Black Widow r5-6

by Cliff Ryder

  "Sometimes," Ivan replied. "Many times the families of the dead husbands claim the children. Then they sell or give away the women. No one wants to support them. But a strong grandson? They hope that one day he might grow up to support them or die fighting the Russians as his father did."

  One of the guards approached the woman and the boy and yelled at her. She stood protectively in front of her son while he clung to her legs. The guard slapped the woman, rocking her head back, and she prostrated herself on the ground. After a final exchange, the guard walked away. The woman quieted her son, got him to finish his business, and herded him back into the building.

  "Those children," Ivan said, "are another reason that attacking this place is difficult. It has been done in the past. Many women and children were killed. So you see the problem?"

  Ajza nodded.

  "Cut off the head of the snake," Ivan repeated. "That is what we must do. Then strike quickly before another head grows back." He paused to study the terrorist camp a little longer. "Come. You need to rest before we sell you to the slaver who deals with these men."

  Silently Ajza slipped back into the forest. Images of what might happen to her in the hands of the terrorists filled her mind. Her stomach knotted and her hands shook, but she made herself go on. The cache of weapons was en route now.

  And, possibly, Ilyas's murderer was out there somewhere. That kept her going.

  * * *

  "Are you sure you are all right with this?" Ivan asked.

  Ajza met the gruff man's gaze without flinching. "I'm not happy about it." She sat in the back of an ancient jeep as it trundled along a narrow mountain road.

  The night made it impossible to see the depths that lay on the right side of the road. A hulking wall of stone filled the left side. The weak yellow headlights jarred constantly across the rough terrain.

  Ivan shrugged. "If we try to fake this, Achmed will see through the subterfuge. No good will come of that."

  "I know." Keeping her voice to a monotone almost drained Ajza. She welcomed the exhaustion and used it to go numb.

  Ivan hesitated. "Once I leave you, you will be on your own. And you will be in dire straits."

  "I know that, too." Ajza's voice tightened in her throat, but she didn't think it came out sounding that way. She hoped not.

  "I do not like doing this."

  Ajza looked at the man, knowing he could call off the op at any moment. She wouldn't be able to proceed effectively without him.

  "I will not dishonor you like that," Ivan said. "Your courage shames my own."

  "What you're doing," Ajza said, then paused. "I know it's hard. But you have to trust me. I'm good at what I do."

  "People believe that right up until they are trapped or dead," Ivan said.

  "We're going to cut off the snake's head. Keep that in mind."

  "You are a brave — or foolish — young woman."

  "Maybe it takes both."

  With a nod Ivan sighed. "Then we will be careful and be hopeful. I will pray that God watches over you."

  "I thought you made it a policy not to care about people you brought in."

  "I do. But you have gotten on my good side. It was unexpected and is now most distressing."

  Ajza smiled. "You have children."

  "I do. My weakness." Ivan leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder, then commanded him to stop.

  After the jeep came to a halt in the middle of the road, Ajza clambered out and stood at the roadside. She'd changed clothing, now wearing garments more suitable to a female Muslim. The robes were black and worn, showing hard times. The heavy cloth pulled at Ajza, promising problems if she had to move quickly, but they blocked the wind.

  Ivan looked at her with sorrowful eyes. "You have until we turn you over to Achmed to change your mind."

  "I won't," she said firmly.

  Ivan nodded. "Very well." He took a set of heavy-duty handcuffs from his coat. "Turn around, please."

  Controlling her fear, Ajza turned and presented her wrists behind her back. Ivan clamped the cuffs around her wrists gently, but she was still handcuffed and potentially helpless.

  * * *

  The men remained invisible until they stepped from the shadows draping the mountainous foothills. Black robes covered them from head to toe. They all carried firearms, a mixture of Russian and Chinese weapons, AK-47 assault rifles and bolt-action rifles.

  One of the men stepped forward and held up a hand.

  Ivan leaned toward Ajza. "You are ready for this?"

