Cliff Ryder Black Widow

The sixth book in the Room 59 series

Prologue

Moscow

"I don't want you to die because of me," he pleaded.

Maaret looked at her husband through tears as they stood in the cold wind that whipped through Patriarshiye Ponds. His plea touched her heart and she saw the pain in his blue eyes. He was so young, so full of life and joy despite the darkness and fear that stained his soul. She didn't know how she had missed seeing those other things. But she'd been so much in love with him that she had only seen the good.

The thing that hurt the most was how much she still loved him.

He wasn't Russian except by blood, but he should have been. In addition to the light eyes, he had soft blond hair that always managed to look unkempt. More than the looks, though, guilt and despair filled him. Those things made him truly Russian.

As she looked at him, her cheeks numb in the freezing temperature, Maaret wondered if his soul had been as tortured before he had come to her country, lied to her and fathered their child.

Unconsciously Maaret ran a hand over her swollen stomach. That the child should die was the most hurtful thing of all. She had created her baby with the love she had for her husband.

"Please, Maaret," he whispered just strongly enough to be heard above the wind. "Please forget this madness and come away with me."

She smiled sadly and touched his lips with her cold fingers. Even with her glove off, she no longer felt his flesh beneath her. The distance she felt from him scared her, and that distance grew with each gray breath.

"No," she said simply. "It is too late."

"It isn't too late." His stubbornness overrode the fear. "I can save you from this." His hand touched her stomach, then slid to the belt of explosives she wore around her hips.

"It is too late," she insisted. She took his hand in hers. "They watch us even now."

He shook his head. At times, he was so like a child. She thought, even then as she faced her death, that he would have made a wonderful father.

If he had stayed.

And if he had stayed and been found out, he would have been killed.

People passed them as they stood there. Older couples gave them knowing smiles, undoubtedly thinking that this was a spat between a young husband and wife. Those people didn't have many concerns. They lived in an affluent part of Moscow where the night was held back by bright lights and fences protected the pond and the tall apartment buildings. Snow dusted the boughs of the mighty pine and spruce frees, and swirled between the naked branches of tall oaks.

In addition to wealthy Russians, Americans and Europeans lived there, as well. That was why the area had been targeted.

"I…I…" Her husband's voice broke, and his obvious pain and confusion and desperation fueled her own. "I can fix this, Maaret. I swear."

She knew, though, that his promise was hollow. He had masters and allegiances just as she had. Neither of them could escape their fates.

"You can't," she told him.

"There must be a way."

"No." She shook her head. "They have found you out, my love. They know what you truly are."

The tears that tracked his face glistened like diamonds in the streetlights. Like a child, he wiped them away with his sleeve. Then he glared across the walkway that wound through the residential area. A few of the nearby windows held Christmas ornaments and lights.

"Are they here?" he asked hoarsely.

"I don't know," Maaret said.

"Did Taburova bring you here?"

"Yes."

Her husband seized her arms. "Maaret, please listen to me. I have friends."

She knew he had friends. They posed danger to him and to her. And to the child.

"I can take you from here," he said.

Here wasn't Moscow. This was the first time she'd ever been to Moscow. Her country lay to the north. It was all she'd ever known. She'd been born in a small house there, and she'd always believed she would be buried in one of the small graveyards.

"I don't want to leave my home," she told him. "When you married me, you promised you wouldn't take me from my home."

"I love you, Maaret. I would have promised you anything."

"So you lied?"

He flinched painfully at her words, but still clung to her. He no longer met her gaze.

"I did what I had to," he whispered.

"You didn't have to marry me. You didn't have to father our child. All you had to do was inform your masters about the heroes of my country and their efforts to free us from the Russian dictators."

"It's not like that." His protest sounded weak.

"Then why spy in my homeland? Surely you could have found other women in…" Maaret faltered because she suddenly realized she didn't even know what country her husband was from. Everything about him had been a fabrication, a dream that continued to evade her.

He held her at arm's length and gazed into her eyes. "I love you, Maaret. And I love our child. I want us to be together. I want us to be happy."

She believed him. God help her, she believed him. The weight of the explosives strapped to her body suddenly felt like concrete blocks. They crushed her. And they threatened her baby. She felt him — she'd never doubted the sex of her unborn child — move within her. He shifted, as restless as his father.

"You must go," she told him. "This is not a safe place." She breathed the cold air into herself and turned her body and her heart numb. She pushed him away.

"No, Maaret," he said more forcefully. "I won't allow you to do this."

"You won't allow me?" Maaret's anger stabbed through her. The child within her moved again. She swept her arms against his and broke his hold on her. If only his hold on her heart broke so easily.

"I am your husband," he told her.

"You are a liar!" Her viciousness amazed her.

"I love you. I never lied about that."

Maaret saw the knife in his hand too late. Even then, she didn't fear him, only what he meant to do. He leaned in and kissed her. She wanted to slap him and push him off her. Instead, she took his face in her hands and returned the kiss with a hunger only he caused within her.

It wasn't until he drew away that she realized the weight of the explosives had vanished. He held the six packages of plastic explosives — Semtex — still strung on the belt, but the belt was severed.

"No!" Maaret gasped. She fumbled in her coat pocket for the detonator Taburova had provided her when he'd strapped the explosives on her. "You can't!"

Her hand searched her empty pocket.

He opened his fingers and showed her the detonator. He'd stolen it without her knowledge.

"You can't do this!" she shouted loudly enough to draw the attention of passersby.

"I can't let you die, Maaret. Nor can I let my child die." His face was grim. "Taburova and the others are homicidal hate-mongers. They're not the patriotic heroes you believe them to be."

Maaret lunged for the explosives.

He pulled them away easily.

"I'm not doing this for them," she pleaded. "I'm doing it for me. And for our child. If I die striking back at our enemies, all my sins will be washed away. Our child will die, but he will be reborn without sin."

"Our child," he said, "is already without sin. And I want his mother to live because I love her more than my life."

He turned and ran through the falling snow, threading through the bystanders and passersby. Some of them saw the belt of explosives dangling from his hand, but none of them recognized them.

Maaret tried to pursue him, but the new snow made the footing treacherous. She skidded and slipped, and finally realized she couldn't catch him.

He fled without a backward look, intending to reach the pond only a few feet away. He halted at the fence and drew the belt back to throw.

The explosion was devastating.

The concussive force slammed into Maaret and knocked her off her feet. Her first thought was the baby. It took so little to trigger a miscarriage. She'd been surprised that the stress of the past few days hadn't triggered an end to her pregnancy.

Deafened by the blast and temporarily blinded by the light, Maaret rolled over and pushed herself to her feet. She stood, finally, and swayed as she looked at where she'd last seen her husband.

The fence leaned precariously and powder burns stained the snow black. One of the massive pines lay broken and leaning against the side of an apartment building. Many windows stood empty of glass, and tattered curtains shifted in the breeze. Pedestrians who'd survived the blast climbed back to their feet. Several people remained down, and more than one twisted, bloodied body offered mute testimony of death and severe injury.

Screams penetrated the cottony pressure in Maaret's ears. Warmth covered her right cheek. When she touched her face, her fingers came away stained crimson.

Blood, she realized. But it wasn't hers. It was his.

Maaret joined in the screaming. Earlier, when she'd accepted her own death and that of her son, she had known she would never see her husband again. But she hadn't planned on being alive to have to deal with that.

Instead, he was gone.

She stumbled toward the blast area. She was the only one who walked in that direction. All the others fled, running and limping away as quickly as they could.

"Maaret."

The man's cold, hard voice came from behind her. She didn't turn because she didn't wish to deal with his harsh remonstrations. It wasn't her fault that her husband had come there. He could only have found her through the man who called her name now. She'd been the bait in a malicious trap.

A powerful grip seized her left upper arm. "Maaret."

She faced him then because she had no choice.

Mayrbek Taburova glared at her with his one good blue eye. His other eye, the right one, was covered by a black leather patch. Fine scars showed around the edges of it. His curly black hair peeked from beneath his wool cap. Powdered snow clung to his fierce goatee. He was in his forties, more than twice her age.

"Come with me, child," he ordered.

"I failed," she said.

Amazingly he smiled at her. "No," he said, "you didn't. This was as it was meant to be. His sacrifice was given in love. Your sins, and those of your child, have been cleansed."

Maaret was dumbfounded for a moment, then she realized Taburova thought her husband had detonated the explosives on purpose. She knew better than that, though. He would not have killed himself, and he would not have killed the others who lay unmoving on the ground. That wasn't his way.

"Come," Taburova said. He pulled gently on her arm.

Numb to the cold and the horror around her, Maaret went. She glanced over her shoulder at the blackened spot that stained the ground by the pond. The falling snow worked to knit a fresh white blanket to cover the damage, the mangled bodies that lay scattered over the area.

If not for her husband, Maaret knew she would have walked into one of the apartment buildings and set off the explosives she had worn. The damage and the death toll would have been much worse. The man who had outfitted her with the explosives had told her how much destruction the explosion would cause, as if she should take joy in that knowledge.

She hadn't.

And she hadn't thought of the lives she would have ended. If she'd done that, she wouldn't have been able to carry the explosives into the building. Children lived there, as well, though she'd been told the apartments she was supposed to target were dwellings without children.

Maybe it was the truth.

She'd gotten to the point where she no longer recognized the truth.

"You did well, Maaret," Taburova said as he quickly guided her through the alleys. "I'm very proud of you."

Maaret said nothing. She covered her bulging belly with her free hand to protect her child, but she knew she would never possess the power to completely protect him. She wept for her child, for her dead husband, and for herself.

1

Istanbul, Turkey

"Get up!"

Ajza Manaev woke instantly at the command but too late to avoid the slap to the back of her head. She recognized Fikret's growl as her hand closed on the 9 mm Tokarev pistol under her pillow. Her natural anger suited the role she currently played, so she let the emotion take her.

Fikret obviously expected her to react to his rude awakening. He tightened a fist in her hair and tried to control her.

Ignoring the blazing pain at the back of her scalp, Ajza twisted in the small bed and rammed the pistol into Fikret's underarm. She twisted and raked the sight across the nerves clustered there.

With a squall of pain, Fikret released his hold and stepped back. He was a bear of a man, thick and heavy with fat, but incredibly strong. A thick mustache bisected his round face. Stubble covered his cheeks.

He cursed at her as he yanked his jacket and shirt back to check his armpit for a wound of some kind.

"I ought to kill you!" he screamed. He released his jacket and shirt, and turned his gaze back to Ajza. His huge hand drew back automatically to deliver a blow.

Ajza held the pistol in both hands and aimed it squarely between Fikret's eyes. "Touch me again," she told him coldly, "and I'll kill you."

"I tried to wake you," he protested. "You wouldn't wake."

"I always wake," Ajza said. "You only tried to wake me once. Then you hit me. If we didn't need you today, I would kill you for that alone."

Fikret lowered his hand and looked over his shoulder at the other men in the small apartment. "Tell her," he exhorted. "Tell her that I tried to wake her. Tell her that she is hard to wake."

Nazmi shoved his foot into a worn work boot and laced it. He was young and lean. Long black hair grazed his shoulders, shoulders that bore tattoos of American rock bands.

"She'd didn't look that hard to wake, Fikret," Nazmi said with a big grin. "You told her to wake at about the same time you hit her. She woke pretty fast and offered to kill you." He shrugged. "If she was hard to wake, I think you would have gotten out of the way in time."

Fikret scowled and jabbed a big finger in Nazmi's direction. "Maybe I should kick your ass, too, you young pup."

A knife appeared in Nazmi's hands like magic. An easy smile framed his face. "Anytime you wish to try, you fat oaf, you are most welcome."

Ajza watched the exchange with a wary eye. The animosity between Fikret and Nazmi had existed from the beginning. In fact, most of the team avoided the big man because he struck quickly with verbal abuse and with his hands. This morning was the first day he'd tried that with her.

"Get away from my bed," Ajza ordered.

Fikret scowled. "This is a very small room."

"Then go outside."

Angrily Fikret stomped outside.

"I don't think you made him very happy." Nazmi reached for his other boot.

"I'm not getting paid to do that." Ajza sat on the bed and watched the others getting ready. The fact that so much activity going on hadn't woken her surprised her. In a way, Fikret had been right. She had been hard to wake.

You've pushed this operation too long, she told herself. You should have been pulled a month ago.

But every time they'd gotten ready to retrieve her from the field, one more piece of the puzzle dropped into place. That slow trickle of crucial information had been the most exasperating of all.

If not for the cloud of doubt clinging to Ilyas's death…

Resolutely, as she had done for two years, Ajza pushed away her pain and confusion over her younger brother's death. Those feelings proved hard to bear. She missed Ilyas. Whenever she spent time at home with their parents, she felt the gaping hole left by his death.

"I think of making Fikret angry as a bonus," Nazmi told her. "I'm just glad they're not charging me for the privilege."

Ajza looked at the younger man. At twenty-nine, though they thought her younger, she felt like the old person among them.

"Is this for real?" she asked. "Or is this another false alarm?"

Nazmi shrugged and smiled. "I don't know."

"I hate getting up early when there's no reason."

"But you miss so much of the day when you sleep late." Nazmi stood and stomped his work boots into a better fit. "I will make you a deal. If this is another false alarm, I will buy you breakfast at the market. Okay?"

The crush Nazmi had on her had been apparent from the start. Given another time and place, Ajza might have let the attraction between them develop. Still, having a friend to cover her back when the bullets started flying was a good thing.

"All right," she said.

Nazmi gazed at her. "Aren't you going to get dressed?"

Ajza got out of bed with the Tokarev in her hand. She wore sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt. "Not in here," she said.

"Get dressed in here and I will buy you two breakfasts," Nazmi suggested. He made no move to get out of her way.

"Maybe I will shoot you in the head and take your money, then buy myself as many breakfasts as I want." Ajza smiled sweetly as she looked up at him.

"You know," Nazmi said, "I almost think you would do such a thing."

Ajza knew that he had no idea of what she had done in the past or was prepared to do now.

"You know that Mustafa doesn't like to be kept waiting," Nazmi said.

"Tell him to leave. I'll catch up." Ajza pushed Nazmi aside and went to the bathroom.

Inside the small bathroom with the rust-coated shower and toilet, she turned on the water and undressed. Then she knelt, reached behind the toilet and pressed a section of the wall. The section slid away and she took out the micro-miniature burst transmitter.

"This is Calico," she said quickly, in a voice that — thanks to the running water — couldn't be heard outside the thin walls of the room. "The meeting is on."

She pressed send and watched as the transmitter encrypted the message, compressed it and beamed it in a split second. Somewhere in England's MI-6 offices, someone should receive the message.

If they didn't, she knew she might be dead within the next hour with no one the wiser.

Just like her brother.

2

New York City

"Does he follow you everywhere?"

Kate Cochran looked at her companion and smiled. "Are you referring to my bodyguard?"

"I am," Gunter Hirschvogel admitted. He claimed to be in his late forties, but Kate knew from his file that he was in his early sixties. However, trim and fit as he was, tanned and dark-haired, he got away with the lie almost effortlessly.

His suit was handmade Italian. The plastic surgery didn't show except for a little around the eyes, which no one would have faulted him for. Eyes were important. Especially for someone who'd made their wealth by getting other people to trust him.

"He goes with me most places," Kate responded. She knew she looked elegant in her dark blue evening gown. Her wrap pulled everything together, and she'd turned heads most of the night. That had been enjoyable.

"When we get to my apartment," Hirschvogel said, "where will he be then?"

"Comfortable, I hope," Kate answered.

Hirschvogel laughed. "Perhaps we could send him down to the bar."

Kate looked over her shoulder at Jacob Marrs, the man they were discussing. "I don't think he'd like being that far away from me. He takes his job very seriously."

"I don't see how any man would want to be far from you," Hirschvogel said.

"Thank you," Kate said as if flattered by the comment. Only the years of doing espionage work in the field kept her in character. She detested men like Hirschvogel.

"However, I do have another possible solution." Hirschvogel removed his electronic keycard from inside his jacket. "Perhaps we could put him with my security people."

Kate glanced back at the two men who had accompanied Hirschvogel to the museum earlier. Older than Jake, both wore cruelty and dispassion like armor.

"It's a shame one of us doesn't have another bodyguard," Kate said. "Then they'd have a fourth for bridge."

"Actually, I have a houseman." Hirschvogel opened the door, stepped inside and waved toward another man standing just inside the apartment foyer.

Kate cursed silently. Events could get very dicey in the apartment. If Hirschvogel found out who she was, and who and what she represented, he would probably try to kill her.

"Good evening, Mr. Hirshvogel." The houseman was in his late forties. No emotion showed in his pale blue eyes. "Good evening, miss." He didn't offer to take her wrap or his employer's coat. That would have slowed his reflexes and filled his hands.

"I have him," the calm voice of Kate's support technician reported. "Friedrich Moews. This guy's a killer, Kate."

The transmission came from the receiver/transmitter built into Kate's left earring. It was state-of-the-art, complete with encryption encoding. Agents had wired a repeater inside the building earlier that afternoon. The delicate necklace at the hollow of her throat held a wireless camera.

Jake wore an earring that made him privy to the same communications stream Kate received. The top button on his jacket concealed a tiny camera.

Kate tapped her bracelet once for yes to let everyone know she'd heard the message. When switched on, the bracelet doubled as a Morse-code key and held a wide-angle lens for scanning documents and transmitting via wireless Internet.

Hirschvogel turned to Jake. "While I'm entertaining Ms. Danvers, perhaps you'd like to spend your time with my security staff."

Jake shifted his gaze to Kate and lifted an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Go," Kate said. "Enjoy yourself. If I need anything, you'll know."

"She won't need anything I can't give her," Hirschvogel said lasciviously.

"Wow," tech support said. "Is this guy confident or what?"

Only Kate noticed the twitch of Jake's lips that betrayed a stillborn grin. He nodded and followed the other men through another doorway.

"You have a big apartment," Kate said appreciatively as Hirschvogel led her into the living room, with its obviously expensive furniture and artwork. A large plasma-screen television hung inert on the wall.

"I have forty-five hundred square feet," Hirschvogel bragged as he took her elbow and walked her to the wet bar in the corner. "Would you like wine?" He pulled open a door. "I have a selection."

"White, please. I'll trust your judgment." Kate left his side and wandered around the big room. She tried to map the apartment's interior in her mind. There was a master bedroom and two smaller bedrooms to house the security guards. In addition to the four in the apartment now, Hirschvogel had four others who worked rotating shifts to give himself a constant human shield.

Hirschvogel poured wine and brought a glass to her.

With a twist of her wrist, Kate tapped her bracelet, sending out a string of Morse code to Jake. They were up against the clock. Events were already in motion in Istanbul, and if they didn't find the information they needed, a lot of people were going to be dead within the hour.

"So," Hirschvogel said smoothly, "what line of business are you in?"

Kate smiled at him. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

Hirschvogel guffawed. "You're a fan of spy movies?"

"Somewhat," Kate admitted. She looked at Hirschvogel.

Suddenly gunfire cracked in the other room. He started to go forward, but stopped immediately when Kate reached under her dress and pulled out the small, two-shot derringer she'd holstered to her thigh. At first his attention was caught by the expanse of thigh she flashed, but then he quickly focused on the pistol in her fist.

"Don't move," she told him as she aimed at the center of his chest.

3

London, England

Samantha Rhys-Jones pulled her Jaguar XKE to a stop in front of the office building and looked around. The neighborhood was an old one, but it had been given several face-lifts since it had first been built. The unadorned buildings stood like regimental soldiers.

Back in its heyday, Fleet Street served as home to London's journalists. These days law offices, temp agencies and pubs that serviced the needs of both populated the area.

Comings and goings at all hours of the day kept the neighborhood busy. That alone proved sufficient reason to choose the neighborhood for the meet.

Headlights flashed at the end of the street as a decrepit cargo van rounded the corner and came toward her. With her eyes on the van, Samantha pressed a hidden release on the console between the seats. A panel popped open to reveal a Walther P99 chambered in .40 caliber. She favored the weapon because it was easy to conceal, fit her hands well and had good knock-down power.

She took the gun from its hiding place and placed it in her lap. Despite her experience, she found her heart rate elevated and her mouth dry. She was nervous, but not panicked.

"Indigo," tech support called over the earwig she wore.

"Yes," Samantha said calmly.

"Clockwork has a visual on you."

The van flashed its lights on and off.

"Understood," Samantha said. "I'll talk to you again once we're inside." She dropped the Walther into her coat pocket and switched off the Jaguar's engine. Then she climbed out to meet the van's occupants.

Five of them got out of the vehicle — three women and two men. The mix surprised Samantha, but not the age. All of them were in their early twenties. They wore gray coveralls with RALEIGH'S CLEANERS stenciled across the back.

One of the women placed thin magnetic signs on the sides of the van while one of the men changed the front and back license plates. For the next few minutes, any police check on the licensed van of a cleaning service by that name would exist, complete with work history and referrals.

Shortly after that, the computer files and the magnetic signs would disappear as if they'd never existed.

"Hey," a lanky Indian youth with long black hair and a goatee greeted her.

"Hey," Samantha said. She recognized him because she'd worked with him before, but she didn't remember his name. Of course, there was always the possibility he'd never given it. She never gave hers. "New crew?"

He nodded and grinned, flashing white teeth. "Breakin' 'em in. Don't worry. We'll take good care of you." He fished equipment cases from the van's cargo area.

"Do you need help with anything?"

"The door," the guy said. "You get that, we've got the rest of this."

"Your security card is set to run," tech support said.

Samantha walked to the back of the Jaguar and opened the trunk. A hidden compartment held a wireless Internet-equipped magnetic strip printer. She took a security card from her pocket and ran it through the slot.

"You're good to go," tech support said.

Samantha walked to the door. Dressed in slacks, a plain blouse and her trench coat, she looked like a barrister rousted out of bed to handle a client who'd called from jail.

She glanced at the "cleaning" crew. All of them stood with cases in hand.

Samantha swiped the key card through the reader on the door. A second later the lock released. She opened the door and went through the dimly lit hallway. Although the building had been refurbished with new paint and new carpet, the dimensions remained as confining as they had two hundred years ago. There was only room for one person at a time up the stairs.

It would not be, she reflected, a good place to get caught.

"Indigo," Kate Cochran said.

"Yes." Samantha slid the card through the next security checkpoint. She breathed a little easier when the lock opened.

"We're secure."

Samantha knew that meant Kate had control of Hirschvogel in New York. "Understood. But I still don't like the idea of your involvement."

"Duly noted," Kate replied.

Kate's permanently unruffled demeanor irritated Samantha slightly. Kate appeared always calm, cool and collected. But that was also why she was director of Room 59. That, and the fact that when it came to it, she didn't hesitate to get her hands bloody. Even when the blood was that of their agents.

"If there'd been another way to crack this," Kate went on, "I would have been all for it. There wasn't. I was the best call."

"I still don't have to like it."

"It's your op. You know I'll always help out in whatever capacity I can. And I told you I'd cover this leg of the mission."

"Not till it was impossible to find anyone else to do it."

"No one could have done this as easily as I did."

"Ego much?" Samantha asked, and she was only halfway teasing.

"Confident," Kate countered.

* * *

A security camera mounted on the wall ahead tracked back to Samantha. "Support, did we know about the on-site video security?" she asked.

"We now own the on-site video security," the woman replied. "Wave at the camera and I'll get you some prints ready for Christmas cards. This the season for breaking and entering."

Samantha smiled. "Brilliant," she said sarcastically.

"I can do them up nice. Santa and his little elves standing in the background."

"I'll pass." Samantha waved at the video camera. She slid the card through the next reader and entered the foyer on the fourth floor.

She walked quickly to the third office on the left. The card got her through that door, as well, and they entered a conference room.

"All right, people," the young computer wizard said as he put the cases he carried on the big table. "Let's get clandestine." He cracked his knuckles theatrically.

As Samantha watched, the five techs quickly assembled a mission-control station made up of various computers, monitors and miniature satellite receivers. Tech support monitored the communications, but they were going live on the mission they were currently involved in. Once they had all the satellite links in place, Room 59 would be operational.

The designation Room 59 described the virtual command post that could be set up anywhere. Once it was live, it pulled in significant espionage satellite links that could be traced back by various international intelligence agencies. MI-6, the British watchdog of the international scene, would immediately begin sniffing them out. So would MI-5, their domestic equivalent.

Other international spy groups, if interested in what took place in Istanbul at the moment, would also try to find them if they were noticed. Every time Room 59 was alive and active, it could be a cat-and-mouse game. Not all of the international community was willing to let the personnel and invisible agents of the clandestine espionage group operate unchallenged.

"Have you asked your guest about the business taking place in the target area?" Samantha asked Kate.

"No. I've been waiting to get confirmation of a green light."

Samantha silently agreed. There was no reason to make Hirschvogel aware that they knew about his operations. If their campaign didn't pan out, they didn't want to give away their source of information or interest.

"I'll let you know the minute we're green," Samantha said. "How bad is the situation there?"

"We're intact," Kate said, "but there are three losses."

Meaning that Jacob Marrs had killed the three security men. When it came to protecting Kate, Samantha knew Jake never hesitated.

"Will you need cleanup there?"

"Negative. Our guest is used to cleaning up after himself, and he'll be properly motivated to do a good job of it."

Okay, that was a point in their favor. Now if everything happened correctly in Istanbul, it was going to be a good evening's work.

4

Istanbul

Ajza sat in the back seat of the cargo van and tried not to look nervous. She thought about the cargo they planned to pick up and how cruelly Turkish laws dealt with criminals regarding drugs. Considering the fact that she was more or less on her own — except for the exfiltration team she hadn't talked to in weeks — she thought she was holding up pretty well.

As it had been for hundreds of years, the marketplace was a gathering place for merchants, local buyers and tourists. Only a few of the tourists walked through the aisles, along with those in search of early-morning bargains. Mostly the hawkers and buskers pursued the regular customers, people who'd come to market early to buy fresh vegetables for meals.

Ajza loved the Anatolian side of Istanbul. The city stood proudly, the only one in the world to straddle two continents. As a result, throughout history, armies and peacemakers of the East and the West met there to do battle and to reach trade agreements.

The Bosphorus Strait cut the city in two. The brown water flowed into the green Sea of Marmara in the harbor — not far from the prearranged meeting place. Fishermen already plied the waters, their sails brave and full against the azure sky. Motorboats filled the immediate vicinity with noise.

Bookshops and antique dealers butted up against coffeehouses and cinemas, the constant mix of the old and the new that shaped the city. At least this side of it.

When she'd had time on her own, which hadn't been often, Ajza loved roaming through the bookstores. Spying in the field was lonely work. Reading helped pass the time and occupy the mind so it didn't constantly dredge up everything that could go wrong.

Besides that, bookstores often held gems of information, lost books and maps that had histories and locations within whatever city she was posted. These had, on rare occasions, helped her keep her cover story intact and saved her life.

"Are you thinking about breakfast?" Nazmi asked.

She didn't look at him. She'd already given him far too much encouragement. Getting close to someone, especially someone she might have to kill or who might try to kill her, was foolish. She'd already been down that road once and it hadn't worked out well.

"No," she answered.

"Then what?" Nazmi demanded. "You're not worried, are you?"

"Should I be?"

"No." Nazmi put a hand on the stock of the AK-47 assault rifle he carried. "We're here for show. Just to keep the honest men honest." He shrugged. "When you're dealing with drugs, the people involved aren't always trustworthy."

Ajza knew that. Spies working for money or for political conviction proved much easier to work with than drug dealers. The drug dealers lived on paranoia and killed at the drop of a hat. The only reason spies and terrorists dealt with those people was because the commodity they sold translated more readily into influence across international borders than cash or gold. Drugs represented money in any currency.

"I know," Ajza said. The feeling that something was off haunted her. "We've never made an early-morning pickup like this."

Nazmi shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe these people came in during the night and haven't been to bed yet."

That, Ajza decided, seemed even worse. Paranoia and insomnia wasn't a good combination.

"Here comes Mustafa." Nazmi nodded at the leader of the group Ajza had infiltrated.

Mustafa was broad and powerful-looking. Early in his life, he'd been a stevedore, one of the young, strong backs that eked out a living shifting freight for the cargo ships. His mustache was fierce. His loose shirt hid the pistol he carried in his waistband. He also carried a briefcase that Ajza knew immediately was going to the drug dealers.

"Out of the van," Mustafa ordered. He rapped the knuckles of one hand against the glass beside Ajza. "Stay ready."

Watching the man, Ajza decided he was more ready for the coming encounter than in his previous calls to action. He walked briskly to the designated meeting area. Anyone watching him would think he didn't have a care in the world.

Nazmi placed the assault rifle into a long duffel bag that he slung over one shoulder as he stood. Although the canvas material was heavy, Nazmi could get to his weapon in record time. Slits in the sides allowed him to reach inside and fire the rifle from within if he needed to.

Ajza shoved her pistol into the holster at the back of her waistband. Then she followed Nazmi and the other men out. All of them trailed Mustafa to a waiting delivery truck.

A group of men stood in front of the truck. They wore loose robes that concealed the weapons Ajza knew they carried. All of them looked hard and dangerous, covered in scars and made distrustful by the dangerous lives they led.

"Mustafa," one of the men greeted. He was thin and pockmarked.

Ajza's mental mug file identified the man before Mustafa gave voice to his name.

"Hasan, my good friend," Mustafa replied.

The two men embraced, then walked together to take shade under the canopy of a jewelry merchant busy laying out his wares. The merchant seemed about to protest the use of his canopy. Then he looked at the men and decided to ignore them.

Ajza's nerves stayed tight. The problem with meeting in the marketplace was that there were so many bystanders. She adjusted the sunglasses she wore and looked at the rooftops of the nearby buildings. Surely MI-6 had someone there.

But she saw no one.

"You had a safe journey?" Mustafa asked Hasan.

Ajza knew he wasn't asking just to be polite or to make conversation. If authorities had taken an interest in Hasan, Mustafa wanted to know about it.

"Safe enough," Hasan replied. "The trip was relatively uneventful."

"Oh?" Mustafa raised his eyebrows. "Tell me more."

Hasan shrugged and spat into the sand at their feet. "A thief in my house. Nothing more." He grinned evilly. "He now sleeps at the bottom of the sea. I am a man of standards, you know."

And a bloodthirsty one, Ajza remembered. MI-6 kept a thick file on Hasan but had never succeeded in getting close enough to him to take him out.

With snipers on the rooftops today, she thought, it could be done.

"You have the goods?" Mustafa asked.

Hasan spread his arms. "Of course. If you have the money."

Mustafa gestured. Fikret and another man carried suitcases to Hasan. The drug dealer's bodyguards stepped forward smoothly to intercept them.

Honor existed among thieves, Ajza thought, but precious little of it. The weight of the pistol at her back felt both comforting and threatening.

The bodyguards opened the suitcases a short distance away. Everyone knew the danger of satchel charges. If anyone died, it would be the bodyguards.

Both men looked relieved when the suitcases didn't explode in their faces. They carried them back to Hasan to view the contents.

Ajza caught a brief glimpse of the stacks of money inside one of the suitcases. The cash came from the United States, Great Britain and France, perhaps other places, but she didn't have time to see everything.

"You brought American money." Hasan didn't sound pleased.

"I had to," Mustafa said. "It was all I had. I still do a lot of business with American buyers."

"I don't care for American money." Hasan riffled through a few of the stacks of money. "It is far too easy to counterfeit. The Americans make their bills too much the same. No imagination."

The merchant spotted the stacks of bills in Hasan's callused hands. Aware that his life might be forfeit, he retreated to the back of his kiosk. He didn't want anyone to think he was going to report what he'd seen. He busied himself making silver necklaces.

"None of that money is counterfeit," Mustafa said. "I checked it myself."

Hasan tossed the packets of American money back into the suitcase. The bodyguards closed the suitcases and stepped to one side.

"I choose to trust you, my friend," Hasan said. "But in the future…"

"In the future," Mustafa said, not to be browbeaten, "perhaps there might exist more time to prepare to take advantage of your good fortune."

Hasan smiled. "It was good fortune. And now the good fortune is yours."

"Only after you have taken your cut, my brother."

"Merely the price of doing business." Hasan waved Mustafa to the rear of the truck. "Come. I will show you what you have been so fortunate to purchase."

Mustafa followed the other man to the rear of the truck. His bodyguards, including Ajza, trailed behind.

Hasan threw open the metal door to reveal wooden crates stacked inside. Ajza knew what the crates contained the instant she smelled the gun oil. This wasn't a drug delivery, after all.

Panic rose in her. Drugs were one thing, but she couldn't allow the munitions cargo in the back of the truck to get funneled to Mustafa's buyers. She searched the rooftops again and saw nothing.

For a moment she thought she was going to be sick. Something had to be done.

5

London

"Okay," the young man with the goatee said, "let's bring Room 59 online and hook Indigo into the sat-links we've appropriated, people."

As she paced around the room, Samantha watched the mini-satellite dishes power up and independently search for transmissions.

"Satellite Alpha has a lock," one of the women said.

"Satellite Beta is streaming," another man reported.

Diagnostics ran across the screens of the various laptops as everything came online One of the women walked to the front of the room and pulled down a huge blank screen. Immediately different windows filled it. The designations for the computers occupied the lower-left quadrant of the individual monitors.

Samantha studied them, quickly memorizing the location and designation of the various computers. Even after years of being involved in cutting-edge technology designed for espionage, every time she took the command seat for Room 59, it still wowed her.

Kate Cochran served as the director of the clandestine agency, but whoever stood in Room 59 during an operation was captain of the ship. Kate kept everything moving, but Samantha knew she depended on the people she served with.

"Room 59 is live," the man in the goatee said. His fingers were poised over the keyboard.

"Bring up Alpha and Beta," Samantha said. "Side by side, please."

Immediately, the two monitor views expanded and filled the screen. Beta showed Kate Cochran and Hirschvogel in the latter's New York apartment.

"Orange," Samantha said, referring to Kate by her designated call sign for the op, "I have a visual on your location."

"Understood, Indigo."

"Bring up Delta in the lower-right corner," Samantha said.

Immediately the monitor screen with Kate and Hirschvogel shrank and became the same size as the new screen, which flipped through random images of Hirschvogel's apartment building.

"I also have your back," Samantha stated. One of the techs constantly kept an eye on the apartment building's electronic security. If anything suspicious happened, the tech would alert her.

"Good," Kate replied.

Samantha concentrated on the Alpha screen.

"Do any of the businesses in the area maintain closed-circuit security?" Samantha asked. Since 9/11, security cameras seemed to exist everywhere.

"Yes," one of the women said.

"Can you access them?"

"I'm working on it. I think I can hack into a bank." Her fingers clicked across the keyboard. "All right." Satisfaction sounded in her voice. "I'm in. I've designated it as Epsilon."

"Bring it up. Stack it on the right." Samantha paced behind the operatives.

Another window opened up showing the back of the truck where the group under electronic surveillance milled about.

"Are we getting digital images?" Samantha asked.

"Every time I get a face," another of the women said. "I've got fourteen so far."

"Excellent job. Thank you."

"Yes, ma'am." The young woman kept working, efficiently alternating between the mouse and the keyboard.

The computers instantly shot every scrap of information the team gathered to a secure holding area. Nothing remained on the machines operating Room 59.

Samantha continued studying the windows. Reading the body language of the men, the way they reacted to one another within the group, it became easy to tell who was with whom.

At that point Epsilon, which had a better straight-ahead view of the back of the truck, revealed the cargo.

