Sergey Baksheev - A Bride of Allah

First, there was an explosion on a bus stop on Kashirskoe Shosse, which at first received no attention because there were no casualties. That must have been a test of the explosive device. Then, there were horrible crashes of two passenger airplanes that departed from the Domodedovo airport with a brief interval between them.

By now, it was clear that both crashes were caused by onboard explosions. The nature of damage to the planes suggested the use of an explosive device without an outer shell filled with wire fragments, similar to those commonly used in suicide bombings.

And today, two suicide bombings near metro stations, one of which, unfortunately, had been successful.

Analyzing information at his disposal, Grigoriev was beginning to conclude that the same group of terrorists was behind all cases. The entirety of facts suggested that someone brought to Moscow four female suicide bombers. Two of them blew up the airplanes, the other two were supposed to blow up subway stations. One blew herself up on her way up to the Rizhskaya station, too scared of the police patrol to go inside; the other for whatever reason failed. Most likely, a faulty detonator or a dead battery. This kind of thing happened, and it was easy to fix.

But the terrorist escaped.

The colonel winced, thinking about a living bomb hiding in the city, ready to explode at any time in a public place. He wanted to call home and tell his family to stay inside. His wife, to be honest, would be home anyway, but his daughter was getting ready for her wedding, so she spent a lot of time in public places.

Grigoriev dialed the number of his daughter, Lena. “The subscriber you’re trying to reach is not answering or is unavailable,” a soulless voice informed him. This could mean anything, even that the person was already—

No, the colonel cut off the stream of troubling reasoning. Because of this job, the darkest thoughts get into his head. His daughter could simply be on the subway, where mobile communications don’t reach, Oleg Alexandrovich reassured himself. But immediately, there was an old man’s pain in his chest; his daughter was on the subway! Where the suicide bombers were headed.

He wanted to drop everything and go look for his daughter. But what kind of example would he set for his subordinates? He could not incite panic! For that, stupid journalists were more than enough. He must find and neutralize the suicide bomber.

Find and neutralize! Sounds good, but how?

His cell phone started vibrating in the sweaty palm of his head; Russian national anthem started playing. It was Lena’s joke; she downloaded the ringtone into his phone and set it up to ring when any of the co-workers were calling. So that had to be an office call.

“Oleg Alexandrovich, I have a description of the suicide bomber,” Yura Burkov was chattering excitedly.

“How did you manage that?”

“Interviewed strictly by the book! First the policeman who was on duty near the station, then other witnesses.”

“Are you sure they aren’t confused?”

“The policeman remembered a lot; the others concurred.”

“This is good. Get it to the office and give it to the press.”

“To the reporters?” Burkov asked shyly.

“Yes. And quickly.”

“What about secrecy?”

“Wrong case for that, Yura. Let’s make the opponent nervous; they’ll make a mistake or get scared and drop their plans.”

“She may go in hiding.”

“So be it. People’s lives are more important. And our job is to figure out where she is and find her there, wherever that might be.”

“Got it, Oleg Alexandrovich.”

“Now describe her.”

The colonel listened to the terrorist’s description and hung up.

This was a small success. This was how cases got cracked, step by step. Now his colleagues in the Northern Caucasus would have new information. When added to the previously available data, it might lead to finding out the Shahid’s name and known associations. The identities of the two airplane suicide bombers should already be established. They were caught on security cameras at the airport. Also known were the names under which they registered for the flight. The investigating team at Rizhskaya would likely dig up something, too. Forensics from the plain crashes had already come in, DNA analysis was being conducted.

All that would definitely provide some food for thought and help trace the remaining terrorist.

The colonel smiled for the first time today. This was an analytical problem of the kind he liked. He’d have something to do in his office at Lubyanka. Grigoriev snapped his portfolio shut and impatiently tapped the driver on the shoulder, “Sasha, step on it.”

Andrei Vlasov walked around the gloomy-looking girl and got behind the wheel. The sound of closing car door put some distance between him and an unneeded dangerous problem. The car made a three-point U-turn on the narrow lane and slowly drove over the bumps toward the asphalt. In the rearview mirror, Andrei could see the girl’s figure shrink.

She put her cardigan back on, adjusted her hair, and tied the headscarf. Then the twilight hid her from sight.

Good thing it was over, he sighed with relief. What had got into him? He just helped a terrorist escape retribution! The crowd would have torn her apart, and rightly so. He, the fool he was, had to intervene. He had to forget this stupid story as quickly as possible.

Andrei turned on the radio and immediately got a newscast.

“A detailed description of the suicide bomber who escaped from the Dmitrovskaya metro station has been released,” the newscaster was saying. “She appears to be twenty to twenty-five years old, approximately 170 centimeters tall, slender, of dark complexion, oval face of European type, arched eyebrows, brown eyes, the bridge of the nose narrow and straight, wide mouth, triangular chin, long black hair. She was wearing a brown skirt below the knee, a gray cardigan with blue geometric patterns, a light blouse; on her head, a green checkered headscarf. She is assisted by an accomplice, a young man. His description is still being finalized. Law enforcement authorities are asking anyone who has information about the terrorist to call 02.”

Not bad this time around, Andrei thought, surprised. He wouldn’t be able to give a better description of the girl himself. Except maybe add something about bruises on her back and that damned birthmark on her heck.

He didn’t like the sound of the word “accomplice’. What a role he’d been given! Wait a bit, and he’d be promoted to mastermind.

He was getting worried.

As soon as the damn Chechen shows her face in public, she’d be grabbed. The police are out in numbers, the description fits perfectly. If she is arrested, she would tell on me , Andrei kept reasoning. She definitely would. If she doesn’t want to, the pressure will do the trick. The security services can do that, they have a lot of experience. She’d cover the real masterminds to avoid her family getting hurt, but she’d tell on me for sure. What’s her reason to keep quiet about me? None. And if she remembered the car, I’ve got about five minutes left as a free man .

What a bind! How would I explain the idiotic act I pulled near that metro station? That was aiding and abetting terrorists, pure and simple .

I can’t leave her alone now! She’d sink herself and drag me down with her .

The Lada quietly driving along Lyublinskaya Street suddenly made a U-turn over the double solid, tires squealing, and sped back. Turning into the now-familiar alley, Andrei turned on the headlights. The high beams highlighted the figure of a girl wearing a long skirt standing on the side of the road. Without the thick belt under her clothes, she looked taller and more slender. But her headscarf made her look like nun in the dark.