A Bride of Allah

Chapter 12

August 31, 9:25 PM

Sviridov

“I’ve had it! I’ve had it! I’ve had it!” Lieutenant colonel of police Sviridov clenched his fists and imagined smashing his office furniture. He wanted to turn the desk over, break down the cabinet, kick around chairs and file folders full of paper. He wanted to take out his handgun, empty it into the fire safe’s iron door and throw it at the head of the first person to enter his office. He also dreamed, fearfully, of running up to a window and throwing himself out of it. Frame breaking, glass crashing. And a long fall, hands spread, in a cloud of glistening shards.

A whole range of emotions running wild reflected on Sviridov’s exhausted face. But his body remained motionless.

Today, the Chechens reminded him of an old sin again.

He got a call from Aslan, the wheeling-dealing bastard who took a video of it all four years ago. He gave him a job to do and said he’d call back. Until the last second it seemed that the callback wouldn’t happen. The Chechen would get lost, disappear, vanish, and everyone would forget about a long-gone moment of weakness experienced by Gennady Sviridov, a normal police officer.

But the callback came. The lieutenant colonel mumbled the details of registration of a certain VAZ-2106 automobile, wiped hot sweat with a shaky hand, and released a volcano of curses that up to that point were held inside. Rage boiled on the inside, but on the outside, it manifested only as grimaces of pain, moving of lips, shaking of fists, and pieces of broken pencil on his desk.

In the adjacent offices, his colleagues were working; the lieutenant colonel didn’t want any questions from them. He was afraid of them and he was afraid of Aslan.

Gennady Sviridov convulsively pulled out a desk drawer. The plastic tray crashed onto the floor, file folders and notebooks mixed up forming a disordered pile. His hand pulled out of that pile a small burgundy day planner. Inside it, against the back cover, was a black-and-white photo. The lieutenant colonel carefully spread it on his desk.

Two young police lieutenants, uniform hats pushed back carelessly, were laughing into the camera. Pashka Borovkov and Genka Sviridov. The best friends, happy to have received their long-awaited lieutenant’s tabs.

The lieutenant colonel’s body shivered, the palm of his hand spread tears on the stubble-covered cheek. Shivers and tears have become frequent visitors in the life of an overweight forty-year-old man with thin greasy hair.

* * * * *

Twenty minutes later, Gennady Sviridov left his office. He slowly drove home in his dark-blue Volkswagen; suddenly, a yellow Mazda passed him on the right and braked abruptly in front of a red light. His foot hit the brake, his body shifted forward and leaned on the steering wheel; the policeman’s car almost clipped Mazda’s bumper.

Sviridov jumped out and yelled at the insolent driver. The bottled-up emotions came out in flares; drops of spit were landing on the tinted glass, his fist banged on the car’s roof.

A window smoothly rolled down.

“Pops, go away,” a young unshaved Caucasian snapped insolently.

Another one smirked crookedly over his shoulder.

“You sucker, do you have any idea where I can send you?” Sviridov was boiling over. His hand was checking the pockets of his plain clothes for his service ID. The insolent face of the Caucasian now represented everything that was wrong in his life.

“Well, where?” The driver got out of the Mazda, glanced around, and suddenly hit Sviridov in the face with his fist.

His nose was smashed, his head fell back; Sviridov fell.

The Mazda drove away.

Other cars carefully drove around an awkward fat man rolling on the asphalt. Drivers looked in disgust at a staggering man in dusty suit with a porous red nose.

The lieutenant colonel returned to his car and wiped his bleeding nose with a handkerchief. The bout of rage exhausted Sviridov; the “cold shower” of the beating suddenly calmed him down.

“I can’t live like this anymore,” Gennady Sviridov decided firmly.

In the lieutenant colonel’s head, a plan to liberate himself from bonds of fear began to form.

Chapter 13

August 31, 9:40 PM

Vlasov’s Apartment

Andrei Vlasov opened the door of his apartment with one hand, while using the other to hold the exhausted body of the Chechen suicide bomber. Were it not for his help, the girl wouldn’t be able to walk. She was shaking; large drops of sweat rolled off her hollow-cheeked face; her hair was stuck to her forehead, as if she got wet in the rain.

“Come in, we’re here,” Andrei helped the girl to come in and sat her down on a stool. He took a deep breath and shouted into the apartment, “Mom, it’s me!”

Yekaterina Fedorovna walked into the hallway shuffling her slippers. A well-worn house robe enveloped her full shapeless figure; under the robe, there was a T-shirt, which she wore around the house for years. She got out of her good clothes as soon as she returned home from work.

The woman looked at her son’s hands gloomily. “Have you brought bread?”

“I forgot, Mom, sorry.”