"Freeze Epsilon," Samantha ordered.

The image suspended.

"Can you magnify that?" Samantha walked to the pull-down screen and studied the image more closely. She could almost make out the image with her naked eye.

"Magnifying."

"Can you clean up the image?"

"Somewhat."

"Please do so." Samantha remained conscious of the time passing, but if she was right about the item in the image, they'd made a significant — and unexpected — find. "Is Red Team in place?"

"Red is in place," a strong male voice answered in her earpiece.

Samantha couldn't immediately identify the agent. The possibility existed that she'd never worked with him. Room 59 was set up that way. Only Kate knew who all the players involved in an op were; she put the teams together.

"Good to have you, Red."

"Affirmative. Good to be here. The troop size looks bigger than what we were told to expect."

"Yes."

"The backup plan is to destroy the contraband, not confiscate it. We are locked and loaded," he said.

"Wait for my go, Red. We have an unexpected problem."

"Affirmative. Red on standby. Can you identify the problem?"

"The cargo isn't drugs," Samantha answered. "It's ordnance. Destruction of the contraband isn't going to be possible at this point."

The image on the wall screen smoothed out and clearly showed an M-4 assault rifle. That, Samantha knew, was an American-made weapon.

"Does someone want to tell me how the Yanks lost a truck full of weapons?" Samantha asked.

No one had an immediate answer.

6

Istanbul

Ajza stared at the M-4 assault rifle in Hasan's hands. A shipment of drugs presented one problem. Customers only got harmed one at a time, and most of the time using the drug didn't leave anyone dead.

Guns killed a lot of people at one time.

And the crates in the back of the truck promised to hold a lot of guns.

Mustafa smiled.

"You see?" Hasan asked. "My good fortune is now yours."

Ajza knew that Mustafa had a buyer somewhere. If that was the case, he planned to get something back for his trouble. His group was already well equipped. They didn't need the guns.

So who did?

"You are satisfied?" Hasan asked Mustafa. "That they are all here and in good shape?"

"I am. You would not betray me, Hasan."

That was true, Ajza knew. If Hasan did, Mustafa would kill him. Mustafa would have no choice. As a broker and dealer in Istanbul, he couldn't afford to let anyone get the better of him.

For the first time, Ajza regretted not having a wire or a radio on her person. Someone back at Home Office needed to know about this. The Americans needed to know about this.

Hasan jumped from the back of the truck and closed the door. "Then our business here is done, Mustafa. May your path prove fruitful."

"And yours."

Hasan and his group walked toward the harbor.

"Now," Mustafa said as he turned to his men, "who can drive this truck?"

The men looked at one another. Most of them didn't drive. They'd lived in the city all their lives and seldom went anywhere they couldn't walk. Cars were too expensive, and the Turkish authorities kept track of vehicles.

"I can." Radiating arrogance, Fikret strode to the truck, opened the door and pulled himself up into the cab.

Ajza watched helplessly, uncertain what to do. Mustafa wouldn't let them know where the weapons were going. He maintained his secrets from the rest of the group. Once those weapons disappeared, she wouldn't know where they were.

Fikret started the truck. The big engine rumbled and Fikret smiled broadly at the others. However, Ajza could tell that the revs were too high.

When Fikret let out the clutch too quickly, the truck lurched forward, snorted belligerently and died with a shudder. He tried twice more, and the results didn't change.

"It's this truck." Fikret banged the steering wheel with a big fist. "It is an abominable beast. There is something wrong with it."

Mustafa wasn't happy. "There's nothing wrong with the truck."

"There is, I tell you." For the moment in his embarrassment, Fikret had forgotten himself. But he recalled his station almost immediately. His face blanched. "Forgive me. I spoke in haste."

Mustafa turned back to face the others. "Can anyone drive this truck?"

Heart beating too fast, Ajza stepped forward. "I can." Her pulse throbbed in her neck and at her temple.

"You?" Mustafa studied her with hard eyes.

"Yes." Ajza had been among them for almost three months. She'd gotten in as a thief, run afoul of one of Mustafa's operations and sold her services to him. The chauvinistic culture of Turkey precluded women from holding many positions of importance in the community, but crime was an equal-opportunity employer. Mustafa recognized that women's capabilities — in some areas — outdid men's. That line of thinking had placed Ajza in the op in the first place.

A woman's ability to drive a truck, however, obviously hadn't occurred to him.

"I learned to drive my father's truck," Ajza said. That was almost the truth. Her father had taught her to drive, but that was in Leicester, not in one of the towns along the Syrian border as she'd claimed. "He had no sons. What he needed done when he could not, I did."

Mustafa still stared at her.

"Perhaps letting her try would not be so bad," Nazmi suggested. "Surely she can do no worse than Fikret. And we can't leave the truck sitting here."

Fikret cursed Nazmi from the truck cab. This only made the other men laugh.

Mustafa gestured toward the truck. "Go."

Ajza climbed onto the running board and opened the door. Fikret didn't relinquish the wheel. He glared at her and breathed his sour breath over her.

"Let her drive," Mustafa commanded.

"Another time," Fikret promised her in a quiet voice no one else heard, "you and I will even the score between us."

A quiver of fear spasmed through Ajza's stomach. There were few days in her job when she wasn't afraid. She didn't know what it was about herself that continued to draw her to the spy business. There had to be something wrong with her.

Whatever it was, though, had infected Ilyas, as well. She suspected it had something to do with their parents, how fiercely her mother and father loved their new country and the opportunities England provided for them.

She didn't answer Fikret's challenge, but she didn't look away from him, either.

Cursing again, Fikret surrendered the steering wheel and slid over to the passenger side. He rolled down the window and spat in disgust.

Behind the wheel, Ajza took her pistol from her waistband and shoved it between her thigh and the seat. She started the engine, put the truck into a lower gear than Fikret had and let out the clutch. The truck lurched forward, but it kept moving.

The men, led by Nazmi, cheered. Ajza caught sight of the young man in the long side mirror and smiled a little at the celebration taking place behind her.

A moment later Nazmi ran up beside her and clung to the door while he stood on the running board. "Mustafa says you should follow the car." He pointed at a dust-covered sedan so old and rusty that Ajza couldn't identify the make.

"All right," Ajza said.

"I will still buy you breakfast."

Fikret cursed foully.

"We'll see," she said.

"But we must celebrate your great success. Even Fikret has to agree that your skills are important today. If not for you, the truck might sit there until Mustafa hired a driver."

Ajza checked the rearview mirror. "Unless you plan on hanging on to the truck the whole way, you'd better get in one of the cars."

Nazmi dropped away and went back to join the others. They all climbed back into the cars they'd arrived in.

Ajza followed the sedan, but her mind raced. Where was the backup team that was supposed to be shadowing her?

7

London

"Do you have an image of the woman?" Samantha asked as she watched the convoy take shape in Istanbul.

"Yes. I'm running it against the databases now."

Samantha watched the truck roll through the narrow streets. The presence of the woman hadn't startled her. There were others within the group, but very few of them. To survive in such an environment, women had to be harder and more calloused than the men.

But where had this one learned to drive big trucks?

The attention to detail, the way she subconsciously filed away pieces that didn't fit, made Samantha Rhys-Jones invaluable to MI-6. She'd quickly gone from light fieldwork to intel gathering and processing. Those skills had drawn the attention of Room 59.

"Indigo," the Red Team leader said, "do we intercept the convoy?"

"Yes. But only if it leaves town. If they stash the cargo inside the city limits, we'll take care of it later. I don't want any collateral damage on this one," Samantha said.

"Understood."

Samantha never wanted collateral damage. The deaths of bystanders weighed heavily on her. During her career, it sometimes happened — just as she'd sometimes lost agents she minded — but she worked hard to prevent that.

"Ma'am, I've identified the woman. She belongs to MI-6."

That was unexpected.

Samantha walked over to the woman's computer. She studied the face on the screen but didn't recognize it.

According to the file, Ajza Manaev held a position as a field agent with considerable experience for someone so young. Evidently she performed well at what she did.

"Orange," Samantha said.

"Yes," Kate replied.

Samantha watched the convoy thread through the winding streets of the Kadikoy district. More people were up and starting to fill the sidewalks, streets and cafes. The potential for unplanned losses was increasing exponentially.

"We have a problem," Samantha said.

8

New York

"Remove his gag," Kate said.

Without a word, Jacob Marrs hooked a finger in the sock he'd used to silence Hirschvogel. The German sat tied to a chair near his desk. He spat when the gag was clear, then cursed Kate.

While Hirschvogel vented so colorfully, obviously given some courage about being held captive for nearly an hour but not killed outright, Jake casually reached out and backhanded him in the face. The blow silenced Hirschvogel immediately.

"That's not how you talk to a lady," Jake stated affably.

Shocked, Hirschvogel glared at Jake. "If I ever meet you again, you're a dead man."

Jake smiled and spoke softly. "Just one more reason to heave you over the balcony before I leave. I didn't much care for you before you decided to make this personal. But promising to be a threat in the future?" He shook his head.

Visibly afraid, perhaps remembering that Jake had killed three of his bodyguards without breaking a sweat, Hirschvogel looked to Kate for support.

"Tell me about the weapons in Istanbul," Kate said.

Hirschvogel licked his lips nervously. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "I know nothing."

"If you don't know anything about them," Kate said conversationally, "you're not worth anything to me."

"Balcony's looking better and better all the time," Jake said.

"What do you want to know?" Hirschvogel asked.

"I know you regularly supply Hasan with drugs that he sells to Mustafa in Istanbul," Kate said. Her primary objective had been to shut down the supply route and break the bank of the terrorists Hirschvogel supplied. The man held a position as a mover and shaker in the black market with drugs and weapons. "Normally you sell drugs to Hasan, which he transports to Istanbul and sells again."

"Yes," Hirschvogel admitted. "You realize that you can't try me here in the United States for that? I've committed no crime here."

"I'm sure that's not true," Kate told him. In fact, she knew it wasn't true. Hirschvogel sold merchandise everywhere there was a market.

"Are you with the government?" Hirschvogel asked.

Jake slapped him again.

Hirschvogel cursed, but tears of pain coursed down his cheeks.

"Where did you get the weapons?" Kate asked.

"American military shipments in Turkey," Hirschvogel said. "A recent resupply. I arranged for it to go missing."

"Not without help."

Hirschvogel shrugged. "I have some contacts within the army's civilian support agencies. I knew when the shipment would arrive by truck. I had a team take the weapons."

Kate hadn't heard anything about that, but no one liked admitting he'd been made a fool of. The United States military had their own investigative bodies. She made a mental note to go through channels and contact the army's criminal-investigative division regarding the stolen shipment.

"Why did you sell them to Hasan?" she asked.

"I'd heard Mustafa was looking for weapons. Particularly American weapons."

"Why?"

Hirschvogel glanced at Jake and flinched as he answered. "I don't know."

Jake didn't move.

"He believes you," Kate said. "So do I. But I'm going to need to know who your contacts were in the military."

Hirschvogel scowled. The side of his face still glowed red from the slaps. "Those contacts have proven very expensive."

"And profitable," Kate said.

"Perhaps we could negotiate."

"All right." Kate folded her arms. "Give me the names of the men who helped you arrange the theft, and I won't let my friend throw you over the balcony."

Defeated, Hirschvogel gave her the names.

When he was finished, Kate nodded at Jake.

He took a spray from his pocket and squirted it into Hirschvogel's face. The German tried not to breathe, obviously afraid of being poisoned, but the spray worked on mere contact, as well. He fought the effects of the drug, then his head slumped forward.

"Personally I think it would be better if I dropped him over the balcony," Jake said. "Guy like this, he's gonna be a problem somewhere down the line."

"No," Kate said. "We'll let him run and keep a leash on him. Taking out Hasan and Mustafa will help shut down his organization, but there's still a lot of information we can discover."

She looked around the apartment to make sure they hadn't left anything behind. Both of them were too professional for that. But always checking was part of being professional.

"Indigo, are we clear?" Kate asked.

"Affirmative. We show you clear."

Kate left the apartment and headed for the elevator.

"What's being done with the young woman driving the truck?" Jake asked.

"For the moment," Kate said, "we're going to let her run."

"One of Red Team's snipers could take her out. Even on the fly. Don't have to kill her."

"She's MI-6. We have to check and see if they've got a play in place."

"I'm thinking grabbing everybody at the buy would have been a good strategy," Jake said.

"That's where I would have done it," Kate agreed.

"MI-6 doesn't always get it right," Jake commented.

"Nobody does. That's why they have us."

Jake chuckled. "They have us when they want to take the gloves off and throw the rulebook out the window."

Kate smiled.

"So what if everything's snafued in Istanbul?" Jake asked.

"We improvise."

9

Istanbul

Desperate, Ajza ran through her options. If she drove the truck where Mustafa wanted it, she'd know where it was for a while, but she didn't doubt that the weapons would be quickly moved. Or she could depend on her support team suddenly materializing and getting her out of the current situation. But it didn't seem like that was about to happen.

She was sweltering in the growing heat of the day and had to work hard to keep the truck headed straight. The steering had a lot of play, which necessitated constant attention.

She didn't like the possibility of parking the weapons somewhere and losing them. The question of who was going to be using them and for what purpose never left her mind. Over the past few years she'd seen firsthand the kind of carnage left by al-Qaeda and other terrorists.

"I could have driven the truck," Fikret complained from the passenger side.

Ajza looked around and got her bearings. She was only a few blocks from the harbor. A desperate plan formed in her mind.

"All I needed was another chance," Fikret went on. He glared at Ajza. "There's nothing you can do that I can't."

Traffic came to a halt. Ajza studied the cross street ahead. It was one of the major ones. She was certain the harbor area was nearly a straight shot down it. At least, as straight a shot as the streets of the old city allowed.

"You should not have volunteered," Fikret said. "You only did so to make me look bad."

Ajza couldn't be quiet any longer. "If you could have driven the truck, you would not have looked bad. If you had not volunteered, you would not have looked bad. You brought this on yourself."

"I could have driven the truck. I only needed a little more time to figure out how to do it better."

Slowly traffic started forward again. The sedan she was following powered through the intersection.

Gripping the wheel, knowing her next action would put her life on the line, Ajza turned right and jammed her foot down hard on the accelerator. The truck responded immediately. She swung out wide around the corner and momentarily crossed bumpers with a panel truck waiting in the oncoming lane. Metal grated as she broke free and kept going.

"What are you doing?" Fikret demanded. He held on to the door. "You weren't supposed to turn."

Ajza straightened the wheels and sped down the street. The heavy traffic looked problematic. She shifted gears and gained speed. A taxi stopped in front of her to pick up a fare. Ajza pulled to the left and narrowly avoided it. The truck's bumper scraped the side of a car, setting off a cascade of car horns.

"Stop!" Fikret roared. "Stop the truck now!" He reached for the steering wheel.

Ajza grabbed the pistol from under her thigh and clubbed the big man in the face with it. Blood spouted from his nose and he drew back, cursing in pain and anger.

"Get out," Ajza commanded. She pointed the pistol at him.

"What?"

"Get out of the truck." Ajza glanced in the side mirrors and saw that the rest of the convoy were hot on her heels. They closed the gap rapidly.

Fikret didn't move. He had one massive hand clamped to his nose. He reached for his rifle with the other.

Ajza fired her pistol and missed the big man's head by inches. The bullet slammed into a building at the side of the street.

"Get out!" she shouted over the ringing din of the pistol report. "Or I put the next one through your head."

Fikret swung the door open and turned to leap out. Fear held him frozen.

Ajza turned in the seat, raised a leg and shoved her foot hard between Fikret's shoulder blades. He grunted as his breath left his lungs. He lost his grip on the door frame and tumbled out.

In the next instant the open door collided with a parked truck. The window shattered and glass fragments peppered the inside of the truck. The impact slammed the door shut with a metallic screech.

Ajza's heart pounded as she looked at the side mirror. The two vehicles tailing her pulled up alongside. Their occupants, men with whom she had eaten dinner the night before, brandished guns. A couple of them fired their weapons, and bullets ricocheted from the truck's cab and tore through the body.

Wrenching the wheel, Ajza slammed into the lead car. The truck's greater bulk shoved the car sideways. The car plowed through an outdoor cafe, narrowly missing the few patrons sitting there with coffee and breakfast. The car crashed into the corner of the next building.

Ajza hoped that Nazmi wasn't in the car. She liked him. She focused on her driving and spotted a police vehicle at the light ahead of her. Two police officers occupied the vehicle, but neither of them noticed the wreck Ajza left in her wake.

She tapped the brake and pulled to the left again. But she allowed her front bumper to scrape across the police vehicle's back bumper. Although she'd tried to keep the collision to a minimum, the force spun the police car halfway around.

"All right," Ajza said, glancing in the side mirror as she passed the police car, "come get me."

The police car's lights came on and the siren screamed to life. Two cars bearing Mustafa's men roared past it.

Traffic became more difficult the closer she got to the harbor area. She braked and downshifted almost constantly to avoid smashing into vehicles. The truck's transmission groaned as she kept up the pace. Bullets smacked into the truck's rear.

Ajza's gut twisted as she thought about the explosion waiting to erupt if anything especially potent in the crates got hit. She took evasive action, swinging wildly across the street to block the cars zooming up behind her.

She tried to push one of them into a nearby building, but the driver pulled back and she only rammed into the building herself. Something fell in the truck's cargo area. Ajza waited for the detonation. Nothing happened.

Lying on the horn as she powered into the last intersection, she headed for the pier. She didn't know where she was, but the broad expanse of gray-green water in front of her told her she'd reached the harbor. Ships and boats sat at anchorage.

The large cranes and forklifts marked the area as one of the commercial districts. Men dodged out of the way as she barreled through. Another blistering hail of bullets raked the back of the truck. The side mirror on her door suddenly shattered and flew away. The metal housing came loose and battered the door.

The truck roared across the pier. Ajza continued to lean on the horn. One man abandoned a forklift and left it in her path. She swerved and tried not to hit it full on.

The impact strained Ajza's seat belt. The stiff material bit into the flesh of her hips and upper body. Crates in the back rushed forward and smashed against the cab.

Ajza screamed a curse. The forklift slid away in pieces and she continued down the pier. The right front tire pulled at the steering. The wobble told her that the collision had deflated the tire or ripped it to shreds. Her arms ached with the effort of holding the truck on course.

She aimed for the end of the pier and never lifted her foot from the accelerator. The image in the rearview mirror of Mustafa and the others bearing down on her guaranteed the lack of choice.

Ajza unfastened the seat belt and kept her foot on the accelerator. She prayed that God still watched over fools as the sounds of gunfire and police sirens filled her ears.

10

London

"She did not just do that," tech support said in Samantha's ear.

Samantha couldn't believe the woman survived the collision with all the munitions in the back of the truck.

"That is one gutsy bird," the head computer programmer said as he stared at the screen with a big grin. "I think I'm in love."

They all stared at the screen as the truck and Ajza disappeared into the ocean.

"My God," Samantha breathed.

"What?" Kate asked.

Knowing Kate lacked visual access while she left the apartment in New York, Samantha ignored the request for information for the moment.

"Later," she said. "Red Team?"

"We're here, Indigo."

"Are you mobile?"

"Since the convoy started up."

That was good, Samantha told herself. She looked at the lead computer operator. He nodded and tapped on a keyboard.

Almost immediately the satellite view split on the wall screen. One side stayed with the white-capped wake that remained from the truck's plunge into the sea. The other shifted to a street scene. A yellow spotlight circled an SUV.

"Hold your position," Samantha said.

"Did she make it?" the Red Team Leader asked.

"So far. Are you prepared for an exfiltration?"

"Affirmative. Red Team is ready to rock and roll. Especially for that hard-driving lady."

Yanks, Samantha thought. All of them had showoff tendencies.

"If she survived, I'd like to try to get her home in one piece," she said.

On the wall screen, she saw Mustafa's men bring their vehicles to a halt. The police car slid in behind them, then realized their mistake when Mustafa's gunners opened fire on them. The driver of the police car reversed and hastily backed away.

"The harbor roads stretch in two directions," Samantha told the Red Team leader. "Once I see which direction she's going to choose, I'll let you know. We'll coordinate the rendezvous from here." Out of habit, she checked the time. Their window of opportunity was closing quickly.

"We can get out fast," the lead computer tech said.

Samantha nodded and quickly brought Kate up to speed. "I've asked Red Team to try to pull her out of there."

"I heard," Kate replied. "I would have done the same thing."

Samantha felt a little better about that. Room 59's policies emphasized maintaining a low profile. At this point they hadn't been exposed, but her decision would press that possibility.

But letting the brave young woman die needlessly put her off.

Come on, she thought, staring at the water as Mustafa's men spread out along the pier and searched.

"How deep is the harbor?" Samantha asked.

"At this time of year in that location, twenty-seven feet," tech support said.

More than enough depth to sink a truck, Samantha decided. She admired the young agent's strategy. The chance of recovering some of the weapons intact remained, but not without getting caught by the local police.

The water remained relatively smooth. No one surfaced.

Come on, Samantha urged.

"I have her," one of the female computer techs announced.

"Where?" Samantha shifted her gaze to the screen.

"That's my girl," the male computer operator said enthusiastically. "I really gotta give her props. You don't meet many like her."

"Don't wee all over yourself in your excitement," the other female said sarcastically.

"She's here," the first woman said.

On the screen, Samantha spotted Ajza Manaev hauling herself from the water. Unfortunately Mustafa's men did, too. Ajza threw herself to the ground as bullets chopped into the ground only a few feet from her. Immediately Mustafa's men took up pursuit, some of them on foot and others taking time to get back into the cars.

"Red leader," Samantha said.

"Here," the man replied.

"I've found her. So has the competition."

"That'll just make it more interesting."

Samantha smiled slightly. She knew British soldiers who spoke just as cheekily, as if they were invincible. But there was something about that Yank accent that just sounded so certain.

"We'll bring you to her," he said.

* * *

Istanbul

Bent over and staying low to the ground, her fingertips grazing the hot pavement, Ajza ran. Bullets cut the air overhead and smashed into a vendor's cart next to her. Spicy beef kebabs flew into the air and splattered to the ground. The young vendor screamed and ran for cover.

Ajza glanced over her shoulder. Mustafa's gunmen — all of whom she knew by name — seemed split between chasing her on foot and climbing into cars. In her present shape, hurting and winded, eluding even the ones on foot might prove impossible.

She dashed through an opening in a chain-link fence and ran across the hot tarmac. She stayed behind vehicles and heavy equipment.

"Get down! Get down!" she ordered the dockworkers. When they didn't move fast enough, she hauled her pistol from her waistband and waved it around. She waited to fire, not knowing if the water had completely cleared the barrel.

The dockworkers moved quickly, but they ran for their lives when bullets ripped through the chain-link fence and ricocheted off the cars and heavy equipment.

Only a short distance ahead of her, a young man straddled a motorcycle. Ajza ran toward him, rammed him in the back with an elbow and knocked him off the bike. She caught the motorcycle before it fell over — she didn't know if she had the strength to right it if it went down. She shoved her pistol back into the waistband holster.

Hurrying, trying to remain calm, she threw a leg over the motorcycle, slammed the gearshift into low, twisted the throttle and let out the clutch. The rear tire grabbed traction at once and she shot forward. Bullets chased her, peppering vehicles and the road.

One of Mustafa's cars braked ahead of her. Men spilled from the car and drew their weapons, taking aim at once.

Out of options, Ajza steered across the road, double-clutched and downshifted, then powered the motorcycle's front tire into the air. She hit the road's edge and went airborne.

Panic churned through her as she felt the heavy motorcycle fighting the jump. The ground came up faster than she anticipated. When she landed, she struggled for control and barely managed to keep the motorcycle upright as the rear tire churned through the loose earth. She threw her body violently to the side and managed to stay on.

Her knee, dropped far outside to aid in balance, struck the ground, the material of her pants ripping. The exposed flesh burned hotly. She didn't know how badly she was hurt because the impact, after an initial burst of pain, made her knee go numb.

The drop hid her from the view of the gunners. For a moment she thought she'd lost them. Then she heard the racing engine paralleling her route and knew they hadn't given up.

The soft ground of the slope Ajza drove over proved treacherous as loose soil tore free under the motorcycle's tires. She nearly lost control twice and knew that the bike was too heavy for the off-road conditions. Desperate, she angled upward, hoping to somehow get by her pursuers.

A low-slung sedan roared out of nowhere and slammed into the car pursuing her. The collision forced the car off the road and it briefly sailed through the air over the embankment. A moment later the car landed in the trees and rolled. A man's broken body tumbled from one of the windows.

Ajza hoped it wasn't Nazmi just before thoughts of survival consumed her again. She steered up the embankment, standing on the pegs as the motorcycle bucked and heaved beneath her.

The car that had smashed Mustafa's pursuit vehicle jerked into motion just as she passed it. Armed men sat inside, but none of them seemed interested in her.

A third party? Ajza couldn't imagine anyone who would want to take part in the confrontation going on. Everything that existed to fight over was lying at the bottom of the harbor.

It might have been the MI-6 backup team she'd waited on.

They hadn't identified themselves, though, and she couldn't take that chance. She accelerated and raced through the motorcycle's gears again. No one stayed with her this time. But she still didn't feel safe.

11

London

"Okay," Samantha said as she watched the motorcycle race back into the heart of the city, "she's away."

"Pretty resourceful," Kate commented.

"I'd have to agree. We weren't set up to deal with a cache of weapons."

"And if you'd known for sure they were there?"

Samantha didn't hesitate. "The only option we'd have had was the same one Ajza exercised."

"I agree. If we'd thought of it as quickly. I have to admit, she was ahead of me. As you said, we weren't set up to handle weapons."

"Intel assured us that Mustafa doesn't deal in weapons. We were there to target a drug shipment and take it out to disrupt the finances we'd uncovered."

"I want to track down both ends of this operation," Kate said. "Those were American weapons. They were a special order. I'll handle things from this end. Maybe you could have someone take a look at Mustafa's business and find out where those weapons were going. He's not an end-user for something like that."

"Agreed. Nor is he set up to piece a shipment like that off. He was acting as a middleman for a buyer."

"I want to find out who that buyer is," Kate said.

Samantha watched the car Red Team had used to run blocker for Ajza Manaev. The driver fought with the steering but finally got the vehicle back on solid ground. He drove away, but from the looks of the smoke billowing out from under the hood, the car wasn't destined to go far.

"We have Red Team in the field," Samantha said.

"How exposed are they?" Kate asked.

Samantha considered. "Provided they can get cleanly out of this, they should be fine."

"Are there any undercover operatives among them?"

"No one we can put on the ground here."

"What about local assets?" Kate asked. "Can we exploit those?"

"Yes. But we're going to take a chance on burning them."

"With Mustafa."

"Yes."

"When we're finished here, let's take Mustafa off the board," Kate said.

Samantha was surprised by the decision. Kate Cochran didn't casually order someone's execution. Yet that was exactly what the Room 59 director had just done. "All right," she said. She knew it was the right decision.

"Mustafa is too good at what he does," Kate went on. "I don't want to risk him expanding his business. His departure should trigger a power struggle that one of the intelligence agencies can take advantage of."

"I think so, too. I know my agency will be interested in keeping an eye on things there." Samantha consulted the wall screen again.

Turkish military vehicles had arrived on the scene. Fishermen, cargo handlers and tourists were all being pushed back from the area where the truck had gone into the water. Another group converged on the wrecked car Red Team had taken out.

"Are you ready to wrap this?" Kate asked.

"Yes."

"Get a report to me immediately. Let's work through debrief quickly and establish the next leg of this project."

"Will do." Samantha cut Kate out of the communication loop. Then she contacted Red Team and ordered them to pull back, too. "Where's Manaev?"

"She headed back into the city," the lead computer-tech support answered. "We lost her in the crowd."

Smart girl, Samantha thought. "Support?"

"Yes."

"Get me a full background and a deep jacket on Ajza Manaev. I want it at my workstation in an hour."

"I'll have it there."

Samantha turned to the computer crew on-site. "Box it up."

Quickly and efficiently, the computer crew stowed their gear back in the protective cases. In minutes it was like they'd never been there.

"Do you think she'll get out of Istanbul all right?" the lead computer specialist asked when they reached the sidewalk outside.

Samantha looked at the man and smiled a little. "Smitten?"

He shrugged. "She's pretty brill. Gotta give her that. I thought that bloody lot had her a couple of times."

"But they didn't."

The man frowned. "I've worked ops where things didn't turn out so well."

Samantha had, too. "As talented as she is, she'll have a bolt-hole."

"Even if her mates didn't show up to cover her back?"

"When you're out in the field," Samantha replied, "you always keep two escape plans. One that your handlers know about and another that no one knows about."

The man nodded. "Hope so. Well, then, we're off." He grinned. "Thanks again for another exciting time."

"You, too," Samantha said. She turned and walked into the shadows. Stifling a yawn, she reflected on the fact that she wasn't going to get any sleep.

By the time she put the car in gear and pulled out onto the street, she was already organizing her report to Kate Cochran in her head.

12

Istanbul

Mustafa stared at the bloody man sitting in the straight-backed chair in the center of the shipping container on the dock. A single battery-operated light hung over the man's head, but the angle left the man's face in shadows. His rasping breath filled the close confines of the container.

"Someone leaked information about the transaction I had a few days ago," Mustafa said.

"It wasn't me," the wounded man gasped. "Please, please, it wasn't me."

"Only a handful of people knew what we were doing that morning. You were one of those, Hamid."

"I only did as you ordered."

"You handled the money," Mustafa said. "You knew who I was dealing with and when I was going to do the deal."

The man cried. His shoulders jerked as the hoarse sobs tore from his dry throat. Bloody drool dripped onto his shirt. Two broken teeth caught the light and gleamed on his chest.

"I would not betray you," the man insisted.

"You would do anything for money. Even sell your own mother." Mustafa knew that because he was no different.

"Please. I beg you. I did not betray you."

Mustafa sighed. He knew that discovering how the transaction was sabotaged was a long shot, but he'd felt compelled to try it. The immediate avenue to explore was the financial one. He was confident Hasan wouldn't have betrayed him.

"I have lost the weapons and my money," Mustafa said. It wasn't all his money, of course. His buyer had put up half the amount, but if things went badly and the man didn't understand the circumstances, Mustafa would have to pay that back, as well.

"I did not cause that to happen."

"Sadly, my friend, I believe you."

The man raised his head tentatively. Hope dawned in his swollen eyes. He made an immense effort to smile, but the result looked forced and false.

"We are friends, Mustafa. I have told you this many times. What is good for you is good for me." The man's mouth and jaw barely worked after the beating, but he tried to fill his words with sincerity.

"I know. We have had a satisfactory arrangement. You're very skilled. I hate the thought of losing you."

"But you don't have to lose me. I will still work for you." Fear drowned the hope in the man's gaze.

"I believe you," Mustafa said. "For a while, perhaps. But you've been badly beaten, Hamid. Soon, too soon, you will desire your pound of flesh for all that I have put you through. It is only human. Were I in your shoes, I would do the same."

The man shook his head desperately. "That's not true. I understand why you did this to me."

"One day you will not feel so understanding." Mustafa took a breath and gestured to one of the men standing beside him. The man handed him a slim black pistol. "Also, until I find the person truly responsible for my loss, I have to let others know that I am no fool. And that I will not suffer betrayal easily."

"Please, Mustafa. I beg you. Don't do this." The man wept openly now. His voice shrilled.

"I must. Someone must be punished. Even if it's not the right person. I have to kill someone." Mustafa pointed the silenced pistol at the man's head. "But I will miss you. I also promise you that I will kill whoever is responsible for your death."

Hamid tried to jerk in the chair, but it was bolted to the floor and the rope bound him too tightly.

Mustafa shot the prisoner in the face. The round didn't kill Hamid immediately, and Mustafa had to shoot the man twice more to get the job done.

"Clean this up," Mustafa said to the men as he handed the pistol back. "Leave his body where it can be found."

* * *

Mustafa punched numbers on his cell phone while he sat in the luxury of his private car. Two bodyguards sat with him and the driver. Bulletproof glass made the night outside the windows seem darker. Despite the additional weight of the armor, the sedan rode low and smooth and moved powerfully.

The connection rang twice.

"Yes," a deep voice with a Russian accent answered.

"I have found our leak," Mustafa announced. Later, when he found the true leak, he could simply claim that person had acted in collusion with Hamid.

"That's good, but it's too late to save my shipment. This is a big disappointment to me."

Mustafa held back a curse. He couldn't blame the other man for feeling as he did, but he still didn't want to carry the blame.

"I'm hoping to replace your shipment very soon," Mustafa said. "As a matter of fact, I have leads now that should…"

"No."

Mustafa controlled his anger, fear and frustration. He wasn't used to being told no. "I don't understand."

"Your services are no longer required."

That wasn't what Mustafa wanted to hear. He wasn't a domestic servant who could be casually dismissed. He silently cursed his bad luck and promised a horrible death to whoever had betrayed him.

"Don't be hasty. You're not going to find anyone else who can deliver the goods you need."

"It's already been arranged."

Mustafa tried to think of something to say.

"I want the money that I gave you in advance," the man said.

"I have already given the money to my contact," Mustafa said.

"Then get it back from him."

"He blames me for the loss of the goods."

"As do I."

Mustafa hardened his voice. "We all risked in this venture. The loss should be shared."

"The loss should never have happened. Because I know that you have suffered a hardship, I will give you ten days to get my money back to me."

"That's impossible."

"I hope, for your sake, that getting the money back to me isn't impossible."

"I can't do it in ten days." Mustafa's first recourse in any money matter was to buy more time. After a little more time, he was certain he could renegotiate the deal — or at least pass his losses on to others. His driver suddenly swerved to the right. The bodyguard seated beside Mustafa pulled his sidearm. On the left side of the car, a truck sped forward and slammed into them. Mustafa's driver cursed as the car wobbled, then cursed again as the truck in front of them suddenly stopped. The sedan driver applied his brakes, but it was no use. The sedan slammed into the back of the truck.

"Get us out of here!" Mustafa bellowed. "That was no accident."

His driver tried to get away, but there was no room to maneuver.

Three men bailed out of the truck. They carried stubby submachine guns and moved professionally.

"Now!" Mustafa shouted.

The bodyguard beside him raised his pistol.

"Do not shoot," Mustafa ordered. "That's bulletproof glass. The ricochet will hit us."

The man held the pistol ready all the same.

Frantic, Mustafa's driver shoved the car into reverse. The car bucked and moved back a foot or so.

Headlights suddenly flared in the back window as another vehicle roared up from behind. Mustafa stared helplessly and held on to his cell phone. He disconnected from the Russian and punched in another number as the third vehicle smashed into his sedan and drove it into the stopped truck.

Mustafa's head jerked painfully. He told himself that everything would be all right. The car was armor-plated and protected enough to save him until help arrived.

The driver struggled with the wheel and shifted gears. He was trapped, unable to go forward or backward. Rubber shrilled on the street.

The bodyguard on the passenger side tried to open his door, but it moved outward only a few inches before being blocked by the wall. He barely got his hand and pistol out.

"Shut the door," Mustafa said. "We'll be safe in here. This car was designed to withstand a tank round." He didn't know if that was true, but the man who sold him the car had claimed that. It felt good to remind himself of that now.

The three men outside stopped. Two men flanked the third as he removed a high-powered, battery-operated drill from a canvas bag he carried. Without a word, he placed the drill bit against the bulletproof glass, pulled up the safety goggles hanging around his neck and initiated the drill.

