Moscow
Russia
An anonymous tip called into a local radio station had diverted the authorities. The usual daily traffic passing by the Kremlin was quickly rerouted to a side street, where it was searched by the police and armed forces for weapons and explosives being smuggled into the capital for the rebel forces. Before long, a column of traffic snaked back more than two kilometers from the police checkpoint.
The checkpoints, once confined to the roads around government buildings, had spread throughout the city, making life difficult, if not unbearable, for many Muscovites. He knew there was nothing he could do about it, so Boris Grekov sat back in his tanker truck, turned on his radio, and patiently waited his turn to drive through the checkpoint. He was looking forward to delivering his supply of gasoline to a nearby gas station, and then getting home to his wife and newborn child before it got too late in the day. Like many young Russians, all he wanted was the opportunity to look after his family and make a decent and honest wage doing so. He soon grew restless. Grekov took out a picture of his child from his wallet and smiled. Their son would be three months old tomorrow, and he could not wait to take him in his arms as soon as he got home. Unlike his father, he hoped for a large family with many sons.
The truck in front of him pulled forward through the checkpoint. A police officer cradling a submachine gun in his arms nonchalantly waved for Grekov to move toward him. Placing his son’s picture back in his wallet, Grekov changed gears and then slowly drove forward, until waved to a halt by the police officer.
Several vehicles back, a thin, blond-haired driver watched Grekov pull up to the roadblock. He reached down into a small backpack, removed a disposable cellphone and then dialed a number. Instantly, there was a bright flash of light, immediately followed by the noise of the blast as Grekov’s truck evaporated in a massive explosion. A blinding orange-and-red fireball shot straight up into the sky. Along with it, the police checkpoint vanished in the blink of an eye. Fifteen other vehicles around Grekov’s truck were consumed in fire as the blast wave and shrapnel ripped through everything they hit. Flame, smoke, and confusion spread out like ripples from a rock thrown into the water.
The thin man who had detonated the bomb via his cellphone watched his handiwork with some satisfaction, and then calmly jumped out of the cab of his vehicle. In the ensuing chaos, he quietly walked into the nearest alleyway. Soon, the man disappeared among the throng of people jostling with one another trying to get away from the rapidly spreading fire. Whistling to himself, the man knew that the best suicide bombers were the ones who did not even know they were.
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