“Like always; whatever I ask, he does nothing! Can’t buy a piece of bread for his own mother.”

“Calm down, Mom. Do you have any idea what’s happening in the city?”

“Ten reminders, and he still forgets! What kind of life is that?”

“Mom, we’ll have to do without today. Let me come in. The girl’s hurt.”

Yekaterina Fedorovna stood in the middle of the hallway, blocking the narrow passage. She moved her stare to the girl, as if she just noticed her. Her eyebrows shifted toward each other; the lines on her forehead deepened.

“Who’s she? You didn’t say anything about her.”

“Mom, I’ll explain later. We have to help her out.”

“I haven’t seen her before. What’s her name?”

Andrei looked at the girl, perplexed; he still hadn’t asked her name. The girl looked up and whispered, “Aiza”.

“What a name has God given you. You’re not Russian, are you?”

Andrei gently pushed Yekaterina Fedorovna aside.

“Mom, questions can wait. Let us through.”

“Where did we get such wonder?”

“Mom, later!” Andrei said firmly.

He led Aiza into a small room, sat her down on a couch, and closed the door to block his mother’s curious stare.

“Sit still. I’ll figure something out. Name’s Andrei, by the way.”

“I am sick,” the girl whispered, her eyes closed. “Very sick.”

“What’s wrong with you? Can I get you a medication?”

“Pill.”

“What?”

“Get me a pill,” the girl whispered.

From the hallway, Yekaterina Fedorovna’s deliberately loud grumbling was head.

“Forgot his mother altogether! Only thinks of himself. Brings home who knows whom, God forgive me. Where did he find this tramp? In the farmer’s market?”

Andrei made a calming gesture for Aiza.

“Don’t pay attention, okay? She doesn’t mean it… I’ll get you water and find some meds.” He stepped out of the room and face his mother, gradually displacing her into the kitchen. “Where do we keep the meds?”

Yekaterina Fedorovna retreated, but continued to grumble, “I can’t even get bread from my own son.”

“I’ll get you bread, okay? I will!” Andrei lost it. “Borrow from the neighbor! Just be quiet.”

“What am I being punished for? Others have normal kids, and mine… He even yells. Yells at his mother!”

Andrei decided to ignore his mother’s nagging. It was completely impossible to win a verbal confrontation with her. He found the meds and came back into the room with a glass of water. The girl, curled up into a ball, shivered in the armchair.

“Here. I found aspirin and dimedrol. You’re probably stressed out. Nerves. A couple of tablets should help. Take them.”

The girl obediently picked up the pills.

“Can you do it yourself? Here’s water. I’ll be right back.”

Andrei stepped outside the apartment and rang the doorbell of the apartment next door. The door was answered by a chubby disheveled guy wearing a faded T-shirt and rumpled gym pants.

“Hey, Andryukha!” he barked, blowing a heavy dose of vodka vapors into his neighbor’s face.

“Hi, Vityok,” Vlasov cringed and took half a step back. “Can I borrow some rye bread?”

“Andryukha! Have you heard what kind of shit’s going on?” Viktor Chervyakov waved his hand over his shoulder. Inside his apartment, a TV was blaring. “The Chechens blew up another bomb. Near Rizhskaya. Dropped a whole bunch of people. You know what I would do to those bastards?”

“Why do you think it’s the Chechens?”

“Who else?”

“Maybe bandits’ turf war?”

“By blowing up bombs near metro stations? Nah, those guys are no more. The TV says, a female suicide bomber.”

“Maybe so. Can I have some bread?”

“Good thing I don’t ride the metro. My truck is my other home.”

“Have you got bread?”

“Come in. We’ll throw back some vodka. Vodka is liquid bread!”

“I can’t right now. Give me some bread; Mom’s getting to me with her endless nagging.”

“We won’t be long. We’ll talk a little, watch some TV.”

“I can’t. I’m not alone.”

“Ha, good deal! Who’re you with?”

“Will you give me some bread?”

“Okay, okay, right away.”

Viktor disappeared into a dark hallway. He came back shortly. One hand was clutching a quarter-loaf of bread, the other, a bottle of vodka.

“Thanks.”

Andrei took the bread, but the neighbor started tailing him.

“The damned Shahid blew up near the metro,” he muttered from behind. “The TV says it’s confirmed. Lots of casualties. She wanted to blow it up on a train, but – » he stopped when he noticed Aiza curled up in the armchair through the slightly opened door. “Who is it you got there?”

Andrei walked on to the kitchen.

“Mom, I’ve got bread!”

The door squeaked. Yekaterina Fedorovna stuck her head out of her room and threw a dirty look to Viktor and Andrei.