The bit chewed smoothly through the glass. Setting the drill back into the bag, the man took out a canister attached to a rubber hose. He threaded the rubber hose through the hole created by the drill. In the next instant, liquid propelled by compressed air filled the sedan's interior.

The sweet, unmistakable aroma of gasoline filled Mustafa's nostrils. On the other side of the bulletproof glass, the man flipped open a lighter and ignited the flame. The yellow and blue fire danced.

"Wait!" Mustafa shouted, pressing his face against the window. "We need to talk!"

"Speak English," the man said in that tongue.

Mustafa's hopes rose. If the men were willing to talk, there was room for negotiation. At least it would allow his other security team to arrive.

"Can't we make a deal?" he pleaded.

The man waited a moment, as if processing the offer. "I want your phone."

Mustafa hesitated. The lighter flame danced but didn't waver. The smell of gasoline grew stronger.

"All right," he agreed. The phone contained a lot of information that might prove damaging to him, but he had no doubt the man would kill him if he didn't hand it over.

Mustafa lowered the window a little over an inch. He didn't want the man to just shoot him out of hand. He slid the cell phone through the space.

The man plucked the phone from his fingertips and shoved it into a pocket.

"That's what you wanted, right?" Mustafa said. "The phone?"

"No," the man said. The headlights of the truck behind the sedan revealed the man's features. He was blond-haired and blue-eyed with a chiseled jaw.

Realizing what the man intended to do, Mustafa grabbed the pistol from his bodyguard's hand and tried to shove the barrel through the space.

Without flinching from Mustafa's pistol, the man touched the flame to the hole in the bulletproof window. The gasoline vapor and liquid caught fire at once.

Horrified, Mustafa watched as the flames spread over his arm, then crawled along the seat and covered his body. The liquid whoosh of the accelerant's ignition filled his ears. Then he felt the painful charring of his flesh.

Abandoning his efforts to shoot the man, Mustafa gripped the lock release and tried to open the door. The man outside the car leaned against the door and jammed it.

"No!" Mustafa howled. He drew in his breath, sucking in the gasoline vapor, and the flames crawled inside him. Death claimed him almost at once.

13

Kate looked at the glowing icon on her notebook computer screen and pressed it.

Immediately a videophone link opened up and revealed Samantha on the other end of the connection. The call was heavily encrypted.

"I got the notice that you wanted to speak to me." Curiosity showed in Samantha's dark gaze.

Kate leaned back in her chair. "We've had some developments."

"I heard Mustafa was killed by a rival. Burned in his car," Samantha said.

Kate didn't like thinking about that. The man's death had been horrible, but she wasn't going to second-guess an agent's work in the field. Especially not when it concerned a murderer like Mustafa.

"More than that," Kate said. "Have you heard of a man named Mayrbek Taburova?"

"No. Should I have?"

"MI-6 seems to have been poking around in his business over the last few years." Kate tapped the keyboard. "I'm sending you some files. Overview for the moment. But I'll be sending more-developed records to you later."

"I assume I'm going to get to know a lot more about Taburova," Samantha said.

"We all are." Kate entered the last necessary keystroke and sent the document package she'd pieced together.

Instantly the open frame containing Samantha's face pushed over to the side of the large plasma monitor. An image of a man with a square jaw took shape. His blue eyes showed cruelty, but his full lips promised passion. He wore his dark hair swept backward, and it curled slightly over his ears and at the back of his neck. Dressed in a dark blue turtleneck and a gray shooting jacket, he carried a shotgun over his shoulder and stood in an open field.

"Intriguing," Samantha said. "Looks like a poster boy of some kind."

"He is," Kate agreed. "According to the intel I've received, Taburova is one of the current leaders of the Chechen rebels. He's lost an eye since this picture was taken."

"I thought we'd agreed to stay out of that nasty bit of business for the time being."

"We had. Fighting a civilian war in the Russian Caucasus Mountains would be impossible. Russian military forces haven't had much luck with that."

"So why are we interested in Taburova?"

"Because Mustafa bought those weapons for Taburova," Kate said.

"American weapons?"

"Yes."

"That doesn't make much sense."

"I thought we'd take a longer look at him and his involvement in this."

Samantha frowned. "That seems like something we — or another intelligence agency — should have known."

"Someone may have. Taburova was one of the founding members of the Islamic International Peacekeeping Brigade."

"You say peacekeepers. I say terrorists."

Kate nodded. "Some of the intel I have states that Taburova was with one of the leaders when he was ambushed and killed."

"I suppose he carries a grudge," Samantha said.

"Since the ambush, Taburova has stayed out of sight, but sources believe Taburova has moved higher in the hierarchy of separatists," Kate said. "We've tied Taburova to Mustafa and the weapons. I know that Mustafa got the payment from straw banks in Russia." Kate tapped the keyboard, flashing image after image to Samantha.

Several images passed by. They were taken by Russian agents and military sources, and all of them showed Taburova in action. The man obviously had a charmed life. A number of times he'd been in the thick of battle with men lying dead all around him. Those images, Kate knew, were the kind that created legends and heroes.

"What was Taburova going to do with the weapons?" Samantha asked. "Why not give information anonymously to the Russians and let them handle it?"

"Taburova managed to move millions of dollars through Russian banks without their security service knowing about it. I'd like to know what else they're unaware of," Kate said.

Samantha remained quiet for a moment. "It goes against agency protocol to discuss information with anyone not directly involved in mission parameters."

"Yes," Kate said.

"I think we can both agree that I'm not qualified to send in-field into Moscow," Samantha said.

"This would be into the Caucasus Mountains ultimately."

"Even more reason not to go. So, you have me curious. What do you have in that devious mind?"

"I want a better look at Taburova, and I want to take a better look at Ajza Manaev."

"Manaev? Why?"

"For possible recruitment," Kate said.

Samantha arched an eyebrow. "I can see the attraction. She thinks quickly on her feet, doesn't get easily put offher game, and she keeps her eyes on the mission."

"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.

14

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.

"Yes?"

"Do you think that man will bring us our guns?"

Taburova didn't hesitate in answering. "Yes. Pasternak is no fool. He's just greedy. Greed can be adjusted. More than being rich, he wants to live." He paused. "We'll get our weapons."

15

Leicester, England

"Ajza, you're going to grow old with that broom in your hands."

Startled by the voice, Ajza looked up from sweeping the floor of her parents' shop.

A slim young man about her age stood in one of the aisles. He held a soccer ball under one arm and an energy drink in the other. He wore a windbreaker over his soccer uniform.

Ajza searched her memory for the man's name but came up empty. She hadn't really known him, and the neighborhood was large, filled with lots of families.

"You don't remember me." The man showed her a petulant, mildly disappointed smile.

"I do," Ajza said. His name was there at the tip of her tongue. He'd been one of Ilyas's friends. They had played sports together from childhood through their college years.

"Razool."

"Of course." Ajza smiled a little when she heard his name and realized it fit. Still, paranoia crept into her mind and stayed there. She hadn't seen Razool in a long time. The part of her that remained ever vigilant wondered what he was doing here now. "It has been a while," she said.

"It has. I've been away. Boston." Razool hesitated. "That's in the United States."

"I know where Boston is."

"Of course you do. You were always so smart. I remember that about you. I also remember how I always saw you sweeping the floor here before and after school."

Ajza had gotten lost in that remembering, as well. Her parents had worked hard to buy the shop in Haymarket Centre because of the location, and they'd worked the family even harder to make the business successful. She'd never really dreaded the work when she was younger, and now she was surprised at the solace it offered. It was simple work, comfortable and familiar. She didn't have to decide to trust the floor before she swept it. Nor did she have to lie to it.

The aisles and refrigeration units offered her a familiar world that promised never to change. Only it did, of course. Ilyas would never again walk through the doors and complain about their father's to-do list; even when they'd come to visit, they were expected to help with the work.

"I don't think I swept the floors all the time," Ajza protested.

Razool cocked an eyebrow. "You swept the floors a lot. I used to watch you."

The statement was meant to be flirtatious. Ajza enjoyed it for a moment, and the events of only a few days ago seemed even farther away.

"Now I remember you even better," she said. "You were one of the layabouts my father had to run off from the store so often."

Razool covered his heart with his energy drink. "You wound me."

"I doubt that. So now you're laying about in Boston?"

"I'm a professor, actually. Computer science."

"Helping design space launches?"

"Teaching college students to design video games. That's all they want to learn these days."

In spite of the tension caused by her brother's absence hanging over the shop, Ajza laughed. "You came back to play football?"

"No. I came back because my mother had heart bypass surgery."

That sobered Ajza. So many of the faces she remembered from her childhood were older these days. And too many of them were missing. "Is your mother well?"

"On the mend. Thank you. She'll outlive me, and through it all she'll continue to harangue me for grandchildren. Of course, she would like to see me married first, but I'm beginning to think that might be negotiable. So what about you? What are you doing?"

"I'm a translator for an international investments broker. Financial documents." That was the cover MI-6 had provided her, and she worked at that job enough to keep it bulletproof.

Razool grimaced. "Oh, and I acted the proper world-traveling lout, didn't I?"

She grinned good-naturedly at his embarrassment. "Most of my work is in London. But I get out now and again."

"Good. You should see the world while you're young." Razool looked over Ajza's shoulder and lowered his voice. "That's your father at the counter, isn't it?"

Ajza checked the circular mirror in the corner of the store. Her father was a compact man with nut-brown skin. A fringe of gray hair framed his head. Glasses covered hazel eyes. He rarely smiled even on good days, but he was always courteous.

"Yes," Ajza replied.

"He's giving me one of those looks."

"And what kind of look would that be?"

"The kind that tells me he doesn't like me talking to his daughter."

Ajza laughed. Her father had cowed all the young men who had taken an interest in her when she was growing up. That ability had often left her irritated with him because few of the young men had been brave enough to ask her out. And Ilyas had chased away most of those.

"My father hasn't changed much," she said.

"I suppose not." Razool looked at her. "I'm going to be in town for another couple of weeks. To make sure my mother gets squared away properly."

"That's very thoughtful."

"It's going to be misery, I promise you. But maybe you could help."

"Me?"

"Mum's doing astonishingly well. If I told her I was having tea with a pretty young woman, it would do her heart good."

"I'm flattered, but…"

"It would also give me an excuse to get away from her for a short time. As I said, she's doing absolutely brill." Razool glanced over Ajza's shoulder again. "Besides, I think going out to tea with me might just flummox your father. If you're not too grown up for that."

You're good, Ajza thought. I'll bet you do just fine for yourself in Boston.

"Let me give you a card." Razool took a business card from his pocket and scrawled a phone number across the back. "That's my mum's phone number. If you'd like tea — when you get through sweeping."

Aware that her father was watching her with the same disapproval he'd shown in her childhood, grateful that she could somehow feel like a rebellious teen again, Ajza accepted the card.

"This doesn't mean I'll call," she cautioned.

"Then I'll come by again. Ciao." Razool waved at her and walked to the counter. "Good morning, Mr. Manaev. How are you?"

Her father scowled at Razool and quoted the price. Razool grinned, thanked him, nodded to Ajza and left the shop. The bell over the door rang.

Her father snorted in displeasure and folded his arms across his thin chest. "He is still a wastrel and a no-account."

"He's a college professor," Ajza replied, and instantly couldn't believe how quickly she'd stepped back into that old battle of wills. Her father was a good man. She wouldn't allow anyone to ever say otherwise. But he could be controlling, too.

"Then why isn't he working?" her father demanded.

"He works in Boston." Ajza swept the debris she'd collected into a dustpan. "He's here because his mother just had surgery."

"He left his mother here while he moved away?" Her father shook his head in disapproval. "What kind of son is that?"

Ajza knew better than to touch that. The fact that Ilyas didn't show any inclination to take over the shop had bothered their father. After all, he had worked hard to provide the business for them.

"I think he's very handsome." Ajza's mother put fresh bread out on the racks. Over the years, she'd gained a little weight and was now bigger than her skinny husband. She wore a nice dress and scarf to cover her head, a nod toward traditional dress.

Ajza didn't hold with cultural attire. That was another sore point between her and her father. And her mother didn't insist that Ajza wear any of it. Her father waved away the comment. "Handsome. You don't want a handsome man. You want a man who will work. That's what you want."

"At this point," her mother said, "I would be pleased to see her taking an interest in any man. Even a wastrel and a no-account. At least then I would know there was a chance for grandchildren before I am dead."

For a moment Ajza wondered why she'd bothered to take leave and come back for a visit. She had known what the time here would be like. Her father would worry about the business, her mother would worry about Ajza's lack of a man in her life, and no one would say anything about Ilyas.

But the earlier events had gotten too close. Every time she came out of a deep-cover assignment, she always felt the need to go home again. There was nowhere else she could go that would allow her to be herself again.

She carried the broom and dustpan to the back room. While she was there, she looked at the small space and thought of all the hurried and secret conversations she'd had with Ilyas when they'd conspired against their parents to go out on dates or to school parties. She missed her brother.

Without warning a pair of strong arms wrapped around her. For a moment Ajza almost broke free of them and fired an elbow backward. She caught herself just in time from smashing her mother's face.

"I know," her mother said. "I know."

Without a word, Ajza turned and settled into her mother's embrace. Her mother's callused hands stroked her back and patted her as if she was a child. The tears came then, and so did the old frustration.

They deserved to know what had happened to Ilyas. The government owed them that.

"I'm sorry, Mum," Ajza whispered. "I try to be strong."

"Some days are easier than others," her mother replied. "But we still have each other. That's what we need to concentrate on."

"I will." Ajza held her mother fiercely. "I will."

16

"Give me the money and you won't get hurt, old man."

The harsh threat in the young male voice drew Ajza's attention at once from the street outside the shop. She'd been watching the two intent and quiet young men who had set up camp there in a MINI Cooper.

Ajza glanced at the mirrored disk in the corner of the shop. Two boys — they weren't men by any stretch of the imagination — confronted her father at the counter. They looked like street urchins, dressed in ragged jeans and patched football shirts. They didn't even belong to the same team.

The boy who'd spoken looked as tall as her father, and he weighed more, but Ajza doubted he was even fourteen. His face had the softness of youth, though the eyes were bitter hard. He was very pale, his blond hair dyed blue at the spiked tips.

"Are you deaf?" the boy demanded.

Her father kept his hands folded over his chest and locked gazes with the boy. "I'm not deaf."

"Then what are you bloody waiting for?"

Her father shook his head. "I'm not giving you any money. If you want money, go out and get your own. Or go ask your parents."

The young man drew a switchblade from his pants pocket. The blade snikked as it opened. "I'm going to take yours."

Her father scowled at him. "You are a bad boy. You should be ashamed."

Quietly Ajza strode forward. Her father wouldn't allow himself to be robbed. He never had. In the past he'd beaten would-be robbers with the baseball bat he kept behind the counter. Twice he'd ended up in surgery, once with a cranial fracture and the second time with a gunshot wound. But he didn't seem to acknowledge the threat before him.

From the corner of her eye, Ajza knew that the two men across the street in the MINI Cooper had noticed what was going on. As closely as they'd been watching the building — though they'd tried to act like that wasn't what they were doing — they couldn't have missed the robbery attempt.

"If you don't give me the money," the boy threatened, "I'm going to cut it out of your arse."

"I'm going to call the police." Her father reached for the handset on the counter.

Immediately the boy vaulted onto the counter. At the same time, one of the men across the street launched himself into a run, threading through the traffic and setting off a wave of bleating horns.

"Give me the money!" The youth brandished his knife. "Now, and you won't get hurt."

"Do it." The second boy let a length of bicycle chain spill out of his fist to the floor.

Without a word, Ajza stepped forward and delivered a snap-kick to the face of the second boy. He flew backward toward the entrance.

"What are you doing?" her father demanded.

Ajza didn't reply. She couldn't believe her father was remonstrating with her when the two boys had come there to rob him.

The first boy swung around with his knife, then stabbed at Ajza's face. She dodged to the left, shoved her right arm on the outside of the boy's right arm, wrapped her hand over and caught him under the armpit. The knife was turned away from her, blocked by her body as she held on. Before the boy could set himself, Ajza yanked him from the counter.

The boy wheeled through the air as Ajza maintained her hold. He thudded against the floor on his back, the wind blasted from his lungs. Ajza twisted his wrist with her other hand, then plucked the weapon from his fingers.

"Stop!" Her father rushed around the corner and knelt by the boy. "Stop it now! Do not hurt him!"

Angry, still fueled by adrenaline, Ajza barely held back a scathing retort. Her father was more worried about the boy than he was about her.

The boy tried to get up. Ajza didn't even have to restrain him. He was too weak to rise from the floor. The other boy got to his feet, took a look at his partner, then made a mad dash from the shop.

The man who'd been watching from the MINI Cooper seized the robber by the throat and smashed him up against the door frame.

"Stay," he ordered.

The boy nodded. Tears flooded his eyes as he tried to recover.

The knife wielder erupted in a torrent of curses. He struggled against Ajza's grip but couldn't break free.

"Do not hurt him," her father ordered.

"I won't," Ajza replied.

"I will call the police." He went back to the counter.

"What is going on?" Ajza's mother stood in the doorway drying her hands on a towel.

"They tried to rob the store," Ajza said.

Her father shook his head while he waited. "They would have gone," he said in his native tongue. "When I didn't give them the money, they would have given up."

Ajza didn't think so. The boy she had hold of seemed high on drugs. But she didn't argue with her father.

"Your daughter…" it was always your daughter when he was displeased with her "…insisted on apprehending them. Now I'll have the police to deal with, as well. I have work to do. Police reports and questions will steal my time." He turned away as the phone was answered.

Ajza studied the man in the doorway. He was lanky and clean-cut. He wore a windbreaker, even though the day was too warm for it. She knew the windbreaker covered the gun he carried at the small of his back. The presence of the weapon showed in the movements he made.

Few policemen carried guns in England these days, although more did now than before the threat of terrorist attacks. But he wasn't a policeman, or he would have announced himself.

Plenty of criminals carried guns. Ajza watched him carefully.

"Are you all right?" the man asked her.

"Yes. Thank you."

He grinned and shook his head, much too at ease with violence to be a regular person off the street. Even if she'd not seen him in the MINI Cooper, that alone would have given him away.

"You didn't seem to need me," he said. "You had everything here taken care of."

Not everything, Ajza thought.

The police arrived, and the questions and reports that Ajza's father dreaded began. Ajza stood to one side while the lead investigator ran the operation.

During the ensuing time, the man had chatted casually with her and introduced himself as Jason. He didn't give a last name. Ajza had let him handle most of the conversation, avoiding his attempts to get to know her better. He was, she had to admit, a very smooth talker.

His partner out in the MINI Cooper kept watch.

After a bit, one of the investigators approached Jason. Their talk was short, then the lead investigator came over, chatted briefly, took a look at Jason's credentials and cut him loose from the investigation.

"Looks like I'm the lucky one," Jason said to Ajza.

He should have just walked away. It was what she would have done if their roles had been reversed. She wouldn't have broken cover for any reason less than life-or-death.

Jason had an ego. He liked playing the protector, and he liked playing mysterious.

"We were lucky you were here today," Ajza said, feeding his ego.

Jason smiled. "You're pretty good at taking care of yourself."

"There were two of them."

With a shrug Jason said, "They were boys playing toughs. I'm just glad I was in the neighborhood."

Ajza looked at him. "I know it's awful, but I really don't remember seeing you around."

"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.

The man became aware of her as she stepped alongside him. He swiveled his head toward her, not thinking anything was amiss, just a peripheral read. He should have opened the space between them first.

Without warning, Ajza swung her right forearm around and struck her target in the throat. She caught his right wrist in her left hand and shoved it up behind his shoulder blades. At the same time, she kicked his right foot behind his left leg and caused him to trip.

Off balance and still fighting for breath, the man fell forward. Using his trapped arm as a lever, Ajza shoved him forward. He smashed face-first into the alley wall. As he slumped to the ground, dazed and hurting, Ajza put a knee in his back to pin his arm, then jerked his jacket up and pulled the semiautomatic pistol from the holster at his back.

She flipped the pistol's safety off and shoved the barrel into the man's jaw.

"So far," she said in an even voice that she had to work to achieve, "I haven't killed you."

The man gasped and wheezed and tried to push himself up. He lacked the strength.

"I will kill you if it becomes necessary. Do you believe me?"

The man swallowed hard, obviously trying to regain his breath. "Why are you doing this? I helped you earlier today."

"Yet you hang about and spy on me."

He didn't bother to reply.

"A good Samaritan would have vanished after his good deed." Ajza patted the man down and found his wallet inside his jacket. She took it out. "Seeing you out here all day, I had to start wondering what nefarious things you were up to."

"If I'd wanted to hurt you…"

Ajza pushed the pistol barrel harder into his jaw, making it difficult for him to speak. "Shh. Don't speak unless I speak to you."

"We were here to look out for you."

With a vicious twist, Ajza raised the man's arm. She felt it pop out of place, then settle back in.

He cried out in pain.

"Talk again and I'll break it. You have my promise on that." Ajza felt him cringing beneath her. She hated the way she felt, but all she had to do was think of her parents in the shop across the street and all thoughts of mercy vanished.

She went through his wallet and found his identification almost at once. His name — perhaps — was Warren Lesser. He was a field agent for MI-5, England's domestic intelligence agency.

"Your photograph is a good likeness," Ajza observed. She took it from the wallet and slid it into her pocket. A further check of the wallet turned up nothing else of interest, and she tossed it on the ground near Lesser's head.

Cars passed on the street. Even pedestrians walked by. No one came to investigate.

"I want you to pass a message along for me," Ajza said.

Lesser nodded but he didn't speak.

"Tell your bosses to find whoever put you two onto me," Ajza said. "That person has until ten tomorrow morning to contact me. If he doesn't, then I'll find you and your partner and start making people uncomfortable. Understand?"

Lesser nodded again.

"Tell him he can reach me in a chat room for Annie's Dungeon." Ajza gave the web address and made him repeat it back. "They're to log in as anything with the word cardinal in it. Understand?"

Lesser nodded.

"Stay down and don't try anything. If you do, I will shoot you." Moving carefully, Ajza shifted her weight from Lesser's back.

The man moaned as she released his trapped arm. If he tried to do anything quickly, she knew the limb wouldn't hold up under him.

Ajza kept the pistol in her hand as she ran to the other end of the alley. Before she stepped out onto the street, she shoved the weapon into her coat pocket.

She didn't try to go back to her parents' apartment. It wasn't safe there. The only way she could protect them was to stay away. Until she knew how she'd become compromised, she could only hope whoever was looking for her would leave her parents alone.

20

New York

Kate stabbed a forefinger at the touch-screen monitor and picked up a call on speaker phone. "Sam?"

"I see you're still at work," Samantha stated.

"Guilty." Kate's eyes roved over the other files on her monitor. So many things were coming to fruition on a lot of fronts. Some days she didn't know if she was leading operations or struggling to trail after them. This was one of the latter.

"It appears that we've stirred up a proper hornets' nest with our newest possible protege," Samantha said.

"What happened?" Kate asked.

"She spotted the men I had watching her."

"That proves she's as good as we thought. She's going to have to be if she agrees to come on board."

"Evidently she has her own ax to grind. A short time ago, she approached those men. Took one of them down. Then threatened him."

"Who did you have on this?" Kate asked.

"MI-5. I called in a favor from a friend," Samantha answered. "This won't track back to me."

"What does Ms. Manaev want?"

"To meet whoever put the tail on her."

"That sounds reasonable. Did she give you a place to meet her?"

"No. The men watching her reported that she left her parents' home."

Kate nodded. "She knows she can't protect them."

"That's what I was thinking, too," Samantha replied. "She's setting herself up as a target."

"Or going to MI-6 for help."

"I don't think that has happened."

"MI-6 could provide a bodyguard or take her parents into protective custody," Kate said.

"You and I both know bodyguards only raise the cost of an action. They can't negate it over the long run. Taking her parents into protective custody would reveal what she does."

"Which her parents don't know."

"Correct."

Kate thought about that. "Obviously she's comfortable in her skills to protect herself."

"And she's convinced that whoever is after her is after her alone. She's curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat."

"True. But now we're curious. We knew she would eventually spot the tails we put on her, but we thought she might go to MI-6. She's quite confident in acting independently. That's a quality we value, given the nature of the assignment we're going to ask her to take on," Samantha said.

Kate leaned back in her chair. "She's used to keeping secrets. Her parents don't know what she does. They didn't know what her brother did."

"She's trying to keep it that way."

"Why?" Kate trusted Samantha's judgment when it came to understanding young women.

"She wants a home," Samantha said. "Someplace inviolate where her work doesn't overshadow everything."

Kate opened Ajza ManaeVs computer file and flipped through the images she had of the young woman. Most of them were around the family shop or at corporate functions where she maintained her cover. She looked happy and outgoing. Judging from the pictures, she and her brother were close to each other and to their parents.

"Keeping secrets makes for a hard life," Kate said.

"Especially when you're keeping them from those you love," Samantha agreed. "Ajza told the MI-5 operative that whoever sent him has until ten tomorrow morning my time to contact her."

"How are you supposed to contact her?" Kate asked.

"Through a chat room at an Internet porn site."

"Lovely."

"I thought so. But those sites are heavily protected. After all, most of their clients can't afford to be found out."

"And traffic will be high on those sites."

"Yes. With lots of linkers and people getting off and on — no pun intended."

"She'll use a cyber cafe, of course," Kate said.

"Of course. I would."

"I can put some of our techs onto the site. They can try to ferret her out for you," Kate said.

"Do it. I want to know how good she is."

"We need to know how good she is."

"I'll talk with her, then get back to you," Samantha said.

"Do that." Kate said goodbye and broke the connection.

Kate drummed her fingers on her desktop. "I'm beginning to think Ajza Manaev is too good at what she does," she muttered to herself.

21

Leicester

Ajza leaned into the phone booth at the rail station. The building trapped the noise of conversations and the arriving and departing trains. She glanced at the digital clock over the entranceway to the boarding area and matched it against her watch.

Surely it wasn't too early. Trevor had had hours to work with the information she'd given him. Less than four hours remained before she was supposed to be contacted.

She dropped coins into the slot, punched in a number she'd memorized when she'd first called Trevor, and waited. He picked up on the first ring.

Ajza took solace in Trevor's familiar voice. He was a childhood friend of both her and Ilyas. For a time he'd lived in Leicester, then migrated to London with them when they all attended university. Where Ilyas had majored in history and art, and Ajza had majored in business, Trevor had gotten a degree in computer programming.

Incredibly bright and talented, with the most inquisitive nature Ajza had ever seen, Trevor could have taught the classes he'd taken. Only the constant scams and pranks he'd performed at university had kept him there. He'd become the bane of the computer department because he'd been so intelligent and enjoyed the rivalry and competition as they'd struggled to find some way to expel him.

On more than one occasion, he'd admitted his friendship with Ilyas and Ajza had barely lifted the university experience up to tolerable levels.

"You are making do, I trust?" he asked.

"Yes."

"No lurkers or other dreadfuls about?"

Ajza scanned the passengers who filled the station. "Not unless they're very skilled," she replied.

Neither she nor Ilyas had told Trevor that they worked for MI-6. But he'd kept watch over them and knew they were more than they let on. Besides being very talented with computers, Trevor was a keen observer of people. He'd known exactly when Ilyas and Ajza had decided to keep secrets from him.

Sometimes she felt guilty for not telling Trevor. She knew, when it came to secrets, Trevor could keep quiet better than anyone.

"Let's hope that they're not," Trevor said.

"I haven't much time," Ajza apologized.

"No problem, love. I've got the information you requested."

"Was he really MI-5?"

"Yes. I hacked into their network and confirmed the ID. I also went back through his files and matched up details with news stories. He's the real deal."

Ajza let out a breath. That wasn't a surprise, but it was off-putting all the same.

"So what have you done to raise the ire of MI-5?"

"I don't know."

"Love," Trevor said more quietly and with less-boyish enthusiasm than before, "if you're in trouble with this lot, it can be quite bad."

"I'm not in any trouble that I know of."

"Then why are these blokes interested in you?"

"I don't know." Ajza changed the subject. "What about my parents?"

"They're fine. I broke into the security cameras there. Your pop has already opened the store. He's still a workaholic, I see."

Some of the tension in Ajza's stomach eased. "Keep an eye on them for me, please," she said.

"Of course. You know, if you need a hole to drop out of sight in, I've got a couple."

Not all of Trevor's business interests were exactly legitimate. He sometimes ran computer scams.

"Thank you. That's very generous. I'll keep it in mind. But at the moment I prefer to work this out alone."

"As you wish, love. But do look before you leap. I haven't got many friends, and I should hate to lose another."

"You won't lose me."

"Didn't think we'd lose Ilyas, love, but he was gone before we knew it."

Ajza didn't say anything.

"Sorry, love," Trevor whispered. "I didn't want to have to point that out."

"It's all right. But I think I'm better off out here alone right now."

From the moment they'd learned of Ilyas's death, Trevor had scoured the Internet for information regarding his murder. Trevor had invaded government databases and almost brought disaster upon himself. In the end, he'd had to admit defeat. That was something he didn't easily do.

Ajza checked the time. "I've got to go."

"All right, love. But if there's anything else you need, call me."

"I will." She thanked him and hung up the phone, then walked to the boarding area. Her mind raced. She had to trust that her message had been received. At least, for the moment, her parents were being left out of whatever mess she was in.

* * *

London

Ajza stepped off the train at St Pancras station and glanced around warily. Although she felt somewhat secure in the crowd of people rushing to work, Ajza's paranoia ticked steadily inside her. She discovered it was easier to be on her guard while undercover than at home with her parents.

In Istanbul, everyone she'd met had been a potential enemy. None of the terrain had looked overly familiar. That had been true of several assignments she'd drawn while working for MI-6.

But here in Greater London, everything looked too commonplace. She regularly rode the train from Leicester and frequently walked along the platforms she was on now. She felt even more out of place because she carried no baggage, while nearly everyone around her had a briefcase or valise.

She hailed a cab on Euston Road after making certain no one followed her.

"Where to, miss?" the driver asked.

"Broadway Market, please."

The driver flipped on his meter, pulled away from the curb and battled for a place in traffic. "Do you have any place special in mind, miss?"

"I'm just going to wander." Ajza pushed herself back in the seat and tried to relax.

After paying the driver, noting that her cash was dwindling quickly, she stepped into the flow of people patronizing the local shops and restaurants. The overcast sky promised dreary weather and the possibility of rain.

Broadway Market was a center of activity on Saturdays, when farmers brought their produce to sell. The neighborhood consisted of narrow buildings squeezed among several alleys and narrow streets. It was, Ajza had concluded, a particularly good spot for being elusive if the need arose.

Keeping her head low, Ajza used the shop windows to check the area. She scanned the reflections. No one followed her.

Unless they got here ahead of you — perhaps you're not as clever as you think you are, she cautioned herself.

She forced those thoughts from her head. She was clever. Not only that, she had no choice in what she was going to do.

The sights and smells of all the food around her made her stomach grumble. She knew she had to eat to keep her strength up. During the train ride, she'd managed to sleep most of the hour-and-twenty-minute journey, but that was nowhere near what her body craved. She still hadn't decompressed from the Istanbul assignment.

She purchased a blueberry scone from a small pastry shop, picked up a newspaper to check the headlines and walked into the Java Highway cyber cafe, squeezed between a wedding-apparel shop and a shoe store. The smell of fresh coffee gave her a lift.

A short counter with two staff took up one corner of the room. Computers and tables filled the rest. Dim lighting enhanced the blue-gray screens of the computers.

Ajza paid for an hour and took a computer near the back wall. The doorway to the alley was only a short distance away. She settled in, opened the account Trevor had created for her, then logged on to the Annie's Dungeon website.

She negotiated the handful of screens noting that the user was entering a zone for adult material, followed immediately by images of men and women in garish clothing, chains and holding whips. None of it made an impression on Ajza. This was all pretend. What she had seen in the field — what she had done — was much worse.

She logged into the chat room and looked at the names. No one with cardinal was on the roster provided.

The time was nine-fifty-three.

As calmly as she could, she sipped her coffee. She knew she should eat the scone, but she didn't trust her stomach.

Mum and Dad are fine, she told herself. But she kept thinking how quickly Ilyas had slipped away. He'd been gone before they knew it.

The chat room was active. Ajza watched each new name that entered. She ignored the suggestive and outright inflammatory remarks the other users posted. During her training, she'd been taught how to entice and lure over the Internet. The cyber battlefield took shape the same way as physical terrain. In the end, though, everything was filtered through human lust and greed.

And, perhaps, sometimes self-preservation.

CardinalSin logged on at nine-fifty-seven.

Ajza cracked her knuckles out of habit, then leaned into the keyboard and monitor.

22

Chechen Republic

"Bring them out." Taburova stood in front of the shack where the women were held. He'd spent the night talking and drinking for far too long. Now he was getting a late start and it angered him.

Two of his men entered the shack and herded the women back outside. In the daylight, they looked like scarecrows wrapped in light coats. Most wore headscarves, but none of them had veils to cover their faces. None were beautiful, but a few of the younger ones were pretty enough.

One of the older women fell to her knees in front of Taburova. She cried out for mercy and touched her forehead to the ground.

"Don't cry out to God," Taburova told them. "He will not hear you. Today, only I am listening."

Quickly the other women knelt and pressed their faces to the ground. A handful of them cried, their thin faces jerking with their repressed sobs.

"Your tears will only hit the dry ground, and even it will remain parched rather than accept them," Taburova told the women. "No one cares about you. You are nothing. The Russians made you that way."

The men stood around them with their weapons but didn't speak.

"I could kill you out here and leave your bodies for the carrion feeders."

One of the women looked up. "Please, I have a child. She needs me."

"You disgrace your child," Taburova said. "You disgrace God. And you think only of yourself."

The woman wept openly.

Taburova stepped forward and kicked the woman in the side. She screamed and tried to get away. He kicked her again.

"Be still," Taburova ordered. "And stop crying or I will kill you, instead of offering you a chance to avenge your husband and yourself, and to make your daughter proud of you."

The rest of the women watched him fearfully. They knew what he was talking about, and they knew that — in the end — they had no choice.

"I'm going to offer all of you that chance." Taburova stared at them while the woman he'd kicked shuddered on the ground. "Like God, I don't have to be merciful. You have lost your husbands fighting the Russians. Your sons. Your fathers."

Tears tracked down the faces of all the women.

"Those brave men gave their lifeblood fighting for your freedom," Taburova went on. "You can do no less. Your country needs you."

"My daughter," the woman on the ground wailed.

Anger spiked within Taburova as he turned to look down at her. "Your daughter is an orphan." He pointed the AK-47 at her head and pulled the trigger.

The bullet exploded through the woman's head and the detonation caused the others to jump. Her blood was the only thing that moved on the ground.

"Death became your fate when your husbands, brothers, sons and fathers died," Taburova told the rest of them. "All of you have sinned. You know you have sinned. It stains your hearts, and it brought the bad luck that has left you here."

His words left them shaken. What he told them was nothing new. They had grown up steeped in such beliefs. And Taburova knew that no one who had ever dealt with misfortune felt they were without sin. Every person, eventually, blamed themselves for where they were in life.

These women lived hard lives even before they'd been left without guardians.

"I will give you the opportunity to redeem yourselves," Taburova said. "And to strike back at the Russians."

He paced in front of them, searching the dirty faces for the one who could be the leader he needed among these women. They couldn't all be sheep. God willing, there was a lioness among them.

