl nodded. Andrei left. The volume was low. Aiza listened to the songs and the words of the broadcaster, hoping to hear the familiar voice again.
She was invited to meet a celebrity, a neighbor, almost a relative. Or was it just her imagination? Perhaps no one said her name on air, and it was just a sick fantasy? Last night, she was unwell; her head still felt like it was full of cotton balls; her thoughts were sluggish, it was impossible to concentrate. But what if it was real and she was expected? Did she have to go there? And how would she find that place in the huge city?
Her thoughts were tangled, songs seemed impossibly long, and the unfamiliar broadcaster irritated her with his insincere enthusiasm.
Andrei came back and said briskly, “Everything’s good. Your train leaves at 5:10 PM. Meanwhile, we’ll have to drive around.”
The girl tried to smile. Later today, she would be leaving to stay with her girlfriend. And the voice on the radio… Most likely, it wasn’t.
Vlasov turned up the radio. Despite the series of acts of terror, radio stations continued to broadcast carefree songs with brief interjections of news.
Aiza calmed down, straightened up, and looked around with her eyes wide open. There was a lot to see. When she saw a nice building with windows full of mannequins in pretentious clothes, she inquired, “Is this a museum?”
Andrei smiled, “If your wallet is empty, you can consider it to be a museum. Otherwise, you would call it a store.”
“A store?”
“Yes. They sell clothes.” He traced her line of sight and answered before the question, “That’s a store, too. Have you been to Moscow before?”
“No.”
“Were you able to see anything yesterday?”
“I didn’t see anything yesterday. I was going to paradise.”
“You know what? We’ve got time, so let me drive you around Moscow. There’s a lot to see. Paradise can wait.”
He thought about a good route. What’s interesting around here? Nord Ost, he thought! The site of the world-famous hostage crisis, very close by. There’s a monument to those who died. For a while, they even brought foreign tourists there.
Nord Ost…
No, they wouldn’t go there. There was no way to tell how a former suicide bomber would react. And he, too, still hadn’t got rid of the troubling memories.
Chapter 31
Nord Ost
Day Three
His hand swings back; the piece of steel presses into the woman’s head as if it were an unripe watermelon. A sickening crunch; a piece of something soft lands on his cheek and sticks to it; in his hand, a metal rod with strands of long hair stuck to it. The child looks up, covering his head with the palm of his hand. He’ll have to be killed, too. Then, toss the rusty rod with bone fragments stuck to it. But first, flick the piece of something warm and moist off his cheek.
The palm of his hand tries to scrape it off his face. Time and again, but nothing changes. Vlasov opens his eyes, startled, and wakes up.
When he came to at dawn, he remembered the attack on the woman and the child as something that happened a long time ago. Whatever the reason, he wanted to kill them. Bash their heads in. First the woman’s, then the child’s. But why? What have they done wrong?
The fresh scratches on his cheek hurt. Outside, the sky hung low; it was gray, as if someone wiped it with a dirty rag; raindrops ran down the glass panes. The dull hangover let up gradually; his memory was coming back.
“Sveta’s alive!” he remembered happily when he saw his mobile phone on the floor. She called him! That was the most important event of yesterday! The rest was immaterial.
He tried to call Svetlana’s mother. Her phone didn’t answer.
Unable to stay still, Andrei drove to the captured theater. There, on Dubrovskaya Street, surrounded by soaking-wet reporters, the depressed relatives of the hostages walked around with homemade signs.
“Down with the war, down with the war!” they chanted somewhat out of sync. Not an umbrella in sight. Wet eyes and wet faces.
Among the women, Andrei saw Sveta’s mother.
“Polina Ivanovna!” he called out. “I got a call from Sveta.”
He had to pull on her sleeve to get her attention.
“Andrei? What happened to Sveta? Where is she?”
“She’s alive. She called me.”
“She called?”
“Yes. Several times. She’s okay. She wanted me to tell you to wait for her at home. Then she’d be able to call you and talk to you.”
The intrusive journalists smelled news and started asking questions. Andrei cut through them and resolutely led Polina Ivanovna to his car.
“You have to be home. Sveta will definitely call.”
“She didn’t do anything to them. Maybe they’ll let her go. Some people made it out.”
“If something happens — » Andrei stopped, but then added decidedly, “I’ll kill them all!”
“Don’t’ say that! Maybe they’re good people. Maybe they’ll let everyone go.”
Vlasov was able to take Polina Ivanovna home. The woman turned on the TV and the radio and froze in uneasy expectation. Andrei made her some tea and a sandwich with stale bread. She ate in ambivalent silence.
Andrei left. Somehow, being near her was more difficult than being alone.
But he also believed that Sveta would call only him. Then he’d tell her that he was madly in love with her, waiting for her. The prepared words longed to come out. His heart ached in impatient waiting.
But the phone was silent.
Chapter 32
September 1, 8:55 AM
The Streets of Moscow
“Is this the Kremlin?” It seemed to be far from the first time Aiza asked this question. She tapped Andrei on the shoulder impatiently. “Is this the Kremlin?”
They were driving on the Moscow River embankment, along the Kremlin wall.
“Yes, it is. The Red Square is behind it.”
Aiza, entranced, looked forward, along the river, to the Temple of Christ the Savior.
“That’s a beautiful church. And big, too. Do Russians go there to pray?”
“Depends. Many do.”
“Is there a mosque in Moscow?”
“Yes, and more than one.”
“And people can pray there?”
“Yes. Do you want to?”
“Women aren’t allowed in the mosques.”
“Sorry, I forgot. But why?”
“That’s the intent.”
“Whose?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions.”
“I see… Not allowed in the mosque, but if you want to die with explosives strapped to your belly, you’re welcome? On this, men gladly let you get ahead; dear ladies, please proceed, Allah awaits you!”
“Be quiet!”
“Am I wrong!”
“Be quiet!”
They turned off the embankment, drove around the Manege, and turned into Tverskaya Street. Aiza was scowling.
“Back home, they said that Muslims who pray to Allah are arrested in Moscow.”
“Yeah, right; then their heads are cut off and dumped into a well.”
“What well?”
“A deep one.” Andrei looked at the girl’s face distorted by fear. “I am kidding, okay?”
“Don’t be kidding like that.”
“Okay, Aiza. I won’t. Let’s talk about something else. On the right is the Pushkin Monument. This is Pushkin Square.”
Aiza leaned on the window.
“Fatima wanted to send me here. I heard her talk to Aslan. But Aslan said no; too much police.”
“What a bitch, that Fatima of yours!”
“She has a secret award, a golden ring with Ichkeria coat of arms.”
“As usual. Some dies, others get gold.”
“And over there, a guy and a girl are kissing! In plain sight!”
“So what?”
“That’s indecent. A sin.”
“Do you have to put on a burka to look decent?” Andrei smirked.
“What’s so funny? Some of our women cover their face after their wedding.”
“Ours, yours! We live in the same country, by the way. Why the difference?”
“Our people want to live in their own country.”
“If you were quiet about it, like the Estonians, you’d cede a long time ago. Why did Basaev and Khattab have to foray into Dagestan? Why do you enslave people and trade in them? We couldn’t sit around and watch it forever!”
Aiza flared up.
“It’s better to cover your face than hug and kiss in public!”
Andrei wanted to remind her how she ended up a “bride” with a Shahid belt, but decided to have mercy on her and waved his hand.
“On the left, the Mayakovsky Monument.”
“Mayakovsky?” Aiza pondered.
“Another poet. Have you heard of him?”
“I have. We studied him at school. I remember well.” She looked around the square. Noted the subway station exit. Asked ambivalently, “What time is it?”
“There’s a clock on the hotel building. Can you see? Nine-thirty.”
Aiza laced her fingers and started thinking. What is the invitation to meet was real? Should she tell Andrei? No, she couldn’t! He’s a stranger. She’s known him for less than a day. And the man who’d wait for her at the Mayakovsky Monument, she’s known since her birth. She had to see him.
Vlasov was driving slowly. A dark blue Volkswagen was following him, although the left lane was empty and passing him wouldn’t be a problem. He thought he had seen this car today. Let’s check it out, Andrei decided and said cheerfully, “We haven’t had breakfast yet. Let’s go!”
The “sixer” quickly picked up speed. The Volkswagen continued to drive slowly.
False alarm, Vlasov concluded.
Chapter 33
September 1, 9:30 AM
Aslan’s Car
“You let the girl slip away,” Fatima nagged for the tenth time. “Where are we going to look for them now?”
“Be quiet, you! If they return home, our man will let me know.”
“Are you going to tell hundred people about your failure?”
Aslan gnashed his teeth. He didn’t like constant reminders of his failure. He said through his teeth, “I only use Vakha. And don’t you worry, woman, he’s not going to see you.”
“You can give him another assignment. This guy is not an idiot; he wouldn’t return to the apartment today.” Fatima looked into a mirror and adjusted her hair dyed blond. “The schools are having gatherings already. We missed such a great opportunity! One explosion, and the echoes would be heard worldwide. Do you understand that?”
Aslan, irritated, slapped the steering wheel with both hands.
“Why is he helping her? Why?”
“She’s a whore. The Russians like whores.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Aslan, I managed to finish school and college. Unlike you and your buddies. I used to read books. All Russian writers felt sorry for the fallen women. Harping on about their hard life.” Fatima’s face screwed up; she flared up. “And they have to be detested! Thrown out of home! They like bitches, you see! And they use honest women as doormats! So all their women are whores!”
“Nicely put, teacher.” Aslan pondered. “The Russians are weak. They feel sorry even for enemies, forget the whores. And we kill them, because we’re smarter and braver.”
Fatima adjusted her tight sweater. Her hands with stubby fingers and brightly painted fingernails shook her purse, pulled out a narrow pack; her dry lips closed on a cigarette.
“Feeling sorry is the destiny of the weak. Some writer said so.”
“Don’t smoke at least in the car,” Aslan winced. “You’re a Muslim, after all.”
“Shut up! Don’t tell me what to do.” Fatima smoked pensively, flicking the ashes into the open window. “You can’t leave now. He saw you. You have to kill both him and her.”
“If only I find them!”
“If Aiza ran away from Moscow, where would she go?”
“Home. That’s where we’ll finish her! In front of the other girls. That would be a lesson. She’s going to hell!”
“And you? Have you made a reservation in paradise for yourself?”
Aslan laughed.
“Why hurry? With money, you can be in paradise even here.”
“In Moscow? In the enemy’s lair?”
Aslan winced.
“Better here than in the mountains. You’ve been here yourself for quite a few years.”
“I am working to return to the free homeland.”
“So am I. Working.”
“What a worker.” Fatima pulled on a cigarette, threw away the butt, and shook her head. “No. Aiza wouldn’t go home.”
“Where would she go?”
“Anywhere, as long as it’s not her home village! Over there, she’s a movie star.”
“Yeah!” Aslan gave a wide smile. “A porn star.”
“Now think. What are her options? Aiza was your goods.”
“If she were to leave… She said something about a school girlfriend; she lives with a Russian in Volgograd.”
“Great! She would definitely think of her now. Let’s go to the railway station. We’ll take up watch there.”
“Which one?”
“Paveletsky.”
Aslan gunned the engine; the radio came on. The broadcaster’s dry voice was reading off the scores. Aslan put the car in reverse to give himself more room to pull of the curb. Sports were of no interest to him; his finger was on its way to a shiny button to change the station. Then his hand stopped abruptly. Aslan heard a familiar name and tensed.
The broadcaster was saying, “And now, a message for Aiza. I’ll be waiting for you near the Mayakovsky Monument at 1 PM. This concludes sports news with Umar Osmaev.”
Then, a commercial. Aslan and Fatima stared at each other.
“Osmaev is a wrestling champion from her village. Aiza knows him since childhood,” Kitkiev explained.
“Why didn’t you mention him before?”
“That jackal is against us. He’s with the Russians.”
“All the more reason.”
“That’s it! Now I know where to find her.”
“Maybe Aiza didn’t hear,” Fatima doubted.
“She’s in a car, too. And the Russians, in addition to feeling sorry for the whores, also like listening to the sports news.”
Fatima pondered, “What if it’s an ambush?”
“Screw it! You don’t know me, woman,” Aslan said derisively. “I won’t miss the second time. If she comes there, consider her gone.”
Chapter 34
September 1, 10:30 AM
A Shopping Mall
Andrei Vlasov parked his car near a large shopping mall.
“Let’s come in. We can get some food and you can look around.”
The glass doors quietly slid apart. Aiza entered a spacious hall with a few cafes and potted palm trees. Left and right went galleries of stores. The glass dome of the roof was visible a few floors above. Shiny escalators crawled upstairs, transparent cabins of elevators slid quietly up and down along a wide column. Aiza looked left and right in amazement, staring at the colorful displays and looking enviously at well-dressed idle shoppers.
“Be careful, or you’ll wring your own neck,” Andrei joked. “Be natural. This is just a shopping mall. There are plenty of them in Moscow.”
Two girls walked by wearing short tightly fitting tops baring their midriffs. One of the girls had a piercing jewel in her bellybutton.
Aiza, blushing, whispered to Andrei, “Their bellies are open.”
“It’s fashionable these days. A lot of girls walk around like this. Especially in the summer.”
“Aren’t they ashamed? Strange men are looking at them.”
“This is Moscow.”
“Do you like looking at women’s bellies?”
“Aiza — ”
“You like it. I saw you look.”
“What are you — ”
“Did you notice? The red-haired one had an earring in her bellybutton.”
“It’s called piercing.”
“That’s when they pierce the skin? Like ears?”
“Yes. Or nose, or lips, or they could put a stud in the tongue.”
“The tongue?” Aiza ran the tip of her tongue between her lips. “Why?”
Andrei shrugged. “For a special kind of kiss.”
“Have you tried kissing — » Aiza paused and, looking down, squeezed out the words, “someone with a stud in their tongue?”
“Aiza… No, I haven’t.”
The girl ran her tongue around her semi-open mouth.
“That must be uncomfortable.”
“If women thought only of comfort, they would wear wide pants and soft slippers.”
“Yes. And cut their hair short,” Aiza smiled, fluffed her loose hair, and sighed. “But men wouldn’t like it.”
Andrei squeezed the girl’s shoulder and winced. He felt like curious shoppers were listening in on their conversation. He looked around, saw a lingerie store, and dragged the girl to the store window. Behind the glass, haughty-looking female mannequins modeled fine sexy lingerie.
“I need you to do something,” Andrei quickly took out some money and put it into the perplexed girl’s hand. “Go in there and buy what you need.”
“You mean — ”
“Yes!”
“By myself? Alone?”
“Aiza, you can handle it. I’ll wait for you here,” Andrei pointed to the tables of a pizzeria in the middle of the entrance hall.
“Some with me,” the girl tried to be stubborn.
“Alone!” Andrei said firmly.
The harsh tone worked. The girl, stiff-backed, went into the open door of the lingerie store. A saleswoman greeted her with a soft smile.
Ten minutes later, the girl came out blushing. In her hand was a small shopping bag. Andrei waved at her from behind a table. Aiza nodded happily and hurried to him. Andrei pulled out a chair.
“Have a seat. I got us something to eat.”
The girl looked in surprise at two untouched plates of pizza and coffee cups.
“You didn’t start without me?”
“I was waiting for you.”
The girl modestly sat down on the edge of a chair and sniffed.
“That smell…”
“Coffee. I got us espresso. Or do you like tea?”
The girl shrugged. Andrei looked at the shopping bag with interest.
“Did you buy something?”
“Yes.”
“Does it fit?”
“I didn’t try it on.”
The conversation continued in whispers. Andrei moved closer to the girl and asked in a conspiratorial tone, “Why?”
“I’d have to take my clothes off.”
“What color?”
“White.”
“Ouch!” Andrei faked a wince. “You could have gotten something a little more exotic.”
Aiza’s lips whispered into his ear, “It’s got lace, like a bride’s dress.”
“That’s much better,” Andrei approved with a straight face.
“Put it in the bag where the shoes are.”
“Why?”
“I am embarrassed. There are people all around.”
Andrei hid the small bag showing a bright lingerie store logo into the bag holding the shoes.
“And change, I only have this left…” the girl handed him a crumpled note. “Everything’s expensive.”
“Aiza, I am glad you bought… what you bought.”
The girl smiled gratefully and looked at the plates questioningly.
“What’s this?”
“A pizza. Have you tried a pizza before?”
“No. Is it Italian? How do you eat it?”
“Very simple. Cut off a slice… Like that. And eat it before it gets cold.”
Aiza carefully cut a pizza in half and tried forking a piece; it didn’t work. Looking around, she asked, “Can you eat it with your hands?”
“You can,” Andrei smiled.
The girl quickly finished her meal, licked the tips of her fingers, and wiped her lips.
“Tasty.”
She leaned back in her chair and relaxed. For the first time, Andrei saw color on her cheeks. It looked good on her.
The girl’s dark eyes stared enviously at the shoppers; every now and then, her thick unsculpted eyebrows went up in surprise.
“People seem to live well around here. I thought this kind of life only happened in foreign movies. I never had things like this. None of the girls did. If they saw the stores here, no one would want to blow themselves up.”
At the mention of blowing up, Vlasov frowned.
“Okay, here’s one more thing.” He opened a small shopping bag sitting on the table and took out a pair of large sunglasses. “Try them on. These are for you.”
“For me.” Aiza picked up the sunglasses. “But there’s almost no sun in this city.”
“Put them on. That would be better.” Aiza tried on the sunglasses. Andrei approved. “Excellent. Now you’re unrecognizable. Keep them on when you get on the train.”
“Even in the evening? That would look suspicious. What am I, a spy?”
“Aiza, don’t get worked up. Here, people walk around like that even at night. Convenience is nothing. Image is everything.”
* * * * *
Gennady Sviridov, lieutenant colonel of police, sat at the table next to them faking indifference. In his suit, he looked like any other man killing time over a bottle of beer and a newspaper while his dearest wife was doing her shopping. Only a very astute observer would notice that that the man never looked at the newspaper and unnaturally leaned toward the next table like a crooked pine tree on the Baltic coast.
During the morning race, Sviridov managed to stay on the strange couple’s tail; after that, following them was an easy job for the professional. After he weighed the facts, the policeman realized who the girl was. And why Kitkiev the terrorist was trying to hunt her down.
Except that the fragments of conversation he was able to overhear were completely out of line with the ominous purpose of the suicide bomber. Completely unclear was the role of the Russian guy, Andrei Vlasov, on whom he pulled the file the day before, as a companion of the Chechen Shahid.
The lieutenant colonel now had a chance to apprehend the woman wanted on a terrorism beef. But he wasn’t going to use it.
Sviridov was only interested in Aslan Kitkiev. His earlier weakness now shaken off, the policeman yearned for another pass at him. The lieutenant colonel believed that Aslan would find the Chechen girl again. Or the girl would lead him to the hated enemy.
It was a matter of surveillance and waiting.
Chapter 35
September 1, 10:40 AM
Offices of Federal Security Service
Oleg Alexandrovich Grigoriev was having a hard time digesting information that turned his agency upside down in a blink of an eye. A school in Beslan had been taken over by a group of armed men during the formal gathering in the morning. Hundreds of hostages: children, parents, teachers. There had already been casualties. A worse situation was hard to imagine.
He thought he’d seen everything; explosions on trolley buses, underground, trains, airplanes, homes, office buildings, mass hostage taking, demonstrative executions, the infamous Nord Ost. But attacking children on a celebration day was way outside even a monster’s morals.
At the meeting that just ended, all FSS units had been mobilized to deal with the new monstrous threat capable to destabilize the already explosive situation in the Northern Caucasus and devolve it into an outright ethnic butchery. All department leaders received personal assignments related to the Beslan events in one way or another. But when it came to Grigoriev, the general said curtly, “Oleg Alexandrovich, you go on working the living suicide bomber.”
“But — » Grigoriev wanted to object.
“No buts! That’s an order!” the general cut him off. “This is important, too. But I’ll have to reassign your team away from you.”
Discontent, Grigoriev returned to his office. He double-clicked his mouse to open a news Web site. What have the vultures had a chance to push out on Beslan? His eyes started reading the catchy headlines, frustration boiling up, but in a moment, the colonel stopped himself cold. He was told to work the “living bomb”, and so he would! Grigoriev closed the Internet site and switched to the internal database on the latest acts of terror in the capital city.
The file on Aiza Guzieva had an update; a school girlfriend of hers lived in Volgograd. That wasn’t terribly important, the colonel thought, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep it in mind. Nothing else was new. Over the next few days, updates would be highly unlikely; the operatives in the Northern Caucasus had their hands full with other things.
Grigoriev sighed and called in Yuri Burkov, the only subordinate left to him by the general.
“What have we got from Domestic Affairs?” he asked the first lieutenant when he entered his office.
“On what case?”
“The same old one!” the colonel flared up. “We’re continuing with yesterday’s case!”
“Oh, I see,” the first lieutenant drawled in a disappointed tone.
“Can you get to the point?” Grigoriev interrupted.
Yuri Burkov stood to attention.
“The police are getting citizens’ calls about allegedly planted bombs and tips on the location of Guzieva the terrorist.”
“Why allegedly?”
“The bomb squad keeps riding out and finding nothing.”
“So how often do the watchful citizens see the disappeared Aiza Guzieva?”
“Four times so far. All last night.”
“Got it. The visibility is better in the dark.”
“There was a fifth call this morning. But the caller changed his mind at the last moment and provided no information.”
“How come?”
“He resented the fact that here was no monetary reward.”
“Um, that’s some serious approach.” The colonel pondered. “You know what? Let me hear that conversation.”
In ten minutes, after listening to the recording of Viktor Chervyakov’s phone call three times, the colonel gave the first lieutenant an errand to run.
“Have the location of the caller been determined?”
“That wasn’t a problem.”
“Find me that greedy gentleman. That’s urgent. Wherever he is. I want to talk to him.”
Chapter 36
September 1, 11:30 AM
Sparrow Hills
“This is where I wanted to bring you. This is the best view of Moscow.”
Andrei Vlasov and Aiza Guzieva stood at the vista point of Sparrow Hills, leaning on wide stone balustrade. Below, beyond the foliage, was the river; behind it, the solid oval of the Olympic stadium. The rays of sun were working hard to dispel the light haze above the city.
“Beautiful,” Aiza drank in the panorama of Moscow with shining domes of cathedrals, needles of Stalin-era skyscrapers, and endless boxes of buildings. “I have to remember this. I may never see it again.”
“And just yesterday, you wanted — » Andrei wanted to joke, but quickly caught himself.
Nearby, there was a sound of popping champagne and excited voices. Several wedding parties were taking pictures and drinking champagne out of plastic cups. The bubbling foam overflowed, the young people laughed. The passing Japanese tourists took, supposedly inadvertently, their pictures and clicked their tongues as if they just tried something very tasty.
“So many brides,” Aiza said, surprised. “Why do they come here?”
“You said it yourself; it’s beautiful here. Today is a Wednesday, but if you only saw how many wedding parties come here on Fridays and Saturdays.”
“What a dress!” Aiza stared at a beautiful bride with her mouth open. “I’ll never have a dress like this.”
“You will. You definitely will! Every girl has to become a bride.”
Aiza looked down.
“Not I.”
“Don’t be silly. Wait.”
Andrei ran over to the souvenir peddlers. When he came back, his hand held a bunch of brightly colored balloons trying to escape his grasp. They looked like a huge weightless bouquet. He put the braid of cords into the girl’s hand. Aiza lifted her chin up and stood under the umbrella of balloons, squinting at them with a serious expression on her face. The balloons playfully rubbed against each other making creaking noises.
The girl’s grip loosened. The balloons first came apart, as if they didn’t want to be too close together, then, feeling the freedom, lazily drifted upward. A smile appeared on the girl’s lips. For a long time, she followed the balloons with a moist gaze until the bright dots disappeared in the blue sky.
She turned away and wiped her eyes under the sunglasses. Her face once again showed concern.
“What time is it?”
“About noon. There’s still plenty of time before the train.”
“I want to see the subway. The central stations. They say, it’s like a museum.”
Vlasov didn’t like this idea. At every station, there were security cameras; the police is definitely on high alert. The girl felt his indecision, touched his hand, and leaned close to him.
“Please, I really want to.”
Andrei’s eyes involuntarily looked into the girl’s cleavage. The same dress, the same perfume as Svetlana’s, and a similar birthmark on her neck. It was impossible to say no.
“Okay, but you have to promise to do as I say. And keep the sunglasses on.”
Aiza nodded gratefully.
“And I will save you,” Andrei almost said, but the words got stuck in his throat. It’s not about the words, Vlasov tried to justify his indecision to himself. If you can, you have to act, not wait around, as he did back when Svetlana was in danger.
Andrei drove toward the subway station and for the hundredth time recalled the horrible days of Nord Ost.
Chapter 37
Nord Ost
Day Three, Evening
Stomping around the theater held by terrorists seemed pointless, so Vlasov was suffering at home.
By nightfall, a vague irritation began to overpower him. He could no longer watch the news. All anchors seemed stupid; politicians, indifferent; artists, cynical. Every TV channel showed and said the same things. His irritation was growing into anger. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? Why weren’t people being saved? How long can this go on? Where were the highly advertised special services?
His heart ached and sent out growing waves of hatred. The abscess of hatred displaced all other emotions. It suffocated and tortured the exhausted body and inflamed brain.
If someone offered him, right now, to become an executioner, he would, without a single thought, shoot all terrorists. Both the arrogant unshaved fighters and the timid sisters with veiled faces. All of them! Maybe only this would give him some relief.
Vlasov remembered that in Chechnya, he often saw boys’ angry faces and girls’ scared looks. Now they’ve grown up. They were in Moscow. They had weapons and explosives. The life of the woman he loved was in their hands. Now he regretted not killing some of them. Then, they were at his mercy; now, they dictated their terms.
He kept reaching for the gun; his fingers, white with tension, nervously closed around the handle; his eye, looking through the sight, searched for a target. He wanted to see an enemy and unload on him.
After the military service in the Northern Caucasus, Vlasov sometimes experienced strange waves of overwhelming irritation. He could fly off the handle for the silliest reason. After one of those stupid breakdowns, Sveta broke up with him. A few days ago, after another one, Andrei lost a decent job.
When mother called him to dinner, Andrei yelled at her and locked himself in his room. Out of sheer rage, he threw the dagger into the door. The sharp blade cleanly pierced the wood. The hands still remember, he thought with satisfaction.
This time, Andrei couldn’t sleep. In the middle of the night, he drove to the theater again. His hatred demanded an outlet. He wanted to get inside the building to kill at least one terrorist. He wanted a victim. His muscles tensed in impatient shiver.
What if he could kill all the enemies? That’s how it happens in the movies. The angry hero shows up, crashes through anything standing in his way, and saves the woman he loves. He was ready to tear the bandits into pieces; anything to save Svetlana. He believed he could do that and wondered why he didn’t do it on the first day.
Just as he did before, Vlasov sneaked into the factory, found his way to the window, and lowered himself into the basement. He didn’t bring a flashlight again, but that wasn’t a problem. Now he knew the way and he was better prepared. In addition to the knife, he had a gun! He constantly felt its pleasant heaviness.
This time, the way along the pipes seemed shorter. When he made it to the lit opening, he listened and looked around. No one as far as he could see. Water on the floor; the damaged pipe probably wasn’t turned off right away. It was quiet and damp. Time to act, Vlasov gave himself an order.
With some difficulty, Andrei squeezed himself through the small opening and landed on his hands in the dirty water. As he was straightening up, he felt a movement off to the side. He jerked, but didn’t have enough time to react. A strong blow on the head took him out cold.
When he came to, he saw, through the fog in his eyes, two armed men wearing camouflage and masks. Andrei lowered his eyelids listening to the noise in his head. The blinding rage was gone; he had to think and find a way out. If only they didn’t notice! But the hope immediately disappeared; he no longer had a gun or a dagger.
“Who are you?” he heard a rude question.
They speak with no accent, Vlasov noted. He opened his eyes and started rising from the puddle trying to look weak and play for time. The fighters stood about three meters away, at a distance from each other. He couldn’t rush them both. Not to mention that they pointed their short-barreled assault rifles at him. Andrei looked at the strangers’ modern equipment, noted their special service helmets with microphones and earpieces, and it finally dawned on him; they were us.
“I’m with you,” he said with some difficulty.
“We’ll see about that. Why did you come here?”
“To waste the Chechens. My girlfriend is here, a hostage…”
“You’re quick!” one of the fighters smirked. “What’s your name?”
“Andrei Vlasov.”
Suddenly, the muffled sound of a machine gun burst came from above. Then another. The soldiers perked up. It seemed one of them received an order on his radio. He gave a short reply to the invisible commander, “Yes, sir. I got it.”
The soldier looked at his watch, made an incomprehensible gesture at his partner, and spoke to Vlasov.
“Get out of here. We’ll handle this. The basement is long since ours, so leave the way you came.”
“Maybe I could — » Andrei tried to offer his services.
“Scram!” the soldier cut him off rudely. The barrel of his assault rifle rose to the chest level to accentuate the point.
Objections were of no use. Vlasov, soaking wet, crawled his way back. A heroic deed wasn’t in the cards.
Chapter 38
September 1, 12:30 PM
Offices of Federal Security Service
Oleg Alexandrovich Grigoriev tried hard not to think about the school holdup in Beslan. That was a most complicated problem; working on it were hundreds of people, including the President. Meanwhile, he, a colonel with thirty years of experience, wasn’t one of them. His problem was small, to find an escaped terrorist in a city of a few million. Like a needle in a haystack! Maybe she wasn’t even in Moscow!
But service was service. Orders had to be followed. Hence, grasping at straws trying to catch a break.
The idea with Umar Osmaev, the sports broadcaster, which appeared so original and promising in the morning, now seemed to be a silly caprice. Making a date with a criminal on air while broadcasting sports news! The probability of the fish taking the bait was zero point squat. Of course, any chance to apprehend a criminal had to be used, but it all looked so petty compared to the monstrosity in Beslan.
Oleg Alexandrovich called in first lieutenant Yuri Burkov, the only subordinate he had left.
“Yura, run down to Mayakovsky Square. Or what is it called now?”
“Triumphal.”
“What a grand idea! The Triumphal Arch has long since been moved, but they restored the old name anyway. Just like the good old times; distorting the maps to confuse the spies. Anyway, run down there; Umar Osmaev invited Aiza Guzieva to meet there.”
“Oleg Alexandrovich, maybe we should send the police down there?”
“It’s going to take time to explain, and we don’t have much time left.”
Burkov had his own interpretation of his boss’ unwillingness to delegate. Requesting assistance from another agency would have to be official. Detailed explanations would be required, and, should it become apparent that the all-powerful FSS uses the radio to invites criminals to meet, there would be no end to the ensuing ridicule. The first lieutenant paused and even wanted to voice his doubts about the usefulness of the errand, but remembered the primary postulate of military service: orders were not to be discussed; they were to be carried out. The colonel’s gloomy look didn’t exactly invite discussion, either.