“I don’t need anything!” she shouted and slammed the door.

“Hello!” the neighbor said as the door was being slammed. “And goodbye. What’s got into her?”

“Nah,” Vlasov waved him off. “Just ignore it.”

From behind the wall came a new wave of irritated grumbling. The tension on the neighbor’s face disappeared; he definitely liked the fact that Andrei’s mother locked herself in her bedroom.

He looked at the girl curiously, quickly figured out her highland origin, and frowned. His fist clutching a bottle of vodka pushed open the room’s incompletely closed door.

Chapter 14

August 31, 9:55 PM

Offices of Federal Security Service

Only the uninitiated think that today’s FSS is but a pale shadow of the former KGB. In the early 90s, when everything old was crumbling, it might have been the case, but now, with the new president at the helm, the power of the all-powerful agency was restored, and in some respects even expanded.

The secretive organization once again operated like clockwork. Officers didn’t need to worry about reporters’ attacks, so common in the past. Moreover, the internal security service protected the officers and could easily put a muzzle on a scribbler running wild. Once again, young capable people started joining up, and they didn’t want money as much as they wanted to belong to an elite caste of the chosen. They, like their likes in other developed countries, were attracted to the mystery of the special services. Thank you Hollywood; the filmmakers embellished the intellect and bravery of special service agents and intelligence operatives as much as they could.

Speaking in modern terms, a positive image of the all-powerful organization was created; ordinary citizens didn’t shy away from cooperating with it, so the quality of investigative work improved greatly.

This is what colonel Grigoriev was thinking with some satisfaction, as he was sitting at his office computer reviewing the materials collected during the investigation of the two airplane explosions. Success was obvious.

In a matter of days, the identities of suicide bombers who carried out the bloody acts were established. The path of their relocation from Chechnya to Moscow was tracked. Two days before the explosions, both took the same flight; apparently, the organizers were introducing them to the boarding routine and rules of behavior onboard. The details of ticket purchases became known, as well as those of terrorists’ boarding the planes bypassing security checks. The criminally negligent officials and the involuntary accomplices have been apprehended.

But all of this didn’t make the colonel happy. The immediate supervisor of the suicide bomber girls, the one who accompanied them and gave them their final instructions, somehow remained in the shadows and never came to light. Moreover, it wasn’t even clear if that person was a man or a woman. In one case, a middle-aged woman was seen around, in the other, a young man spoke to the terrorists. Witnesses couldn’t give a usable description of either.

By juxtaposition of facts, it was finally clear that the group included four Shahid girls. As was the rule in these situations, they were brought in from a region beholden to an influential field commander who worked off foreign sponsors’ money in this fashion.

With two of the girls’ names known, it was possible to define the circle of suspects. Files on potential suicide bombers were kept meticulously. By now, a few potentials have been identified.

Oleg Alexandrovich once again looked through the descriptions and photos from the database.

A wondering youthful face, then a weary-looking mature woman with crow’s feet around her eyes. Most photos were from identification documents and didn’t provide a full picture of what the person looked like, but a complete professionally compiled description enlivened the picture, made the person visible and palpable.

The colonel clicked through the photos of young women and rubbed his tired eyes in desperation. None of them matched the description of the only terrorist still at large.

Grigoriev was waiting for new photos from the colleagues in the Southern Federal District. They have received the latest data on the terrorist and were running them hastily.

Oleg Alexandrovich threw some instant coffee into an unwashed cup and poured boiling water over it. He didn’t want to go to the end of the hallway to wash the cup. Generals had secretaries, but he didn’t make it to general. And never will. Soon, he’ll retire. The upper echelons have already made the decision.

Colonel Grigoriev took a sip of hot coffee and smiled. Someone young and ambitious must be eagerly waiting for him to vacate his position. They’re probably already trying on the stars on the tabs and evaluate the fit of his office chair for their butt.

Oh well, that was bound to happen. Meanwhile, the colonel still held his office, so he must identify, find, and neutralize the terrorist. In that order: identify, find, and neutralize. Most importantly, identify. This was the problem only he could solve. Others could find and neutralize, but the colonel wanted to do his last job, from beginning to end, by himself.

In the corner of his computer screen, a new message icon started blinking. The colonel clicked on it, and a color photo of a young woman unfolded on his screen. He barely looked at it, and before he read any accompanying text, he realized that was she. He remembered her description too well to think otherwise.

So that’s what you look like, a bride of Allah, the colonel thought; but aloud, he read, “Aiza Guzieva, 20 years old.”

His screen showed a fresh face of an attractive black-haired girl. Precise arches of eyebrows, childish wide open eyes, straight nose, brightly painted lips, and thin craning neck. Aiza looked to her right; the photographer caught her unaware, probably in motion; a strand of wavy hair broke out of the hairpins, its sharp end almost touching the corner of her mouth.

