Black Widow (25 page)

"Go ahead," the second guard said. "He wishes to speak with you."

As Ajza crossed the distance to the building she'd seen Taburova enter, she felt the men's hungry and hateful eyes on her. Their faces showed that they suspected Taburova's interests were sexual and some of them resented his power over them, as well as his protection of her. Many of the men were more wolves than patriots. Anxiety knotted Ajza's stomach as she glanced at the building where the horses were kept. If she could get one of them, she had a chance.

The guard watching the door to Taburova's building stopped her with a raised hand. She stood looking down at the ground. Even though she couldn't see the man, she watched his shadow so she could see what he did and react to any attack.

The guard knocked on the door. Taburova told him to enter. The guard announced Ajza's presence and Taburova told him to let her in.

Taburova's building wasn't much different from the other one Ajza had seen. There was no furniture, only a loose gathering of ammunition and food crates, used to keep supplies. Taburova used one of the crates as a chair while he spoke on a satellite phone.

Covering the mouthpiece with a big hand, Taburova said, "Sit."

With nothing to sit on but the floor, Ajza sat against the wall about ten feet away and crossed her legs. After a moment of listening to Taburova's infrequent responses, mostly in the negative, she identified a rhythmic thumping in the background. She guessed there was a generator somewhere below or in back of the building. They had access to electric power.

She heard Taburova give a few orders to whomever he was talking to and finished the call. Then he closed the phone, shoved it into a pocket and regarded her wordlessly for a time.

"You were very brave facing Achmed," he said at last.

Ajza remained silent, then realized he was waiting for her to speak. "I was scared, not brave."

"You took Achmed prisoner."

"He would have raped me and killed me. I will not live like that."

Taburova got up from behind the desk and stood gazing out the window. "I will not lie to you. Most of the women at this camp have been abused. Or made dependent on drugs."

As she watched the big man, Ajza's dislike and fear of him increased. But she kept remembering how he had looked astride the horse when he'd ridden into Achmed's camp and defused the situation there. He had looked like a hero, not a terrorist.

"I have not done these things to the women." Taburova turned to face her and shrugged. "It's true that I have been harsh with some of them. Too many are weak and find it easy to beg for their lives. They disgust me. They are widows of soldiers who gave their blood to free this country. They shame and dishonor the memories of their husbands." He smiled as he looked at Ajza. "But every now and again, I find one such as you who lives only to strike against our enemies."

Ajza sat quietly. She listened to his words and thought that he believed everything he was telling her. Of course, what he was telling her was that she should die for him at a time of his choosing.

"I gave you your life up in the mountains, Ajza," Taburova said. "I can still give you your life."

"My husband is dead," Ajza replied. She tapped into some of the pain that still resided in her heart at Ilyas's death. She borrowed those feelings of loss and confusion and made the moment real again. Tears filled her eyes and tracked down her cheeks. "I have no life. There is nothing I want."

"You still live," Taburova said. "You are young enough to continue living."

"As a slave to my husband's family? In subjugation at a brothel?" Ajza shook her head. "No. That is not living. That is not the life my husband promised me when I became his."

"If you had truly wanted to die, you could have simply released that grenade up in the mountains." Taburova's dark eye gleamed.

"My heart is dead."

"If so, you would not grieve." Taburova shook his head. "Some part of you still lives, Ajza. You should treasure that feeling."

"It shames me." Coming so easily, the response surprised Ajza. Even though she hadn't grown up in Chechnya, many of the elderly women in Leicester and London lived by the old beliefs. She herself did not, but it was easy enough to emulate.

"Perhaps it is God's way of telling you that you are not yet done. There is much you can do here." Taburova gazed back out the window. "Most of those women out there have no will of their own. No conviction. They have only fear. And I give that to them to be a source of strength. Without fear, they would have nothing." He paused. "That would be a terrible thing. To go through life so empty. Can you imagine something like that?"

