work improved greatly.
This is what colonel Grigoriev was thinking with some satisfaction, as he was sitting at his office computer reviewing the materials collected during the investigation of the two airplane explosions. Success was obvious.
In a matter of days, the identities of suicide bombers who carried out the bloody acts were established. The path of their relocation from Chechnya to Moscow was tracked. Two days before the explosions, both took the same flight; apparently, the organizers were introducing them to the boarding routine and rules of behavior onboard. The details of ticket purchases became known, as well as those of terrorists’ boarding the planes bypassing security checks. The criminally negligent officials and the involuntary accomplices have been apprehended.
But all of this didn’t make the colonel happy. The immediate supervisor of the suicide bomber girls, the one who accompanied them and gave them their final instructions, somehow remained in the shadows and never came to light. Moreover, it wasn’t even clear if that person was a man or a woman. In one case, a middle-aged woman was seen around, in the other, a young man spoke to the terrorists. Witnesses couldn’t give a usable description of either.
By juxtaposition of facts, it was finally clear that the group included four Shahid girls. As was the rule in these situations, they were brought in from a region beholden to an influential field commander who worked off foreign sponsors’ money in this fashion.
With two of the girls’ names known, it was possible to define the circle of suspects. Files on potential suicide bombers were kept meticulously. By now, a few potentials have been identified.
Oleg Alexandrovich once again looked through the descriptions and photos from the database.
A wondering youthful face, then a weary-looking mature woman with crow’s feet around her eyes. Most photos were from identification documents and didn’t provide a full picture of what the person looked like, but a complete professionally compiled description enlivened the picture, made the person visible and palpable.
The colonel clicked through the photos of young women and rubbed his tired eyes in desperation. None of them matched the description of the only terrorist still at large.
Grigoriev was waiting for new photos from the colleagues in the Southern Federal District. They have received the latest data on the terrorist and were running them hastily.
Oleg Alexandrovich threw some instant coffee into an unwashed cup and poured boiling water over it. He didn’t want to go to the end of the hallway to wash the cup. Generals had secretaries, but he didn’t make it to general. And never will. Soon, he’ll retire. The upper echelons have already made the decision.
Colonel Grigoriev took a sip of hot coffee and smiled. Someone young and ambitious must be eagerly waiting for him to vacate his position. They’re probably already trying on the stars on the tabs and evaluate the fit of his office chair for their butt.
Oh well, that was bound to happen. Meanwhile, the colonel still held his office, so he must identify, find, and neutralize the terrorist. In that order: identify, find, and neutralize. Most importantly, identify. This was the problem only he could solve. Others could find and neutralize, but the colonel wanted to do his last job, from beginning to end, by himself.
In the corner of his computer screen, a new message icon started blinking. The colonel clicked on it, and a color photo of a young woman unfolded on his screen. He barely looked at it, and before he read any accompanying text, he realized that was she. He remembered her description too well to think otherwise.
So that’s what you look like, a bride of Allah, the colonel thought; but aloud, he read, “Aiza Guzieva, 20 years old.”
His screen showed a fresh face of an attractive black-haired girl. Precise arches of eyebrows, childish wide open eyes, straight nose, brightly painted lips, and thin craning neck. Aiza looked to her right; the photographer caught her unaware, probably in motion; a strand of wavy hair broke out of the hairpins, its sharp end almost touching the corner of her mouth.
The girl wore a white headscarf wrapped around her neck. This was good, the colonel thought with satisfaction. Today, the terrorist wore a headscarf, too, although of a different color; it would be easier for the witnesses to identify her.
Grigoriev dialed an office extension and called Burkov into his office.
“Yura, this is out target,” Oleg Alexandrovich pointed at the monitor when the first lieutenant came in.
“Are you sure?” The first lieutenant stared at the girl’s happy face in confusion. “She’s attractive. Why wouldn’t she want to live?”
“When we find her, we’ll be sure to ask. Meanwhile, find all possible contacts Aiza Guzieva could have in Moscow. Relatives, fellow villagers, acquaintances. You know the drill.”
Oleg Alexandrovich finished his coffee, looked at the brown residue on the bottom of his cup, and stuffed the cup into the bottom drawer of his desk. He was too busy to wash it now.
“I am forwarding the terrorist’s vitals to you, print the photo out in color,” the colonel opened his e-mail and clicked. “Send the photo to the police precinct where the witness is based. Get in touch with him. Let’s see if he identifies her.”
“Got it,” Yuri Burkov mumbled, throwing a sideways look at the clock on his boss’ desk.
“And don’t you even look at the clock!” Grigoriev noticed the look. “The night is young. If you’re done quickly, I’ll let you go see your wife for three hours. I used to be young, I understand.”
“Oleg Alexandrovich – ”
“What, three hours is not enough? Or did you want to catch a nap, too? Pick one, marathon runner.”
“I didn’t – ”
“Stop the gabbing! Proceed with your assignment. I’ll be bunking around here.”
The colonel looked at the well-worn leather couch with round armrests. This antique probably sat there when the office wasn’t even called KGB; it was MGB before. Back in those times, it was customary to stay at work until the mustachioed leader of the world Communism, who preferred night moon to morning sun, turned the lights in his office off for the night.
When he was alone, Oleg Alexandrovich called home. He was worried about his daughter.
“How’s Lena?” he asked when he heard his wife’s voice.
“God, you still remember your daughter’s name!” his wife said sarcastically. “Do you remember she’s got a wedding in two days?”
“I do. But does the groom?”
“What are you talking about?” his wife started getting upset.
“Okay, got it. No joking about the holy. Is Lena home?”
“Do you want to talk to her?”
“I tried. Her phone wasn’t answering. Where is she?”
“Home. Just got here. When are you coming?”
“What a silly question,” Grigoriev sighed, relieved. “Are you watching TV?”
“Makes me want to throw up. When is it going to be over?”
“When I am home.”
“So get here already,” his wife tried joking.
“Service first. Rest later.”
“Your daughter is about to get married!”
“We’ll have to wrap it up by then, Valya. I’ll let the terrorists know they have until Saturday to surrender.”
Chapter 15
August 31, 10:00 PM
Vlasov’s Apartment
Viktor