Black Widow (7 page)

"I would not betray you," the man insisted.

"You would do anything for money. Even sell your own mother." Mustafa knew that because he was no different.

"Please. I beg you. I did not betray you."

Mustafa sighed. He knew that discovering how the transaction was sabotaged was a long shot, but he'd felt compelled to try it. The immediate avenue to explore was the financial one. He was confident Hasan wouldn't have betrayed him.

"I have lost the weapons and my money," Mustafa said. It wasn't all his money, of course. His buyer had put up half the amount, but if things went badly and the man didn't understand the circumstances, Mustafa would have to pay that back, as well.

"I did not cause that to happen."

"Sadly, my friend, I believe you."

The man raised his head tentatively. Hope dawned in his swollen eyes. He made an immense effort to smile, but the result looked forced and false.

"We are friends, Mustafa. I have told you this many times. What is good for you is good for me." The man's mouth and jaw barely worked after the beating, but he tried to fill his words with sincerity.

"I know. We have had a satisfactory arrangement. You're very skilled. I hate the thought of losing you."

"But you don't have to lose me. I will still work for you." Fear drowned the hope in the man's gaze.

"I believe you," Mustafa said. "For a while, perhaps. But you've been badly beaten, Hamid. Soon, too soon, you will desire your pound of flesh for all that I have put you through. It is only human. Were I in your shoes, I would do the same."

The man shook his head desperately. "That's not true. I understand why you did this to me."

"One day you will not feel so understanding." Mustafa took a breath and gestured to one of the men standing beside him. The man handed him a slim black pistol. "Also, until I find the person truly responsible for my loss, I have to let others know that I am no fool. And that I will not suffer betrayal easily."

"Please, Mustafa. I beg you. Don't do this." The man wept openly now. His voice shrilled.

"I must. Someone must be punished. Even if it's not the right person. I have to kill someone." Mustafa pointed the silenced pistol at the man's head. "But I will miss you. I also promise you that I will kill whoever is responsible for your death."

Hamid tried to jerk in the chair, but it was bolted to the floor and the rope bound him too tightly.

Mustafa shot the prisoner in the face. The round didn't kill Hamid immediately, and Mustafa had to shoot the man twice more to get the job done.

"Clean this up," Mustafa said to the men as he handed the pistol back. "Leave his body where it can be found."

Mustafa punched numbers on his cell phone while he sat in the luxury of his private car. Two bodyguards sat with him and the driver. Bulletproof glass made the night outside the windows seem darker. Despite the additional weight of the armor, the sedan rode low and smooth and moved powerfully.

The connection rang twice.

"Yes," a deep voice with a Russian accent answered.

"I have found our leak," Mustafa announced. Later, when he found the true leak, he could simply claim that person had acted in collusion with Hamid.

"That's good, but it's too late to save my shipment. This is a big disappointment to me."

Mustafa held back a curse. He couldn't blame the other man for feeling as he did, but he still didn't want to carry the blame.

"I'm hoping to replace your shipment very soon," Mustafa said. "As a matter of fact, I have leads now that should..."

"No."

Mustafa controlled his anger, fear and frustration. He wasn't used to being told no. "I don't understand."

"Your services are no longer required."

That wasn't what Mustafa wanted to hear. He wasn't a domestic servant who could be casually dismissed. He silently cursed his bad luck and promised a horrible death to whoever had betrayed him.

"Don't be hasty. You're not going to find anyone else who can deliver the goods you need."

"It's already been arranged."

Mustafa tried to think of something to say.

"I want the money that I gave you in advance," the man said.

"I have already given the money to my contact," Mustafa said.

"Then get it back from him."

"He blames me for the loss of the goods."

"As do I."

Mustafa hardened his voice. "We all risked in this venture. The loss should be shared."

"The loss should never have happened. Because I know that you have suffered a hardship, I will give you ten days to get my money back to me."

"That's impossible."

"I hope, for your sake, that getting the money back to me isn't impossible."

