“Do they think — do you think — that the Kremlin will pull its troops out if we suddenly give up and ask for a negotiated peace? No. As long as the Russian Army occupies our country and commits atrocities, we will continue to fight. As for the draft of a new constitution, we will never accept one drawn up by the Kremlin because the moment they think we have lost our resolve, they will attack in force. That’s the only thing they understand: force. And we will meet them with equal force. If the Brotherhood won’t support us, so be it. We’ll get help from other organizations who are sympathetic to our cause.”
“The moment may be approaching, Alikhan Andreyevich, for you to consider alternatives. For the Islamic extremist movement, funds are becoming harder to raise. If you alienate the Brotherhood, how can you hope to find the money needed to fund your operations? They control the flow of money to organizations like yours from the Saudis, Syria, Libya, Iran, even the North Koreans, and will simply cut you off.”
“You forgot to mention your own organization.”
“I’m only a simple middleman. I control nothing. You seem to think I have more power than I actually do.”
Zakayev snorted. “You have unlimited power, Ivan Ivanovich, and unlimited resources. Why pretend you don’t? You don’t care about our cause. What you care about is losing your fat brokerage fees if the Brotherhood cuts off our funds. Well, let me tell you, we have other ways of dealing with that. Our people are dedicated. They will do whatever must be done.”
“That’s what troubles the Brotherhood. And what troubles me. They’re not stupid. We both know how you think. We both know what’s possible.”
The trio reached the hub where the narrow cobblestone streets met the roundabout with the fountain at its center. The streets themselves were lined with three story czarist-era buildings recently restored to their former glory and resplendent in their creamy yellow and white paint.
“And what is it that you think you know, Ivan Ivanovich?” said Zakayev.
“I know, for instance, about the death of an American in Murmansk. Rumor has it that your people were involved. Why?”
Zakayev stopped and unlinked his arm from Serov’s. He faced the mafiyosoi and said, “The rumors are wrong. You shouldn’t believe them.”
Serov took hold of Zakayev’s coat lapels. “You’re not listening to me Ali. We will lose everything we have gained if you go ahead with another large-scale operation. If you are planning something big—
bigger than the concert hall operation — and you succeed, the Russians will turn Chechnya into a wasteland.”
“But they have already turned it into a wasteland.” For a moment his eyes went to the girl taking it all in, then back to Serov. “Ask her, if you don’t already know this, and she’ll tell you.”
One of the most dangerous men in Russia gave Zakayev a menacing look. He took time to light a cigarette. When he spoke, his voice was cold and flat. “Not only are you pigheaded, Alikhan Andreyevich, you insult me.”
Zakayev said nothing.
“As a practical matter,” Serov said icily, “whatever it is you are planning, I suggest you change your mind and put it off.”
Zakayev gave Serov a crafty smile. “Is that a threat?
Serov, looking down, rolled the flattened brown cigarette between a thumb and forefinger. “I don’t believe in threats,” he said.
“Then go back to Moscow,” said Zakayev. “We have nothing more to discuss.”
Serov took the cigarette out of his mouth and made a face.
Zakayev, alert, saw an almost imperceptible gathering of feral energy in Serov’s body. The mafiyosoi raised his arm over his head and, with a sweeping gesture that gave the appearance of being staged, threw the cigarette he was smoking into the dry fountain, where it landed with a shower of sparks among withered leaves and dried bird droppings.
A split second later Zakayev heard the thunder of tires on cobblestones echoing off the fronts of buildings. He spun around and saw terrified pedestrians flatten themselves against the walls of buildings as a black BMW hurtled down one of the narrow streets.
Behind Zakayev a burgundy BMW, its tires thundering over the cobblestones and scattering pedestrians, hurtled down another street from the direction of the river toward the hub. The two big sedans, tires howling, engines roaring, raced each other round the fountain as if playing tag. A man wearing a balaclava leaned out an open front window of the black car and opened fire on the burgundy car behind him.
Serov the gimp, backpedaling toward the fountain, had drawn a heavy automatic from his coat pocket.
Zakayev heard a powerful explosion, then another. He saw Serov slam against the rim of the fountain.
The girl, aiming the pistol she’d pulled from the portfolio, was ready to shoot Serov again. But before she could, Zakayev dragged her to the cobblestones out of the line of fire, breaking her fall with his body.
Bullets whined off the fountain and cobblestones. Someone in the burgundy car returned fire. Bullets thunked into BMW sheet metal, slapped through wind shields. The black car swung too wide and sideswiped an iron bench, then fishtailed, jumped the curb, and slammed head on into a stone wall fronting one of the czarist-era houses. Steel shrieked and buckled; diamonds of shattered safety glass exploded against the wall. The car rebounded, leaving both the driver’s and gunman’s heads tangled in the bloody folds of the deflated air bags that had punched through the bulging windshield.
The burgundy BMW slewed to a stop; its doors flew open and pairs of strong hands dragged Zakayev and the girl into the car. Zakayev felt brutal acceleration, heard tires spinning, fighting for traction on the cobblestones. The girl lay sprawled on her stomach in the backseat across the lap of one of the brutes from the auto repair shop. Her long hair flew every which way and her stockings had been torn at both knees. Zakayev, lying on his back on the floor of the car, saw that she still had a tight grip on the pistol and an exultant look on her face.
“I shot him,” she said. “I shot Serov.”
“Dobro pojalovat’v Rossiyu — welcome to Russia, Captain Scott.”
He saw a pretty woman with short blond hair and a serious look on her face. She had on sneakers, jeans, and a down-filled jacket over a turtleneck. Not the typical U.S. Embassy greeter sent to fetch a jet-lagged VIP, thought Scott, but just as well. Low profile, Radford had said.
“Spasiba — thank you. I’m supposed to meet—”
“That’s right, I’m Alex Thorne,” she said.
“But I thought—”
“I know what you thought. My name is Alexandra, but everyone calls me Alex.”
They shook hands while passengers departing customs and immigration flowed around them like a river.
“Sorry for my getup,” she said, “but they didn’t tell me I was to pick you up until an hour ago. Shall we go?”
Outside the terminal she muscled a black Embassy SUV from the parking lot through airport traffic and sped for the Moscow Ring Road via the International Highway.
“Where are you quartered, Captain?” she asked, all business now.
“Jake.”
She smiled. “Right. Jake.”
He looked at her profile, the straight line of nose, taut chin, and full lips. She pushed blond hair behind an ear and gave Scott a glance.
“The Marriot Grand,” he said. “They broke the budget for me.”
“I take it you’ve stayed there before.”
“During my last tour.”
“Ah. Then you know your way around Moscow.”
He glanced out the SUV’s tinted windows at a forest of construction cranes rising over the Russian capital’s skyline. “But I hear it’s changed a lot.”
“It sure has. Parts of Moscow are like a Potemkin village, while other parts of it are more like the States than the States. Shopping malls are popping up all over. Want mall rats? We have ’em. Rap stars too.”