“Yes, colonel,” Burkov replied in an official tone.
“Hang around ten to fifteen minutes and come back,” Grigoriev said, looking off to the side.
When Burkov grabbed the door knob, Grigoriev stopped him.
“Before I forget, what have you found out about the greedy patriot who called the police?”
“The call came from an apartment occupied by one Viktor Chervyakov. Most likely, he was the caller. We found out that at the time of the call, he was home. Then Chervyakov drove away in his truck. So far, we don’t know where he works. He’s probably working off the books. But we do have his truck’s license plate number. Traffic police has our request to detain.”
“All right, keep this under control,” Grigoriev approved, although this line of pursuit, too, now seemed to be childishly naïve.
Burkov left. Grigoriev clicked his mouse to check the file on Guzieva. Nothing new, as was to be expected. I wish the police would apprehend her, the colonel thought desperately, we don’t want other people’s glory!
Chapter 39
September 1, 12:55 PM
Mayakovskaya Metro Station, Platform
“Mayakovskaya Station,” announced the taped female voice. The train stopped, the doors opened noisily.
“We’re getting out,” Andrei gently pushed Aiza.
But the girl, despite looking thoughtful and aloof, jumped off the train as soon as the doors opened. So far, their tour of the underground was limited to a brief review of Revolution Square. Aiza quickly and detachedly looked over the bronze figures of revolutionaries housed inside semicircular arches, and asked to see Mayakovskaya. Andrei suggested a stop at Tverskaya and Pushkinskaya along the way, but Aiza was incorrigible. It seemed she was in a hurry.
The spacious hall of Mayakovskaya, with two rows of high columns and dome-like ceiling, looked downright majestic. They strolled along the middle and stopped close to the escalator. From here, the rows of columns and the enfilade of arches between them looked especially impressive.
“During the war, they held a formal Revolution Day event here,” Andrei recalled.
“Underground?” Aiza was surprised. “Tell me about it.”
Andrei looked at the wide and long hall between the columns.
“They say, there is a secret subway line that goes to Kremlin. From there, by a special train, the leadership arrived, with Stalin at the helm. Mayakovskaya is a very deep station. It was completely safe; back then, no bomb could reach here. The rest seems to be pretty straightforward. They probably put in some chairs and a platform for the speaker; turned out to be a nice venue. You can hear the acoustics here. No microphone required.”
Indeed, the clatter of trains came in through the arches and reflected off the ceiling; in the rare seconds of quiet, you could hear every click of a hurrying woman’s high heels. Vlasov fell silent and unexpectedly found a new appreciation of the calculated beauty of the underground hall that looked like a part of an ancient temple.
“Where else shall we go?” he asked when the noise of trains died down once again. “We could go over to Belorusskaya, then Novoslobodskaya. They are beautiful, too.”
The girl didn’t reply. Andrei turned around. His eyebrows instinctively went up.
Aiza wasn’t behind his back. People hurried by. The steps of the long escalator were moving upstairs.
Andrei, lost, looked around. Anxious perplexity sent a chill down his spine.
The girl disappeared.
Chapter 40
September 1, 1:00 PM
Mayakovskaya Metro Station, Lobby
Unlike Andrei Vlasov, lieutenant colonel Gennady Nikolaevich Sviridov saw Aiza Guzieva jump the escalator using the noise of the trains as an acoustic cover. Ever since morning, the he hadn’t let the suspicious couple out of his sight. Now that they separated, the lieutenant colonel didn’t waste any time deciding who to follow and resolutely went up the escalator.
The girl being hunted down by Aslan Kitkiev was more important. Sooner or later, Aslan would find her again. And then… The lieutenant colonel gnashed his teeth. Perhaps next time his hand wouldn’t falter, and the man who threw his life into the endless pitch-black darkness would get what he deserved. Kitkiev had to be destroyed.
Sviridov caught up with the girl upstairs. Aiza was indecisively milling about in the lobby. From there, one exit led to an underground passage to the other side of Tverskaya Street, while the other went to Mayakovsky Square.
Where would she go? Sviridov wondered. Did she have another explosion in mind? He carefully looked over the girl’s slender figure. No, there couldn’t be any explosives on her. And the package in her hands was too light for that. It looked like clothes.
Guzieva read the signs and started walking up the stairs. She chose the square.
The lieutenant colonel, following the surveillance rules, decided to overtake the subject. This way, it was easier to remain undetected. She had nowhere to turn, so he could wait for her at the exit. He walked a few meters behind Aiza, watching her just in case she stopped or turned around. But Aiza didn’t even think of stopping; she purposefully hurried toward the exit.
Sviridov pushed a glass door and came out into the square first. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. With a cigarette, he could stand near a column without attracting any attention. The lieutenant colonel lit up and looked around.
And immediately froze!
Twenty meters to his left, he saw Aslan Kitkiev. He was talking on his mobile phone shooting quick glances into the square.
Sviridov stepped back to hide behind the column. His thoughts lost their measured rhythm and started moving like a rockslide. Guzieva was about to emerge. Aslan would definitely see her. He wanted to kill her, and there would be nothing to stop him; the girl would be defenseless in the open space. The lieutenant colonel didn’t really care what would happen to her. He already realized that she was involved with terrorists, but she must have bucked, and now Aslan wants to get rid of the misbehaving horse. Andrei Vlasov, whose information he passed to Aslan last night, was for some reason helping the girl. Right now, he was down below; this time, he’d be unable to save her.
Did this situation work to the lieutenant colonel’s advantage or not?
His objective was to get rid of Aslan Kitkiev once and for all. If Aslan got locked in on the girl, he might ignore the lieutenant colonel. His attention would be drawn to the girl. He wanted to destroy Guzieva, so he would concentrate on her; Sviridov, meanwhile, would destroy him.
A tic started in lieutenant colonel’s left eye.
What if he made Sviridov? An experienced terrorist wouldn’t act single-mindedly; he would attempt to keep the situation under control. Aslan Kitkiev knew Gennady Sviridov’s appearance all too well. For a few years now, he had kept a video tape of Sviridov; it was possible he even bragged about it to his friends.
Aiza Guzieva walked up to a glass door. She was about to come out. Time to make a decision, the lieutenant colonel gave an order to himself.
A cigarette butt flew aside. A sweaty palm ran along the pant leg. Sviridov calmed his hyperventilation and reached for the concealed weapon.
Chapter 41
September 1, 1:03 PM
Mayakovsky Square
For the last fifteen minutes, Aslan Kitkiev, wearing a pair of wraparound sunglasses, loitered near the exit from the Mayakovskaya metro station. Every now and then, he walked briskly by the Satire Theater building and then some along the Garden Ring and then come back slowly. His movements weren’t monotonous. He walked different distances, sometimes stopping to look at the theater’s playbill, sometimes glancing into the newspaper he held in his hand or pretending to talk on his cell phone.
But whatever he did, his attention was focused on the center of the square, on the tiny spot in front of the Mayakovsky Monument. For the last ten minutes, a broad-shouldered stocky athlete wearing a leather jacket was stomping that spot. His calloused hand held a single carnation.
Aslan recognized him immediately. Standing near the monument was Umar Osmaev.
Indeed! Ten years ago, every boy in Checheno-Ingush Republic knew the world and European champion. The best wrestler on the planet! These words filled every Chechen’s heart with pride. Back then, many boys got into wrestling and wanted to be champions. Aslan tried it, too, but learning complicated moves and fighting by the strict rules was difficult.
Then other role models emerged, the fearless warriors: Basaev, Raduev, Gelaev. It was much easier to follow their example. He didn’t have to torture himself with years of training and adhere to strict schedules; it was enough to pick up an assault rifle, hide in an ambush, and kill infidels. The more you kill, the higher your glory.
Don’t be afraid to kill, Basaev taught. If you killed one or two, you’d be considered to be a criminal; if you killed one or two hundred, prime ministers would negotiate with you. These rules were simple and understandable for modern boys, so the once-famous champion was long since forgotten.
Umar Osmaev didn’t go anywhere; he stood there like a statue, looking at his watch every now and then.
You’re waiting, Aslan smirked, you even brought a flower. What a hoot! We’re both waiting for the same hoe; you’ve got a flower, I’ve got a gun. Good choice of place, champion. I like it. No crowd, unlike the Pushkin Monument, middle of the day, everyone’s in a hurry, no one cares about the lonely fool standing by the stupid monument. I’ll have to take you out as well, champion. War is war. You chose to stand in my way; I didn’t make you do it. But it won’t be a great loss; indeed, what good are you? You aren’t using your money or your connections to help our cause. You refused! I know, good people came to see you with kind words. You turned your back on your homeland! Now it’s time for the gun to talk.
Kitkiev condescendingly evaluated Osmaev. Good for you, champion; you didn’t grow a potbelly, looking sharp. You must still be strong on the wrestling mat. But what is your strength against my gun! Who’s going to win? You’ll find out soon enough. If only the bitch showed up!
Aslan took out his cell phone and looked at the time. One oh-five. If only Aiza came. Then everything would be over.
He pressed a few buttons on the phone and pretended to talk. He stomped in place; his eyes once again looked around the square. There seemed to be no ambush. Of course, the operatives could be watching from the windows. So what! He’d do his thing and evade them. If he had to, he’d waste someone else in addition to the hoe and the champion!
The feeling of real danger gave Kitkiev the ultimate high. Risk and money; these were two things he loved most. He made sure that they became intertwined in his life. He was paid to take risks. The greater the risk, the bigger the reward.
Of course he could make money in Chechnya. But running around in the mountains dressed in camouflage and carrying an assault rifle, growing a beard, idling in a boring village, attacking the military every now and then and hiding in a hole in-between missions? Aslan didn’t like this approach to life. Savage, stupid life! Moscow was another matter. You brought in the prepared girls, you carried out a mission, you got your money, and you could live a life to your liking in a big city, full of great places for entertainment and relaxation.
Aslan didn’t care about the goals and purpose of the butchery that went on in his homeland for more than a decade, giving off metastases throughout Russia. The longer this was going on, the better. Decisive victory by either side wasn’t in his best interest. If that happened, he would be out of work. Meanwhile, the foreign sponsors were paying, so he would continue to manufacture “living bombs” out of stupid girls. It was easy and even pleasurable. So what if he missed with one? He was about to fix that problem.
Aslan tensed. He saw a girl hurrying toward the Mayakovsky Monument from the subway station. She was halfway there when he noticed her. Loose black hair, blue dress, a shawl on her shoulders. If he didn’t see her in the morning, he wouldn’t recognize her now. Aiza! Clothes do make a woman look different. She was a stupid villager in a shapeless skirt; now she looked like an attractive urbane young lady.
The girl looked up to the Peking Hotel. The large clock on the façade said 1:06. She’s in a hurry, Aslan thought and smiled with satisfaction. Good thing she came. He was tired of waiting.
Now Umar Osmaev noticed the approaching girl. The wrestler’s tight lips parted in a kind smile. He was waiting for her, holding the red carnation in a theatrically outstretched hand.
Consider dropping on your knee before the whore, Kitkiev thought, carefully put away his mobile phone, reached for his gun, and started after the girl toward the monument.
Chapter 42
September 1, 1:07 PM
Tverskaya Street
First lieutenant Yuri Burkov was hopelessly late to Mayakovsky Square. After he received his orders, it took him ten minutes to requisition a car and a driver in the general mess caused by the events in Beslan and get out of the office parking lot. Downtown streets, not particularly wide by design, were further narrowed by randomly parked cars. The progress was slow. It seemed that as soon as they hit Tverskaya, they would be three minutes away. But despite the midday, the city’s central street was packed with cars.
September 1, the first lieutenant reminded himself. First day of academic year in schools and colleges, so the majority of Muscovites were back to the city after summer vacations or relaxation in summer homes. Burkov didn’t hurry the driver. First, the driver already knew he had to hurry; second, the run was probably going to be dry anyway. Most likely, the terrorist didn’t hear the message, and if she did, she wouldn’t come. She wouldn’t want to walk into an ambush, because she was sure that whatever was printed or broadcast went out only with FSS” say-so.
If only, the first lieutenant sighed dreamily. How much easier the work would be. During the Soviet period, the whole world considered KGB a force to be reckoned with. Back then, there were no bombs in the capital city and no theater holdups. Now, it’s a complete anarchy. The bandits were armed with modern weapons and weren’t afraid of anything. So many times they escaped with impunity! Now it came to a school holdup.
Yuri enviously thought that this very minute, many of his colleagues were flying to Beslan. Over there was the real work; the whole world was watching. He had to be there. Of course, he wasn’t on a tactical team, but over there, anyone had a chance to show their best. And after it’s over, there would be honors and promotions. Modestly mentioning it to girls wouldn’t hurt, either. Women get soft from the severe secretiveness of hard guys.
Alas! Instead of all that, he was to catch a psycho girl who decided to end her life using explosives. Even if he caught her, they wouldn’t even thank him! The powers that be have different priorities right now.
Meanwhile, the car reached Mayakovsky Square. Dreaming of glory, Burkov melancholically looked out the window. Near the monument to the proletarian writer, he noticed a stocky man and recognized the wrestler, Umar Osmaev. Next to him stood a slender black-haired girl. They were talking about something.
Did the colonel’s plan really work, and the meeting too place? That was major luck.
“Pull over!” Burkov yelled to the driver.
The car stopped on Tverskaya, on the side opposite to the square. Between the first lieutenant and the monument, there were eight lanes of traffic. To frustrate him further, the traffic was actually moving at a brisk pace in both directions.
Yuri Burkov looked left and right trying to find a way to cross the street. At the same time, he was watching the girl. Don’t let her escape, Burkov pleaded. I’ll pack her in and ask for an assignment in Beslan. They wouldn’t refuse.
He paid no attention to a young man in a dark suit and white socks approaching from the Satire Theater. There was a newspaper in his left hand. His right hand was under his coat, as if he was pulling up his pants or tried to take something out of his waistband. His eyes showed disdain and cold rage.
The first lieutenant didn’t look at the station exit, either.
* * * * *
A few dozen meters below, underground, the trains continued to clatter. Andrei Vlasov ran around the platforms and concluded that Aiza must have gone up the escalator.
Why didn’t she tell him she decided to stay in Moscow? Or did she step on the escalator out of curiosity and couldn’t come back? Upstairs, there definitely was a police patrol on duty. And her picture was on display in every police station. It was a mistake to agree to the underground excursion! But it was possible that Aiza was trying to come back down and find him. It was her first time in a big city; she got confused. Should he wait or go look for her?
After some deliberation, Vlasov went up the escalator. His eyes greedily scanned the flow of passengers riding the escalator in the opposite direction.
Chapter 43
September 1, 1:12 PM
Mayakovsky Square
Aslan Kitkiev was walking straight toward the Mayakovsky Monument. Now that the two figures — two easy targets — were out in the open, stood still like statues, and were in no hurry to go anywhere, he carefully looked around the square for the last time. No one was following him, and no one was walking toward him. The passerby hurried along the Tverskaya, but none of them showed any interest in the man and the woman near the monument. No suspicious cars around. No one was about to intercept Aslan or protect his intended victims.
The sensation of danger pleasurably excited him. His whole body felt like pins and needles. The corners of his mouth twitched in anticipation of success. This is a moment worth living for, Aslan thought.
Less than ten meters was left to the monument. No one was around. Just he and the victims. No one would stand in his way now. The distance was acceptable for a precise shot. But it was best to come close and shoot point-blank in the heart. They would fall faster than they could say ouch. There would be no noise. The fine silencer would mask the sound of shooting. By the time the confused passerby figure out what’s what, he’d be gone.
Five meters to the victims. Aslan pulled his gun from his waistband and covered it with the newspaper. Three more steps, and he could start shooting.
Aiza would be first. Too bad he didn’t make any money off her. Oh well, that would be a lesson for the future. Penny-pinching was a bad idea; he didn’t have to save money on a remote control for the “living bomb”. Yesterday, he could simply push a button and add $50,000 to the fee. He had the gadget, too, and could fit it. Never mind, there were plenty of glorious missions and bundles of crispy hundred-dollar bills in his future. Tonight, after the whole thing is over, he would relax in his favorite night club and casino, and then go to Turkey for a month. Over there, he would get his money. A lot of money, all made off the stupid girls. Most of it he would deposit into his bank account already holding a healthy balance; the rest he would spend on carefree relaxation. As a Muslim, he neither drank nor smoked, but he was addicted to young girls and gambling. He couldn’t lay them off. And when he runs out of money, he’d negotiate higher fees for missions in Russia, return to Chechnya, and get new girls for “living bombs”.
Aslan put his feet apart and raised the gun; his index finger touched the trigger. There; the perfect spot on the girl’s back under her left shoulder blade. It was impossible to miss.
The girl suddenly took a step aside, leaned, and placed the flower at the base of the monument. What was that all about? How did Aiza get on the poetry kick? He was a Russian verse scribbler!
Now facing Aslan Kitkiev was Umar Osmaev. Their eyes met. Aslan felt a burning sensation; he hated to stare in his victims’ eyes. The newspaper fell off his outstretched hand, baring the gun with a long silencer attached.
Umar saw the barrel and understood everything. The former champion reacted instantaneously. His muscles tensed, his arm rose, his body rushed forward. It was only two steps to the adversary. Then, there would be a clinch, a throw, and a hold. He’s done it hundreds of times with way more powerful opponents.
The forward move was fast and precise; Omar’s left hand almost touched Aslan’s wrist.
But it was too late.
Kitkiev, panicked, pulled the trigger; the hammer hit the detonator; the powder in the cartridge exploded and pushed out the bullet; nine grams of lead cut through the air, went through the flap of a jacket, crushed a rib, and tore, along with the bone fragments, into the blood-filled flesh of Umar’s heart. His powerful body jerked helplessly when it collided with the bullet. At the last moment, he turned around and covered the still leaning girl with his bulk.
Umar Osmaev’s body pushed the girl off her feet and pressed her down. The hem of her dress went up; Aslan saw her bare thighs. What a good-looking bitch, he thought. She’s about to start screaming, so let’s shoot and get out of here.
There were two more quiet pops masked by the hum of traffic. Aslan replaced the gun into his waistband and briskly walked toward an arch on the other side of the square. Just don’t run, he kept telling himself, that would be suspicious. Quick walking wouldn’t be; Muscovites are always in a hurry.
Chapter 44
September 1, 1:14 PM
Mayakovskaya Metro Station
A noisy escalator carried Andrei Vlasov up into the station’s lobby. He didn’t see Aiza on his way. The concerned young man kept looking around. Where did she go, and why? She even left her passport and ticket with him. If you want to leave, you have to say goodbye. As decent people do. Then, questions gave way to anxiety; she wouldn’t leave on her own, something happened to her.
Yesterday, he wanted to lose her with impunity; now he was concerned as he would be about a lost child.
Andrei ran to the underground passage on the left, bumping into people along the way. Halfway there, he suddenly stopped. Wrong way! An idea gave him a burning sensation. It was possible that Aiza had an attack of claustrophobia or some other exotic condition, when the mind can’t stay underground and longs for the open air. For the last few minutes, she did look pale and distracted.
He got a push on his back; someone brushed against his shoulder; a passerby threw him a dirty look. Andrei stood in the middle of a busy passage, in everyone’s way. His mind was calculating. If the girl wanted fresh air, she would go further up the stairs after she got off the escalator.
Vlasov returned to the lobby; the escalator, indifferent, continued to push the passengers into the hall. His feet determinedly clicked on the steps leading up to the square. His assurance was growing. But if course! It was the girl’s first time on the subway, first time deep underground. She felt sick, so she instinctively went upstairs. Her mind was foggy, so she couldn’t even think of telling him. It had to be the case! Last night, she was close to fainting. Fresh air and sun would make her stop and come around. He’d find here there. They were about to see each other and smile.
Andrei ran up the stairs, pushed a swinging door, and almost stumbled.
He saw Aiza. But it didn’t give him any joy.
His mind was screaming, why did you leave? And his heart was racing to the beat of doom: it’s-over, it’s-over, it’s-over…
Chapter 45
September 1, 1:14 PM
Tverskaya Street
First lieutenant Yuri Burkov languished impatiently across Tverskaya from the Mayakovsky Monument. Eight lanes of rushing cars separated him from the monument. Burkov stared to the left looking for a break in traffic. Finally, an opportune moment; he ran into the middle of the street. Now the traffic on the right was in his way. This way, he could easily lose the girl. The first lieutenant cursed and glanced at the small open space near the monument.
At first, he was startled. It was empty! She was gone! Then, he saw two bodies at the base of the monument. A few of the passerby noticed the problem, too. Someone froze in his tracks, bewildered; someone else took a few unsure steps toward the monument.
From the unnatural position of feet and rigid poses, Burkov deduced that Umar Osmaev and Aiza Guzieva didn’t fall because they felt like it; this was no accidental stumble. Lying on the sidewalk were victims of an assault. Less than a minute ago, they were full well! Who attacked them? The killer should still be close!
His eyes hectically jumped all over the square. A man briskly walking away; another running toward the subway station; yet another walking slowly, but wearing a long trench coat, collar up, and a wide-brimmed hat. A man dressed like that could turn a corner, lose the outer layer of clothing, and try recognizing him! A car peeled off from Peking Hotel. The perpetrator could be inside it!
Which one? Whom should he pursue?
His eyes jumped from one subject to another. A young man was openly running toward the subway station. Professionals don’t do that. Not to mention that the station entrance has a surveillance camera. The one with the trench coat on was walking too heavily. Probably a man of advanced age. The fast car was too far away to reach from the monument within the few seconds since the attack.
The first lieutenant concentrated on the slender young man dressed in a dark suit and white socks quickly walking toward an arch. A good escape route. Behind the arch was a side street where one could get into a parked car and drive away unnoticed.
Near the arch, the man looked back. Dark sunglasses, no way to see his eyes, but his face was turned to the base of the monument. He was looking at the two unmoving bodies! A quick glance around the square, and the man disappeared into the arch.
That was him!
Without hesitation, Burkov threw himself into traffic. Tires squealed; horns blared. He rushed through three lanes in a single breath. One left. Beyond it was the sidewalk.
Yuri pulled out his gun; on the right, tires squealed again, this time very close by. In his peripheral vision, he saw a red hood, but his attention was on the arch into which the suspect just disappeared.
The first lieutenant jumped onto the sidewalk. The red car was braking hard, but it still clipped his foot that was already in the midair. A hard touch of a bumper spun Burkov’s body around. He fell onto the pavement and rolled at the feet of the passerby. The gun fell out of his hand and spun around on the sidewalk. The passerby pulled back.
Chapter 46
September 1, 1:15 PM
Mayakovskaya Metro Station, Exit
Andrei Vlasov froze in the space between the inner and outer doors. The glass outer doors were removed for summer. Between the columns by the exit, he could clearly see the Mayakovsky Monument. Near its base, there were two unmoving bodies. A man and a woman.
But Vlasov was looking elsewhere. His eyes were drawn to a puffy face of a gloomy-looking man off to the right. He’d seen him before, very recently. Where was that? In the mall. That’s right! Then, on Sparrow Hills, near the souvenir peddlers. How quickly has he forgotten about the danger! Two encounters were enough to conclude that they were being followed! And not by the terrorists, either.
Confirming his horrible guess, the stranger slid a crimson police ID out of his breast pocket and immediately slid it back in. He did all that with his left hand. His right held Aiza’s wrist.
The pale girl looked down despondently. Her petrified figure didn’t stir with Andrei’s appearance. She looked like a wax statue, rather than a living human being. Her world fell apart; her life was over. She had been betrayed by a man she knew and respected since childhood, a man she trusted more than her parents. He lured her into an ambush and turned her over to the police. He knew that if she heard his call, she would definitely come to see him. He shrewdly picked the only location in Moscow she knew by picture.
Vlasov reached for the knife concealed under his jacket. As long as the policeman was alone, there was a chance to save the girl.
The sound of squealing tires cut through the noise of traffic. A woman gave a piercing scream. A man running across the street fell onto the sidewalk. The man holding Aiza’s hand looked out into the street. He quickly assessed the situation, turned the girl around, and pushed her slightly toward Vlasov.
“Go, it’s dangerous here,” lieutenant colonel Sviridov whispered.
Andrei caught the girl. His hand released the handle of the knife.
Sviridov caught the young man’s wondering gaze and nodded tiredly toward the square.
“Aslan waited for her over there.”
Vlasov wasted no time dragging the girl back into the station.
Gennady Nikolaevich followed them with a sad gaze. Once again, he hadn’t been able to attack Aslan Kitkiev. The most he could do was to upset his plans and save the girl.
Sviridov just saw Kitkiev murder two people in cold blood. Despite the bustle, it was possible that he had been the only witness of the murders. But he had no interest in finding out the victims’ names. He knew that one day, Aslan would come for him.
The sight of two dead bodies on a central street completely drained the lieutenant colonel’s energy. He wouldn’t be able to compete against the young, brazen, and unceremonious enemy. He would no longer follow the girl around and wait for another encounter with Aslan. He didn’t even want to give evidence. He had no interest in Aslan’s apprehension.
If that happened, he would go on trial, too.
Chapter 47
September 1, 3:25 PM
Offices of Federal Security Service
“Looking good!” Oleg Alexandrovich Grigoriev smiled crookedly, staring at Yuri Burkov standing in front of him.
The suit on the first lieutenant’s downcast frame looked terrible. Dusty pants, dirty coat, a nearly torn-apart sleeve. Completing the joyless picture was the bandaged palm of his left hand.
But today, there was no real reason for smiling. The colonel’s face immediately turned from smiling to severe.
“Well, you’ve made quite a mess.”
“My fault, colonel.”
“Umar Osmaev is dead, his wife is critically wounded. And the assailant escaped! And once again, we’re going nowhere fast. And we had a chance!”
“Oleg Alexandrovich,” the first lieutenant’s eyebrows went up. “Did you say his wife?”
“Yes, it was Osmaev’s wife. She heard on the radio that her husband set up a date with an Aiza at a romantic spot near a monument to a poet and decided to surprise him.”
“What about Guzieva?”
“She didn’t show. Either she didn’t know or she didn’t make it.”
“So we have to keep looking for Guzieva?” Burkov asked dejectedly.
“Of course!” Grigoriev bent a large office paperclip; his eyes flashed. “How could you fail such an elementary operation?”
“Oleg Alexandrovich, the car — ”
“Yes, I know! This is no excuse for an FSS officer. Good thing the local police made it to the scene on time. At least they picked up your service weapon. If they didn’t… In the old times, you could be demoted for the loss of a gun. And that was the best-case scenario.” The colonel paced around his office, looked over his subordinate’s rumpled exterior, and sighed. “Sit down. What’s up with your foot?”
“Concussion. And a hematoma. But the bone is intact, they took an X-ray.” The first lieutenant carefully lowered himself onto the edge of a chair.
“And the hand?”
“Nothing. Scratches.”
“Okay. I can’t let you off. You know as well as I do, there isn’t anyone else available.”
“Of course, Oleg Alexandrovich, I understand.”
“What have you seen on the square? Report in detail.”
“I saw a suspicious man. Dark suit, white socks.”
“Suspicious because of socks? Yura, if only you saw our citizenry’s underwear, one out of three would look suspicious to you.”
“Why one out of three?”
“Because I am excluding pop stars. Include them, and the percentage goes up.”
“Oleg Alexandrovich, socks have nothing to do with it. He was leaving through the arch and turned back to look. Demeanor, pose, movement… Do you understand? I was running after him…”
A playful melody started playing; Burkov, a guilty expression on his face, pulled out his cell phone. As he listened, his face brightened.
“Oleg Alexandrovich, the traffic police finally detained Viktor Chervyakov’s truck,” he said excitedly. “The one who wanted money for the information on the Shahid woman.”
“Where is he?” the colonel reacted quickly.
Burkov repeated the question into his phone and waited for an answer.
“Il’ich Square.”
“Let’s go. Let him stew until we get there. I’ll talk to him myself. Along the way, tell me everything you saw near the Mayakovsky Monument. The prosecutor’s office is already working there. You’ll have to tell them, too.”
Chapter 48
September 1, 3:35 PM
A Supermarket Parking Lot
Vlasov’s beige “sixer” sat in a parking lot in front of a large supermarket. Andrei figured that here, his car would be the least conspicuous and they could safely pass time before the train to Volgograd. For the last five minutes, he and Aiza sat quietly and listened to the disturbing news on the radio. Every news item concerned the school holdup in Beslan.
“Now they wouldn’t spare me,” Aiza whispered. “Even if I turn myself in and tell everything.”
“But you haven’t done anything,” Andrei objected weakly, although he realized she was right.
Regardless of how the Beslan situation ends, there would be a more aggressive action against anyone involved in terrorism. Authorities would step it up, and so would private citizens. Andrei thought back to himself lusting for revenge after his girlfriend was taken hostage at Nord Ost. Now there were young children among the hostages! What would parents do? If they decide to avenge, what would stop them? Who would talk them out of it and comfort them?
Goosebumps ran down Andrei’s back. It would be easier to become a hostage than imagine your child in the hands of the bandits. He winced and looked at Aiza. The girl was shaking, almost like she did last night.
At the end of the newscast, the broadcaster said, “Two hours ago, Umar Osmaev, a celebrity sports broadcaster and former world and European wrestling champion, was shot dead in Moscow, near the Mayakovsky Monument. His wife, who was with him at the time, was critically wounded. The assailant escaped. The investigators are not disclosing any details of the crime, nor are they offering any theories. As far as we know, Osmaev, an ethnic Chechen, has on multiple occasions refused to support the authorities of the self-proclaimed republic. It is possible that their patience ran out and they executed the celebrity to teach an object lesson to others. At the same time, the events of the last few days lead us to believe that Osmaev might have known the instigators or the implementers of the acts of terror. If that’s the case, he could have been neutralized as a dangerous witness.”
While the broadcaster spoke, Aiza looked petrified. Her eyes weren’t moving; it seemed she wasn’t eve breathing. When the newscast was over and sad music started playing, the girl’s body started shaking ever worse than before. Andrei put his hand on the cold palm of her hand.
“No! Don’t touch me!” the girl screamed and shrank back from him. “Murderers!”
“Aiza, calm down,” Andrei gently put his hand on the girl’s shoulder.
Her black eyes flashed, betraying a mix of desperation and anger. Furious, Aiza sank her teeth into the young man’s wrist. Andrei pulled his hand away; he wanted to curse, but said only, “Here we go again…”
The car door slammed; quick steps sounded off the asphalt. Aiza ran along the building, bumping into the passerby. Andrei massaged his bitten hand, where new bloody dents have just been added to yesterday’s blue dots.
He caught up with her behind the supermarket’s corner, squeezed her shoulders, and pinned her to the wall. The girl pushed at him, jerked her head, and scratched.
