by Cliff Ryder
Taburova grinned. He knew she spoke the truth. He liked the bravery he heard in her words. "Ah, if only I had a thousand more like you. Then we could break Russia's grip on our country. But we don't. So you and I must fight and die so that our children will remember how to live and dream of independence."
Ajza hesitated. "I am told you are a man of your word," she said.
"I am. And I don't have to give you my word. I only need to wait to see if your hand will tire and you are willing to give your life. Or if you will throw the grenade away at the last moment. I can wait to see what your word is worth."
"I am not afraid to die when there is only rape and beatings awaiting me."
"I believe you. If I mean you harm, you will die just as surely by releasing Achmed as by releasing that live grenade. You wanted a choice. I offer you one. And something to believe in."
* * *
Ajza's hand shook from the strain of holding the grenade. She knew she couldn't last much longer. Achmed's pulse beat frantically against the inside of her forearm where it pressed his neck. He stank of sweat, dirt and fear.
She glanced at Taburova sitting astride the horse. Every inch of him looked like a warrior, a man used to living in the moment between life and death. His right hand never strayed from the pistol at his hip.
Finally, as the silence between them stretched long and thin, Ajza replaced the pin in the grenade, released Achmed and stood tall. She fully expected a fusillade of bullets to tear through her body and was surprised when they didn't. She almost let out a sigh of relief, but it took everything she had to remain standing on quaking legs.
"Toss the grenade aside," Taburova ordered.
Accepting her fate, Ajza did. She stood with her hands cuffed before her.
Achmed scrambled for his lost knife.
"Do not pick up that weapon," Taburova ordered.
Cursing, Achmed pulled his hand away from the knife.
"You have the keys to her cuffs?" Taburova asked.
"Yes," Achmed said.
"Release her."
Achmed reached inside his pants and took out the key Ivan had given him. He opened Ajza's cuffs. "Do not think this is over," he whispered between gritted teeth. "If you don't die quickly as a Black Widow, I will find you and kill you."
Ajza believed the man, but she refused to acknowledge him.
"Come to me," Taburova ordered now, his gaze on Ajza.
Slowly Ajza walked toward the warrior.
Taburova drew himself up in his saddle and addressed the rest of the slavers. "These women are given to me from God. I am his holy redeemer of their souls. I bring them the vengeance their hearts cry out for, and I open the doors of heaven for them. You will not break God's trust in me."
Achmed and his men said nothing.
"You act as my emissaries while gathering these women from the homes that will not harbor them," Taburova went on. "When no one else will have them, I take them and give them lives with purpose and power. You may not harm these women — or the others I give sanctuary to — in any way. Is this understood?"
It was a pretty speech, Ajza thought. Under other, more desirable circumstances, she would have thought it melodramatic. She knew it wasn't true.
The slavers nodded and grumbled quietly.
Without warning, Taburova pulled the pistol from his holster and shot Achmed in the head. The harsh crack made the horse jump a little and Ajza draw back. As the slaver dropped, Taburova held his weapon on the other slavers as a dozen men stepped from the shadows.
"Is this understood?" Taburova demanded again.
"Yes, master." This time there was no mistaking the answer.
36
New York
Muting the warring feelings inside her, Kate watched the footage of Ajza's showdown with the slaver again. Due to the night, they hadn't been able to positively identify the man who had ridden the horse up into the mountainous terrain and confronted Ajza, but her gut told her who he was.
"We're close to Taburova," Jake said.
"Or, depending on how you choose to look at it, he's close to us," Kate replied. "I'm not ready to put money on the table yet."
"I think Ajza played it smart." Jake sipped his coffee. He was referring to the way she'd gotten the drop on the slaver who attacked her.
"She got lucky. If the man on horseback hadn't arrived and the situation hadn't gone the way it did…"
"She'd have been forced to try her luck in the brush," Jake said. "If it had come to that, I think she still would have walked away."
Kate massaged the back of her neck and wished that the headache plaguing her would pass. "Entry into the Black Widow camp was supposed to be low profile. This isn't low profile."
"The trafficker didn't give her a lot of choices out there. Would you have played the hand any different?"
Kate thought about her answer only briefly. "No. She didn't have a choice. But the ideal insertion would have been to slip into the Black Widow camp without making any waves."
"That was a long shot."
"With the pressure Taburova's got coming down on him, the effort and expense he's gone to in order to get those weapons — which we still haven't found — Taburova's not got a lot of time to micromanage his operations. It was dumb luck that he was at the pickup tonight. If that was him."
"He should have dropped Ajza right along with Achmed," Jake said. "I would have. She was holding a live grenade and wasn't in my camp."
"Taburova didn't kill Ajza because somewhere inside that black heart of his, he's still a believer. Not a wild-eyed fanatic who likes to wave a weapon around and declare his country's freedom. He cuts corners, kills innocents and takes no prisoners, but that's what everybody does when they're in it to win. Look at us."
"What about us?"
"We're believers, too. The system doesn't work all the time without us. So we're the hard cases the governments can call on to handle the dirty jobs that need doing. Without any glory getting handed out. Without any protection other than what we're smart enough to arrange for ourselves," Kate said.
