He called to an old woman who stood as if frozen in her office doorway. She staggered toward the conference room with moans and cries. He stole a quick glance behind his back and dragged his leg. A large bloodstain had formed on the gray carpet.
“Hurry up, move it,” he said and herded the last of his hostages inside the room.
He shuffled behind them, just as the elevator dinged. The loud thuds of heavy boots told him who had just arrived to his party.
“Get down, down, all of y—”
He did not see the kick that sent an agonizing bolt of pain through his leg. He heard the loud shouts of the man in the suit, who had attacked him. The shooter held on to the doorknob to keep from falling to the floor.
The man in the suit struck him in the back of his head with a clenched fist. The hard blow almost blinded him. He turned his submachine gun in the direction of the blow and let off a quick burst. The large windows’ glass exploded as bullets ripped through in a zigzag pattern.
Strong wind gusts and heavy rain from outside and high-pitched screams from inside swept through the room. He was not sure if he had hit the man in the suit, so the shooter looked around the room for him. But he had disappeared. Perhaps he’s behind a table or the large wooden stand at the corner.
His eyes were watery from the pain, but he raised his gun. He took two steps along the burst-out windows. He pushed a young woman crouched behind a chair out of the way and almost tripped over the leg of an old man next to her.
The shooter aimed his gun at the stand and shouted, “Now you’ll die, you piece of—”
A bullet slammed into his left arm before he could pull the trigger. He turned his head. A man in a military uniform had an assault rifle pointed at him from across the hall. The bullet had drilled a perfect hole in the glass panel that separated the conference room from the hall.
“Drop it, drop your gun!” shouted the man in uniform.
The shooter grinned. He glanced at the hostages, then at his submachine gun.
He raised his weapon and shouted, “Allahu akbar.”
The man in uniform was faster on his trigger. He squeezed off a round, then another, advancing to the shooter.
The bullets tore through the shooter’s body.
Their impact knocked the shooter backwards. He grasped for breath and leaned toward the window for support. His body found only air because his own bullets had already shattered the glass. He fell out of a seventh-floor window. He screamed as his body twisted and he plunged down headfirst. A large red “M”—the sign of the metro station entrance outside the building — came up fast. The shooter splattered over the sign and impaled himself on the metal post. His eyes blinked as he drew in his last breath. The metro station entrance was the last thing he saw before his eyes closed forever.
Chapter One
The courier drove a battered, box-shaped Volvo slowly through the pothole-ridden alleys. The car drew no second glances from occasional bystanders braving the evening’s icy winds. The courier liked it that way. He did not want anyone remembering a car going through their neighborhood. The men he was meeting tonight demanded the utmost secrecy. They had stayed alive for this long despite the warrants, the rewards, and the hunt for them. The masterminds of the Islamic Devotion Movement — one of the strongest groups in Chechnya fighting to create an Islamic state in the region — were always alert. They surrounded themselves with people to whom they taught the importance of such secrecy.
Two months ago, one of the IDM’s couriers had been careless, letting the name of a guest in a certain safe house escape his tongue. Spetsnaz, the Russian Special Forces, had gotten wind of the name and the location. They had launched an attack resulting in the death of several IDM senior members. The next day, the IDM had beheaded the betraying courier and had broadcasted the horrific video over jihadist and extremist Islamic websites, a grim warning to everyone against dropping their guard.
The Volvo driver was determined not to lose his head. He had followed all instructions, had stopped nowhere and had double-checked for tails and suspicious activities along the way. He was on time and he was bringing good news about their operations. Well, mostly good news.
He took another turn. His eyes went to the rearview mirror, but no cars appeared behind him. He scanned both sides of the road. A thin snow blanket covered most of the small yards around the two-story houses. Some of the windows were lit, but no one stood outside.
The safe house was a block away. It was small and painted gray and without any distinctive features. It was identical to the ones next to it, homes of loyal IDM members. The lights were off, but many eyes observed the road in front of those two houses. High-level leaders came to this neighborhood on a regular basis, and the two houses served as the first line of defense in case of an attack.
The courier drove past the safe house and parked in the back alley, around the corner. He stepped outside into the freezing cold. A gust of bitter wind threatened to snatch away his fur cap. He cursed the winter, secured the cap on his head, and tightened his parka’s collar. He made his way to the back door of the safe house, watching his steps for ice patches.
The door opened before he reached it.
“Salam Alaykum,” the courier greeted two young men who waited for him just inside the doorway.
The common Arab greeting meant “peace be upon you.”
“Alaykum Salam,” one of the young men replied.
His words meant “And peace unto you.”
He moved his AK rifle hanging from his shoulder out of the way. They hugged closely as if they had not seen each other in years. But it had only been three days since the courier had been sent to Moscow for his mission.
The first young man stood guard by the door and peered at the road through a small window. The courier shared a hug with the second young man, and they both walked down the narrow, dimly lit hallway.
Three men sat on couches in the sparsely furnished living room. Their eyes were glued to a large television screen mounted to the wall. It was tuned to CNN, which broadcasted breaking news about the Moscow assassination. One of the men translated from English into Chechen for the other two.
The courier greeted the men, and they exchanged obligatory embraces. He sat in a chair by the television, and one of the men used the remote to turn down its volume. The images on the screen showed the FSB’s headquarters surrounded by police and other security and military cars. Lubyanka Square was cordoned off to normal traffic. Then two experts began to discuss the assassination and what it meant to Russia’s war on terrorism.
“What good news do you have for us?” asked the older of the men.
He was Sultan Kaziyev, one of the IDM’s senior leaders. In his fifties, he was dressed in a gray robe, and a black prayer cap covered his head. His long, pointed beard reached down to his chest.
“The brutal enemy is dead, as you already know,” the courier spoke in a soft voice and looked in Kaziyev’s direction, but not at his face. The leader disliked it when people much lower in rank believed themselves equal to him and dared to look into his eyes. “They took him to a hospital, but it made no difference.”
The courier reached into one of his inside parka pockets. He pulled out a small USB flash drive. “A video and some pictures of the attack,” he said and handed the device to the man on his left, a close associate of Kaziyev.
The video and the pictures were grainy and mostly blurry. The men who took them were stationed at a considerable distance from the FSB building, and their hands had trembled at the last, crucial moment, but the courier left out those details. When the leader and his associates watched them, he would not be in the same room. Someone else would become the target of their disappointment and wrath.