A Bride of Allah

Sergey Baksheev is one of Russia’s famous modern day authors in the genre of suspense thrillers. His novels feature not only an exciting plot, but leave readers questioning the morality of the storyline. Incredible intrigue, gripping suspense, shocking secrets, romance and lust – his writing has it all, appealing to a world-wide circle of readers.

He is the author of 26 novels, and lives in Moscow.

Copyright © Sergey Baksheev, 2012

Chapter 1

August 31, 7:36 PM

Dmitrovskaya Metro Station

A beige Lada, model six, leisurely moved in the right lane of Dmitrovskoe Shosse towards the center of Moscow. Andrei Vlasov has been operating a gypsy cab for a few months now. He deliberately drove slower than the traffic flow, keeping an eye out for a pick-up. The business day was over, the traffic got denser. Annoyed drivers flashed headlights at him and made gestures aimed to show what an idiot of a rookie driver he was.

Vlasov didn’t care about the insulting gesticulation. As soon as he picked up a passenger, he would show the lazy asses what driving in traffic looks like. They are having trouble passing him? Get a helicopter if you’ve got no patience!

His mental exercises in pride were interrupted by a call on his cell phone. He pulled a vibrating Siemens out of his shirt pocket.

“Hello?” he said wearily.

“Andrei, is that you?” Mom, with her usual stupid starter question.

“Who else would it be, Mom?”

“Andrei, make sure to buy some bread for dinner! Rye.”

“Okay, Mom, I will.”

“Just don’t forget! I know you; it will just skip your mind! Buy some right now and come home. You have to eat; you don’t take care of yourself. Unless Mother reminds – ”

“All right, I’ll go get some,” Vlasov reassured her, trying to avoid getting annoyed.

Over the years of living with Mother, just the two of them, he got seriously tired from her nagging. Mom didn’t want to understand that he was twenty-six years old and managed his own schedule. That said, he really could forget about bread; it happened before. It would be better to buy it right away, drive home, and have dinner. The most profitable passengers would be later anyway, when the restaurants downtown start closing.

Vlasov drove under a railroad overpass and parked the car in a narrow alley between two retail pavilions near Dmitrovskaya metro station. Getting out of the car, he habitually looked at the slightly bent front fender and broken turn signal. It was high time to get it fixed and touched up. The fall would start soon, rains and all. Corrosion would grow like spring grass on a sunlit hill. But everything takes time and money.

The small window of a baked goods kiosk gave off a mature smell of fresh bread. A big woman working the counter adroitly stuffed a brick of rye into a plastic bag, matte and rustling, and handed it to him along with change.

It’s got to be hard to stay fit among appetizing smells, though the skinny Andrei. His fingers, as if on their own volition, sank into the flavorful softness. Like an impatient kid, he broke off the end of the loaf; his mouth started salivating even before his teeth tore into the porous crust.

He didn’t feel like going back to the stuffy car right away. Andrei walked into a shady spot, moved his shoulders to unstick the damp shirt from his back. The bag was dangling on his wrist; a light breeze pleasantly cooled his sweating body.

How about some water?

His eyes scanned the small square for a suitable kiosk. Something about the foot traffic was unpleasantly off; it gave him a weird feeling, like a speck of dust in his eye. Okay, here are three men drinking beer by a colorful store display. The bottles are sweaty, just out of a fridge, so there’s got to be water in that fridge, too.

Andrei took a step toward the kiosk he selected, and the feeling of eye sore returned. An indistinct feeling of danger crept in. He’s been through this during the first Chechen war; everything around was still quiet, but something was already wrong.

He tensed without realizing it; shoulders unmoving, a slight turn of the head. His gaze landed on a scared-looking strange woman erratically looking around. Now that was the reason! It was that erratic glancing that made him uncomfortable.

The woman stopped indecisively obstructing the foot traffic. Andrei looked more closely. Dark complexion, straight longish nose, a headscarf covering the forehead, oversize knit cardigan, long, to the ground, dark skirt, hands clasped over her belly, like she was pregnant. From what God-forsaken place has she come into the capital city?