"Don't you want to make the Russians pay in blood for all that they have taken from you?" Taburova demanded. "They have stripped you of everything. You have no one to speak for you. Stained by sin as you are, you have no chance to get into heaven. I will take you there."

A young woman stepped forward, but she ducked her head fearfully as she faced Taburova. "I will go. I will bring death to the Russians."

Taburova walked toward her. Her resolve lessened as he got closer. She stood on shaking legs with her chin trembling and tears streaming through the dirt on her face.

"Who are you?" he asked in a soft, nonthreatening voice.

"I am Roza."

"That is a fine name."

She bowed her head. Upon closer inspection, Taburova doubted she was sixteen years old. In some ways, she was still a child. Dirt streaked the dark tangles of hair that hung below her headscarf. Sadness and defiance gleamed in her dark eyes. She was thin, but she had a figure.

"My mother's name was Roza," Taburova lied. "She was a fine, brave woman."

Roza nodded.

"Why do you wish to kill the Russians, Roza?"

"My husband was a soldier. He died fighting the Russians in March."

"You loved him?" Taburova was only mildly curious. Some families sold their girls as early as they could to rid themselves of daughters.

"I did." Pride hardened Roza's eyes. "He was a very fine man. A good man to me."

"Did he have no family for you to take shelter with?"

"No. His father and brother died in the same battle. Only his mother and I were left."

"She would not take you in?"

Roza pointed her chin at the dead woman. "She is there. She had no place to go, either."

Taburova stared at the young girl and knew the eyes of all the other women were on them. "Were you a good wife to your husband?"

"Yes."

"And you say you loved him."

"I will always love him."

"Then I will give you a way to honor his memory and once more be with him. Do you want that?"

Roza answered without hesitation. "Yes."

"Then come." Taburova turned to look at the other women. "If you want vengeance for everything that has been taken from you, if you want to strike back at our enemies, come with me."

None of them said anything, but they were all aware of the dead woman at their feet.

Taburova turned and headed down the hill to where Bislan waited. Roza stepped in behind him. He glanced at his men. "Shoot any of these women too cowardly to follow Roza."

"Yes, sir." The soldiers readied their weapons.

Taburova stole a glance to the side where he spotted the squat shadows left by the noonday sun. A row of shadows followed him out of the mountains.

23

London

"It appears I've made a mistake," Samantha said softly. She wore an earwig that connected her to Kate Cochran in New York through a heavily encrypted line.

"CardinalSin might not have been the best choice," Kate agreed. She was also logged on to the website, but Samantha didn't know what name she was using.

"Given the arena in which I'm to play," Samantha said, "I thought the name fitting."

Almost as soon as Samantha logged in to the chat room, a dozen invitations to go to a private area had popped up on the screen. She didn't know how she was supposed to tell which one was Ajza Manaev.

More invitations hammered the screen with text blocks.

The digital clock at the bottom of the monitor clicked over to ten o'clock.

Samantha scanned the names. All of them were offensive and suggestive. None looked like it belonged to Ajza Manaev.

C'mon, Samantha thought angrily. She couldn't believe she'd made the situation harder than it had to be. Some of the people who'd extended invitations became irritated and lashed out at her for ignoring them.

"Do you see her?" Samantha asked.

"No," Kate replied.

"Did anyone log on at ten?"

" Seventeen new names at ten. More are jumping in now."

"This is ridiculous," Samantha lamented.

"She's counting on the volume of users working for her," Kate said.

"Currently they're working against her. I'm not going to be able to tell when she tries to contact me because of all the other invitations."

"Then you're going to have to contact her," Kate said.

"That's bloody unlikely." Samantha swore in disgust. "I don't know who she is."

"You don't know what her name is in this chat room," Kate stated quietly. "But you know who she is. Give her a way to let you know who she is."

Samantha's fingers flew across the keyboard. She typed a general message — If you want to talk to me, tell me your brother's name.

* * *

Ajza stared at the entry by CardinalSin. As soon as she'd seen the name in the chat room, she'd known her contact would experience problems getting to her. She hadn't expected that.

The invitation quickly scrolled up. A dozen chat-room users quickly submitted names, either their own or whatever came to mind. One even offered to allow CardinalSin to name him or her whatever he or she wished.

Indecision twisted Ajza's stomach for a moment. She made herself breathe.

She typed in Ilyas and waited.

* * *

"I have her," Samantha told Kate.

"I see her," Kate said. "We're starting the trace at this end, but I don't expect she'll be on long enough for us to secure it."

Samantha silently agreed. She typed rapidly trying to entice the young woman into meeting with her.

* * *

Ajza refused the request for a meeting. She glanced at the time. Trevor would be working his magic by now. If everything went right, he'd know where the contact was coming from. However, he'd told her she could only spend minutes in the chat room before they were exposed. She was nearing that limit.

I thought maybe you'd be interested to know how your brother died.

Stunned, Ajza watched as the statement scrolled up toward the top of the chat box. Other users chimed in and started asking questions, wondering if their dialogue was some kind of role play and whether they could get in on it.

Ajza's prepaid cell phone vibrated. She knew it was Trevor because he was the only one she'd given the number to after she'd bought the phone in Leicester. However, given everything the mysterious people tracking her seemed to know, it was possible she wouldn't know the person on the other end of the call.

She scooped it up and answered it.

"Get out of there," Trevor said.

"What if they know how Ilyas died?" She knew Trevor was tracking the chat-room conversation.

"It could be a trick. They know you, Ajza. They know which buttons to push."

Ajza didn't say anything.

"You're exposed." Trevor strained to keep his voice calm. "I can't keep you safe if you don't follow my advice."

Was it about safety anymore? Ajza thought of the gaping hole Ilyas's death had left in her family. It was a wound that wouldn't heal. Could she pass up this opportunity? Even if it was bait in a trap?

"Ajza," Trevor pleaded.

She ignored him and typed rapidly. Where do you want to meet?

"You've got to get out of there," Trevor said. "For all you know, they could be right outside the door."

Paranoid, Ajza glanced at the door. At that moment it opened and two young men wearing T-shirts entered. She watched them.

"Ajza."

"Have you tracked the connection at the other end?" she asked.

"I've tracked it back to the United States."

That surprised Ajza. She hadn't expected the trail to go there.

"They've also got a big-time nasty computer system," Trevor said. "It's negating nearly everything I can throw at it, and I'm throwing the lot. I've tangled with very few sites as intricate as this."

"Government or corporate?" Ajza asked.

"I honestly couldn't say, love. But these bloody well sure aren't people you just muck about with for no reason."

"I've got a reason."

"Ajza," Trevor said. "I don't want to lose you, too."

"You won't." Ajza's eyes tracked the conversations, looking for further dialogue from CardinalSin.

A moment later CardinalSin wrote, Why don't you pick the place?

Ajza thought quickly, then typed, Jubilee Gardens. Near the memorial.

* * *

I'll be there.

How will I know you?

I'll know you. We'll talk about your brother.

His name was posted in this chat room.

* * *

There was a brief pause. I'll mention the name of the man you spied on in Istanbul.

Shocked, Ajza realized that whoever she was talking to knew far more than she'd ever expected.

"Does that mean anything to you?" Trevor asked.

"Yes."

"Then get out of there. This could all still be a bloody trick."

Ajza didn't think so. If these people knew as much as they evidently did, they could have come for her in a straightforward manner. So why had they come at her this way? It was irritating, and it made her curious.

When can I meet you? Ajza typed. If they were located in the United States, she expected travel arrangement would have to be made.

Say, two hours?

Surprised, Ajza stared at the entry.

"The connection tracks back to the U.S.," Trevor said, "but they've got someone located here in London. This is getting dicey, love. Doesn't leave us much time to prep."

"We couldn't prep enough for these people," Ajza said. She typed, I'll see you there. Then she logged off the site.

"Get up and get moving," Trevor said. "The longer you hang about there, the more dangerous it's going to get."

Ajza knew that. She grabbed her coffee and scone and left the building.

24

London

Samantha slid into her car, keyed on the ignition and lowered the windows a bit to let the hot air out. Then she turned the air conditioner on fall. In her mirrors, she watched the two security men get into two different black sedans. A moment later the first one pulled into traffic and she followed it. The second sedan trailed her.

She punched numbers into her phone. Kate answered on the first ring.

"Well?" Samantha asked.

"She's exactly what we thought she'd be," Kate replied. "I'm leery of the public meeting place."

"If she hadn't spotted the men we had on her, I might have been able to approach her more easily."

"That's off the table." Kate sighed. "We'll just have to play this out as it is."

"At some point," Samantha pointed out, "we'll have to trust her."

"I know. I'd just like a little longer to get there."

"We could delay this. I don't know if that's the wisest course. The problem in Chechnya is either high priority or it's not. Your call."

"Given everything I've learned about Taburova and Mustafa's sudden interest in brokering weapons — American weapons — I want a look inside Taburova's operation as soon as possible. We don't have anyone else free who could slip inside the way I think Manaev can."

"True, but I'll have to tread carefully," Samantha said. "I'm risking exposure here, and I don't want to be taken out of the game."

"You feel that you have to make this meeting?" Kate asked.

"Without question," Samantha said.

"All right. While you're doing that, I'm going to see if I can get some help inside Moscow."

"Do you have someone there?"

"Of course I do," Kate said. "I have someone everywhere. For all its nonexistence, Room 59 is big. Stay in touch."

* * *

"I see you, love. Don't get your knickers in a twist."

Even though she had chosen the meeting place, Ajza felt incredibly vulnerable. Mothers and nannies took children to the park. A few of them held brightly colored balloons that bobbed in the gentle wind. Sunlight slanted through the trees and cast moving rectangles across the green grass and winding walking paths.

"I'm fine," she said. Trevor waited at the other end of the phone connection. Ajza's hair hid the earpiece she wore. She was fine. She reminded herself of that.

But she knew she'd feel better if she had a pistol on her. Despite taking the one last night, she hadn't brought it to the park. She was already in trouble if MI-6 was watching her meet with someone she didn't know — for reasons she couldn't quite fathom herself, other than to try to keep her family safe.

Maybe if Ilyas hadn't gotten killed, or if MI-6 had been more forthcoming about his death, she wouldn't have been so concerned. However, MI-6 had lied to her parents, had lied to her and had blackmailed her into continuing that lie to her parents.

She owed them nothing regarding her personal life.

However, getting caught with a weapon by a passing policeman who thought she looked suspicious — and she was certain she did look suspicious — wasn't a good idea. She wasn't authorized to carry a weapon inside the country.

"Have you cut into the video feeds?" Ajza resisted the impulse to look at the cameras hidden around the park. With the terrorist-threat level high, covert video equipment had blossomed everywhere.

"I'm in, love. You don't have to worry about me." Trevor sounded calm and collected. "I see more now than you do. I'm everywhere."

Ajza glanced around the park again, suddenly aware of how much her aloneness made her stand out. Everyone else was there with someone. Parents played with their children or talked to each other. Young lovers walked hand in hand. A handful of young men threw a Frisbee.

Quietly Ajza cursed. She didn't know why she was looking. She didn't know who she was supposed to meet. In fact, she didn't even know if she was going to meet a man or a woman.

She focused on the need to keep her parents safe, and she told herself she was clever enough to get away no matter what happened. Ilyas's smiling face filled her thoughts, even though she didn't want it to. He'd always been so confident of everything he'd done, always worked to stay one step ahead of everyone.

What got you caught, Ilyas? What got you killed? Those questions cycled constantly through her mind. At the moment, they almost consumed her.

"Hey." Trevor's voice held a note of concern.

"What?" Ajza looked around, then took a few steps toward the street, ready to get out of the area. She headed out of the open space into the trees.

"Somebody's spoofed the blinking camera."

"How?" Ajza put more muscle into her stride. Her heart hammered within her, urging her to run.

"Don't know, love, but whoever did it, he's cherry, he is. I'm looking at the screen, but it's showing the same footage over and over. Techs monitoring this at the desk, they're not gonna notice it."

A trapped feeling filled Ajza.

"Do you want me to call the…"

The earpiece went dead in Ajza's ear. She pulled it out and pocketed it so that her hearing was sharper.

"Ms. Manaev, over here."

The woman's voice surprised Ajza. It was quiet, totally controlled. Like someone who was meeting an acquaintance.

Ajza tracked the voice back to the lone figure standing under a nearby tree. The woman stood with her hands, fingers spread out, at her sides. The stance wasn't natural, and Ajza knew of several weapons that could be hidden or quickly retrieved.

"We cut your friend out from the cameras and your phone connection," the woman said. "I do want to talk to you. Please don't panic."

Don't panic? Ajza seized the anger that floated up inside her. She used it to fuel her movement.

"Perhaps we should both be feeling a little panicked at the moment," Ajza said.

The woman smiled. "If it's any consolation to you, I'm not exactly at ease either."

But you have friends that shut my friend out, don't you? As Ajza closed in on the woman, she watched the frees through her peripheral vision. She expected the woman's bodyguards to close in on them, but no one appeared to take any special interest.

"Who are you?" Ajza demanded as she stopped in front of the woman.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that at this point."

"Then this conversation is going to be one of the shorter ones you've had." Ajza stared into the other woman's eyes. "Don't come looking for me again. Next time won't be as pleasant." She turned and started away.

"You showed a lot of finesse back in Istanbul, Ms. Manaev. Ditching the weapons like that was quick thinking."

Ajza refused to be played. She didn't know how the woman knew about the Istanbul mission or what she'd done there. She made herself keep walking. There was obviously a leak somewhere. Evidently someone had chosen her as the weak link. That was a mistake on their part.

"What are you going to do, Ms. Manaev?" the woman asked. "Talk to your superiors about the conversation you've had with me? Do you think they'll understand why you didn't talk to them sooner?"

Keep walking, Ajza told herself. Stay in the frees. Make use of cover in case they don't want to let you just walk away from this. She felt eyes on her, but she couldn't pick out where the watchers were located.

* * *

I'm not going to lose her, Samantha thought. She wants to know what I know. She needs this meeting more than I do. But that thought only made Samantha feel guilty because she knew she was about to exploit Ajza.

"You want to talk to me, Ms. Manaev." Samantha didn't move. "Don't you want to know what happened to Ilyas?"

Samantha steeled herself, reminding herself again who she was, who she worked for, and that she would do whatever it took — use anyone she had to — in order to accomplish her goals. That wasn't, she knew, a sterling trait in a person. But in the espionage game, it was a necessary trait.

Ajza's measured stride faltered. She kept walking, but Samantha saw the effort it took.

Samantha watched Ajza continue walking and restrained herself from moving or speaking. The bait was there. Ajza had to choose.

Ajza managed another three steps. Then she stopped. With her fists jammed into her jacket, she took a deep breath and looked out at the people around them.

Samantha knew that Ajza hadn't spotted the Room 59 team keeping watch. None of them were close enough. In the end, Ajza's choice of meeting places had trapped her. Samantha had only used it.

The park was a family place. Ajza had thought she'd be safe there, away from harm. However, the park — as Samantha had known — served only to remind her how incomplete her own family was since her brother's death.

Ajza spoke without turning around. "Do you mean it? About Ilyas?"

"I don't know who killed him," Samantha admitted. "But I know where he was killed. I know what he was involved with."

That was more than MI-6 had told Ajza. "This is the truth?" she asked.

"Yes."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"I've got files."

"Whose files?"

"MI-6. With corroboration from the FSB — the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation." Kate had managed to provide that.

Ajza took another breath, then turned and walked back to Samantha. "You're one cold-blooded bitch, lady."

"I know. And if I weren't, we wouldn't be standing here together in this park, nor would we have the chance to find out who killed your brother."

"Enough." Ajza's voice quivered with rage. "You don't deserve to keep bandying his name about. I won't tolerate it."

Samantha bowed her head and didn't speak.

"You're not here because you want to know who killed my brother," Ajza said.

"No. However, I believe what I want and what you want are connected. I believe doing one will take care of the other in the long run."

Defiance gleamed in Ajza's dark eyes. "What is it that you want me to do?" Ajza asked.

"To finish the mission your brother started."

Ajza concealed her shock and responded without hesitation. "All right. I'm in."

25

London

The tea shop was within walking distance of Jubilee Park. Quaint and colorful, with pale green tea roses painted around the windows, Green Moon Tea held the modern world at bay outside the doors and transported patrons back a hundred years.

The servers wore frilly dresses in styles that hadn't been seen in decades. The hardwood floor gleamed. An ornate hat-and-coat rack, complete with a stand for umbrellas, stood beside the door. The scent of freshly baked bread filled Ajza's nose.

Over the years, the tea shop had become a favorite of Ajza and Ilyas's. They occasionally met there for lunch, and — even more infrequently — Ilyas brought a young woman there for Ajza to meet. The same one never came twice. Ilyas was charming and adored women, but he had no desire to get too serious.

A server brought a tea service and showed them to a private tea room. A single table and four chairs occupied the center of the room. Shelves on the walls held old books and knickknacks. A rectangular window looked out toward the park. Above the trees a lone red balloon sailed skyward.

"Not the most private of places," Ajza commented.

"On the contrary," the woman said, "this room was swept for electronics only minutes before our arrival."

Ajza thought that might be true. Her cell phone continued to be useless. "I didn't come here to compromise myself," she said.

"No, I suppose you didn't." The woman walked to one of the bookcases and removed a volume. She took out what looked like a plastic sheet about the size of typing paper. Embedded electronics caught the light and glistened.

Without a word, she placed the sheet on the table, then attached to it a small device not much larger than a cigarette lighter. Instantly the plastic screen flickered and a picture formed.

Even though Ajza had seen the technology before, it still took her breath away. The sheet served as a computer monitor and the attached device was a Wi-Fi receiver. The resulting image was sharp and full of color. Trevor would have totally wigged if he could have seen it.

"Do you know this man?" The woman touched the cruel face centered on the screen. He wore an eye patch. A rainbow hue spread out from her finger, briefly obscuring the man.

Ajza studied the face. She couldn't help wanting to ask if the man had been involved in Ilyas's death. She refrained through sheer willpower. The game, for the moment, belonged to the other woman.

"No. I don't know him. Should I?"

"I thought there might be a possibility."

"What would cause you to think that?"

"Because he's the man Mustafa brokered the weapons for."

"How do you know that?"

"Because — like you — I'm in the business of knowing things. This is one of the things I know."

Ajza sipped her tea and studied the woman more closely. She was calm, very sure of herself.

"Who's the man?" Ajza asked.

"His name is Mayrbek Taburova. Have you heard of him?"

"No."

"Mustafa never mentioned him?"

"If Mustafa had," Ajza said in a level voice, "then I would have heard of him."

The woman nodded and smiled. "Forgive me. That wasn't a test."

Ajza believed her. Despite the iron control the woman exhibited, she looked tired. If she'd taken her compact from her pocket to check her own reflection, Ajza was certain she'd have looked equally tired.

"Did my brother know this man?"

"This man was your brother's assignment from MI-6. I don't know if your brother knew him, but he would have known o/him. Taburova is Chechen. One of the diehard rebels fighting for independence. Given you and your brother's ancestry and familiarity with the language and customs, your brother would have been a perfect candidate for sending over there. His youth and inexperience also helped, because he wouldn't have been known in espionage circles."

"Although those very things might have been what got him killed," Ajza said bitterly.

The woman didn't shy away from the accusation. "Perhaps. Your brother didn't have to accept the assignment."

That wasn't Ilyas, though, Ajza thought. He loved playing the games, getting away with things. Ajza had feared for her brother every time he was away from her. He wasn't reckless. He was too clever for that, and he didn't relish the idea of getting killed. But if there was an opportunity to get away with something, he would have taken it.

"Ilyas wasn't one to walk away from challenges. Especially not difficult ones," she said.

"I see. Did your brother ever talk to you about his assignments?"

"No." That wasn't exactly true, because they had shared information about field contacts and assets.

"You don't know the kind of work your brother did for MI-6?" the woman asked.

"It was suggested, forcibly, that we not discuss our missions."

"You don't usually find operatives from the same family."

"For some reason, we were an exception."

"The reason isn't hard to figure out," the woman said. "You and your brother scored high on the entrance exams. And there's the culture. Neither of you is far removed from Eastern Europe."

"My brother died before Mustafa bought those weapons," Ajza said. "That was a year ago. Was Taburova trying to buy weapons then?"

"We don't know. We stumbled onto the same information you have at the same time you did."

Ajza thought about the other team that had been on-site in Istanbul. If — and that was a big if — this woman was part of that group, they were well funded.

Or was she part of a mercenary force hoping to score the weapons, drugs or cash that changed hands? That was always possible when you were dealing in the shadows.

"You already know Taburova wanted the weapons," Ajza said. "If my brother was sent over there to find that out, then that has been accomplished."

"Your brother was sent over there to monitor Taburova."

"What makes the man so important?"

"He's in the business of coercing shahidka to strike against the Russians."

Ajza frowned.

The woman tapped the high-tech sheet of plastic. Immediately several images of women dressed in black robes, heads covered and faces veiled, filled the screen. In addition to the women, there were also scenes of destruction, all the result of high-powered blasts.

In the last picture, Moscow uniformed police stood over the body of a woman who'd been shot in the temple. Her coat hung open and revealed the blocks of plastic explosives strapped to her body.

Ajza knew about the shahidka. They'd been given the name — the Black Widows — because their husbands had been killed fighting the Russian army. Some said that the shahidka were cursed, born into trouble and bad luck, and death to any man who took their hands in marriage.

Of course, there was no way anyone could tell if a woman was a shahidka. There was no test, and they weren't marked by God until after they'd lost their husbands.

Women in Chechnya married young, sometimes as early as thirteen or fourteen. The men they married weren't much older, and they became soldiers the instant someone thrust a rifle into their hands.

Unable to afford mercy to the young troops, the Russian military often killed them. Those deaths doomed the women, as well. When a woman's husband died, she became the property of her husband's family. She could be separated from her children, have her house taken and be left out on the street or sold to another.

Or she could end up as a Black Widow.

"The question is," the woman said, "what would a man in control of human bombs need with an arsenal? Especially an arsenal of American weapons?"

Ajza crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. "You want me to find out what Taburova planned to do with a shipment of American weapons?"

The woman across the table sipped her tea and didn't bat an eye. "Plans. What he plans to do with them."

"Those weapons are history." Ajza took a little pride in that.

"If Taburova wants American weapons, he'll find them. Other people can get them for him."

"The task is impossible."

"In what respect?"

"My work," Ajza still refused to admit she worked for MI-6, "prevents me from leaving at this time."

"That can be attended to," the woman said.

Ajza arched an eyebrow doubtfully.

"You don't believe me?" the woman asked.

Before Ajza could retort, her cell phone rang. She checked the number, discovered she didn't recognize it and started to return the phone to her purse.

"You need to answer that," the woman said. "That will be your supervisor advising you that you've been given indefinite paid leave."

Ajza still ignored the phone despite the claim.

The woman tapped the sheet lying on the table again. This time when the picture reformed, it showed George Crayle, her supervisor, standing on a street corner at a pay phone. Crayle was in his fifties, dapper and silver-haired. As always, he wore a dark suit.

In disbelief, Ajza answered her phone. "Hello."

"Do you recognize my voice?" Crayle asked.

"Should I?" Ajza countered. The first rule in the agency was to deny involvement.

"Yes." Crayle sounded irritated. "I don't have time to play games. These people have had me cooling my heels for the past hour, but they want their end of things done yesterday. I'd have been much better off working my caseload."

Ajza didn't know what to say. They had passwords in place to let one another know if they'd been compromised. George Crayle used none of them.

"Pick a number," the woman suggested, "between one and five. Give him the number."

"I'm thinking of the number four," Ajza whispered.

Incredibly, Crayle held up four fingers. "They wanted you to do this," he said, "to see that this is in real time. Do you believe it's me?"

"Yes." Ajza looked at the woman, who was calmly pouring herself another cup of tea from the pot that had been left with them.

"I don't know what you've stepped in, but it's certainly deep enough," Crayle said. "I've been given instructions to let you know that the choice you make is entirely up to you. Neither I nor the department will try to influence you in any way. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Ajza said, knowing that she understood only that whoever the woman represented, they were capable of a lot. "Do you know the woman I'm with?"

The woman didn't try to stop Ajza from asking questions.

"No," Crayle said. "Nor do I want to know." Crayle shifted around nervously. Ajza knew he was still trying to find the person shooting video of him. She didn't blame him for feeling uneasy. "I was told to give you this message. I have. My part in this is done. Good luck with whatever it is you're involved in."

The connection went dead at the same time that Crayle hung up the phone on the screen. A moment later the screen went dark.

Across the table and tea service, the woman folded her hands and waited.

After a moment Ajza put her phone away. She felt as though the earth had tilted on its axis. "Who are you people?" she asked hoarsely.

"We're the good guys," the woman responded. "And we'd like you to perform this mission for us."

"And if I choose not to?"

"Then you'll get a call from Mr. Crayle in the next day or so and go back to work as if all this had never happened."

"You went to a lot of trouble to get a refusal from me."

"Is that your answer?"

"What if it was?"

"Then I'd thank you for your time, excuse myself and go find someone else."

"Who?"

The woman shook her head. "I can't tell you what I don't know. Also, you wouldn't be privy to that information."

"You knew to come after me."

"Yes, but you're not the only recourse we have, Ms. Manaev. You are our first choice."

"Am I supposed to be flattered?"

"You can feel that way if you like, but that's not what I intended." The woman paused. "You showed a real flair for thinking on your feet in stressful situations while in Istanbul. We believe you have a lot of potential. However, this mission is extremely delicate. You could easily get killed. We want you to understand that going in."

"If Taburova concerns you, he could simply be terminated," Ajza said.

The woman nodded. "That's one way to deal with this, yes. Unfortunately, often when you cut off the head of something like this, someone else merely steps into the breach to take over. We need to know what is going on before we make a decision about how this should be handled. Think of this as exploratory surgery. In the end we may choose to walk away."

"It doesn't seem that you would go to so much trouble just to walk away."

"You'd be surprised how many times we do that. We could also choose to give a few details to the right people." The woman sipped her tea. "The organization I represent reaches around the world, Ms. Manaev, but we don't put ourselves above it. We try to keep the trains running smoothly. And we try to remain invisible. We only adjust situations that can't be resolved on their own. We've yet to be convinced this is one of those."

"And if it is one that will adjust itself?"

"Then you come home and go back about your business."

Ajza sat quietly for a moment and let the emotions churning through her settle somewhat. "Did Taburova kill Ilyas?"

"We don't know."

Some of Ajza's doubts unknotted. Lying to her, telling her that the Chechen was responsible for Ilyas's death, would have been easy. It was what she had expected. And if the woman had instantly said yes, Ajza would have assumed she was lying.

"Then why did you bring Ilyas up?"

"To motivate you. What we're asking you to do, it isn't easy."

"I don't know where Ilyas was killed. His body was returned to us without any information," Ajza said.

"His death would have been hard to explain. Your parents didn't know your brother was involved in espionage. They don't know that you are."

Ajza sipped her tea and remained silent. Denying the charge would be a waste of time, but she couldn't acknowledge it, either.

"I can prove your brother was there when he died." The woman tapped the cybernetic sheet again.

Ilyas's MI-6 identification flashed onto the screen. Other images of Ilyas in training and on the street followed in quick succession.

"How do I know these aren't fakes?" Ajza asked.

"Because you know," the woman replied. "You were trained in many of the same places your brother was." She touched some of the other faces involved. "By some of the same instructors."

The old Israeli who had taught her classes in krav maga was especially memorable. From the look on Ilyas's face, the training had pushed him to the limit, as well.

"Your brother died in Moscow," the woman said.

More images flashed across the screen. The background became Russian. Ajza had been to Moscow enough herself that she recognized some of the landmarks.

Still, the photos could have been manipulated. These days a digital image didn't prove anything. A picture might still be worth a thousand words, but each one of them could have been deceit.

"There was a bomb," the woman said, "in the Presnensky district." She halted. "I'm sorry, but these next few images are pretty graphic. I'd rather not show you."

Acid burned at the back of Ajza's throat. She hadn't seen Ilyas's body when it had been returned to England, but she'd heard what the Human Resources person from the "corporation" Ilyas worked for had told her parents. Her brother's body had been broken and ripped apart, burned over seventy percent and was largely unrecognizable. His ID had been confirmed through DNA and dental forensics.

"Show me." Ajza almost didn't recognize her own voice. It sounded like it was a million miles away.

For a moment the woman looked like she was going to object. Ajza saw the hesitation in her perfect features. Then the severe look softened to a heavy sadness.

"Death," she said quietly, "is always a horrible thing when you've known — and loved — the person who was killed." She touched the screen.

26

London

The first image showed a bomb site. Ajza's mouth dried and sickness swirled through her stomach. Her head felt as though it might detach itself and float away.

"This was taken by a tourist," the woman said. Her dark eyes regarded the scene, and Ajza got the impression that she was seeing it for the first time as well. "Moscow's Federal Security Service arrived quickly, but it was already too late. None of the people involved in the bombing was caught."

The blast range was impressive. Trees had been ripped to pieces and fences lay in disarray over bodies on the frozen ground.

Even though Ilyas had died more than a year ago, his loss bit into Ajza with renewed fury. She wanted to ask which body was supposed to belong to Ilyas at the same time she wanted to debunk the image as false.

"Your brother was almost at ground zero when the explosion occurred," the woman said.

"What created the explosion?" Ajza was surprised that she'd spoken, but even with all the confusion and hurt spilling through her, her training kicked in and chased the answers she knew she'd need.

"We believe it was a bomb. There were reports of a person walking into the area and then blowing up."

Ajza thought of the pictures of the shahidka bombers. She couldn't understand how anyone could cover herself in explosives and walk into enemy territory and deliberately blow herself up.

"They believe this was the result of a suicide bomber?"

"Yes. Nothing else in that area had the potential for creating an explosion like that."

"What about a rocket attack? An RPG-7 or something like that?"

"The FSB's reports are conclusive about the bomb. And the possibility of a rocket launcher also implies a definite target."

"Have the identities of the casualties been confirmed?" Ajza couldn't believe she talked so distantly of the act of violence that had taken Ilyas's life. It's your training, she told herself. You've learned to distance yourself. But it still hurt.

"They have been."

"Ilyas wasn't identified in Moscow?"

"No. The British Embassy worked through channels to claim his body." The woman hesitated. "It would have been easier to disavow your brother."

Then we would never have gotten his body back to bury, Ajza realized. The possibility left her shaken even now. They would never have known what had happened to him. Death was preferable to that.

"Did Moscow know who Ilyas was?" Ajza asked.

"No. Things became difficult for a time. Everyone involved knew that Ilyas was connected to an espionage agency. The papers he carried were good forgeries, but they were forgeries."

Ajza swallowed with difficulty. "Could Ilyas have been the target?"

"If someone had discovered your brother was a spy, he would have been killed somewhere else. Somewhere less public. It would have been better if your brother had simply disappeared."

That was probably true. It made sense. Ajza had never been involved in something as cold-blooded as assassination. That took a mind-set she didn't have.

"For the moment," Ajza said, "I'll take your word for it. But you're taking the word of the FSB."

"We've got someone on the ground in Moscow," the woman replied. "A separate report was generated from an independent investigation. Our agent agreed with the initial findings."

"Based on tourist pictures?"

"Based on forensic evidence left at the blast site."

Ajza knew much of her reluctance to accept the report stemmed from her refusal to acknowledge Ilyas's death. "You said Ilyas was near the center of the blast."

"Yes." Another image, this one obviously shot from the top of a building, showed the surrounding area. Three bodies lay bent, broken and burned on the pavement.

Ajza's eyes blinked and she felt the heat of unshed tears. She felt bad that she couldn't immediately pick Ilyas's body from those lying there.

The woman tapped the screen and the next image took shape. This one was of Ilyas, close enough to recognize his maimed and burned features.

Unable to stay still, no longer able to distance herself from what she was seeing, Ajza stood and walked away from the table. She stopped in front of the window and felt the heat of the blunted sun across her skin.

The first time Ajza tried to speak, her voice refused to cooperate. The second time she succeeded. "My brother was there to investigate the shahidka?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any proof of that?"

"Enough, I believe. I can let you see Ilyas's field reports and the dossier on the operation." The woman paused. "When you're ready."

"Do you know if Ilyas knew Taburova?"

"No."

Ajza forced herself to take a deep breath. "You realize that if I take this assignment, my gender is going to prove to be a problem."

"I know that women have no real rights in Chechen society. We also think that your brother's gender may have been a problem. Women can get overlooked. Your brother may have attracted attention. Someone might have made him."

Ajza shook her head. "No. Ilyas was good at role-playing. No one would have known who he was."

A brief moment of feeling foolish passed through Ajza. She couldn't let her hero worship of her younger brother impede her processing of this terrible event. "Something else happened," she said. Even though that was partially stated out of pride, she also knew it felt right.

The woman remained silent for a time. "Even if you accept this assignment, Ajza, you might never find out what happened to your brother."

I will find out, Ajza told herself. She willed her passions to turn ice cold. There would be no pain, no fear and no anticipation until she allowed it. She turned back to the woman and knew that the difference she'd just made within her heart probably showed.

"You said you only wanted exploratory surgery done here," Ajza said.

"Yes."

"I'm going to be honest with you." Ajza knew she didn't have to be so forthright. In fact, what she was about to admit could work against her. However, playing the card also allowed her to see more of what the woman and her organization wanted.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," the woman said.

Ajza almost smiled bitterly at that. Both of them were holding secrets and she knew it. "If I find out what happened to my brother — if Taburova was involved in Ilyas's murder — I won't leave him in place. I will kill him."

* * *

New York

"You know," Jake said laconically, "I'm liking her more and more."

Kate stared at the scene in the tea room. Ajza remained unflinching as she faced Samantha.

"She could be a loose cannon," Kate commented.

"At least she's working on our side," Jake said.

"She could get herself killed."

Jake leaned back and laced his hands behind his head. "She's not going to let this get to her, Kate. If her brother's murder was going to seriously jack with her, the Brits would have pulled her from undercover work."

A line of text formed at the bottom of Kate's monitor. At the other end of the connections routed into her office from the tableau in England, Samantha tapped out a Morse-code message against the pressure-sensitive sheet.

RESPONSE?

"Tell her she's in," Kate said. "We'll have a man in place in Moscow to run damage control. But she has us over a barrel here. We can't get someone else in such short time who would fit in over there. She also knows Mustafa's organization. If there's another connect between Istanbul and Taburova, she'll probably see it before any of us do."

"And she knows her brother," Jake said. "Now that she knows where he was killed, she'll try to pick up the trail. At this point, even if we didn't bankroll her, she'd go."

Kate knew that was true. "All right, Samantha, let's clear her and find out what she can do. Tell her you'll be in touch."

Onscreen they watched as Samantha did that.

"Then, if there's nothing more," Ajza said, "I need to go. I'm certain my parents are worried about me. I didn't have time to say a proper goodbye when I left last night."

"Of course." Samantha stood and took the sheet of plastic from the table.

"How will I contact you?" Ajza asked.

"We'll be in touch with you, Ms. Manaev."

"How long should I expect to wait?"

"Will you be ready to go in…"

Kate consulted the timeline she'd constructed for Ajza ManaeVs insertion into Moscow. "Five hours twenty-seven minutes."

"…five hours twenty-seven minutes?" Samantha asked.

"All right," Ajza answered.

"You'll be flying out of Heathrow to Prague. Once you're there, you'll get further instructions."

