'They kill the girls first,' Maaret said. 'The ones who are too young to sell into sexual slavery. But no one doubts they would kill a boy, as well. No one escapes.' She stared at Ajza. 'If you try to escape, the women will expose you. You will find no friends in this camp if you do not put the fate of the children first.'
'I understand. There is nowhere for me to go, anyway,' Ajza said.
A baby's cry sounded from one of the back rooms.
'Sit.' Maaret gestured to a rug on the floor. 'Make yourself comfortable. We will find you more clothes and bedding. It will not be much, but we will make do.'
'Thank you.' Ajza sat on the rug and leaned back against the wall.
The baby cried again, more strident now.
'I will return,' Maaret said, then hurried to the back room.
Ajza glanced around the squalid interior. The wooden floor was rough and water stains formed a pattern on the ceiling. Handmade candles that stank of animal fat sat on one of the crates. Further inspection of the crate revealed that it had once held ammunition.
In her mind she went over the layout of the camp and wondered if Taburova had the cache of American weapons hidden somewhere. If the weapons were here, she only needed to find out where, then escape…
That stopped her. When Ajza had agreed to the infiltration op, she hadn't known that a child would be killed if she made good her escape. Panic thrummed through her as she realized she was more trapped than she'd first believed.
After a few minutes of sitting idle awaiting Maaret's return, Ajza got to her feet and headed to the back of the building. Whatever she did about escape, she'd have to know her immediate surroundings. Her footsteps scraped against the hardwood floor.
The back room had been divided into four areas by hanging sheets. Ajza pulled one of the sheets aside and saw a young woman sleeping on a pile of bedding. Her ashen color offered mute testimony of her ill health.
'Do not get too close to her,' Maaret called from the other side of the room. 'We do not know what is wrong with her. Perhaps it is contagious.'
Ajza let the sheet fall and backed away. She turned to the area where she'd heard Maaret's voice. When she drew the sheet aside, she saw the young woman sitting on a pile of bedding with an infant nursing at her breast.
The baby had fair hair and chubby fists. Ajza wasn't sure how best to judge babies' ages because she hadn't been around them much, but she felt certain this one was only a few months old.
'What do you want?' Maaret demanded. Her dark eyes held accusation.
'I was looking for something to drink.'
'There's a water barrel in the other room. Every group is responsible for pumping it from the well.'
Ajza nodded. 'You have a baby.' She knew it sounded stupid, but she couldn't think of anything else to say.
'Yes. A boy, thank God, and so I think he might get to live.'
'He is beautiful. And he has so much hair.'
Maaret pulled the baby more closely to her and looked defensive. 'His father was Chechen. Some Chechens have blond hair.'
'I know. My brother had blond hair,' Ajza said.
'He was Chechen?'
'Yes. My mother called him her surprise. Blond hair and blue eyes.'
'Like the Russians.'
'Like some of the Russians,' Ajza corrected. 'The people here have sometimes intermarried.'
'Not often in our faith.' Maaret looked down at her son. 'He looks like his father, though. That will make his life hard at times.'
'I know. My brother had problems with people who didn't believe he was Chechen.'
Maaret adjusted her child on her arm and looked up. 'You sound like you are close to your brother.'
'I was. He…died a short time ago.'
'I'm sorry to hear that. You have had much sadness in your life.'
'We all have.'
Absently Maaret stroked her son's hair. 'Before he was born, I was sure he was going to be a gift from God.'
'My mother insists that they are.'
'For some women, perhaps.'
'You don't think your son is a blessing?'
'Look at where I am. I look at him. I feed him. I hold him. And I live with the constant fear that every day will be the last. I know I will never live to see him grow up. I will never see him take a wife and have children of his own.' Maaret's voice broke. 'I will not live to see him become a man. When he is grown, he will not remember me.' A tear grazed her cheek. 'Perhaps that is for the best.'
Ajza didn't know what to say.
Maaret pulled her sleeping son from her breast, covered herself, then burped the baby and cleaned his face with a damp towel. He struggled a little against the scrubbing, then went back to sleep.
'How old is he?' Ajza asked.
'Eight months.' Maaret continued to hold her child and look down at him.
Ajza couldn't imagine what it must be like for the woman to know that she wouldn't see her child grow older. It had to be horrible.
'Did you have children?' Maaret asked.
'No.' Ajza looked at the sleeping baby and thought how awful it was to be brought up in this camp.
'Some of the women here lost their children to their husband's families. They took the children and threw the women out into the streets because they were not blood.'
'You have your child.'
'But I don't know if that's a blessing or a curse. If my husband's family had taken him, he would be safe now.'
'Why didn't they?'
Maaret shook her head. 'My husband was one of Taburova's men. There was no family.'
'That's sad.' Ajza thought about what the younger woman had said. 'Your husband was one of Taburova's men?'
'Yes.'
'Then your baby was born here.'
Maaret nodded. 'He has never known a day of freedom. I pray that one day he does.' She looked at Ajza. 'That is why I do everything Taburova asks me. I obey and I get to take care of my son. I fear that when I am dead, they will kill him. Or worse, they will make him as they are.' She shrugged. 'But there is nothing I can do about that.'
For a time Ajza sat there with Maaret and they watched the baby sleep. While doing that, it seemed as though the death that waited to pounce on them at any moment was quietly kept locked away.
46
'Reload three rounds. Quickly. Do it
Ajza reloaded the Tokarev 9 nun's magazine more slowly than she could have. The bullets clicked into place in the magazine. The thick smell of gun oil and gunpowder filled her nostrils.
For three days all the women in the camp had trained with the pistols. However, they'd been limited to groups of five and given only a handful of bullets at a time. They'd learned how to load the pistols, clean them and clear them when there was a jam. They'd also learned how to shoot targets.
'When the weapon is ready, place it on the stand,' the instructor ordered. He was a heavy-set man who sat on