“They killed him, they killed him — ”
“No more biting, you rabid tigress. Enough!” Andrei pinned her hands to her sides.
“They killed him,” she wailed.
“Be quiet! Did you know him?”
“They killed him!”
“Were you coming to see him?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Don’t yell!”
“They killed him.”
“I know. But why?”
“Because of me.”
“Were you coming to see him?”
“Yes! They killed him. Because of me. They’ll kill you to. Leave me alone!”
“I will. But first, I’ll put you on the train.”
“I’ll blow everyone up. Or surrender. I don’t care. Let them kill me, too. Why did you stop me yesterday?”
“Shut up, you!”
Andrei shook the girl vigorously. Aiza shook her head, her eyes half-closed, and droned on and on, “I don’t want to live. They killed my fiancé, they killed Umar. They killed everyone! Mother cursed me. I’ve got no reason to live.”
“You will live! You will” Andrei screamed. “Now be quiet and listen to me. Now we’re going to go back to the car. Then we’ll drive to the station. You’ll get on the train, and tomorrow, you’ll be at your girlfriend’s in Volgograd. She’ll help you. Over there, there is no war. You’ll start a new life. You’re young, you have to live. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You’ll learn how to walk in high heels and how to dress fashionably. A good man will fall in love with you. You will have a wedding. You will be a bride. The most beautiful bride in the world.”
When she heard it, Aiza went soft.
“Really?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“I’ll have a dress like those girls at the vista point over the river?”
“Yes. You’ll have the best dress ever.”
“The best?”
“Yes.”
“What will it look like?”
“You’ll pick it out yourself. You’ll go to the best store and pick out the best dress.”
“Myself?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll pick white.”
“Of course.”
“A long white dress. And my hands and shoulders will be bare.”
“Promise me.”
“What?”
“That you’ll invite me to your wedding.”
The girl’s eyes, glistening with tears, looked up to Andrei. She nodded. Aiza’s cheeks were wet, her lips swelled up a little, her hair was tangled, but her shoulder no longer shook. Andrei realized that he was touching the girl’s hips and feeling her moist breath on his face. He couldn’t move away.
“Are you going to bite me again?” he asked feeling an irresistible power drawing him to the girl’s slightly open lips.
“No,” she promised and turned away at the last moment.
His eyes caught a glimpse of the birthmark on her craning neck. He leaned forward and touched the raised brown spot with his lips. Just as he did a long time ago with the other, blond girl.
Aiza slipped out of his embrace.
“We can’t,” she whispered and adjusted her hair. “We have to go to the station.”
After Andrei touched the birthmark, memories overwhelmed him once again. In his head the old drum beat was playing again: I have to save the girl with a birthmark. I have to.
Chapter 49
Nord Ost
Day Three, Night
I came here to save the woman I love, Vlasov kept telling himself and tried to crawl as slowly as possible along the pipes heading away from the held-up theater. He realized that the special forces soldiers have left and waiter for a good time to return. After crawling a couple of meters, he heard several explosions from above. Then, short bursts of assault rifle fire coming from all over the place.
It’s a breach! Andrei figured out and happily thought, Finally!
But right away, he was scared; what’s going to happen to Sveta? Gunfire didn’t stop. Andrei returned to the basement to find his girl and to be with her. He had combat survival experience.
Once again, Andrei was in the low-ceilinged basement with pipes coming through and large valves on them. He rushed through an opening in the concrete wall and ran on along a narrow corridor through which he thought the special forces soldiers have left. Lighting was spotty. Andrei carefully threaded forward, ankle deep in water. Running above his head was a ventilation duct; a strange hissing sound issued from it.
Suddenly, an abrupt spasm constricted his throat. His vision blurred, his stomach constricted, and he immediately vomited. Massaging his stone-hard throat, he blundered back to the now-familiar room. A slight draft came in above the pipes. Andrei stuck his head into it. His mouth greedily swallowed the fresh air. Tears flowed out of his eyes.
Behind him, unsteady footsteps plopped on the water; there was heavy breathing. Vlasov turned around. A man dressed in a track suit appeared in the opening. The man was unsteady on his feet and held a black rag up to his mouth with one hand.
“One of the hostages escaped,” Andrei thought happily. He wanted to ask the man what was happening upstairs, but suddenly something occurred to him: who would wear a track suit to theater? Right then, the stranger cast the rag away. A knit mask with openings for eyes and mouth flattened on the water. The stranger’s bandaged hand raised a gun. The black eye of the barrel stared mercilessly into Andrei’s forehead.
A shot rang. A moment before that, Andrei fell down and roll off to the side. The bullet hit the wall like a hammer.
Andrei hand closed on a large disconnected valve on the floor next to him; without thinking, he hurled it at the unshaven bleary-eyed face. The stranger tried to evade, but didn’t succeed; his movements were too slow. Andrei used it to his advantage. When the piece of iron hit the adversary’s face, he cursed and tried to take another shot, but Andrei rushed at him, bowing his head low. He pushed the terrorist off his feet, and they both fell into the water. The bandit kept pulling the trigger, but Andrei seized the hand holding the gun. Bullets went into the water with a hiss.
Vlasov stared into a face distorted by rage. His hands were busy, so he head-butted his adversary on the nose. On collision, the bandit went soft, while Andrei almost fainted. After he pulled himself together, Andrei turned the adversary onto his stomach and tied his hands with his belt. On the palm of the incapacitated enemy’s right hand, the shifted bandage revealed a stab wound.
So we’ve met, Andrei thought, recalling the stabbing of the hand holding a gun on the first day of the holdup. He ran his hand under the dirty water, found the gun, and stuck it into his pocket. Just to be sure, he frisked the terrorist. He found a knife and hid it in his sock, under the leg of his pants.
The victor’s intoxicating rage poured over Vlasov. What was he going to do with the incapacitated enemy, drown or shoot? Or cut his throat, as was done in Chechnya to our captured soldiers? No, the bandit wouldn’t get an easy way out. He would crack his head open and look at his stupid brains flow out into the dirty puddle. He had to avenge the fear and humiliation experienced by Svetlana and everyone else who suffered upstairs for three days.
His eyes narrowed. His hand started looking for the valve on the floor.
From the depth of the basement, he heard firm footsteps approaching quickly. More terrorists? He’d fight them! Now he was armed.
The gun was waiting for a target to appear in the dark opening. A figure moved behind it. Andrei pulled the trigger. Instead of a shot, a quiet click. Damn, the bandit used up all the bullets! What was he going to do?
The barrel of an assault rifle peeked through the opening; an articulate command followed, “Drop you weapon! Hands up!”
The voice sounded strangely muted, but Andrei recognized the special forces soldier he recently spoke to. The gun fell into the puddle, his hands went up.
Two soldiers came in, assault rifles at the ready. On their sleeves, on top of the camouflage, they wore makeshift white armbands. One of them stopped next to the wheezing Chechen.
“He’s alive,” he reported. “Bastard, he managed to lose the camouflage.”
“Did you tie him up?” the other one asked Andrei.
“Yes.”
“Did you take his gun? Or did we do a bad pat-down on you?”
“It’s his.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“My girlfriend’s here.”
“Okay, we’ll take him,” the soldier pointed to the Chechen with the barrel of his rifle, “and you get out of here,” he resolved, speaking to Andrei.
Andrei relaxed and asked, “What happened to the hostages? Have you seen a girl? Blond — ”
“I said, get out of here,” the soldier suddenly got angry and raised his rifle.
“I just wanted — ”
A burst of gunfire went above his head. Pieces of concrete hit him on the back.
He had to obey. Once again, Andrei was crawling through the cramped passage. Behind him, in the basement, a single shot rang, muffled. Andrei froze. Special forces didn’t take prisoners? Or do they have their own revenge?
When he dropped out of the concrete trough into the factory basement, Andrei realized that he was soaking wet. His cracked head hummed, his scratched back ached. He spread his wet clothes on hot pipes, leaned against the wall, and tried calling Svetlana at home. She could already be there!
But the damp phone refused to work.
When he dried out somewhat, Vlasov made it out of the factory and walked to the theater’s main entrance.
Among the general confusion, under the huge Nord Ost sign, he ran into the ecstatic Polina Ivanovna.
“Andryusha, it’s all over. Everyone’s got rescued. They were all taken to the hospital. Praise God, Andryusha. Praise God!” the happy woman mumbled, the skin under her eyes still dark from recent worries.
He hugged Polina Ivanovna, surprised how much older she looked now.
Chapter 50
September 1, 3:50 PM
Paveletsky Station, Front Square
Leaning back in his seat, Aslan Kitkiev was taking a nap in his car. Now he had on a beige suit and a black silk shirt. After the events near Mayakovskaya, he decided to change clothes, still adhering to the color contrast. At some point in the past, he decided that it would go with the bright and creative persona he tried to project. If random women he met at casinos and restaurants asked him what he did for a living, he would push his eyebrows together and say seriously, “I work complicated social cohesion projects.” The phrase impressed the hell out of restaurant butterflies. If a woman tried to pry for details, Aslan would move closer and say, “If you know too much, you’ll get old quickly.” Then he would laugh showing his teeth, while the broad would wrinkle her forehead in vain attempts to understand what the joke was.
The burgundy “niner” with tinted windows had been sitting among other cars in front of the Paveletsky Station for about an hour. Fatima came and plopped into the back seat.
“You should at least keep the doors locked, watchman.”
Aslan started, but immediately took on a severe look. He barked, “I know what I am doing, woman!”
They already had a pointed conversation at the safe house, when it became apparent that instead of Aiza, Aslan shot Osmaev’s wife.
Fatima, eager to verify the demise of the dangerous witness, walked up and down Tverskaya since noon. When a crowd of onlookers gathered around the Mayakovsky Monument after the shooting, she pressed her way to the monument and immediately realized Aslan’s mistake. Only a stupid man could confuse Aiza’s dark-blue dress with Osmaev’s wife’s dark-blue suit. Even if two women had similar body type, hair color, and clothes coloring, you would have to look at the cut! You’d seen it in the morning! Aiza wore a fitted dress. The other woman had on a skirt and a jacket down to her hips! In a word, a stupid man, an idiot!
Fatima was beside herself with anger when she met up with Aslan at the safe house. She let her feelings be known and told him everything she’d been thinking during their month-long joint operation. In the past, she transported the “brides of Allah” from Chechnya on her own; she also picked the destinations for their terminal journeys. This time, the clients decided to go high-profile and ordered her to blow up airplanes and the subway. Her capacity had been doubted, so a young stud was sent in.
Fatima was insulted by the distrust. The working relationship with the partner immediately went sour. Aslan was arrogant and disdainful. Whatever she had to say, he always replied through his teeth, “Woman, do as I say and stay quiet.” Fatima endured, looking forward to the completion of the operation and returning to working solo.
The boy managed to pull the airplane business. He lucked out with the greedy airport employees. Although everything was hanging by a thread until the last minute. Indeed! No reconnaissance, no preparation. Everything done on the fly!
As to Aiza, he blundered. Big time! Aiza not only failed to act, but ended up in the hands on a person unknown whose goals were unclear. But she had a chance to learn a lot, and if she talked, Fatima’s portrait would be on display in every police station. That would mean goodbye to Moscow.
But that wasn’t the most threatening part. Aiza could tell about where young women desperate to die come from. Then the legend of holy warriors fighting for faith and freedom would take some serious damage.
When she returned to the safe house, Fatima was enraged and quickly deflated the snotty boy’s ego puffed up by his self-proclaimed heroism. Aslan talked back, but checked the attitude. Then he said, “The bitch has nowhere to go! We’ll find her at the station. You find her, if you’re so observant. And I’ll finish her.”
The stakeout at the station was dragging out. Aslan turned his head this way and that to exercise his stiff neck and asked nonchalantly, “What’s up?”
“They aren’t here,” Fatima pursed her lips unhappily.
“They’ll show up. I have a feeling.”
“You already showed what your feelings are worth at Mayakovsky Square.”
“Shut up. I killed a pest. He who is not with us is against us!”
“That’s what Stalin used to say.”
“Really? So I guess we can learn from him, too.”
“Good thing the Russians forgot how he used to treat unruly ethnic groups.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The forced relocation of our fathers and grandfathers in 1944.”
“Whoa! Teacher you were, teacher you are. When’s the train to Volgograd?”
“Used to be Stalingrad.”
“Enough of your lessons! When’s the train?”
“In an hour and a little bit.”
“Why did we get here so early?”
“Where else would we be looking for her?”
The argument ended. Fatima watched the square craning her neck. Aslan felt for the gun in his waistband. It calmed him down.
“Over there, look!” Fatima pointed her finger. “The car moving. Looks right.”
“Where?” Aslan started.
“Over there, in the front. A beige ‘sixer’. I couldn’t see the license plate. Go check it out! There were two people inside, a man and a brunette woman.”
Aslan Kitkiev adjusted the collar of his shirt, got out of the car, and strolled along the parking lot. He spotted the beige “sixer” from about thirty meters away. He stepped aside and hid behind a billboard. He took out a coin, then dropped it onto the asphalt. Aslan bent over to pick it up; his narrowed eyes glanced at the car’s bumper.
The license plate number matched! Aslan quickly squatted, picked up the coin, and glanced into the car. The windshield glared, but he was still able to see two people inside. It had to be them!
The coin went back into the change pocket of his coat. His fingers moved lower and gripped the handle of the gun.
Calm down, Aslan said to himself. This time, I must not make a mistake. First, I take a look at their mugs.
Chapter 51
September 1, 3:55 PM
Il’ich Square
Viktor Chervyakov looked at his watch once again. It’s been thirty minutes since traffic police stopped his truck with a cargo of vodka. He didn’t break any traffic laws, but the traffic police could still check the cargo for explosives, weapons, and other suspicious items. After each act of terror in Moscow, these checks intensified and checkpoints on the way into the city turned into traffic jams.
This time around, the check was running much longer than usual. Two traffic cops took turns checking the paperwork and going into the cargo hold, where they moved around boxes of bottles. They frowned and grumbled, but couldn’t find anything wrong. Viktor, as usual, offered them money or vodka to settle the misunderstanding, but the cops demonstratively ignored his hints. Finally, they retreated to their patrol car, taking his paperwork and the keys to the truck with them.
Chervyakov angrily tossed the half-smoked cigarette. The time was running. He wasn’t looking forward to explaining to his employer, an Armenian named Avik, his failure to deliver the goods to the stores. Viktor suppressed his irritation and once again struck up a conversation with the senior of the two cops, a captain.
“Come on, guys. You’ve checked every piece of paper five times already.”
“Your cargo papers are all wrong,” the captain replied lazily.
“That’s what I deliver on every day!”
“That was yesterday; today, everything’s different.”
“Why?”
“That’s the way this country operates. You’re not an American, are you?”
“I am of this country.”
“So quit asking stupid questions,” the other cop interjected. “The people who know are coming; they’ll explain.”
“Should we split in peace?” Viktor made a rustling sound with a banknote.
“Moscow police doesn’t take bribes,” the captain said sadly and looked away.
“Yesterday, they did, but not today! Where have you come from to give me grief?”
“Don’t be a pest!” The captain shot Chervyakov a dirty look and turned toward the sound of an arriving Volga, which cut through the intersection with complete disregard for traffic laws and parked against the truck’s front bumper. “Now here are the seekers of your soul.”
The salt-and-pepper buzz cut on colonel Grigoriev’s round head emerged from the Volga. The traffic police captain spryly jumped out of his car to greet him. They exchanged a few sentences; the paperwork went into Grigoriev’s hands, and the traffic cops left visibly relieved.
Oleg Alexandrovich cast a gloomy look over Chervyakov’s shapeless form, took him by his elbow, and had him get behind the wheel of his truck. A slight nod of the gray-haired head, and Yuri Burkov took up a post near the driver-side door. Grigoriev got into the cabin with the dumbfounded Chervyakov. He’s a softie, the colonel figured, and decided to break straight through.
“Viktor,” Oleg Alexandrovich peered into Chervyakov’s confused face, “this morning, you called the emergency number and wanted to disclose the whereabouts of the Shahid woman.”
“I did?” Chervyakov’s eyes rounded with fear rather than surprise.
“Yes, you did!” Grigoriev said sternly and continued to apply pressure. “So, what do you know about the suicide bomber?”
“I only, um, wanted to find out about the ransom, I mean, the reward.”
“All in due time. Now tell me, where is the terrorist hiding?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Stop wriggling! We already know a lot.”
“And who exactly are you?”
“Federal Security Service.”
Now Chervyakov was even more scared. His shoulder pressed against the driver’s door. He looked out the window rolled down part-way, but saw the stern face of Yuri Burkov.
“Silence is futile!” Grigoriev warned him severely. “What do you know of the terrorist?”
“Um, nothing…”
“I’m going to give you one last chance.”
Viktor nervously licked his lips and dropped to a whisper.
“I don’t know if she’s the terrorist or not.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“Last nigh, at my neighbor’s… In the evening, after the explosion at Rizhskaya. I was listening to the news and drinking vodka. Not a lot, just a little. To the peace of the untimely departed.”
“Cut to the chase.”
“Okay. Andrei, my neighbor, came by. I invited myself to his apartment, to talks about the news. At his place, there was a woman wearing dark clothes. Looks like a Chechen, and sort of beside herself. I asked him jokingly if he dragged a Shahid home. He only barked, ‘What do you care?’ That was the conversation. Then I left.”
Grigoriev pulled out a few photos.
“Take a look; do you recognize anyone?”
Chervyakov put the first picture to the bottom of the stack and immediately exclaimed, “That’s her!”
“Are you sure?”
“Um, yes. Andrei said her name was, um, what was it? Gyurza?”
“Aiza?”
“That’s it! Aiza! There was something of a snake about her.[3]”
Grigoriev frowned and put away the photos.
“What’s the neighbor’s last name?”
“Vlasov. Andrei Vlasov.”
“Where does he work?”
“Right now, he doesn’t. He’s bumming.”
“He’s what?” The colonel thought he heard bombing.
“Um, I mean, he drives a gypsy cab.”
“What kind of car does he have?”
“A ‘sixer’, beige.”
“License place?”
“I don’t remember. What’s it to me?”
“Is the car registered to him?”
“I think so.”
“Where could he be now?”
“No idea. Hacking, I guess.”
“Does Vlasov have a mobile phone?”
“Yes. These days, who doesn’t?”
“Number?”
Viktor Chervyakov calmed down a little, rolled the window further down, and spit through his teeth.
“Do you know his phone number?” Grigoriev urged him on.
“Look, you said something about the reward.”
“What have you got in the cargo hold?”
“Vodka. I work for a company, deliver it to stores. Everything is by the book.”
“That’s going to be your reward!”
“How so?”
“We could confiscate it. And investigate the hell out of the company. We’d find something or other.”
“You’re crazy…”
“Vlasov’s phone number?”
“I forgot.” Viktor pursed his lips, offended by apparent disrespect.
Grigoriev swiftly pulled a mobile phone out of Chervyakov’s pocket.
“What are you doing?” Viktor, agitated, reached for his phone.
“Calm down!” Grigoriev stopped Viktor with a firm gesture. He flipped through the phone’s contact list. “Here. Says Andrei Vlasov. Is it him?”
“Yes,” Viktor agreed dejectedly.
“Sit tight.”
Grigoriev jumped out of the truck and handed the phone to Burkov.
“Yura, lean on the mobile operator and find out the location of this subscriber; then get in touch with the office and have them find out all they can about Andrei Vlasov, the neighbor of Viktor Chervyakov.”
Oleg Alexandrovich got into the official Volga and made a call.
“Colonel Grigoriev speaking. The preliminary information about Aiza Guzieva has been confirmed. She is the next ‘bomb’. She is assisted by one Andrei Vlasov. First lieutenant Burkov will give you additional information. We need to put taps on Vlasov’s mobile and home phones. And quickly send someone down to Il’ich Square. We need to hold the truck driver, Viktor Chervyakov, lest he tips Vlasov off.”
Chapter 52
September 1, 4:00 PM
Paveletsky Station, Square
Aslan Kitkiev came out from behind the billboard, but didn’t go straight to Vlasov’s car; instead, he went around. He knew how to learn from his mistakes and decided to approach from behind to ensure the element of surprise. This Vlasov character reacted way too well in the morning; he didn’t even flinch at the gun. During the few moments Aslan was enjoying Aiza’s confusion, the guy was able to work out a response.
Now Aslan would deny him the chance. He’d quietly come up from behind, make sure that the right targets were in the car, and pull the trigger right away. The quick-to-move guy would have to die first, before he has a chance to resist. Then, the brainless Aiza. The bucking goat would go where she was supposed to end up yesterday.
Trying to avoid attention, Aslan made a wide circle on the square and started walking back when he got behind the parked cars. Three cars before the beige “sixer”, he stopped and waited for the foot traffic to pass.
As if to taunt him, a large family was noisily piling up into a tiny Ford. The father, supervised by the relative/pick-up driver, was hard at work at loading suitcases and bags; a fat woman reported to someone on the phone that they made it all right, but were very tired; the little plump son jumped up and down, happy to have missed the first day of school. Finally, the Ford, riding low under its immense load, pulled away from the curb.
Aslan looked around. The busy square was full of people, but there was no one in his immediate vicinity. Two pops wouldn’t be noticed against the background of city noises; he could act now. The important thing was to do everything quickly, so that the disgraced whore wouldn’t scream between the shots. The first shot, to the meddling guy’s head, should be precise and unexpected.
Vlasov wasn’t just a meddler, Aslan fanned the flames of his rage, he was an enemy! He thwarted a first-rate act of retribution in the enemy’s lair, he cheated Aslan out of fifty thousand dollars that were rightly his, he was guarding the good-for-nothing bitch capable of giving incriminating testimony. For all that, he had to die. And die he would, before the next minute was up, Kitkiev fed the flame of his vengeance.
He knew that rage helped him to fight fear. Aslan always had the fear of confrontation, of the stand-up fight against an adversary.
He remembered how he shivered during his first attack on a convoy of federal troops. The advantage was clearly on the side of his large detachment. First, the experienced grenade launchers shot down the first armored personnel carrier and the last one. Then, the cross fire rained from above on the soldiers jumping out of the vehicles. That was cool! Like in the movies! The Russians, caught unaware, dropped dead in droves. Along with everyone else, young Aslan was shooting. Deafened by the sound of gunfire, he kept squeezing the trigger, always taking his time to realize he needed to reload.
But then it got scary. The surviving soldiers retreated to a gutter and returned fire. A bullet went by; Aslan heard its disgusting whistle. Another grazed the rock behind which Aslan was hiding; a fragment tore into his hand. Aslan didn’t leave his shelter anymore; he curled into a ball in a fit of animal fear and whimpered quietly, holding on to the scratch.
The firefight didn’t last long. Actually, it was a slaughter of a federal detachment caught in a tight spot. Aslan crawled from behind the rock when the shooting died down and the victors started screaming excitedly. The fighters walked among the dead, shooting at the corpses just in case.
Aslan crawled from behind the rock and limped down the slope; a wet pant leg unpleasantly sticking to his thigh. He looked down and saw a big wet spot on his crotch. Only then did he realize that he actually peed himself and hadn’t noticed. His disgrace was about to become apparent.
His quick mind immediately suggested a solution. Aslan pretended to stumble and fell into a puddle next to an overturned truck. When he got up, his pants smelled like alcohol. It turned out that the liquid in the puddle flowed out of a damaged canister the Russians used to transport some kind of wine or moonshine mix. Aslan got laughed at, but kindly so.
Then everyone started looking for trophies. They took watches and gold chains off the dead bodies, pulled out the wallets. Officers were the first pick, and some serious arguments erupted over who gets to go through their pockets. Aslan didn’t touch the dead; back then, he wasn’t yet used to seeing bloody corpses. He looked inside a cabin of a truck and found a camcorder in a bag. His eyes brightened with excitement. He knew his gadgets and immediately turned the camcorder on to see if it was damaged. The viewfinder showed the picture and the Rec indicator; the counter digits started running.
When he got a better grip on the camcorder, Aslan slowly turned around. The camcorder recorded the shot down vehicles, the smoking debris, the excited bearded faces. Some raised their hands into the air, shook their weapons, and yelled “Allah akbar!” into the lens. Aslan climbed on a truck’s hood and panned over the dead enemies. Through the viewfinder, even the bodies torn apart by explosions didn’t look scary; it was like watching it on TV.
Aslan played with controls to zoom in; he was shooting stars on the officers’ tabs. A face showed for a moment, looking down into the ground, one eye open. The eye looked alive. Aslan panned back; now the eye was closed. He died after all, Aslan thought, and kept the lens trained on the young soldier’s face. Suddenly, the eyelashes opened, the eyeball jerked and the eye closed again. Aslan screamed, pointing out the suspicious body.
The soldier turned out to be alive and not even wounded. He was raised by kicks, but not allowed to get up from his knees. A brief interrogation produced no results. The terrified soldier, it seemed, lost the ability to speak. But what could he tell anyway? The convoy’s origin and destination were already known.
The commander called Aslan over, ordered everyone else to make room, and ordered a close-up video of the Russian to be taken. The soldier’s hands were tied behind his back, his head was pulled back, his thin neck curved forward. Then, a knife entered the picture; the steel blade reflected the rays of sun. As someone screamed “Allah akbar!”, the knife cut the soldier’s throat. The entire wide blade cut into the neck. Bloody foam issued from the cut, the lungs let out the last breath. The executioner’s hand leaned the head aside; the wide wound gaped like a red toothless mouth. The knife, its job finished, looked like it had been dipped into crimson oil. A large drop fell of the pointed end. The head was released. The neck looked broken, like that of a damaged doll; the body fell face down. Aslan kept shooting as the dry soil under the soldier’s unnaturally turned head swelled with the dark moisture.
Once again, Aslan wasn’t scared. Through the viewfinder, everything looked like a movie, and in the movies, they show far scarier things.
When Aslan showed his recording on a TV screen the following day, the commander praised his efforts. After that, Aslan Kitkiev became the resident videographer. He no longer had to engage in open combat. He was taken only on missions where success was virtually guaranteed so that he could produce a report of a decisive victory. A well-made report brought in good money for the commanders.
The numerous hostages brought in money, too. Aslan shot their pleas, humiliation and torture. And he did it creatively. Wherever Aslan worked, the receipt of ransom was more likely. And if the ransom failed to materialize, Aslan would shoot a summary execution, a lesson to the principled and the difficult.
Gradually, Aslan realized that a video camera was a weapon of sorts. An effective weapon of mind control. Using the camera, he made more than a few girls into Shahids. A few weeks of humiliation and violence caught on tape, and a new suicide attacker was ready to die anywhere, as long as it happened soon. But there were misfires, too. Girls committed suicide before their designated time. Aslan convinced his commanders that only he could lead his charges to the end. He wanted to live in a big city and wear nice suits, not bum around mountainside villages wearing canvas pants.
In reality, even Aslan couldn’t keep the “living weapons” from self-destructing, but that problem was solvable. He manufactured a ready supply of suicide attackers; if one died, another wouldn’t be far behind. What’s more, there were plenty of those willing to facilitate the preliminary preparations.
Aslan still remembered how to shoot. Especially at the unarmed. He actually liked it. He was still afraid of the open confrontation, but finish someone off or shoot from behind was a different matter altogether. An enemy’s body was better than an enemy alive.
Aslan checked his weapon once again and stepped up to Vlasov’s car. In his mind, he already saw a hole in the glass with a pattern of fine cracks around it and a tiny bloody dent in the side of the guy’s fair-haired head. Tiny from the gun side, that is; on the other side, where the bullet gets out—
Aslan imagined a fountain of torn flesh fly out of the guy’s head and smear the girl’s cheek. If only someone could film his heroic act of reprisal perpetrated upon an enemy and a traitor, Aslan thought with regret.
Finally, there was the trunk of the beige “sixer”, and no one close by. The tall backs of bucket seats shielded the car’s occupants. He pulled out the gun. Two firm steps, and Aslan pointed the gun at the driver-side window.
Chapter 53
September 1, 4:15 PM
Aslan’s Car
Aslan Kitkiev beat a hasty retreat to his car. The door slammed. Aslan plopped onto a seat and closed his eyes in exhaustion. He almost got caught. Brandishing a long hand cannon in a public place in broad daylight — lunacy! He had to at least cover the gun with a jacket or a newspaper, like he did at the Mayakovsky Monument.
“So, how did it go?” Fatima asked.
Aslan wondered if the driver of the car that passed him by saw the gun in his hand. Never mind, it wasn’t important. Aslan already made a new decision.
“Was it them?” Fatima wouldn’t let up.
He stared at the woman’s tight cardigan. Aslan waved his hand.
“Move to the back seat.”
“What for?” Fatima was surprised.
“Just do it, woman. Don’t ask.”
“Was it his car?”
“It was. Are you moving or what?”
Fatima peered stubbornly into Aslan’s face and didn’t move.
“How did it go?”
Aslan ignored her question and asked his.
“Were there two on them in the car?”
“Yes, I saw two people.”
“So did I. But when I got close, the car was empty.”
Fatima was momentarily taken aback; then she said, “They’re around here somewhere.”
“Don’t I know it! Get out. I’ve got a new plan.”
“What is it?”
“Listen, woman, I am not going to play with your feet!” Aslan said menacingly.
Fatima frowned and moved to the back seat. Aslan leaned toward the front passenger seat and pulled a small bundle from under it.
“I’ll give them a royal welcome,” he said with a smile, playing with the bundle, as if trying to guess its weight. “Now you go into the station and look for our couple near the ticket windows. If they separate, follow Aiza. The guy isn’t going to get away now.”
Aslan tore the bundle. He put a heavy black box the size of a large soap bar into one pocket of his coat and something tiny looking like a remote control, into another.
“I already saw all the police I could handle; they even checked my papers.” Fatima demonstratively turned away and looked out the window. “You missed the girl, now you fix it!”
Aslan threw Fatima an evil look; he wanted to flare up, but decided against it.
“All right,” he said through his teeth, “here’s what we’re going to do. You, woman, get behind the wheel and drive across the intersection. Then stop and wait for me. When you hear an explosion, don’t you dare leave without me!”
Fatima cast a sideways look at Aslan’s bulging pocket.
“What have you got there?”
“A toy! Remotely controlled,” Aslan smirked. “You got it? When I leave, you drive. Over here, it’s going to be panic soon.”
“After the explosion, I wait no linger than five minutes,” Fatima warned.
“What a businesslike bitch!” Aslan shook his head.
He retraced his steps around the parking lot. Near Vlasov’s beige “sixer”, he leaned down. The black box was briefly visible in his hand, a switch clicked, and the explosive device attached magnetically to the car’s bottom under the driver seat.
After he brushed the dust off his light suit, Aslan Kitkiev walked toward the station in a great mood. Pushing a button from a distance was way more comfortable than shooting a gun point blank. If nothing else, this way no suit gets ruined.