"I can't do it in ten days." Mustafa's first recourse in any money matter was to buy more time. After a little more time, he was certain he could renegotiate the deal — or at least pass his losses on to others. His driver suddenly swerved to the right. The bodyguard seated beside Mustafa pulled his sidearm. On the left side of the car, a truck sped forward and slammed into them. Mustafa's driver cursed as the car wobbled, then cursed again as the truck in front of them suddenly stopped. The sedan driver applied his brakes, but it was no use. The sedan slammed into the back of the truck.

"Get us out of here!" Mustafa bellowed. "That was no accident."

His driver tried to get away, but there was no room to maneuver.

Three men bailed out of the truck. They carried stubby submachine guns and moved professionally.

"Now!" Mustafa shouted.

The bodyguard beside him raised his pistol.

"Do not shoot," Mustafa ordered. "That's bulletproof glass. The ricochet will hit us."

The man held the pistol ready all the same.

Frantic, Mustafa's driver shoved the car into reverse. The car bucked and moved back a foot or so.

Headlights suddenly flared in the back window as another vehicle roared up from behind. Mustafa stared helplessly and held on to his cell phone. He disconnected from the Russian and punched in another number as the third vehicle smashed into his sedan and drove it into the stopped truck.

Mustafa's head jerked painfully. He told himself that everything would be all right. The car was armor-plated and protected enough to save him until help arrived.

The driver struggled with the wheel and shifted gears. He was trapped, unable to go forward or backward. Rubber shrilled on the street.

The bodyguard on the passenger side tried to open his door, but it moved outward only a few inches before being blocked by the wall. He barely got his hand and pistol out.

"Shut the door," Mustafa said. "We'll be safe in here. This car was designed to withstand a tank round." He didn't know if that was true, but the man who sold him the car had claimed that. It felt good to remind himself of that now.

The three men outside stopped. Two men flanked the third as he removed a high-powered, battery-operated drill from a canvas bag he carried. Without a word, he placed the drill bit against the bulletproof glass, pulled up the safety goggles hanging around his neck and initiated the drill.

The bit chewed smoothly through the glass. Setting the drill back into the bag, the man took out a canister attached to a rubber hose. He threaded the rubber hose through the hole created by the drill. In the next instant, liquid propelled by compressed air filled the sedan's interior.

The sweet, unmistakable aroma of gasoline filled Mustafa's nostrils. On the other side of the bulletproof glass, the man flipped open a lighter and ignited the flame. The yellow and blue fire danced.

"Wait!" Mustafa shouted, pressing his face against the window. "We need to talk!"

"Speak English," the man said in that tongue.

Mustafa's hopes rose. If the men were willing to talk, there was room for negotiation. At least it would allow his other security team to arrive.

"Can't we make a deal?" he pleaded.

The man waited a moment, as if processing the offer. "I want your phone."

Mustafa hesitated. The lighter flame danced but didn't waver. The smell of gasoline grew stronger.

"All right," he agreed. The phone contained a lot of information that might prove damaging to him, but he had no doubt the man would kill him if he didn't hand it over.

Mustafa lowered the window a little over an inch. He didn't want the man to just shoot him out of hand. He slid the cell phone through the space.

The man plucked the phone from his fingertips and shoved it into a pocket.

"That's what you wanted, right?" Mustafa said. "The phone?"

"No," the man said. The headlights of the truck behind the sedan revealed the man's features. He was blond-haired and blue-eyed with a chiseled jaw.

Realizing what the man intended to do, Mustafa grabbed the pistol from his bodyguard's hand and tried to shove the barrel through the space.

Without flinching from Mustafa's pistol, the man touched the flame to the hole in the bulletproof window. The gasoline vapor and liquid caught fire at once.

Horrified, Mustafa watched as the flames spread over his arm, then crawled along the seat and covered his body. The liquid
whoosh
of the accelerant's ignition filled his ears. Then he felt the painful charring of his flesh.

Abandoning his efforts to shoot the man, Mustafa gripped the lock release and tried to open the door. The man outside the car leaned against the door and jammed it.

