Cliff Ryder - Black Widow

Most of Grozny had come back to life over the past few years. Some of the businesses had started staying open late again. They no longer believed their lights marked them as targets.

Taburova blamed Western capitalism. Greed factored into everything in Russia these days. Men and women did everything in pursuit of money. Taburova's father hadn't lived to see the Berlin Wall fall and capitalism drive its eager hands into the guts of the country.

Before, men had worked prescribed shifts and gotten by in a meager existence. Now they worked two and three jobs in order to starve more slowly.

The Chechens in the outlying lands away from so-called civilization lived better. They still managed to thrive off the bounty of the land by hunting and farming.

Give a good Russian a little patch of land, Dmitry Taburova had often said, and he will raise potatoes to feed his family and make cheap vodka. Those things were enough to help a man survive through his sadness. That was the Russian way.

Now they all wanted to be like the Americans and live free like kings. The thought disgusted Taburova. If his people had maintained their honor and dignity, maybe things would have been different.

Below in the street, a rusted Lada Niva of indeterminate color stopped at the corner. Taburova took field glasses from his coat and studied the men inside the vehicle.

The driver calmly smoked while the passenger unfurled a street map. He talked briefly with the driver, who shrugged in response. Then the passenger refolded the map and put it away. He reached into a pack on the seat between them. A moment later his hand gripped a flashlight.

Moving loose and easy, the man slid out of the car. He walked slowly and carefully across the open area. That caution alone was enough to mark him in the night.

Immediately two of Taburova's guards covered the man with sniper rifles. The man halted for a moment and grinned up at the building. He knew he was being watched and didn't care.

Taburova thought the man's behavior was an act. Over the years, Taburova had faced many men carrying weapons. There was no choice at those times except to stare at those carrying rifles or pistols. He'd had to prepare himself to die or break free. He still lived.

A moment later the man stepped into the building. Taburova waited tensely for the sound of gunfire. It didn't come.

"Sir," one of the men called up through the stairwell.

"Yes." Taburova turned to face the stairwell and jammed his hands into his coat pockets. His fist closed around his gun.

"We are ready."

"Bring him." Taburova flipped off the safety.

Boots struck the stairwell.

"Hey, hey," the man protested in accented Russian. He was from Eastern Europe, perhaps Romania. Many Russian soldiers outside Moscow had relocated in those areas. They'd taken their skills, contacts, and a lot of Russian hardware with them. "Keep your hands to yourself. This jacket is Italian. Very expensive."

The man reached the third-floor landing. Plastic cuffs bound his hands behind his back. He was of medium height, overweight and in his early forties. Black curls framed his swarthy face. Despite the ill treatment, he still smiled and acted like he was a prince.

"Mr. Ivanov," Taburova greeted him. Ivanov came to a stop in front of Taburova.

"Not exactly the welcome I was expecting," Ivanov responded, drawing himself up to his full height and trying to look composed while one of the men held a pistol to his temple, "but I can work with this."

"Good," Taburova said. "So can I."

"I have to tell you," Ivanov said, "this kind of behavior isn't going to reduce the price of those weapons you want."

"I know that." Taburova stared at the man. "You and your partner, Pasternak, have remained adamant in that matter."

Ivanov grinned. "It is — how do the Americans put it? — the price of doing business, yes?"

"Yes. But you changed the price of those weapons after our negotiations ended."

The chill in Taburova's words chipped some of the confidence from IvanoVs face. The black-market weapons dealer swallowed hard. "Things have changed."

"No. Only the price."

"We are being fair."

"I disagree."

"The market has changed. The weapons you have offered to buy could be sold somewhere else. You could make a profit simply by turning around and selling them for more than we're charging you."

"I'm not going to do that. Just as I'm not going to agree to this new price."

"That's too bad."

Taburova scowled at the man and reined in his anger. "We had a deal."

"The price increase is only a little. What you want is very expensive to begin with."

"I'm willing to pay a fair price."

Ivanov shrugged expansively. The lines of the expensive Italian jacket automatically fell back into place. "I'm afraid you're going to have to pay our price."

Taburova nodded to the man holding the pistol to the arms dealer's head. Without hesitation, the man shot Ivanov.

A surprised look filled IvanoVs face as the bullet cored through his brain behind his eyes. The dead man dropped to the floor and kicked spasmodically for a short time.

While he waited for the nerve spasms to pass, Taburova plucked IvanoVs phone from inside his jacket and punched in the number he had for Anton Pasternak. The phone rang only once at the other end.

"Emile, did you get the price we wanted from those rebels?" a calm voice asked.

"No," Taburova answered. "We're going to renegotiate the deal."

Pasternak was silent for a brief time. "No, we're not. Our price is fair. We have a profit margin that must be met."

"The nature of your business is that you don't always know your clientele. Unfortunately they often get to know you."

"Put Emile on the phone."

"Your friend can't come to the phone, I'm afraid."

"Then I'm going to hang up and he'll walk away."

"He's not going to walk anywhere." Taburova gestured to the corpse on the floor.

His bodyguards picked up the dead man and carried him to the window. At Taburova's direction, they threw their burden through the window. The corpse toppled silently through the darkness, arms and legs flopping. The body struck the pavement only a few feet from the car. One of the bodyguards tossed a flare toward the ground.

When the flare went off, the bright light scraped the shadows from the body and revealed the dead man lying on the ground. One of his arms was bent impossibly behind him.

"Are you still there?" Taburova asked.

"No," the man whispered. He jerked the car into gear and sped forward, narrowly avoiding his dead business partner.

"I want my weapons," Taburova said. "If I don't have them soon, you're a dead man."

The driver made no reply. The car shot through the narrow streets and banged off a wall in a shower of sparks before it disappeared.

Taburova pocketed the phone.

"Sir," one of the bodyguards said.

"Yes?"

"Do you think that man will bring us our guns?"

Taburova didn't hesitate in answering. "Yes. Pasternak is no fool. He's just greedy. Greed can be adjusted. More than being rich, he wants to live." He paused. "We'll get our weapons."

Leicester, England

"Ajza, you're going to grow old with that broom in your hands."

Startled by the voice, Ajza looked up from sweeping the floor of her parents' shop.

A slim young man about her age stood in one of the aisles. He held a soccer ball under one arm and an energy drink in the other. He wore a windbreaker over his soccer uniform.

Ajza searched her memory for the man's name but came up empty. She hadn't really known him, and the neighborhood was large, filled with lots of families.

"You don't remember me." The man showed her a petulant, mildly disappointed smile.