Black Widow r5-6

by Cliff Ryder

"I'm here every now and again."

  "Do you work somewhere close by?"

  "An investment firm. Nothing elaborate."

  "You're very fit."

  "I work out."

  Ajza smiled at him, trying to look like a defenseless woman. That was easy because his ego would allow him only to recognize her as inferior. She knew the type. "Perhaps I'll see you around."

  He stared at her for just a moment. She thought she might have pressed that too far.

  "You never know," he said. He said goodbye and left, careful to take a right turn at the door as if he was simply resuming a trip back to the office. His partner across the street didn't move.

  Ajza waited and endured her father's silent displeasure. But she couldn't help wondering who Jason was and who he represented.

  17

  The investigating detective took Ajza's name and address. He looked at her from under his hat brim. He was middle-aged, articulate and observant.

  "You live in London?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Why are you here?"

  "I took a few days from work to visit my parents."

  "Very thoughtful."

  "Thank you." Ajza knew the man was on alert. Whoever Jason was, his presence at the shop had raised the detective's suspicions.

  "Where do you work?" the detective asked.

  Ajza named the corporation where MI-6 had established her cover. She didn't hesitate. Everything she told the policeman would check out.

  "How long have you been working there?" the policeman asked.

  "Since I got out of college." Ajza folded her arms and took a deliberate defensive posture. "Why do I get the impression that I'm under investigation?"

  "Sorry." The detective smiled. "I've always been the curious sort. It helps in my line of work."

  "I suppose it would."

  The detective made note of her answers.

  "Would you care to know where I went to college?" Ajza asked.

  He shook his head and looked slightly embarrassed. "No, that won't be necessary. I'm just glad nothing bad happened to you or your father. You were very lucky that chap happened along as he did."

  "I know." Ajza bit her lip and feigned indecisiveness. "I'm frightfully embarrassed."

  "Why?"

  "You're going to think I'm positively dreadful."

  "Nonsense." The detective gave her a reassuring smile.

  "I'm afraid I wasn't as good with my questions as you are with yours." The reminder was deliberate, subtly reminding the man that he owed her for his prying. "I never even asked him his name."

  "Well, given the excitement of the moment, that's understandable." The detective made no offer to give her the man's name.

  "Do you think you could tell me his name and address?" Ajza asked. "I'd like to call and thank him. Perhaps send him some flowers or — at the very least — a card. After all, he did save my father's life."

  The detective put his notepad in his pocket. "His name is Donald Smythe. I'm afraid I can't give you his address. Privacy, you know."

  "What about where he works? That wouldn't be an invasion of privacy, would it?"

  "I'm afraid I didn't get that information, Miss Manaev."

  "Oh. Well, that's disappointing. Perhaps if you should get it later…"

  "Of course."

  But she knew the man wouldn't be in touch with her again.

  After the police left, things returned to normal. Ajza stayed busy restocking and cleaning the shop. The patrons broke up the monotony of the day as always. She remembered many of them from having lived there as a girl, before going away to university. Some of them were new to her, but not to her father. She loved to hear her father's patter with the people who entered the shop. His words always brought comfort because kindness filled him while he worked.

  Only a little of the awkwardness between them remained. The afternoon's business more than made up for the lunch rush that was lost. The neighborhood turned out to get a firsthand account of what had happened, and they nearly always left with some purchase.

  Ajza noted that her father didn't mention her part in quelling the youths. He only said he gave credit to a passing stranger.

  After dinner that night, Ajza retired to the room her parents kept for her. It was odd visiting it. The room held many of her childhood things, but not much of the woman she'd become.

  Her mother remarked on that infrequently. Ajza had offered to clean the room out so they could lease it to a university student or a young single. Her mother had refused, saying they kept the room so she would have a place to stay when she visited.

  Her brother's room remained untouched.

  Ajza had peeked in earlier the previous day after her arrival. Her mother kept everything clean despite the fact no one lived there. All of Ilyas's memorabilia remained on the shelves. His comic books stood in collector's boxes. The spy novels he'd read lined the bookshelves. Comic-book figures stood on his dresser, poised to spring into action.

  For a moment as she'd peeked into that room, Ajza had almost been able to feel her younger brother's presence. It wasn't so long ago that he'd sat on the floor and played with those action figures.

  In her dark bedroom, Ajza sat near the window and looked out to see the MINI Cooper. The vehicle had moved during the course of the day, but the two men remained constant. There had been no shift switch. She knew they would be getting tired. Even if they took turns sleeping, the endless hours of constant inactivity would take their toll.

  But it showed how determined they were in their assignment.

  That made Ajza even more curious. Especially since they were watching her so close to her parents' home.

  A quick glance at the street revealed that the nightlife around Haymarket Centre was in full swing. The pubs kept the locals and the tourists busy, and they provided a distraction for her watchers.

  Ajza dressed for the night in a black turtleneck, black jeans, black running shoes, a Black Watch cap to capture her dark hair and a black peacoat against the night's chill and to straighten out her curves. Looking in the mirror, she knew the men watching her wouldn't be able to tell if she was a man or a woman.

  It was perfect.