"I'll be ready. Will I see you again?"

"No," Samantha said. "Unless something goes badly wrong. I'd rather we never see each other again."

27

London

Since they had walked to the tea shop, Ajza felt certain the woman would leave the same way. Only two blocks down, Ajza took shelter in the doorway of a Chinese laundry and watched the shop. She was aware of the two young Chinese girls staring at her back as they tried to make sense of what she was doing there.

Ajza knew the woman had deliberately waited to leave. And she expected the woman would know Ajza might try to follow her.

In the end, though, Ajza had to do it. The woman knew too much and she'd left Ajza knowing next to nothing. The information about Ilyas's death might be an elaborate hoax, though Ajza couldn't see what the woman would get out of that.

But they had promised a lot. Getting out of the country on such short notice wasn't going to be easy. Then again, manipulating Crayle and MI-6 wasn't a simple thing to do, either.

The ease with which the woman and her organization seemed able to do things concerned Ajza most of all. That kind of power tended to corrupt everything it touched. If Ilyas hadn't been involved — and believing that gave her hope she might find answers about his death — she wouldn't have let the woman finish her spiel. She would have gone directly to MI-6.

At the same time she wondered if being discovered trying to tail the woman would be a deal breaker. If the story about Ilyas was true, she needed these people to put her close to Taburova. She might be able to do it alone, given time, but even if she quit MI-6 today, it would be months before she could get to Moscow.

Just then, the woman emerged from the tea shop and strode briskly to the street.

Ajza shifted and readied herself to follow. The woman stopped at the street as a black sedan cruised to a stop. She was inside in a heartbeat and the car continued on its way almost as if it had never stopped.

Before the car disappeared from sight, Ajza's cell phone rang. She plucked it from her pocket, feeling certain it was the woman.

"Hello?"

"Can't blame you for trying," a polite male voice with a definite American accent said, "but you're wasting time we don't have. Good hunting out there, and good luck, Ms. Manaev."

The phone clicked dead in Ajza's hand. She cursed, folded the phone and pocketed it. Then she walked to the street and flagged a cab.

* * *

The woman looked like a university student. Blue-effects dye colored her blond hair. She approached Ajza at her gate at Heathrow.

Shifting her carry-on, Ajza put it between herself and the young woman, who smiled.

"Ms. Manaev," the young woman said, "your aunt sent you a care package." She extended an envelope.

Ajza took the envelope, conscious of the security guards standing at post. "I'll say one thing for you people — you're polite."

"And punctual." The woman blew a pink bubble and popped it, then smiled. "Have a nice day." She walked away.

Ajza located the nearest bathroom. Inside one of the stalls, she tore the manila envelope open and upended it. A new set of identification, credit cards and cash dropped into her palm.

She called Trevor and asked him to do a background check on the ID to verify its stability and to get a lead on the people who'd furnished her with the ID if he could. He was wary of the assignment.

"You realize that they could have given you this ID because it's loaded with packet-sniffers," Trevor said. "Those things, if they're good, can ferret out an Internet link and data incredibly fast."

"Think of it as a challenge," Ajza advised. "Get back to me as soon as you can."

"Will do," Trevor said with a sigh.

Ajza returned to the gate and found a seat to wait for the boarding call. The first stop was Prague. She was supposed to meet her contact there.

Idly she glanced at the television screen in the bar only a short distance away. Several men in Soviet military uniforms and carrying weapons were converging on a downtown shopping area. The object of their pursuit fled through groups of tourists.

Ajza's stomach tightened as she read the dateline scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

Moscow Live. Suicide bomber pursuit.

28

Moscow

Taburova stood in the shadows on the rooftop of an apartment building and watched the action in the street. He tightened the focus on the night-vision binoculars he used. The FSB had responded quickly to the call they'd received. Taburova knew that because he'd placed the call to the security agency and alerted them to the potential bombing.

News teams filled the street, as well. Taburova had called them first. Their response time had been almost as impressive, but their ten-minute lead had dwindled to five. He hadn't called the local news, though. He'd called a BBC team currently in Moscow filming a documentary on czarist Russia for the History Channel. He'd gotten the number from one of his contacts who had approved the government visas for the British journalist team.

The journalists set up around a van at the side of the street across from a nightclub. They used a satellite link to put the story on air live. Of course, that was a violation of their visas, but Taburova doubted the British team would receive more than a slap on the wrist for their indiscretion. Errant journalists would be the least of the problems in Moscow soon.

Clad in full riot gear, the Moscow police closed on the nightclub. They held clear, bomb-resistant shields and carried machine pistols. The nightclub's neon lights played over the shields and the black armor.

Potential visitors to the nightclub immediately shied away and ran to the other side of the street. Several collected by the same building where Taburova stood on the rooftop. They were young and foolish, he decided. Or they were tourists from out of the country. In the end it didn't matter. They were curious and were all potential victims.

"Are you certain that Lovyrev is inside?"

The voice came from Taburova's earpiece. The tension and suspicion in the speaker's voice came through strongly.

"Yes," Taburova answered. "LovyreVs mistress likes to frequent this place. She's American."

"He's always had a weakness for American blondes."

Taburova knew that. His knowledge had decided the night's attack. "It's an understandable weakness."

"I've found they talk too much."

Not unlike some politicians, Taburova thought unkindly.

"Just because the woman prefers this nightclub doesn't mean she's there now with Lovyrev," the man suggested.

"I," Taburova responded smoothly, "have it on the best authority that they are inside." He had bribed one of LovyreVs support staff to stay apprised of the politician's whereabouts. Tonight had been set up in advance. It was an anniversary for Lovyrev and his mistress.

"We'll soon see."

Taburova didn't care for the smugness in the other man's tone, but he let it pass. At this moment in their relationship the man was beyond reproach. But the moment Taburova no longer needed him, things would change.

The police set up a cordon at the nightclub's entrance. They used megaphones to announce themselves, then tossed flash-bang grenades through the door. A moment later the street echoed with deafening thunder. Smoke rolled from inside the building. Then the armored policemen charged inside. Muzzle flashes flickered within the structure. The sounds of rock music vanished, replaced by screams and hoarse shouts.

One of Taburova's three bodyguards tapped his shoulder. He glanced at the man, then saw him indicate the limousine's headlights down in the alley next to the nightclub.

"That is LovyreVs limousine?" Taburova asked his bodyguard.

"Yes," the man replied.

Taburova removed a remote detonator from his pocket and pressed the power button to activate it. He wouldn't wait long. Plenty of police occupied the building, and he didn't want the nightclub's patrons to escape. Capitalist Russia held its doors open to other nations these days, and they were all targets in Taburova's eyes. A national repercussion was one thing, but killing citizens of other countries raised the stakes dramatically.

Abruptly two bomb techs clad in bulky gear debarked from a large truck and trotted toward the nightclub.

"They are sending in a bomb crew," the man announced over the phone.

Taburova scowled. He saw them for himself.

"What does this mean?"

Taburova barely resisted cursing the man for being dimwitted. The answer was immediately apparent even before a policeman emerged from the building holding a woman's handcuffed wrists above her head.

The woman wore street clothes and a loose jacket. Through the binoculars, Taburova saw the fear on her face. She was young and good-looking enough. Taburova remembered her from her indoctrination in the camps he'd set up to prepare the women for their salvation.

Red lights gleamed on the explosives that draped her body under the jacket. She screamed and cried and fought against her captor. But she didn't trigger the explosives.

In truth, Taburova didn't blame the young woman. Death was a hard thing to face.

The FSB bomb techs rushed forward with heavy bomb blankets and wrapped them around the woman. She fought them, probably fearing that they might trigger the explosives she wore.

"A pity," the man on the phone said.

"What?" Taburova scanned the nightclub for more activity as his thumb caressed the remote control.

"That your Black Widow is not so willing to part with her life."

"You don't understand the depth of her commitment. She has only lured more of her enemies to her," Taburova said. He pressed the button and closed his eye.

The explosions ripped the woman to pieces and blew the bomb techs and FSB officers in all directions. The bright lights washed over Taburova's closed lid but were blunted enough to save his night vision. Then the sound slammed into him, followed by the concussive wave.

Partial deafness deadened his hearing somewhat, but he heard the keening screams and hoarse cries of disbelief that rose from the street. A circle of destruction defined the blast area, which spread outward from the scorched pavement.

Both bomb techs lay in pieces. The armor only guaranteed that the majority of their bodies remained together. The concussive wave had shattered the windows of most of the surrounding police cars. One of them had flipped onto its side.

"I stand corrected," the man said. "Your Black Widow has proved quite lethal."

"They all are, and they will continue to be." Taburova took pride in that.

"What of Lovyrev? Has he escaped? That would be tragic."

"You are Russian." Taburova smiled at his own wit. "Tragedy is always part of your life."

"His death would serve us all."

"Agreed. Which is why he will die tonight." Taburova watched the nightclub's side exit as the door opened.

A bodyguard exited the building first, followed quickly by Lovyrev and his mistress. The Russian politician was in his early forties and had dashing good looks, which the press had made the most of. The American woman was young. Her golden hair shone in the streetlights as Lovyrev yanked her after him.

The British film crew suddenly surged free of the police barricades and ran toward the alley beside the nightclub. The FSB struggled to maintain control over the front of the nightclub, but they also tried to respond to the shifting media presence. Other onlookers trailed after the BBC crew, either out of interest or out of self-preservation.

"What is going on?" the man asked.

"The BBC has just been given information about Lovyrev and his presence in the nightclub." Taburova trained his field glasses on the alley and watched as LovyreVs bodyguard yanked the luxury car's rear door open.

Lovyrev shoved the woman in first. Taburova hoped that the BBC crew was close enough to record that. Lovyrev was a media darling, a bleeding heart who wore his thoughts and feelings on his sleeve. Of course, there would be those who faulted the man for spending the evening with his mistress. Most of his supporters would forgive him, though. The public, Taburova had learned, often forgave the icons they chose to love.

"He's getting away," the man said.

Taburova said nothing and watched as the sleek sedan sped for the alley's mouth. Another young woman stepped from the shadows into the path of the car.

29

New York City

The screen before Kate displayed headlines from international papers.

BLACK WIDOW DEATH DEALERS

BLACK WIDOW BITES CHECHEN NATIONALIST SUPPORTER

CHECHEN TERRORISTS RECOGNIZE NO ALLIES

Most of the images showed the women that had blown up in front of the Moscow nightclub. Some showed the resulting carnage and the victims left dying in the street. Other images showed terrorist bombers in traditional Islamic dress — as they'd dressed during the Beslan Massacre when pro-Chechen terrorists had taken more than a thousand schoolchildren hostage.

Even years later those images from the school haunted Kate. Still, though things had gone badly there, she knew it could have been much worse. So many children had been involved.

She studied the different stories, flipping through them with the wireless mouse she wielded in one hand. Occasionally she clicked on stories and downloaded them to her personal workspace on the server.

She preferred the reports of only a handful of journalists because they were good and she'd learned to read between the lines. Reporters wrote what they could prove, but they didn't always write what they suspected. Still, if a skilled reader knew what to look for, she could read between the lines and glean a lot of information that way.

Kate's earpiece buzzed for attention. "Yes," she said.

"Director," Christian Sorenson greeted. He was one of the on-site techs who worked for Room 59. In his late twenties, Sorenson had been a child prodigy in whose curious hands a computer became a dangerous weapon. Not only was he one of the best hackers in the espionage business, he specialized in manufacturing computer-generated evidence. His ability to recreate events on computer and forge evidence was almost supernatural.

"What have you got for me?" Kate asked.

"We identified the second woman from the Lovyrev assassination."

The first woman hadn't had any history that the intelligence section could dig up. The Moscow newspapers hadn't identified her. Even European muckrakers hadn't been able to turn up any information about her.

"How did you make the identification?" Kate asked. "I thought no one had any footage of her."

"They had footage," Christian disagreed. "May I borrow your view screen?"

"Sure." Kate tapped her passcode into the mouse. A section of the screen blanked.

"We had to get creative to get the identification," Christian said.

The view screen rolled through the footage of the bomber attack. LovyreVs car roared out of the alley and a woman stepped in front of it.

"This is where they had the image," Christian said.

The footage stopped with the woman standing in front of the sedan. The vehicle was only a few feet away, frozen.

Kate's stomach tightened, knowing that if the footage was allowed to progress the next second or two would show the vehicle hitting the woman. She had seen the sequence of events multiple times. During her career with the CIA and since with Room 59, she'd seen several such acts of violence but hadn't become inured to them. Most days she was thankful for that.

"The windshield," Christian said. "The woman's face is reflected in the windshield. The image — as you can see — is difficult at best. It's distorted, stretched and rounded from the windshield surface. Not only that, but the windshield was bulletproof, allowing a whole new set of refractive qualities I had to figure in to get a good reflection captured. I ended up writing a whole new program over the last couple of days that allowed my computer to crunch out a new image."

The reflection was lifted from the windshield and hung suspended in the section Christian manipulated. Behind it the car, the alley and the tragic events disappeared. Kate was silently thankful and tried to push the thoughts of the woman's horrible death from her mind as she concentrated on the computer tech's efforts to identify her.

The captured face looked stark and ghastly. Light and distortion robbed the image of flesh tones and individuality. Stretched as it was, the face looked more like a ghoulish mask.

"Once I had the image," Christian went on, "I had to adjust it. I had to bring the overall dimensions back to something human and try to maintain the integrity of the features without altering them too much. Otherwise she could have been anyone."

As Kate watched, the face changed subtly. In seconds it shrank and became something recognizable as human. Incredibly the face became even more horrifying because the woman's fear and helplessness were revealed without restraint.

"Sorry about that," Christian said. "I've been working with that woman's face so much over the past couple of days that I forgot how she looked at that moment. From the reading I'd done on them, these women are supposed to be willing martyrs. Still, the whole experience would have to be terrifying."

"These terrorists want you to believe the Black Widows are willing martyrs," Kate said. "If you look into it, you'll discover that most of those young girls are drugged out of their minds at the time they sacrifice themselves, or they've been repeatedly beaten and raped to the point that death is preferable to living."

"Didn't know." The computer tech sounded quieter. Kate knew that the cyber world Christian habitually dwelled in usually didn't deal with terror and death that had faces. Collateral losses generally had a bottom line in his world, not an identity. "I just thought they were believers in the cause," he said.

"They believed in it," Kate said. "The cause just didn't happen for them."

"That kind of explains some of the background I found on this young woman," Christian said.

On the screen, the image slid over and another image popped into place beside it. The second image showed a much younger girl with a shy smile.

"Her name was Nuura Shishani," Christian went on. "She was seventeen years old." He paused for a moment. "My younger sister just turned seventeen, and she's still in high school and thinks getting a date for the prom is a problem."

Kate didn't know what to say to that and she didn't even try. Sometimes there were no reference points in the worlds she dealt with.

"Did you identify her from police records?" Kate asked.

"No."

Another image appeared on the screen. This one showed the young woman's face again. She was surrounded by other girls in a small village. The ramshackle houses and dilapidated farm equipment testified to how far from civilization Nuura Shishani had grown up.

"She went missing seven months ago," Christian continued. "I used facial-recognition software to sort through news databases and turned up this image first."

The image pulled back to reveal that it occupied a quarter page in a magazine. French writing bracketed the picture of the young woman.

"A French anthropologist was doing a study in Nuura Shishani's village when she went missing," Christian said. "He was appalled by the way the people in the village, including the family, seemed to take the girl's disappearance. According to him, they didn't do much more than a cursory search for her. Everyone just said she had a lot of bad luck. Like it was a disease or something, the anthropologist wrote. Her husband — and I couldn't believe she was married — died in a confrontation with Russian soldiers."

"She was widowed," Kate said. "In that culture, she belonged to her dead husband's family."

"Then they should have been out looking for her."

"Those mountain people don't have a lot," Kate said. "They work hard just to get through each day. Chasing after a missing girl was beyond their resources."

"But the police…"

"The only police out there," Kate said, "are Russian military. Even if they believed Nuura Shishani had gone missing, they wouldn't have risked anyone looking for her. She could have been bait in a trap."

Kate studied the innocence in the young woman's face. No trace of that existed in the frightened image reflected on the luxury car's windshield.

"Were you able to tie her to Taburova?" Kate asked.

"Not yet. I'm still working on that. I've hacked the FSB's files regarding the bombing, but I've got no joy so far. However, working on the theory that Shishani was abducted, I've identified three local possibilities for connections to the Black Widow camps."

The images of the dead woman disappeared and were immediately replaced by the images of three men. All of them looked rough.

Kate recognized two of them.

"I assembled the files on these guys by cross-referencing what was in the FSB's databases and what was in Interpol's, as well as Eastern European police agencies. From everything I've been able to pull together, these men are players."

"We've tied Maskhadov to Taburova," Kate said.

"I didn't know that."

"You weren't supposed to. But what you've found bears out what we thought we knew," Kate said.

"That's good, I suppose. I wanted to identify the woman if I could. I thought maybe you could figure out a way to let her family know what happened to her."

"If we can." Kate guessed that the family already knew. Still, few televisions existed in the mountainous terrain where Nuura Shishani had been born and raised. Kate had already developed assets in the area. A message might be passed on.

But that wouldn't happen until Ajza Manaev was home free. Kate's stomach knotted a little as she looked at MaskhadoVs scarred face. Cruelty showed in every line, and bleak apathy filled his dark eyes.

And Maskhadov was the man Kate had sent Room 59's newest recruit to. She checked her watch, did the time zone calisthenics and knew it wouldn't be long before Ajza made contact with the man.

30

North Caucasus Region Outside Chechnya

Ajza woke at the light touch on her elbow. For a moment the darkness and the noise left her disoriented, then she remembered she was on a cargo plane flying into Russia. The red warning light flared quickly to her right and dimmed. She couldn't believe she'd fallen asleep, but after hours of flying the plane's vibrations had a lulling effect.

"Are you with me?"

The speaker was Ajza's sole contact aboard the plane. She'd been forbidden to visit the cockpit. She hadn't been especially curious about who piloted the craft. After she'd put herself into the hands of the people running things, she'd focused on the mission.

"Yes," Ajza answered. She was worn and weary from traveling for two days. The trip had required several stops along the way, and there were more ahead of her.

"Good." The shadows in the cargo hold hid the man's features. Ajza had the impression that he was young, probably no older than she was, but he had the air of a seasoned veteran. "Jump point's coming up in about eight minutes."

"Have you made contact with ground support?" Ajza stood and checked her gear. She was nervous, but she tried not to show it.

"They're waiting." The man looked at her. Even in the darkness of the cargo area he seemed to know she wasn't comfortable. "You jumped much?"

"No. I've been trained, but I haven't done it much." Ajza felt guilty admitting that, as if she was putting part of the responsibility on him.

"It's no sweat. If you've had training, you know what to do."

Ajza nodded, realized he might not have seen that response and said, "Okay."

"Want me to go through your checklist with you?"

She hesitated.

"Hey," the guy said, "I buddy-up every time I jump. I never go through the door without someone else checking me over. I just didn't want to assume and cause hurt feelings before you were out the door."

"If you don't mind," Ajza said.

"I don't." In a quick, concise manner that showed practice and expertise, the man took her through the pre-jump checklist.

"This is a static line jump," the man said. "You gotta clear the plane before you pop the chute. The static line will trigger the initial chute release. Make sure it opens. Don't try to see the chute because it's black and you might not see it. Check the stars. We've got a clear night out here. You'll know the chute's open when you feel the tug, and you'll know it's full when you've got a rectangular void of stars over your head. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Trust the equipment. It works. If the first chute fails out, you've got a second try."

"Yes."

The man put his face closer to hers and turned so his features were caught in the brief flicker of the red light. He gave her a reassuring smile. "It won't fail out. You're going to be fine. I hear it's rough down there, but you're safe until you're on the ground. Copy?"

"Copy." Ajza pulled her goggles and oxygen mask into place.

The man led her to the side door, then hauled it back. Wind snarled into the cargo area and pulled at Ajza's black jumpsuit.

"You're traveling light," the man said as he snapped the static line to her parachute's ripcord.

"It's that kind of mission," she responded.

The man shook his head. "Me, I never felt right unless I was fully rigged out for combat. Whatever you're here to do, that's enemy territory down there. Otherwise we wouldn't be sneaking you in."

"I know."

"If Russia hadn't opened up to European trade, getting you in here would be even harder. As it is now, you could almost fly in commercially."

Ajza nodded and looked at the yawning black night on the other side of the door. The wind buffeted her and made it hard to stand. The suit was designed to help slow her fall and give her some control before she opened the parachute. Now the suit's loose folds worked against her.

"Coming up on your mark," the man said over the roar of the wind.

"Ready," Ajza said, and tried to act like her stomach wasn't turning to water. Night jumps had always made her leery, and she'd never jumped into harsh terrain that wasn't part of an exercise. She tried not to think about the waiting rocks and trees.

The man tapped her helmet. "Go."

Ajza stepped past him and threw herself into open space. She felt the slight tug of the static line plying out behind her. Then she was falling toward the dark earth far below, gaining speed with every second.

* * *

Moscow

Sergei Prokhorovs phone rang and he guessed it was his partner Mikhalkov. The old man seemed to hardly sleep these days with the case they were working. When he mulled over an investigation in the middle of the night, often questioning facts but not his gut feelings, Mikhalkov didn't hesitate to call and discuss his thoughts.

For a moment Sergei thought seriously of ignoring the phone. But if it was Mikhalkov and he didn't answer, the old man might show up at his apartment and bang on the door. That had happened before, as well, and Sergei's neighbors had made their displeasure known to him.

All things considered, Sergei didn't want to get dressed and go out into the night. He pulled his cell phone from the nightstand, flipped it open and answered.

"Alexi?" a woman asked.

The voice was unfamiliar to Sergei. He felt certain that if he'd ever heard it before, he would have recognized it.

"Excuse me?" Sergei hoped she would repeat herself. This time he would be ready. He'd listen again, more closely, and see if he could identify an accent or anything unique about her voice. He'd tried the ruse before but to no avail.

The phone clicked in his ear. She was gone.

After a quick glance at the digital clock on the nightstand, Sergei grabbed his pistol and dressed quickly. He paused only to check out his window for any signs of someone watching him. He saw no one.

Paranoia, he told himself. That's all.

* * *

North Caucasus Region Outside Chechnya

Less than ten feet above the ground, Ajza cut the parachute free of her harness and dropped into a roll. Despite her protective clothing, rocks scraped and bruised her as she spent the energy from the drop. The terrain became a dizzying blur, but she made it to a low stand of brush.

The parachute drifted away, black fabric waffling in the gentle breeze. It disappeared in the surrounding trees.

"You can come out," a thick male voice said in Russian.

Ajza didn't move. Her hand strayed to the 9 mm pistol at her hip. She hadn't been able to carry much into the field because no one wanted her identified if she was caught. She was grateful to have the pistol.

"You can come out," the voice repeated in English.

Smoothly Ajza drew the pistol and waited. Using her peripheral vision, she spotted the shadows flitting through the forest.

"Please," the man said, "don't try my patience. If we meant you any harm, you'd already be dead."

A ruby dot suddenly materialized on Ajza's hand. Her immediate thought was to flee, but she knew it was already too late. Three other laser sights joined the first. Reluctantly she got to her feet with the pistol at her side. The laser sights remained on her.

A short, squat man stepped from the shadows as quietly as a forest creature. His beard reached his chest and he wore a coat against the chill of the night. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties. Effortlessly he carried a bolt-action rifle in his right hand.

"Very good. You are an intelligent woman. No one could stand in the face of such adversity." The man smiled and approached.

The other shadows in the forest closed in a little more, taking their lead from the man. The ruby dots disappeared, but Ajza's unease remained.

"Are you all right?" the man asked.

"Yes," she answered.

"Sometimes a parachute drop in the middle of the night can be hazardous," he said.

"I managed."

The man smiled again as he kept coming. "Can you speak Russian?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What about Chechen?"

"Like I was born here." During the long flights over, Ajza had listened to the language CDs that had come in the package with her replacement ID. She was already fluent in the language, but the CDs helped her pick up the local accent. She'd always been good with languages. That was one of the reasons MI-6 had recruited her.

The big man nodded. "Very good." He seemed genuinely pleased. He came to a stop in front of her. "In my years, I have seen too many of your kind come here to die. Most were men."

With an economy of movement that caught the big man off guard, Ajza brought the pistol up and shoved it beneath his shaggy chin. She pressed hard enough that the barrel dug into his flesh. The click of the hammer rolling back sounded loud in the night.

"I didn't come here to die," Ajza said as coldly as she could, trying desperately to sound as if she wasn't afraid. She locked eyes with the big man. "But I'm prepared to."

The man moved the rifle so that the barrel rested against Ajza's chest. "Maybe you have a chance," he said softly. "At the very least, you are going to be dangerous when cornered."

Ajza ignored that because she didn't know if the comment was a compliment. "You have a word for me and I haven't heard it yet," she said.

The man's smile grew huge. "You are young, aren't you? Still believe in those silly games your people teach you."

Ajza didn't say anything.

"Apple," he said in English.

"Queen," Ajza said as she lowered the pistol. She didn't put it away. Beyond the man, nine lean shadows remained partially masked by the darkness.

"I am Ivan." The man rubbed his chin and stared at Ajza as if measuring her.

Ajza cocked a doubtful eyebrow at him.

"It is as good a name as any," Ivan said. "And perhaps, with capricious fates, it is my own."

"Okay, Ivan," Ajza replied, "now that we both know we're who we're supposed to be, let's be about our business."

Ivan studied her for a moment longer. "Do not let your need to be confident overshadow your need to be afraid. The men you are going to go among are not used to strong-willed women. If they see you as a threat or as a challenge in any way, they will choose to break you." He shook his big head. "These women they influence are only chattel. Do you understand? They are only the property of the men."

"I know that," Ajza said.

The grin left Ivan's face and he shook his head sadly. "The people who sent you here are either desperate or foolish."

Ajza's face grew hot and she wanted to respond bravely, wanted to tell him that perhaps she'd been sent because only she could complete the mission. But she couldn't get the words out. Stubbornly she held his gaze and tried not to show the fear that flowed through her.

Ilyas had died in this country, and he'd been hunting the man she'd been sent here to ferret out. That thought remained uppermost in her mind, and not even her anger over her brother's death or her need for some sort of justice could move it aside.

"Come along, then," Ivan said as he turned toward the forest. "We have a long walk ahead of us and I do not want to grow too attached to you."

31

Moscow

Moscow cooled and quieted at night. Not even the capitalist economy managed to turn that around. In the old days the Russian soldiers had kept the streets clear of loiterers. These days crime had replaced the military and kept the night in check.

Sergei thought about that as he approached the pay phone next to the convenience store off Red Square proper. The location was a short distance from his apartment building. He'd walked, instead of taking the car the police department had assigned him. Sometimes they checked mileage, and sometimes they checked the GPS locaters in the vehicles. Also, it was easier to tell if he was being followed if he was on foot.

He held a cup of coffee in one hand and dropped coins into the pay phone with the other. The warmth soaked through the cup and into his flesh. The scent tickled his nose and washed away some of the fog that curled stubbornly through his brain. He wanted to be sharp for the conversation.

He punched in a number he'd memorized and waited. The phone was picked up on the other end and a man's voice said, "We'll call you back," in Russian.

Sergei hung up and stood at the phone. He hated the vulnerability he felt while standing there, but there was no help for it. He also hated the insecurity that filled him.

For four years he'd worked for a clandestine agency he knew next to nothing about. Most of the time he'd merely done reconnaissance or interviews or poked around in the criminal underworld he knew. Then he'd reported back with whatever he'd discovered and never heard anything again.

All he knew was that the party he'd called was powerful and could reach into FSB's administration when necessary. Sergei's superior had assigned the extra details to him. He'd also ordered Sergei never to talk about anything he learned about whomever he worked for.

"It would be better," the man had said, "if you don't go asking questions, either."

"Why?"

"Because the man who sat at this desk before me started asking questions. That's how I got his job."

"They killed him?"

"Worse," the man said with a grim face. "They reassigned him to Siberia."

Even though he was expecting it, the strident ring of the phone startled Sergei. He spilled hot coffee across his hand, then cursed at the pain. But he scooped up the phone.

"I am here," he said.

"Thank you for coming," the woman said. "I know it's late there."

Meaning that it was not late where she was? he noted.

"You have only to call," Sergei said. "You know that."

"Yes, but your involvement and dedication is appreciated." She spoke English, which he was fluent in.

A car drove by. Automatically Sergei turned inward and raised the coffee cup to shield his face. He watched the car in his peripheral vision.

"We have a situation in your country," the woman said.

Sergei's stomach tightened. Any involvement he'd had with the woman and her cohorts had been limited to information about people in Moscow or passing through the city. He'd only been required to keep an eye on them. His job with the FSB had been more dangerous.

But the people he'd kept tabs on had sometimes disappeared or been assassinated. He wasn't sure if the agency was responsible for those assassinations or had just failed to prevent them. Neither scenario left him feeling comfortable.

"Someone is trying to smuggle a cache of American weapons into Russia," the woman said.

Sergei's pulse sped up a little. He said nothing. He'd learned not to respond unless asked to.

"We've been able to trace some of the money," the woman told him. "A few hours ago we found out some of that money came from a man named Joseph Kirinov. We know you're familiar with Kirinov."

Sergei hesitated only a moment, wondering how much she knew. "Yes."

"I'm told your partner shot Kirinov yesterday."

"That is correct." Sergei wondered how the woman had access to information so quickly. The old paranoia he'd learned from his father crept into his mind.

Remember this always, my son, his father had said. The KGB is always watching. They wait for us to make mistakes.

"Kirinov was at the hotel to see a woman," the voice said.

"Yes." Sergei's hand holding the coffee cup shook as he wondered how much to say. "Her name is Irina…"

"Rachmanov. Yes, we're aware of her."

Sergei felt embarrassed. "I did not know her last name."

"Why?"

"My partner did not tell me her last name."

"We'd noticed that Irina Rachmanov wasn't arrested."

"My partner — we— felt it would be better if she weren't." Sergei lied because he wasn't going to let Mikhalkov take the blame for the decision. Sergei could have arrested the woman himself at any time.

"Why?"

"My partner has a history with her," he answered honestly.

The phone connection buzzed for a moment.

"Your partner's career record is spotty," the woman said finally.

"He's been in law enforcement in this country for a long time."

"Do you trust him?"

That was the question Sergei asked himself nearly every day of his life. So far he had always known the answer.

"With my life," he replied, though some days that wasn't by choice.

"We need to know what Rachmanov knows about Kirinov's business."

After a moment's deliberation Sergei brought the woman up-to-date on Irina's information regarding the American weapons. He also relayed Irina's consternation at the use for them.

"Do you think she's told you all she knows?" the woman asked when he'd finished.

"I do not know her well enough to guess," Sergei admitted.

"Does Mikhalkov?"

That was another puzzle. "I do not know."

"Find out," the woman said. "We need that information as soon as you can get it."

"What is going on?"

"At the moment," the woman told him, "you know as much as we do. Be careful working this one. It's close to home for you."

The phone went dead.

For a moment Sergei stood in the cold confines of the telephone booth. The chill ate into his bones, and he knew not all of it was from the weather. He thought about going to get a fresh cup of coffee, but he knew from experience that too much caffeine would keep him from sleeping any more that night.

But after the phone call he didn't think he'd be sleeping, anyway. He walked back for another cup and wondered how close the danger on the assignment was.

He also wondered where the greater danger lay: in what Mikhalkov wasn't telling him? Or in what Room 59 wasn't telling him?

32

Outside Chechnya

Lying flat on her stomach in the brush dotting the mountains overlooking the collection of ramshackle huts, Ajza concentrated on memorizing the layout and tried not to be sick as she gazed through the high-powered binoculars. Several armed men patrolled the perimeter. A few armed women patrolled with them. They treated the people they guarded with cold indifference.

"Not all of the women are captives," Ivan whispered quietly beside her. "A few of them have risen to positions of power within the terrorist hierarchy. Those women are the ones you see with assault rifles."

"Taburova needs women who can take the other women into the cities." The realization that the women sacrificed the others disgusted Ajza. "He has to have guides to take the women to the places where they can do the most damage."

"Exactly." Ivan grinned, but the effort lacked mirth. "Those women who betray the other women are the true shahidka. The true Black Widows."

Ajza quietly agreed. The level of betrayal for such an operation was almost beyond her understanding. Only the fact that anyone would do anything if properly motivated made a believer of her.

The female captives in the camp looked emaciated and hopeless. A few lingered outside to smoke cigarettes and tend the communal fire. Others had retreated to the buildings, but they weren't safe there. The men entered the buildings at will and forced themselves on the women.

The thin, plaintive screams echoed in the foothills Ajza tried to ignore them, but they cut more deeply each time. She couldn't stop imagining how harshly the women were being treated.

"There is nothing you can do for those women at this point," Ivan said.

Azja wanted to say that she knew that, but she found she couldn't speak. Her throat locked up.

"You are doing this as a means to help them," Ivan said. "It is more than many are doing."

They watched in silence for a few more minutes.

"How long has this camp been here?" Ajza asked.

Ivan cocked his head to one side. "Months. Perhaps longer. The gardens they have planted tell me it has been at least that long."

"You haven't done anything to help them." Ajza tried not to make her words sound like an accusation, but she knew she failed miserably.

"No," Ivan agreed. "I have not."

"You have men."

"I do, and there's not one of them who wouldn't put an end to this if it would do any good."

"What do you mean?"

Ivan rubbed his whiskers with his fingers. The slight rasping barely reached Ajza's ears. "Destroying this camp would only make these men move to another location. To do any good, we must cut off the head. I was told you were sent here to do that." He nodded toward the camp. "Knowing the location of this place makes these men vulnerable. And we can take pictures of the women being trained here. Once they are moved, if we can act quickly enough, they can be picked up before they carry explosives into the city."

"How do you stop them?" Ajza asked.

"Sometimes we simply pick them up and relocate them. Unfortunately this is not always possible."

Ajza looked at the man but didn't ask the question that preyed on her mind.

"When we have to," Ivan said, "we kill them before they are able to be used as human bombs."

Another wave of sickness assaulted Ajza. She wondered about the trail of unmarked graves that undoubtedly wound through the hilly terrain.

"This is war," Ivan stated quietly. "Those women and the terrorists they represent don't reflect true Chechen nationalist interests. We are willing to fight for our freedom and trust that God will watch over us, but will not make war on innocents."

"Those women are innocent," Ajza said.

"Some of them, yes. And that is sad."

Ajza turned her attention back to the field glasses and watched the site again. A door opened on one of the houses and a woman brought out a four-or five-year-old boy. Although she was too far away for Ajza to hear the conversation or read lips, it was apparent the woman had brought the small boy out to attend a call of nature.

"There are children here," Ajza whispered. Although she'd seen the information in the files she'd received, the fact hadn't caught her attention.

"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."

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."

Sergei put the photograph back into the file folder he'd carried from the medical examiner's office. "According to the records I've seen on Ivanov, he worked with many people."

"Yes. He acted fearless, but he was not. He was just foolish. He often acted as a face, a go-between for people to make dangerous liaisons. It is a wonder he lived as long as he did."

"But he was not part of Kirinov's organization?" Sergei asked.

"No. A man like Emile Ivanov was an insect compared to Kirinov."

"Has Irina told you why Kirinov was interested in Ivanov?"

"Only that Kirinov was supposed to ensure Ivanov made good on a deal that he had helped put together," Mikhalkov said.