He kept looking. The woman, with a worried expression on her face, was looking at a policeman taking his time checking identification of a swarthy man from the Caucasus. The cop finished his inspection, handed back the papers with visible displeasure, and spotted the scared woman in a headscarf in the flow of foot traffic.

Good thing the cops were harassing the swarthy, Andrei thought. What the hell were they doing in Moscow anyway?

The policeman, looking tired, adjusted his hat and started toward the woman. Vlasov, curious, turned to look: would the woman try to get away? She definitely had a paperwork problem. Should he gently hold her arm to help the public servant extract a bribe out of a provincial from the Caucasus?

The woman, still indecisive, took a step back. No, honey, you aren’t getting away! Andrei smirked and quickly caught up with her. Behind his back, the policeman was clumsily navigating the foot traffic. The scared woman started looking for something inside her clothes; the nondescript cardigan opened up. Andrei suddenly noticed that the woman was young and slender. She was nowhere near forty as he first thought; a girl of barely twenty, just dressed like a villager.

On her stomach under the blouse, Andrei noticed an unnatural bump. Was she really pregnant? His brain was still trying to find an explanation, while the eyes noticed a strange hand movement. Her fingers now held a small black box with a thin twisted wire sticking out of it and disappearing into her clothes.

“Allah akbar!” the girl screamed. Fear in her wide opened eyes, her finger hit a bright button on the little box.

Hearing the call gave Andrei an electric jolt. The two words switched him into the danger mode, when a split second can make all the difference between life and death.

He hit the girl’s arms, pushing them to the sides. Tore the triggering device away from her. More wires were hanging down from under her blouse; the girl was confused, the expression of desperation on her face. Both her hands closed on Andrei’s fist clutching the trigger.

“Allah akbar!” she screeched, scratching with her fingernails.

Andrei threw the trigger away, bloody scratches on his hand. A few scared passerby stopped. Everyone was looking at the girl. She lifted up her blouse and started fiddling with torn wires.

“Allah akbar!” she lamented.

On her waist, there was a wide belt wrapped in tinfoil.

People in the crowd screamed.

“She’s got a bomb!”

“There’s a Shahid1!”

“Aaaargh!”

Many tried to run away. Crush, panic, crazy screaming! The policeman reeled back, stumbled, and fell down. Then he got up and hid behind the corner of a nearby building. His hat, left on the ground, was trampled by the crowd.

The three beer drinkers, bewildered, started pointing their fingers.

“Hey, she wanted to kill us!””

“For reals!”

“Let’s rough up the bitch!”

“Kill that snake!”

They surrounded the confused girl. One, wearing a flowery shirt, seized her by her hair and pulled her head back. Another, of a soft constitution, grabbed a beer bottle by its neck. The remnants of beer flowed over his fat arm. Foam was sticking to the red arm hair. The swing-up was accompanied with dirty cussing. Then a blow on the stomach! The blow was awkward and hit the thick belt. The bottle slipped out and broke on the asphalt. Sound of breaking glass and foamy spatter.

“Nah, that’s not how it’s done!” the third one got excited.

He was skinny and muscular, thrill in his eyes, a T-shirt clinging to his athletic frame, a tattoo on his arm. He struck with relish and visible pleasure. His fist collided with the girl’s chest; she fell back, but held up by her hair and pushed forward to meet another blow.

“Allah akbar,” she kept repeating stubbornly. But it sounded like a moan now.

Her helplessness excited the Skinny even more. His next blow hit her in the solar plexus. The girl bent over and gasped for breath. The hitter was pleased and indicated by a hand gesture that he wanted the victim’s head lifted up. This time, the blow was aimed at her mouth, hissing laboriously, “Allah —”. The whisper stopped with the blow, as bright-red blood started flowing from the split lips. The Flowery Shirt still held the girl. His breathing was heavy with excitement, spittle flying around.

“Drop the bitch!” the Skinny ordered. He was genuinely pleased with himself.

The girl was pushed down. She fell on her knees, the palms of her hands landing on the shards of the beer bottle. Her face was contorted with pain, but instead of a scream, her lips uttered another, barely audible, “Allah akbar”. Her headscarf slid off her head; raven-black hair flowed over her shoulders.

