Sergey Baksheev - A Bride of Allah

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.

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.