  "No," Ajza said. The cuffs on her wrists made her arms feel heavy. "But I'm going to do it."

  "Achmed is a dangerous man. Never forget that."

  "I won't."

  "If he kills you, I will avenge you."

  Ajza looked at Ivan. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"

  Ivan shrugged. "It is the best I have to offer."

  "Thank you," Ajza said.

  "You are welcome. I do not make promises like that lightly." Ivan's eyes shone cold and hard in the reflected headlights. "Do not meet his eyes."

  After Ivan's whispered command, his hand rested against the back of Ajza's head and pushed it forward. Resistance came naturally to her and she fought to squelch it. She stared at the ground a few feet ahead of her, so she saw the man's combat boots before she saw him.

  "You only have one?" the harsh voice asked.

  "This is the only one that survived," Ivan replied. "As you know, the Russian soldiers have pushed hard into the mountains of late. We were forced to move very fast."

  Achmed grunted and spat a foul curse about the ancestral heritage of the Russians. A rough hand cupped Azja's chin and lifted her face. She kept her eyes downcast and let her peripheral vision survey the outlaw. She refused to recognize him as either Chechen or rebel because she knew he was only an opportunist. Nationalism didn't matter to him. The files she'd studied bore that out.

  "She is old," Achmed declared.

  For a moment Ajza couldn't believe the man had said that. Achmed was easily twice her age, probably more. Then she realized that most of the Black Widows were in their teens and early twenties. She was old by those standards.

  "Not too old to carry a bomb against our enemies," Ajza told him.

  Achmed frowned and glanced at Ivan doubtfully. "You allow her to speak?"

  "This one is prideful," Ivan said. His voice held no sign that he'd been caught as much off guard as the slaver. "She only wants to bring death to our enemies."

  "What of her husband?" Achmed stared at Ajza.

  "Dead fighting the Russians," Ajza said.

  "When?"

  "Weeks ago."

  "Why are you not already dead if you loved him so much?"

  "Because I could not kill enough of them by myself. I need help for that."

  "Yet you come to me in chains."

  "I do not believe you are the man that can help me take my vengeance."

  "You do not know me."

  "Then prove to me you can help me."

  Achmed cocked his head and walked to Ajza's side so he could look at her in profile. "Do you have children?"

  "We were not so blessed."

  "What did you do so wrong in God's eyes that you were not given children?"

  "My husband wanted our children to be born free, not under Russian oppression. We chose to wait until that happened."

  "And he believed that would happen in his lifetime? A most ambitious man."

  Ajza said nothing. She pulled back when Achmed ran his hand down her cheek.

  "Have you had her?" Achmed asked Ivan.

  "I would not," Ivan replied.

  "Why?"

  "After the death of her husband, the Russian soldiers had her." Ivan shrugged. "I would not wallow in their filth."

  "She told you this?"

  "I saw it. Before I killed them."

  Achmed looked at Ajza again. "That is too bad. For an older woman, she looks good. But I prefer them young."
r />   Disgust roiled inside Ajza as she thought of the young women — many of them not more than girls — who must have been violated at Achmed's hands. All of those women were trapped between two enemies, and they had mercy from neither.

  "If you cannot use her, then perhaps it would be best if we killed her here." Ivan drew his sidearm and pressed the muzzle to Ajza's temple.

  Ajza felt the cold metal against her flesh. She was certain that Ivan was only upping the stakes, that he had no intention of pulling the trigger, but the presence of Achmed's men made every move dangerous.

  And she hadn't kept silent as she was supposed to. Maybe Ivan was acting in his own self-interest, to make certain his cover story remained intact. She stood silent and still.

  "No," Achmed said. "There is fire in her. If she truly wants vengeance for her husband, Taburova can harness that fire. Many of these women don't have that. A woman's anger, if properly focused, is a dangerous thing."

  Ajza let out a small breath but didn't feel any safer.

  Ivan put his pistol away. "Then I'll take my payment."

  Achmed gestured to one of the men. Ivan caught the pouch the man tossed to him.

