Black Widow (14 page)

"Perhaps we should both be feeling a little panicked at the moment," Ajza said.

The woman smiled. "If it's any consolation to you, I'm not exactly at ease either."

But you have friends that shut my friend out, don't you? As Ajza closed in on the woman, she watched the frees through her peripheral vision. She expected the woman's bodyguards to close in on them, but no one appeared to take any special interest.

"Who are you?" Ajza demanded as she stopped in front of the woman.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that at this point."

"Then this conversation is going to be one of the shorter ones you've had." Ajza stared into the other woman's eyes. "Don't come looking for me again. Next time won't be as pleasant." She turned and started away.

"You showed a lot of finesse back in Istanbul, Ms. Manaev. Ditching the weapons like that was quick thinking."

Ajza refused to be played. She didn't know how the woman knew about the Istanbul mission or what she'd done there. She made herself keep walking. There was obviously a leak somewhere. Evidently someone had chosen her as the weak link. That was a mistake on their part.

"What are you going to do, Ms. Manaev?" the woman asked. "Talk to your superiors about the conversation you've had with me? Do you think they'll understand why you didn't talk to them sooner?"

Keep walking, Ajza told herself. Stay in the frees. Make use of cover in case they don't want to let you just walk away from this. She felt eyes on her, but she couldn't pick out where the watchers were located.

I'm not going to lose her, Samantha thought. She wants to know what I know. She needs this meeting more than I do. But that thought only made Samantha feel guilty because she knew she was about to exploit Ajza.

"You want to talk to me, Ms. Manaev." Samantha didn't move. "Don't you want to know what happened to Ilyas?"

Samantha steeled herself, reminding herself again who she was, who she worked for, and that she would do whatever it took — use anyone she had to — in order to accomplish her goals. That wasn't, she knew, a sterling trait in a person. But in the espionage game, it was a necessary trait.

Ajza's measured stride faltered. She kept walking, but Samantha saw the effort it took.

Samantha watched Ajza continue walking and restrained herself from moving or speaking. The bait was there. Ajza had to choose.

Ajza managed another three steps. Then she stopped. With her fists jammed into her jacket, she took a deep breath and looked out at the people around them.

Samantha knew that Ajza hadn't spotted the Room 59 team keeping watch. None of them were close enough. In the end, Ajza's choice of meeting places had trapped her. Samantha had only used it.

The park was a family place. Ajza had thought she'd be safe there, away from harm. However, the park — as Samantha had known — served only to remind her how incomplete her own family was since her brother's death.

Ajza spoke without turning around. "Do you mean it? About Ilyas?"

"I don't know who killed him," Samantha admitted. "But I know where he was killed. I know what he was involved with."

That was more than MI-6 had told Ajza. "This is the truth?" she asked.

"Yes."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"I've got files."

"Whose files?"

"MI-6. With corroboration from the FSB — the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation." Kate had managed to provide that.

Ajza took another breath, then turned and walked back to Samantha. "You're one cold-blooded bitch, lady."

"I know. And if I weren't, we wouldn't be standing here together in this park, nor would we have the chance to find out who killed your brother."

"Enough." Ajza's voice quivered with rage. "You don't deserve to keep bandying his name about. I won't tolerate it."

Samantha bowed her head and didn't speak.

"You're not here because you want to know who killed my brother," Ajza said.

"No. However, I believe what I want and what you want are connected. I believe doing one will take care of the other in the long run."

Defiance gleamed in Ajza's dark eyes. "What is it that you want me to do?" Ajza asked.

"To finish the mission your brother started."

Ajza concealed her shock and responded without hesitation. "All right. I'm in."

London

The tea shop was within walking distance of Jubilee Park. Quaint and colorful, with pale green tea roses painted around the windows, Green Moon Tea held the modern world at bay outside the doors and transported patrons back a hundred years.

