Black Widow (16 page)

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."

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.

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.

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.