"Not until the death of my husband," Ajza replied.

"Then let me give you something else," Taburova said. "For a little while."

Ajza waited.

"Put off your death for a time. Until you feel ready to avenge your husband. Come willingly into this camp and become a
shahidka.
Become one of my weapons." Taburova walked over to her. "If you do this thing, if you show the same courage you did on that mountain while facing Achmed and his rabble, I will give you my protection as long as you are here. None of the men out there will dare touch you."

Ajza waited. She let herself fill with all the sadness Ilyas's death had left with her. The feelings of a woman like the one she now played would be different, but the emotions had enough in common that she felt her portrayal was accurate.

"To avenge my husband, I will do as you say." Ajza knew there was no other answer she could give that would satisfy Taburova.

"Good." He extended his hand. "I have need of you, Ajza. Not many women like you are left to Chechnya."

For a moment Ajza worried that Taburova was baiting her, that he already knew she was there on a mission and intended to kill her within the next handful of seconds. She braced herself as she took his hand.

"Do not tremble," Taburova said gently as he pulled her to her feet. "You have nothing to fear from me." He raised his voice. "Maaret."

A slim woman entered from another room. She wore black clothing and covered her head in the Muslim tradition.

"Take care of this one," Taburova said. "She is the one I told you about."

"I will." The woman bowed her head, then turned to Ajza. "Follow me."

The whole way to the door, Ajza kept expecting a bullet in the back of her head. She didn't know if she was more surprised or relieved that it didn't come.

Taburova stared through the window and watched the two women as they headed toward one of the buildings. There was something about the new woman that challenged him, and he wished he had more time to explore the feeling.

He closed his eye and remembered her as he'd seen her on the mountain with Achmed. Fear had twisted the slaver's features when he realized his death was at hand. Through it all, Ajza had remained resolute. Taburova had seen fear in her face, as well, but fear was a natural part of the world these days.

Still, that kind of bravery was seldom seen anymore. In years past Taburova had seen courage and dedication in the eyes of his followers. They'd been true Chechen patriots fighting to push the Russian yoke from their necks.

Gazing at the men in the camp, Taburova knew that most of them were killers and despoilers. They weren't warriors. They were men who took advantage of others for their own cruel wants. They wouldn't follow him in battle, and the number of those who would had grown thinner. Taburova had led them and they had died.

He had been shot and injured on several occasions. He had lost an eye in the unending conflict. But he still lived. God alone knew why, but Taburova was beginning to think his continued existence was punishment.

His satellite phone trilled for attention. He took it from his pocket, flipped it open and said, "Yes."

"Pasternak is dead." The voice was rough and spoke accented Russian.

Outside Chechnya

Ill at ease, Taburova turned from the window and paced the floor as he spoke into the satellite phone. "How did you get this number?"

"From Pasternak. I was — until this morning — a silent partner. Now I am in business for myself."

Taburova returned to the window and peered outside. Nothing seemed amiss. "What happened to Pasternak?" He focused on the man's words and believed Russian was his first language, but there was something about he way he spoke that sounded familiar.

"I killed him for being a traitor."

"I have only your word. On both counts."

"My word is good. And I've got your weapons. If you want them, you will have to deal with me."

"What do you want?"

"To deliver the weapons. To collect the balance of the payment." The man chuckled. "The correct balance. Not the one Pasternak was trying to gouge from you."

"I do not know you."

"But I know you, and I know the business you had with Pasternak. I killed Pasternak while he was talking to two FSB agents."

"Why was he talking to them?"

"They found him. Pasternak got sloppy on this one. And I knew he'd do whatever he needed to in order not to get arrested."

Taburova's mind spun as he factored in the new set of problems. He needed the weapons, but the last thing he wanted was the FSB investigating him.

"How did the FSB find out about Pasternak?"

"Killing Ivanov was not a smart thing to do," the man said. "But I think it was Kirinov who truly brought them to Pasternak."