The servers wore frilly dresses in styles that hadn't been seen in decades. The hardwood floor gleamed. An ornate hat-and-coat rack, complete with a stand for umbrellas, stood beside the door. The scent of freshly baked bread filled Ajza's nose.

Over the years, the tea shop had become a favorite of Ajza and Ilyas's. They occasionally met there for lunch, and — even more infrequently — Ilyas brought a young woman there for Ajza to meet. The same one never came twice. Ilyas was charming and adored women, but he had no desire to get too serious.

A server brought a tea service and showed them to a private tea room. A single table and four chairs occupied the center of the room. Shelves on the walls held old books and knickknacks. A rectangular window looked out toward the park. Above the trees a lone red balloon sailed skyward.

"Not the most private of places," Ajza commented.

"On the contrary," the woman said, "this room was swept for electronics only minutes before our arrival."

Ajza thought that might be true. Her cell phone continued to be useless. "I didn't come here to compromise myself," she said.

"No, I suppose you didn't." The woman walked to one of the bookcases and removed a volume. She took out what looked like a plastic sheet about the size of typing paper. Embedded electronics caught the light and glistened.

Without a word, she placed the sheet on the table, then attached to it a small device not much larger than a cigarette lighter. Instantly the plastic screen flickered and a picture formed.

Even though Ajza had seen the technology before, it still took her breath away. The sheet served as a computer monitor and the attached device was a Wi-Fi receiver. The resulting image was sharp and full of color. Trevor would have totally wigged if he could have seen it.

"Do you know this man?" The woman touched the cruel face centered on the screen. He wore an eye patch. A rainbow hue spread out from her finger, briefly obscuring the man.

Ajza studied the face. She couldn't help wanting to ask if the man had been involved in Ilyas's death. She refrained through sheer willpower. The game, for the moment, belonged to the other woman.

"No. I don't know him. Should I?"

"I thought there might be a possibility."

"What would cause you to think that?"

"Because he's the man Mustafa brokered the weapons for."

"How do you know that?"

"Because — like you — I'm in the business of knowing things. This is one of the things I know."

Ajza sipped her tea and studied the woman more closely. She was calm, very sure of herself.

"Who's the man?" Ajza asked.

"His name is Mayrbek Taburova. Have you heard of him?"

"No."

"Mustafa never mentioned him?"

"If Mustafa had," Ajza said in a level voice, "then I would have heard of him."

The woman nodded and smiled. "Forgive me. That wasn't a test."

Ajza believed her. Despite the iron control the woman exhibited, she looked tired. If she'd taken her compact from her pocket to check her own reflection, Ajza was certain she'd have looked equally tired.

"Did my brother know this man?"

"This man was your brother's assignment from MI-6. I don't know if your brother knew him, but he would have known o/him. Taburova is Chechen. One of the diehard rebels fighting for independence. Given you and your brother's ancestry and familiarity with the language and customs, your brother would have been a perfect candidate for sending over there. His youth and inexperience also helped, because he wouldn't have been known in espionage circles."

"Although those very things might have been what got him killed," Ajza said bitterly.

The woman didn't shy away from the accusation. "Perhaps. Your brother didn't have to accept the assignment."

That wasn't Ilyas, though, Ajza thought. He loved playing the games, getting away with things. Ajza had feared for her brother every time he was away from her. He wasn't reckless. He was too clever for that, and he didn't relish the idea of getting killed. But if there was an opportunity to get away with something, he would have taken it.

"Ilyas wasn't one to walk away from challenges. Especially not difficult ones," she said.

"I see. Did your brother ever talk to you about his assignments?"

"No." That wasn't exactly true, because they had shared information about field contacts and assets.

"You don't know the kind of work your brother did for MI-6?" the woman asked.

"It was suggested, forcibly, that we not discuss our missions."

"You don't usually find operatives from the same family."

"For some reason, we were an exception."

