Black Widow (28 page)

In her years of deep-cover work, Ajza had never seen anything as dehumanizing as what the men subjected the women to. She struggled not to let their terrible plight get to her. But she wished she had a way to contact the woman who had placed her in the operation. Ajza wanted out, and she wanted the women freed. A raid needed to be staged and the Black Widow camp razed to the ground.

"Aim!" Saleh barked.

Ajza steadied herself automatically, then realized she was aiming at the center of the target and moved to the outside.

"Fire."

Before she pulled the trigger, Ajza closed her eyes and squeezed off the rounds rapidly. She felt the pistol jump in her hands. She let it climb so that she knew the third bullet was well above the target. When she was finished, she laid the weapon on the plank again.

"You are all pathetic," Saleh declared as he marched in front of them and surveyed the targets. "You are supposed to kill the Russians to avenge your husbands. Don't you want to kill Russians?"

The women hung their heads in shame and fear. Saleh was known for his bursts of violence. He walked over to a small woman at the end of the line.

Tears tracked down the woman's face as she struggled with her pistol. The slide had jammed on a partially expelled casing.

"But you are the most pathetic," Saleh declared as he snatched the pistol from the woman's hand. "I have told you again and again that you must have a firm grip on the weapon. If your hands are too relaxed, the weapon will jam. This is a good weapon. You are a bad shooter."

"I am sorry," the woman whispered.

Without warning of any kind, Saleh backhanded the woman in the face and knocked her to the ground. She cried out in pain as she covered her bloody mouth with a shaking hand. Mercilessly Saleh kicked her in the side and drove the breath from her lungs.

Ajza barely restrained herself from interfering. He's not going to kill her, she told herself. If he was going to kill her, he'd already have done it.

"Do not be sorry!" Saleh shouted, looming over the woman. "Sorry does not kill Russians. Shoot better. Hold the weapon firmly. That kills Russians — the murderers of your husbands."

The woman wiped blood from her face and did not look at Saleh. "I will."

"Get up." Saleh turned and walked back to his post. He fisted the AK-47 at his side. "We will do this until you do it right. Load three more rounds. Now."

One of the other men watching the training walked by and deposited three more bullets onto the plank in front of Ajza and the other women. Ajza picked up the rounds and clicked them into the magazine, then slammed the magazine home.

At the end of the line, the beaten woman pushed herself to her feet, then picked up her weapon and loaded it. Blood dripped down her chin from her broken lips as she took her place on the firing line. White knuckles revealed the death grip she had on the weapon.

Saleh watched her closely, but Ajza knew the man watched them all.

"Shoot the targets," Saleh commanded.

Ajza fired once, then twice. She hesitated on the third shot as if taking better aim.

The beaten woman also hesitated. For a moment Ajza thought she was going to turn her weapon on Saleh. After seeing the woman shoot, Ajza doubted she would hit him. Ajza still wasn't certain what she herself was going to do with her third shot, but she felt confident she could kill Saleh.

Then the woman fired all three rounds at the target. All of them went wide and dug holes in the hillside. When she was finished, she placed the pistol on the plank and wept as blood trickled down her chin.

Ajza fired her last round and put her weapon down, as well.

"You still shoot terribly," Saleh announced. "Thank God you will be carrying bombs when you go into battle."

The beaten woman bowed her head as Saleh walked away. "At least then it will be over," she whispered. She wiped blood from her face with a trembling hand. "God, please let it be over quickly."

Moscow

Every day Sergei spent in the safe house seemed like a miracle because he expected to be discovered at any moment. He had no problem believing that safe houses existed within the city. During his investigations, he had located such places, but he knew there were dozens of others he didn't know about. He hoped this was one of those that wouldn't be found.

The small apartment was located in the basement under a dance club. Getting in and out was no problem, and he was generally covered by all the traffic going in and out of the club. During the day, enough pedestrians were on the sidewalks that again it was relatively simple to get lost in the crowd.

