Black Widow (8 page)

"That bit of work sabotaging the weapons without backup impressed me," Kate admitted.

"It impressed me, too. I've already had her files pulled."

"Great minds think alike."

Samantha smiled a little. "I also happen to think that her reaction was risky and far too violent. She was like a bull in a china shop."

"She got the job done."

"And wreaked havoc with the civilians."

"Have you had time to review her file?" Kate asked.

"Not thoroughly. Too many other things have interfered, I'm afraid."

"Manaev had a brother who was also an intelligence agent." Kate brought up the young man's picture.

Ilyas Manaev had dirty-blond hair and blue eyes. Dark stubble on his lower jaw. His mouth looked too wide for his face, and his features were too regular to make him stand out in a crowd. He was almost instantly forgettable. It was a good trait for a field operative.

"Had? "
Samantha repeated.

"Ilyas is dead. He died in Moscow while on a mission."

"Who did he belong to?" Samantha asked.

"MI-6. The same as his sister."

"Family business?"

"No. From what I gather, their parents have no idea about the careers their children chose."

"You don't exactly come home from college and tell your parents you've become a spy. At least, I didn't," Samantha said.

"No." Kate returned Samantha's smile. "There's something in the rules about that." She paused. "The interesting thing is that Ilyas was killed in Moscow a couple of years ago."

"What was he doing there?"

"Spying on the Chechen rebels for MI-6."

Samantha took a measured breath and let it out. "Does Ajza Manaev know this?"

"I find it hard to believe that she wouldn't know," Kate said.

"Who killed her brother?"

Kate shook her head. "I don't have an answer for that one."

"It was either the Russians or the rebels."

"Or someone who was suspicious or jealous of him. Personal lives develop while out in the field, as well," Kate said.

Samantha paused for a long moment. "I don't think you should even entertain the notion of sending Ajza into this."

"I thought you'd feel that way, but she's a good bet, Samantha. Her parents were from Chechnya."

"Only just. They moved to Britain when they were in their early twenties."

Kate didn't miss the fact that Samantha used Ajza's first name. Evidently she'd already developed something of a fondness for the young agent.

"According to the background I'm looking at," Kate said, "Ajza Manaev speaks the language. So did her brother. They know the old ways of the culture."

"Probably one of the reasons MI-6 shoved Ilyas over into Russia."

"Yes."

"If someone made her brother while he was on assignment there," Samantha said, "they could just as easily make Ajza."

"I hope they don't. And we've got an agent in place who should be able to help out. If he's needed. He's spent time in Chechnya as a soldier. He knows the terrain and the people."

"Ajza's young."

"All the best operatives are. You know that. An experienced agent is usually one who's also known to the opposition."

"I know."

That was one of the hard-core truths about espionage. Only the young ones remained truly invisible out on the playing field. Their greatest vulnerability, their inexperience, was also their greatest asset. Unfortunately when the assets no longer helped, that lack of experience got agents killed.

Samantha returned Kate's level gaze with her own. "You want me to bring her in."

"Let's keep an eye on her for a few days," Kate said. "Give her a few days of downtime while I try to find some leverage we can use. Then if the situation warrants, we'll bring her in and see what she has to say."

Samantha nodded. "Let me know when you want me to make contact."

"I'll be in touch." Kate touched the screen and broke the connection.

Turning her attention to her files, Kate ran through the operations Room 59 was currently working on and the ones in development. They were stretched thin.

But we're making a difference, she told herself, and clung to that. She struggled not to think of the young woman and how she'd lost her brother, or the fact that — if everything went as planned — she'd soon be asking her to step into harm's way.

She opened Mayrbek Taburova's file again and stared at the picture of the man. A cold shiver ran up Kate's spine as she studied the blue eyes. They belonged to a predator. She had no doubt about that.