"The reason isn't hard to figure out," the woman said. "You and your brother scored high on the entrance exams. And there's the culture. Neither of you is far removed from Eastern Europe."

"My brother died before Mustafa bought those weapons," Ajza said. "That was a year ago. Was Taburova trying to buy weapons then?"

"We don't know. We stumbled onto the same information you have at the same time you did."

Ajza thought about the other team that had been on-site in Istanbul. If — and that was a big
if
— this woman was part of that group, they were well funded.

Or was she part of a mercenary force hoping to score the weapons, drugs or cash that changed hands? That was always possible when you were dealing in the shadows.

"You already know Taburova wanted the weapons," Ajza said. "If my brother was sent over there to find that out, then that has been accomplished."

"Your brother was sent over there to monitor Taburova."

"What makes the man so important?"

"He's in the business of coercing
shahidka
to strike against the Russians."

Ajza frowned.

The woman tapped the high-tech sheet of plastic. Immediately several images of women dressed in black robes, heads covered and faces veiled, filled the screen. In addition to the women, there were also scenes of destruction, all the result of high-powered blasts.

In the last picture, Moscow uniformed police stood over the body of a woman who'd been shot in the temple. Her coat hung open and revealed the blocks of plastic explosives strapped to her body.

Ajza knew about the
shahidka.
They'd been given the name — the Black Widows — because their husbands had been killed fighting the Russian army. Some said that the
shahidka
were cursed, born into trouble and bad luck, and death to any man who took their hands in marriage.

Of course, there was no way anyone could tell if a woman was a
shahidka.
There was no test, and they weren't marked by God until after they'd lost their husbands.

Women in Chechnya married young, sometimes as early as thirteen or fourteen. The men they married weren't much older, and they became soldiers the instant someone thrust a rifle into their hands.

Unable to afford mercy to the young troops, the Russian military often killed them. Those deaths doomed the women, as well. When a woman's husband died, she became the property of her husband's family. She could be separated from her children, have her house taken and be left out on the street or sold to another.

Or she could end up as a Black Widow.

"The question is," the woman said, "what would a man in control of human bombs need with an arsenal? Especially an arsenal
of American
weapons?"

Ajza crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. "You want me to find out what Taburova planned to do with a shipment of American weapons?"

The woman across the table sipped her tea and didn't bat an eye. "Plans. What he
plans
to do with them."

"Those weapons are history." Ajza took a little pride in that.

"If Taburova wants American weapons, he'll find them. Other people can get them for him."

"The task is impossible."

"In what respect?"

"My work," Ajza still refused to admit she worked for MI-6, "prevents me from leaving at this time."

"That can be attended to," the woman said.

Ajza arched an eyebrow doubtfully.

"You don't believe me?" the woman asked.

Before Ajza could retort, her cell phone rang. She checked the number, discovered she didn't recognize it and started to return the phone to her purse.

"You need to answer that," the woman said. "That will be your supervisor advising you that you've been given indefinite paid leave."

Ajza still ignored the phone despite the claim.

The woman tapped the sheet lying on the table again. This time when the picture reformed, it showed George Crayle, her supervisor, standing on a street corner at a pay phone. Crayle was in his fifties, dapper and silver-haired. As always, he wore a dark suit.

In disbelief, Ajza answered her phone. "Hello."

"Do you recognize my voice?" Crayle asked.

"Should I?" Ajza countered. The first rule in the agency was to deny involvement.

"Yes." Crayle sounded irritated. "I don't have time to play games. These people have had me cooling my heels for the past hour, but they want their end of things done yesterday. I'd have been much better off working my caseload."

Ajza didn't know what to say. They had passwords in place to let one another know if they'd been compromised. George Crayle used none of them.

"Pick a number," the woman suggested, "between one and five. Give him the number."

"I'm thinking of the number four," Ajza whispered.

Incredibly, Crayle held up four fingers. "They wanted you to do this," he said, "to see that this is in real time. Do you believe it's me?"