Black Widow

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.'