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
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