"I'd like to think we're different than Taburova," Jake said.
"Then think that way. That kind of thinking is what usually separates us from them."
"So what do you think Taburova saw in Ajza? Why didn't he just blow her away?" Jake asked.
"He saw in her the same things he wants to see in himself."
"He has a cause."
"You make him sound like a hero," Kate said, letting a little irritation into her words.
Jake shrugged. "At one time, this guy probably was a hero. No John Wayne, mind you, but a man other men could look up to. But somewhere along the way, he threw away the rulebook." He paused. "No matter what, Kate, you don't send women you've beaten and drugged into submission into cities to blow up civilians. Without freedom to live and grow in large communities, people can't learn to understand, change and compromise. Living in fear won't let them do that. We're here to remove that fear. However we have to. That's what makes us different from Taburova and the other people Room 59 has gone after. We bend, fracture and break rules, but we don't completely throw the rulebook out the door. And we're accountable for our actions."
Kate knew that was true.
"The thing that really bugs you is that if that was Taburova out there on that mountain, he just saved Ajza's life."
"She saved her own life," Kate replied.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." Jake grinned.
The bad people weren't always completely bad. Kate knew that. It was one of the first lessons she'd learned as a young CIA agent. The people she'd gone up against were a lot like her, but just different enough that they were enemies.
"Good guys and bad guys," Jake said. "A lot of times it's like that Red Light, Green Light game we played as kids. It just depends on where you are when the clock stops." He nodded toward the wall screen. "Right now we've got to stop that weapons shipment. And maybe punch Taburova's ticket, too. He's running tho
se Black Widow camps, Kate. There's no getting around that."
"I know."
"What's the Russian guy doing?" Jake asked.
"Prokhorov? He's doing what we always do when we can't think of anything else. He's following the money. He's turned up a lead to someone who's supposed to bring the American weapons into Chechnya."
"Let's hope he finds something quick," Jake said. "Ajza's situation in that Black Widow camp is going to deteriorate pretty quickly."
Kate turned her thoughts back to making the mission work. Luck came, good and bad, and she had to make the most of whichever it was. When agents were in this deep, there were no guarantees they'd get back out again.
37
Moscow
Sergei stood in the shadows of the Hotel Ukrainia and wondered what life would be like if he could afford such a place on a regular basis. Would he change? Or would the world just be more accessible?
Despite the relatively recent conversion to capitalism, Russia was home to more billionaires than any other nation in the world. Many of them had robbed or killed to achieve that success, and they had no problem killing again to protect what they'd amassed. The people who stayed in the Hotel Ukrainia could buy Sergei's death many times over with what they left in tips.
It was a sobering realization, and one that Sergei had not often had to consider. Usually his job kept him active in street crimes among common citizens. At least he understood those criminals and their motivations. They even had similar interests and worries.
But the rich? Sergei blew out a breath.
"Nervous?" Mikhalkov lit a fresh cigarette and let the breeze take away his first lungful of smoke. Despite the lateness of the hour and the fact that they'd been in pursuit of their quarry for so long, the old man looked inexhaustible.
Sergei shifted as he stood outside the car and watched the hotel's front doors. They were impressive, made even more so by the building. At thirty-four stories, Hotel Ukrainia was the tallest hotel in Europe. It was also the second tallest of the Seven Sisters, a name British imigrants gave to select Russian skyscrapers.
"Yes," Sergei admitted. "I am nervous." He thought it was possible the liveried doorman made more in tips every year than his salary.
"So am I."
Surprised, Sergei glanced at the older man.
A grin pulled at Mikhalkov's thin lips. He ran a hand over his face. "You did not suspect that?"
"No, I did not."
Mikhalkov shrugged and returned his gaze to the hotel. "We live in interesting times. Dealing with something like this, we must be very careful. Very dangerous people live in buildings such as this."
"How do you know we are not chasing one of those people now?"
Mikhalkov sucked on his cigarette and expelled a breath. "I do not. I just hope it would not be true." He smiled mirthlessly. "Our job would be even harder, yes?"
"Yes."
A cell phone rang and Mikhalkov pulled it from his pocket. He answered and listened for a moment. Then he said "thank you" and put the phone away like he had just taken a business call. But he dropped his cigarette to the pavement and crushed it underfoot.
"Ulyana is on her way," he said.
* * *
Ulyana Bove strode through the hotel door like a model taking the runway. Everything about the woman, her look and her every move, was designed to turn men's heads. Her blond hair caressed her slim shoulders and a black dress sheathed her perfect figure. Her complexion, pale as milk, warmed briefly when she lit a small black cigar.
A young male valet sprinted for the parking lot as soon as he saw Ulyana emerge. By the time Sergei crossed the street at Mikhalkov's heels, the valet had returned with a midnight-blue sports car that Sergei didn't recognize. He thought the vehicle was British or Italian. It definitely hadn't come from a Russian factory, and it was nothing he'd ever be able to afford.
Ulyana glanced up at Sergei and Mikhalkov as they approached. Casual interest showed on her features when she saw Sergei, then the look hardened when she recognized Mikhalkov.