  Quietly, as she had in the past, she stole from her parents' house. The window in the small living room opened into a fire escape that snaked down the side of the building. She caught it, heard the rust scrape against her gloves, then swung out. Hand over hand, she made her way down and dropped to the alley behind the shop.

  Then she stepped into the darkness.

  18

  Chechen Republic

  Belted into the passenger seat of the Russian jeep, Taburova felt exposed. He'd grown up in the open spaces of the Caucasus Mountains. He'd hunted and fished, and he'd been respected for those skills. In those days he'd relished the wilderness.

  Now it was far too easy to imagine Russian sharpshooters behind every tree and boulder. Despite all his precautions, he was grimly aware that all it would take was one well-placed bullet by a man patient enough to wait for an opportunity.

  He knew that because he had been that man several times himself.

  "Sir?" The driver glanced at Taburova.

  "I am tired. There is nothing we can do about that. Keep driving."

  "Of course." The driver dropped down another gear as they prepared to climb yet another steep incline. The vehicle's engine growled and fought for inches. Loose soil churned away under the tires. The jeep slid again and again.

  Frustrated, Taburova gave the order to stop. He slid from the jeep and shouldered the AK-47 he carried. "We walk from here. The vehicles aren't going to make it."

  "Yes sir."

  The men in the vehicles behind him disembarked, as well. They carried weapons but didn't turn on the flashlights they'd brought. The moonlight was bright enough to see by, and the lights would only mark them as targets.

  Taburova started forward, leaning into his approach, then stopped within ten paces. He waved his men to a
halt behind him.

  "What is it?" one of the men asked.

  "They are up there." Taburova's eye scanned the dark ridges before them. "And they are watching us."

  "They are expecting us," someone said.

  "The council of elders is expecting us," Taburova corrected. He reached into his pocket for a flashlight. "The men up there behind those rifles might not even know what day of the week it is."

  "Stupid goatherds," a coarse voice spat.

  "I hope your voice does not carry into those hills," someone else said. "Otherwise, one of those men might decide to put a bullet between your eyes."

  "You do not even know that someone is there."

  "You are an idiot if you think that."

  "I cannot believe you are afraid of these backward people."

  "These backward people," Taburova said, "fought the mighty Russian army to a standstill out here. Outgunned, outmanned, these warriors brought single-shot rifles into battle and cut down proud Russian soldiers like they were wheat. If you do not keep that in mind, I will kill you myself."

  No one else spoke.

  Taburova turned on his flashlight. The beam tracked the hard-packed earth, showing the ruts left by two-wheeled carts and the heavy footprints of oxen. Then he flashed the beam up in his face and held it for all to see.

  Footsteps shuffled behind him and he knew that the men closest to him retreated. He didn't blame them.

  "I am Mayrbek Taburova," he declared in a loud voice. "Someone among you should know me. I have spoken with the council of elders. I am here answering their call."

  Adrenaline flooded Taburova's senses. If they fired on him, he'd never hear the bullet that killed him.

  A moment later a match flame between cupped palms plucked a hard-planed face from the darkness only briefly. The hollow eyes regarded Taburova.

  "Come," the man called down. The cupped palms moved apart and the flame died.

  * * *

  "So, you still live to fight, my friend." Sixty hard years had made Bislan lean as a rake, and misfortune had bent him, yet the old man radiated a dangerous ferocity. His white beard danced in the light breeze. Though his eyes crinkled in laughter, nothing touched the cold chill permanently locked there. The battered catnous he wore fluttered under the long fur coat that draped him. He leaned on an aged sniper rifle that was wrapped in canvas to protect it from the elements.

  "I still live," Taburova agreed. "And I still fight."

  "It is our way." Bislan held out an arm.

  Without hesitation, though he had seen the old man once slit a man's throat with the same gesture, Taburova stepped into Bislan's embrace. The arm still felt strong and able, though the old man had gone stringy with the hard times.

  "It is good to see you, my friend." Taburova hugged the old man fiercely, then stepped away.

  "I know you are taking the battle to those Russian pigs," Bislan said, "and I am proud of you for that. But every time you leave us, I have to wonder if it will be the last time I see you."

  Taburova smiled. "I will bring you news of victory soon. You will not have to sing any songs over my death."

  "I hope not. You should live to bury me. And I should die a very old man. That way I know we will have killed many Russians."

  Small and remote, the settlement consisted of a collection of shacks built into the foothills. Much thought had gone into building the dwellings, but materials hadn't been readily available. Taburova had grown up in such a house, one with a dirt floor and heated by a fire made from dung. The mountains pressed hard on the men who lived among them.

  The walls showed signs of repair. Ill-cut boards covered holes, and the holes were packed with mud. No windows broke the walls, but gun ports showed at regular intervals. The buildings wouldn't stand against much more than the wind and the winter, but no Russian forces could put a tank in those hills, and no Russian soldier had ever reached them.

  "Come," Bislan said. "You will eat, then we will talk business."

  Taburova followed the man. Bislan's limp had worsened. He didn't have many good years left. Taburova wondered if the Russians would take him or if the mountain might finally claim the old warrior.