Grozny

When the explosion sounded, Mayrbek Taburova threw himself against the apartment-building wall and reached into his jacket for his pistol. Hunkered against the building, he drew strength from the solid stone. It had stood against such explosions in the past, and there was no reason to believe it would do otherwise in this instance.

Still, Taburova's breathing shortened. He kept his pistol close to his leg, out of sight. He had a number of enemies who wouldn't hesitate to kill him the moment they saw him.

Following the explosion, brief rattles of gunfire crescendoed. Police klaxons immediately splintered the sounds.

Taburova strained his ears and listened to the noise. The explosion hadn't been very far away. The uneasy truce between the Russian occupational army and the Chechen warriors who longed for a country of their own often broke out in bloodshed. One side or the other cleaned up the damage, and together — in that way only — they pretended it hadn't happened. War in the streets cost both sides men and materials.

He glanced back at the bodyguards who followed him. All of them were quiet and self-contained. Like him, they wore street clothes, items that wouldn't draw a second glance. Though they were armed, no weapons were in sight.

"No one near here," one of the bodyguards said.

Taburova replaced his pistol. "That's good. Just make sure no one sneaks up on us."

"We're not going to let that happen," the young soldier said.

Taburova kept moving forward through the shadows. He studied the darkness with his one eye and stayed within the safety of the night's shadows.

Grozny wasn't the city Taburova remembered from his childhood. His father had lived in a village outside Grozny, but he had traveled to the city as work had demanded. Sometimes he had brought Taburova with him.

Those were better times, Taburova thought. Not like the times that stretched before the city and the country now. He stepped cautiously through the debris that filled the alley.

Another explosion sounded, followed immediately by small-arms fire. Taburova kept going.

A few moments later Taburova stood in the bombed-out third-floor room of a gutted apartment building. Looters had claimed what the instant destruction and resulting fire had not. Whatever had remained of the families who had lived in the building were long gone.

He pulled his coat more tightly around him against the night's chill as he stared out across the city. The men with him filled the room nervously. The Russians had marked him for death. They wouldn't hesitate to kill any who were with him. The bodyguards knew that.

Most of Grozny had come back to life over the past few years. Some of the businesses had started staying open late again. They no longer believed their lights marked them as targets.

Taburova blamed Western capitalism. Greed factored into everything in Russia these days. Men and women did everything in pursuit of money. Taburova's father hadn't lived to see the Berlin Wall fall and capitalism drive its eager hands into the guts of the country.

Before, men had worked prescribed shifts and gotten by in a meager existence. Now they worked two and three jobs in order to starve more slowly.

The Chechens in the outlying lands away from so-called civilization lived better. They still managed to thrive off the bounty of the land by hunting and farming.

Give a good Russian a little patch of land, Dmitry Taburova had often said, and he will raise potatoes to feed his family and make cheap vodka. Those things were enough to help a man survive through his sadness. That was the Russian way.

Now they all wanted to be like the Americans and live free like kings. The thought disgusted Taburova. If his people had maintained their honor and dignity, maybe things would have been different.

Below in the street, a rusted Lada Niva of indeterminate color stopped at the corner. Taburova took field glasses from his coat and studied the men inside the vehicle.

The driver calmly smoked while the passenger unfurled a street map. He talked briefly with the driver, who shrugged in response. Then the passenger refolded the map and put it away. He reached into a pack on the seat between them. A moment later his hand gripped a flashlight.

Moving loose and easy, the man slid out of the car. He walked slowly and carefully across the open area. That caution alone was enough to mark him in the night.

Immediately two of Taburova's guards covered the man with sniper rifles. The man halted for a moment and grinned up at the building. He knew he was being watched and didn't care.

Taburova thought the man's behavior was an act. Over the years, Taburova had faced many men carrying weapons. There was no choice at those times except to stare at those carrying rifles or pistols. He'd had to prepare himself to die or break free. He still lived.

A moment later the man stepped into the building. Taburova waited tensely for the sound of gunfire. It didn't come.