Chapter 54
September 1, 4:20 PM
Paveletsky Station, Exit
With one hand, Andrei Vlasov held the heavy door; with the other, he gently touched Aiza’s waist as he was letting her pass through and out into the square. He could feel her slender flexible body under the light dress. Andrei caught himself thinking that he wanted to bend his arm so that the girl bumped into his chest. He withdrew his hand with some difficulty, as if overcoming a magnetic field.
“All right. Now you know the platform your train is going to be leaving from.”
“I do.”
“You won’t get lost, will you?”
“No.”
They stood awkwardly near the station entrance, not looking at each other. Andrei looked at his watch.
“There’s still a lot of time left; let’s go sit in the car.”
“I’ll wait inside the station,” the girl said looking down.
“There’s lots of police inside.”
“In this dress and with the sunglasses, no one would recognize me. And I changed my hair, too.” Aiza gave a small smile and adjusted the hairpin they bought at the supermarket.
Andrei looked at the girl affectionately and thought back to yesterday.
“You are different now.”
“Maybe,” Aiza blushed. “Thank you, Andrei.”
“What for? I didn’t even show you the city properly.”
Aiza lifted up the shopping bag with purchases.
“What about these?” Suddenly, her eyes rounded, lips pursed; she grabbed Andrei’s hand in fear. “It’s him!”
Vlasov turned around. With a crooked smile on his face, Aslan Kitkiev was approaching them. There was something insolent and arrogant in the way he walked.
Andrei quickly evaluated the situation. They were standing next to the entrance into a railway station. They could hide inside; lots of people and heavy police presence there. But they couldn’t run or fuss; that would draw attention. Aiza’s changed appearance was no guarantee against an intent look by a professional; she might still be recognized as the wanted Shahid. Here, at the entrance, it was busy, too; people moved through the doors, an ice cream cart was nearby; twenty meters away, a police patrol. Attacking here would be major-league lunacy. Perhaps Aslan wanted to scare them into running. In that case, he was mistaken.
Andrei shielded the girl with his body and put his car keys into the palm of her hand.
“Go to the car, I’ll talk to him.”
“He’s got a gun!”
“He wouldn’t dare to shoot here.”
“Andrei, be careful, he is insidious.”
“Get in the car, lock the doors from the inside, and wait for me. Okay, go.” Andrei gently pushed the girl aside and took a step toward Aslan.
Kitkiev stopped and watched Aiza move. Vlasov kept looking at his hands. As long as they were empty, there was no danger. Andrei decided to close in; that way, he might be able to prevent shooting if the adversary reached for a weapon.
Kitkiev jerked his head looking alternatively at Aiza and Andrei. When he saw the girl bet in the cat, he calmed down; a condescending smile appeared on his face. Andrei stopped a meter away. Aslan’s look turned turbid. For a minute or so, the young men intently studied each other.
Andrei gave up first.
“Leave the girl alone,” he demanded firmly.
“Who are you?”
The simple question puzzled Andrei somewhat. Indeed, who was he to the Chechen girl he met less than twenty-four hours ago?
“A friend.”
“Whores are quick to find friends.”
“Hey, you! Take it easy.” Andrei clenched his fists, but held himself in check. “Aiza isn’t coming back to you.”
“I don’t need her anymore. I have to take her back to her family.”
“To her family? Not send her to Allah?”
“That’s her choice. I can’t stand in the way.”
“And who was it that didn’t leave her any other options? I know a lot, Aslan.”
“That’s too bad, Russian. The heavy head falls first.”
“Don’t you threaten me! I can still turn you in to the police.” Vlasov nodded toward the police patrol.
“Quiet, Russian, don’t be noisy. I think they’d be more interested in you than in me. Give me the girl, and we can part friends.”
“What a friend I’d have in you! I’ll take care of Aiza. You, bastard, get out of here.”
“I’ll kill you, scum!” Aslan pushed forward. His eyes showed rage; his nose seemed to sharpen.
Something looked familiar to Andrei in the enemy’s hostile expression. He saw someone very much alike before.
“Now I remember where I was a mug just like yours.”
“What?”
“At Nord Ost, in the basement, except the nose was smashed.”
“What?”
“Okay, hero, step aside.”
Andrei pushed Aslan aside and walked to his car without looking back. He was certain there would be no shooting.
Kitkiev took a step back as the last words of the damned Russian were painfully sinking in. What was that about Nord Ost? And the familiar face? Aslan’s brother died there.
The enemy’s back moved away effortlessly. It made Kitkiev mad. He frowned as his heart was pounding heavily. Deep within him, a blood feud was swelling up, mercilessly poking him with long straight needles. Now Aslan’s motivation was no longer exclusive to neutralizing a dangerous witness; now he had a holy reason to get rid of the proud Russian. Killing him wouldn’t be just necessary; it would be pleasant, too. It was Aslan’s obligation to his brother.
Kitkiev saw Andrei Vlasov walk to his car and open the door. Aslan’s hand went into his coat pocket; his fingers touched the remote control.
Aslan waited for his enemy to get behind the wheel; then he would push the button. Then the revenge would be accomplished. The charge will detonate right under the Russian.
Chapter 55
September 1, 4:30 PM
FSS Officers’ Volga
First lieutenant Yuri Burkov lowered the mobile phone, which he’d held to his ear for about ten minutes demanding something or other from the person on the other end of the line every now and then. He turned to his supervisor, a happy grin on his face.
“Colonel, they tagged him.”
The Volga made an abrupt turn. Burkov’s body hit the glove box; he grabbed the handle above the door.
“Report precisely!” Grigoriev demanded, deep in though on the back seat.
“Vlasov’s phone just came up.”
“Where?”
“Where?” Burkov echoed, the phone back to his ear. He listened to the reply and repeated again, “Garden Ring. Zatsepsky Val.”
“Which way is he moving?”
“Where is he going?” Burkov listened to the reply and turned around looking disappointed. “The subject isn’t moving, colonel.”
“Where is he? I need a precise location!”
“Give me the location! Okay… The outer side of the Garden Ring. Okay… Paveletskaya Square. Colonel, the subject is at Paveletskaya Square.”
“Paveletskaya? That’s a railway station! Once again, the bastards picked a busy spot!” Grigoriev squeezed the driver’s shoulder. “Misha, get us there in a hurry.”
The driver cast a sideways look at his supervisor, not understanding.
“To Paveletsky Station!” Grigoriev barked.
The Volga drove by the Polytechnic Museum into Lubyanskaya Square, flew by the FSS headquarters, hooked an illegal left, went around the nondescript flowerbed in the middle of the square, where the monument to the iron man Feliks Dzierżyński used to be, and went back toward the Moscow River embankment.
Chapter 56
September 1, 4:35 PM
Paveletsky Station, Square
Aslan Kitkiev held the small remote control in the sweaty palm of his hand. His enemy was about to get in his car; then, he would push the button to detonate the explosive device. One push would solve all the problems that had been compounding lately. The Russian and Aiza would be blown to pieces. It would be good if someone else got hurt.
And Aslan would calmly walk away. Fatima was waiting for him around the corner. Even if panic ensued, he’d still be able to make it to the car and drive away. By the time everyone figured out what happened, they would be far away. Fatima the ulcer would see his decisiveness and effectiveness. She was a woman, but she had a line to the leadership of Ichkeria. He’d have to keep that in mind until a better time.
Before he got in the car, Vlasov looked back. Aslan thought he saw a proud smile on his enemy face. “You dog,” Aslan whispered through his teeth. “Get into your crappy car; soon, it would be my turn to laugh!”
Suddenly, two policemen appeared in front of Kitkiev. Aslan took his hand out of his pocket, concerned that they might have heard his evil whisper. The taller policeman completely blocked his line of sight.
Where have they found this beanpole? Aslan thought, irritated. Most Moscow policemen looked like they were recruited among those who couldn’t do PE in high school. Were they eager to join to avenge the abuse they suffered as teenagers from their fitter peers?
“Sir, your identification, please,” the tall one demanded. His gloomy eyes carefully studied Aslan’s face. The other one, a typical dystrophic, stood aside and attentively watched Aslan’s hands.
Kitkiev put on a generous smile rehearsed a long time ago and turned on a Georgian accent.
“Wow! It’s hard being a Georgian in Moscow. Wherever you go, you have to show ID. When will our presidents finally make friends? Georgians and Russians are brothers forever.”
Aslan took out his passport, while his ears heard the engine of Vlasov’s Lada start. High time to push that button. His hand carefully went into his pocket.
“Hands!” the dystrophic said.
“What?” Aslan asked, imitating confusion.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Aslan wiped his sweaty palm on the flap of his coat. The careless idiots were finally learning the meaning of caution.
“Of course. Whatever you say.” Aslan spread his hands apart, as if he were about to give the cop a hug. The smile was difficult to maintain; he noticed that Vlasov’s car started moving.
“What are you doing at the station?” the tall one asked, flipping through the passport.
“Need to find out the schedule. Planes are expensive and dangerous. Recently, two fell right out of the sky. Better take a train.”
“There are no trains to Georgia here.”
“Why Georgia? Georgians live all over the place. I want to go visit with the family.”
Aslan saw Vlasov’s car drive away, but still tried to hold the smile. The tall cop handed back his passport.
“The papers are in order. A valid registration is in place,” he said, addressing the dystrophic who, although not as tall, was of a higher rank.
Kitkiev, smiling stiffly, walked around the cops and hurried in the general direction Vlasov’s car went. When he noticed it in the distance, he pushed the remote. The “sixer” went around the corner without an incident. Too far, Aslan realized, and ran to his car.
When he saw Fatima behind the wheel, he pushed her aside, “Move!” and got behind the wheel himself.
The car peeled off. Fatima adjusted the hem of her skirt that rode up and looked at Aslan with a silent reprisal.
“What are you looking at?” Aslan couldn’t hold it anymore. “The cops got in the way! But no matter! I’ll catch up with the Russian scum and his whore. You’ll see fireworks yet!”
Chapter 57
September 1, 4:40 PM
The Streets of Moscow
Aiza looked at Andrei incredulously. An expression of wary incredulity was on her face. For the third time, she asked, “Aslan let me go? He said that?”
“Of course! I talked to him man to man,” Andrei was driving slowly. He decided not to press his luck and get away from the station for a time. It would be best to return right before the train departs. “Let’s drive around some more, look at the city.”
“Aslan can’t just let go. From him, there’s only one way, to Allah.”
“Nah, what can he do? Were you alone, that would have been different. It’s easy to control a defenseless girl. Now you’re with me. He is afraid of strength! I know the type. Have seen them. Including some in Chechnya. They’re heroes when they deal with the weak and the unarmed. As soon as they feel resistance, they tuck their tails between their legs and hide in the bushes!”
Aiza shook her head thoughtfully.
“Those who become Shahids do not come back.” She turned around and caught a glimpse of the burgundy “niner” in the traffic flow. She couldn’t see the license plate of the driver, but she whispered desperately, “It’s him.”
“What did you see?”
“Aslan’s behind us. I can feel it.”
Andrei Vlasov consecutively glanced into each of his car’s rearview mirrors; dozens of cars of all kinds drove along, the usual, nothing suspicious. He wanted to calm the girl down and say something about how fear makes you see things that aren’t there, but the words got stuck in his throat. An unpleasant sensation of anxiety clawed at his chest; he frowned.
* * * * *
The burgundy “niner” twisted its way around a slow-moving bus. Aslan Kitkiev leaned toward the steering wheel and exclaimed excitedly, “There they are! Haven’t gone far! We’re about to catch up with them!” He took the remote out of his pocket and showed it to Fatima. “This thing works at hundred and fifty meters. Let’s see!”
He pushed the button, Fatima closed her eyes, but nothing happened.
“We’re too far away,” Aslan explained. “We need to get closer and then — ”
“So push it then!” Fatima encouraged him nervously.
“The button or the car?” Aslan joked. After his encounter with the police ended well, he was in an good mood. “I am pushing, Fatima! A little more, and there would be fireworks.”
* * * * *
The official FSS Volga flew into the Garden Ring near Paveletsky Station.
“Good job, Misha, that was fast,” Grigoriev complimented the driver. “Now get into the parking lot. The target is probably in a beige ‘sixer’.”
The colonel’s eyes darted all over the parking lot.
“Yura, you keep an eye out, too,” Grigoriev tapped the first lieutenant’s shoulder.
Yuri Burkov kept his phone to his ear, very now and then glancing at the city map unfolded in his lap. After he heard another update, he turned to the back seat. The first lieutenant’s face was long with surprise.
“Oleg Alexandrovich, I am told the subject is moving away from the station. Along that street over there.”
“Moving away? They might have separated. The Shahid could still be here on a mission, while he is getting away.” Grigoriev thought for a second. “All right, we’ll let the police look for her. They’ve been notified. And we will go after Vlasov. He might be the terrorists’ chief accessory in Moscow.”
“Colonel, do you remember the description of the Shahid’s accomplice from yesterday? It matches Vlasov. It was he who wrestled her away from the crowd near the metro station!”
“Looks like it,” Grigoriev agreed. “Vlasov served in Chechnya; that’s where he might have fallen in with the bandits. He’s got to have all sorts of connections. We have to neutralize him. Follow him, Misha. Fast!”
The driver, showing no emotion, skillfully turned the clumsy Volga around and drove in the direction he’d been given.
* * * * *
At an intersection, Vlasov turned right and clearly saw the familiar burgundy “niner” drive fast in the empty right lane. He remembered its license plate number well.
“Yes, that’s Aslan’s car. What does he want now?”
“He wants me,” Aiza whispered. “He wants to destroy me. And you too, because you’ve seen hum.”
“I’ll have to work it out with him the hard way then. How much longer is he going to do this?” Andrei slowed down.
“Don’t stop!” Aiza pleaded. “I’m scared.”
“Better have a man-to-man than play cat and mouse.”
Andrei Vlasov stopped his car. Only a small intersection separated him from Aslan’s car.
* * * * *
The traffic light switched to yellow. Aslan Kitkiev could still run through, but he saw the stopped “sixer” ahead and decided to do something else. The “niner” obediently stopped on red.
Eighty meters, Aslan estimated the distance to the rigged car, no need to get any closer. The car with the enemy and the traitor inside was parked close to a bus stop; a few people were waiting for a bus. So there will be more victims, Aslan thought with satisfaction. The explosion could be presented as a planned act of terror.
Aslan smiled to Fatima, “Good spot. We made the fifty large anyway. Get down!”
They both bowed down. Aslan’s hand holding the remote went up; his thumb firmly pushed the button.
At that moment, a large refrigerated truck drove into the intersection. Not hearing an explosion, Aslan looked up. The long heavily laden truck slowly pulled through the intersection. Aslan cursed in a fit or rage. When the truck passed, Aslan saw an empty spot near the bus stop through the bluish-gray wisps of exhaust.
The beige “sixer” was driving away, fast. Aslan pushed the button on the remote a few more times. Nothing happened.
“What kind of cut-rate hardware is this? How are we supposed to work it?”
He stuck the remote back into his pocket and as soon as the traffic light flashed yellow, he rushed off. Fatima, rocked by sudden acceleration, grumbled, “I always said, our girls were the best weapons. Were it not for certain cretins…”
She said the past phrase barely audibly, looking sideways at her partner, with whom she was forced to work against her will.
* * * * *
“What? Where?” First lieutenant Yuri Burkov held his phone to one ear covering the other with the palm of his hand, trying to filter out the noise of the rushing Volga. “Repeat!”
Burkov’s body was thrown this way and that. Misha the driver kept jumping into the opposing traffic and back. Colonel Grigoriev, meanwhile, sat still like he was welded to the seat, holding on to an armrest with one hand. His intent gaze seemed to work in an X-ray mode trying to detect the terrorist’s beige “sixer” ahead.
“The subject turned and accelerated,” Burkov reported loudly. “But we’re gaining.”
Did he feel the pursuit? Grigoriev wondered. There are super-sensitive people. Those are the hardest to work.
“Which way did he turn?” the driver, a man of few words, inquired.
“Okay,” Burkov was tracing something on the map with his finger. “Right at the next intersection. I’ll show you.”
“Step it up, Misha,” Grigoriev tapped the driver’s shoulder. “We can’t lose him.”
* * * * *
Andrei Vlasov noticed that Aslan’s head behind the “niner”‘s windshield abruptly disappeared. A moment ago, the face with a prominent nose was there, and suddenly, an outstretched hand comes up in its place. Then everything disappeared behind a refrigerated truck.
Without thinking, Andrei drove forward. Inexplicable actions by an adversary were always dangerous.
He drove quickly, thinking feverishly: why did Aslan bow down and what did he have in his hand?
“He let me off too easy,” Aiza whined anxiously. “He’s up to something.”
Now Vlasov had no now doubts about it, either. The adversary had a plan, but what was it? They were his targets. He was pursuing them and trying to get close. To shoot? But to shoot, you had to aim, not hide your head. You want to be sheltered when throwing a grenade, or—
People hide from explosions! Terrorists use explosives, often!
When he thought of this, chills went down his back. Was his car rigged? His fool jerked; the car slowed down.
* * * * *
“We’ll catch up with them,” Aslan said confidently. “My car is better.”
Traffic got lighter. Now he could drive faster.
“There they are!”
“Just don’t get too close, so we don’t get hurt.” Fatima curled into a ball and slid down in her seat.
“Keep your advice to yourself, woman.”
* * * * *
In his rearview mirror, Andrei noticed Aslan’s car again. The burgundy “niner” was changing lanes aggressively. The distance was shrinking. At the next traffic light, he could catch up, and then…
They had to leave the car behind and run!
“Get ready! We’re going to get out,” Andrei warned the girl.
He was quickly going through his options. They had to disappear suddenly. But if they get blown up here, on a busy street…
Andrei Vlasov abruptly turned in the first side street he saw. Apartment blocks; a pre-school close by. Hundred meters away, a concrete cube of a transformer booth and some garbage containers. Andrei quickly drove into the narrow space between the concrete wall and garbage containers. His tires squealed as he braked. A stray dog jumped off to the side. The car bumped into the tall curb and stopped.
“Get out!” Andrei shouted to Aiza.
The girl obeyed the rude order. They both jumped out of the car. Aiza stumbled. The angry dog barked desperately.
“Run!” Andrei, bending low, ran behind the booth.
Aiza, confused, was stuffing a dropped shoe back into her bag. Aslan’s car came from around the corner. Andrei pulled the girl around the corner of the booth and shielded her with his body.
Right then, there was a deafening explosion; it sounded like the explosion actually consisted of two parts. Its noise drowned out a short dying scream. The fiery flash threw the car into the air and tore it in half. The debris flipped in the air and landed, thudding, within ten meters from the explosion. The trash containers rolled into the street like paper cubes. Glass shattered in the apartment block across the street.
The first thing the girl saw when she opened her eyes was a piece of bloody flesh and a fragment of bone sticking out of it. It smelled like a fire built to burn old rags and then put out. She could see dust was settling on the flesh. The depressing silence put pressure on her ears. Aiza, horrified, tried to move away, but the body on top of her restricted her movements.
* * * * *
First lieutenant Yuri Burkov turned to his supervisor with a confused look on his face.
“Oleg Alexandrovich, they just told me the subject disappeared.” He thought of something and said into his phone, “Did he turn off his phone?”
Colonel Grigoriev froze; he either listened to something remote or fell into a reverie. Ignoring Burkov, he asked the driver, “Misha, have you heard that?”
“I thought there was a pop.”
“I wish it was a pop. That was an explosion!”
Yuri Burkov threw a careful glance at the colonel.
“At the station?”
“No. It was ahead of us.” Grigoriev snapped out of indecision and firmly ordered. “Go on! And faster.”
* * * * *
A large drop of rain slid down the side of the girl’s head; another dropped on her arm. The body holding her down moved.
Aiza tried to move away from Andrei, afraid to see bleeding wounds and missing limbs. He was saying something, his lips moved, but she couldn’t hear. Andrei pointed to his ears, made a scary face, pointed out to the street, and firmly pulled the girl the opposite way.
She ran after him, almost tripping on a bloodied head of a dog with a huge tongue sticking out.
* * * * *
Aslan Kitkiev, zigzagging between the crumpled garbage containers, slowly drove by the remains of the exploded car. He was marveling at the outcome of the explosion. A small charge, but what an effect! Suddenly, it hit him, “They had out belt in the car.”
Fatima carefully looked at the debris and hissed angrily, “But they weren’t in the car. Stop and look for them!”
Aslan accelerated the car and barked, “What’s wrong with you, woman? In a few minutes, this place is going to be crawling with cops and FSS.”
Chapter 58
September 1, 4:55 PM
The Nondescript Courtyards of Moscow
Andrei Vlasov and Aiza Guzieva quickly walked trough courtyards, away from the explosion. The ringing in their ears was gradually passing, but the nasty smell of explosives and burned garbage seemed to follow them along. For a while, Andrei kept looking back, but noticed no chase. He stopped under two cottonwoods joined at the root. The drops of the beginning rain didn’t yet reach there.
“Are you hurt?” Andrei carefully looked her over.
“No. I didn’t even feel anything. Only the heat pushed me.”
“What’s that on your knee?”
Fresh blood from a deep scratch was glistening above the girl’s kneecap. Andrei took out a handkerchief, squatted, and softly dabbed. The scratch turned out to be superficial; the blood was no longer oozing out. Andrei blew at the scratch.
“Does it hurt?” His eyes unwittingly darted up, to where the dark complexion of tanned legs gradually changed to white.
“No. I must have poked myself when we were running through the bushes.” The girl flattened the hem of her dress, moved away, and shielded herself with the bag.
“You even managed to grab your things?”
“I’ve been holding on to them all the way. I never had anything this nice. Plus, it’s your gift.”
Andrei rose, embarrassed. He remembered that the girl wasn’t wearing any underwear. He checked his pockets.
“I think I lost my phone. Either I left it in the car or it fell out along the way.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Never mind. The important thing is that we’re alive.”
“How did you figure out the explosion?”
“At the traffic light, Aslan hid and raised his hand. Now I know he had a remote for the bomb in his hand.”
“I was so scared when I opened my eyes and saw blood, and you weren’t moving.”
“I was waiting for the debris to stop falling.”
Aiza lifted up her hand and sighed.
“The stitches broke. Now Sveta is going to be upset that I mistreated her things. But it’s not too bad. I’ll stitch it up and wash.”
Andrei frowned and turned away.
“She won’t be upset.”
“I know, you said she’s kind. But when someone else wears your things — ”
“She won’t be upset because she’s gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“You’ve heard about Nord Ost. She was there. And I couldn’t save her.”
Andrei pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes. He didn’t want the Chechen girl to see his tears.
The rain rustled in the leaves above their heads. Andrei reached into the rain. When his hands were wet, he rubbed his face.
“I want to wash my face,” he explained.
Chapter 59
Nord Ost
Days Four, Five, and Six
Did it rain on the day when the Nord Ost hostages were freed? He didn’t remember anymore. But there were no tears that day. He stood hugging Polina Ivanovna opposite the liberated theater. The woman wept quietly, and Andrei was happy about seeing the woman he loved again.
That’s how the nature intended it. Men were strong, men didn’t cry.
Then, there were frequent drives between city hospitals. Andrei learned them all; the Thirteenth, the Third, the Seventh, the First, the Fifteenth, the Fifty-Third… Endless waiting for the patient lists at entrances, irritation at security guards, listening to all kinds of rumors, the excitement of those who found theirs alive, and the stone-cold perplexity on the faces of those who lost their last hope.
People who only yesterday were united by the common misfortune, now were divided into the happy and the rest.
For a while, they couldn’t find Svetlana. Polina Ivanovna kept asking Andrei to return to the Thirteenth City Hospital on Velozavodskaya Street. She believed for whatever reason that her daughter would be there.
She was right.
On the third day of the search, Andrei found Svetlana. First, he saw her photo on a computer screen. The girl was sleeping, her mouth slightly open. Her face looked drawn and somehow more attractive because of it. Her lips remained puffy, although new they looked very pale.
Then, he took Polina Ivanovna to the morgue for the official identification. The lithe beloved body didn’t have a single scratch.
Andrei walked out of the cold morgue into the chilling dampness of the autumn alone. Polina Ivanovna had to get urgent medical attention.
He got into his car and only then started crying. He howled quietly, lifting his head up and baring his teeth. His hands clutched and shook the steering wheel so hard that his joints hurt. Tears rolled down his face in a stream. Andrei didn’t know, but desperately wanted to, on whom he should exact his revenge.
Chapter 60
September 1, 5:15 PM
A Payphone on a Moscow Street
Aslan Kitkiev stuck a card into the payphone and dialed a seven-digit number by memory. After ten rings, he hung up.
What are you doing, you bastard? Kitkiev cursed in his mind. The day isn’t over yet, and you’re not in the office. All right, let’s try your mobile. If you don’t answer it, I’ll sand a man to your place. You won’t get away, you Russian maggot.
This time, the answer was quick. Aslan looked around and cupped the handset with the palm of his hand. He spoke precisely and energetically.
“This is Aslan. I need to know where the guy I asked about yesterday could hide.”
In response, there was loud breathing betraying resentment. Aslan lost his patience.
“You haven’t heard the question, have you?”
Lieutenant colonel Gennady Nikolaevich Sviridov replied nervously, “You gave me your word that yesterday was the last time.”
Aslan smirked.
“I have plenty of words, I can give you another.” And immediately flared up. “Listen you, cop scum, either you work for me or I give you over to the FSS and off your kids. Do you understand? Do you? I can’t hear you!”
After a long pause, a raspy voice asked desperately, “What do you want?”
“I need all addresses and family connections of the bastard I asked about before. Do you understand? All addresses!” Aslan looked around and finished the conversation calmly, but firmly. “I’ll call back in an hour.”
“That’s not enough time,” the response was quick.
Aslan decided not to answer, slammed the handset into its cradle, and strolled back to his car, which he, as usual, parked one street over. Fatima’s questioning glance greeted him. Aslan opened the door, spit nonchalantly, and only then got in.
“Why are you so quiet?” the woman asked impatiently.
Aslan pulled a wet napkin out of a plastic container and thoroughly wiped the dust off his shoes.
“I called him.” Aslan admired the shine of his shoes. He didn’t consider it necessary to look at the woman when speaking to her. “He’ll give us information. We’ll find them. I’ll get the whore. And then I’ll be merciless.”
“That’s all you can be,” Fatima sighed and turned away.
Aslan wanted to bark at the woman to remind her of her place, but fell dumb. Up ahead, a trolley bus pulled over to a stop. Two figures jumped in through the open doors, a man and a woman. The raindrops on the windshield didn’t let him see the details. But there could be no doubt; he remembered their clothing well. Those were Aiza Guzieva and Andrei Vlasov.
The doors hissed and closed; with a slight whining sound, the trolley bus drove off.
Aslan gunned the engine and turned on the windshield wipers.
“They’re alive,” he said in a raspy voice. “But that won’t last.”
“Was it them?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Go after them!”
“I know!” Aslan barked and drove after the trolley bus. “Let’s wait for them to get off and then — ”
“Maybe inside the trolley bus?”
“What’s wrong with you, woman?” Aslan even braked in surprise. “There’s a lot of people inside.”
“The more people, the easier to get lost.”
Aslan gave Fatima a wild look, but didn’t argue. There was certain logic in what the former teacher said. If he created a panic in the trolley bus, he could get rid of the dangerous witnesses and leave unchallenged. He made a mental inventory of weapons on hand.
A handgun? A knife? If only he had a grenade! But he didn’t. And even if he did, it wouldn’t give a guarantee that the right people die. What if he did everything quietly?
Aslan gave his partner a mysterious look.
“Fatima, do you have any suitable injections?”
Chapter 61
September 1, 5:30 PM
Trolley Bus
Vlasov decided to get on the first trolley bus that comes by, just to avoid getting wet in the rain. They came in through the middle door and stood next to each other near a vertical handrail. The trolley bus was full.
Now Andrei had time to think.
The big picture was joyless. Aiza was wanted. They were pursued by both the police and the terrorists. They couldn’t go home; Aslan’s henchmen were definitely on duty close by. They already missed the train. But then, they were expected at the station as well. What’s left? Acquaintances? If he had any, he’d try. But at the thought of having to say something about Aiza, Andrei winced. How would he explain why he was helping a Chechen girl with a birthmark on her neck? Anyway, he didn’t have reliable acquaintances. Perhaps Viktor the neighbor? They could work something out. But it was too dangerous to return to his building anyway.
Andrei and Aiza stood close to the middle door. The girl leaned against a window. The guy shielded her from the endless flow of entering and exiting passengers. He kept getting pushed on his back, but Andrei stoically held the pressure. There was space, about a palm’s length, between the young people.
Outside, the cars drove by in the veil of splatter. Andrei noticed that the burgundy “niner” smoothly overtook the trolley bus. Vlasov craned his neck and tried to see the license plate, but saw only the tinted back window. He immediately thought of the insidious Aslan. But Andrei calmed himself down. There were plenty of look-alikes among Moscow’s cars.
“Where are we going?” Aiza asked timidly.
“To the movies!” The words came out by themselves, and Andrei immediately thought, and why not? Waiting out the bad weather in a comfortable movie theater wasn’t a bad idea. Later, they’d think of a way out.
“Really?” The girl’s eyes rounded.
“Yes.”
“And how soon?”
“Let’s ask.”
Vlasov looked around and asked a woman with a large bag, “Excuse me, would you mind telling me where the movie theater is?”
The fellow passenger looked at his dusty clothes. The grumbled, “You should stop by dry cleaners first.”
The trolley bus stopped. The doors opened. The woman hurried to the exit, lowering her bag and opening her umbrella. There was a gray mass of people at the stop. They all rushed in. Andrei thought he saw Aslan’s eyes. But the umbrellas were closing; entering people blocked the view and pushed on.
Aiza touched his hand and smiled indulgently.
“Didn’t work?”
“Didn’t work,” Vlasov spread his hands. “We’ll find a movie theater on our own.”
He looked out the window. His eyes tried to find familiar landmarks. The trolley bus jerked and hooked a left going around a car. Andrei caught a glimpse of a burgundy roof and tinted windows. Once again, he thought it was Aslan’s car. He shook his head. The noise of the explosion was still making itself felt.
The newly entered pushed in from behind. The business hours were over; there were more passengers now.
Andrei smiled to Aiza and leaned toward the window. The girl’s damp hair once again smelled like perfume.
Vlasov recognized the street the trolley bus was on. At the next stop, there would be a movie theater. He wanted to tell the girl and leaned to her to whisper, but Aiza suddenly went up on her toes and looked over his shoulder. In her dark eyes, he saw wariness bordering fear. In her widened eyes, Andrei caught a glimpse of an unpleasant-looking silhouette. Andrei wanted to turn around and trace her gaze.