"Kirinov had an interest in this deal?"

"No."

Sergei thought about that and quietly gripped the steering wheel. "Then why would Kirinov be interested in such a deal?"

"That is one of the questions we must find an answer to, Sergei." Mikhalkov shifted uneasily in the passenger seat. His fingers drummed briefly on the car door while he surveyed the crowd around them. "Kirinov was not a man that could be pulled into an action by just anyone. And the rewards — whatever they were — had to be high to pull him back to Moscow."

"Do you have any thoughts about what those rewards might have been?"

Mikhalkov hesitated for a time, then appeared to come to an abrupt decision. "Money would not have pulled Kirinov back to Moscow. Greedy as he was, Kirinov had more than enough money. He would not risk his life for more. Whatever he was after, it was personal."

"Revenge, perhaps?"

"He could have hired his revenge. He could have purchased the death of someone here in Moscow. For a bonus, he could have had his enemies delivered to wherever he was staying and killed them himself. No, this was something more important."

Sergei slid the file into his briefcase and locked it. "Then we find the woman."

Mikhalkov nodded. "We start there. She is but a stop along the trail. However, we must expect resistance along the way. Whoever worked through Kirinov and Ivanov, this person has a lot of power."

Sergei felt a tingle of fear in his stomach. It wasn't often that Mikhalkov was cautious, and he'd learned to take note when the old man was.

34

Outside Chechnya

Ajza sat with her back against a tree only a few feet from a well-traveled footpath. Moonlight reflected from a small pond a hundred yards away. Nocturnal creatures, furred and feathered, made their way to the water to drink and to hunt.

Having her hands cuffed behind her was uncomfortable. She hadn't once asked to be uncuffed because she knew it would do no good. Achmed and his men saw her only as merchandise. Not only that, after being told that Russian soldiers had taken her, they saw her as soiled merchandise.

She'd only been allowed the use of her hands for feeding herself and for personal needs. The rest of the time she'd endured the handcuffs. The metal had scratched her wrists and threatened infection. Her face bore scratches and bruises from the times she'd fallen over the rough terrain.

The men sat and talked among themselves. Achmed eyed Ajza in cold fury. She knew that he ached to break her in spite of the warning Ivan had given him. Although it had been hard and not in her nature, she had managed to avoid looking him in the eye.

Five other women had joined their expedition through the mountains, bringing their total to thirteen. The number was ominous even among the slavers, and there had been some concerns about that.

Ajza sat in the darkness and tried to sink into the rough tree bark. Whenever the fear inside her rose, she thought of the other times she'd been undercover and alone. She'd narrowly avoided death on several occasions while working for MI-6. But there had always been a contingency plan.

Like the plan in Istanbul? she taunted herself. That had worked out really brilliantly, hadn't it? Memory of that only brought on a fresh wave of fear. Concentrate, she commanded herself. Stay focused. In order to get out of this, you have to believe you can get out of this.

At last fatigue settled on her like a warm blanket. Before she knew it, she slept.

* * *

Pain screamed through Ajza as someone roughly dragged her to her feet. Her mind came awake instantly, but her body lagged. She stumbled twice before she could get her feet planted.

Achmed's fist knotted in her hair. His hard scowl hovered only inches from her face. His fetid breath collided with her eyes and made her blink, and his stench clouded her nose.

"What makes you think you are so precious, woman?" the slaver snarled. "What makes you think you will not be treated as the filth that you are?"

The other men circled Achmed and Ajza, eager anticipation in their eyes. The women gazed on in fear and numbed acceptance because they knew they had no control over their lives at this point. Men assigned them worth, and at the moment they were worth nothing. Most were glad that it was someone other than themselves in Achmed's hands.

"Did you hear me?" Achmed shook the hand holding Ajza's hair.

Pain ripped through Ajza's scalp again. This time she cried out before she could stop herself.

"Does this hurt?" Achmed asked. He jerked again. "Didn't the Russians treat you more harshly while you were their guest?"

Ajza stumbled after the man as he yanked her around.

"I looked at you and I examined you," Achmed declared. "Yet I saw no marks left by the Russians. Did you not fight them? Did you not resist? Or did you give yourself to them gladly?"

No answer would have satisfied Achmed, and Ajza knew it. She gritted her teeth against the pain and read his body language so she could anticipate his moves and lessen her pain as he jerked her like a marionette.

"What I don't understand," Achmed told her, "is why the man who sold you to me would lie."

Ajza dodged to the left and blinked tears from her eyes as the pain screamed through her anew. She knew Achmed wouldn't hold back. One woman out of thirteen was no matter to him. Losing her would cut his profit only slightly. Besides that, a large part of the payment for the men was the harsh way they could use their charges.

"Do you know why this man told me these things?" Achmed demanded.

"He told you the truth." Ajza's voice sounded strained and high-pitched in agony. She had to stick with the lie that Ivan had told. One deviation, one back step from that story, and her life was forfeit.

Achmed might kill her, anyway, for sport.

"Lies!" Achmed bellowed. "You gave yourself to the Russians to save yourself! You betrayed your people!" He reached for a curved knife at his hip.

Looking into the maddened glare of the man, not knowing what had set him off, Ajza knew Achmed would kill her.

"If you cannot service me," Achmed snarled, "then we'll leave your body here to rot."

Desperate, Ajza twisted to avoid the knife thrust. She knew she couldn't pull away from the grip he had on her hair, so she drove her forehead into his face. His nose crunched and he howled in pain. When he refused to release her hair, she hammered her forehead into his face again. This time his teeth bit into the flesh above her eyebrow. Blood blinded her left eye and she blinked it away as she quickly stepped back.

Achmed covered his face with his hands.

Frenzied, breathing quickly, Ajza expected to be shot. She didn't want to die and be another loss that would never be explained to her parents. Like Ilyas.

"Do not kill her!" Achmed roared. "I will do it." He wiped the blood from his face. Even in the moonlight Ajza saw his nose was no longer straight. He took a fresh grip on his knife and lunged at her.

Ajza knew she'd never stand a chance if she tried to run. The man would be on her in one moment and her throat would be slit in the next. Instead, she threw herself backward onto her shoulders, crunched her body tight and slid her feet through her handcuffs so her hands were in front of her.

Achmed howled fiercely as he closed in on her.

Drawing her knees up to her chest, Ajza placed her cuffed hands behind her head and pushed to add as much momentum as she could. She powered her feet into her attacker's chest and broke his advance. Jarred and shaken, she rolled to her side and got to her feet.

Despite his injuries and having had the air driven from his lungs, Achmed got to his feet just as quickly. He shifted the knife and cursed Ajza loudly. Blood streamed down his face.

If you're not attacking, you're being attacked. That was one of the first things Ajza's martial-arts teacher had drilled into her head. If you stand still, you're a stationary target.

There was no way she was going to be able to talk her way out of the encounter. She also couldn't show too much martial-arts skill — or that would give away who she was, as well.

Achmed slashed at her three times, and three times she avoided the knife. But the slaver came closer each time. Ajza stumbled over a rock, then stooped and picked it up in her cuffed hands. She could manage only an awkward throw that had no power. The rock thudded off Achmed's chest and triggered another vile curse. When he turned back to her, his robe gaped open just long enough to reveal the grenades clipped to his belt.

"Come on, woman," Achmed taunted. "Give yourself to me and I will make your death a swift one."

Ajza scooped up dirt and launched it at Achmed. Then she followed it. The slaver closed his eyes for a moment and stepped sideways, favoring the hand that held the knife as Ajza had expected. Then he focused on her and struck.

Throwing up her hands, Ajza caught the curved blade on the short length of chain between the handcuffs. The razor-edged metal ground against the links. She twisted and ripped the knife free of Achmed's grip.

Moving swiftly, she stepped toward his side and threw an elbow into his throat, temporarily robbing him of his breath. She grabbed one of the grenades from Achmed's belt in both her hands, then roped her arms around the slaver from behind and levered a forearm up against his neck.

When he regained his breath, Achmed cursed her, then called on his men to kill her.

Ajza kept the fear pounding through her body at bay only through sheer willpower. The next moment didn't exist; only this one.

She lifted her hands and revealed the grenade in her hands. Then she pulled the ring and held the release immobile.

"I am willing to die tonight," Ajza whispered into his ear. She wasn't being brave and she knew it. She was out of choices. "Are you ready to die with me?"

35

Faced with certain and violent death, Achmed quickly ordered his men to put down their weapons. To his credit, his voice sounded only mildly hysterical. His composure helped a little, but Ajza didn't feel much better. She knew what the rifles could do up close.

The sound of someone clapping came from the shadows of the brush clinging to the mountainside. "Now that you have Achmed, woman," a male voice called, "what are you going to do?"

"Die in my own way," Ajza replied as she scanned the surrounding countryside. She was surprised at how much she meant that. The situation had gone decidedly south, as she'd known every undercover operation could do at any time.

She and Ilyas had talked about that once. They'd been at his apartment, sitting on the rooftop overlooking London hours after the sun had gone down. They'd both been through MI-6 training at the time, and both had accepted undercover assignments in Muslim countries.

"What will you do," Ilyas had asked her, "if you're found out while on assignment and there's no way out?"

"Die," she'd replied without hesitation. "As swiftly and as painlessly as possible."

On most of their assignments, suicide pills had been impossible. While learning to kill enemies, they'd also been taught how to kill themselves if there was no chance for escape. Spies, no matter what was released in the news, didn't fare well in enemy custody. Especially spies who wouldn't be claimed by their government.

"Let's hope that it never comes to that," her brother had said. And he'd grinned in a way that made everything seem like a joke.

"I will not die broken at the hands of these pigs," Ajza declared now. That was the truth for her and the woman she pretended to be.

"May I approach?" the man asked.

"Only so far." Ajza turned toward the voice, certain where it was now, and hunkered lower behind Achmed.

"Keep hold of the grenade," Achmed said nervously. "Keep a tight hold."

"Shut up," Ajza ordered.

"Let him keep talking," the new arrival said. Amusement and displeasure dripped from his words. "I don't think you will have to wait long to hear him beg for his life."

Ajza listened to the thuds on the ground as they approached, then recognized them as hoofbeats only a moment before the man rode into view astride a black horse. The man had a military bearing as he sat the large animal. Except for the scars on his face and the patch over his right eye, he would have been handsome.

Even in the shadows, Ajza knew the man at once. He was the man she was looking for.

* * *

"I am Mayrbek Taburova. Do you know who I am, woman?" Taburova studied the woman taking refuge behind Achmed. Fear etched the slaver's face as the woman held the grenade beneath his quivering chin.

"Yes," she replied. She peered at him. Fear widened her eyes, but she mastered it enough to hold Achmed prisoner and stand her ground. "You fight for Chechen independence from the Russians."

"That's right." Taburova kept a tight rein on the horse. He shifted slightly in the saddle and caused the leather to squeak. Briefly he gazed at the other women huddled together with their heads pressed to the ground. None of them had the fire this woman had. They were sheep. But the woman in front of him was a wolf. "What are you doing here?"

"I was captured. They were bringing me to you. To be one of the Black Widows."

"Do you not wish to be a Black Widow?" Taburova asked.

"I wish to kill the Russians who killed my husband. If not them, then I wish to kill others like them."

"You could have come to me. I would allow you to do those things."

"I have not been treated well at the hands of men since my husband's death. His father and brothers turned their backs on me. I have no reason to trust any man."

"Perhaps you could trust me."

"And perhaps you could trust me," the woman returned. "Lend me your horse so that I may make my escape from these disease-ridden rapists."

"You are very brave."

"I am not brave. I am frightened. I do not wish to live in fear. I have had enough of that."

"I can teach you to be brave," Taburova said. "Perhaps I can teach you how brave you already are."

"I will never be brave. My husband loved me. He took care of me. Now…now there is no one."

Taburova nodded and smiled as he leaned over the pommel. "My Black Widows are like you, have been through the same hardships you have faced, and they have learned to be brave. When they pass from this world to the next, the gates of heaven are thrown wide in welcome."

"So I have been told."

"Do you believe?"

"Yes. There is nothing else left for me to believe in. God is all I have left."

"At least you are left with that. What is your name?"

"Ajza."

"I like that name. It is a good name," Taburova said.

"It was my grandmother's name. And her grandmother's before her."

"Tradition gives value to things." Taburova nodded at the grenade. "Does your hand grow tired?"

"Not yet," Ajza said.

"I would not like to lose you before I get the chance to know you."

"Nor would I like to sell my life so cheaply," Ajza said. "I would not attain heaven for killing a slaver, but neither will I submit to having his dirty hands on me." She gazed at Taburova pointedly. "Or the hands of anyone else."

"I do not blame you." Taburova glanced around the camp. "I came here tonight for recruits into my Black Widow camp." He focused on her again. "The other women I am going to take with me because no one else will have them. However, since you have created an option for yourself, I will ask you. Would you be willing to come with me?"

"To trade one death for another?"

"To trade an embarrassing death for a noble and honorable one. A death made holy by God himself and manufactured by me so that you can take as many of our enemies with you as possible."

The woman hesitated. Taburova expected that. No matter how prettily painted, death was still death.

"My husband was killed six months ago," Ajza said. "He fought the Russians."

"A noble death," Taburova said.

"His family never liked me. They treated me badly, and I have no wish to live without him."

"How have you lived?"

"In the city. I worked in offices. My husband's family moved to London and I went with him, but his grandfather's stories of our country drew him back. I had skills when I returned that I didn't have when I left. But they are not enough to keep me alive. And there are too many men who will take advantage of a woman alone."

"Tell me your husband's name. Perhaps I have heard of him."

"Ramzan Gazuyeva. He fought with Asian Maskhadov until Maskhadov was killed."

Only one of the names meant anything to Taburova. Too many others had died without becoming known to him.

"I fought with Basayev," Taburova said. The two Chechen leaders held different armies and followed different paths. But they both fought for Chechen independence from Russia.

"My husband could never agree with Basayev."

Taburova sighed. "I could never agree with Maskhadov. Yet, it seems, both of them are dead and we struggle on."

The woman said nothing.

"I will make you an offer," he said.

"I am listening."

"Come with me and I will make certain you are given a chance to kill your husband's enemies."

"If I am to become a plaything for your men, humbled and disgraced, I would sooner die on this mountain," Ajza said.

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 those 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."

Sergei recognized the name immediately. The man was highly connected within the Russian Mafiya. Pasternak was known as a killer and didn't brook trouble from others.

"Do you know him?" Ulyana asked.

"Of course," Mikhalkov responded. "There are few in my business who do not know him."

"Then you are aware that simply knowing his name at this point puts me in danger."

"Yes. Upon further reflection, it might be better if you took some vacation out of Russia."

"I have a business to run."

"You will not be able to manage your business if you are not breathing."

She nodded.

"How did you get involved with this?" Mikhalkov asked.

"Through Kirinov."

"Kirinov?"

Ulyana nodded. "Kirinov and Pasternak were working together."

"They were enemies." Mikhalkov was clearly surprised, though Sergei felt certain someone who didn't know him well wouldn't have caught that brief flicker.

"Not in this, they were not," Ulyana said.

"Mutual profit would not have brought them together. They hated each other," the old cop said.

"No," Ulyana agreed. "There was outside pressure."

"What outside pressure?"

"I don't know, Vasily."

Mikhalkov was silent for a moment. "My presence here will not be easy for you to explain. And Pasternak — and whoever his master is — will know where I got this information."

"I know." Ulyana seemed resigned.

"Go then. Get out of Moscow at least. Better if you were to leave the country."

"I will." The woman looked at Mikhalkov and smiled a little. "You are going to pursue this, yes?"

"Yes."

"It is foolish."

"It is what I do."

Ulyana stepped into Mikhalkov and kissed him on the mouth. Then she turned to Sergei. "See that you take care of him. His kind, they are like the dinosaur. A dying breed. You will not see his like again any time soon."

"I know," Sergei said, wondering at the change in the woman's attitude.

Without another word, Ulyana slipped into the waiting sports car.

Sergei watched her leave. "Do you think we can trust her?"

"In this? Yes. They threatened her."

Sergei looked at the old man.

"Ulyana does not like being threatened. They did not know her well enough to understand that. That was Kirinov's and Pasternak's mistake."

"If you believe her, we need to find Pasternak."

"We will." Mikhalkov shot his cuff back and checked his watch. "The night is still young. Let us go call on Pasternak before he has a chance to think about this."

38

Outside Chechnya

Most of the morning's chill had departed by the time Ajza arrived at the campsite. She rode by herself and had grown numb to the mountain pony's irregular gait across the broken terrain.

For the first time since spying on the campsite, she realized how isolated the area was. No roads led into the campsite, and the hilly ground wasn't stable enough for a vehicle. Jeeps would have become mired in the soft earth or broken on jagged rock. A tank or an armored transport wouldn't have had enough traction on the steep incline to make the climb.

With all the ways to vanish into the surrounding mountainous land, the location was a good choice for a camp. The site was vulnerable only to aerial attack. Ajza couldn't help glancing at the sky.

Armed men stationed at security checkpoints kept careful watch over everyone who came and went from the camp along the winding trails that led down the mountain. Women cooked at community pots over banked fires. Small children clung to the women's legs. None of the children appeared to be older than eight. Ajza supposed the older children were farmed out as cheap labor. She didn't want to consider any other possibilities.

Taburova drew his horse in and dismounted. He slid his assault rifle free of the scabbard and slung the weapon over one shoulder. He gestured to Ajza to dismount.

Ajza swung her right leg over the pony's rump and slid to the ground. Her thighs ached after spending hours in the saddle. They'd ridden all night, then stopped for a few hours' sleep and got back under way when dawn flared in the eastern sky. Never once had Taburova or the other men tried to harm her or give her any reason to distrust them.

"I know this does not look like much," Taburova said, "but we are to ourselves here. No one bothers us because they do not feel that following such a course of action would be beneficial. Too much risk and not enough gain."

Ajza thought about the cache of American weapons Taburova was trying to get his hands on. If anyone knew about that, the motivation would increase a thousandfold.

But they don't know, Ajza reminded herself. You don't even know that yet. He might not even bring them here. That's what you're here to find out.

She nodded and didn't say anything. Keeping in mind that she wasn't there to save the women and children was hard. She'd been in similar positions, though, and knew she could walk away if she had to. But she hoped she would never reach a time when a choice to remain inactive would seem right.

"Take a few minutes to get yourself together," Taburova said. "Get some breakfast and fresh clothing. Once you have done that, we will talk."

"All right," Ajza said.

Taburova turned and searched the crowds of women for a moment. Then he gestured to one of them. "Come. See to our new guest."

The woman, a pallid scarecrow dressed in little more than rags, stood slowly and walked over to Ajza. The woman's eyes never lifted from the ground. She stood silent, waiting.

"Go with her," Taburova directed. "She will see to your needs."

"Thank you," Ajza said. She felt odd thanking her captor, but she knew it was expected.

Taburova took the reins of her mount and nodded. "It is nothing." He led the animals away without a backward glance.

Slowly Ajza's stomach unknotted. The woman stood patiently and silently at her side.

"I am ready," Ajza said.

Without a word the woman headed toward one of the ramshackle buildings. Ajza followed.

The building's interior was better than Ajza expected. A handful of large rooms held straw pallets where the women and children slept. Most of those were arranged around the fire pit for warmth. Cloth bags and small crates evidently scavenged either from the site or elsewhere contained their few personal belongings.

The children were kept closest to the fire. Although temperatures during the daylight hours were in the seventies and sometimes in the eighties, the nights were cold. The children should be in school, Ajza couldn't help thinking. At the very least they should be outside playing. Instead, the small boys and girls clung to the women and looked timid and fearful.

You can't save everyone. That had been one of the first rules she'd learned at MI-6. Save yourself, then save as many others as you can. She steeled herself and remained in control.

Body odor, mildew and stale air filled the building. Ajza was certain that at one time animals had been kept in the structure. She knew some of the rural people brought their livestock into their homes with them during the harsh winters because in their meager personal economies, the animals were irreplaceable.

A few of the women and children gazed at Ajza as she entered the building. Most refused to make eye contact. The women's youth bothered Ajza most of all. Even though she'd been prepared for their young age, she was amazed that most of the women here were in their teens — some in their early teens.

In London, at that age, Ajza still considered herself a child.

"Here," the woman showing her around said. She pointed to a cardboard box filled with clothing. "Dry clothes. They belong to no one. Take what you want."

The choices looked meager, but Ajza thanked the woman all the same. The woman looked at Ajza warily, then turned and walked away.

Ajza selected a pair of pants and a blouse, then a scarf to cover her head. She gazed around after she'd made her choices.

One of the women pointed to a back room. "In there."

Only a sheet hanging across the room provided privacy. A shadow settled onto the window across the room, and a moment later Ajza spotted a bearded man's face. His gaze locked with hers and he didn't turn away.

"They have no shame." The woman who had pointed the way stood in the doorway. She stared at the man peering through the window. "They keep us here and treat us worse than dogs. There is never a moment we are alone." She paused. "Or safe."

Ajza almost said she was sorry, then caught herself before she could slip out of character. She couldn't talk as if she had any other future than the bleak one presented at the camp.

"Their mothers should have drowned them at birth," the woman said.

"Is there no escape?" Ajza asked as she pulled on the fresh clothing.

"Even if you got away from this place, where would you go? No one wants to take on the hardship of caring for a woman who isn't family. There is only death." The woman's features were almost painfully empty. "You can die here or you can die where they tell you to." She shook her head. "If I were brave, I would kill myself rather than spend another day here or wait to go blow myself up."

"God is merciful," Ajza said. The phrase came naturally. Her parents often told her that.

"If you believe in God a few days from now, after what those men are going to do to you, I will be very surprised," the woman said.

39

Moscow

Red Onion Interactive Games occupied a suite of rooms in one of the boxy buildings along Tverskaya Street. Pushkin Square had been busy even before the fall of communism, but now that the city's inhabitants had embraced capitalism and allowed foreign investors, business in the square had swelled.

By nine in the morning, the economic surge was in full swing in the retail areas and offices. Later that afternoon, the entertainment bars would open.

Sergei parked on the street and tossed the identification placard on the dash so the car wouldn't get towed. Mikhalkov led the way toward the office building.

Anton Pasternak was a silent partner of the Red Onion video-game company. The Mafiya leader was old enough to see the value in legitimate investments and young enough to recognize the impact video games had in the marketplace.

Sergei stifled a yawn. He and Mikhalkov had spent the night searching for Pasternak. They'd hit all of Pasternak's usual haunts and tried not to make themselves too obvious. That had been almost impossible.

"Do you not think it is odd that Pasternak has been so elusive?" Despite the No Smoking signs, Mikhalkov lit a cigarette as they went up in the elevator.

"Should I?" Sergei asked. "Pasternak stays out of the public eye."

Mikhalkov shrugged. "He has been most difficult to find. I find that…interesting."

Now that the old man had sharpened Sergei's own self-preservation instinct, Sergei thought it odd, too. He dropped his hand to his side and made sure his pistol was in its holster.

"We have not pressed too hard to find him." Sergei watched the floor-level indicator escalate. "But we also haven't hidden our identities."

"The people Pasternak does business with can smell police." Mikhalkov took a deep drag of his cigarette, then released a cloud of smoke. "I think Pasternak was already in hiding before we started looking for him."

"Hiding from whom?"

"Emile IvanoVs meeting a harsh end sent a message. Given that he was working with Pasternak, we have to assume the message was for Pasternak."

"The message could have been for Kirinov."

"Possibly. But Pasternak was here to receive the message. Kirinov was not in the country." Mikhalkov stood in front of the elevator doors as their ascent came to a halt. "Perhaps the message was to bring Kirinov here. Perhaps the message was solely for Pasternak. Either way, I believe Pasternak fears for his life."

"We could offer him protection. In exchange for information. Maybe he will be glad to see us," Sergei said.

"A man like Pasternak is never glad to see the police." Mikhalkov stepped through the open elevator doors.

Sergei followed.

"Welcome to Red Onion Interactive," the young woman behind the desk said. She was small and pert and wore a clinging emerald blouse that showed impressive cleavage. "How may I help you?" She smiled, showing a lot of teeth.

With his pistol in his fist beneath his jacket, Sergei stood behind Mikhalkov. Security cameras hung in the two corners of the room monitoring the door.

The sleek sparkling furniture was evidence of success. Posters on the walls displayed colorful characters and game boxes. Sergei recognized some of them. He sometimes played video games with his brother's sons.

"I need to see Anton Pasternak," Mikhalkov said.

The receptionist frowned. "Is he an employee?" She turned her attention to her computer screen and hit a few keys. "Are you sure he works here?"

Mikhalkov took his pistol from his jacket pocket. The receptionist gave a frightened squeal and cowered under the desk.

Sergei swept his pistol out from under his jacket. He felt nervous about pulling weapons so early, but Pasternak was not a man to take chances with. Two quick steps to the right put Sergei in a clear field of fire. A chill shot through him as he waited to see what would happen.

Mikhalkov took out his identification and held it up to the security cameras. He identified himself in a strong, clear voice. "I want to see Pasternak now or I will arrest everyone in this office."

For a few seconds nothing happened. Then the door to one side of the receptionist's desk opened. Sergei lifted his pistol, turned in profile and took aim at the man standing there.

"Mikhalkov?" Tall and heavy-set with a bald head and a short, sculptured beard, the man looked like a thug. The obviously expensive tailored suit he wore only added to the effect.

"Pasternak." Mikhalkov kept his pistol in his fist.

The big man smiled and gold gleamed in his teeth. He'd had a lot of work done. "It has been a long time."

"You have learned to be more evasive," Mikhalkov responded. "And there are many other criminals in Moscow these days."

"I am no criminal here." Pasternak waved at the office. "Here I am just a businessman. But come in. We can talk in private."

Instead of being in private as Pasternak had promised, he led Mikhalkov and Sergei to an office where two quiet and deadly-looking young men joined them. They wore jackets that covered what Sergei believed was an arsenal of guns. They dressed like Americans, but the black tattoos they'd won in prison and in the Mafiya showed at their wrists and necks. Sergei had no doubt that their bodies were covered with tattoos that mapped what they'd done and where they'd been.

Fortunately the office was large enough to accommodate all of them. A large window overlooked the city. The colorful onion domes atop buildings stood out against the clear blue sky.

Pasternak waved Mikhalkov and Sergei to chairs in front of his steel-and-glass desk. Mikhalkov dropped the hand holding his pistol into his lap. He made no move to put the weapon away. Sergei did the same.

The two young men sat on either side of the room, positions that gave them deadly cross fire potential. Their pale eyes looked cold and hard.

Pasternak sat and folded his hands over his ample stomach. "Why do you find your way to my door?"

"Emile IvanoVs body led me here," Mikhalkov said. "You tried to hide him. I want to know why."

For a moment Pasternak said nothing. Then he asked, "Who sent you?" His voice was low.

Sergei thought the question was odd.

"No one sent me," Mikhalkov replied. "I am the police. I am in possession of a murdered man's body. There are people who have questions. You are known to be IvanoVs partner in his latest venture. If you didn't kill him…" Mikhalkov paused "…then I think you know who did."

Pasternak didn't look happy. "Does it really matter who killed poor Ivanov? No one cares about him. Even his widow will not miss him."

"His death matters to me."

"Why?"

"I choose for it to matter."

"So you can get to me? You killed Kirinov a few days ago."

"I also know that Kirinov was involved with your business. And with IvanoVs."

Pasternak cursed. "Even a smart man can know too much at times."

"Indulge me."

"I would like to. If only to see you place your neck in the same noose mine is in. But it would only complicate things much more."

Sergei took note of that. If Pasternak hadn't extricated himself from whatever trouble he'd gotten into, then that trouble still existed. An unknown threat still existed. The realization didn't make Sergei feel any better.

"Kirinov's death has already increased the pressure on me," Pasternak went on. "Only a few people knew he had returned to Moscow. Unfortunately I was one of them." He raised an eyebrow at Mikhalkov. "How did you know he was back?"

Mikhalkov shrugged. "I am in the business of knowing things."

"This wasn't easy to know." Suddenly Pasternak leaned forward and leered. "It was Irina, was it not? That fool got himself killed over a woman."

"I suppose double-crossing your partners is much better."

Pasternak laughed, but the effort had a ragged edge to it. "That is an easy thing to do when your partners do not talk to each other." He lifted a shoulder and let it drop. "I am an opportunist. Always have been. In the end, it is often your nature that gets you killed."

"There are other people involved in this. If Kirinov came to Moscow, then I know I am after bigger fish than you."

"You insult me."

Mikhalkov smiled a little. "Nonsense. I sit here before you with a pistol in my hand. A clear acknowledgment of how dangerous a man you are."

The laughter exploded from Pasternak this time. He wiped tears from his eyes when he regained control of himself. "And I sit here with two young bodyguards because I know the same of you."

"I knew we could deal with each other."

"It depends on what you have to offer."

Mikhalkov reflected briefly. "If you had nothing to do with Emile IvanoVs death…"

"I did not. Nor did I have a hand in LovyreVs assassination."

Sergei felt an immediate adrenaline surge. He remembered watching Lovyrev die on television when the Black Widows visited the club where the Chechen-sympathizing politician had taken his mistress.

"Ah," Pasternak said to Sergei, "you did not know that Lovyrev was connected to this."

Sergei's face flushed when he realized his surprise had shown in his features. Mikhalkov's face remained impassive.

"I knew," Mikhalkov said. "I do not tell everything I know to my trainee. Just as you do not tell everything to the two young men who sit with you in this room."

"Of course you are right." Pasternak leaned back in his chair.

Face still burning, Sergei held his gaze fixed. In his pocket, his cell phone vibrated silently. He slid it from his pocket and glanced at the face.

A message flashed across the viewscreen.

ASSASSIN ON ROOFTOP! GET DOWN!

Immediately panicked, Sergei looked up at the window behind Pasternak. "Sniper! Sniper! Get…"

The window shattered just as the big man reacted. He was too late. His head jerked to one side and his blood sprayed into Sergei's eyes, blinding him. The sound of the rifle shot from across the street echoed within the room.

40

New York

"Pasternak is down," Jacob Marrs stated calmly. He stood at Kate Cochran's side as they watched events unfolding in Moscow.

Kate hated the helpless feeling that shimmied through her as she stared at the two satellite views on the large wall monitor. Half the screen showed regular imaging of the rooftops, but the other half was rendered in thermographic imaging. The yellows, oranges and reds of body heat and the superheated weapon showed on the screen against the cool blue of the office.

Inside Pasternak's Red Onion office, chaos reigned as heavy-caliber bullets cored through the brick walls. Across the street, a two-man sniper team worked diligently to kill everyone in the room. The shooter knelt at a window while the spotter called out the shots.

"Where did those men come from?" Kate demanded.

"Inside that building." The female tech support operator's voice was quiet and controlled. "We're backtracking them now through surveillance-video records."

"That's the sixth floor," Kate said. "They've got heavy security there." She remembered that from the overview she'd received at the time Sergei Prokhorov and his partner had arrived at the Red Onion offices. Room 59 tracked the Russian agent through his cell phone GPS.

"We're hacked into those security systems, ma'am. There are no breaches that we know of. It's possible that they breached the security perimeter without triggering an alarm."

Kate took in a breath and let it out. They'd hacked in without getting caught. Someone else could have done the same. Maybe getting into the building had been easy, but she planned to make getting out a lot harder.

"Trip the security alarms and notify the FSB," Kate ordered. It was the best she could do. If they'd had a support team in the field, they could have tried to eliminate the snipers.

"Alarms sounded and Russian police alerted."

On the screen, the sniper continued firing. Then he and his partner abandoned their gear and opened a box. The thermographic image resolution revealed that they pulled clothing from the box, but not what kind of clothing.

"Try to download the security database," Kate ordered. "Let's see if we can find out what identification those men used to enter that building."

"Yes, ma'am."

It was a long shot and the names were undoubtedly fake, but even knowing them might offer a lead. An operation in the field fed on crumbs once the action turned nasty.

"Do you see Prokhorov?" Kate asked.

"He's moving," Jake replied grimly. "So far, he's still alive."

* * *

Moscow

Sergei lay facedown on the thick carpet and blinked blood from his eyes. The carpet felt rough against his cheek. He realized it was covered with glass fragments. The gunshots continued to ring in his ears. Panic swirled through him, threatening to suck him down into a mindless void.

How many shots? he wondered. Is the shooter reloading? Or is he done?

"Sergei."

When he recognized MikhalkoVs voice, Sergei cautiously lifted his head and peered around. Pasternak's blood still blurred Sergei's vision and tinted everything scarlet.

"Were you hit?" Mikhalkov lay nearby. The old man's face was ashen and he lay with the side of his face pressed to the floor near the desk. He held his pistol in his white-knuckled fist.

"I do not know."

"Find out."

Reluctantly, irritated that Mikhalkov made no move himself, Sergei rolled onto his back and waited for the next bullet to crash into him. Surely a moving target would draw the sniper's attention. Sergei looked down his body. He appeared intact.

"No." He tried to keep the relief he felt from his voice. "I am not hit."

"Good. I think the sniper is gone."

"Why?"

"Because we are not dead and there is no more shooting."

Sergei scanned the room. The two young bodyguards were dead. A bullet had nearly taken the head from one man's shoulders, and the other had his stomach turned inside out. Sergei shuddered at the sight. The fist-size holes in the wall let in daylight and the street noise below.

"How is Pasternak?" Mikhalkov asked.

Sergei found the big Mafiya man on his back behind the blood-spattered desk. Pasternak's chest moved slightly.

"He is alive," Sergei said.

"Mikhalkov," Pasternak whispered hoarsely.

"Yes?" Mikhalkov crawled over to the Mafiya boss, keeping a wary eye on the door.

"You have killed me." Pasternak drew his pistol and pointed it at Mikhalkov's head.

Mikhalkov made no move to defend himself. Sergei shoved his pistol at Pasternak, but Mikhalkov shook his head.

"I did not kill you," Mikhalkov said. "You know who killed you."

Pasternak's hand shook. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "They followed you here."

"Perhaps, but they would have found you, anyway." Mikhalkov ignored the pistol in his face and examined Pasternak. "Even if medical help were to arrive now, you would die. You will not survive your wounds."

Weak curses slipped from Pasternak's lips.

"Tell me who did this to you," Mikhalkov said. "Let me be your vengeance."

Bloody spittle blew from Pasternak's mouth as he attempted to laugh. "You will only get yourself killed."

"I am a hard man to kill. You know that from experience."

Pasternak's breathing grew more labored. Sergei hated the sound of it. Listening to someone die was hard.

"Tell me about Kirinov," Mikhalkov coaxed.

"This is not Kirinov's arrangement," Pasternak wheezed.

"Then who?"

Pasternak worked to get the name out. "Kumarin. Yuri Kumarin."

Sergei couldn't believe what he was hearing. "This man has the same name as the general?"

General Yuri Kumarin had been one of the staunchest foes of Chechen independence.

"You…you have such a lamb, Mikhalkov." Again Pasternak attempted to laugh. "It is a wonder that you have not lost him."

"I like Sergei," Mikhalkov replied. "I keep him around. I see promise in him." He shook a cigarette from his pack with a bloody hand. He lit a cigarette and passed it to Pasternak. "Tell me about Kumarin."

"From the beginning, this was Kumarin's project." Pasternak inhaled the cigarette weakly. "That's what he called it. A project. I am Mafiya. I do not do projects."

"What was the project?"

"I was to arrange…a shipment of weapons. Kirinov bought them from a weapons dealer."