The girl wore a white headscarf wrapped around her neck. This was good, the colonel thought with satisfaction. Today, the terrorist wore a headscarf, too, although of a different color; it would be easier for the witnesses to identify her.

Grigoriev dialed an office extension and called Burkov into his office.

“Yura, this is out target,” Oleg Alexandrovich pointed at the monitor when the first lieutenant came in.

“Are you sure?” The first lieutenant stared at the girl’s happy face in confusion. “She’s attractive. Why wouldn’t she want to live?”

“When we find her, we’ll be sure to ask. Meanwhile, find all possible contacts Aiza Guzieva could have in Moscow. Relatives, fellow villagers, acquaintances. You know the drill.”

Oleg Alexandrovich finished his coffee, looked at the brown residue on the bottom of his cup, and stuffed the cup into the bottom drawer of his desk. He was too busy to wash it now.

“I am forwarding the terrorist’s vitals to you, print the photo out in color,” the colonel opened his e-mail and clicked. “Send the photo to the police precinct where the witness is based. Get in touch with him. Let’s see if he identifies her.”

“Got it,” Yuri Burkov mumbled, throwing a sideways look at the clock on his boss’ desk.

“And don’t you even look at the clock!” Grigoriev noticed the look. “The night is young. If you’re done quickly, I’ll let you go see your wife for three hours. I used to be young, I understand.”

“Oleg Alexandrovich – ”

“What, three hours is not enough? Or did you want to catch a nap, too? Pick one, marathon runner.”

“I didn’t – ”

“Stop the gabbing! Proceed with your assignment. I’ll be bunking around here.”

The colonel looked at the well-worn leather couch with round armrests. This antique probably sat there when the office wasn’t even called KGB; it was MGB before. Back in those times, it was customary to stay at work until the mustachioed leader of the world Communism, who preferred night moon to morning sun, turned the lights in his office off for the night.

When he was alone, Oleg Alexandrovich called home. He was worried about his daughter.

“How’s Lena?” he asked when he heard his wife’s voice.

“God, you still remember your daughter’s name!” his wife said sarcastically. “Do you remember she’s got a wedding in two days?”

“I do. But does the groom?”

“What are you talking about?” his wife started getting upset.

“Okay, got it. No joking about the holy. Is Lena home?”

“Do you want to talk to her?”

“I tried. Her phone wasn’t answering. Where is she?”

“Home. Just got here. When are you coming?”

“What a silly question,” Grigoriev sighed, relieved. “Are you watching TV?”

“Makes me want to throw up. When is it going to be over?”

“When I am home.”

“So get here already,” his wife tried joking.

“Service first. Rest later.”

“Your daughter is about to get married!”

“We’ll have to wrap it up by then, Valya. I’ll let the terrorists know they have until Saturday to surrender.”

Chapter 15

August 31, 10:00 PM

Vlasov’s Apartment

Viktor Chervyakov stepped into the room and stared at Aiza. Vlasov came in behind him.

“Where are you going? Let’s get out of here!” Andrei literally pushed his neighbor into the hallway and closed the door. “What did you want?”

“I, um – » Viktor brought up the vodka bottle, “think we should have a drink.”

“Some other time.”

“Sure, some other time and now!” Viktor proceeded to the kitchen as if he owned the place. The bottom of the bottle plopped on the kitchen table’s plastic surface. The neighbor smiled. “Why put off until tomorrow what can be done today? With all this terrorism, I am in such a foul mood, I just don’t want to live!”

“You too, huh?” Andrei looked at his neighbor gloomily. “Then strap on some explosives and go see Basaev. A symmetric response.”

“Huh? I mean, what the hell is happening in Moscow? First, an airplane, now the metro. I’ve got to have a drink.”

“And everything will be alright?”

“You can’t blow up a metro station with vodka,” Viktor concluded seriously.

“Okay, let’s drink. Today was a stupid day indeed.”

Andrei pulled out two glasses and put them on both sides of a salad bowl. Forks chinked as he put them on the table, kitchen stools creaked, skillfully measured vodka gurgled.

“Okay, to health?” Viktor offered.

“Yeah.”

The buddies drank and ate some salad. Andrei cut up the bread he brought.

“Now we found a use for the bread,” Viktor smirked.

“Yeah,” Andrei gave another indeterminate answer. The troubled expression on his face made it obvious that his mind was elsewhere.

“Turn on the TV, the news is about to start.”

“Don’t want to; I’ve had enough. I’ve seen it live. Let’s have a quiet time,” Andrei answered quickly, putting away the remote.