The trolley bus shook on a pothole, the passengers rocked, and something sharp painfully jabbed into Vlasov’s thigh. His leg went numb. He lost his balance and fell into the arms of the screaming girl.
Chapter 62
September 1, 5:35 PM
The Location of the Car Explosion
“Oleg Alexandrovich, you were right!” Yuri Burkov ran up to his supervisor and reported in amazement.
All this time, the first lieutenant was on the phone inside the official Volga, while colonel Grigoriev thoughtfully wandered among the remains of Vlasov’s blown-up “sixer”. The location of the explosion was surrounded by yellow tape, but the fragments of the car were far outside the marked area. At the epicenter, the crime scene people were working. Investigators from the prosecutor’s office were talking to residents who assembled into a group on the sidewalk. Police officers were carrying the debris into a designated rectangular area.
A badly shaven ambulance doctor wearing an unbuttoned blue lab coat walked up to Grigoriev.
“We’re going to go. We’re not needed here,” he said.
The colonel nodded.
“Then sign this,” the doctor asked.
The ambulance drove off. Yuri Burkov came up to his supervisor again.
“Oleg Alexandrovich, just like you thought, there was a train ticket to Volgograd bought in Guzieva’s name.”
“She won’t be there,” Grigoriev said indifferently.
“Yes, I checked. The train already departed. The seat bought for Guzieva was vacant. Did she miss the train?”
“No. I just realized that our idea of a confused girl in a strange city was a mistake. We’re dealing with an experience and calculating terrorist. She has a good handler, Vlasov, a former soldier. Check if you want to, he definitely had commendations in the army.”
“I’ll check.”
“They had a malfunction near Dmitrovskaya. They deftly got out of a difficult situation. But they are in no hurry to reattempt the explosion. Why?”
The first lieutenant froze. The wrinkles on his forehead betrayed painful thinking. Grigoriev waited and continued, “Because the mission in Beslan and the mission in Moscow are coordinated from one source. Guzieva was supposed to more than an ordinary explosion in the transportation sector. Something more shocking and more resonating. And the time for that mission is not up yet. So they are waiting and getting ready.”
“What about the train ticket?”
“Misdirection. To make us think Guzieva left Moscow. The enemy is not stupid to travel on a wanted criminal’s ID.”
“Now I see.”
“In Vlasov, we have a brave and audacious enemy. Most likely, it was he who killed Umar Osmaev. Vlasov found out that he asked Aiza to meet him and shot the wrestler in cold blood. The fighters never liked the champion. Now they had proof of his collaboration with the authorities. That was my mistake.”
Grigoriev frowned and shook his head.
“If only we knew,” Burkov clenched his fists.
“Now Vlasov is even more careful. He felt the surveillance and got rid of the car. And demonstratively left the phone in it.”
Grigoriev was holding a broken part of the phone’s case in his hand. The first lieutenant asked in confusion, “So what are we going to do now?”
“Search! Sniff! Listen in! The terrorists have planned a big mission in Moscow. They won’t wait long. They have to distract our forces from Beslan. Meanwhile, Vlasov and Guzieva have to hide somewhere. Either in the city or in the closest vicinity.”
Chapter 63
September 1, 5:40 PM
A Street near a Movie Theater
Aiza ran toward the movie theater, aptly maneuvering between the puddles. Behind her, Vlasov heavily plopped straight though the puddles. The rain was getting lighter. The lightening sky was shaking off the remainders of moisture.
Aiza turned back and shouted on the run, “Why did you fall in the trolley bus?”
“Some woman stuck me with her umbrella. A broken spoke. She got me in the old wound. The muscles went into a spasm, and then the trolley bus jerked.”
“Then why are we running? Are you hurting?” Aiza stopped on the steps of the movie theater.
“We’re done running already.” Andrei rubbed his leg. “It’s gone.”
They went up and got under an awning. Aiza shook out her wet hair.
“And we don’t have even a broken umbrella.”
Andrei looked up at the sky.
“The rain’s going to be over soon.” He thought back to the girl’s scared eyes. “Were you scared of something? Back on the trolley bus?”
“I thought I saw Aslan. His eyes. Evil! And then you fell, and he disappeared.”
“That’s fear. After an explosion, the nervous system takes time to restore. We’ll see him in our dreams yet.”
“I already do…” the girl nodded and pursed her lips.
“Let’s go inside. We made it for the six o’clock show.”
* * * * *
Hundred meters away from the movie theater, a burgundy “niner” parked. Fatima looked through the tinted glass at the couple disappearing inside.
“Now you can get closer,” she commanded Aslan. The car’s tires rustled on the wet asphalt until it stopped at the entrance. Fatima nodded. “Go. This time, act more decisively.”
Kitkiev shot the woman a sideways look.
“I’ve got a different plan. The guy already knows me. Looks like he can feel me with his back. You, he hasn’t seen once.”
“So what?”
“You can come close and — ”
“And what?”
“And off him.”
“I don’t do murder.”
“Well, it depends on the viewpoint.” Aslan moved closer to the woman. “This is our best option, Fatima. You don’t have to shoot him. You can give him an injection, something to knock him out. A high dose. Consider this putting him to sleep. Then I go in and strangle him. Otherwise, we’re going to have problems again.”
“To make him fall asleep quickly, I heed to inject somewhere close to his head.”
“Make it happen!”
“What of Aiza?”
“If he’s out, she’s ours.”
Fatima pondered, then made a decision.
“Then let’s take her alive. I want to finish the explosion plan.”
“Okay, we have a deal. Go and call me when you find out what’s what.”
Fatima checked on the contents of her purse and got out.
Two minutes later, Kitkiev’s mobile phone rang.
“There’s a good chance. The girl is in the bathroom. To the right and down the stairs,” Fatima reported. The guy is upstairs at the concession stands. As agreed, I work him, and you go after her. And don’t forget to buy a ticked, oaf.
Chapter 64
September 1, 5:45 PM
Movie Theater
Vlasov sat behind a small table. He ate chips and drank beer. He just figured out where they could spend the night. It would be safe there.
A plump woman in a tight blouse stopped by. An aging blonde with bright makeup held a large plastic cup of Coca Cola in her hands. She took a sensual sip through a straw and smiled nicely.
“May I sit down? Everywhere else is full.”
Vlasov looked around. Aiza wasn’t back yet. But the tables were full indeed, and there were two empty chairs next to him.
“I am not alone,” Andrei warned, but invitingly pointed out the farther chair.
“I won’t be long. The movie is about to start.” The blond sat down without a thank-you and pushed her chair closer. “Do you know, is the film any good?”
Is she coming on to me? Vlasov thought joylessly. I wish Aiza was back already. He looked over his shoulder. A young man in a beige suit quickly walked down the stairs leading to the bathrooms. His face was covered by the palm of his hand, as if he were rubbing his temple.
The blond insistently touched Vlasov’s hand.
“You’re brave! These days, explosions and all, you’re not afraid to go to the public places.”
She was definitely coming on to him!
Andrei, holding his disgust in check, pulled the woman’s hand full of rings off his hand. One of the rings had an ornament and a semi-circle of stars. In the middle of it was a strange impression. Something cryptic, yet familiar. Like he saw it before. Although he’s never seen this kind of ring.
A wolf! The ring has an impression of a wolf!
The blond took away her hand and pushed the Coke off the table. The plastic cup fell under Andrei’s feet. The brown liquid splashed on his shoe. Vlasov instinctively leaned.
The lying wolf with his head raised! Ichkeria’s coat of arms! The ring awarded to Fatima!
The blond jumped on her feet. Her hand collided with Vlasov’s neck.
Andrei thought he was stung by a bumblebee. When he realized that it was Fatima, he got ready. His hand intercepted the woman’s. He pushed the blond away. A plastic syringe rolled on the floor.
The beige suit! The hand covering the face. Aslan wore a suit like that at the railway station.
Aiza!
Andrei ran downstairs. The stone steps flickered under his feet. Where was she?
An extravagant young couple wearing intentionally sloppy outfits smoked cigarettes near a column and a tall receptacle for cigarette butts. The bathrooms were on the right and on the left. Andrei caught his breath and went for the door showing a pictogram wearing a skirt.
He pushed the door and saw a row of sinks. Behind his back, the girl giggled. “This one’s got the urge, too.” “It’s the transvestites’ club,” the guy whispered.
Andrei opened the door wider.
In the corner, he saw Aiza’s extinguished stare. The girl’s body leaned forward; Aslan stood behind her twisting her arm and hissing something into her ear. Vlasov stormed inside without thinking. Aslan’s face showed surprise, but a second later, he had a gun in his hand.
Vlasov was completely defenseless five meters away from an armed adversary. His hands pulled on a sink. Ceramics crunched, water hissed. Andrei shielded himself with a heavy sink and squatted. A silenced shot popped; the bullet broke the white oval into pieces; the ceramic fragments dropped on the tiled floor and broke further into jagged slivers.
Vlasov jumped out of the bathroom. The next bullet went through the door and broke the fire extinguisher on the wall. White foam started dropping on the cigarettes that fell out of the hapless couple’s hands. The guy lunged upstairs, but stumbled on the girl; both crawled upstairs on all fours.
Andrei hid behind the column and got the army knife from under the leg of his pants. The bathroom door opened. Aslan pushed Aiza in front of him, using her as a shield. The gun in his hand swept the room.
Vlasov pushed the receptacle one way and jumped from behind the column from the other side. He held his knife at the shoulder level. Aslan shot the falling metal cylinder and for a second opened up. Andrei only had a moment to make a decision. The adversary’s right side was in front of him, next to the girl’s body. If he missed, he would hit her.
Aslan noticed the adversary. The hand holding the gun moved to aim.
Vlasov threw the knife.
Time stopped. Andrei watched the flight of the knife and the movement of the gun in slow motion. The knife made it half-way and was flying handle first. Aslan’s hand moved forty-five degrees. The steel blade was silently cutting through the air, rotating around the knife’s center of gravity. The gun was changing shape; the barrel was shortening and blocking the view of the handle. The point of the knife rushed forward. The barrel transformed into a black hole. Andrei saw only the end of the knife’s handle and the muzzle of the gun below it.
He couldn’t move; he could only wait for whatever comes first.
The knife plunged into Kitkiev’s bicep. His hand jerked upward. A shot sounded. The bullet burned through hair on Vlasov’s head and crashed into the ceiling.
Aslan screamed and dropped the gun. Andrei wanted to dive for the weapon, but Aiza pushed Aslan away and ran toward him. The girl clasped his shoulders; Andrei felt her body go limp.
Aslan overcame the shock, shook off the knife and reached for the gun.
They had to leave. The way upstairs was blocked. Andrei backed up, dragging the girl along. His back came up against a door; he pushed it. It was a service area with a long hallway.
Behind the closed door, he brought the girl to her senses.
“We have to run.”
“Aslan said he killed you.”
“We’re both alive, but he’s got a gun.”
A shot rang, confirming those words. The splinters of the door stung their hands.
The guy and the girl ran along the hallway. A door opened behind them. Another shot. Andrei and Aiza were able to turn the corner before it came. They ran a few more meters and faced a wall. The hallway dead-ended!
Now Aslan would show up, and they would be in plain sight!
There were two doors, one on each side of the hallway. Andrei kicked one. The door went off its hinges and fell into the darkness. Andrei found a light switch. The light bulb lit up a tiny windowless chamber filled with props. Out of desperation, he kicked down the other door. Another closet, but full of buckets, mops, toilet paper, and cleaning supplies. Nowhere to hide.
Andrei picked up a mop out of a bucket. At least some weapon!
But the mop turned out to be a light plastic stick with a droopy tail of rough cords. Water ran off the cords.
The sound of careful steps came from the hallway. Aslan was coming.
Andrei’s hands dropped. He looked at the small light bulb on the ceiling. What could he do?
* * * * *
Upstairs, in the movie theater’s lobby, video games made all kinds of noise. But over computer-generated shots, Fatima heard a real one. She was sure that Aslan handled the unarmed Russian. The sleeping injection, even though it wasn’t a complete one, had to work, too.
Fatima came to the exit from the basement just when two youngsters with ridiculous hairdos emerged from downstairs.
She stopped them and asked calmly, “What happened?”
“There, there…” the guy’s eyes bulged; he pointed his finger downstairs.
“Don’t worry. I am a police officer. We are apprehending a dangerous criminal. To avoid panic, please don’t say anything to anyone.”
The guy and the girl nodded.
“Are there any more moviegoers down there?”
“No,” the girl bleated.
“Were you going to the movies?” Fatima asked.
“Yes.”
“Then go; the auditorium is open.”
A muffled pop came from below.
“Don’t worry,” Fatima smiled. “This is our officers.”
The lobby was emptying out. The moviegoers flocked to the auditorium. The teenagers joined them. Fatima made sure no one was heading to the bathrooms and carefully went downstairs.
* * * * *
Andrei Vlasov felt lightheaded. His body was going limp. His hands hung weakly. A little longer, and he wouldn’t be able to implement the his salvation plan.
He stood in the props room, holding the broken-down door in his hands. Aiza stood opposite him, in the cleaning supplies room. In her hands was a mop raised high. Neither room was lit. But the conspirators could see each other. The light came from the hallway. Aiza was waiting for a command. Andrei looked at a small Christmas tree ornament set against the doorjamb.
The shining sphere showed a reflection of Aslan and his gun. He turned the corner and softly stepped forward.
Andrei nodded. The girl stuck the wet mop into the light bulb socket on the ceiling. There were sparks, then the circuit shorted, and the basement went dark.
Right then, Andrei swung the door and hit Aslan with a roar of rage. The scream took the last of his strength. Andrei fell along with the door.
Aslan lay on the floor, pressed down by the door; on top of the door was Vlasov, falling asleep fast
* * * * *
The sudden darkness, screams, and noise didn’t please Fatima. Upstairs, in the lobby, the lights were still working. She turned sideways to the light and started thinking. Soon, her lined eyes narrowed and her bright lips pursed. Before stepping into the darkness, the woman stuck her hand into her bottomless purse. A cigarette lighter came out first. But her well cared for fingers were looking for something else. Going on without a weapon would be the ultimate stupidity, Fatima decided.
* * * * *
Aiza found Andrei and splashed some water out of a bucket onto his head.
“Get up! Get up!” she repeated fearfully.
Vlasov stirred.
“What’s wrong with me?” he shook his head and yawned.
“Let’s go! Now!”
Andrei limped along, supported by the girl. They went along the dark hallway; weak light paled at the end. Aiza looked under her feet. Vlasov held his head up; all he could see was a blurry spots. At one point, he thought a spot took the shape of a human figure, but it immediately merged with the darkness.
He vaguely remembered that somewhere behind were Aslan and his gun. But he felt no regret about forgetting to collect the weapon, he only wanted to lie down and sleep.
They barely made it into the empty lobby. The ticket clerk suspiciously looked at the strange couple.
Aiza explained sadly, “He got drunk.”
The ticket clerk nodded understandingly.
“He’s got to sleep it off. Come on, the movie has already started.”
“If his friends come looking for him, tell them we left,” Aiza asked and smiled nicely. “Please.”
* * * * *
Fatima decided not to go into the dark basement. When she heard the unsure footsteps, she hid in the bathroom. Through the slightly open door, she saw Aiza and Andrei walk up the stairs.
The woman was confused. Should she go look for Aslan or not? If he was dead, he was of no use to her. But she needed car keys. And just in case, she’d better take Kitkiev’s phone, too. She clicked the cigarette lighter, intending to step into the darkness of the hallway.
And jumped aside!
Out of the hallway, cursing and staggering, walked Aslan. In his hand was a gun.
“Stop!” Fatima yelled when Aslan got out of the hallway.
“It’s you? Where are they?”
“Put away the weapon and let’s go.”
“You have no idea how angry I am!”
“Put it away, I said!”
Aslan winced, but obeyed.
Upstairs, they, too, ran into the ticket clerk.
“Have you seen a girl with a young man?” Fatima inquired politely.
“Yes! Where are they?” Aslan interjected, his malevolent eyes scanning the lobby.
The ticket clerk didn’t like the first couple. But those two she liked even less.
“Over there,” she waved her hand toward the street. “They took a taxi.”
Chapter 65
September 1, 9:30 PM
Commuter Train
An evening commuter train was going away from Moscow. After it went through a dark grove, the train slowed down and with a disgusting squeal came to a halt at an empty poorly lit platform. An empty bottle loudly rolled along the car’s floor. The doors hissed and came apart. A few passengers got out onto the platform. Strong sour smell of spilled beer mixed with the burnt odor of braking pads.
Andrei Vlasov gloomily looked through the dirty window. Hurried dark figures floated by. Only a few people were left in the car; no one got on at the station. Andrei moved his hand to look at his watch. Aiza started in her sleep and abruptly lifted her head off Andrei’s shoulder. Her fearful eyes scanned the car in panic. When she saw Andrei, the girl calmed down, but moved away, embarrassed.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Andrei smiled. Sleepy face and tangled hair made Aiza look like a little girl. And with children, every morning was the beginning of a new lifetime. He got some drug-induced sleep during the movie, now it was her turn to take a nap.
“We’re going to my old summer house,” Andrei repeated what he already told her before they got on the train. “And tomorrow, I’ll take you to Pavelets. It’s not far from the house, but pretty far from — » Andrei wanted to say “from Aslan’, but decided not to remind of the former fears, “from Moscow. There, I’ll work something out with a conductor. You’ll get on a train to Volgograd, and go choo-choo. Start a new life.”
“What about Aslan?” the girl was completely awake and remembered the danger.
“If Aslan looks for you anywhere, it would be in Moscow, at the railway station or near my home. And we’ll outsmart him.”
The girl was thinking; her fingers crumpled her headscarf.
“And how did he find out about your apartment?”
“He must have followed the car. From the metro station. But don’t worry, no one knows about the summer house. Actually it’s not even a summer house, it used to be my grandmother’s home in a small village. She died a few years back. We rarely go there.”
“What about the police? Can they arrest me?”
“What do they have to do with it? You haven’t done anything.”
“Praise Allah. He didn’t let me.”
“You are a victim. A bandit is hunting you. The police would have to protect you.”
“What about the description on the radio?”
“Description? Forget it. Right now, everyone is thinking about Beslan. For you, it’s all over.”
The door connecting the car to the next car slammed closed; two policemen strolled in. They went along the car, looking into passengers’ faces. Aiza tensed, not knowing what to do with her scared stare.
The bottle rattled under the policemen’s feet. The girl started and made a move to stand up. But Andrei was able to catch her by the shoulders. He held the girl, drew her close, and kissed her on her puckered lips. Aiza resisted shyly. Andrei, continuing to hold her, whispered into her ear, “We have to do this. We’re pretending to be a couple.” Then, louder, so that the policemen could hear, he said, “That was a great day trip. Great idea on your part. When we get home, I’m all yours.”
Andrei kissed the girl again. This time, her lips reciprocated timidly.
The policemen stopped by the kissing couple. One of them tapped Vlasov’s shoulder.
“Hey, youngsters, cool it. This is not a honeymoon suite; it’s a public place.”
Andrei turned to look and made an apologetic face. Aiza blushed and looked down. Her long hair masked her face like a hood. The other cop tiredly clapped his partner on the back.
“Come off it. They aren’t fighting or drinking. Let’s move it.”
When the policemen left the car, Aiza fixed her hair and shot Andrei a look.
“Did you do it for them?”
“What?” Andrei pretended that he didn’t understand the question.
“You know what!” Aiza turned away and forced the words out. “You came on to me just so they see it?”
“Um, yes. You were so scared.”
“What if I weren’t scared?”
“But you were!”
“But what if not?” She intently looked into the guy’s face.
“Then…” Andrei made an uncertain gesture with his hand and said quietly, “Aiza, I haven’t kissed anyone for almost two years.”
The girl turned away abruptly and wiped the tears she didn’t want anyone to see.
“Me too.”
The young people fell silent. The steel wheels were beating an indifferent rhythm on the rail joints. Andrei noticed the lingerie bag in the girl’s hands and reached for it.
“Show me.”
“No way! There are strangers around.”
Andrei looked into the girl’s eyes.
“You never put it on?”
Aiza looked away shyly.
“I haven’t bathed in a while. And these are bride’s things.”
“When we get to the village, I’ll warm up the sauna,” Andrei promised. “Definitely.”
Chapter 66
September 1, 10:40 PM
A Village Sauna
Andrei led the girl down a dark path to a tiny log cabin at the corner of the plot housing the sauna. The sauna was surrounded by raspberry bushes with yellowing leaves.
“Careful, the door is low. There’s no light. Come in.”
They came into a small front room with a tiny window letting in the dim light of the clear night sky. The room pleasantly smelled of smoke and damp wood.
“It’s all warmed up. At first, the fire was smoky, but then the draft got going,” Andrei was saying. “You have to steam up first. Right here, behind that door. Then you can wash. Here’s water, soap, and a towel. Would you like some help with the twigs?”
“I am not used to steam baths. I’ll just wash.”
“Come in for five minutes,” Andrei was trying to convince her. “Wait for the body to warm up and moisten with sweat.”
“I don’t know… Why do the Russians steam-bathe?”
“To wash away the old dirt, to cleanse the body. To improve circulation. After a steam bath, you feel like you’re born again.”
“Born again?” Aiza pondered. “Then I’ll try. But you first, while it’s still hot. I don’t need a lot of heat.”
“I thought we could do it together,” Andrei looked at the girl questioningly. “But let’s do as you wish. But maybe — ”
“No. We take turns. I’ll go sit on the stoop.”
Andrei sighed and promised, “I’ll be quick.”
Chapter 67
September 1, 10:40 PM
The Office of the Police Lieutenant Colonel
Despite the late evening, lieutenant colonel Gennady Nikolaevich Sviridov was in his office. But he wasn’t looking at the clock. Actually, he wasn’t looking at anything. The policeman’s downcast face almost touched the desktop. But he didn’t even see the notepad in front of his face. He was staring into the past, into the ill-fated day when his official four-by-four was shot up by the Chechen fighters on a country road.
This was the second tour of duty in Chechnya for Gennady Sviridov, back then a captain.
The driver was dead immediately. The vehicle went off the road and got stuck in a dense bush. Sviridov got out from the back seat and ran. His fellow officer, Pavel Borovkov, tried to return fire. But returning fire was pointless; they were clearly outgunned.
Sviridov ran through the forest along the way, understanding full well that the longer Pashka kept shooting, the greater was his own chance to make it to the cordon. The cordon was only three kilometers away. He’d run over there and raise an alarm. They would rescue Pashka and chase the fighters away, Sviridov justified his flight. And it wasn’t a flight, either; it was an orderly retreat.
But the shooting quickly died down, and then something hit him on the back of his head. Or was the hit on the head first, and only then everything went quiet? It wasn’t important now.
When Gennady Sviridov came to, his hands were tied behind his back and he was back to the same old four-by-four. Pashka Borovkov, wounded in his arm and chest, wheezed on the ground under an open door. The fighters sat him up near a wheel with a shot-though tire. They already searched the vehicle and were discussing something now.
The leader, shaved head and black shovel-shaped beard, kept throwing evil sideways glances at Sviridov. A young energetic guy was explaining something to the leader, but the bearded one was in doubt.
Sviridov noticed the fighters were getting ready to move out and his mood went completely sour. The pain of desperation in his chest displaced the dull ache in his head. They were about to kill him, the captain realized. The fighters never took commissioned officers, whether military or police, prisoners. They were executed on the spot. Getting shot was an easy way to go; you could also get your throat cut or have your eyes put out.
He immediately thought of his wife, who kept nagging him to accept another tour in Chechnya. Combat pay plus a greater chance at promotion. Everyone goes and most come back, she kept saying. The materialistic female logic.
Or was she only interested in getting the husband out of the house for three months?
The bitch! This is all because of you! Now you’ll get a zinc box instead of a major’s rank!
Sviridov noticed a camcorder in the hands of a young fighter. The pain in his chest became unbearable. His worst expectations were being confirmed. Now they’d cut his head off for the camera. Sviridov saw this kind of footage on tapes confiscated from apprehended fighters.
The bearded leader made his decision. Gennady was dragged and sat up next to Pashka. The fighters made a clearing and got ready for a spectacle.
“We didn’t invite you here, jackals. You came to our land on your own. This is where you will die,” the bearded one said tiredly and emotionlessly, as if he had said it hundreds of times before.
He made a sign. The assault rifles’ locks clanked. Shooting came in deafening bursts. The bullets made ringing sounds on metal. The vehicle shook and pushed him on the back.
When the shooting was over, Gennady opened his eyes. The fighters smiled crookedly, evaluating his reaction. Gennady looked to his left. Pashka was still alive, too. All bullets went a few centimeters high and made a sieve out of the four-by-four.
Sviridov was dragged five meters away from the vehicle. They stood him up opposite Borovkov and untied his hands.
“You’re going to live,” the bearded one explained. “Kill him, and we’ll let you go.”
Someone came up and handed him a handgun.
“Kill him!” the bearded one repeated the command.
The gun felt heavy in his weakened hand. The fighters smiled all around him. Crazy thoughts swarmed in his head. There was hope. He could shoot the bearded one, then the rest of them. There were only a few of them. Even if he didn’t succeed, he’d die a decent death. And maybe he could actually make it.
Sviridov turned around.
No way. He wouldn’t be able to take the first shot. Two assault rifles were lusting after his back.
“You’ll live. We’ll let you go.” The bearded one’s words gave him hope. He wouldn’t lie. Why would he lie to a captive police officer?
“You want to live? Then shoot!” the fighters’ leader was encouraging him.
I want to live! I do! And I will! One shot, and I’m free. Pull the trigger, and—
Gennady looked into Pavel’s eyes. Borovkov heard and understood everything. His old friend, his only friend looked at him, not blinking, for a long time, then nodded imperceptibly and lowered his gaze. His eyes pointed to the wound in his stomach.
Gennady took Pavel’s gesture to mean, “I agree. I am not going to make it regardless.”
A two-way radio squeaked in the bearded one’s hand. He listened, replied briefly in Chechen, and spoke to Sviridov, “You’ve got fifteen seconds. Shoot, and you go free!”
Sviridov raised the gun. Pashka wasn’t looking at the barrel; he stared straight into his eyes. Why is he going that?, Gennady wondered.
The eyes of his friend flashed in surprise, his body jerked, his eyes dulled. Sviridov felt the recoil in his hand and looked at the gun, dumbfounded. His finger was on the trigger; the barrel was smoking.
Did I pull the trigger? Did I shoot?
I killed Pashka Borovkov!
Immediately, somebody took away the gun. Borovkov’s body was put inside the vehicle. The young guy with the camcorder came up to him and smiled.
“I’ve got it all on tape,” he patted the camcorder. “Now you’re going to work for us. Take your papers, copper. Someone will get contact you in Moscow.”
Sviridov mechanically stuck his police ID and passport into his pocket. Now the Chechens know everything about him. The insidious intent of the fighters was beginning to sink in.
Suddenly, the Chechen took out a handgun and shot Sviridov in the thigh.
“For sheer realism,” he explained to the fallen policeman.
The fighters were quickly disappearing into the forest. The last one to go tossed Sviridov’s service weapon over to him.
When the fighters were gone, captain Gennady Sviridov once again got scared. In horror, he realized that he didn’t take a single shot with his service weapon. He picked up the gun and shot into the bushes hysterically until he ran out of bullets.
In that state, he was found by a federal armored patrol coming to the rescue from the nearby cordon.
Two months later, in Moscow, Gennady Nikolaevich Sviridov received a commendation and a promotion. His wife was happier than everyone else about it.
Another month later, the fighters’ messengers reached out to him with a request. When he pretended to not understand, they delivered a video tape to him. The picture was clear.
Two men in police uniforms opposite each other. One standing up, the other sitting down. Sviridov, in good health and not at all wounded, raising his hand. Then, the shot and a close-up of Borovkov, dying.
Since, then, Gennady Sviridov has had to run quite a few errands for the fighters. Sometimes, they reciprocated and gave him wholesale intelligence on competing crime syndicates. After he busted an Azeri drug trafficking network and a ring of Georgian luxury car boosters, Sviridov made lieutenant colonel and was promoted to a higher position.
The wife was happy. The co-workers were envious.
But every six months, a video tape would be put inside Sviridov’s car. The same recording. A friend facing a friend. A shot. And the dulling eyes of Pashka Borovkov.
He switched card, put in expensive alarms, but time after time, a tape would appear on Gennady’s driver’s seat. Always with a message, For now, just for you.
He always suppressed the initial urge to destroy the tape. Fearfully, locked up in his apartment with curtains drawn, in a fit of painful fever, he would watch the new tape. Then, he would go outside city limits, pour gasoline on the tape, and burn it. Along with fear, there was always a crazy hope; this time, everything could be different. There would be no shot, and his friend would come out alive.
The hope gave way to disappointment and morphed into deep depression. Pashka’s dulling eyes burned through his soul, upsetting his life. Vodka helped to forget it all for a few hours. Then, everything resumed with the same intensity.
* * * * *
The phone rang. The lieutenant colonel picked up. For the last few years, phone calls annoyed him; he couldn’t talk on the phone long. He recognized the caller’s voice and read off the information from the notepad on his desk.
“That’s it, Aslan. You don’t have to call anymore.”
His hand tiredly replaced the handset.
The lieutenant colonel tore a page from his notepad and burned it in an ashtray. He took out the photo of the two young lieutenants and put it in front of himself. For a while, he looked into Pashka Borovkov’s mischievous eyes. Then, he firmly pulled his chair away from the desk.
He didn’t want the photo to get splashed.
At the last moment, he thought about calling his wife. But the thought somehow died by itself.
He took out his gun. The barrel touched the side of his head. The white finger gently pulled the trigger. A shot rang. His head jerked and fell on his shoulder. The gun dropped out of his grip slammed into the floor.
Chapter 68
September 1, 11:10 PM
An Old House in the Country
Andrei straightened out a fold on the embroidered tablecloth and critically looked at the round table. Everything food item he could find in the empty house was there. It wasn’t a lot, but there was nothing to add or subtract.
The door squeaked. The hem of the light dress swung. Aiza came in, threading carefully in high-heeled shoes. Every step was tentative; she seemed to be afraid of dropping through the floor. The girl stopped at the table, leaned on a single finger, and straightened her back proudly. Her wet tangled hair gave off a wave of black shimmer; her blushing face wore an expression of jittery expectation; her dark eyes sparkled questioningly from under her high-flying eyelashes.
Andrei hastened to answer the silent question.
“Wow! The shoes look good on you. It’s a good thing you didn’t lose them.”
“I’m just learning to walk in them,” Aiza smiled shyly.
“It’s working,” Andrei encouraged her. He couldn’t help admiring the girl’s slender and now taller figure. She brought some freshness into the room’s stale air.
“Don’t lie! But I’ll definitely learn,” Aiza smiled and sat at the table. “What are you treating me to, master of the household?”
Andrei, embarrassed, spread his hands.