"You were supposed to bring them into the country?"

"Yes. It seemed easy enough."

"Who were the weapons for?"

"I do not know. Ivanov met the man. He told me he had an eye patch." Pasternak tried to touch his own eye, but his motor control was almost gone.

"Did Ivanov get a name?"

"No."

"Does this man have the weapons?"

"I do not know."

"How can you not know?"

"Because I…no longer have…the weapons." Fresh blood spilled from the corner of Pasternak's mouth. "Only…a few days ago…they were stolen."

"Who took them?"

"I do not know." Pasternak shuddered and wheezed.

"What happened to Ivanov?"

"The man I was…to sell the weapons to…he killed Ivanov. Shot him…and dropped him…through the window."

"Why?" Mikhalkov asked.

"I was told to raise…the price…of the weapons. That man…he did not care…for that idea." Pasternak swallowed hard and sucked in a painful breath. "He must have been…very certain of himself. That he would…get his weapons."

"Because he knew you would still trade with him even after IvanoVs murder."

"Yes. You see…howit was."

"Do you think he found the weapons?"

"No. They were…well hidden."

Mikhalkov asked, "Who knew where they were?"

"Kirinov. General Kumarin. And me. No one…else." Pasternak smiled. "Of course…there is…the possibility…I was betrayed. After all…you found me." The Mafiya man's head lolled to one side and his eyes stared without seeing.

Mikhalkov touched Pasternak's throat, then shook his head. He took the cigarette from Pasternak's lips and put it between his own. Then he struggled to get to his feet.

That was when Sergei saw the blood pouring down the old man's side. Mikhalkov managed two steps toward the door before he fell. Sergei caught him in his arms and gently lowered him to the floor, holding him as he would a child. He placed his hand over the wound in the old man's side.

Movement at the door caught Sergei's eye. He felt a surge of panic.

A young man peeked around the frame, showing only one eye and part of a terrified expression.

"Help," Sergei said. "I need help. Get help now!"

41

Outside Chechnya

When Ajza stepped from the building, a guard cursed at her and told her to get back. She started to retreat, knowing she couldn't point out to the man that Taburova had told her to report to him without getting beaten. Luckily the other guard knew she was supposed to see Taburova.

"Go ahead," the second guard said. "He wishes to speak with you."

As Ajza crossed the distance to the building she'd seen Taburova enter, she felt the men's hungry and hateful eyes on her. Their faces showed that they suspected Taburova's interests were sexual and some of them resented his power over them, as well as his protection of her. Many of the men were more wolves than patriots. Anxiety knotted Ajza's stomach as she glanced at the building where the horses were kept. If she could get one of them, she had a chance.

The guard watching the door to Taburova's building stopped her with a raised hand. She stood looking down at the ground. Even though she couldn't see the man, she watched his shadow so she could see what he did and react to any attack.

The guard knocked on the door. Taburova told him to enter. The guard announced Ajza's presence and Taburova told him to let her in.

Taburova's building wasn't much different from the other one Ajza had seen. There was no furniture, only a loose gathering of ammunition and food crates, used to keep supplies. Taburova used one of the crates as a chair while he spoke on a satellite phone.

Covering the mouthpiece with a big hand, Taburova said, "Sit."

With nothing to sit on but the floor, Ajza sat against the wall about ten feet away and crossed her legs. After a moment of listening to Taburova's infrequent responses, mostly in the negative, she identified a rhythmic thumping in the background. She guessed there was a generator somewhere below or in back of the building. They had access to electric power.

She heard Taburova give a few orders to whomever he was talking to and finished the call. Then he closed the phone, shoved it into a pocket and regarded her wordlessly for a time.

"You were very brave facing Achmed," he said at last.

Ajza remained silent, then realized he was waiting for her to speak. "I was scared, not brave."

"You took Achmed prisoner."

"He would have raped me and killed me. I will not live like that."

Taburova got up from behind the desk and stood gazing out the window. "I will not lie to you. Most of the women at this camp have been abused. Or made dependent on drugs."

As she watched the big man, Ajza's dislike and fear of him increased. But she kept remembering how he had looked astride the horse when he'd ridden into Achmed's camp and defused the situation there. He had looked like a hero, not a terrorist.

"I have not done these things to the women." Taburova turned to face her and shrugged. "It's true that I have been harsh with some of them. Too many are weak and find it easy to beg for their lives. They disgust me. They are widows of soldiers who gave their blood to free this country. They shame and dishonor the memories of their husbands." He smiled as he looked at Ajza. "But every now and again, I find one such as you who lives only to strike against our enemies."

Ajza sat quietly. She listened to his words and thought that he believed everything he was telling her. Of course, what he was telling her was that she should die for him at a time of his choosing.

"I gave you your life up in the mountains, Ajza," Taburova said. "I can still give you your life."

"My husband is dead," Ajza replied. She tapped into some of the pain that still resided in her heart at Ilyas's death. She borrowed those feelings of loss and confusion and made the moment real again. Tears filled her eyes and tracked down her cheeks. "I have no life. There is nothing I want."

"You still live," Taburova said. "You are young enough to continue living."

"As a slave to my husband's family? In subjugation at a brothel?" Ajza shook her head. "No. That is not living. That is not the life my husband promised me when I became his."

"If you had truly wanted to die, you could have simply released that grenade up in the mountains." Taburova's dark eye gleamed.

"My heart is dead."

"If so, you would not grieve." Taburova shook his head. "Some part of you still lives, Ajza. You should treasure that feeling."

"It shames me." Coming so easily, the response surprised Ajza. Even though she hadn't grown up in Chechnya, many of the elderly women in Leicester and London lived by the old beliefs. She herself did not, but it was easy enough to emulate.

"Perhaps it is God's way of telling you that you are not yet done. There is much you can do here." Taburova gazed back out the window. "Most of those women out there have no will of their own. No conviction. They have only fear. And I give that to them to be a source of strength. Without fear, they would have nothing." He paused. "That would be a terrible thing. To go through life so empty. Can you imagine something like that?"

"Not until the death of my husband," Ajza replied.

"Then let me give you something else," Taburova said. "For a little while."

Ajza waited.

"Put off your death for a time. Until you feel ready to avenge your husband. Come willingly into this camp and become a shahidka. Become one of my weapons." Taburova walked over to her. "If you do this thing, if you show the same courage you did on that mountain while facing Achmed and his rabble, I will give you my protection as long as you are here. None of the men out there will dare touch you."

Ajza waited. She let herself fill with all the sadness Ilyas's death had left with her. The feelings of a woman like the one she now played would be different, but the emotions had enough in common that she felt her portrayal was accurate.

"To avenge my husband, I will do as you say." Ajza knew there was no other answer she could give that would satisfy Taburova.

"Good." He extended his hand. "I have need of you, Ajza. Not many women like you are left to Chechnya."

For a moment Ajza worried that Taburova was baiting her, that he already knew she was there on a mission and intended to kill her within the next handful of seconds. She braced herself as she took his hand.

"Do not tremble," Taburova said gently as he pulled her to her feet. "You have nothing to fear from me." He raised his voice. "Maaret."

A slim woman entered from another room. She wore black clothing and covered her head in the Muslim tradition.

"Take care of this one," Taburova said. "She is the one I told you about."

"I will." The woman bowed her head, then turned to Ajza. "Follow me."

The whole way to the door, Ajza kept expecting a bullet in the back of her head. She didn't know if she was more surprised or relieved that it didn't come.

* * *

Taburova stared through the window and watched the two women as they headed toward one of the buildings. There was something about the new woman that challenged him, and he wished he had more time to explore the feeling.

He closed his eye and remembered her as he'd seen her on the mountain with Achmed. Fear had twisted the slaver's features when he realized his death was at hand. Through it all, Ajza had remained resolute. Taburova had seen fear in her face, as well, but fear was a natural part of the world these days.

Still, that kind of bravery was seldom seen anymore. In years past Taburova had seen courage and dedication in the eyes of his followers. They'd been true Chechen patriots fighting to push the Russian yoke from their necks.

Gazing at the men in the camp, Taburova knew that most of them were killers and despoilers. They weren't warriors. They were men who took advantage of others for their own cruel wants. They wouldn't follow him in battle, and the number of those who would had grown thinner. Taburova had led them and they had died.

He had been shot and injured on several occasions. He had lost an eye in the unending conflict. But he still lived. God alone knew why, but Taburova was beginning to think his continued existence was punishment.

His satellite phone trilled for attention. He took it from his pocket, flipped it open and said, "Yes."

"Pasternak is dead." The voice was rough and spoke accented Russian.

42

Outside Chechnya

Ill at ease, Taburova turned from the window and paced the floor as he spoke into the satellite phone. "How did you get this number?"

"From Pasternak. I was — until this morning — a silent partner. Now I am in business for myself."

Taburova returned to the window and peered outside. Nothing seemed amiss. "What happened to Pasternak?" He focused on the man's words and believed Russian was his first language, but there was something about he way he spoke that sounded familiar.

"I killed him for being a traitor."

"I have only your word. On both counts."

"My word is good. And I've got your weapons. If you want them, you will have to deal with me."

"What do you want?"

"To deliver the weapons. To collect the balance of the payment." The man chuckled. "The correct balance. Not the one Pasternak was trying to gouge from you."

"I do not know you."

"But I know you, and I know the business you had with Pasternak. I killed Pasternak while he was talking to two FSB agents."

"Why was he talking to them?"

"They found him. Pasternak got sloppy on this one. And I knew he'd do whatever he needed to in order not to get arrested."

Taburova's mind spun as he factored in the new set of problems. He needed the weapons, but the last thing he wanted was the FSB investigating him.

"How did the FSB find out about Pasternak?"

"Killing Ivanov was not a smart thing to do," the man said. "But I think it was Kirinov who truly brought them to Pasternak."

"Who is Kirinov?"

"Another criminal like Pasternak and Ivanov. Kirinov helped Pasternak bring the weapons into Moscow."

"The weapons are in Moscow?" Taburova hoped that was true.

"Yes, as I told you. I am willing to get them to you — for the balance that is owed. You are not the only one who has invested in this venture."

"Why do you not simply take the weapons?"

The man sighed. "You are too suspicious."

"I don't think I am suspicious enough."

"I am not set up to make deals with anyone in this country. I have been a go-between."

"For Pasternak and this Kirinov you mentioned?"

"For a number of people. Pasternak came to me when the deal fell apart in Istanbul."

Taburova took a deep breath and tried to figure out how things could have gone so wrong.

"You must make up your mind," the man said. "I do not have much time. Therefore, you do not have much time. Another day or two, then these weapons — and your money — are gone."

"Why are you so interested in doing business?"

"I want the money that is outstanding. I need to get out of Moscow. I can leave at any time, but I would rather have something to show for my time. And you? You need the weapons."

"What about the FSB agents?"

"They are being taken care of as we speak. Do not worry about them. Think about what I have said. Figure out a way to take delivery of these weapons. Then call me." The man gave a number. "You can leave a message there. I will call you back."

Taburova didn't like the idea of the other man calling the shots, but he had no choice. He needed those weapons.

He agreed and the connection clicked dead in his ear.

Taburova folded the phone and put it away. If he hadn't already made a deal with the devil, he would have felt certain he'd done so now. He turned back to the window and gazed out at the camp.

All his life, he'd lived in similar surroundings. He'd given the lives of his friends and family, his eye, his youth to fighting. Now he had a chance to get away from all that, to live some of the good life he saw on American television when he was in Moscow.

In order to accomplish that, all he had to do was betray his people. Looking at the feral men who filled the camp, knowing that more of them waited in the mountains and preyed on the weak, he felt little guilt over what he had planned.

* * *

Moscow

"Do you need anything?"

Startled by the voice, Sergei looked up from the straight-backed chair outside the operating room where surgeons labored over Vasily Mikhalkov. A nurse old enough to be his mother looked down at him with gentle eyes.

"No. Thank you," Sergei said. He shifted the cup of coffee that had gone cold in his hands. "I'm just waiting to see how my partner is doing."

"Were you injured?"

Sergei knew she referred to the blood that spattered his clothes, face and hair. "Scratches. Nothing to be concerned about."

"We have a triage center."

"Perhaps later."

The nurse nodded unhappily and walked down the corridor. His police identification had gotten him past the hospital security, but the emergency room moved rapidly as the injured were ferried to different areas. The smell of medicine, blood and death made the semirefrigerated air thick and stale.

Sergei got up and threw his coffee cup into the trash. Inside his jacket pocket, his cell phone vibrated. He took it out and studied the viewscreen. WE NEED TO TALK

It was the woman. Sergei knew it could be no one else. She had tried to call him several times during the last hour. He didn't want to talk to her. He didn't trust her. At the moment he didn't trust anyone.

He'd forced his way onto the ambulance that had brought Mikhalkov to the hospital. He'd watched as the rescue workers tried to staunch the old man's bleeding and get him stabilized.

Sergei had never lost a partner. He didn't want to lose one now.

He started to put the phone back into his jacket pocket. The readout changed.

LOOK AT THE SECURITY MONITOR AT THE NURSES' DESK

Unable to stop himself, Sergei looked. The view switched from the outer waiting room to a parking area outside the hospital. Three hard-faced men stepped out of a sedan parked near an ambulance. The driver remained at the wheel.

All of the men wore jackets. The way they walked and kept their right hands close to their hips told Sergei they were armed. None of the hospital staff noticed the men approaching the entrance.

His phone vibrated again. This time he opened it and answered. "Yes."

"You see the men on the monitor?" the woman asked.

"Yes."

"We've identified them as mercenaries."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"One of them was in the building across the street this morning. He was the sniper who killed Pasternak and his two bodyguards."

The man who would have killed me, Sergei couldn't help thinking. Fear stabbed through him as he watched the men go into the hospital. The view changed and showed them entering the lobby.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"We hacked into that building's records and identified him with facial-recognition software. We've identified the two men with him, as well."

"What are they doing here?"

"I don't see any flowers or teddy bears, so I'm betting this isn't a get-well visit."

The woman's sarcasm cut through Sergei's fear and indecision. He went to the nurses' desk.

"Bring security up here," he ordered the nurse who had spoken to him earlier. "Get them here now."

"You don't have time to wait for security," the woman said over the phone. "Those men are there to tie up loose ends from this morning."

Sergei held the phone tightly to his head and repeated his orders to the nurse. He flashed his identification at her to get her moving, but he knew he looked like an insane person.

"You need to get moving," the woman said.

"I cannot leave Mikhalkov." Sergei refused to abandon his partner.

"If you stay there, those men will kill you both. And anyone else who gets in the way. Do you want to bring that kind of bloodshed into the hospital?"

Helplessly Sergei glanced at the nurses' station. All of them would be victims. The violence of the past few days weighed heavily on him. He didn't want to see it erupt inside the hospital.

"Move or die," the woman said.

Sergei fled, but his mind had focused on a dangerous course of action. He dreaded what he had to do, but he couldn't leave Mikhalkov for the wolves. Either way, he knew his life was going to change.

43

Moscow

Sergei bolted through one of the hospital's side exits. He listened for gunfire but there was none. He hoped he could pull off what he intended before anyone inside the hospital got injured.

Outside in the bright sunlight, he strode toward the car. His jacket whipped around him. His pistol felt heavy in his hand. His other hand held the phone to his ear. He kept his eyes focused on his target.

Ahead of him, the driver who'd brought the gunmen to the hospital waited and watched the building's entrance.

"What are you doing?" the woman on the phone demanded.

"Saving my partner if I am lucky," Sergei growled. He folded the phone and put it away. The woman had his number. She would call back when she was ready.

Without breaking stride, Sergei walked up to the driver's side of the car like he was back on patrol. He stayed just far enough away for the driver to not easily turn around and confront him.

Shaking slightly, Sergei tightened his grip on the gun. He'd shot men before. Had even killed them. But never in cold blood.

He thought about calling out to the man, giving him some warning, but then thought that might be even crueler. This way the man wouldn't even see it coming.

Holding his breath the way he'd been trained, Sergei steadied himself and fired. The pistol bucked against his palm, then bucked twice more as he fired again and again. The whole time, he prayed that he hadn't just killed an innocent man.

Head leaking blood, the driver slumped forward. The horn bleated and the sedan started to roll forward.

Sergei reached through the open window and shoved the automatic transmission into park. The car shuddered to a stop.

In the parking lot, a handful of new arrivals screamed and shouted in alarm. Sergei ignored them and caught the dead man's wrist, exposing a thumb microphone.

"This is Sergei Prokhorov," he said with as much control as he could muster. "I have killed your driver and am escaping."

Opening the car door while keeping his gun in hand was awkward, but Sergei managed it. He grabbed the dead man by the collar and shoved him over, then slid into the bloody driver's seat, put the transmission into drive and floored the accelerator. He narrowly missed an arriving ambulance as he shot out into the street.

* * *

New York

"Well," Jake said laconically, "I didn't see that coming. I liked it. I thought you said this guy was a plodder, not a take-charge kind of guy."

"Usually he is." Kate stared at the multiscreen view of the Russian hospital.

On one screen Sergei nearly sideswiped an ambulance but then vanished quickly into the heavy traffic.

"Gotta say," Jake told her, "I like the change. Probably saved his life. Maybe his partner's, too."

Inside the hospital the three gunmen turned away from the emergency room and headed outside.

"Don't know what Prokhorov said to them," Jake commented, "but he got their attention."

Kate surveyed the security-camera view that showed the entrance to the OR where Sergei ProkhoroVs partner fought for his life. None of the gunmen had reached that part of the hospital.

"Do you think Sergei's ready to listen now?" Jake asked.

"Would you be?"

"I wouldn't be happy right now, but without us, he's got nowhere to go. He's exposed and cut off from everything he knows."

"Think he's calm enough to figure that out?" Kate asked.

"Only one way to find out."

* * *

Moscow

Mired in traffic, Sergei felt foolish and afraid. Blood from the dead man had sprayed the windshield with a crimson fog. He used the cuff of his jacket sleeve to try to wipe the mess away but only made it worse.

Someone behind him honked and he realized space had opened up ahead. Before he could accelerate into it, a cab swooped in front of him and blocked him. Sergei cursed the man and resisted the impulse to bump the taxi out of frustration.

Movement in the rearview mirror, also muddied by the blood, caught his attention. Three men threaded through the stalled traffic. In disbelief, he turned and looked over his shoulder in time to see the three gunmen aim their weapons. They fired in concert, hammering the back of Sergei's stolen vehicle with bullets. The back windshield exploded in a torrent of broken glass.

Frantic, knowing he was exposed and was a threat to everyone around him, Sergei pulled the steering wheel hard to the right and hit the accelerator. He kept his left hand on the horn as he sped forward through the tables and chairs of a sidewalk cafe. Patrons jumped away for their lives.

Even then, he was afraid to go too fast. Still, the maneuver allowed him to pull away from the men following him on foot.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

When he spotted a side street, Sergei powered into it. His bumper briefly nudged that of a cargo van. The resulting shudder ran the length of the sedan and made the dead man slump lower in the seat.

The phone continued to vibrate.

Sergei checked the rearview mirror, peered through the shattered windshield and found he'd left the gunmen behind. He kept an eye on the streets around him and in the sky in case helicopters got involved.

You have been watching far too many American movies, he told himself.

The vibration continued.

Angrily Sergei pulled the phone out and shouted, "What?"

"That was good," the woman said. "You pulled them away from your partner."

"Mikhalkov is still alive?" Sergei almost whooped with joy.

"Yes. You ran and the men followed you. Predator's instinct."

The dead man's arm flopped across Sergei's knees, and the bitter guilt he'd been dreading hit him, in spite of the adrenaline flowing through his system. He'd shot a man in cold blood.

"Sergei," the woman said.

"What?"

"Are you still with me?"

"Where else would I be?" Sergei moved the dead man's arm and made another turn.

"I need to know what you learned from Pasternak."

Sergei concentrated on his driving and didn't say anything. Some of the glass from the shattered rear window lay scattered across the seat. Two bullets had ripped through the front windshield, as well.

"You learned something," the woman continued. "Otherwise those men wouldn't have killed Pasternak, and they wouldn't have come after you and your partner."

"This is police business."

"Is that where you're headed? To the police?"

"Yes."

"You'll be dead before night falls."

Sergei swerved to miss a car making a left turn. Horns blared behind him. Hang up the phone, he told himself. But he didn't. He gripped it more tightly than ever.

"You don't want to die, Sergei."

He didn't.

"And once they're through with you, they'll kill Mikhalkov."

44

Moscow

Sergei slapped the steering wheel in frustration. He was glancing into the rearview mirror so much that he almost collided with a truck in front of him. He slammed on the brakes and drew attention from the passersby on the sidewalk. Several of them pointed at the car — at the bloodstained windshield, bullet holes and the dead man — then quickly backed away.

"Whatever Pasternak told you," the woman went on, "it's worth your life. You see that, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You could have told your superiors before now. You talked to someone at FSB when Mikhalkov was admitted to the hospital."

Sergei had, and he'd claimed that he hadn't known what had happened that morning because he'd expected Mikhalkov to wake up and tell him what to do. The old man wasn't supposed to be on an operating table. For the time being, Sergei had claimed that Pasternak must have been taken out by a rival. He'd mentioned nothing about the frail of weapons that had led them there.

"Think about it," the woman said. "You didn't tell your supervisor what you knew this morning. Now you're going to run to him and tell him everything? Won't he be suspicious? Won't he be irritated that you and Mikhalkov took it upon yourselves to pursue a cache of weapons that's somewhere in Moscow?"

It was true. It was all true and Sergei knew it. The FSB hated secrets, and the agency hated agents that withheld information. At the very least, he was going to lose his job. But they could lock him up, too.

"Not only that, but if you're taken into custody, how long do you think you'll live? These people chasing you seem very determined."

The wind whistled through the holes in the car's windshield and reminded Sergei just how determined those men were.

"I cannot go there," he said, and he didn't know if he said that more for himself or the woman.

"I know," she said calmly. "Let me help you."

"I do not even know who you are."

"Then think about that. I could just walk away from this. There's nothing to tie you to me. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have warned you about the men entering the hospital. I want you alive. I want to know what you learned from Pasternak and I need you to help me find those weapons."

Sergei had enjoyed the idea that he worked for some super-secret spy organization within the Kremlin. He had enjoyed spy novels as a boy, and the idea of working in clandestine affairs had excited him. He had only been called on a few other occasions, and he'd made his peace with being a small, anonymous cog in a big operation.

Now he wished that he had remained anonymous.

"Sergei?"

No matter what else happened, Sergei knew he couldn't let Pasternak's deathbed confession be erased. Someone had to know if Sergei and Mikhalkov fell. Whatever the conspiracy involving Kumarin was, it had to be revealed.

"Pasternak told me that he worked for Yuri Kumarin to broker the deal."

"Who is Kumarin?"

Sergei was surprised the woman didn't know. She seemed to know so many other things. "He is a Russian general known for his anti-Chechen political stand."

The woman was silent for a moment and Sergei was certain the news had surprised her. He expected her to break the connection, but she didn't.

"Thank you for trusting me, Sergei. We'll get this worked out. Once this is over, you'll get a chance to know more about who you're working for. For now, I want to get you out of harm's way."

Sergei took a deep breath and released it. "Can you ensure Mikhalkov's safety, too?"

"We're working on that. I'm calling in some favors."

"Can you fix this with my agency?" Sergei didn't want the FSB tracking him, as well. Russia was suddenly full of enemies and dangers as it was.

"Yes."

Sergei didn't know how the woman could sound so confident, but she did, and he felt immediate relief because of it. He just hoped that relief wouldn't be short-lived.

* * *

New York

Grimly Kate divided her attention between the Moscow map that showed GPS tracking of Sergei ProkhoroVs phone and the satellite imagery of the city streets. So far none of the tech team she'd made responsible for the Russian FSB agent's health and well-being had spotted any tails.

"Sergei needs to ditch that phone as soon as he can," Jake said.

Kate touched her headset to change phone lines. "How is my cut-out number doing?"

"Gimme twenty seconds," the tech said. "I'll lock the number in through the Rio exchanges. If anyone tries to piggyback the call, we can jettison the connection before they can reach us."

But Sergei Prokhorov would be left to fend for himself. Kate wasn't happy with that idea. Protecting Room 59 came first, and all the inner circle of agents knew that. Some of them had died inches from safety and she'd had to watch.

"Let me know. I'm working on borrowed time." Kate switched to another line. "Where are my work-ups on General Yuri Kumarin?"

"Coming. Asking for them isn't going to make it happen any sooner."

Kate took a deep breath and let it out. "I know, Geoff. Just let me know." She hated being behind the eight ball, and her position often put her there.

"You doing okay?" Jake asked.

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"I've got two agents out in the field who are both exposed. I don't know if we can keep Prokhorov hidden or salvage him after we do, and I told him that I could because I need him focused on getting out of this alive. And I can't get in touch with Ajza Manaev while she's in that camp."

"You'll work it out."

Kate knew she would. If she didn't, Sergei Prokhorov or Ajza Manaev was dead. Probably both of them.

All because they're caught up in the middle of a trap that was grinding inexorably closed, she thought.

"You can field an exfiltration team for Ajza," Jake pointed out.

"There are too many women and children in that camp." Kate remembered those images, too. She hated the thought of letting the Black Widow camp exist for another minute, much less the idea of days or weeks longer. "We don't sacrifice potentially dozens of innocents for the safety of one agent. That's not what we were was set up to do. We're perishable goods. Collateral damage if it comes to that. We take the hit when things go wrong. Every agent in the field knows and understands that."

"Then let it ride," Jake advised.

Kate paced and tried to relax. Those agents needed her at her best, thinking clearly.

"Why would Kumarin get weapons for Taburova?" Jake asked.

Kate knew her bodyguard was playing devil's advocate. They both knew why Kumarin had brokered the weapons deal.

"They're bait," Kate answered. "To get Taburova or the Chechen freedom fighters to come out into the open. Once Russia finds out a weapons shipment for the Chechens has hit their streets, they're going to push the military to roll over them again."

"Okay, but why American weapons?"

Kate looked at Jake. "The simple answer is that the American weapons were all they could get."

"The simple answer would be to sell the Chechens Russian weapons. Or Chinese. They've got warehouses of that ordnance over there."

It was true. Arms dealers still sold Russian overstock throughout the world. Kate turned that fact over in her mind.

"Ajza dropped a load of American weapons into the sea in Istanbul," Jake went on. "I'm betting it wasn't too easy to get two shipments of American weapons."

Kate didn't like the answer that came to her mind. "The United States has been heavily involving itself in East European countries that were once satellites of Russia."

"We've been accused of subverting Russian political influence in that area," Jake agreed. "How do you think it's going to look when a Russian general can point to a warehouse full of American weapons that were delivered to Chechen terrorists?"

"Bad."

Jake nodded. "Plenty bad. Sounds to me like Kumarin is trying to double-dip on this operation. He's going to bring down some of the Chechen leaders and give the U. S. a hickey in the process. Should set back our peacekeeping involvement over there for a while. The rest of Europe isn't too happy when we get overly involved in their backyard."

The theory made sense. And all the pieces came together easily.

Kate's computer screen blinked and revealed a new folder titled General Yuri Kumarin. She crossed to the computer and opened the file.

Kumarin was in his early fifties, a handsome man with close-cropped gray hair and gray eyes. His Russian army uniform was immaculate. Other photos in the file showed Kumarin on various military lines and standing in bombed-out sections of Moscow. Headlines on various articles screamed how vehemently Kumarin disliked the Chechen rebels.

After a deep breath, Kate said, "Kumarin is the key. We need to work him and find a way to him."

And get our people out safely, she added silently.

45

Outside Chechnya

"You will room with me," Maaret said as she led Ajza into one of the small buildings. "Three other women live here, but there is room for another. Get your things and bring them here."

"I don't have anything," Ajza replied.

Maaret looked at her suspiciously. "You're well fed. You have no wounds. Some fresh bruises, yes, but no open sores. How can you have nothing?"

Ajza was surprised at Maaret's observational skills, and she was ashamed of herself for having thought so little of the woman. Guilt over her own lack of hardships assailed her. In truth, she was nothing like the women trapped at the camp.

"The man who brought me to Taburova, Achmed, stole everything I had."

"Achmed is a very bad man. He brings in a lot of women. And girls. He and his men abuse them terribly."

"He won't do that anymore. Taburova killed him."

"One of the other women told me that." Maaret paused, then, "She also told me you threatened to kill Achmed with a grenade."

Ajza shrugged. "Better to die as I am than after Achmed and his men were done with me."

"Your husband is dead?"

"Yes."

"You loved him?"

"Yes." Ajza lied flawlessly, but still felt guilty. Maaret had lost her husband. That was why she was there.

"Why should you want to live?"

"I don't want to live without my husband, but I'm still alive." Ajza paused. "Dying…is harder than I thought." She'd wanted to die when she'd heard about Ilyas, but dying hadn't been an option.

For a moment Maaret held her gaze and her silence. "I know. Every woman in this place feels the same way. But they learn to say what Taburova and the other men want them to say. Then they die when Taburova commands it."

"Is escape so impossible?" Ajza asked.

"Yes. If anyone gets out of this camp and evades pursuit, the men kill one of the children for every escapee. They only had to do this once to make believers of everyone here."

Ajza's blood turned cold. This was something she hadn't known.

"They kill the girls first," Maaret said. "The ones who are too young to sell into sexual slavery. But no one doubts they would kill a boy, as well. No one escapes." She stared at Ajza. "If you try to escape, the women will expose you. You will find no friends in this camp if you do not put the fate of the children first."

"I understand. There is nowhere for me to go, anyway," Ajza said.

A baby's cry sounded from one of the back rooms.

"Sit." Maaret gestured to a rug on the floor. "Make yourself comfortable. We will find you more clothes and bedding. It will not be much, but we will make do."

"Thank you." Ajza sat on the rug and leaned back against the wall.

The baby cried again, more strident now.

"I will return," Maaret said, then hurried to the back room.

Ajza glanced around the squalid interior. The wooden floor was rough and water stains formed a pattern on the ceiling. Handmade candles that stank of animal fat sat on one of the crates. Further inspection of the crate revealed that it had once held ammunition.

In her mind she went over the layout of the camp and wondered if Taburova had the cache of American weapons hidden somewhere. If the weapons were here, she only needed to find out where, then escape…

That stopped her. When Ajza had agreed to the infiltration op, she hadn't known that a child would be killed if she made good her escape. Panic thrummed through her as she realized she was more trapped than she'd first believed.

After a few minutes of sitting idle awaiting Maaret's return, Ajza got to her feet and headed to the back of the building. Whatever she did about escape, she'd have to know her immediate surroundings. Her footsteps scraped against the hardwood floor.

The back room had been divided into four areas by hanging sheets. Ajza pulled one of the sheets aside and saw a young woman sleeping on a pile of bedding. Her ashen color offered mute testimony of her ill health.

"Do not get too close to her," Maaret called from the other side of the room. "We do not know what is wrong with her. Perhaps it is contagious."

Ajza let the sheet fall and backed away. She turned to the area where she'd heard Maaret's voice. When she drew the sheet aside, she saw the young woman sitting on a pile of bedding with an infant nursing at her breast.

The baby had fair hair and chubby fists. Ajza wasn't sure how best to judge babies' ages because she hadn't been around them much, but she felt certain this one was only a few months old.

"What do you want?" Maaret demanded. Her dark eyes held accusation.

"I was looking for something to drink."

"There's a water barrel in the other room. Every group is responsible for pumping it from the well."

Ajza nodded. "You have a baby." She knew it sounded stupid, but she couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Yes. A boy, thank God, and so I think he might get to live."

"He is beautiful. And he has so much hair."

Maaret pulled the baby more closely to her and looked defensive. "His father was Chechen. Some Chechens have blond hair."

"I know. My brother had blond hair," Ajza said.

"He was Chechen?"

"Yes. My mother called him her surprise. Blond hair and blue eyes."

"Like the Russians."

"Like some of the Russians," Ajza corrected. "The people here have sometimes intermarried."

"Not often in our faith." Maaret looked down at her son. "He looks like his father, though. That will make his life hard at times."

"I know. My brother had problems with people who didn't believe he was Chechen."

Maaret adjusted her child on her arm and looked up. "You sound like you are close to your brother."

"I was. He…died a short time ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that. You have had much sadness in your life."

"We all have."

Absently Maaret stroked her son's hair. "Before he was born, I was sure he was going to be a gift from God."

"My mother insists that they are."

"For some women, perhaps."

"You don't think your son is a blessing?"

"Look at where I am. I look at him. I feed him. I hold him. And I live with the constant fear that every day will be the last. I know I will never live to see him grow up. I will never see him take a wife and have children of his own." Maaret's voice broke. "I will not live to see him become a man. When he is grown, he will not remember me." A tear grazed her cheek. "Perhaps that is for the best."

Ajza didn't know what to say.

Maaret pulled her sleeping son from her breast, covered herself, then burped the baby and cleaned his face with a damp towel. He struggled a little against the scrubbing, then went back to sleep.

"How old is he?" Ajza asked.

"Eight months." Maaret continued to hold her child and look down at him.

Ajza couldn't imagine what it must be like for the woman to know that she wouldn't see her child grow older. It had to be horrible.

"Did you have children?" Maaret asked.

"No." Ajza looked at the sleeping baby and thought how awful it was to be brought up in this camp.

"Some of the women here lost their children to their husband's families. They took the children and threw the women out into the streets because they were not blood."

"You have your child."

"But I don't know if that's a blessing or a curse. If my husband's family had taken him, he would be safe now."

"Why didn't they?"

Maaret shook her head. "My husband was one of Taburova's men. There was no family."

"That's sad." Ajza thought about what the younger woman had said. "Your husband was one of Taburova's men?"

"Yes."

"Then your baby was born here."

Maaret nodded. "He has never known a day of freedom. I pray that one day he does." She looked at Ajza. "That is why I do everything Taburova asks me. I obey and I get to take care of my son. I fear that when I am dead, they will kill him. Or worse, they will make him as they are." She shrugged. "But there is nothing I can do about that."

For a time Ajza sat there with Maaret and they watched the baby sleep. While doing that, it seemed as though the death that waited to pounce on them at any moment was quietly kept locked away.

46

Outside

"Reload three rounds. Quickly. Do it quickly."

Ajza reloaded the Tokarev 9 nun's magazine more slowly than she could have. The bullets clicked into place in the magazine. The thick smell of gun oil and gunpowder filled her nostrils.

For three days all the women in the camp had trained with the pistols. However, they'd been limited to groups of five and given only a handful of bullets at a time. They'd learned how to load the pistols, clean them and clear them when there was a jam. They'd also learned how to shoot targets.

"When the weapon is ready, place it on the stand," the instructor ordered. He was a heavy-set man who sat on a crate in the shade of a twisted tree. His name was Saleh and all the women hated him because he was a cruel taskmaster. He had an AK-47 across his knees and the women knew that if they tried to use their weapons against him or the other guards, he would kill them where they stood.

Months ago during a training exercise, Maaret had told Ajza, one of the women had tried to shoot a man who had constantly abused her since her arrival. Saleh had cut the woman down without batting an eye.

Ajza placed her weapon on the flat board in front of her. The target range consisted of planks nailed together to form a makeshift rail in front of the five women shooting. They shot crates that had targets painted on them. Many of the crates had some bullet holes in them, but most of the rounds had gone into the hill behind the targets.

"Ready," Saleh said.

