Cliff Ryder - Black Widow

Sergei hung up and stood at the phone. He hated the vulnerability he felt while standing there, but there was no help for it. He also hated the insecurity that filled him.

For four years he'd worked for a clandestine agency he knew next to nothing about. Most of the time he'd merely done reconnaissance or interviews or poked around in the criminal underworld he knew. Then he'd reported back with whatever he'd discovered and never heard anything again.

All he knew was that the party he'd called was powerful and could reach into FSB's administration when necessary. Sergei's superior had assigned the extra details to him. He'd also ordered Sergei never to talk about anything he learned about whomever he worked for.

"It would be better," the man had said, "if you don't go asking questions, either."

"Why?"

"Because the man who sat at this desk before me started asking questions. That's how I got his job."

"They killed him?"

"Worse," the man said with a grim face. "They reassigned him to Siberia."

Even though he was expecting it, the strident ring of the phone startled Sergei. He spilled hot coffee across his hand, then cursed at the pain. But he scooped up the phone.

"I am here," he said.

"Thank you for coming," the woman said. "I know it's late there."

Meaning that it was not late where she was? he noted.

"You have only to call," Sergei said. "You know that."

"Yes, but your involvement and dedication is appreciated." She spoke English, which he was fluent in.

A car drove by. Automatically Sergei turned inward and raised the coffee cup to shield his face. He watched the car in his peripheral vision.

"We have a situation in your country," the woman said.

Sergei's stomach tightened. Any involvement he'd had with the woman and her cohorts had been limited to information about people in Moscow or passing through the city. He'd only been required to keep an eye on them. His job with the FSB had been more dangerous.

But the people he'd kept tabs on had sometimes disappeared or been assassinated. He wasn't sure if the agency was responsible for those assassinations or had just failed to prevent them. Neither scenario left him feeling comfortable.

"Someone is trying to smuggle a cache of American weapons into Russia," the woman said.

Sergei's pulse sped up a little. He said nothing. He'd learned not to respond unless asked to.

"We've been able to trace some of the money," the woman told him. "A few hours ago we found out some of that money came from a man named Joseph Kirinov. We know you're familiar with Kirinov."

Sergei hesitated only a moment, wondering how much she knew. "Yes."

"I'm told your partner shot Kirinov yesterday."

"That is correct." Sergei wondered how the woman had access to information so quickly. The old paranoia he'd learned from his father crept into his mind.

Remember this always, my son, his father had said. The KGB is always watching. They wait for us to make mistakes.

"Kirinov was at the hotel to see a woman," the voice said.

"Yes." Sergei's hand holding the coffee cup shook as he wondered how much to say. "Her name is Irina…"

"Rachmanov. Yes, we're aware of her."

Sergei felt embarrassed. "I did not know her last name."

"Why?"

"My partner did not tell me her last name."

"We'd noticed that Irina Rachmanov wasn't arrested."

"My partner — we — felt it would be better if she weren't." Sergei lied because he wasn't going to let Mikhalkov take the blame for the decision. Sergei could have arrested the woman himself at any time.

"Why?"

"My partner has a history with her," he answered honestly.

The phone connection buzzed for a moment.

"Your partner's career record is spotty," the woman said finally.

"He's been in law enforcement in this country for a long time."

"Do you trust him?"

That was the question Sergei asked himself nearly every day of his life. So far he had always known the answer.

"With my life," he replied, though some days that wasn't by choice.

"We need to know what Rachmanov knows about Kirinov's business."

After a moment's deliberation Sergei brought the woman up-to-date on Irina's information regarding the American weapons. He also relayed Irina's consternation at the use for them.

"Do you think she's told you all she knows?" the woman asked when he'd finished.

"I do not know her well enough to guess," Sergei admitted.

"Does Mikhalkov?"

That was another puzzle. "I do not know."

"Find out," the woman said. "We need that information as soon as you can get it."

"What is going on?"

"At the moment," the woman told him, "you know as much as we do. Be careful working this one. It's close to home for you."

The phone went dead.

For a moment Sergei stood in the cold confines of the telephone booth. The chill ate into his bones, and he knew not all of it was from the weather. He thought about going to get a fresh cup of coffee, but he knew from experience that too much caffeine would keep him from sleeping any more that night.

But after the phone call he didn't think he'd be sleeping, anyway. He walked back for another cup and wondered how close the danger on the assignment was.

He also wondered where the greater danger lay: in what Mikhalkov wasn't telling him? Or in what Room 59 wasn't telling him?

Outside Chechnya

Lying flat on her stomach in the brush dotting the mountains overlooking the collection of ramshackle huts, Ajza concentrated on memorizing the layout and tried not to be sick as she gazed through the high-powered binoculars. Several armed men patrolled the perimeter. A few armed women patrolled with them. They treated the people they guarded with cold indifference.

"Not all of the women are captives," Ivan whispered quietly beside her. "A few of them have risen to positions of power within the terrorist hierarchy. Those women are the ones you see with assault rifles."

"Taburova needs women who can take the other women into the cities." The realization that the women sacrificed the others disgusted Ajza. "He has to have guides to take the women to the places where they can do the most damage."

"Exactly." Ivan grinned, but the effort lacked mirth. "Those women who betray the other women are the true shahidka. The true Black Widows."

Ajza quietly agreed. The level of betrayal for such an operation was almost beyond her understanding. Only the fact that anyone would do anything if properly motivated made a believer of her.

The female captives in the camp looked emaciated and hopeless. A few lingered outside to smoke cigarettes and tend the communal fire. Others had retreated to the buildings, but they weren't safe there. The men entered the buildings at will and forced themselves on the women.

The thin, plaintive screams echoed in the foothills Ajza tried to ignore them, but they cut more deeply each time. She couldn't stop imagining how harshly the women were being treated.

"There is nothing you can do for those women at this point," Ivan said.

Azja wanted to say that she knew that, but she found she couldn't speak. Her throat locked up.

"You are doing this as a means to help them," Ivan said. "It is more than many are doing."

They watched in silence for a few more minutes.

"How long has this camp been here?" Ajza asked.

Ivan cocked his head to one side. "Months. Perhaps longer. The gardens they have planted tell me it has been at least that long."

"You haven't done anything to help them." Ajza tried not to make her words sound like an accusation, but she knew she failed miserably.

"No," Ivan agreed. "I have not."