“Believe it or not, there’s nothing in the house but tea, jam and crostini.”
“So we’ll have tea with jam and crostini,” Aiza agreed mischievously.
“That’s all we have right now.”
Chapter 69
September 1, 11:20 PM
Safe House
Aslan Kitkiev looked at his plate in disgust. Three hot dogs and a pile of canned peas.
“Is that it?” he asked Fatima.
“I am not your personal chef,” Fatima barked anemically. She demonstratively stood next to the table, not sitting down.
“I was running around the whole day. Risking my life! Chasing traitors.”
“All because of your stupidity.”
“You’re no Chechen woman,” Aslan hissed.
“Whatever,” Fatima agreed indifferently.
Aslan adjusted the bandage on his right hand and winced to show much it hurt.
“I dressed the wound. It will heal in a few days,” Fatima intercepted the guy’s gaze. “And if you want compassion, run to your mama.”
She lit up and smoked, flicking ashes into the sink. She waited for Aslan to finish his food, then asked, “What have you found out about the fugitives?”
Aslan pushed off the empty plate and threw the woman a sideways look. A cigarette butt hissed as it was put out in the sink. In abrupt motions, Fatima transferred the dirty dishes to the same destination and cocked her hip.
“So?”
Aslan slowly unfolded a piece of paper on the table.
“Here.” His finger slid through a short list. “These are all the addresses where our bastard can take his whore. I would forget the city addresses; he wouldn’t show his face there. The village, however, is his best bet.”
“Why?”
“It’s dangerous to stay in the city with Aiza; she’s wanted. And in the village, there might not be any police at all. Think about how our people hide; with the family in faraway villages. The family wouldn’t sell you out.”
“Aiza has no family there.”
“He is her family now,” Aslan snorted and poked his finger into the list. “I am sure the Russian would go to the village! Get the map.”
“Which one?”
“Roads!” Aslan roared. “What else?”
“It’s in the car.”
“So go get it.” He threw car key on the table. “Quickly.”
Fatima winced unhappily, but obeyed. Aslan was happy.
The bitch is really losing it without male oversight, he thought angrily. Acts like she’s in charge! I’ll fix you. You’re going to walk around on your toes and speak only when spoken to. Like our women are supposed to.
When Fatima brought back a road atlas, he flipped through the pages for a while, and then poked his finger, “Here it is, Vilenka! Next to the railroad. Remember where we lost them? Near the movie theater! There’s a commuter train platform close by. They took a train out.”
Aslan snapped the atlas shut and looked at his watch.
“Wake me up at 4 AM. I have to rest. In the morning, we’ll get them nice and warm.”
“What if they aren’t there?”
“Shut up! If I can’t find them, no one can!”
Chapter 70
September 1, 11:30 PM
A House in the Country
A dim light bulb lit up a round table from under a fringe-appointed shade. Andrei and Aiza sat opposite each other. Their hands and chests were in the circle of light; their faces were in the shade. They drank their tea in silence; every now and then, each would look up at the other. Every time their eyes met, there would be a spark; young people would exchange silly smiles and suppressed laughs.
A teaspoon tinkled for the last time. Andrei pushed away his empty cup, his fingers barely audibly drummed on the table. Aiza looked down and froze, as it expecting something to happen.
“Aiza, what if I asked you to dance with me?” Andrei asked quietly. He looked to the girl’s tangled hair trying to see her eyes.
The girl looked around gingerly.
“There’s no music here.”
“I would hum something.”
“What kind of dance? I only know ours, the kind people dance in the village festivals.”
“Show me.”
Aiza pondered, then nodded decisively; here eyes twinkled.
“Give me the rhythm. Like this.”
She clapped her hands to demonstrate. Andrei tried to repeat. At first it didn’t work; the rhythm kept breaking. But the girl kept saying, “Repeat after me. Now this is better. Good! Great, go on!”
Aiza took off her shoes and floated around the table following the rhythm of Andrei’s clapping hands. She started out slowly, as if waking up and shaking off sleep. Her bar feet worked the circle, her hands bent, her body flexed graciously at the thin waist, like a blade of grass in the in the gusts of wind. Gradually, her movements became more emotional and less confined. It seemed that the blade of grass grew stronger, but a raging storm shook it trying to break it.
The dance quickened. Aiza gave a sign. Andrei clapped faster and louder. The palms of his hands hurt; his eyes excitedly watched the girl’s emotional moves. He couldn’t stay seated. He was drawn to her. He stood up and unwittingly danced to his own rhythm next to the girl.
And the girl thrashed, as if her soul was being unbound and liberated. Her hair flailed, eyes sparkled, thighs beat against the thin fabric of her dress. The dance culminated and then ended abruptly.
Andrei stopped clapping. Aiza straightened and froze, looking down. In her dreams, she was a bride dancing at her wedding surrounded by many guests. She stood still for about a minute, then she slowly opened her eyes and dropped onto a chair, exhausted.
“Wow!” Andrei exhaled. The palms of his hands froze in an incomplete clap. He felt like lowering his hands into cold water drawn from a well.
Aiza wiped her forehead and ran her fingers through he tangled hair. The black strands obediently dropped onto her back.
“What about you? What dance did you want to hum?”
“That’s not really a dance… You know, there’s a beautiful song,” Andrei stood up and tenderly squeezed the girl’s shoulders. “It’s called Yesterday. I think it’s about how we didn’t know each other yesterday, and today — ”
Feeling self-conscious, he asked, “Put the shoes on.”
“What if I fall?” Aiza smiled mischievously.
“You won’t. I’ll hold you.”
Andrei helped the girl up and quietly and wordlessly hummed Paul McCartney’s famous melody. His strong hands held the girl’s shoulders. The young people moved in a slow dance.
“I know this song,” Aiza whispered.
Andrei stopped humming. The young people moved together in silence. The music sounded in their hearts; their embrace was getting closer.
When he ran his hand over the girl’s back, Andrei felt the clasp of a bra.
“You finally tried it on?”
Aiza nodded silently.
“Did it fit?”
“Yes,” the girl whispered barely audibly.
Andrei saw the birthmark on the thin neck; his head swam from sudden excitement; his greedy hand touched the girl’s buttocks.
“Can I see?” He asked and shivered when he felt the elastic of the panties.
Aiza firmly moved away. The dance was over.
“This song is about unhappy love,” she said.
An awkward silence took over the semi-darkness of the room. The pitch-black countryside night was staring into the small window intrusively.
Andrei, still looking down, pointed to the door to the next room.
“Aiza, go to bed in there. It’s late.”
He could see only the toes of the shoes and was having a hard time restraining himself from looking up to the slender legs. The shoes turned around. The girl went out of the room. She seemed to feel much more confident in high heels now. The door closed firmly.
Andrei sat at the table and nervously lit up. He dropped the lighter. The smoke went into his eyes; ashes dropped onto the tablecloth. He didn’t really want to smoke.
“Andrei!” Aiza’s muffled voice came from the next room.
“What?” The guy started and put out his cigarette. He listened up. There were no other sounds except the girl’s voice.
“You wanted to see.”
“What?” His heart jumped and fluttered madly somewhere just below his throat.
“You wanted to see, Andrei.”
He went toward the voice. He opened the door; a stripe of washed-out light dove into the dark room. The familiar fragrance came from within. Andrei realized that light wasn’t necessary. He took a step forward and closed the door behind him. The vertical stripe contracted and turned into a thin line under the door.
Only after that did Andrei dare to look up. The light of star-studded sky came through a small window above curtains. Aiza was sitting on the bed.
“You wanted to see my new things,” she whispered.
The girl stood up. Her hands pulled the dress of overhead. White panties and bra accented her slender body. The girl turned. Her lips whispered something barely audibly. Perhaps she asked, “How do I look?” Or maybe he imagined it.
“You’re beautiful,” Andrei exhaled, barely able to breathe; somehow, he was next to her now, although he didn’t remember using his legs.
His hands gently touched her narrow shoulders, just like they did in their slow dance. But now he wasn’t feeling the cool smoothness of fabric, but the warmth of the girl’s skin. His hands slid down, settled on her waist, and pulled her close. Her small pert breasts constrained by the bra’s cups touched his chest. The girl shivered. Her shivers were tiny and uneven. Her hands went up and around his neck, her lips opened and passionately pressed against Andrei’s lips. The girl’s trepidation transferred to him.
The desire overwhelmed Andrei; it took over him and controlled all his movements. The girl responded in kind. They couldn’t control themselves. The nature took over.
They were both in a hurry. In a hurry to drown in the unspent desire and to melt in each other arms.
* * * * *
Andrei and Aiza lay naked on top of bed covers. The hot bodies didn’t feel like getting under a village-style down comforter. Andrei stroked the girl’s concave stomach, tracing her bellybutton with his finger. Sometimes his hand went lower and touched the prickly hair. Then the girl’s knees would press together.
Andrei’s lips touched her between the bellybutton and the hair.
“In here, women carry babies. And you were made to wear that hellish belt.”
Aiza took his hand, pulled it up, and kissed the open palm.
“Andrei, you’re my first man.”
He guy looked at Aiza with slight surprise. The girl looked up; her lips gently touched his fingers.
“Those other men, they weren’t with me. I wasn’t there. Only here, with you, I have become a real woman.”
Andrei looked into the girl’s happy eyes and nodded. He pensively played with the long strands of hair lying on her shoulders.
Aiza suddenly realized that she was completely naked and slid under the covers shyly. Andrei, too, pressed himself into the soft embrace of the bed and snuggled up to the girl. She turned to him and buried her face in his shoulder. Her sharp nose pressed against his chest; he could hear her breathe. Andrei felt ticklish.
Suddenly, she rose slightly and asked, “How did Sveta die?”
Andrei hugged Aiza and put her head on his shoulder.
“She went to sleep and never wake up,” he told her.
“Just went to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“So she didn’t suffer.”
“Probably not.”
“And at her funeral, she was beautiful.”
Andrei thought he heard envy in the girl’s voice.
“Don’t say that. Death is always a bad thing.”
“I know. So many people died in our village.” She sighed. “Sometimes, there was nothing to bury. That was bad.”
Aiza closed her eyes. Andrei kissed her gently on the closed eyelids. Aiza smiled and whispered quietly, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Really?” The girl’s eyes opened. A flame of happiness flickered in them.
“Of course,” Andrei kissed her again on each eye. “Now sleep.”
Aiza snuggled up to Andrei. The old bed squeaked. How loudly did it have to squeak ten minutes ago, the girl thought. Strangely, she couldn’t recall hearing those sounds. For a while, her lips kept smiling. Then, her eyebrows frowned slightly.
“What’s going to happen tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is going to be a new day. And a new life,” Andrei said firmly.
The girl nuzzled him. Smile returned to her sleepy face.
Chapter 71
September 2, 4:30 AM
Offices of Federal Security Service
First lieutenant Burkov walked into colonel Grigoriev’s office without knocking. His movements were affected by fatigue.
“Oleg Alexandrovich, we’ve checked all of Vlasov’s relatives and acquaintances. He haven’t been seen anywhere or called anyone.”
“Sit down, Yura,” the colonel pointed to an armchair next to a small table holding cups, sugar, and a jar of instant coffee. Have some coffee. The kettle recently boiled, should still be hot.
Burkov sat down gladly; his teaspoon clinked as he stirred his coffee.
Grigoriev asked, “Are you telling me what the relatives told you or have you checked it?”
“Oleg Alexandrovich,” Burkov spread his hands grudgingly. “Of course I did.”
“Have your coffee, Yura.” The colonel nodded, stood from behind his desk, and started pacing. “So what have we got? Vlasov no longer has a car. He haven’t talked to any relatives. They can’t go to a hotel; they’d have to show ID, and we’d hear about it. The police at railway stations has been notified. What’s left?”
Burkov looked up from his coffee, his forehead wrinkled.
“What’s left is his late grandmother’s house,” Grigoriev stated emphatically. “Hundred and eighty kilometers away from Moscow. The village is called Vilenka; it’s on the way to Ryazan’. I interviewed Chervyakov; he told me he went fishing there with Vlasov. According to him, the house is virtually abandoned.”
Grigoriev stopped. His face looked decisive.
“Since we have no other options, we’ll have to check that location. Let’s go.”
“Right now?” Burkov almost choked.
“As soon as you finish your coffee,” the colonel said mercifully.
Burkov drank in gulps. Grigoriev was talking didactically, “We’ll rest when we catch the terrorists. They don’t sleep and keep others awake. The guys in Beslan are having a harder time right now.” The colonel looked out the dark window. “We’ll be there by the morning. The driver’s had some sleep; I told him to. And you and I take a nap on the way. Any objections?”
When the boss asked questions, ever rhetorical ones, an answer was expected.
“None, colonel,” Burkov reported after he dabbed his lips.
“That’s good,” Grigoriev smirked. “When we get back, remind me to spring Chervyakov free. I might forget.”
“Yes, colonel.”
Despite the collegiate air in the department, Grigoriev liked the slightly official sound of being addressed by rank. It took him back to the glorious Soviet times when ranks were mentioned more often than names.
Chapter 72
September 2, 6:30 AM
The Country House
Somewhere close by, a rooster crowed insolently and piercingly. Aiza abruptly opened her eyes in fear, but immediately calmed down. Andrei’s sold hand was resting on her thigh; the man’s steady breathing felt warm between her shoulder blades.
The girl slid out from under the covers and shivered. The room cooled down overnight, but stepping on the cool unpainted wood of the floor barefoot felt good.
Aiza quietly walked to a small mirror and tried to look at herself in her entirety. But the old fame of carved wood would only fit either her face and breasts with tiny nipples or her stomach and the triangle of black hair below. If she stood on her toes, she could see her thighs and bulging knees.
Aiza definitely didn’t like the knees. She fluffed up her hair, turned her head this way and that, and tried to put on the expression of boredom and indifference she noticed in Moscow women at the shopping mall yesterday. It made her look like a prissy idiot.
Aiza sighed, picked up her new lingerie from the chair and went into the kitchen trying not to wake up Andrei.
Getting dressed was pleasant. The cool fabric of the panties and bra softly hugged her body and immediately warmed up. The girl turned this way and that. She liked her fine new acquisitions.
Aiza went to a window and pulled back the curtain. Through the damp greenery of a rowan bush and over the low fence, she could see a carefree village street. If would be good to live here with Andrei, Aiza thought and felt sad.
Then, she saw a few sheets of paper out of a school notebook and a pencil. She thought back to the times in school when she sat in class and drew girls wearing beautiful dresses. Aiza sat at the table and flattened out a sheet. But her thoughts were confused; her fingers pointlessly played with a pencil. The girl was thinking up a bride’s dress. For herself.
She dreamed about it a lot, long ago, back when the life was normal. And everything had been decided. But yesterday, she saw the beautiful Moscow brides. They were dresses of the kinds she didn’t even suspect to exist. And now she wanted something bolder and more festive.
The pencil thrashed over paper. A figure of a bride in a puffy wedding dress began to emerge on the sheet.
Chapter 73
September 2, 6:45 AM
The Village of Vilenka
Aslan Kitkiev yawned behind the wheel and slapped himself on the cheeks to stay awake.
“Here we are,” he said when he saw the sign that said Vilenka.
The burgundy “niner” slowed down.
“How are we going to find the house?” Fatima woke up from her nap and looked around, staring at country houses on both sides on the road through the tinted windows.
“By address! Stupid woman. This isn’t a village in the mountains. The houses have numbers.”
“What’s the number?”
Aslan wouldn’t condescend to answer. He looked only at the right side of the road and was happy to see that the village street was empty at this hour. When almost entire village was behind them, he turned into a dirt road and stopped.
“Looks like it’s here,” Aslan pointed the roof of the house showing from behind the bushes about fifty meters away from the main road. “Good location. We shouldn’t drive up close; let’s walk. Or do you want to wait here and I’ll call for the car?”
Aslan gave Fatima a sly look.
“We’ll go together,” the woman grumbled and got out of the car. This time, she was dressed like a weekend gardener: washed-out jeans, tight-fitting T-shirt, and a sports jacket on top.
“Won’t the bling get in the way?” Aslan asked, surprised with the combination of abundant gold jewelry and sporty clothing.
“None of your business.”
“I got it now. You must be wearing your entire gold stock, just in case you have to run away on a short notice.”
“Have we come out here to chat?”
“Okay, let’s go together. But you do only as I say!” Aslan warned the woman, thinking with some satisfaction that it was high time to straighten her out and put her in a proper place. He was in charge, not she!
When they walked up to a gate, Aslan pushed the woman against the fence and whispered, “They’re in the house.”
“Why do you think so?” Fatima tried to look over the man’s shoulder.
“The window is ajar. It wouldn’t be if the house were empty,” Aslan proudly demonstrated his insight.
“Is it the right house?”
The house number was painted on its corner in peeling paint, but Aslan ignored the question. No reason to answer the woman every time she asks.
He whispered a command, “Stay here! Watch the street. I’ll do some recon.”
The gate opened quietly. Aslan went along the wall and squatted under the windows. He listened. The village was coming alive, but the back yard of the abandoned house was quiet.
Aslan rose on his feet and carefully looked into the slightly open window.
A man was sleeping on a rumpled bed. Aslan immediately recognized him and tensed. Too many problems in his life were due to this guy. Even his wound started hurting worse. But Aslan’s heart beat faster with happiness. His intuition didn’t let him down! He came to the right place.
But where was Aiza?
Aslan looked into another window. Aiza, wearing only lingerie, sat at a table, scrawling something on a piece of paper. What a bitch! Aslan got angry. Got mixed up with an infidel and lost any shame! No headscarf, no dress, hair down, alone in the house with a dirty bastard!
He measured her against the standard of an immaculate highlander virgin; he completely forgot what he put her through and what he prepared her for.
The girl adjusted her hair and turned to the window. Aslan immediately squatted and crawled around the corner. He gestured to Fatima to hide.
That was right on time.
A curtain in the window slid aside. Aiza’s concerned eyes looked over the side street.
Chapter 74
September 2, 6:55 AM
The Country House
He girl looked left and right. No one. Something distracted her from drawing and made her come to the window. Someone must have walked up the street, or a dog might have run by, the girl thought.
She ran her finger along a dusty pane of glass. She decided: if she stayed here even for a day, she would clean it. And wash the curtains. She turned around thinking about what else she could do to make the house more comfortable.
And once again, a pang of anxiety!
Aiza pressed her face against the glass. No, it was just her imagination. Except the birds weren’t chirping, as if someone scared them off. Well, maybe there weren’t as many birds here as where she was from, or they weren’t as loud. And it was fall, too. Why would the birds chirp? It wasn’t spring anymore.
She realized that she stands by a window practically naked. If someone walked by, they would definitely see her. That wasn’t good. Aiza looked for her dress. Then she remembered that it was in the bedroom. She didn’t want to wake Andrei up. He got so tired yesterday, and a man had to be strong.
Aiza looked for something to put on. But she found nothing she could use. Only shoes were in the room. She danced here last night. First barefoot, then with shoes on, like a city girl. It felt awkward, but Andrei held and supported her.
Aiza put on the shoes and stood up. She had to learn to walk in heels. Every girl in the city could do that. She looked at herself. A bra, panties and shoes. She smiled shyly. She never started a day in an outfit like this. She took a few steps and looked at herself again. With the shoes on, even her round knees didn’t look unattractive.
Should she try whirling? She wondered, what kind of dancing was there in the Russian weddings? And do Russian guys marry Chechen girls? Before the war, it used to happen all the time. But now, there were no Russian guys left in her land. Only soldiers. But they were enemies, you couldn’t love them. They came to make war, and then left to be with their girls. They got married in Russia.
Aiza sat at the table, looked at the drawing of the bride. She liked it and added a few details. And then she felt sad.
Andrei used to be a soldier, too. He fought in her land and killed the Chechens. So he had to be an enemy. So she couldn’t love him.
But she did!
Something squeaked. Aiza started. The pencil fell out of her hand.
Did Andrei get up? No, the sound was coming from elsewhere. Another strange squeak. The chill of alarm made her skin crawl.
She carefully stepped into the small front room and immediately realized that the sound was coming from the front door. A narrow band of light came through the gap between the door and the doorjamb. Someone was putting pressure at the door from the outside. And through the resulting crack, the blade of a knife was coming up squeaking. That was the strange sound she heard from the room.
A horrible fear took over the girl. They were found out even here!
The blade, meanwhile, already came up to a hook and tried to take it out of its loop. Aiza watched the hook come up, prodded by the knife. Another moment, and it would come out; then, the door would open wide.
Aiza screamed and rushed at the door with outstretched hands.
* * * * *
Kitkiev wanted to open the door quietly. Fatima stood behind his back. She would have to seize the girl while Aslan handled the sleeping guy. The knife was traitorously squeaking in the narrow crack. If only the guy didn’t wake up. It would feel good to finish him off in his sleep.
When Aslan heard Aiza scream “Andrei!”, he realized he’d been spotted and broke through the door by pushing it with his left shoulder.
Aiza was rushing toward him; he threw her aside by hitting her with his elbow. It was a nice blow. The hoe dropped on the floor flashing her bare legs and the stupid high heels. He wanted to kick the shameless bitch, but every second counted.
“Get her!” Aslan yelled to Fatima. The knife went back to his belt; his hand went for the gun.
The bedroom door opened. Andrei Vlasov, wearing only his underwear, momentarily showed in the opening. He evaluated the situation. Immediately, the door closed.
Aslan was able to send a bullet through the thin partition, but heard to noise of falling body. Instead, there was the sound of breaking glass. Aslan rushed forward after the unarmed adversary.
The empty room met him with a torn-down curtain and the frame of the open window rocking back and forth. Aslan ran up to the window and stuck his head out. The sight of his gun scanned the bushes.
The bastard got lucky once again! He managed to escape.
“Have you got the Russian?” Fatima spoke up.
As usual, asking questions for which there were no proud answers. The damn teacher!
“Do your own job,” Aslan grumbled. “Strangle the bitch.”
“We can still use her.”
Fatima pushed Aiza from behind, holding her twisted arm behind her back. Aiza looked around in fear. Then she relaxed; her bearing became proud.
Aslan winced in disappointment. The bitch looked good. Long legs, the V of tight-fitting panties, pert round breasts held in fine cups of the bra, and the insolent eyes staring from under streaming black hair.
Four days ago, he brought to Moscow a flaccid rag; now she was back to being a proud flower in full bloom.
She was the best of his charges. Not a submissive “living bomb”, but a seductive young woman. This beauty should belong to him and no one else! But it was too late. The foul dishonor she went through couldn’t be washed away. Too bad; she came to him an innocent girl. And he threw her to fat Mahmud. Forcibly got her drunk and gave her to him. And made a video of how he opened her legs and fidgeted over the helpless girl. The girl’s weak resistance could be viewed as rough caressing.
And then, anyone who wanted to could have her. For fighters living in a forest, that was a good diversion.
The orgy went on for a few hours. Aslan made a creative video of it. By then, he was good at it; he even directed. Here’s a close-up of the girl’s open legs; here she is, moaning. Sounds like passion, doesn’t it? Now let’s put the hoe on her knees. You take the front, you, the back. And a close-up of the open mouth trying to expel a penis. Great picture quality! The family will be thrilled to see it.
And the rare flares of the victim’s rage wouldn’t make it into the video, nor will the punishments. The only thing on screen would be a lusting bitch who enjoys sex with as many men as possible.
A month of this life, and a girl would gladly put on the explosives and run where you tell her to. You couldn’t lose in this game. Just make sure she doesn’t kill herself before her time. For that there were the meds, the will suppressors.
Fatima looked around the room.
“Where’s the Russian?”
“You won’t get him,” Aiza said with a vengeful smile on her face.
Aslan flared up.
“You’re going to get it, you fucking whore!”
He moved the gun into his left hand and clenched the right fist to strike. The rumpled bed and the proud posture of the semi-naked girl drove him into an animal jealousy. Only he could own this body! He could give her over to his friends or use her himself if he wanted to. Until the day before yesterday, this how it was. He singled Aiza out from the last quartet. He chose not to send her on the airplane mission, to keep her for another couple of days to be able to lift up her skirt and grab her nice soft ass.
“Cool it,” Fatima stood in his way. “We have to go; we’ll work it out elsewhere.”
“Don’t you order me around!” Aslan was working up to a fit or rage.
Then he realized something was wrong.
There was a strange sound; Fatima threw a scared look at something behind his back.
Suddenly, he felt the chills on his skin. The palm of his hand sweated. The gun was in the wrong hand! He tried to turn around. Too late. The Russian, out of his hiding place under the bed, attacked him from behind like a hurricane. The bastard outwitted him! He tore down the curtains and opened the window just to create a diversion!
Aslan realized all than only after he got shoved on the back. He slammed into the floor; the gun flew off to the wall. Aslan prepared to wrestle, but then realized that it wasn’t going to happen. His adversary went straight for the gun. He was about to have a weapon, and there would be shooting. He couldn’t hide! He had to put something between himself and a bullet.
Kitkiev had just enough time to get up, grab Aiza, and hide behind her. He remembered he had a knife and stuck the blade to the girl’s throat.
“Don’t come any closer!”
Andrei positioned himself by the door. The gun was in his hand. There were three or four paces between them.
“Hey, you, the movie lover,” Andrei pointed the gun at Fatima, “go stand next to him. Just so I can see you.”
The woman, walking sideways, approached Aslan and the hostage, but stood somewhat apart trying to avoid a random bullet.
“Lave the girl alone!” Andrei yelled pointing the gun at Aslan.
“Don’t you order me around.” Aslan shifted the girl and looked over her other shoulder. He was gradually getting used to his new role, realizing that not all was lost. The guy seemed to be in love with the hoe, and Russians were very sentimental. He could play it. He yelled shrilly, “I’ll cut her!”
“I’ll shoot, Aslan.”
“Shoot! She’ll die first.”
The girl in high heels was a good shield for Aslan. He kept jerking her this way and that. Andrei tried to stay calm.
“Let her go and leave.”
“Drop the gun, or I’ll cut her!” Aslan yelled; he decided it was time to begin a mental offensive. “I’ll cut her!”
“And then you’ll die.”
“I don’t care! I’ll cut her throat!”
“I’ll shoot.”
“And off your bitch.”
“Andrei, shoot,” Aiza whispered hoarsely. “Shoot, I don’t care.”
“I’ll kill you first!” Aslan squealed into her ear.
He pressed on the knife. The blade touched the girl’s neck.
Andrei moved the gun around, trying to catch Aslan at a careless move. His forehead was sweaty. But Kitkiev kept jerking around and screaming, “I’ll cut her! Cut her! One move, and that’s it! She’s gone! Drop the gun.”
It seemed he was out of control. A trickle of blood slowly went down the girl’s neck. Andrei went pale and lifted his hands in a calming gesture.
“Calm down. We can work it out. You let Aiza go, and I’ll let you leave.”
“I want to cut her throat and throw her head to your foul feet.”
“Shoot, Andrei,” Aiza kept asking.
“Drop the gun!”
Andrei lowered his hands.
“Quiet. Calm down. Let’s discuss the situation. Why do you want Aiza? We agree to forget you. It’s simple. You leave, and Aiza and I keep quiet about you and what you do.”
“Okay,” Aslan agreed suddenly. “Get away from the door. We have to trade places.”
The adversaries slowly moved along the opposite walls. Fatima slid into the open door. Aslan stopped at the threshold, still hiding behind the girl.
“Let Aiza go.”
“First, you throw the gun out of the window.”
Vlasov pondered. A lever clicked. The clip fell out of the gun and thudded on the floor.
“Now release her.”
“Yea, right,” Aslan squinted. There’s another bullet in the gun. Throw the piece out of the window.
Andrei threw the gun into the bushes.
“Well?” Vlasov looked at Kitkiev questioningly.
Aslan relaxed and smiled. On his face, there was an expression of winner’s triumph. But he made an effort to look serious. The hand holding the knife lowered. Aslan gave the girl a strong push forward.
“Live, lovers.”
The girl fell flat on the floor. Andrei squatted to help her.
“Aiza,” he lifted her up gently and held her.
“Andrei,” the girl said barely audibly and pressed her cheek to his chest.
“Wait, let me see your neck. Let’s come to the window.”
Aslan, who just stepped out of the room, was waiting for that moment. He jumped Andrei from behind and drove his knife into his right side. The blow was strong; the blade went in deep.
Andrei staggered and looked over his shoulder in surprise. Aslan, smiling crookedly, pushed him gently. Vlasov dropped on the bed.
The girl froze, paralyzed. Her glassy eyes stared at the knife sticking out of the body.
Chapter 75
September 2, 7:00 AM
The FSS Volga
“Turn on the news,” Yura Burkov asked Misha the diver. “What’s happening in Beslan?”
Mikhail touched a button on the radio and turned up the volume. Colonel Grigoriev smirked, “The times we live in! The FSS officers find out the news from reporters.”
Nevertheless, everyone listened to the news carefully. From a variety of disjointed reports it was clear that there were no changes to the better in the fate of the school being held up.
“If they didn’t breach at night, the won’t do it in daylight,” Grigoriev stated.
“They must have put it off until the following night,” Burkov sighed. The kids will have to get through another day.
“And their parents. I don’t know who’s feeling worse right now.” Grigoriev wanted to add something, but only waved his hand in irritation and turned away.
In the breast pocket of Grigoriev’s coat, his phone started vibrating. Outside the FSS building, the colonel almost always kept the ringer off. Grigoriev wanted to make sure the phone wouldn’t ring an the least opportune moment. He thought about the possible terrorist apprehension awaiting them and before answering his phone, instructed the first lieutenant, “Turn off the sound on your mobile.”
Burkov made an unhappy don’t-I-know-the-rules face, but the colonel wasn’t going to listen to him. He looked at the called ID and immediately answered, “Yes, Valya?”
It was his wife. She must have heard the noise of the car engine, because she asked, “Oleg, are you coming home?”
“No, Valya. I’m out on business.”
“When are you going to be home?”
“Perhaps tonight.”
“Your daughter’s wedding is tomorrow, but you aren’t here.”
“Can’t you handle it without me?”
“I am used to it.”
“In that case, I’ll see you later. Say hi to the daughter. Everything’s going to be alright.”
Grigoriev ended the call and put away the phone.
“We’re getting close, Oleg Alexandrovich,” the driver reported. “Vilenka’s coming up.”
“Great. Yura, guide us to the right house.”
“What if there’s nobody there?” the first lieutenant doubted for the first time since the beginning of the trip.
“Something’s telling me we’re on the right path.”
“The sixth sense?”
“Maybe.”
Burkov marveled at his boss’ confidence. Deep within, he thought the trip would be for nothing. Soon, they would turn around, and all the way back he would be jealous of the luckier colleagues who got to work the Beslan affair. They were working directly under the FSS Director, and maybe even the President.
Colonel Grigoriev clenched and unclenched his fists a few times and flexed his neck. As they drove into the village, he checked his service weapon. If the terrorists were there, they had to be ready for a serious encounter.