The women picked up the pistols. Ajza lifted her weapon and felt the comforting weight of it. Her days in camp had been miserable. Every night the men verbally and physically abused some of the women, breaking the spirits of those who dared fight back and making numb the ones who were afraid. All of them learned that death was preferable to life.

In those few short days the women Ajza had arrived with were well on their way to becoming automatons. Part of their behavior was due to the drugs the men gave them, but most of the numbness came from loss of hope.

They no longer prayed to God to free them. Instead, they gave lip service to the goals that Taburova told them they should have. They asked for strength to die while bringing death to the enemies of their people. Ajza felt certain most of them simply wanted to die — quickly and painlessly. The men tortured those they killed.

Every night Ajza had gone to bed feeling guilty and powerless. As Taburova had ordered, the men left her alone. But that made her feel isolated, for the other women had learned to hate her for her special treatment. Outside of Maaret, who was left alone, as well, Ajza made no real acquaintances.

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."

47

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."

The man's facial expression didn't alter. "You know I don't like to change anything in the middle of an operation."

"Yes, I do. If this wasn't worth doing, we wouldn't. If it works, it should accelerate things there for you."

Viktor considered that for a moment, then nodded. "All right." He glanced at Sergei. "Are you ready?"

Sergei nodded, but he couldn't help wondering if Viktor knew the woman or just worked for her blindly as he did. Viktor spoke Russian and English flawlessly, without an accent. Either could have been his native tongue.

"A moment, please." Sergei sat at the computer long enough to pull up the files on the three Spetsnaz soldiers who had been identified, then burn them to an SD-RAM chip. He pocketed the chip in his wallet behind his FSB credentials. "All right."

"Do you have a Kevlar vest?" Viktor asked.

"Yes." Sergei felt embarrassed that he hadn't thought of that.

"Please put it on."

Sergei retreated to the small bedroom and took the bulletproof vest from the chair beside the bed. He stripped off his shirt, then buckled the vest on and pulled the shirt back over the vest. He returned to the living room and found Viktor patiently waiting.

"I'll lead the way to the car," Viktor said. "Stay behind me two steps, one step to the right. Remain there. I need to know where you are at all times."

"All right."

The gray eyes focused on Sergei a moment longer. "Please be sure you do this. It would be easier to do this with a two-man security detachment. Even better with four. But it would be more conspicuous. For now I'm all you have."

"Of course." Sergei felt like an awkward child and resented it. Except if he made a mistake here, he was going to die.

Properly anxious, he followed Viktor through the door and back into the world. He hoped death wasn't waiting.

48

Outside Chechnya

The baby's plaintive cry woke Ajza. She lay quietly for a moment and thought Maaret had woken and tended the child, but then the baby cried out again. The fire in the stove had burned down to coals and did not give off much heat. Only a dim orange glow broke the night.

Ajza regretted leaving the warm bedding, especially when the cold darkness closed in around her. She pulled on her hiking boots out of habit. She'd been trapped without shoes while running for her life before and didn't want to repeat the experience.

She rubbed her arms to increase circulation and body heat as she walked across the room to Maaret's space. Ice crystals from freezing humidity clung to the sheet hung in front of the space. It crackled as Ajza eased under it.

The baby lay on his back, arms outspread. His face wrinkled as he let out another wail. He had squirmed out from under most of the bedding and now lay exposed. He wore only a diaper and a badly fitting, handmade nightgown.

Maaret hadn't moved. For a moment Ajza feared the younger woman had died. Then Maaret's thin chest lifted and fell with an asthmatic wheeze. She'd taken sick two days ago. There was no cold medicine in the camp. Maaret had been afraid of giving the illness to her son.

Moving quietly, Ajza picked up the child and pulled him to her chest. He felt ice cold to the touch. Shifting the baby to one arm, Ajza laid a hand against Maaret's forehead. She was burning with fever.

No wonder you moved, little boy, Ajza thought. Mommy's way too hot.

Ajza tucked the cover around Maaret and hoped the fever would soon break. Despite her illness, the men in the camp had forced her to complete her training and chores.

As she stepped out of Maaret's space, one of the other women's sheets moved. The woman had been woken by the baby's cries, too, but she hadn't done anything about it.

Ajza returned to the common area. She sat near the stove, held the baby close and fed the fire some of the branches they'd gathered earlier. Within a few minutes the fire blazed up and radiated more warmth.

When she discovered the baby had wet himself, Ajza changed him, using one of the makeshift diapers from a pile Maaret washed in the stream every day.

She also retrieved one of the baby bottles containing goat's milk that Maaret had prepared. In her malnourished state, Maaret wasn't able to produce enough milk for her son.

Ajza fed the baby, amazed at how good the simple task made her feel.

The baby ate well, then Ajza snuggled him closer to give more heat to his body. He felt much warmer, and he slept. She hoped he wouldn't catch whatever illness his mother had. His breath whispered milky soft against her cheek.

After a time she slept, too, and she felt calmer than she had in a long time.

* * *

Ajza jerked awake, discovered she'd fallen asleep with the baby in her arms and pulled him closely to her. Then she heard a woman's hoarse shout again and realized what had roused her from sleep.

"There!" the woman shouted. "There she goes!"

Men yelled at each other, and from the tone Ajza knew they were in pursuit. Their words carried anger and excitement.

Cautiously Ajza wrapped the baby in the blankets and got to her feet with him in her arms. She limped at first because her left leg had gone numb from sitting. She thought she would have known she was losing feeling in her leg.

One of the women stood at the back windows of the building. She peered anxiously down the mountainside. Beyond the dirty, cracked glass, three men with lights and a dog hurried down the incline. One of the men fell and discharged his weapon. The bright glare of the muzzle flash split the night and caused the woman to draw back from the window in fear.

Ajza didn't notice that she'd turned to protect the baby she held from a stray bullet. The man, meanwhile, tumbled down the hill and became tangled in the dog's leash. He fought for a moment, then regained his feet. Immediately, though more cautiously, he took off after the lights bouncing through the night-blackened scrub.

"She went that way! By the boulders!" Outside, Maaret stood pointing. A man stood beside her with one of his big hands around her upper arm. With her free hand, Maaret tried to pull her thin clothing close, but the wind insisted on plucking it from her.

"What's going on?" Ajza asked.

The woman at the window didn't answer for a moment, then she said, "Zamira got foolish tonight."

Zamira was the other woman in the building. Ajza doubted she'd even seen seventeen yet. Her husband had died only months after their wedding. She was young and pretty, and Taburova's men used her harshly.

"She could take no more rough handling," the woman said. "Tonight, after the men brought her back, she tried to escape."

"The men caught her?"

"No." The woman shook her head. "It was Maaret who discovered her sneaking out of the building like a thief. Zamira would not listen to Maaret. Maaret told her she would call for the men." The woman shrugged. "I guess Zamira did not believe Maaret would do such a thing. But Maaret did. And now Zamira will pay for her foolishness. Or perhaps she no longer cares."

One of the men swung his light and yelled to the others. The white beam illuminated the young woman in the darkness as she tried to take cover behind a tree. Helplessness twisted her features. Plucked from hiding, Zamira turned and ran through the brush.

Ajza watched and her stomach roiled, because she knew the young woman had no chance.

The man nearest Zamira unleashed his dog. The animal took off, racing across the night-black mountainside with feral surefootedness. Too quickly, the dog reached Zamira, then leaped up and caught her forearm. Holding on viciously, the beast pulled the young woman to the ground. Her screams ripped through the night and echoed across the mountain as she fought the growling dog.

Then the screams stopped and she lay still, even though the dog continued to savage her.

Two men dragged Zamira's body back up the mountain and threw it into the middle of the camp like a side of beef. Ripped and broken, covered in blood, the dead woman looked like something from a butcher's shop.

The men drove all the women out of the buildings to view the body. The cold wind and their fear caused the women to shiver as they stood in huddled groups. A few of them bore bruises from earlier that same night.

Maaret remained held by the big man. Her gaze caught Ajza's for a moment, then she looked away. Tears glittered on her cheeks. Ajza wondered if Maaret's tears were for the dead woman or for herself.

Saleh strode over to Zamira's corpse and kicked her. Then he spat on her and cursed her parentage and stupidity. Finished, he turned his attention back to the women.

"You are Chechen women," he snarled. "You have lost your husbands and your families. You are worthless in the eyes of God until you redeem yourselves. We are offering you a chance to redeem yourselves and find a better life after this one." He looked back at the corpse. "This woman will find no peace after her death. She will know only torment and fear. Do you want to be like her?" His gaze challenged the women.

Most of them answered negatively, their voices hushed and fearful.

"You stand there and look accusingly at Maaret because she warned us of this one's attempt at escape," Saleh said. "Some of you will condemn her — the foolish among you. But Maaret saved lives tonight. If this cow had escaped, one of your children would have died."

The mothers all pulled their children close. Whispered prayers rode the wind through the huddled women. Ajza felt the fear in them like an electric current.

"Do not hurt Maaret," Saleh said. "If you do, you will pay for doing so. She is strong enough to do God's work even when you are not."

Ajza knew that his words would only make things worse for the young woman. The baby shifted a little in Ajza's arms. She pulled the blanket more tightly around him.

"Get back to sleep," Saleh commanded. "Pray to God to give you honorable deaths." He gestured to two of the men, then at the corpse. "Find a hole to dump this in."

The man holding Maaret released her. She walked to Ajza immediately. "Give me my child."

"Of course." Ajza passed the baby over. Even in that brief contact, she felt the heat coming off Maaret and knew the fever had not broken.

Without another word, Maaret turned and walked back toward the building where they lived. She walked carefully, as if she didn't trust her balance.

Ajza felt torn. She despised Maaret for what she had done. The young woman was as guilty of causing Zamira's death as the men and the dog. Yet Ajza understood why she had acted as she had.

"You cannot trust that one," a woman whispered to Ajza.

Ajza turned her face into the wind and studied the other woman. She was one of the few in camp who was older than she was. A jagged scar split her left eyebrow.

"Even if you get on her good side, you cannot trust that one," the woman said. "She has bad luck, and that baby is cursed. Better it should die."

The harsh tone made Ajza angry. She couldn't imagine anyone willingly hurting a child, but she knew they existed.

"He's just a baby," Ajza said.

"He is made from bad luck. His father betrayed Taburova, and Taburova killed him. Exploded him in Moscow. It was supposed to be Maaret who died when she was pregnant with her traitorous husband's child. Instead, her husband foolishly tried to rescue her. When he died, Taburova brought Maaret back and let her birth her child. She has been his puppet since that time."

A chill that wasn't due to the cold ghosted through Ajza. "Her husband was blown up?"

"Yes." The woman nodded.

"When?"

"December. Only a month before the baby was born."

For a moment Ajza thought she might be sick. Ilyas had died in December, blown up by a bomb. Only lately she'd discovered that he'd died in Moscow and that he'd been tracking Taburova. It couldn't be a coincidence.

Ajza hadn't seen her brother for a year before his death. Their parents thought he was working at a new job and couldn't get away. Ajza had known Ilyas was undercover somewhere.

A wave of sickness passed over her again as she remembered her brother's blond hair and blue eyes. Now that she thought of it, in his baby pictures, he'd looked a lot like Maaret's child.

Without a word, Ajza walked back toward the building.

"Remember what I said," the woman called after her. "She is bad luck, that one. Bad luck."

Ilyas has a son. The realization kept cycling through Ajza's mind. Ilyas has a son.

I have a nephew.

49

Unable to stop herself, Ajza went to Maaret's private space and lifted the sheet. She knew the woman was still awake because a tallow candle burned on the other side of the sheet.

Maaret cupped her free hand over the candle to absorb the heat. She was shivering. In the near-darkness with the candle's glow on her, she looked paler than ever. She held the baby in her other arm, letting him nurse at her breast.

"What do you want?" Maaret demanded suspiciously. She wiped tears from her face.

"Only to make certain that you're well," Ajza replied.

"I am fine."

"You're sick." Ajza stepped into the area and let the sheet fall behind her. The room was cold and drafty.

"I will be fine."

"What if you give your sickness to your son?" What if you give your sickness to Ilyas's son? Ajza thought, and that possibility filled her with dread. Looking at the baby now, she believed she could see her brother in him. She didn't know how she had missed it before.

"What do you care?"

"I don't wish to see any harm come to the baby."

Maaret pulled her son closer to her, sat up and put her back against the wall. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper. "And me? Do you wish me dead like the others will after tonight?"

The candlelight illuminated the silver of her tears.

"No." Ajza squatted so that she was on a level with the woman. "No, I don't wish any harm to you, Maaret."

Maaret wept silently for a moment, then wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. "The others hate me."

Ajza knew she couldn't lie to the woman. "Some of them. Not all."

Pain tore at Maaret's face. "The ones with children, they will understand. They will be glad they were not the ones to have to do this awful thing," Maaret croaked. "They will talk badly of me to the others. But in their hearts they will know that they would do the same thing. To save their children, they would do what I have done."

Ajza didn't speak.

"Poor Zamira." Maaret doubled over in pain. "She was so young. And to die like that? With a dog tearing the life from her?" She shook her head. "I never wanted that for her."

"I know."

Maaret wiped at her face. "I tried to die. I did. In December, before my baby was born, I tried to die. Taburova picked me to go into Moscow. I wore explosives. I was willing to die. Especially after I found out what my husband had done."

Ajza steeled herself to show no emotion. It was the most difficult thinsg she'd ever done. "What did your husband do?"

"He betrayed Taburova." Maaret gulped air. "He spied on Taburova. For the British. A few days before Taburova selected me to go into Moscow, Ilyas escaped."

Pain clawed at Ajza, tearing her heart apart. Tears blurred her eyes, but Maaret was so overcome with her own distress that she didn't notice. Ajza sipped air and pushed the emotion and confusion away. Images of her brother tumbled through her mind. She hoped she could always remember them all.

"If he escaped," Ajza whispered through her tight throat, hoping that Maaret only thought she was trying to be quiet, "how did he die?"

"He came back for me. For me and the baby. He found out that Taburova sent me into Moscow." Maaret shook her head. "I do not know how he found me that night, but he did."

Tracking device, Ajza thought. He was keeping watch over you. My brother would never have left you and his baby.

"He begged me to come away with him," Maaret went on. "I could not."

"Why?"

Maaret stared at her. "Because I am Chechen. Because I want my people to be free."

"Ilyas wanted you to be free."

"No." Maaret shook her head vehemently. "No. He was a traitor to my people. He was a traitor to our faith. He came to us, to Taburova, and won us over with his stories." Her lips stretched in silent pain for a time before she could speak again. "Taburova believed in him. I believed in him. I fell in love with him and married him." She put a hand to her head. "My God. I do not know how I could have done such a thing after I was sold to Taburova. I thought I was dead. I should have been dead."

"How did Ilyas die?"

"He took the explosives from me. I should not have let him, but I was feeling the baby kicking. I knew it was almost time for him to be born. He was so close to living." Maaret's face knotted in agony again. "I should not have been weak."

"Ilyas took the explosives," Ajza said in a quavering voice. "That was his decision."

"I know, but I should not have let him."

"You would not have been able to stop him." Ajza remembered how stubborn her brother could be. "It was his choice. Did he set off the explosives?"

"It was Taburova. He was watching. I did not think he was, but he was there. When Ilyas tried to get rid of the explosives, Taburova set them off."

"Taburova killed Ilyas."

Maaret nodded. "He told me…he told me that he knew Ilyas would be there. He said it was the only way to kill the traitor to our people."

The baby stirred restlessly and whimpered.

Maaret adjusted his blanket and held him close. "I came home the night after Ilyas died. I wished I had been the one to die. Then I went into labor. I prayed for God to take me then, because women who die in childbirth go to heaven no matter what sins they have committed. But I did not die. And my son was born." She traced his round face with her fingers. "Then I saw him and held him and smelled him, and I knew I would do whatever was in my power to take care of him."

"And you have," Ajza said.

Lifting her gaze, Maaret said, "That is why Taburova lets me live. As long as I have my son and I can protect him, Taburova knows I will do anything he says."

For a while Ajza sat there in the silence. She thought about Ilyas and the predicament his widow and son were in. And there was nothing she could do to get them out of it.

"I'm sorry," Ajza whispered a short time later.

But Maaret was asleep, her head lolling against the wall. Ajza eased the young woman down, realizing that they were sisters-in-law, and discovered Maaret was still burning up with fever.

She left the space long enough to get a bowl of water and a piece of cloth to use as a compress. Then she sat on the bed and gently laid Maaret's head in her lap. She bathed her head, praying that the fever would break and the woman would recover.

50

"Wake up!"

Someone kicked Ajza's foot. Pain shot up her leg and brought her to instant wakefulness. She started to roll away and rise in a defensive crouch, but Maaret's weight stopped her.

One of Taburova's men stood before her. He'd torn the curtain away and it pooled at his feet. He held a pistol. Behind him, another man was yelling at the women on the opposite side of the room.

"Get up," the guard ordered. "We have things to do today."

Ajza wanted to tell the man that Maaret was sick, that she needed to rest. Before she could, the woman on the other side of the room complained of being sick. The second guard kicked her and demanded that she get up.

The woman made an effort to stand, but only succeeded in vomiting on the guard's boots. Angrily the man reached down and jerked her to her feet. The woman stood for a moment, then swayed. Her knees buckled and she hit the floor.

Callously the guard aimed his pistol at her and pulled the trigger. The detonation woke Maaret's baby and made him cry. His frightened cries woke Maaret when the guard's rough voice had not. She reached for her child and pulled him close.

"This one was useless," the second guard said of the woman he'd killed.

The first guard nodded and turned back to Ajza and Maaret. "Get up." This time he pointed the pistol at them.

Ajza stood and helped Maaret to her feet. Fortunately the young woman's flesh felt much cooler. Her fever had broken.

"Is something wrong with her?" the guard demanded.

"She'll be fine," Ajza said. "She was up late last night, and the baby makes her tired."

"If she can't make it to Moscow," the guard threatened, "she will be shot where she falls."

The fragile hope that Ajza had nurtured all through the night vanished in a breath. She could only worry about what to do with her brother's widow and infant son.

She had no answers and time was up.

* * *

Ajza carried the baby down the mountainside. She was tired and worn-out from the past few days, and she took every step with care. The baby wasn't all that heavy, but he was still a burden.

Maaret was too weak to carry her son. At times, Ajza had to help the younger woman, as well. She feared that one of the guards would decide Maaret was moving too slowly and shoot her.

They went in single file. Taburova rode his pony down the mountainside without a problem, but several of the women slipped and fell. When they did, the men would beat them until they got to their feet again.

Just before they reached the flat ground, a convoy of old trucks rattled into view. The vehicles stopped at the foot of the mountain and waited.

When the women reached the trucks, the guards lined them up. Taburova rode his horse in front of them, sizing them up with his relentless gaze.

"The time has come," Taburova declared as he reined in his mount. "Tonight you will lay down your lives for Chechnya."

Ajza stared at the man and remembered how heroic he'd appeared that night on the mountainside when he'd killed Achmed. Now she knew that he was exactly what the files she'd read had told her he was: a cold-blooded murderer. It didn't matter that he wrapped a flag around his bloody work. Taburova lived to kill people.

Ajza stared at the trucks, wondering if the weapons she'd come looking for were stored in them. No. The weapons wouldn't be so easy to get to.

"Get on the trucks," Taburova ordered.

His men started shoving the women toward the trucks.

Ajza strode forward with the child still in her arms. Maaret held on to her elbow for support and stumbled along beside her. They climbed into a truck, and Ajza took a seat on the floor in the rear, her mind raced. There had to be a way out.

* * *

New York

Kate watched the mass exodus from the Black Widow camp then the convoy trundling along the dirt road, with alarm. According to the map she had access to, the nearest paved road was twenty miles away.

"They're not out for a Sunday drive," Jake commented.

"No, they're not. Do you think it's possible they've been tipped off that they're being watched?"

"Sure. But a guy like Taburova, do you think he'd try to sneak off in broad daylight?"

"No." Kate backed up the video recording until she saw Taburova talking to the women. Even from the view from the satellite, she recognized the man at once. "He'd kill everyone in the camp and disappear into the night."

"That's what I was thinking." Jake scratched his jaw. "That makes this a business trip."

Kate pulled up Sergei ProkhoroVs field reports. He and Viktor had managed to keep General Kumarin under surveillance. So far the general hadn't deviated from his routine duties. Room 59's intel unit was spot on with those.

"Taburova is hours away from Moscow at the rate he's traveling," Jake said. "There's time."

"Maybe," Kate replied, "but it feels like we're running out of it."

"We'll be ready. Unless there's a wrinkle we haven't spotted."

Kate massaged her tense neck muscles. "We always look for those, but they still manage to surprise."

She flicked through the file on Taburova and brought it up side by side with General Kumarin's. She had the definite feeling that she was missing something there. She didn't have the slightest clue what it was.

51

Moscow

"You need to relax and be patient."

"I am being patient," Sergei said irritably. He quietly drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel of the sedan.

Viktor sat in the passenger seat, as cool as if carved from ice. Over the last day, Sergei had seen the man sit like that for hours. All that moved were his eyes. He barely seemed to breathe.

Sergei went back to watching the parking lot of the government building where Yuri Kumarin kept a set of offices. They were only a few blocks from the Kremlin, where he usually worked.

The previous night, Sergei and Viktor had broken into the offices. In truth, Sergei had merely accompanied Viktor, while the latter had done the work. Sergei wasn't capable of the miracles the other man had worked with the elite security system in the building. He wondered if Mikhalkov would have been able to handle the system with as much finesse.

Viktor, by all accounts, was impressive.

Sergei glanced at the laptop computer between them. The monitor showed views of Kumarin's office. While they'd been inside, they'd installed the smallest video cameras and audio pickups that Sergei had ever seen. They were designed to access the building's Wi-Fi network and transmit to a satellite pickup Viktor had set up on the building's rooftop HVAC unit. Viktor was certain the monthly bug sweep that Kumarin had scheduled would find it, but that was still nine days away.

If nothing else, the one thing Sergei was certain of was that he wouldn't be able to wait another nine days. He felt that he'd be lucky to make it through another night.

"Something like this takes time," Viktor said.

"I know." Sergei hated that the man could read him so easily.

"We will be fine. Everything is going according to plan."

"To Kumarin's plan, maybe." Sergei tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but knew he failed when he saw Viktor smile. Which only made Sergei more irritated.

"You've made plans before?" Viktor asked.

"Of course."

"Remember how easy it was to have those plans upset? All it takes is one misstep." Viktor glanced reassuringly at Sergei. "You and I, tonight, are that misstep for Kumarin. You'll see."

"And if Kumarin chooses another night?"

Viktor shook his head. "Not another night. This one."

"How do you know that?"

"Because the buyer for the weapons is on his way to Moscow."

Sergei bit back a curse. "How long have you known this?"

Viktor shrugged. "A while."

"You could have told me."

"You have been worrying enough."

Sergei cursed. "You people have been withholding information from me."

"Perhaps." Then Viktor nodded. "A little."

"Why?"

Viktor pointed at the laptop and the images of Kumarin working at his desk. "Because we needed you focused on this man."

"Why haven't you simply picked up the buyer?"

"Like Kumarin, this other man is not easily caught. During the time that they're together, they should be slightly more vulnerable."

"And if they're not?"

"They will be. You must accept this."

Sergei wanted to shout in frustration, but he knew it would do no good. He breathed out and made himself be patient.

Then, on the laptop monitor, Kumarin put down the phone and got up from his desk. He grabbed his coat from a chair behind him and pulled it on. Calmly he took a pistol from the desk drawer, slipped the magazine out to check the load, then snapped it back into place and tucked it into a pancake holster at the small of his back. Another drawer yielded a smaller automatic in a holster, which he strapped to his right leg.

"This is not a man who trusts others," Viktor commented.

"No," Sergei agreed. This was the first time since they'd had Kumarin under surveillance that the man had strapped on the hideaway pistol.

"I think," Viktor said calmly, "that you are through waiting."

A sleek black limousine pulled up in front of the building and waited. After a short time, Kumarin appeared and climbed into the back.

When the car started forward, Sergei put the sedan in gear and eased out into the traffic in pursuit. His heart felt like a triphammer against his ribs.

* * *

Moscow

For a few minutes after the truck stopped, Ajza sat in the rear compartment in the dark. Slivers of light crept in from outside. The sounds of traffic and the frequent stops let her know they were in a city. Given the distance they'd driven, she felt certain it was Moscow.

Maaret sat with her child in one corner of the compartment. She hadn't been allowed to milk the goat or prepare bottles before they'd left, and the baby had nursed everything she had. As a result, he was now hungry and whimpering.

A guard pulled aside the tarp covering the rear of the truck. "Shut that baby up," he ordered.

"He's hungry," Maaret pleaded. "There's nothing I can do." But she pulled him close and he quieted.

Ajza knew the baby wouldn't be silent for long. She stood up to loosen her stiff muscles and felt a burst of nervous energy.

Beyond the open tarp, the Moskva River gleamed like a silver ribbon beneath the quarter moon. Pleasure boats carried tourists along. At the river's edge, numerous small craft were moored at several docks. Inland were warehouses and specialty shops.

The Kitai-gorod was arguably the oldest neighborhood in Russia. Built in the early sixteenth century, it had been much changed and added to since. Many of the old historical buildings had been razed to make room for the businesses that grew up around the river trade. Now many of those businesses chased tourist money.

The area the trucks had stopped in was mostly deserted. During the day, Ajza thought, the street was probably filled with shoppers and blue-collar workers.

"Get out," the guard ordered.

Ajza waited in line for a moment, then crawled out of the truck. She took the baby when Maaret handed him down, then gave him back to his mother when she stepped down.

A panel van pulled to a rocking halt only a few feet away. The side door slid open and two of Taburova's men stood there with assault rifles.

Taburova got out on the passenger side and gestured to the women to come closer. "Over here. Quickly. We don't have much time."

The men operated like an assembly line, hauling explosive vests from the cargo van and buckling the women into them.

"Be careful of these vests," Taburova warned. "Once they are secure, any attempt you make to remove them will result in detonation."

Having no choice, Ajza stepped forward and a man slipped a vest onto her. Then he handed her a chador to pull on over it. She stepped away, lightly fingering the deadly vest.

"Are you still ready to die to kill our enemies?" Taburova asked.

Ajza looked at him. "Yes," she answered. She glanced back and saw Maaret being fitted for a vest while still holding her child. Ilyas's child. She turned back to Taburova. "I am ready now more than ever."

And if it came to that, she was as prepared as she could be to give her life. But she wanted Ilyas's child free and out of harm's way first. For the moment she planned to stay close to Taburova. She didn't think he would set off the vests if he was close to anyone wearing one.

52

Headlights flared at the corner and a long black limousine coasted down the street. Ajza watched as it stopped almost a hundred yards away, well out of range of the explosives. From the way it sat so heavily on its tires, Ajza guessed it was armored enough to be blastproof.

Taburova nodded to his men and took out his cell phone. He listened for a moment, then closed the phone and walked to one of the nearby warehouses. After he entered a code on the keypad, the door opened and he went inside.

Ajza stood near the door, just close enough to draw Saleh's attention. He barked at her to stay back, but she remained close enough to see Taburova open a crate and take out an assault rifle. In the dim light it took Ajza a moment to recognize it as an American military M4A1.

She'd found the cache of weapons.

Excitement raced through her, then quickly died when she realized she had no way to contact the people who had given her the mission. The weight of the explosive vest scared her.

Taburova took his cell phone out and spoke briefly again. When he finished this time, he walked toward a sedan parked beside the warehouse.

"Saleh, get the vans loaded," Taburova ordered.

Ajza tried to guess what Taburova was going to do with the sedan. He had the weapons. All he had to do was load them. She knew he was the type to supervise something like this. But he was making no effort to do that.

Saleh looked uncomfortable, too, and he looked even worse when Taburova climbed in the car and drove away. The other men looked to Saleh for guidance. At last he shrugged and put them to work.

Looking around at the women wearing the explosive vests, at the Chechen rebels carrying the American weapons, Ajza knew what was going on. It was a setup. Taburova and whoever was in the limousine were the only people who were supposed to walk away from this.

* * *

New York

"Taburova's leaving?" Jake's surprise was audible.

Kate cursed as she opened the communications channel to the team she had standing by in Moscow. It had only just arrived and the members hadn't had the chance yet to deploy properly. They were running sloppy on this one and she hated that.

"Move in," she said. "Move in now and take them all down. See if you can jam those explosives."

"Roger that," the team leader responded.

"Mark them," Kate told the tech-support teams.

Almost instantly, moving figures lit up on the screens to designate the commandos on loan to Room 59 for the operation. They were too bunched up and hadn't effectively saturated the hot zone.

Jake got to his feet, no longer able to sit. His jaw muscles worked fiercely. "Taburova has the detonator."

"I know," Kate said.

"As soon as he gets clear, he's going to set them off, kill his guys so they can't rat him out and then call the FSB down on the area immediately."

"I know." Kate stared at the screen and saw the one lone figure running after the car Taburova had driven off in. But another car was in motion too.

"What do you want us to do?" Viktor asked in his quiet, steady voice.

Kate thought about the women and the explosive vests, but she also thought about Kumarin. She didn't want the general to get away.

Ajza was closing on Taburova's vehicle. Let her catch him. Please let her catch him, Kate thought.

"Stay with Kumarin," Kate said. Then she took a deep breath. It was all out of her hands now.

* * *

Moscow

"Stop Kumarin," Viktor said.

Heart thundering, Sergei pressed the accelerator. The car surged forward. He'd parked just down the alley with the lights off and had escaped notice. Or maybe Kumarin didn't care.

His headlights fell across the women and he saw that they all wore body-concealing chadores. Astonishment flooded him.

"Those women…" he began.

"Are Chechen," Viktor said. "I know. Kumarin was selling the weapons to a Chechen terrorist named Taburova."

Sergei had heard of Taburova. The man was a killer many times over.

"That doesn't make sense." Sergei quickly overtook Kumarin's car.

"Kumarin wanted to frame the United States as being supporters of Taburova and his kind of terrorists in Chechnya. It's not so hard to imagine when you think of the big picture." Viktor tapped his glass. "Ram him."

Sergei pulled the wheel hard and slammed into Kumarin's car. After the grating screech of metal against metal, the other car managed to pull away a few feet.

Without a word Viktor took out his pistol and fired through his window at the driver's side of the other car. Glass shattered and fell away as blood painted the inside of the vehicle.

"Armor-piercing rounds," Viktor said. "I always come prepared."

Driverless, the car slammed against an alley wall and stalled. Sergei blocked it in with his vehicle, then he and Viktor clambered out.

Kumarin stumbled from the back of the other car holding his pistol. He fired and Sergei felt something hot and heavy slam into his left forearm. But he kept his pistol on target and methodically squeezed off rounds. His bullets drove Kumarin back, then one of Viktor's bullets almost decapitated him.

Turning around, Sergei was shocked to see the battle that had erupted behind him. Several men in black counter-terrorist uniforms attacked the Chechen rebels without mercy.

"Who are they?" Sergei asked.

"Our backup," Viktor replied. "You'll learn, my friend, that the people we work for never go anywhere unprepared."

Sergei pointed at the woman chasing the car. "Then why is she chasing that car?"

Viktor shrugged. "That was something unforeseen."

* * *

Ajza ran, stretching her stride out as much as she could. Taburova was distracted, reaching into his pocket for something. By the time she caught up with him, he had the remote detonator in his hand.

The arrival of the shock troops had caught Ajza off guard, but she knew that even if they defeated Taburova's men, the exploding Black Widows would kill them.

And Ilyas's baby. All that she had left of her brother.

With a cry of rage, her lungs burning and aching, Ajza lunged at the back of the car, landing on the trunk.

Taburova turned and saw her over his shoulder. He dropped the detonator and picked up his pistol. He aimed at pointblank range as Ajza threw herself onto the roof of the car. The initial barrage of bullets blew out the car's back window. Then Taburova finished off his magazine firing through the rooftop.

But by then Ajza had slid back down to the car's trunk. She stood precariously and stomped the broken glass from the car's window. She crawled through the hole and reached for Taburova, locking her forearm around his neck.

Taburova fought her with one hand. She applied more pressure, cutting off his air and closing down his carotid arteries. He released the wheel entirely and grabbed her forearm with both hands.

Screaming with inarticulate rage, knowing that if Taburova succeeded in throwing her from the vehicle he would set off the explosives, Ajza held on. The car careened out of control and struck a wall. She flew over the seat and her head shattered the front windshield. Even then she held on.

The car stopped moving, one bumper against the wall. Taburova fought only a moment longer, then unconsciousness claimed him at last.

Ajza wasted no time. She found and removed the batteries from the detonator, then crawled out of the wrecked car. Two men drove up in another car.

"FSB," one of them said, holding up identification. He held a pistol in his other hand. He peered in through the window. "Is he still alive?"

"Yes," Ajza replied. "But he doesn't deserve to be."

Even when she'd been thinking of Ilyas and how Taburova had been responsible for her brother's death, she hadn't been able to kill him.

That was just who she was. And part of her was glad of that.

Epilogue

Leicester

"Ajza?"

"Yes." Ajza turned her attention away from her parents' shop and glanced at Maaret, standing beside her.

For the past three days, they'd been involved in clearing up the mission in Moscow. Maaret and the baby had received medical attention, and both had checked out in good health. Ajza was more tired than she'd thought possible, but the whole time she'd looked forward to and dreaded telling her parents what she'd come to tell them.

"You are nervous?" Maaret asked.

"Yes. They're…well, they're my parents."

Maaret studied the shop apprehensively. "Are they not good parents?"

"They are good parents," Ajza said quickly. "Absolutely brill." Then she realized she'd spoken in English and translated for the younger woman. "It's just…they've been through a lot."

"This is not a good time for them to meet Ilyas's son?"

Ajza was afraid of what seeing the baby would do to her parents. The little boy would remind them of Ilyas, as he did her, but the boy was also proof that Ilyas lived on.

Her cell phone rang and she answered it.

"What are you waiting for?" the woman asked.

Ajza recognized the voice at once.

"Are you just going to stand out there with that handsome baby and not show him to your parents?"

Shading her eyes, Ajza stared up at the sky. "I figured you would have better things to do than spy on me."

"It's a slow morning. We have those occasionally."

"So in addition to being a spy, you're a busybody?"

The woman chuckled. "I thought being a busybody was a prerequisite for spying." She paused. "Nervous?"

"Yes. I was trying to figure how best to do this."

"It's family," the woman said. "There is no best and worst. Family just is. Finding out about your nephew is going to shock them, but it's also going to make them happy. He's a baby. Babies are the best kind of medicine. Trust me."

"All right."

"After a few days I'll be in touch," the woman said. "We're going to bring you into the fold. Let you know more about what you'll be doing."

"And who I'm doing it for?"

"Yes."

"I'm looking forward to that," Ajza admitted.

"Go," the woman urged. "Show off the baby."

Ajza put her phone away and took a deep breath.

"Is everything all right?" Maaret asked.

Ajza nodded.

Maaret held the baby out to her. "Maybe you should carry him."

"You don't mind?"

"No. I would be pleased if you would do this."

Tenderly Ajza took her nephew, gazed into his blue eyes that were the exact shade of Ilyas's and laughed despite the ache within her.

The baby laughed back and cooed. He reached for her and she held him tight. Then she took him into the shop to meet her parents. Things weren't going to be simple. Family never was.

Content

Cliff Ryder Black Widow
The sixth book in the Room 59 series

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

Epilogue