Black Widow (2 page)

A powerful grip seized her left upper arm. "Maaret."

She faced him then because she had no choice.

Mayrbek Taburova glared at her with his one good blue eye. His other eye, the right one, was covered by a black leather patch. Fine scars showed around the edges of it. His curly black hair peeked from beneath his wool cap. Powdered snow clung to his fierce goatee. He was in his forties, more than twice her age.

"Come with me, child," he ordered.

"I failed," she said.

Amazingly he smiled at her. "No," he said, "you didn't. This was as it was meant to be. His sacrifice was given in love. Your sins, and those of your child, have been cleansed."

Maaret was dumbfounded for a moment, then she realized Taburova thought her husband had detonated the explosives on purpose. She knew better than that, though. He would not have killed himself, and he would not have killed the others who lay unmoving on the ground. That wasn't his way.

"Come," Taburova said. He pulled gently on her arm.

Numb to the cold and the horror around her, Maaret went. She glanced over her shoulder at the blackened spot that stained the ground by the pond. The falling snow worked to knit a fresh white blanket to cover the damage, the mangled bodies that lay scattered over the area.

If not for her husband, Maaret knew she would have walked into one of the apartment buildings and set off the explosives she had worn. The damage and the death toll would have been much worse. The man who had outfitted her with the explosives had told her how much destruction the explosion would cause, as if she should take joy in that knowledge.

She hadn't.

And she hadn't thought of the lives she would have ended. If she'd done that, she wouldn't have been able to carry the explosives into the building. Children lived there, as well, though she'd been told the apartments she was supposed to target were dwellings without children.

Maybe it was the truth.

She'd gotten to the point where she no longer recognized the truth.

"You did well, Maaret," Taburova said as he quickly guided her through the alleys. "I'm very proud of you."

Maaret said nothing. She covered her bulging belly with her free hand to protect her child, but she knew she would never possess the power to completely protect him. She wept for her child, for her dead husband, and for herself.

Istanbul, Turkey

"Get up!"

Ajza Manaev woke instantly at the command but too late to avoid the slap to the back of her head. She recognized Fikret's growl as her hand closed on the 9 mm Tokarev pistol under her pillow. Her natural anger suited the role she currently played, so she let the emotion take her.

Fikret obviously expected her to react to his rude awakening. He tightened a fist in her hair and tried to control her.

Ignoring the blazing pain at the back of her scalp, Ajza twisted in the small bed and rammed the pistol into Fikret's underarm. She twisted and raked the sight across the nerves clustered there.

With a squall of pain, Fikret released his hold and stepped back. He was a bear of a man, thick and heavy with fat, but incredibly strong. A thick mustache bisected his round face. Stubble covered his cheeks.

He cursed at her as he yanked his jacket and shirt back to check his armpit for a wound of some kind.

"I ought to kill you!" he screamed. He released his jacket and shirt, and turned his gaze back to Ajza. His huge hand drew back automatically to deliver a blow.

Ajza held the pistol in both hands and aimed it squarely between Fikret's eyes. "Touch me again," she told him coldly, "and I'll kill you."

"I tried to wake you," he protested. "You wouldn't wake."

"I always wake," Ajza said. "You only tried to wake me once. Then you hit me. If we didn't need you today, I would kill you for that alone."

Fikret lowered his hand and looked over his shoulder at the other men in the small apartment. "Tell her," he exhorted. "Tell her that I tried to wake her. Tell her that she is hard to wake."

Nazmi shoved his foot into a worn work boot and laced it. He was young and lean. Long black hair grazed his shoulders, shoulders that bore tattoos of American rock bands.

"She'd didn't look that hard to wake, Fikret," Nazmi said with a big grin. "You told her to wake at about the same time you hit her. She woke pretty fast and offered to kill you." He shrugged. "If she was hard to wake, I think you would have gotten out of the way in time."

Fikret scowled and jabbed a big finger in Nazmi's direction. "Maybe I should kick your ass, too, you young pup."