In order to find the safe house, someone had to know it was there.

Since his arrival, however, Sergei hadn't left once. He'd sat and watched the news. The story about the attack in the streets involving him had been dropped quickly by the television news. When the reporters couldn't find anything to tie the events to, they had no choice but to move on. There was enough unrest in Russia's satellite countries that no story could stay front and center for long. And the ever-present threat of the Chechen rebels remained.

Even the assassination of Gregor Lovyrev by the Chechens hadn't remained at the top of the news. His death had quickly become just another terrorist statistic.

When he wasn't watching the news, Sergei slept and ate. He felt guilty about lying in hiding when Mikhalkov remained somewhere fighting for his life. The mysterious woman had let Sergei know that the old man still lived and that he was all right.

But Sergei didn't know if that was true. He tried to remain calm about it, but in a way he felt he was to blame for Mikhalkov's injuries. The old man hadn't known everything Sergei had about the investigation. The woman limited contact and information. Sergei had no idea what she was doing, but he knew that someone should be checking up on Kumarin.

Despite having safely slept in the apartment for three nights, Sergei kept a pistol in his hand wherever he was. At night the weapon lay under his pillow. Never in his life had he behaved that way. But then, never in his life had he felt so unsafe. This was different, and in no way as romantic or as exciting as the spy novels he'd read had led him to believe.

The apartment was neatly organized and had a selection of entertainment, from DVDs to music to video games. When he'd seen everything, Sergei had been fascinated. Then he'd realized such things were provided because people who stayed in the safe house had little else to do.

In addition to the fully stocked kitchen and entertainment area, the apartment also had a built-in security system. Pinhole cameras provided views of the hallway outside the door, as well as the nearby streets and alleys. Sergei often checked those, too.

The phone the woman had provided him lay on the computer desk plugged into the charger. No matter what he did, he knew he was really waiting for it to ring.

When the computer pulsed for attention, Sergei muted the television and went to the workstation. He moved the mouse and clicked on the message, then clicked on the video-connection link. The camera atop the computer monitor flickered to show that it was activated. Sergei suspected that he had lived his life in an aquarium the past three days.

As always, the link at the other end of the connection revealed only a solid blue screen. There was nothing to give away anything about the woman. Her voice came through strong and clear.

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

"I am well," Sergei replied, "but restless."

"Feel like getting out?"

The question surprised Sergei into momentary silence. He hadn't expected the onslaught of anxiety that trailed the possibility. "Of course."

"You're about to have a visitor."

A digital image appeared on the monitor. The man in the image had short-cropped black hair and a hard face. It was hard to discern his nationality. A slight scar on his cheek pulled at the right corner of his mouth, giving him a tiny smirk. His eyes were so dark they looked black.

"I do not know him," Sergei said.

"His name is Viktor. You're not supposed to know him. When you're finished with this assignment, you still won't know him. Viktor is there to keep you safe."

"Safe from what?" Sergei asked irritably. "I can keep myself safe." And that is why you have been living in this safe house, he chided himself resentfully.

"Kumarin has trained soldiers working for him. Some of them are Spetsnaz. You need an extra pair of eyes."

Sergei couldn't argue with the logic. He had crossed paths with the Russian special-forces soldiers in the past while working domestic disturbances. Thankfully there had been only one Spetsnaz at a time and they hadn't been trying to kill him.

"Where is Viktor from?" he asked.

"It doesn't matter," the woman replied. "He's good at his job."

Sergei couldn't help wondering if the woman thought he was not good at keeping himself alive. He wanted to point out that he'd survived this long.

"I need you to watch Kumarin," she said.

"Spy on him?"

"Yes."

"Don't you have people who can do this?"

"You're a member of the FSB. You're familiar with the players who surround Kumarin. If he decides to go to ground somewhere..."

"What do you mean, go to ground?" Sometimes the American language was confusing to Sergei. He imagined Kumarin throwing himself on the ground and supposed that wasn't what the woman was talking about.