"I had hoped you had died by now," she said in an icy voice.
"Hardly the greeting one would expect from an old comrade," Mikhalkov protested gently. He smiled, but the effort never reached his eyes.
"I ran out of kind greetings for you the first time you betrayed me."
Mikhalkov looked saddened. "There was a time when you were glad to see me."
"Only because there were worse men in my life."
Looking uncertain, the valet climbed out of the sports car.
"That will be all. Thank you." Mikhalkov crumpled a tip into the young man's hand and gestured him away.
The valet went reluctantly. "Shall I call the police, Miss Bove?"
Mikhalkov flashed his credentials. "I will let you know if any more police are needed. For the moment I think we can handle this in a polite manner," he growled.
The valet left and quickly conferred with the doorman. Sergei figured they only had a few minutes before hotel security stepped into the mix.
"What do you want?" Ulyana asked.
"Why did you claim Emile IvanoVs body from the funeral home?"
Ulyana took a drag on her slim black cigar to buy herself time. Sergei knew the movement was calculated. She never once glanced in his direction, dismissing him out of hand.
"I did no such thing," she stated finally.
Mikhalkov sighed. "I had hoped we could conduct our business without lies."
"As I recall, our business was based on lies. You were never what you claimed to be."
"I do not have time for lies right now, Ulyana. These matters are of grave importance."
"They are your matters. Not mine."
For a moment Mikhalkov was silent. Then, "In some ways, Ulyana, the years have been good to you. You are off the streets now and you ply your wares in buildings such as this with wealthy people."
"And important people," Ulyana said. "Forget that only at your peril. Many of my clients can have you sent to Siberia to finish out your days."
Mikhalkov shrugged. "That is not so easily done as you might believe. And before that happened, I would bring media attention to you and whoever you have been seeing in there."
"You do not know enough to hurt me."
"It would not take me long to find out. You should be grateful I came straight to you, instead of investigating what you were doing. And you need to reconsider your threat."
Ulyana lifted a challenging eyebrow.
"You may find that the clients you're currently servicing would rather lose the service than try to interfere with the police. I'm sure they would also prefer to cut all contact with that service."
Sergei thought Ulyana paled a little, and her hand shook as she drew her cigar to her lips.
"Would you really do that to me?" she asked in an uncertain voice.
"Yes," Mikhalkov answered immediately. "You should not even have to ask that question."
Ulyana frowned. "What do you want?"
"Why did you pick up Emile IvanoVs body, and how was he killed?"
Ulyana shrugged. "He was an acquaintance."
Mikhalkov chuckled. "Not on your worst day."
As if flattered, the woman smiled a little. "You are correct, of course. I went there as a friend."
"To claim the body?"
"Yes."
"How long had you been friends?" Mikhalkov asked.
Ulyana flicked ash from her cigar. "I don't always keep track of such things."
"I've known you for twenty-eight years."
Sergei was caught by surprise. The woman was older than he'd believed.
"You keep up with such things?" Ulyana asked.
"I would never forget meeting you."
"Always with the sweet words." The woman patted Mikhalkov's cheek.
"You," Mikhalkov said, "did not know Emile Ivanov."
Merriment twinkled in the woman's eyes. "No."
"If the police had known who Ivanov was, as you did,
though you identified him by another name…" Mikhalkov paused to let that sink in "…they would have called his wife. So someone called you to go there looking for your husband."
"I hate it when you do these mental gymnastics." Ulyana frowned.
"I have never seen anyone who knew the contents of a man's wallet like you. We each have our gifts. You were asked to claim IvanoVs body under another name."
"Yes." Ulyana waved the admission away with her cigar.
"Who asked you to do such a thing?"
Ulyana stared at Mikhalkov. "I am almost tempted to find out if you would truly turn me over."
Although Mikhalkov never lost the smile, Sergei saw everything change to edged steel within the man. When he spoke, his voice was soft. "You do not want to do that."
"What if I said the man who asked me to do this was dangerous?"
"I knew that from the beginning."
"You know, if I do not tell you his name, I could be protecting us both."
"No. You are only protecting him."
"You never know when to quit, Vasily. That is why you lost your family."
Mikhalkov said nothing. His gaze continued boring into the woman's eyes.
"All right." She sighed. "But I will not testify to what I am about to tell you."
"Of course."
"I would not live long enough. Even this man, I think he works for someone else. He acts afraid for his life."
"Do you know what Ivanov was doing?"
"Some business with Kirinov." Ulyana took a puff from her cigar. "I was told you killed Kirinov."
"I did."
"How did it make you feel?"
Mikhalkov shrugged. "Sad. A little. But I was glad to still be alive."
"There was a lot of bad blood between the two of you. Irina was only the latest thing."
"That is history."
Ulyana smiled. "All of that never gets far from your thoughts. You are Russian, after all. You cannot be you without your guilt and pain."
"I feel less of it these days."
"Good for you."
"I need the man's name," Mikhalkov prompted.
Ulyana hesitated only for a moment more. "Pasternak. Anton Pasternak."