A kick landed onto her defenseless body. The girl lost her breath and fell on her side. The Skinny knew how to hit.

The Softie wanted another chance. He was idle for a while and now wanted to catch up.

“Hey, you, take it easy,” Andrei Vlasov asked shyly.

What at first looked like a righteous retribution, suddenly morphed into a brutal reprisal. He saw the girl’s face screwed up in pain. Blood flowing freely across her cheek and chin; her mangled fingers clutching on to her stomach; bloody spots on her white blouse. But no one listened. Human forms jerked excitedly. Kicks kept coming. A crowd of viewers encircled the spectacle. People were slowly getting over the initial shock, fear gradually giving way to anger; they were encouraging each other.

“Hit her!”

“Terrorist bitch!”

“Keep at it!”

“People like that should be killed on sight!”

The policeman, now calm, was watching from a distance, an expression of curiosity on his face.

The crowd went nuts.

The girl helplessly threw her head back; lips pressed together, eyes closed. On her outstretched neck, now in full view, right above her collarbone, Andrei saw a dark spot. At first, he thought it was a drop of dried blood. No, blood can’t dry that fast. It’s still flowing on her skin, looking like the crawl or wet crimson worms.

The spot was a birthmark. Just like the one Sveta had!

The constricting feeling of forgotten tenderness made him lurch forward.

He loved kissing that birthmark. Sveta’s was slightly raised; he could find it even in the darkness. Just by running his tongue over it. He has done that many times. Found the birthmark, touched it gently, and then kissed her on her open quivering lips…

The memories made him lose his breath.

“Enough. You’re going to kill her,” Andrei whispered.

No response. People had their backs to him. Behind the kicking legs he could see the girl’s twisting body. Pain radiating from the writhing figure like a palpable wave hit Andrei on the sides of his head; all he could see was Sveta, the girl he loved.

His darling was suffering. It was impossible to take!

“Bomb!” Vlasov shouted furiously and tossed the plastic bag with the loaf of bread in it into the crowd.

Everyone immediately stepped back. The new wave of panic was stronger than the first one. Shouting pushed people into action. People ran away, some fell, covering their faces with their hands. They were stepped on, trampled, stumbled on. Desperate screams! Stampede!

Andrei Vlasov picked up the battered girl. Her body was fragile and light, but the thick oval belt on her waist dragged her mid-section down making it inconvenient to carry her.

Behind the kiosks, he put the girl into the back seat of his car. The key scratched the face of the ignition lock for a time before it finally went in. A turn of the wrist, and the engine started purring; sweaty hands grabbed the steering wheel. The car backed up and then charged away.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, one man kept his cool in the commotion.

A lithe young man by the name of Aslan Kitkiev stood near a newsstand behind a thick trunk of a tree. His hands twisted an open glossy magazine while his eyes carefully watched what was happening. Aslan wore an impeccable dark suit and a light shirt. He didn’t wear ties; rich bangs covered his narrow forehead, his long dark hair was obviously cared for by a good hairdresser. Only his thick black eyebrows and longish straight nose betrayed a native of Northern Caucasus.

The young man’s normally gloomy look turned downright evil as Andrei Vlasov was stuffing the girl into his car. The beige “sixer” was very close; at the last moment, Aslan moved to intercept, but stopped. He was supposed to have nothing to do with this, just be a random passerby.

His teeth were gnashing as his narrowed eyes stared at the license plate of the car driving away.

Chapter 2

August 31, 8:05 PM

Aslan

When Vlasov’s Lada disappeared from view, the young man muttered a curse, threw away his magazine, and started walking quickly between apartment blocks. Along the way, irritated, he pushed away a bum in dirty clothes rummaging through garbage. And these were the people he was at war with! Disgusting creatures, lousy pigs, not human beings.

Aslan Kitkiev’s thoughts kept coming back to the scene near the metro station. Why didn’t Aiza do it? Everything was well thought out. Any sign of danger, push the button, and that’s the end of it! Why did the hoe get confused? What was the bitch thinking of? She wasn’t supposed to think. Just do what you’re told, and that’s it!