  A cold breeze climbed inside Taburova's coat and caused him to shiver.

  Bislan noticed. "Oh, so you let a little gust of wind bother you?"

  Taburova shrugged.

  "Do you grow soft while you live down in those cities?" Bislan taunted.

  "Not in my heart," Taburova replied.

  The old man slapped Taburova on the shoulder and laughed. The sound echoed in the surrounding mountains and reminded Taburova of how far he'd come.

  "Before we eat," Taburova said, "let me see the women." That was what he had come all this way for.

  * * *

  Panicked voices came from inside the small shed not far from the house Bislan had claimed. Taburova heard the fearful whispers from within as one of Bislan's men opened the locks on the door. Scars covered the wooden walls and the building canted drastically to one side.

  A noxious stench filled Taburova's nostrils and he stepped back.

  "It is a foul mess inside," Bislan warned. "Just last week one of them tried to escape."

  "Did she escape?"

  Bislan smiled grimly. "Not with my young wolves patrolling the mountain."

  Several of the young warriors laughed at that.

  "But they were told what the punishment would be if one of them tried something like that. They have been locked in this room for three weeks and not allowed to bathe or care for themselves." Bislan shrugged. "It would have been better if we had eaten before visiting them."

  Taburova took out his flashlight and waited as the door swung open on creaking hinges. More scuttling came from within.

  One of the young men stepped into the building. He carried a baton in one hand. "You will stay back if you know what's good for you." He shone the flashlight he held in his other hand around the room.

  Taburova breathed through his mouth to avoid some of the stench. Waste buckets occupied corners of the room, but they obviously weren't emptied on a regular basis.

  The women huddled in the back of the building. They held each other. In the darkness it was hard to make out any details.

  "How many?" Taburova asked.

  "Eleven," Bislan replied.

  Eleven was less than Taburova was hoping for. Still, it was enough to make a difference. That was all he had to do.

  He stepped forward and shone the light on his face. "My name is Mayrbek Taburova. I'm here to offer you a chance to save your doomed souls. Listen to me and I will give you a way to enter the gates of heaven."

  19

  Leicester

  Ajza stood still and silent in the darkness a short distance from the MINI Cooper. Heat from an open thermos briefly fogged the driver's-side window. The smell of tea tainted the night air. She could hear the two men talking.

  "I don't know where you're putting all that tea, mate," the man who'd introduced himself as Jason said.

  "Keeps me awake and alert," the other man replied.

  "Yeah, I could bloody well tell that from all the snoring you were doing a few minutes ago."

  "Is it really bad?"

  "Look at my ears. Am I bleeding from them."

  The other man waved Jason away. "Piss off."

  "I should be bleeding from the ears, I tell you." Jason kept his eyes on the shop. "Why do you think we're supposed to keep an eye on this woman?"

  "We were told to protect her."

  Ajza filed that away. She didn't know who would have told anyone to protect her. If she'd needed protection, her superiors at MI-6 would have told her she was in danger. So who were these two men and who had sent them?

  "Did you see her take down those two robbers?" Jason asked. "There was no hesitation in her. She went straight at them. Like a bloody shark."

  "They were kids. Don't make a big deal of it."

  "I'm not."

  "Got a case of
hero worship going on, if you ask me."

  Jason snarled, "I wasn't asking you."

  "If you had a girlfriend, mate, maybe that would help take the edge off."

  "I had a girlfriend not too long ago." Jason lifted tiny binoculars and trained them on the shop. "She cramped my style."

  "Didn't know you had a style."

  Listening to the dialogue, Ajza knew the men weren't MI-6 agents. Agents were trained not to talk, and they often didn't work together enough to develop that kind of rapport. Ajza was so used to working deep undercover on assignments that she'd almost forgotten what it was like to have a partner.

  "You want any tea?" the other man asked.

  "No, mate. I gotta go move what I've already taken on. Are you awake enough to take over?"

  "Yes. There's a restaurant up the way. They're still open. Why don't you bring back some fish and chips?"

  Jason sighed and got out of the car. "A babysitter and a bleeding waiter. That's all I am today. This bit better be over with by tomorrow."

  "The walk will do you good."

  "A bloody loo will do me good." Jason walked away from the car toward the end of the block.

  Satisfied the other man in the car was focused on the shop, Ajza stepped from the shadows and settled into quiet pursuit of Jason.

  Anger and fear twisted through her. She didn't think any of the nasty business from Mustafa had followed her from Istanbul. Nothing like that had ever happened before.

  And it's not happening now, she told herself. Mustafa is dead.

  She'd seen the story in the news and wondered if the team that was supposed to exfiltrate her had killed Mustafa. She'd also wondered about the other group that had been there. MI-6 hadn't had any answers.

  Then what was this? What had brought these men to her? To her parents?

  That was what bothered her the most. Somehow she'd managed to expose her mother and father. That was unacceptable. She didn't like feeling vulnerable, but she couldn't bear the thought of her parents being in harm's way.

  The man ahead of her — Jason — was about to pay the price.

  Ajza lengthened her stride and caught up with him just as he started to pass another alley. This one suited her purposes perfectly.