A knife appeared in Nazmi's hands like magic. An easy smile framed his face. "Anytime you wish to try, you fat oaf, you are most welcome."

Ajza watched the exchange with a wary eye. The animosity between Fikret and Nazmi had existed from the beginning. In fact, most of the team avoided the big man because he struck quickly with verbal abuse and with his hands. This morning was the first day he'd tried that with her.

"Get away from my bed," Ajza ordered.

Fikret scowled. "This is a very small room."

"Then go outside."

Angrily Fikret stomped outside.

"I don't think you made him very happy." Nazmi reached for his other boot.

"I'm not getting paid to do that." Ajza sat on the bed and watched the others getting ready. The fact that so much activity going on hadn't woken her surprised her. In a way, Fikret had been right. She
had
been hard to wake.

You've pushed this operation too long, she told herself. You should have been pulled a month ago.

But every time they'd gotten ready to retrieve her from the field, one more piece of the puzzle dropped into place. That slow trickle of crucial information had been the most exasperating of all.

If not for the cloud of doubt clinging to Ilyas's death...

Resolutely, as she had done for two years, Ajza pushed away her pain and confusion over her younger brother's death. Those feelings proved hard to bear. She missed Ilyas. Whenever she spent time at home with their parents, she felt the gaping hole left by his death.

"I think of making Fikret angry as a bonus," Nazmi told her. "I'm just glad they're not charging me for the privilege."

Ajza looked at the younger man. At twenty-nine, though they thought her younger, she felt like the old person among them.

"Is this for real?" she asked. "Or is this another false alarm?"

Nazmi shrugged and smiled. "I don't know."

"I hate getting up early when there's no reason."

"But you miss so much of the day when you sleep late." Nazmi stood and stomped his work boots into a better fit. "I will make you a deal. If this is another false alarm, I will buy you breakfast at the market. Okay?"

The crush Nazmi had on her had been apparent from the start. Given another time and place, Ajza might have let the attraction between them develop. Still, having a friend to cover her back when the bullets started flying was a good thing.

"All right," she said.

Nazmi gazed at her. "Aren't you going to get dressed?"

Ajza got out of bed with the Tokarev in her hand. She wore sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt. "Not in here," she said.

"Get dressed in here and I will buy you
two
breakfasts," Nazmi suggested. He made no move to get out of her way.

"Maybe I will shoot you in the head and take your money, then buy myself as many breakfasts as I want." Ajza smiled sweetly as she looked up at him.

"You know," Nazmi said, "I almost think you would do such a thing."

Ajza knew that he had no idea of what she had done in the past or was prepared to do now.

"You know that Mustafa doesn't like to be kept waiting," Nazmi said.

"Tell him to leave. I'll catch up." Ajza pushed Nazmi aside and went to the bathroom.

Inside the small bathroom with the rust-coated shower and toilet, she turned on the water and undressed. Then she knelt, reached behind the toilet and pressed a section of the wall. The section slid away and she took out the micro-miniature burst transmitter.

"This is Calico," she said quickly, in a voice that — thanks to the running water — couldn't be heard outside the thin walls of the room. "The meeting is on."

She pressed send and watched as the transmitter encrypted the message, compressed it and beamed it in a split second. Somewhere in England's MI-6 offices, someone should receive the message.

If they didn't, she knew she might be dead within the next hour with no one the wiser.

Just like her brother.

New York City

"Does he follow you everywhere?"

Kate Cochran looked at her companion and smiled. "Are you referring to my bodyguard?"

"I am," Gunter Hirschvogel admitted. He claimed to be in his late forties, but Kate knew from his file that he was in his early sixties. However, trim and fit as he was, tanned and dark-haired, he got away with the lie almost effortlessly.

His suit was handmade Italian. The plastic surgery didn't show except for a little around the eyes, which no one would have faulted him for. Eyes were important. Especially for someone who'd made their wealth by getting other people to trust him.

"He goes with me most places," Kate responded. She knew she looked elegant in her dark blue evening gown. Her wrap pulled everything together, and she'd turned heads most of the night. That had been enjoyable.

