'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
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.
* * *
'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