Has Fatima injected too little into her, or what?

Had the clients not been too cheap for remote control, everything would have been different! Aslan mentally cursed the clients unknown to him, along with the glorious commander who gave him this assignment. After cursing made him feel better, he grudgingly admitted to himself that the clients had nothing to do with this. They paid for an act of terror, and they didn’t care about the technology used. It was Aslan himself who was too cheap. He wanted to save some of the advance payment. There was no one else to blame.

But why would he have to reinvent the wheel? The hoes were worked up in the best way imaginable! They were practically sticking their necks into nooses, they didn’t want to live. With the first two, everything went down smoothly. Two airplanes fell out of the sky one after another.

Aiza, damn her, was a disaster. And it just had to be the hoe that actually knew him well! Bitch, foul bitch! What went wrong with her? Now there were going to be some big problems.

After passing through several courtyards, Aslan made it to the next street over. His fingers found car keys in his pocket, the car alarm chirped, and the young man got inside an unobtrusive burgundy model nine. Hidden behind tinted glass, he quickly dialed a number on a mobile phone.

A woman’s voice answered immediately. Without a greeting, Aslan asked, “Fatima, how did the wedding go?”

“The bride married well,” the woman answered excitedly. “Just now.”

“How many guests?”

“Enough for the celebration to be remembered for a long time.”

There was a pause as the young man passed the phone from one hand to the other.

“Why are you quiet, Aslan?” the woman asked guardedly. “Are you not happy?”

“My wedding didn’t work out.”

“The bride ran away?”

“No. It was interrupted.”

“The uniforms?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Where is she?” the woman started to worry.

“Some idiot drove her away.”

“You know the rules. There is no way back for a bride! Either a wedding or… You had to – ”

“Keep your advice to yourself, woman! I know what I have to do!” Aslan barked.

His fist rammed into the car’s dashboard; his lips moved in a soundless curse. He hated to be lectured by women. The very word “woman” sounded contemptuous when he said it. They weren’t born into the world to tell men what to do.

After he calmed down a little, the young man whispered into the phone, “I’ll find her. And kill her.”

“Are you done with your hysterics?” Fatima asked calmly. “Now listen to me. You can’t come back to the old address. We are meeting as per Plan B. Don’t do anything without me!”

In response, Kitkiev roared something indistinct and ended the call. The damned teacher!

His thumb started dialing another number, but after pushing a few buttons, Aslan started thinking. He’s already said too much, forgetting the code words. The phone flew to the passenger seat; the car abruptly cut into traffic.

After a few intersections, Aslan slowed down. Now he was driving slowly, looking for something. He noticed a couple of payphones and stopped the car about hundred meters away from them. A few minutes later, he wrapped the payphone handset into a newly bought newspaper and dialed a number by heart.

“Lieutenant colonel Sviridov,” a tired voice answered.

Aslan smiled, imagining the unsuspecting expression on the fat-assed policeman’s face. He hadn’t been bothered lately, so he was about to get a jolt.

“This is Aslan.” Kitkiev took a pause, enjoying the shocked silence of his conversation partner, and gave an order, “I need to trace a car by license plate number; owner’s name and address. This is urgent!”

The voice on the other end of the line hissed in annoyance, “I said I didn’t want to be called again!”

“Write down the number,” Aslan said, unfazed.

“Do you have any idea what’s happening in the city?”

“I know. I need a name and an address.”

“I told you last time I wasn’t going to work for you anymore.”

“A friend’s request – is it really work?”

“I am no friend of yours. Because of a single mistake… I have worked it off.”

“Quit whining!” Aslan snapped. He was tired of bickering. “Tomorrow, your video will be in the feds’ hands. What song are you going to sing then?”

For a while, the lieutenant colonel breathed into the phone. Aslan broke the silence.

“Are you awake? Do you want me to drive the tape over to them today?”

“Okay, I’ll do it. But this is the last time. I want your word!”

“You have it. Write down the number. I’ll call back in forty minutes. If you leave office, don’t even think of turning off your cell phone!”

Aslan dictated the license plate number of the beige “sixer” and hung up.