  "Bring me more women," Achmed told Ivan. "I can sell them if you can bring them to me."

  "I will," Ivan promised.

  Achmed grabbed Ajza's arm and shoved her forward. Surprised by the man's rough treatment, she stumbled on the uneven ground and almost fell. Behind her, she heard Ivan and his men clamber back aboard the jeeps. The engines turned over, the transmissions engaged, and the yellow headlights pulled away.

  Just like that, she was alone and once more in enemy hands.

  * * *

  New York

  Kate stared at the monitor showing the overhead view of Ajza in the cluster of the human traffickers who serviced Taburova's Black Widow camps. After the experiences she'd had sending Room 59 agents into harm's way, Kate had learned to deal with the guilt about her part in the machinations that had put the young woman at risk. In the end the decision had belonged to Ajza Manaev.

  But you knew she had plenty of motivation to do this, Kate reminded herself. You're not going to get off that easily.

  On the screen Ajza marched with her hands behind her back. So far none of the men tried to touch her. The satellite pulled the image out of the night and turned the figures green. A floating blue triangle marked Ajza.

  "Worried?" Jack asked.

  "Concerned."

  He nodded. "Me, too."

  Kate let out a slow breath. "For now we watch and wait and hope for the best."

  "We got scattered too much on this one." Jake rubbed his stubbled jaw. "We started out behind."

  "We usually do."

  "I know, but this one got shifted all over the place. The Russian connection to the weapons caught us flat-footed. We could have handled this better if we had more intel."

  "We're working on that now," Kate said, thinking of the Russian Room 59 agent she'd activated. Ajza Manaev wasn't the only one treading dangerous waters. Sergei Prokhorov was conceivably in over his head, as well.

  33

  Moscow

  "Dr. Golovko, a moment of your time, if I may." Sergei showed the medical examiner his FSB credentials as they stood in the hospital hallway.

  Golovko took his time looking at the identification. He was small and round. Round-lensed glasses covered dark eyes that stood out against his pale skin. His suit was neat and tailored.

  "Why have you come to see me?" Golovko looked bored. In the old days a visit from the FSB or KGB would have incited terror. It was much easier to get information in those days.

  "I need to see one of the bodies you recently examined," Sergei said.

  Irina Rachmanov had indicated that the man was part of the reason Kirinov had come back to Moscow. The man's identity, however, wasn't known by the authorities. After she'd mentioned how the man had died — shot through the head and thrown from a building — it hadn't taken long to find him. Even in crime-rampant Moscow, such things did not happen routinely.

  Golovko pushed his sleeve back from his watch, checked the time and looked like a petulant child. "My shift is over."

  "This will not take more than a few minutes."

  "Come back tomorrow." Golovko turned to walk away.

  Sergei dropped his hand heavily onto the man's shoulder, stopping him. "I have this time only. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

  Golovko glared at Sergei. "You cannot do this. In this country, I have rights."

  "A favor," Sergei replied. "And I will not tell your wife about the mistress you rush off to see."

  Scarlet touched Golovko's cheeks, but Sergei couldn't discern whether it was caused by anger or embarrassment. Mikhalkov had told Sergei about the doctor's mistress and suggested he use the fact as leverage if it became necessary.

  Golovko turned and dug his keys from his pocket.

  The morgue always filled Sergei with a sense of unease. The fact that a person — male or female, honest citizen or criminal, rich or poor — could be neatly stored away in one of the refrigerated metal boxes seemed disrespectful. What a person had been surely couldn't fit into one of those boxes.

  The corpse lay on the stainless-steel table. Sutures closed the chest cavity. Gunpowder tattoos marred the forehead and face around the bullet hole. The man had been shot from less than a foot away.

  "His name…" Golovko began.

  "Emile Ivanov," Sergei stated.

  The medical examiner checked his records and frowned. "That's not the name I was given."

  "I know." Sergei looked up at the man. "Who identified him?"

  Golovko checked his records. He was more wary now. "His wife."

  "You have her name?"