"In case Kumarin decides to hide," the woman said, "you'll have a better chance of finding him."

"General Kumarin is not a man who hides," Sergei said. "He has a reputation for standing up to adversity."

"Except when he's certain he's going to get crushed or if he knows he doesn't voice the popular view. I've done research on him, and I've read his psychological profile."

Sergei nodded and filed away that tidbit, as well. Obviously the woman had a lot of resources at her fingertips.

"A lot of pressure is coming to bear in the matter. The man Kumarin is dealing with isn't known for his patience."

That caught Sergei's attention immediately. "You know who it is?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"When the time comes, I'll let you know."

Irritation flared within Sergei again. He didn't like information being kept from him. However, he knew the woman wouldn't tell him until she was ready to.

"How is Vasily?"

"Recovering. Doing surprisingly well, I'm told."

Sergei felt immediately relieved.

"It will be some time before he's up and around," the woman went on, "but the doctors think he will make a full recovery."

"That's good." Sergei glanced at the muted television. "I have been thinking it might be a good idea if we increase pressure on Kumarin." It was something Mikhalkov would have done and Sergei felt pleased with himself for thinking of the tactic.

"You have something in mind?"

"Yes."

Sergei pulled up the files the woman had sent him. The two men who had entered the hospital to kill Sergei and Mikhalkov had been identified. The driver Sergei had killed had also been identified. Knowing the man's name and that he had family made his death weigh more heavily on Sergei's mind. Nightmares had haunted his sleep, replaying his assassination of the man — no other word truly fit — over and over.

"Russian media has not identified the men who came to the hospital," Sergei said. "You say they are Spetsnaz."

"They are. Kumarin probably expunged the records of those men."

"I know. But I'm thinking those men should be identified in the Russian media. Especially their ties to Kumarin."

The woman hesitated. "Getting information to the Russian media can be problematic."

"I can do this."

"Not all these news services would be willing to publish or broadcast news like this. You'll be drawing a lot of attention to yourself."

"If I went through conventional routes, true, but there are independent news services — watchdogs, if you will — that broadcast news over the Internet." Sergei had been surprised by how many of them Mikhalkov had known, and surprised even further by how much those independent reporters had known and were willing to risk. "They look for things like this. The broadcasts might only be small at first, but perhaps a larger television station will pick it up. The new Russia loves conspiracies almost as much as the West. Either way, Kumarin monitors such things."

"That's a good idea," the woman said. "How soon can you do it?"

"An hour or two after I am away from this place." Sergei was amused and irritated at how protective he was of his hiding place.

"All right."

Movement showed in one of the security monitors as a warning buzz echoed through the apartment. A man approached the door and stood waiting.

"It appears I have company," Sergei said.

"That's Viktor," the woman responded.

"If you say so." Despite the woman's confirmation, Sergei slid his pistol into his lap so smoothly he was sure she did not notice.

A knock sounded at the door.

Sergei got up and answered the door while keeping the pistol — safety off — tucked behind his thigh. The man in the hall made no effort to step inside. He wore a black turtleneck and black slacks, heavy black boots and snug, black gloves. His dark hair was cut short and combed forward, forming a widow's peak above two sharp eyebrows. He could have been forty or fifty. His gray eyes regarded Sergei flatly.

"I am Viktor," the man said in a well-modulated voice. He spoke Russian. His face held no emotion. "Are you going to invite me in?"

For a moment Sergei thought of vampires, recalling that they couldn't cross the threshold of a home unless they'd been invited. If the hallway had been dark and he had arrived at night, Sergei knew he would have been even more reluctant to let the man in.

"Please come in." Sergei swung the door wide and stepped back.

Viktor walked into the room, moving smoothly, as though he was on ball bearings. "Hello."

"Hello, Viktor," the woman said. "There's been a slight change in the agenda, but nothing that should offer any complications."