"Who is Kirinov?"

"Another criminal like Pasternak and Ivanov. Kirinov helped Pasternak bring the weapons into Moscow."

"The weapons are in Moscow?" Taburova hoped that was true.

"Yes, as I told you. I am willing to get them to you — for the balance that is owed. You are not the only one who has invested in this venture."

"Why do you not simply take the weapons?"

The man sighed. "You are too suspicious."

"I don't think I am suspicious enough."

"I am not set up to make deals with anyone in this country. I have been a go-between."

"For Pasternak and this Kirinov you mentioned?"

"For a number of people. Pasternak came to me when the deal fell apart in Istanbul."

Taburova took a deep breath and tried to figure out how things could have gone so wrong.

"You must make up your mind," the man said. "I do not have much time. Therefore, you do not have much time. Another day or two, then these weapons — and your money — are gone."

"Why are you so interested in doing business?"

"I want the money that is outstanding. I need to get out of Moscow. I can leave at any time, but I would rather have something to show for my time. And you? You need the weapons."

"What about the FSB agents?"

"They are being taken care of as we speak. Do not worry about them. Think about what I have said. Figure out a way to take delivery of these weapons. Then call me." The man gave a number. "You can leave a message there. I will call you back."

Taburova didn't like the idea of the other man calling the shots, but he had no choice. He needed those weapons.

He agreed and the connection clicked dead in his ear.

Taburova folded the phone and put it away. If he hadn't already made a deal with the devil, he would have felt certain he'd done so now. He turned back to the window and gazed out at the camp.

All his life, he'd lived in similar surroundings. He'd given the lives of his friends and family, his eye, his youth to fighting. Now he had a chance to get away from all that, to live some of the good life he saw on American television when he was in Moscow.

In order to accomplish that, all he had to do was betray his people. Looking at the feral men who filled the camp, knowing that more of them waited in the mountains and preyed on the weak, he felt little guilt over what he had planned.

Moscow

"Do you need anything?"

Startled by the voice, Sergei looked up from the straight-backed chair outside the operating room where surgeons labored over Vasily Mikhalkov. A nurse old enough to be his mother looked down at him with gentle eyes.

"No. Thank you," Sergei said. He shifted the cup of coffee that had gone cold in his hands. "I'm just waiting to see how my partner is doing."

"Were you injured?"

Sergei knew she referred to the blood that spattered his clothes, face and hair. "Scratches. Nothing to be concerned about."

"We have a triage center."

"Perhaps later."

The nurse nodded unhappily and walked down the corridor. His police identification had gotten him past the hospital security, but the emergency room moved rapidly as the injured were ferried to different areas. The smell of medicine, blood and death made the semirefrigerated air thick and stale.

Sergei got up and threw his coffee cup into the trash. Inside his jacket pocket, his cell phone vibrated. He took it out and studied the viewscreen.
WE NEED TO TALK

It was the woman. Sergei knew it could be no one else. She had tried to call him several times during the last hour. He didn't want to talk to her. He didn't trust her. At the moment he didn't trust anyone.

He'd forced his way onto the ambulance that had brought Mikhalkov to the hospital. He'd watched as the rescue workers tried to staunch the old man's bleeding and get him stabilized.

Sergei had never lost a partner. He didn't want to lose one now.

He started to put the phone back into his jacket pocket. The readout changed.

LOOK AT THE SECURITY MONITOR AT THE NURSES' DESK

Unable to stop himself, Sergei looked. The view switched from the outer waiting room to a parking area outside the hospital. Three hard-faced men stepped out of a sedan parked near an ambulance. The driver remained at the wheel.

All of the men wore jackets. The way they walked and kept their right hands close to their hips told Sergei they were armed. None of the hospital staff noticed the men approaching the entrance.

His phone vibrated again. This time he opened it and answered. "Yes."

"You see the men on the monitor?" the woman asked.