  "Of course." Golovko offered the folder.

  Sergei noted the name, knew it was an alias and didn't bother to write it down. He did write down the time of her visit, though.

  "The woman came here yesterday?" Sergei asked.

  Golovko consulted his notes briefly. "Yes. My papers are always in order."

  "Does security maintain video surveillance of the morgue?"

  "Yes." Golovko frowned. He doubtless guessed where the line of questioning was leading and didn't like it.

  "Then we'll need to take a look at that."

  Golovko sighed.

  Sergei ignored the man. "What can you tell me about IvanoVs death?"

  "The shot through the head killed him instantly. Then he was thrown from the building where he was murdered. He fell three stories, which is congruent with the murder scene the police found inside the building and the impact site where he was discovered."

  "By passersby?"

  "That was what I was told. You will have to check with the investigating police officers as to the veracity of that."

  "Anything else?"

  "The body had a number of minute burns," Golovko stated. "The police found the remnants of a flare nearby. The wounds hadn't started healing, so I believe they were postmortem."

  "Someone shot Ivanov and pushed him through a window, then threw a flare down in the night so his body could be clearly seen?" Sergei asked.

  "The body wasn't pushed through a window. It was thrown out." Golovko waved Sergei over more closely and pointed at the bruising on the dead man's neck. "Ligature marks. These fit the clothing he was found wearing. His murderers — or someone — picked him up by his clothing and threw him through the window. The rest of it is as you say."

  So a message had been sent. Sergei looked at the dead man one last time. He felt certain he knew who Emile IvanoVs partner was. All that remained was catching the man and putting enough pressure on him to make him crack.

  "Should I correctly identify this man?" Golovko asked.

  Sergei shook his head. "No. For the time this will be our secret. I need a copy of your report."

  Golovko nodded and walked over to his computer. The printer churned out the pages in rapid succession.

  "Am I free
to go?" the medical examiner asked.

  "There is one more thing," Sergei said.

  * * *

  The tiny security office was neat and tidy. Electronics crammed the shelves. The security officer manning the operation took his job seriously. His eyes flitted over the monitors built into the wall ahead of him.

  "My employer was with the Russian Army," the middle-aged man said. "In intelligence. He was very good at his job, but there were so many cutbacks after communism failed that he had to surrender his post. He decided to embrace capitalism and wished to stay in Moscow. So he created this company."

  "He appears to have done well for himself," Sergei said as he studied the screen that scrolled footage of the previous day.

  Golovko sat in front of Sergei and studied the screen, too.

  "We have grown," the guard said. "We manage security on several sites. Many of them are government buildings."

  "If we find what we are looking for," Sergei promised, "I will put in a good word for you."

  "If it is here to be found," the man replied, "we will find it."

  Sergei watched the footage as people came into the hospital. The cameras that uploaded video primarily covered the entrances and not much of the interior.

  "There she is." Golovko pointed to a blond woman with heavy makeup. She dropped her cigarette at the hospital's entrance and crushed it underfoot. Sergei guessed she was in her late twenties or early thirties. She didn't look at all heartbroken. At the front desk, she talked quickly on a cell phone.

  "I need a full-face photograph of the woman," Sergei told the security officer. "And a copy of this footage."

  "Of course." The man started working on his computer.

  * * *

  "You know this woman?" Sergei asked Mikhalkov as the older man examined the photograph from the hospital security office. They sat in the car outside the coffee shop where Sergei had picked up Mikhalkov.

  The man nodded. "She is a prostitute. An expensive one. But she is not Emile IvanoVs wife. IvanoVs wife is not this attractive."

  Sergei remained aware of the foot traffic beside the car. Tourists, mostly.

  "Do you think IvanoVs wife knows what happened to him?" Sergei asked.

  Mikhalkov shrugged. "I do not know. She knew this would happen to him one day. He was always taking chances. The higher the risk, the higher the pay, he claimed." He glanced at the picture one more time and handed it back to Sergei. "Apparently the risk this time was very high."