Chapter 76
September 2, 7:10 AM
The Country House
Andrei Vlasov remained conscious. He made an effort to turn his head and whispered in surprise, “What did you — ”
“And you believed me,” Aslan smirked. “You can’t turn your back on the enemy.”
He pulled the knife out and carefully wiped it on the white bed sheet. Brownish-red blood started running out of the wound. Aslan looked at the undressed girl.
“Bitch! Got mixed up with a Russian pig.”
He backhanded Aiza. The girl, strangely, was able to stay on her feet.
Fatima bustled into the room.
“Did you bring the gun?” Aslan greeted her with a question.
“Here,” Fatima readily handed him the weapon.
Kitkiev picked up the clip and slid it into the gun. He did everything thoroughly, keeping an eye on the wounded. Andrei clutched at his wound, turned around, and sat up.
“Still breathing?” Aslan smirked. “That’s good. What was it you said yesterday about Nord Ost? Who did you see there?”
Kitkiev pointed the gun in Vlasov’s face.
“Your bastard brother,” Andrei said hoarsely.
“Brother?”
“He looked like you… when he was scared.”
“What happened to him?”
“He’s dead. I… offed him.”
“You?”
“I. And the same… thing’s going to happen to you.”
Kikiev’s eyes went bloodshot. He clenched his jaws and shot Andrei in the chest. The guy’s body jerked, as if struck, and fell back on the bed.
Aiza screamed in rage. Her eyes flashed madness. She seemed to shake off an ice shell of stupor and attacked Aslan like a wild animal. Not expecting this kind of pressure, Aslan fell and dropped the gun. The enraged girl clawed at his neck and yelled something unintelligible.
Suddenly, she saw the gun. She picked up the weapon and pointed it at Aslan. Her tense finger couldn’t find the trigger right away. A moment before she found the trigger and pulled it, a blow on the back of her head threw her aside. As she sank into the darkness, she heard the sound of a shot.
* * * * *
When Aiza unglued her eyelids, she saw Fatima standing over her. Fatima put away a syringe and carefully studied Aiza’s pupils.
“It’s all over, girl. You’re going to feel good now,” Fatima assured her.
Aiza felt a soft wave of indifference come over her. But she still remembered pointing the gun at Aslan and the sound of a shot. He was nowhere to be seen. It meant she killed him. She avenged her—
That’s where her memory started to fail her. He must have done something very bad. But now he was no more, and she felt good about it.
“Now you’re going to get dressed. And we’ll go,” Fatima was saying. She turned around and spoke to someone. “We have to leave quickly! What are you lying around for? We’ve stirred up the entire village.”
Someone stirred, and Aiza saw Aslan’s bared teeth. He was wielding a gun.
“I’ll kill that bitch! Step aside!”
Fatima stood in his way.
“She’s our treasure,” and added quickly, “She’s going to die tonight.”
Aiza could still hear the words, but she no longer understood their meaning. She couldn’t. It wasn’t working out. She perceived this unfortunate news with unconcern of a plant. Her body and mind were filling up with sweet indifference.
Aslan went on raging.
“I’ll kill this snake! She slept with him!”
“Since when does that bother you? Help me carry her to the car.”
“I’ll kill her!”
“We still need her, you brainless idiot! We have to leave. Someone must have heard the shots and the shouts.”
Aslan lowered his weapon and touched the scratches on his neck.
“The crazy hysterical hoe.”
“Now she’s tame and can’t remember anything. Let’s get her to the car!”
She got the girl into her dress and led obedient semi-sleeping Aiza out.
When the burgundy “niner” jumped into the main village road, Aslan wanted to turn toward Moscow.
“No. We shouldn’t go back through the entire village,” Fatima stopped him. “Go the other way. That’s safer.”
The dust kicked up by their car was still settling, when a black Volga with a blister of a special signal on the roof turned into the side street.
Chapter 77
September 2, 7:20 AM
The Village of Vilenka
When he saw Vlasov’s house, colonel Grigoriev realized that the trip hadn’t bee in vain. A gate ajar, trampled grass in the front yard, a wide open window — an abandoned house wouldn’t look like that. At the same time, it looked way too carefree for wanted terrorists.
“Yura, take the windows; I’ll go through the door,” Grigoriev whispered and took put his gun.
On his way, he noticed a freshly broken twig on a bush. On the porch, the colonel faced a wide open door. Grigoriev started worrying.
Were they too late?
He listened. The house was silent. In the front room, he could see a knocked over chair.
Grigoriev carefully walked into the house holding his gun at the waist level.
He was constantly amazed at the super-agents in American movies, who, holding their guns in stone-hard outstretched hands, jerked around viewing whole houses through their guns’ sights. Did they really have to aim to shoot a person at three meters? And in cowboy movies, conversely, everyone was able to hit a coin in mid-air from the waist. Either Americans got squint-eyed over the last hundred years of they forgot how to make decent handguns.
Right away, the colonel saw a bloodied body on the bed with a bullet wound in the chest, but before coming up to it, he checked the rest of the small house. There wasn’t anyone else.
Grigoriev put away his gun, looked out the window, and nodded to Burkov, “Come in.”
As the first lieutenant was going around the house, Oleg Alexandrovich touched Vlasov’s neck. There was no pulse.
“What’s wrong with him?” Burkov asked stopping at the threshold.
“Dead. We’re late. The terrorists are sweeping up.”
“Is this Vlasov?”
“Yes. Killed recently. The body’s still warm.”
“So where’s the Shahid?” Burkov kept looking around, his gun still at the ready.
“The house is empty.”
“What happened here?”
“They must have had a fight. Could have been over money. Aiza Guzieva killed him, took the money, and disappeared.”
“You think it’s her?”
“At any rate, she wasn’t very good at shooting. See, a hole in the door, a mark on the ceiling.”
“Could it be that Vlasov was forcing her into an act of terror, and she didn’t want to do it?”
“Possible. Although the opposite is also possible. At any rate, he was a bastard. He is responsible for hundreds of deaths.” The colonel winced with disgust. “Talk to the locals. Someone could have seen something. I’ll call out the investigators and take a look at the house.”
Grigoriev went through the rooms. It looked like the terrorists weren’t planning to live here. No food supply, no clothing, no weapons. On the table in the kitchen, he saw a drawing of a bride. Looked like something drawn by a dreaming schoolgirl. Juvenile stuff, really… The colonel carefully looked at the dress drawn in details and though about his daughter. What kind of dress would she have? Girls care about this kind of thing, and he didn’t even bother to ask.
The colonel folded the drawing and put it in his pocket.
An inspection of the back yard didn’t yield anything, either. The sauna appeared to have been used the day before. That was it.
Near the front porch, the colonel squatted. A line of holes left by high heels went from the threshold to the gate. This confirmed the theory of the girl committing the murder. She offed her partner, out on her shoes, and disappeared. Quite a cold-blooded girl.
Grigoriev traced the tracks beyond the gate. About fifteen meters away from the main road, right were their Volga was parked, the holes disappeared. So another car was parked here before, and the terrorist drove away in it.
Burkov came back.
“What have you found out?” Grigoriev inquired.
“The owners rarely visited the house. No one saw anybody coming yesterday. The house is off to the side, bushes all over. No one heard the shots, either.”
Grigoriev looked at the house hiding in the bushes and agreed.
“It’s basically a log cabin; old, but solid. Soundproofing should be decent. Someone might have heard the pops but ignored them. But there had to be a car. The perpetrator left in it.”
“Yes. This morning, a neighbor noticed a car turning in this way.”
“Needless to say, they didn’t figure out the model and license plate”
“No kidding! I could barely ascertain that the car was burgundy and shaped like a Moskvich or Lada model nine. I actually had to draw shapes for the old lady.”
“Well, that’s not bad. Have you noticed anything like that driving at us?”
“There are plenty of cars like that, Oleg Alexandrovich.”
“I know. The terrorist disappeared very recently. Think; have you seen a burgundy car on our way into the village?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Let’s ask the driver. Where’s Misha.”
“In the house. He wanted to see the body. He’s curious.”
“Yura, issue a lookout; tell them to check all burgundy cars, including imports. The old lady could have been mistaken.”
“Oleg Alexandrovich, do you think the Shahid would return to Moscow? She was trying so hard to escape it.”
“Someone came for her. It’s possible a new act of terror has been set up. They wouldn’t wait long. They have no use for a live Shahid. And who can know what’s on a suicide bomber’s mind? Do you?”
The first lieutenant shook his head no.
“Neither do I. Meanwhile, let’s remove Vlasov from the wanted list. He’s done. Traitors don’t live long. Either we catch them or the accomplices kill them.”
The bushes rustled. The gate slammed. Along the fence, their driver ran, looking mad.
“Oleg Alexandrovich,” Misha appealed, “he’s breathing!”
“Who?”
“The dead man on the bed.”
Chapter 78
September 2, 8:35 AM
The FSS Volga
The FSS Volga rushed toward Moscow. Vlasov lay in the back seat. His naked torso was hastily bandaged; the dark spots of closed eyes stood out on his pale face. Yuri Burkov held up the wounded man’s head and dabbed his lips with a wet cloth.
“Oleg Alexandrovich, he’s getting cold,” the first lieutenant said in a scared tone. “We’re going to lose him.”
Grigoriev looked back from the front seat and frowned.
“We need this terrorist alive. He is a key to many puzzles.” The colonel looked at the driver. “Okay, Misha, where’s the nearest decent hospital?”
“In Domodedovo, colonel.”
“Get us there.”
Oleg Alexandrovich pulled out his phone and pushed a few buttons.
“This is Grigoriev. Give me Domodedovo city police.” He waited to be put through, then continued. “This is colonel Grigoriev, FSS. We need your assistance. We are bringing a dangerous terrorist to your city hospital. We need two armed officers on him around the clock… No, he’s critical, so he can’t escape. We need to protect him against neutralization attempts… No. So far, no one knows he is in Domodedovo. As soon as he’s transportable, we’ll transfer him into our infirmary. Any other questions? Then go ahead!”
The colonel put the phone away. He said to Burkov over his shoulder, “Yura, call the hospital. Make sure we are expected.”
Chapter 79
September 2, 8:50 AM
Domodedovo City Hospital
In a hospital hallway lined with battered linoleum smelling of bleach, Grigoriev spoke to an elderly surgeon.
“What’s your take on the patient’s state?”
“He’s critical. A bullet wound and a knife wound. Organ damage. We’ll operate right away. After the surgery, there will be some clarity.”
“As soon as he can speak, call me!” Grigoriev handed a business card to the surgeon.
Two police sergeants armed with assault rifles walked up to them.
“Where are you going?” the surgeon said in surprise.
The policemen quietly looked up to the suit-weaning colonel; they correctly figured he was in charge.
“These are our people,” Grigoriev explained. “They will be on duty near the operating room, and then, at the patient’s room. Put him in a single. And no more questions!”
The surgeon left. The colonel spoke to the policemen.
“Guard the terrorist with your lives! No one goes out except the doctor, the nurse, and me. Even if they have a FSS ID. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeants replied discordantly.
Grigoriev smiled and decided to cheer up the miserable cops.
“It’s going to be okay. As soon as the bastard gets better, we’ll take him off your hands.”
Chapter 80
September 2, 10:50 AM
Aslan’s Car on Its Way to Moscow
As they approached Moscow, the traffic was getting denser. Up ahead, they saw a sign for the city limit and the ramps for the belt road.
“We’re getting close,” Aslan Kitkiev looked back and met Fatima’s tense gaze. “So much extra mileage because of you.”
“Don’t grumble. It’s better to go in a different way. And put yourself together.”
Aslan stopped the car on the roadside, looked at himself in the mirror, and gently touched the scratches on his neck.
“The bitch ruined my appearance. Another clue for the cops.”
He put up the collar of his shirt, but was unable to hide the scratches completely.
“Put on a scarf,” Fatima recommended. “This one.”
“What am I, a broad?”
“Artistes do that. Try it. And keep your shirt collar open.”
Aslan tied the scarf, looked at himself in the mirror, and winced unhappily.
“Looks good,” Fatima encouraged. “Drop your bangs over your eyes.”
Aslan messed up his forelock and smiled sourly.
“Picasso, damn it!” He seemed to be pleased. He turned to the women and looked at the sleeping Aiza. Soon, there’s going to be a police cordon. How’s she? Will she buck?
“After the dose I gave her, she’s a sleepy doll.”
“We should have offed her along with that bastard and burn the house down.”
“Without the Russian, she’s ours again. She resisted while he was around. I think the medication erased her memory.”
The napping Aiza opened her eyes and looked around, not understanding anything. Fatima put on a sugary smile and started cooing, “Are you up, girl? Good. Everything bad is in the past. The girl’s back with her family, she’s a good girl again.”
“She fucked an infidel!” Aslan said through his teeth.
“Be quiet, you idiot. Don’t remind her,” Fatima hissed and turned her sickly-sweet attention back to the girl. “Aiza is the best of my girls. She is pure and bright. She hates our enemies. They killed her fiancé. Aiza will have her revenge. She will do what she came here to do. Isn’t that right, my girl?”
Aiza nodded indifferently.
“Today, I will dress our beauty up, and she will go meet her fiancé. Will you go?”
“I will,” Aiza repeated like an echo. “Where?”
Fatima smiled and looked into the girl’s eyes.
“Have you forgotten? To the metro. A lot of enemies there. From there, it’s the shortest path to Allah. He’s waiting for you. You’re his bride.”
The last word made Aiza stir up.
“A bride?” she asked. Her eyes shone happily. “Yes, I am a bride. I want to wear a wedding dress.”
Fatima pondered and touched Aslan.
“Let’s go. Maybe she’ll get rocked to sleep.”
Aiza rolled her eyes dreamily.
“I’ll wear a beautiful dress. I’ll go to the river. There’s open space and balloons. A lot of brides there.”
Aslan asked quietly, “What’s that delirium all about?”
Fatima stirred up with enthusiasm.
“That’s right, my girl. That’s how it’s going to be. We’ll buy you the best dress. I’ll dress you up as a bride. You’ll be the most beautiful of them all.”
“I’ll be the best.”
“Of course, girl.”
“With flowers.”
“You’ll have the best bouquet. You’ll go to Sparrow Hills, where brides and grooms go. Your wedding will take place there.”
“Yes, I want to go there. I’ll be a bride.”
Fatima quietly whispered to Aslan, “That place is way better than metro. A wedding dress is a great camouflage. And think of the picture; read blood on white dresses, and flowers all over.”
Aslan kept driving. Fatima once again cooed at Aiza.
“We’re going to go buy your dress right now, girl. Just behave. Will you listen to me?”
“I will.”
“Then we’ll go get the dress.”
Aslan looked at the line of cars waiting to enter Moscow.
“We just need to pass that picket.”
Fatima noticed another burgundy car being pulled over. Her calm face showed signs of nervousness.
“Should we turn around?”
“Too late, you old crow. Keep an eye on the hoe.” Kitkiev perked up. “All right. This isn’t the first time. We’ll buy them off!”
Aslan caught the traffic cop’s stare. A mustachioed lieutenant gently waved his baton and pointed to the roadside. Aslan obediently pulled over and stepped out to face the cop.
“Hey! What is the problem, my friend?” he spoke with a Georgian accent. “I am driving the wife and the mother-in-law. Did I do something wrong?”
“Your license,” the cop ordered tiredly and peeked inside the car through the tinted glass. His indifferent eyes took in the women.
Fatima smiled and hugged Aiza.
The traffic cop looked at the papers, folded them up and mechanically tapped on the palm of his hand.
“Why weren’t you wearing your seatbelt? That’s a violation.”
“Hey! I completely forgot about the seatbelt! So many rules, who keeps coming up with them? Comply all you want, you still forget something.”
“I’ll have to hold your license until you pay the fine. If you pay it today before six PM, you can have your license back right here. Any other day, at the district office — » the cop droned on.
“My fault; I’ll pay,” Aslan agreed obediently.
In his pocket, he found a bank note he set aside for this occasion, hid it in the palm of his hand so that the corner was visible, and reached for his papers.
“What do you do for a living?” the cop asked warily, looking at the scarf on his neck.
“I’m a sculptor,” Aslan lied with a smile. “An assistant to Tsereteli.[4]”
“Uh-huh,” the lieutenant nodded understandingly. “Come with me.”
He handed back the papers. Aslan aptly stuck the bank note between the pages. Near the picket booth, the lieutenant stopped and looked around absent-mindedly. His hands, meanwhile, were handling the papers once again. The fluffy mustache on his face hid his emotions; it wasn’t clear if he was scowling or smiling. Finally, he remembered he still had a driver with him and handed back his papers with edification, “Don’t do it again.”
The lieutenant immediately forgot about Aslan and switched his attention to the traffic flow squeezing through the single unblocked lane.
In the car, Aslan went through the paperwork. He didn’t see the bank note disappear. He out on his seatbelt and slowly drove off. In his rearview mirror, he saw the cops pull over another burgundy “niner”.
“We’ve got to switch cars,” he said pensively. “We got spotted somewhere.”
“Let’s go to my place,” Fatima said.
Aslan turned back in surprise. In the past, Fatima invariably refused to host suicide bombers.
“You think they found the old address?”
“We better be safe. And don’t get distracted. Watch out for a tail. And one more thing; we need to switch cars along the way.”
Chapter 81
September 3, 9:10 AM
Offices of Federal Security Service
The smoothly shaved colonel Grigoriev wearing a dark suit and a fresh shirt was nervously pacing in his office. He couldn’t sit still.
He spent the last night at home. His wife insisted he dress up. She counted on seeing him at their daughter’s wedding. The guests were to assemble in a small restaurant at 5 PM; the civil ceremony was to be held at 1 PM. The time in-between was allotted to the traditional drive through Moscow’s top spots with smiles, picture-taking, and champagne.
The colonel promised to his wife he’d be at the restaurant, but there was no confidence in his voice. Everything hinged on the developments in the Shahid’s case.
In the morning, Oleg Alexandrovich came to the office and immediately contacted the Domodedovo hospital. According to the surgeon, the operation was successful, but Vlasov was still unconscious. The only terrorist they had was silent. There was no new information on the disappeared terrorist over the last twenty-four hours.
The uncertainty worried Grigoriev. Have her handlers changed their plans? The colonel rejected the theory that the suicide bomber would be left alone. Terrorists weren’t suffering from sentimentality.
It was much more likely that they were trying to play along with Beslan. If so, one had to expect some thunder. A garden variety subway explosion wouldn’t be enough; they thought of something more sinister.
First lieutenant Burkov came into the office. The colonel greeted him with a question, “What news?”
“All quiet, Oleg Alexandrovich. The Shahid is nowhere to be seen.”
“I know that. What of incidents? Anything suspicious?”
“There were calls about explosive devices. People are panicked, but less so that on the first day.”
“So all calls were false alarms?”
“Yes, sir. Only in one case the dog sniffed explosives. The bomb squad came out, but they didn’t find anything.”
“Even the dogs are tired, not to mention people. Where was that?”
“Near a Cinderella store on Michurinsky.”
“Who called?”
“A security guard from the store. He noticed a car that stayed parked for an entire day and didn’t move even after the closing. Then he called.”
“Fear’s a great motivator,” the colonel smirked.
“But the dog confirmed the presence of explosives.”
“But the car was clean.”
“Yes.”
“I imagine the owner’s reaction. They must have torn the car apart.”
The first lieutenant flipped through the papers.
“The report doesn’t say anything about the owner. He never showed up.”
“Strange. What kind of car was it?” Grigoriev inquired.
Burkov looked at the papers.
“VAZ-21093. Burgundy, tinted windows.”
Grigoriev slowly turned to Burkov. The colonel perked up.
“Does the color remind you of anything?”
The first lieutenant’s eyebrows slowly went up.
“Yesterday! In the village!”
“Exactly. Could it be out car? We have to get the owner’s information.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And report. Meanwhile, what kind of store is Cinderella?”
“They sell wedding dresses. And bridal accessories.”
The colonel frowned, trying to remember something. He abruptly returned to his desk and unfolded the drawing he picked up in the country house.
“Dress, says you. Wedding. And I’ve got a bride drawn here.” He tapped his finger on the drawing. “And today is a Saturday. High time for weddings.”
Suddenly, Grigoriev’s face went pale. He picked up the phone and dialed an extension.
“This is urgent! Secure all civil records offices in Moscow! Manpower? Pull people out of the subway if you have to! Aiza Guzieva, the suicide bomber, may be dressed up as a bride! Do you understand what that means?”
The colonel stood up and started pacing faster than before. Burkov, dumbfounded, was watching his boss. Oleg Alexandrovich stopped by his subordinate and whispered anxiously, “Yura, this is the last thing we need.”
“A Shahid’s belt under a bridal dress?”
“Yes. We’ve seen pretty much everything else.”
The colonel came to the window and looked into the clear sky.
“It’s going to be a good day. Weather-wise, I mean.” Oleg Alexandrovich turned around. “All right, let’s not wait around. Let’s take a drive to Cinderella and talk to the sales clerks. Maybe we’d learn something.”
Chapter 82
September 3, 10:35 AM
Fatima’s Apartment
It seemed that the small room held nothing but the wedding dress. It hung in the middle of the room. They hooked the hanger on the old light fixture. The whiteness of the dress and the fancy decorations captivated. Next to it, everything else got lost.
Aiza, wearing a long nightgown, sat in the corned of a small bed hugging her knees and looked at the dress in sadness. Tears were drying up on her face.
Fatima came in with a syringe and carefully looked at the girl.
“I left for five minutes, and you’re crying again. This is normal. All brides cry before the wedding. Some with happiness, some with fear,” she stopped speaking and started fussing. “Let me give you a little injection. Like yesterday. And everything’s going to be alright. You’ll feel better.”
“Don’t, it makes my head spin, and I want to sleep all the time.”
“Today is an important day for you, girl. You’re going to take the most important test in your life.”
Aiza hid her nose between her knees and whispered, “I’m ready, I’ll do everything. I want to put on the dress and die.”
“Okay, we can skip the injection.” Fatima paused and put away the syringe. “I know you don’t do well with it. In that case, take a few pills. They’re harmless, they’ll just calm your nerves. I’ll take some, too.”
The woman left, but quickly returned with a glass of water.
“Open your mouth.” Fatima put three pills on the girl’s tongue and handed her the glass. “Drink. Good girl. I already took mine in the kitchen. It helps.”
She looked at the girl’s face intently and offered, “Let me do your makeup. The eyes, the eyelashes. You’re a bride after all. Come sit on the edge.”
The girl obediently edged towards Fatima and put her feet on the floor.
“Don’t put your pare feet on the cold floor, you’ll catch cold,” Fatima started fussing. “Put on my slippers.”
The woman bustled around the bride and kept talking. She didn’t want to leave the girl alone with her difficult thoughts.
“You’re going to be the best. Our Aiza, the most beautiful bride. Close your eyes and sit still. Here. The eyelids are done. Now the eyelashes. Open your eyes. Look up and don’t blink, I’ll be very careful. Don’t blink, hold it. I’ve got the best mascara; it lengthens the eyelashes. You’ve never done it before, have you? I see. Well, over there, it’s a village, over here, the city. Makeup is hard to do, but I can do it. I practice on myself every day.”
Aslan looked into the room. The girl pulled up a blanket trying to cover herself. Aslan watched in bewilderment.
“What are you doing here?”
“Go, don’t be in the way,” Fatima waved him off. “I am getting the bride ready.”
Aslan looked at the dress.
“The fucking bride.”
The woman hissed. Aslan condescendingly closed the door behind him. Fatima started whispering.
“That dog wanted to come to you at night. But I sent him away. We don’t need this kind of groom. Allah will give you a groom! He is waiting for you in paradise. Has been waiting for a long time. Are you ready to see him?”
The girl nodded obediently.
“Then listen to me, child. Now I am your mother and father, your brother and sister. I wouldn’t want any harm to come to you. If you do as I say, you’ll have eternal happiness and a young groom. Now let me comb your hair. You’ll come before your groom in your full beauty.”
Chapter 83
September 3, 10:50 AM
Cinderella Store
“What kind of work is that?” Grigoriev fumed again. “They open at eleven!”
“It’s Saturday, Oleg Alexandrovich. Not everyone works the way we do.”
“You should talk, Yura,” the colonel jokingly chided his subordinate. “You’d sleep till noon if allowed.”
For the last hour, the FSS Volga sat in front of the Cinderella store on Profsoyuznaya Street. The colonel was immediately and unpleasantly surprised that the car which drew the attention of the bomb squad the day before was still there. The car wasn’t locked, so the owner still haven’t been by. Or was he afraid to make his presence known?
By then, it became apparent that earlier this year, the car was sold to a Moldovan whose paper trail in Moscow dead-ended. The car’s registration wasn’t amended, it still had the same license plate, and anyone could have been driving it authorized by a handwritten power of attorney.
The colonel disapproved of these recent novelties. There used to be more order and strictures in the nation. Maybe someone didn’t like it, but there was no terrorism.
Grigoriev managed to inspect the car, but found nothing suspicious. The car definitely has been worked on by petty thieves. They stole everything they could from the cabin and the trunk, so try as they might, they wouldn’t be able to identify the owner now.
The colonel was leaning to the idea that the dog didn’t make a mistake. It was possible that explosives were transported in the car. If so, new questions popped up. Who was using the car? Why was it abandoned? Where did the explosives go? Why did these people come to a wedding dress store?
Ten minutes to opening, employees appeared inside. Grigoriev and Burkov knocked on the locked door and introduced themselves to the unhappy-looking security guard.
“You must be following up on the call yesterday,” the young man in a blue private security uniform said. “Sorry about the false alarm, but we were instructed on the increased likelihood of acts of terror.”
Grigoriev read the guard’s name off his name tag.
“Valery, did you notice who drove that car?”
“I think I saw a young man,” the guard paused. “He looked like he was from the Caucasus. But that was all the way back in the morning.”
“Could you describe him?”
“No. He didn’t come into the store, so I didn’t get a good look at him.”
“So why the suspicion?”
“I don’t like cars with tinted windows. And I don’t like people from the Caucasus. And the current events, you know…”
“Okay. Have you seen this girl in the store yesterday?” Grigoriev pulled out a photo of Aiza Guzieva.
Valery carefully picked up the picture, as if it were something brittle, and shook his head.
“No. I haven’t seen her. But you should talk to the sales ladies. They are the ones who deal with the customers.”
“Like I don’t know that,” Grigoriev couldn’t hide his irritation.
It was the nerves talking. Plus, the colonel really didn’t like private security. Wherever you went, security everywhere. Stone-faced young guys guarding clubs, restaurants, stores, and offices. Tens of thousands in Moscow alone, but of what use were they? Zero. They’d better join the army; the security in the cities can be handled by the professionals.
Grigoriev looked at the guard’s frown and decided to soften up.
“You did the right thing, Valery. Vigilance is important. If you remember anything else, call us. Yuri, leave our information.”
While Burkov was handing a business card to the relieved guard, Oleg Alexandrovich moved over to two sales ladies. Although they stood aside, they definitely listened into the conversation with interest.
Grigoriev started with the photo.
“Did this girl stop by in the last few days?”
The sales clerks peered into Aiza’s picture. They took their time. Grigoriev thought they weren’t looking just at the face, but at the clothing as well. They even looked at the reverse side of the picture, as if they expected the portrait to continue there.
“Was she here yesterday?” Grigoriev hurried the saleswomen.
“No,” the older one shook her head.
“Definitely not,” the other one confirmed.
“Are you sure?” the colonel asked again.
“We don’t get many customers. This girl hasn’t been here.”
“What about the day before? The last seven days?”
“No.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“She’s not from here.”
“All kinds of people live in Moscow.”
“That’s not the point. Clothing. Makeup. Sorry, but this is not a modern girl.”
“We’d remember her,” the younger saleswoman said.
“How many wedding dresses did you sell yesterday?”
“Yesterday? We can look it up.”
“I remember,” the younger one said. “Eight dresses were picked up. They were ready.”
“And four more girls had fittings.”
“Yes. We still have their dresses.”
“So they got fitted and left the dresses behind?” Grigoriev asked to make sure.
“We aren’t selling long underwear,” the saleswoman threw Grigoriev a look. The colonel agreed. The woman continued in a lecturing tone. “We’re not a common store. A wedding dress is bought for a very special occasion. It has to be fitted individually, based on the customer’s feedback. Sometimes t takes several fittings. We remember our buyers. We even have their phone numbers.”
“Sometimes we even get invited to their weddings,” the younger saleswoman blushed.
“Meaning that if this girl bought a dress here,” the colonel showed the picture for the last time and put in away in his brown portfolio, “you would remember her?”
“Of course. We advise, we assist in fittings.”
“You know, before making the final choice, a girl would try on several dresses. You’d remember her.”
“Well, good bye, then. This was helpful.”
The colonel smiled sincerely. Although this lead didn’t bring him any closer to the terrorist, Grigoriev wasn’t disappointed. Moreover, he was pleased. Aiza Guzieva haven’t bought a wedding dress. That meant he was panicked for no reason. It was a false alarm. They could pull the patrols from civil records offices.
The colonel signed with relief. He was reluctant to admit that his greatest concern at the moment wasn’t the fate of numerous grooms and brides, but the welfare of his own daughter, Lena, who was already wearing her wedding dress and getting ready for the trip to the civil records office.
Fear’s a great motivator, Grigoriev recalled his own words. The burgundy “niner” probably had no explosives in it.
First customers came in. A young girl, obviously pregnant, accompanied by a concerned mother. The girl was staring at the luxurious dresses on the mannequins. Her puffy lips were open in amazement and excitement.
May God give you happiness and a good husband, the colonel thought and headed for the exit.
Chapter 84
September 3, 11:30 AM
Fatima’s Apartment
Semi-naked Aiza, wearing only a set of fine lingerie, stood facing a wall. Fatima fussed behind her, tightening a massive Shahid belt on her thin waist. The girl’s hands pushed against the wall for support. Her face showed no emotion. Her indifferent gaze was fixed on the geometric ornament of the wallpaper. Only her eyelashes, now heavy with mascara, moved when Fatima pulled on her.
The former teacher talked non-stop. Her quiet monotonous voice filled the room oile the humming of a large fly.
“Now that’s good, that’s excellent. You’re a good girl. You are a great student. The belt isn’t too tight. It’s not heavy, either. When you hold it in your hand, it feels heavy. But on your tummy, you can’t even feel it. It’s going to feel awkward for a few minutes. Then you’ll get used to it. Turn around. Turn around and face me.”
The girl was still pushing against the wall. Fatima didn’t like it.
“Aiza, are you not listening to me? This is bad. You can’t do that. Lower your hands and turn to face me.”
The girl did as she was told, slowly but precisely. Fatima rewarded her with a smile.
“This is good. If you don’t listen to me, I’m not going to let you wear the wedding dress. And you’ll go to your groom in rags. You don’t want him to see you dirty and unkempt, do you?”