The corners of his thin-lipped mouth came apart; he was pleased with the outcome of the conversation. The young man looked around, fixed his hair, and strolled back to his car.

He tossed the newspaper out of the car window after he picked up speed.

Chapter 3

August 31, 8:09 PM

Dmitrovskaya Metro Station

Colonel Oleg Alexandrovich Grigoriev of Federal Security Service urged his driver again, “Come on, Sasha, step on it! You’ve got the flasher on.”

“I am trying, Oleg Alexandrovich.”

“Orders are not to be discussed!” The colonel adjusted his impeccably knotted tie and brushed an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder.

The black Volga was driving in the left lane along Butyrskaya Street, waving into the opposing traffic lanes every now and then. Despite the flashing light, drivers were reluctant to make way.

Grigoriev sat in the front. His fingers drummed on a brown leather portfolio, which he invariably carried into the field. His large head with closely cropped dark hair abundantly streaked with grey constantly turned this way and that in abrupt little motions. It seemed Oleg Alexandrovich couldn’t move his eyes and had to use his neck instead. There was a third person in the car, first lieutenant Yuri Vladimirovich Burkov. Everyone was in plain clothes. The strawberry blond Burkov sat behind his supervisor and reflexively followed the motions of his head.

“Ah, now that’s good,” the colonel approved an apt maneuver made by the driver. “We are a respectable organization after all. And we’re not going to Rizhskaya. Over there, it’s a huge traffic jam for sure. We, meanwhile, don’t have an explosion on our hands.”

“Oleg Alexandrovich?” Yuri Burkov made an awkward pause.

“What?”

“Why did Tomilin and his guys get sent to Rizhskaya, and we, here?”

“Why? You wanted to see dead bodies?”

“Over there, it’s serious. An act of terror. And we… Could be a crank call after all.”

“That’s what we’re to figure out,” Grigoriev replied firmly, signifying the end of the conversation.

Oleg Alexandrovich suspected that early next year, if not earlier, he would be asked to retire. That’s why he wasn’t given any complicated cases. On acts of terror, investigations can go on for months, even years. But his subordinates didn’t have to know that. His goal was to handle things in a responsible manner. And teach his workers to do the same.

The Volga rolled up to the Dmitrovskaya station.

“Get to the other side!” Grigoriev commanded. “Where the police are congregating, can you see?”

“Oleg Alexandrovich – » the driver tried to appeal to the supervisor’s reason.

“Come on, I tell you! You’ll have to turn around anyway. Turn on the siren and go ahead!”

The car, with flashing lights and wailing siren, abruptly turned around across several lanes of dense traffic. Grigoriev jumped out of the car to look around.

The metro station worked as usual, but many kiosks were closed. A dozen or so of policemen, including a canine unit, intensely looked into the passing crowds. Some were pulled aside for ID checks. People threw disapproving glances and walked faster.

The screw-ups, the colonel thought about the cops habitually. They can’t think, so they show up in numbers. Standing around like prison guards, that’s all they’re good for.

Near the beer kiosk, two senior policemen talked to witnesses. When the Volga arrived, they got tense.

Grigoriev motioned to Burkov.

“Yura, find the sales clerks from all pavilions and talk to them.” He, meanwhile, started walking toward the waiting policemen and introduced himself. “Colonel Grigoriev. From Lubyanka2.”

“Panteleyev, the head of the local precinct,” the policeman with colonel’s tabs replied, shaking his hand. “This is my deputy, Ignatiev.”

“Where are the prosecutor’s people?”

“On their way. Coming.”

“You mean, crawling? What have you found out?”

“So far, nothing’s definite. Witnesses contradict each other. Looks like someone wanted to incite panic.”

“What the hell? Why incite it here? Just turn on the news.”

“Yes, but – ”

“You reported there was a Shahid woman!”

“We did,” the precinct head agreed. “There was an Eastern woman, looked like a Shahid. She screamed ‘Allah akbar’, but no explosion followed.”

“I can see that no explosion followed!” Grigoriev lost his patience. “Stay on point. Where did the Shahid woman go? What are the witnesses saying?”