"When we get to my apartment," Hirschvogel said, "where will he be then?"

"Comfortable, I hope," Kate answered.

Hirschvogel laughed. "Perhaps we could send him down to the bar."

Kate looked over her shoulder at Jacob Marrs, the man they were discussing. "I don't think he'd like being that far away from me. He takes his job very seriously."

"I don't see how any man would want to be far from you," Hirschvogel said.

"Thank you," Kate said as if flattered by the comment. Only the years of doing espionage work in the field kept her in character. She detested men like Hirschvogel.

"However, I do have another possible solution." Hirschvogel removed his electronic keycard from inside his jacket. "Perhaps we could put him with my security people."

Kate glanced back at the two men who had accompanied Hirschvogel to the museum earlier. Older than Jake, both wore cruelty and dispassion like armor.

"It's a shame one of us doesn't have another bodyguard," Kate said. "Then they'd have a fourth for bridge."

"Actually, I have a houseman." Hirschvogel opened the door, stepped inside and waved toward another man standing just inside the apartment foyer.

Kate cursed silently. Events could get very dicey in the apartment. If Hirschvogel found out who she was, and who and what she represented, he would probably try to kill her.

"Good evening, Mr. Hirshvogel." The houseman was in his late forties. No emotion showed in his pale blue eyes. "Good evening, miss." He didn't offer to take her wrap or his employer's coat. That would have slowed his reflexes and filled his hands.

"I have him," the calm voice of Kate's support technician reported. "Friedrich Moews. This guy's a killer, Kate."

The transmission came from the receiver/transmitter built into Kate's left earring. It was state-of-the-art, complete with encryption encoding. Agents had wired a repeater inside the building earlier that afternoon. The delicate necklace at the hollow of her throat held a wireless camera.

Jake wore an earring that made him privy to the same communications stream Kate received. The top button on his jacket concealed a tiny camera.

Kate tapped her bracelet once for yes to let everyone know she'd heard the message. When switched on, the bracelet doubled as a Morse-code key and held a wide-angle lens for scanning documents and transmitting via wireless Internet.

Hirschvogel turned to Jake. "While I'm entertaining Ms. Danvers, perhaps you'd like to spend your time with my security staff."

Jake shifted his gaze to Kate and lifted an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Go," Kate said. "Enjoy yourself. If I need anything, you'll know."

"She won't need anything I can't give her," Hirschvogel said lasciviously.

"Wow," tech support said. "Is this guy confident or what?"

Only Kate noticed the twitch of Jake's lips that betrayed a stillborn grin. He nodded and followed the other men through another doorway.

"You have a big apartment," Kate said appreciatively as Hirschvogel led her into the living room, with its obviously expensive furniture and artwork. A large plasma-screen television hung inert on the wall.

"I have forty-five hundred square feet," Hirschvogel bragged as he took her elbow and walked her to the wet bar in the corner. "Would you like wine?" He pulled open a door. "I have a selection."

"White, please. I'll trust your judgment." Kate left his side and wandered around the big room. She tried to map the apartment's interior in her mind. There was a master bedroom and two smaller bedrooms to house the security guards. In addition to the four in the apartment now, Hirschvogel had four others who worked rotating shifts to give himself a constant human shield.

Hirschvogel poured wine and brought a glass to her.

With a twist of her wrist, Kate tapped her bracelet, sending out a string of Morse code to Jake. They were up against the clock. Events were already in motion in Istanbul, and if they didn't find the information they needed, a lot of people were going to be dead within the hour.

"So," Hirschvogel said smoothly, "what line of business are you in?"

Kate smiled at him. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

Hirschvogel guffawed. "You're a fan of spy movies?"

"Somewhat," Kate admitted. She looked at Hirschvogel.

Suddenly gunfire cracked in the other room. He started to go forward, but stopped immediately when Kate reached under her dress and pulled out the small, two-shot derringer she'd holstered to her thigh. At first his attention was caught by the expanse of thigh she flashed, but then he quickly focused on the pistol in her fist.

"Don't move," she told him as she aimed at the center of his chest.