Aiza shook her head in fear.
“Okay, girl. Now walk. Take a few steps forth and back. Come back to me. Good. Let me check. Everything’s hanging the way it’s supposed to. Not heavy at all. You can sit. Try it. Sit on the bed. I told you. Nice and easy. Now I am going to help you put on the dress.”
Fatima walked to the center of the room and took down the wedding dress on the hanger.
“Aiza, now you have to stand up and come to me.”
The girl obeyed.
“Lift up your hands. Find the sleeves. This is good. Now let’s lower it. I picked a good cut. Wide, but not too long, so it wouldn’t trail. The belt in absolutely invisible. Here in Moscow, so many pregnant girls get married, no one’s going to single you out. And we’ll cover your face with a veil. I bough a big veil. You’re such a smart girl, you had such a great idea about the wedding outfit. Do you want to look in the mirror? Of course you do, I know. Let’s not go in the hallway. Here’s a mirror. I’ll hold, you look. You’re a beauty.”
She picked up a round mirror the size of a small plate and stood in front of the girl. Aiza did as she was told and stared indifferently at the steel-rimmed circle of glass. Fatima caught the empty stare and sighed with exaggerated resentment, as if concerned that her work wasn’t being appreciated, but then she thought with satisfaction that the pills were working; everything was going as planned.
“Now let’s put on the shoes. I’ll go bring them.”
She returned a minute later. In her hands were the little black boats of shoes. Fatima, vexed, moved her gaze back and forth between the white dress and the black shoes. Don’t be a white crow, Fatima recalled a Russian proverb. This time, it would be the other way around. With her black shoes, Aiza would be a black crow among the white brides.
“Aslan,” Fatima called out.
The door opened, and Kitkiev came in chewing.
“Ready? It’s high time you were.”
“No.” Fatima turned to Aslan and lowered her voice. “We have to buy white shoes for the girl.”
“No way. Give her a pair of yours.”
“I don’t have any whites. Plus, mine are different size.”
“Can’t she use these?”
“No. Too suspicious. She’d look like a freak.”
“She is one,” Aslan smirked.
“Go buy the shoes.”
“Why me? You go. It’s your mess.”
Fatima shook her head.
“I have to be with her. I won’t leave her with you.”
Aslan smirked slyly.
“Maybe you should, for an hour. I’ve had some sleep, regained my strength. I would have some fun one last time. Why waste the goods?”
“Enough! Go to a store, buy white or beige shoes. Take these as a sample. The sales girls will help you pick the right size.”
“Who put you in charge?”
“Don’t grumble. We’re in this together.”
“Where do I go?”
“There’s a store close by… Actually, no. Go to a big mall. There would be a lot of shoppers, you’d get lost among them.”
Aslan made a face and put the shoes into a plastic bag.
Chapter 85
September 3, 11:35 AM
The FSS Volga
Oleg Alexandrovich Grigoriev felt like the worst was over, the terrorist was neutralized, and the case closed. Fifteen minutes ago he called in and ordered the withdrawal of patrols from the civil records offices. Now he marveled at how he could get so emotional in the morning. His nerves must be going. Maybe he really should retire.
Ridiculous, really. One false alarm at the wedding dress store, and all of a sudden he had a theory of a suicide bomber dressed up as a bride. Must be because of his daughter’s wedding. If his wife didn’t keep reminding him of Lena’s upcoming nuptials, he might come up with a less extravagant theory.
Lena should be all dressed up and waiting for the groom to arrive, Grigoriev thought with a smile. Then the traditional haggling for the bride, and off to the civil ceremony. Incidentally, he never saw his daughter in her wedding dress. He wondered what cut she picked.
The colonel thought back to the store. Of course, he knew nothing about fashions, but it seemed the store had dresses for every taste. Even that charming pregnant girl could find something matching her shape. He remembered how quickly the saleswomen figured out what to show her.
The car drove into Lubyanskaya Square; suddenly the colonel went pale and put the palm of his hand on the driver’s shoulder.
“Stop!” Grigoriev wheezed.
The car dove and stopped. The colonel’s glassy stare was fixed on the dusty hood.
But he was seeing something else.
In his mind, he was back at Cinderella. He was leaving; behind his back, the saleswomen talked to a customer. The colonel was rebuilding the details of the accidentally overheard conversation and petrifying with the realization of the monstrous mistake he just made.
“What’s wrong, Oleg Alexandrovich?” Burkov fidgeted.
“I’m alright.” Grigoriev regained his senses and commanded the driver. “Misha, turn around. We’re going back to Cinderella.”
“Why, Oleg Alexandrovich?” the first lieutenant wondered.
“I missed an important clue,” the colonel admitted honestly.
Now he remembered the conversation of two saleswomen behind his back.
“The Squire’s Daughter design would fit her,” the older one said, assessing the customer’s body type.
“The Tight Fit bought it yesterday. Remember, for her daughter. No fitting.”
Burkov carefully broke his supervisor’s reverie.
“Colonel, sir, what have we missed?”
In his mind, Grigoriev smirked at the phrasing of the question. The first lieutenant was ready to assume some blame. That was commendable; he’d go far.
“Yura, we asked everyone about Aiza Guzieva, but we missed the possibility that another person could buy a dress for her.”
Chapter 86
September 3, 12:05 PM
Cinderella Store
At the store, the colonel’s theory was confirmed.
“Um, yes. There was an odd customer yesterday,” the older saleswoman was telling him. “A wedding dress is always tried on, then fitted, sometimes more than once. She bought one right away. She said her daughter lived in a small town and wanted a dress from Moscow. We wanted to recommend her something, but she picked one herself and paid for it.”
“Did she use a payment card?” Grigoriev wondered.
“No. Cash.”
“What did she look like?”
“About forty. Blond.”
“Dyed,” the younger saleswoman interjected.
“Yes, dyed. Stubby body, but she wore tight-fitting clothes.”
“Gold all over.”
“Yes, lots of rings. Necklace, pendant, earrings.”
“Could you describe her face?”
“Her face? She had large dark glasses on.”
“What about the shape of her face? Slavic, eastern, southern?”
“Can’t say. She hasn’t been here long. I mostly looked at her hands. Worried that she’d leave grease stains on the dresses. But her hands were well cared for. That woman wasn’t a peasant. And lots of gold rings. But none were fine. Just massive.”
“Which dress did she buy?”
“She picked an ample one. I remember thinking, her daughter must be shaped like a piggy bank, too.”
“What color?”
“White. Almost everything we carry is white.”
“Did anything else strike you as odd about her?”
“Anything else? Sorry; buying a wedding dress without a fitting is about as odd as it gets.”
“Do you have video surveillance?” the colonel looked around.
“Ask the guard.”
Valery the guard disappointed Grigoriev.
“No. There’s no need to keep a camera in a place like this. There’s no shoplifting here. Wrong kind of merchandise. You can’t shoplift a dress.”
Chapter 87
September 3, 12:30 PM
Fatima’s Apartment
“Here are your shoes!” Aslan Kitkiev threw a shopping bag with a shoebox inside at Fatima.
Fatima closed the door to Aiza’s room and fixed an unhappy stare to Aslan.
“Why so mad? Did something happen?”
“I hate the last-moment fuss. I want to lose the whore fast.”
“You will. Soon,” Fatima interrupted rudely. “What took you so long?”
“You said not to shop close by! Didn’t you?”
“Quiet, you.”
“How’s she doing?” Aslan nodded at the door.
“Fine. I didn’t inject her. Just pills.”
“Won’t she buck, like last time?”
“Then she was with you,” Fatima said reproachfully. “Today, everything’s going to be different. I’ll have a remote. She’ll go like a calf.”
“Good deal!” Aslan snorted indignantly. “Why haven’t we used those before? Trying to save money?”
“No need to waste. If only you worked as you should — ”
“Enough, woman.”
Fatima decided to end the pointless argument and switched to a conciliatory tone.
“I’ve kept this set for a special occasion. Actually, I’m glad it didn’t work out last time. Today, the effect would be way better.”
She opened the shoebox and rustled the wrapping paper.
“Nice shoes! Did you pick them?”
“Me, digging through women’s shoes? I just told the sales girl that I wanted to buy a present for a girlfriend. I only asked for a low heel.”
“Nice price, too. Did you want to impress the sales girls?”
“You said it was a special occasion.”
“The girl will really look like a bride.” Fatima pushed the door into the girl’s room and turned on the sweet talk. “Aiza, honey, look at the shoes we got you. I never had anything this beautiful.”
Aiza sat on the edge of her bed, indifferent.
“You’re still barefoot!” Fatima exclaimed. “I told you, put the slippers on! You’ll catch cold. Let’s try on the shoes. I’ll help you.”
She dropped to her knees and put the shoes on the girl’s feet.
“I think it’s a perfect fit.”
The curious Aslan stood by.
“What are you standing around for? I’ve got a white shirt and a tie for you.”
Aslan’s face went long.
“Why?”
“The bride must have a groom! Get dressed! Time to go.”
Chapter 88
September 3, 12:45 PM
Offices of Federal Security Service
Colonel Grigoriev dumped four teaspoons of instant coffee into a small cup and poured the boiling water. The colonel didn’t use sugar and didn’t keep any in his office. The teaspoon clinked against the china a few times; the colonel sipped the black brew but felt no taste.
For the first time in years, Grigoriev didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t make himself order patrols at the civil records offices all over again. Issuing two contradictory orders within a short period of time was too much already, but ordering again something he himself called off an hour ago smacked of admitting total incompetence.
The phone rang. The colonel started, expecting the worst. But it was his wife. Normally, she didn’t call the office number respecting her husband’s work, but today was a special day when the rules didn’t apply.
“Are you coming to your daughter’s civil ceremony?” she asked exactingly. “The civil records office is pretty close to your work.”
That’s why she didn’t call the mobile, Grigoriev realized; she wanted to make sure he wasn’t away from the office.
“Valya, are you with her?”
“Yes, I want to see how it goes. Then I’ll go the restaurant to see about the banquet. And the newlyweds will go for a drive through the city.”
“What’s happening over there?”
“Where?”
“Are you at the records office yet?”
“Just drove up.”
“A lot of brides?”
“What does it matter? Everything is on schedule. We’ll get called up any minute now. Will you come?”
“No.”
“Your usual self. The service is first, and your family, your daughter — » Valentina cut off and asked peaceably, “Will you at least be at the restaurant?”
“I’ll try.”
“Just don’t be late. Five o’clock. We’re supposed to greet the newlyweds.”
“Valya, keep away from strangers, okay?”
“Yeah, right! You and your advice. I am already anxious enough; just took a sedative.”
His wife ended the call.
The civil records office wasn’t far from Lubyanka; if the colonel wanted to, he could beef up security there with two or three FSS officers. But his hypertrophied idea of fairness didn’t let the colonel to put personal security above public safety. If anyone gets extra security, everyone should. What’s so special about the brides and grooms that came to this office?
The colonel looked at the clock and at the phone. The clock was moving slowly. Ten minutes left until his daughter’s civil ceremony. Oleg Alexandrovich thought that he wouldn’t mind a sedative right about now.
Chapter 89
September 3, 12:50 PM
Fatima’s Apartment
Aslan, wearing a white shirt, nervously paced the room. His fingers kept touching his bright necktie.
“Why did you have to dress me up?” he grumbled.
“You’re going to play the groom. The bride shouldn’t be alone.”
“What are you going to be? Mother-in-law?”
Fatima frowned. Without realizing it, Aslan hit the tenderest spot in her soul. Fatima couldn’t have children, and that was the reason her husband divorced her. He fell in with a younger woman who got pregnant soon. Ever since then, Fatima saw a threat in every young girl and took pleasure in helping them cross over. The more beautiful the girl was, the more willingly Fatima prepared her for her last journey. She liked strapping bombs to lithe young bodies.
She wasn’t putting together retribution missions for money. What good was money if you couldn’t be happy? Deep inside, she dreamed of a time what the proud people of Chechnya defeat the big Russia and win their independence. She wanted to return to Grozny a national hero. Then her ex-husband would realize what kind of woman he lost. This was what she lived for. This was why she kept sending suicide bombers on missions.
“Find your own mother-in-law!” Fatima barked. “We have to decorate the car.”
“The car?”
“Yes. At least put some ribbons on.”
“What a circus!”
“Everything has to look right.”
“Decorate whatever you want. I am not a clown.”
“Okay. We’ll do it when we come out.”
“Let’s go already!”
“I know when to go.”
Fatima heard the clicking of heels, put on the smile of the day, and ran up to Aiza.
“Honey, did the shoes fit? Not too tight? Today, you’re going to be the most beautiful. Come out. What a couple! Stand at the mirror, take a look.”
Aiza carefully came to the big mirror on the hallway wall. Aslan stood close by out of curiosity. The girl looked in the mirror and saw a happy smiling bride. That was she! Happy and excited. Next to her, the groom. His face was hidden in the fog. Who was he? Aiza tensed and tried to see. The fog wouldn’t lift.
Aiza turned abruptly to face the groom next to her. Her eyes saw Aslan’s insolent snarl. The girl started, went pale, and looked down. She thought she saw another man in the mirror.
“Now you saw how beautiful you are. You’re a real bride today. Eternal happiness awaits you in paradise. One small step, and your beloved Doku will always be with you.”
Those words didn’t make Aiza happy. Doku? He used to be in her life a long time ago. They were friends. But in the mirror, there was a different man. She couldn’t see him. But it wasn’t Doku.
The girl’s lips whispered, “I don’t want Doku.”
Fatima was stunned. She thought she misheard. After she took the pills, Aiza didn’t say a word. That was good. Silence and dull eyes meant obedience. This was required of a suicidal Shahid on her last day.
Fatima leaned to look into the girl’s face. There were tears in Aiza’s dark eyes. Another bad sign. A Shahid should show no emotion. Positive or negative.
“So who do you need?”
The girl was silent. She remembered a faint image to which she was drawn. She knew there was a man who loved her and whom she loved. But who was he? Her head was spinning; not a single ray of light could get trough the fog of her memory. The girl took her head into her hands and wept.
“I don’t know!”
“Well, I do!” Fatima barely suppressed her irritation. “Allah will tell you, honey. You are a bride of Allah. He will decide your fate.”
The woman pondered. Perhaps it was a mistake to skip the injection. But now it was too late. The girl could fall off her feet at the least opportune moment. Better give her more pills. But quietly.
“Let’s have some wine!” she offered. “We have a celebration today. A wedding!”
Aslan looked at the woman in disbelief. He said quietly, “You said you’ve erased hed memory.”
“She doesn’t remember anything about the Russian,” Fatima hissed and hurried into the kitchen.
After she dissolved some pills in red wine, she lowered her hand into a pocket of her suit. The remote was there. It was the most important thing. The girl wasn’t going to go anywhere. She was about to take a stupefying dose. Along with alcohol, it would produce the desired effect. Aslan would take her into the crowd, and the only thing left would be to push the button.
She only had to pick the best time, when the vista point would have the greatest numbers of wedding parties and foreign tourists. Some international resonance in their business wouldn’t hurt.
After 3 PM would be good, Fatima decided and looked at her tny golden watch. There was time still.
Chapter 90
September 3, 1:00 PM
Grigoriev
First lieutenant Burkov carefully walked into colonel Grigoriev’s office. In his eyes, the colonel could see a veiled expression of reproach.
“What have you got, Yura?”
“Next time, colonel, send me to do serious things.”
“Like where?”
“To Beslan. Over there — ”
“I know!” Grigoriev banged on the desk with his fist. “Are you seeking a commendation or a medal? Do you think Moscow is a resort?! Report the situation!”
“Everything’s quiet, colonel, nothing extraordinary. And the civil records offices are all quiet, too. The Shahid didn’t show up.”
“And that’s a good thing! Did you want her to?”
“No, colonel. But are you sure she would wear a bride’s dress?”
“I want to be wrong. But look at the facts. Look at this drawing. At the car near the store. At the dress purchase. How do you explain that?”
“Plus, they have a name for themselves, the brides of Allah. That’s probably why you thought of it in the first place.”
“The name had nothing to do with it. Brides, brides…”
The colonel stopped at his desk and leaned over the drawing.
“Where else do the newlyweds go in numbers?”
“All over the city. Everyone used to go to the eternal fire, now many stop at the Victory Park. Many drive to embankments. Anywhere beautiful.”
Grigoriev was still looking at the drawing. His attention was drawn to an imprecise oval drawn behind the bride across the page. It wasn’t the first time he thought about it. The colonel called Burkov over and pointed at the oval.
“What do you think this is?”
“I don’t know. An egg lying on its side.”
“Is this a symbol? A bride. An egg behind her. An allusion to procreation?”
“Not likely. I just made up the egg thing. Look at the vertical lines at the sides. An egg on legs? Looks more like a bowl.”
A mobile phone rang. An unfamiliar number came up on screen. Grigoriev immediately thought about his daughter. Her civil ceremony would be in progress now. He picked up and asked quietly, “Did something happen?”
“It did,” an unfamiliar voice replied.
The colonel’s Adam apple bobbed. He wheezed, “Report.”
The man on the other end of the line took a short pause, then dumped it all.
“This is the surgeon. From Domodedovo. I am calling about your patient. The one under guard. He is conscious.”
The colonel’s stone face came alive.
“Can he talk?”
“He’s weak. But… You asked to call. So I am calling.”
“Ii am on my way!” Grigoriev barked.
He jumped on his feet and picked up his portfolio. On his way out, he gestured to Burkov, “Come with me! Our terrorist came to. We have to pay him a visit.”
* * * * *
Forty-five minutes later, the FSS Volga flew into the parking lot of the Domodedovo city hospital. The Saturday and the blinker on the car’s roof allowed for quick driving. The surgeon waited for them in the lobby. The FSS officers waived away the white robes and headed straight for Vlasov’s room.
At the door, Grigoriev snapped his ID at the nose of the policeman blocking his way. The other one was on duty inside. The colonel gestured for him and the surgeon to leave the room.
“Don’t be too long, this is intensive care,” the doctor tried to intervene, but the officer’s firm gaze made him leave without waiting for an answer.
Oleg Alexandrovich came up to the tall bed. Vlasov was covered with a bed sheet. His eyes were closed, an IV hooked to his hand, sensors attached to his body.
“Vlasov, I am a colonel with the Federal Security Service; my name is Oleg Alexandrovich Grigoriev.”
The colonel spoke quietly, leaning over the patient. The guy’s pale face contorted, his eye opened slightly. Grigoriev straightened up and signed with relief.
“Andrei, we have to know where Aiza Guzieva is,” the colonel attempted civility.
Vlasov was silent. He stared into the ceiling indifferently.
“Andrei, this is important. Her life is in danger.”
Not a muscle moved on Vlasov’s face.
“We’re not going to hurt her. Look, this is in her best interest,” the colonel continued to convince.
The patient remained silent.
Grigoriev took out Aiza’s drawing and unfolded it to show Vlasov.
“What is this?”
Andrei looked askance. His lips formed a barely noticeable smile. He even tried to reach for the drawing; he whispered, “Bride.”
“I can see that,” the colonel nodded. His finger pointed at the egg on legs. “And this?”
“Luzhniki,” the guy exhaled.
Grigoriev turned the piece of paper to look at it. Burkov came up from behind. Both studied the drawing for a time. The first lieutenant said thoughtfully, “If the bride is atop the Sparrow Hills, then that’s the Luzhniki stadium. It’s on the other side of the river and it does look like that.”
“Do wedding parties stop there?”
“If the weather is good, everyone does.”
The colonel turned to the window. Over the white curtains, the blue sky was visible; the rays of sun cast precise shadows on the opposite wing of the building. He looked at Vlasov.
“What does this mean?”
But the guy was already lying with his eyes closed; his hand dropped limply.
Oleg Alexandrovich put away the drawing and went stepped from the bed. His tense fingers flexed the portfolio. He said slowly, “It looks we were waiting for our bride in the wrong place.” He made a call. “This is colonel Grigoriev. I am ordering a bomb squad to Sparrow Hills. And a sniper. At my disposal. I am on my way.”
On his way out, Grigoriev stopped to speak to the doctor.
“Later today, our people will move him out of here.”
The elderly surgeon shrugged reluctantly.
“As you wish.”
The policemen looked at each other excitedly.
* * * * *
On the way to Moscow, Grigoriev flipped through his phone’s address book, found the record for LENA, and placed a call. After many beeps, he heard his daughter’s happy voice.
“Dad, is that you? We’ve got music on in the car. And the phone was in my purse. I didn’t hear it right away.”
“Congratulations, Lena.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you been to Sparrow Hills yet?”
“We’re about to head over there.”
“There’s no need to.”
“Are you kidding? This is the place for the newlyweds. It’s beautiful.”
“You better not,” the colonel repeated quietly. He didn’t want to look soft in front of subordinates.
“Dad, I can’t hear you!”
“Lena, you should head straight to the restaurant!”
“Dad, are you coming to the restaurant? Mom is worried. She’d be so uncomfortable without you. Come!”
“I’ll try. And you — ”
“Dad, I can’t hear a thing! We’re having fun!”
He heard his daughter’s happy laughter and loud music. The call ended. The colonel put the phone away. His lips whispered the mantra of doom, “The place for the newlyweds.”
Chapter 91
September 3, 2:05 PM
Domodedovo City Hospital
Andrei Vlasov heard colonel Grigoriev’s words clearly; Sparrow Hills, bomb squad, and sniper. He understood everything right away. There, the FSS would wait for Aiza, who was in Aslan and Fatima’s hands again. The girl’s outlook was bleak. Just like Sveta’s was. Either she dies at the terrorists’ will or the FSS destroys her.
Vlasov closed his eyes so tight it hurt. Today, another woman he loved with a cute little birthmark on her neck, whom he was unable to save, would die.
That wasn’t going to happen!
Andrei tried moving his arms and legs. The muscles worked. He had a chance, and he had to use it.
A surgeon and a nurse came into the room.
“How’s our patient after the encounter?” The doctor unceremoniously opened his eyelids and looked at his pupils. “Overexcited. Give him some sedative. He should sleep.”
The nurse replaced the bottle in the IV rig, adjusted the bed sheet, and followed the doctor out. The policeman with an assault rifle stayed inside.
Andrei made a weak gesture with his fingers and called out quietly, “Tell the colonel — ”
“What?” The sergeant rose from his chair.
“Tell him… This is… important…”
The policeman came close and leaned over the bed. His assault rifle hung down from his shoulder. With his right hand, Andrei grabbed the rifle’s grip; with his left, he jerked the lock. The barrel pointed to the sergeant’s stomach.
“Quiet! If you comply, I’ll let you live.” Vlasov was already sitting on the bed and looked into the face of the dumbfounded policeman. “I’ve got nothing to lose. Do you understand?”
The sergeant nodded. Andrei took out the IV and disconnected the sensors.
“Get out of your clothes.” The handcuffs on the cop’s belt clinked. His uniform and boots were on the floor. “Now lie down.”
The policeman lied down obediently. His scared eyes followed Vlasov. Andrei picked up the handcuffs. He linked the policeman’s right hand to the bed. Then he hooked the IV to his left hand.
“Are you having a cold?” he asked considerately.
The sergeant shook his head no.
“Then rest and don’t worry about a thing.” With these words, Vlasov stuffed the corner of the bed sheet into the policeman’s mouth.
After he put on the police uniform, he came up to the door and stood aside from it. He rapped the painted wood three times with his knuckles. The door opened slightly. The second policeman stuck his head in.
“What do you want?”
Vlasov pulled the cop in and pushed him against the wall.
“Quiet, quiet, quiet. The gun’s cocked,” he whispered calmingly, disarming the staff sergeant. “Now go and cuff your buddy’s other hand.”
When the handcuffs clicked, Vlasov asked, “Who’s got the keys to the patrol car?”
The policeman looked away.
“We don’t have a car.”
Vlasov raised the assault rifle.
“And if you think about it?”
The staff sergeant went pale, but kept quiet. Andrei sighed.
“Then I have no use for you.”
“I’ve got them!” the staff sergeant exclaimed fearfully.
“This is good. And stop kidding around. Now we’re going to the car. You first, I follow. If something goes wrong, I know how to shoot. Do you understand?”
The policeman pursed his lips and nodded.
The two men in police uniforms went through the floor hallway unchallenged. They stopped at the elevator. The familiar surgeon walked by. He frowned and threw a questioning look at the sergeant. Andrei shifted his hat forward and poked the staff sergeant on the back with the barrel of the assault rifle, invisibly to the surgeon. The other man smiled to the doctor.
“We got relieved.”
The surgeon nodded understandingly. The policeman and Vlasov got on the elevator. Looking at the second assault rifle behind the policeman’s back, the elderly surgeon shook his had. The police practiced slavery, too. The junior was carrying the senior’s weapon.
Only after he landed on the back seat of the police car, Vlasov realized how much this escapade cost him. The wounds hummed, movements hurt; his body was stuffed with medications, so he felt nauseous.
“Where to?” the staff sergeant asked.
“Moscow. Sparrow Hills.”
The policeman turned back, bewildered. Vlasov urged him on, “And put the siren on, so we get passage.”
The white police “tenner” with a red-and-blue flashing “log” on the roof left the hospital parking lot.
Chapter 92
September 3, 2:45 PM
Sparrow Hills, Vista Point
“So many weddings today. They just keep on coming,” Grigoriev said grudgingly.
The FSS colonel sat inside a van with one-way mirror windows and watched the coming cars through binoculars. Next to him was Burkov, also holding binoculars, and a young SWAT sniper with his rifle.
There were several wedding parties at the Sparrow Hills vista point. Well dressed people drank champagne, took pictures, laughed. Every now and then, a busload of foreign tourists would come by. The numerous souvenir peddlers offered them their wares.
Another car came, decorated for a wedding.
“Attention! On the left, a white Ford with a doll,” the colonel commanded.
The sniper raised his rifle and trained it on the brunette bride who just stepped out of the Ford. Burkov also moved his binoculars trying to see the girl’s face. Her black curls streamed from under the white veil; he caught a glimpse of dark eyes over a straight nose. The first lieutenant thought back to the photo of Aiza Guzieva wearing a white headscarf.
“Looks like her, colonel.”
The sniper quietly cracked the van’s window open. The barrel of the rifle stuck out and shifted left. The excited bride’s head bobbed, as if she was dancing; she quickly walked toward the numerous wedding parties taking their pictures against the backdrop of the city. The groom lingered near the car.
“That’s her, Oleg Alexandrovich. She’s going alone,” Burkov hissed excitedly and reached for the radio. “I’ll alert the operatives, they’ll cut her off.”
“Not enough time. In this crowd, we can rely only on the sniper.” Grigoriev trained his binoculars on the girl’s waist. “Shoot only on my command! Only in the head.”
The sniper licked his dry lips and aimed at the side of the girl’s head.
Oleg Alexandrovich raised the binoculars. The eyepieces pressed into his eyes. The bride was ten meters away from the crowd. His mouth opened to issue the order.
The girl stopped and turned around. She flashed a happy smile.
“Abort!” Grigoriev yelled. He put away the binoculars and wiped his sweaty forehead. “That’s not her…”
The sniper put the rifle back between his knees and closed the window. In his eyes, the colonel noticed the spark of excitement. He didn’t like that. For a sniper, self-control and restraint have to come first!
“How long have you been with us?” the colonel asked.
“Since summer.”
“Have you been on a liquidation mission before?”
“Not yet.”
“So who sent you here?”
“Everyone else is in Beslan, colonel.”
Oleg Alexandrovich closed his eyes with the palm of his hand. He shook his head. Sighed heavily. The palm of his hand patted the sniper’s shoulder encouragingly. The colonel picked up the binoculars.
Chapter 93
September 3, 2:50 PM
Aslan’s Car
Fatima poked Aslan gently. She pointed out, “Pull over near the flower stand. We have to get a bride’s bouquet.”
“What for?” Aslan asked, irritated. “We’re almost there.”
“The bride has to carry a bouquet,” Fatima insisted.
“What a spectacle! You should be a wedding planned.”
An off-white Volkswagen decorated with ribbons stopped near a flower stand.
“Watch her,” Fatima warned and pulled the door handle.
“Wait!” Aslan went pale and stopped her abruptly. His hand grabbed at the woman’s shoulder. “You have to leave something with me.”
“What?”
Aslan threw a look at Aiza. The girl just sat there, engrossed in her own thoughts. Either she wasn’t aware of what was happening or she accepted her fate.
“The remote,” Aslan hissed, leaning toward the woman.
Fatima smiled crookedly.
“You don’t trust me?”
Aslan squeezed her shoulder harder.
“Would you trust you if you were me?”
“Keep it,” Fatima agreed and handed him a heavy box with a button. “You’ll do it yourself.”
“I will,” Aslan nodded and smiled.
Fatima turned to the girl and spoke excitedly.
“Honey, we forgot about the flowers. You’re about to have the best bouquet. Meanwhile, just sit and relax. You can even take a little nap.”
The woman got out. When she returned, she held a small round bouquet in her hand.
“This is for you, my dear. A special bouquet for a special bride. Put it in your lap. Then you can take it with you. You are the most beautiful. We’re almost there.”
Aiza indifferently looked at the tender petals of flowers.
Chapter 94
September 3, 2:55 PM
Domodedovo City Hospital
Two warrant officers in green uniforms and a short man wearing a rumpled shirt with sleeves rolled up over thick arms came into the hospital.
“We have to collect our patient,” he informed the nurse on duty in a bossy tone.
His face was dominated by massive square chin. He flashed an ID, of which the nurse were able to read only three words, Federal Security Service.
“I’ll get the doctor,” she said politely.
The elderly surgeon led the impatient visitors to the patient’s room.
“The patient must be asleep,” the doctor explained on the move.
At the door, he didn’t see an armed policeman, which puzzled him somewhat. Inside, it was empty, too. But the patient was in bed. The doctor relaxed.
Square Chin nodded approvingly pointing to the handcuffs.
“That’s good. And for a gag, a wet towel tends to work better,” he advised in a fatherly tone. His hairy arm pulled at the tank top on the sleeping man. “The wound’s already healed? You’re a miracle worker, doctor!”
The doctor’s face went long. Square Chin realized something was wrong and pulled out a small photo of Vlasov. His eyes shifted forth and back between the picture and the face of the man on the bed. His narrow forehead wrinkled in painful hesitation. Finally, he pulled the rumpled bed sheet out of the sleeping man’s mouth and yelled, “Who is this?”
The doctor, dumbfounded, leaned over the bed. Then he politely asked one of the warrant officers if he could borrow his hat and put it on the sleeping man’s head. His eyes flashed, “He’s a police officer! One of the guards!”
“What’s going on her?” Square Chin flared up. “Bring him out of it! I’ll
- Басты
- Mystery & Detective
- Sergey Baksheev
- A Bride of Allah
- Тегін фрагмент