"Sir," one of the men called up through the stairwell.

"Yes." Taburova turned to face the stairwell and jammed his hands into his coat pockets. His fist closed around his gun.

"We are ready."

"Bring him." Taburova flipped off the safety.

Boots struck the stairwell.

"Hey, hey," the man protested in accented Russian. He was from Eastern Europe, perhaps Romania. Many Russian soldiers outside Moscow had relocated in those areas. They'd taken their skills, contacts, and a lot of Russian hardware with them. "Keep your hands to yourself. This jacket is Italian. Very expensive."

The man reached the third-floor landing. Plastic cuffs bound his hands behind his back. He was of medium height, overweight and in his early forties. Black curls framed his swarthy face. Despite the ill treatment, he still smiled and acted like he was a prince.

"Mr. Ivanov," Taburova greeted him. Ivanov came to a stop in front of Taburova.

"Not exactly the welcome I was expecting," Ivanov responded, drawing himself up to his full height and trying to look composed while one of the men held a pistol to his temple, "but I can work with this."

"Good," Taburova said. "So can I."

"I have to tell you," Ivanov said, "this kind of behavior isn't going to reduce the price of those weapons you want."

"I know that." Taburova stared at the man. "You and your partner, Pasternak, have remained adamant in that matter."

Ivanov grinned. "It is — how do the Americans put it? — the price of doing business, yes?"

"Yes. But you changed the price of those weapons after our negotiations ended."

The chill in Taburova's words chipped some of the confidence from IvanoVs face. The black-market weapons dealer swallowed hard. "Things have changed."

"No. Only the price."

"We are being fair."

"I disagree."

"The market has changed. The weapons you have offered to buy could be sold somewhere else. You could make a profit simply by turning around and selling them for more than we're charging you."

"I'm not going to do that. Just as I'm not going to agree to this new price."

"That's too bad."

Taburova scowled at the man and reined in his anger. "We had a deal."

"The price increase is only a little. What you want is very expensive to begin with."

"I'm willing to pay a fair price."

Ivanov shrugged expansively. The lines of the expensive Italian jacket automatically fell back into place. "I'm afraid you're going to have to pay our price."

Taburova nodded to the man holding the pistol to the arms dealer's head. Without hesitation, the man shot Ivanov.

A surprised look filled IvanoVs face as the bullet cored through his brain behind his eyes. The dead man dropped to the floor and kicked spasmodically for a short time.

While he waited for the nerve spasms to pass, Taburova plucked IvanoVs phone from inside his jacket and punched in the number he had for Anton Pasternak. The phone rang only once at the other end.

"Emile, did you get the price we wanted from those rebels?" a calm voice asked.

"No," Taburova answered. "We're going to renegotiate the deal."

Pasternak was silent for a brief time. "No, we're not. Our price is fair. We have a profit margin that must be met."

"The nature of your business is that you don't always know your clientele. Unfortunately they often get to know you."

"Put Emile on the phone."

"Your friend can't come to the phone, I'm afraid."

"Then I'm going to hang up and he'll walk away."

"He's not going to walk anywhere." Taburova gestured to the corpse on the floor.

His bodyguards picked up the dead man and carried him to the window. At Taburova's direction, they threw their burden through the window. The corpse toppled silently through the darkness, arms and legs flopping. The body struck the pavement only a few feet from the car. One of the bodyguards tossed a flare toward the ground.

When the flare went off, the bright light scraped the shadows from the body and revealed the dead man lying on the ground. One of his arms was bent impossibly behind him.

"Are you still there?" Taburova asked.

"No," the man whispered. He jerked the car into gear and sped forward, narrowly avoiding his dead business partner.

"I want my weapons," Taburova said. "If I don't have them soon, you're a dead man."

The driver made no reply. The car shot through the narrow streets and banged off a wall in a shower of sparks before it disappeared.

Taburova pocketed the phone.

"Sir," one of the bodyguards said.