"No!" Mustafa howled. He drew in his breath, sucking in the gasoline vapor, and the flames crawled inside him. Death claimed him almost at once.

Kate looked at the glowing icon on her notebook computer screen and pressed it.

Immediately a videophone link opened up and revealed Samantha on the other end of the connection. The call was heavily encrypted.

"I got the notice that you wanted to speak to me." Curiosity showed in Samantha's dark gaze.

Kate leaned back in her chair. "We've had some developments."

"I heard Mustafa was killed by a rival. Burned in his car," Samantha said.

Kate didn't like thinking about that. The man's death had been horrible, but she wasn't going to second-guess an agent's work in the field. Especially not when it concerned a murderer like Mustafa.

"More than that," Kate said. "Have you heard of a man named Mayrbek Taburova?"

"No. Should I have?"

"MI-6 seems to have been poking around in his business over the last few years." Kate tapped the keyboard. "I'm sending you some files. Overview for the moment. But I'll be sending more-developed records to you later."

"I assume I'm going to get to know a lot more about Taburova," Samantha said.

"We all are." Kate entered the last necessary keystroke and sent the document package she'd pieced together.

Instantly the open frame containing Samantha's face pushed over to the side of the large plasma monitor. An image of a man with a square jaw took shape. His blue eyes showed cruelty, but his full lips promised passion. He wore his dark hair swept backward, and it curled slightly over his ears and at the back of his neck. Dressed in a dark blue turtleneck and a gray shooting jacket, he carried a shotgun over his shoulder and stood in an open field.

"Intriguing," Samantha said. "Looks like a poster boy of some kind."

"He is," Kate agreed. "According to the intel I've received, Taburova is one of the current leaders of the Chechen rebels. He's lost an eye since this picture was taken."

"I thought we'd agreed to stay out of that nasty bit of business for the time being."

"We had. Fighting a civilian war in the Russian Caucasus Mountains would be impossible. Russian military forces haven't had much luck with that."

"So why are we interested in Taburova?"

"Because Mustafa bought those weapons for Taburova," Kate said.

"American weapons?"

"Yes."

"That doesn't make much sense."

"I thought we'd take a longer look at him and his involvement in this."

Samantha frowned. "That seems like something we — or another intelligence agency — should have known."

"Someone may have. Taburova was one of the founding members of the Islamic International Peacekeeping Brigade."

"You say peacekeepers. I say terrorists."

Kate nodded. "Some of the intel I have states that Taburova was with one of the leaders when he was ambushed and killed."

"I suppose he carries a grudge," Samantha said.

"Since the ambush, Taburova has stayed out of sight, but sources believe Taburova has moved higher in the hierarchy of separatists," Kate said. "We've tied Taburova to Mustafa and the weapons. I know that Mustafa got the payment from straw banks in Russia." Kate tapped the keyboard, flashing image after image to Samantha.

Several images passed by. They were taken by Russian agents and military sources, and all of them showed Taburova in action. The man obviously had a charmed life. A number of times he'd been in the thick of battle with men lying dead all around him. Those images, Kate knew, were the kind that created legends and heroes.

"What was Taburova going to do with the weapons?" Samantha asked. "Why not give information anonymously to the Russians and let them handle it?"

"Taburova managed to move millions of dollars through Russian banks without their security service knowing about it. I'd like to know what else they're unaware of," Kate said.

Samantha remained quiet for a moment. "It goes against agency protocol to discuss information with anyone not directly involved in mission parameters."

"Yes," Kate said.

"I think we can both agree that I'm not qualified to send in-field into Moscow," Samantha said.

"This would be into the Caucasus Mountains ultimately."

"Even more reason not to go. So, you have me curious. What do you have in that devious mind?"

"I want a better look at Taburova, and I want to take a better look at Ajza Manaev."

"Manaev? Why?"

"For possible recruitment," Kate said.

Samantha arched an eyebrow. "I can see the attraction. She thinks quickly on her feet, doesn't get easily put offher game, and she keeps her eyes on the mission."