Just then, glancing over her shoulder, she saw one of the NSA agents spill out of the entrance and she walked faster. But he‘d already spotted her and took off after her.
Rounding the corner, she put her phone to her ear.
— Yes? She was relieved to hear Dave‘s familiar voice.
— I‘m in trouble. She gave him her approximate location. -I‘ll be at Fort Myer Drive and Seventeenth Street North in three minutes.
— Wait for us, he said.
— Easy for you to say, she replied and raced around the corner onto North Nash Street.
Watching Maslov and his slope-shouldered Neanderthals climb back into their vehicle and head out, Arkadin suppressed a spasm of murderous rage. It was all he could do to stop himself from grabbing a semi-automatic off one of the stacks and spraying the vehicle with bullets until all four people inside were dead. Luckily, what was left of the rational part of his brain prevented him from making such a foolish move. He might feel better for the moment but in the larger scheme of things he would regret Maslov‘s premature demise. As long as the head of the Kazanskaya was useful to him he‘d allow him to live.
But not a moment longer.
He wouldn‘t make the same mistake with Maslov he‘d made with Stas Kuzin, the mob boss in Nizhny Tagil he‘d partnered with, then killed. In those days Arkadin was young and inexperienced; he‘d allowed Kuzin to live too long. Long enough to torture and kill the woman Arkadin was sleeping with. Of course, the young Arkadin hadn‘t considered what would happen in the aftermath of Kuzin‘s death and the death of a third of his depraved crew.
With the rest of Kuzin‘s murderers out for his blood he was forced to go to ground. Since they had all the avenues out of the city covered and had turned all the terrified citizens into informers, it was imperative to find a haven as quickly as possible, which unfortunately meant inside Nizhny Tagil, somewhere they‘d never find him, where they‘d never even think to look. He‘d shot Kuzin in the building he and Kuzin owned jointly, where Kuzin had his headquarters, where he kept the young girls Arkadin had swept off the streets for him. Of course, he found the perfect spot, one even Dimitri Maslov wouldn‘t have been clever enough to think of.
Abruptly Arkadin‘s mind switched gears to more immediate concerns. The phone call from Willard was very much on his mind as he walked back to where his Black Legion recruits were waiting for him outside the tents erected on the edge of the Azerbaijani plain. He‘d relied on that idiot Wayan, who had recommended Ian Bowles. Hiring Bowles clearly had been a mistake.
But now even Bowles was driven out of his mind as he addressed his troops. They were not nearly as well prepared for a coordinated raid as he‘d hoped. But then these men had been trained and used in solo missions. Many of them had been waiting for the orders to strap on their C-4 vests, infiltrate a market, a police station, or a school, and press the detonator. Their minds were already halfway to Paradise, and almost immediately Arkadin understood that it was his job as well as his duty as the head of the Eastern Brotherhood, the Black Legion‘s legitimate umbrella organization, to shape them into a unit, men who could rely on one another-sacrifice for one another if need be-without a second‘s hesitation.
The group of men-hardy, physically and mentally fit-stood arrayed in front of him, uncomfortable because he‘d ordered them to shave their heads and their beards, both of which were against both custom and their Islamic teachings. Not a one of them wasn‘t wondering how on earth they were going to infiltrate anywhere in the Islamic world looking as they now did.
One man, Farid, chose to voice their concern. He did it forcefully, believing he was speaking for the other ninety-nine recruits, not just himself.
— What was that? Arkadin‘s head snapped so hard a vertebra in his neck cracked like a rifle shot. -What did you say, Farid?
Had he known Arkadin at all, Farid would have kept his mouth shut. But he didn‘t, and there was no one in the godforsaken land to teach him. So he repeated his question.
— Sir, we‘re wondering why you ordered us to shave the hair that Allah dictates we must have. We‘re wondering what your motive could possibly be. We demand an answer because you have shamed us.
Without a word, Arkadin pulled out the baton from his belt, slammed it into the side of Farid‘s head, driving him down. As he knelt, swaying with pain and dismay, Arkadin drew his Colt and shot Farid point-blank through his right eye. The man was driven back, his knees cracking, and there he lay in the sandy dirt, mute and inert.
Just around the corner Moira stopped and pressed herself against the wall of the office building. She raised her right elbow and, as the NSA agent came racing around the corner, slammed it into his chest. She‘d been aiming for his throat but missed, and though he rocked back against the wall, he immediately came at her, threw a punch that she blocked.
But it was only a feint and he grabbed her left arm from the under-side and applied pressure in an attempt to break it at the elbow. Moira, pinioned, trod hard on his instep, but his grip didn‘t loosen. He applied more pressure until a yelp of pain escaped her throat. Then he came in with the heel of his hand, a blow aimed at the point of her nose.
She let him commit himself completely to the blow, then dodged her head to one side. At the same time, gathering all her strength into her lower belly, she jammed her flexed right knee into his groin. His arms opened wide, his grip on her began to slip, and he went down.
Moira snatched her arm away, but he managed to grasp her wrist, bringing her down to him as he fell to his knees. His eyes were watering and he was clearly struggling not to pant, to deepen his breathing, work through the excruciating pain. But Moira wasn‘t about to let him. She drove her knuckles into his throat and, as he gagged, she freed herself. Then she struck the left side of his head, slamming it against the building‘s stonework. His eyes rolled up and he slid to the pavement. Quickly she took his weapon and his ID
and took off through the growing crowd of gawking people, drawn to the scuffle like dogs scenting blood, saying, — That man mugged me. Someone call the police!
On the corner of Fort Myer Drive and 17th Street North she brought herself up short. She was breathing heavily, her pulse rate accelerated. Adrenaline was burning through her like a river of fire, but she managed to slow to a walk, moving against the tide of people who were following the sound of the sirens on the police cruisers, quickening from more than one direction. One was coming directly at her, but, no, it was an EMS ambulance.