Black Widow

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